Virgin

by Robin Maxwell

  “No harm done.” Kat and Catherine had insisted as much in the dream. No real harm had been done! Everything suddenly became clear. All the black murkiness of the past week was, as in the dream, brilliantly illuminated — as brightly as Queen Catherine’s Turkey carpet had been by the sunlight streaming through Chelsea’s day room windows.

  Elizabeth’s mind raced, revisiting the confessions piece by piece. They demonstrated obscenely bad judgment on the part of her servants, and her own unconscionable recklessness and complete moral disregard. But none of it, realized Elizabeth, the idea expanding in her head, was seriously incriminating. None of it was treasonable. Elizabeth bit the inside of her lip to keep the smile from breaking across her face.

  “Well?” Tyrwhitt demanded.

  “These are serious charges,” she replied evenly.

  “They are indeed,” he said indignantly, for he could suddenly and clearly sense Elizabeth's lack of fear, and he was confused by it. “I am told that when Thomas Parry was brought into Mistress Ashley’s presence,” Tyrwhitt goaded her, “he received a vicious tongue-lashing for admitting his crimes and hers, and yours, Princess.”

  Elizabeth nodded sagely and spoke carefully in reply “It was a great matter for Parry to promise such a promise not to betray me … and to break it. Poor man.” She could feel the heat of Lord Tyrwhitt s frustration and anger rising against her steadily increasing calm. In that moment Elizabeth felt her soul open like a flower on a warm day and she knew with certainty that all would be well in the end.

  “Give me a quill and parchment, my lord,” she said. “I think it is time I write you a confession.”

  When the Duke of Somerset entered the game room, King Edward was sitting partnerless at his chessboard, staring vaguely in front of him. The Protector approached him. There was no time for pleasantries. “In a moment the Council will come in here to ask for a bill of attainder against Thomas, the bill to be thereafter debated in Parliament,” he said. The boy’s expression did not change, nor did he look at his uncle. “They are all of one mind in this matter, Edward. It is my feeling that the charges are so many and so serious that the Parliament will uphold the bill and Thomas will be condemned to death.”

  Somerset took the seat across the chessboard, forcing his nephew to look at him. “Despite all of that, you … and I” — he paused for a moment — “have the right to show leniency to my brother. We have the right, once he is condemned, to pardon him.”

  Edward took a sip of watered wine from his goblet but remained silent, in this way insisting that his uncle make his choices altogether clear.

  “We are both aware, Edward,” Somerset proceeded uncomfortably, “that I have not always consulted you on matters of state.”

  “On almost none,” said Edward tersely.

  “On almost none,” the Protector agreed. “But on this matter particularly, Your Majesty, it is imperative that you and I appear as of one mind. You cannot commit to leniency and I to —”

  “I know what ‘of one mind’ means, my lord,” Edward interrupted with irritation.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Somerset intoned, hoping to sound submissive. “It is just that I am — you can imagine — most distressed by these circumstances. So I will just ask you now, given the choice between pardoning the Lord Admiral and allowing his … execution, which would you choose?”

  The eleven-year-old glared at his uncle with so furious and vengeful a look that Somerset found himself squirming in his seat. Then Edward spoke, and though it was the reedy voice of a young boy, something in it — its ice cold steel or perhaps its natural and absolute command — recalled the voice of King Henry the Eighth.

  “Let him die,” said Edward. “Let him die.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  What month, thought Robin Dudley wryly, could be more perfect for an execution than March? All was grim and gray, biting wind, sinister clouds scuttling across the steely sky Tower Green was, in fact, brown, and the scaffold upon which Thomas Seymour would soon end his life was a barren platform with only enough straw beneath the block to soak up his blood.

  Robin's father was showing a gravely reserved face to the small crowd that had gathered on the lawn outside the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, but his son had seen him as they’d left the family’s apartments at Hampton Court, and John Dudley had been nothing less than jovial. He was glad of Thomas Seymour’s death, for this signaled to him the ultimate demise of his brother the Duke of Somerset. Indeed, the talk swirling round them now was less to do with the man who would here soon die than of the forces and designs that had brought him to the scaffold today The Protector and the King were both absent, and it was well that they were, for much of what was murmured this day was about the pair of them: how young Edward, when asked his opinion of his uncle Thomas’s crimes, had said, rather unconvincingly, how sorrowful the case was to him, but had never spoken one word in the man’s defense, perhaps remembering more clearly the shooting of his dog than Seymour’s past generosity and companionship. Some considered the King’s cold-bloodedness, and wondered what kind of ruler he would come to be. “A heartless king,” one man was heard to say, “would a cold country make.” Even Henry, mad and violent as he was at his end, had seethed with passion for all things, and England had been the better for it.

  Of the Protector few good words were said. When asked for his participation in his brother’s prosecution, he had begged “for natural pity’s sake” to be allowed to withdraw. Though the Admiral’s treason had been obvious, and any support his brother might bring be therefore suspect, now men were crying “fratricide.” It was said that Somerset had shown uncommon mercilessness in refusing to see Thomas during his imprisonment in the Tower as his fate was being argued in the Council and Parliament. Few men knew, thought Robin, that the brothers’ separation had been masterminded by his father, and fewer still realized the cold joy the Protector’s befouled reputation brought to John Dudley’s heart.

  The executioner took his place on the scaffold, soulless eyes staring out from holes cut in the black hood. His arms were bare and, mused Robin, less powerful than he would have imagined. Would stronger arms mean fewer cuts, a less gruesome killing? This was Robin’s first beheading, one for which his father had insisted he be present. It could never be said of young Dudley that he was squeamish, but the part that he had played in Seymour’s demise, and the grief he’d thereafter brought down upon Elizabeth’s head, caused in the boy a reticence to attend that had surprised John Dudley.

  “You will come and see what happens to traitors,” he said.

  “Your father was executed for treason,” Robin argued.

  “Unfairly. Sometimes … mistakes are made. Not in this case.” He had smiled thinly.

  Preceded by a chaplain and flanked by twelve guards — did they expect the prisoner to attempt an escape? — Thomas Seymour was led across Tower Green. It was, thought Robin, strange to see the Admiral devoid of his devil-may-care smile and belly-shaking laugh. John Dudley was right. Thomas Seymour was a dangerous villain who deserved this death, but as the Admiral climbed the scaffold’s several stairs, Robin Dudley hoped he would never in his life again be responsible for such a dreadful thing as this.

  The humiliation of this moment, decided Thomas Seymour, is a hundred times more horrifying than my death shall be. At least on the interminable march from the Tower to the scaffold the phalanx of guards in their tall feathered helmets had surrounded him, prevented the smug, gawking noblemen from observing his miserable expression. But now he stood facing the crowd and they all could see him in his utterly humbled condition. Seymour knew that most men took pride in a “good death,” but he was tired and had no stomach for a final show.

  My life, he thought, arrogance flaring briefly, has been the show.

  The Council had denied him an open trial. Instead, a bill of attainder had been drawn up, a foregone conclusion of his guilt. By the time the Archbishop of Canterbury had come to the Tower to hear his stat
ement, defense was useless, and he’d refused to answer all but the first three articles against him. These he claimed were false, as was the charge of treason. He asked once again to see his brother and was denied. He demanded once again an open trial and was denied.

  He loathed his family and these godforsaken noblemen, Thomas thought as he peered into the sea of faces, and he loathed England too. They expected him to stand here and confess his guilt, gracefully accept the justice of his sentence, and pray for forgiveness.

  Well, they could stuff their forgiveness!

  Seymour swept the crowd with his sullen gaze, hoping to find his brother so that he might with his eyes murder him with contempt. But Edward Seymour was absent, coward that he was, and thus denied Thomas the one last act that would have given him any joy or comfort.

  He barely heard the chaplain read the final benediction, for the blood had begun to pound in his ears. As in a dream, Thomas silently handed the executioner his customary payment.

  “Tell them to get it over with,” he hissed to John Martin, who stood to one side. Then he beckoned the servant closer and whispered in his ear. “When I am dead and you carry my body away, find in the sole of my shoe two letters. Deliver them.”

  “Yes, my lord,” whispered Martin, then stood back.

  With a last look at the world that had betrayed him, Thomas Seymour knelt and, pulling his great red beard forward, placed his head upon the well-worn wooden block. ‘Tis smooth against my neck, was his bemused thought.

  It was the last he ever had.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As Hatfield Hall came into view Robin Dudley felt his heart ease. It was not the house, though he knew it to be one that Elizabeth dearly loved, but the great wood and lush fields surrounding it that soothed his soul. Here the Princess and he had spent countless hours at play Since earliest childhood, hardly able to straddle their horses, they had ridden every road and rut of this forest and field together. He loved coming to visit Elizabeth here, and here she was at her best.

  Suddenly, as though he had conjured her with his thoughts, Elizabeth appeared at the door waving. He’d not told her he was coming this day — this grievous day — but it seemed as if she’d been expecting him. Her smile was sad but welcoming nonetheless.

  He swung down from his horse and approached her. They clasped hands and there was a sweet familiarity in their greeting. He saw that she’d been crying.

  “Is it done?” she asked in a dolorous tone.

  “Done. Two quick strokes. He seemed not to suffer.”

  Elizabeth's face quivered strangely, as if only by conscious effort would the parts of it continue to hold together.

  “Did he speak before he died?” she asked carefully.

  “No. But something did happen.”

  “What, what happened?”

  “He’d whispered something to his servant just before…. When the servant was later questioned as to the Admiral’s words to him, he confessed that Seymour had directed him to search the soles of his shoes.”

  “Was anything found?”

  “Two letters. One to your sister Mary… and one to you. I haven’t brought it,” he said quickly and apologetically. “My father took them both, will bring them to the Council.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes were pleading.

  “They were nearly identical in content. Seymour was warning both princesses to beware of the Protector. He wrote that Somerset was making plans to estrange you from your brother and induce him to deprive you and Mary of your right to the succession.”

  Elizabeth was silent for a long moment. “Is it true? Should I beware of Lord Somerset?”

  Robin hesitated. Angry as he was at his father, loyalty to his family was paramount, and John Dudley’s plans — every day gaining strength and momentum — were to usurp Edward Seymour’s place by the throne. He believed the Protector ill suited for the job and frankly malicious. It was possible, even probable, that Thomas Seymour’s warnings to the Princess were well founded.

  “Despite the source,” Robin answered finally, “I would take the warning seriously. I would let the Lord Protector know that your eyes are open and that you are watching him carefully.”

  “He knows that already,” said Elizabeth with some pride.

  “How so?” asked Robin, pleased for this show of spirit in the previously dispirited girl.

  “Since my ‘confession’ …” She paused for ironic effect and smiled mischievously.

  “The famous confession that cleared you and your servants of any complicity in Seymour’s plans?” Robin added. “Robert Tyrwhitt was fit to be tied, I understand. Swore that you and Kat and Parry had planned your stories in advance. ‘They all sing the same song,’ he was heard to mutter very angrily. How did you do it, Elizabeth? Word is circulating all round London and the countryside that you outsmarted Lord Tyrwhitt.”

  Elizabeth smiled mysteriously. “I received my inspiration from a dream,” she said.

  “A dream?”

  “My teachers, my saviors, were Kat and Queen Catherine.”

  Robin stared at Elizabeth quizzically.

  “They gave me wisdom and encouragement.” Tears glittered in her eyes at the memory. “They gave me strength.”

  “Then bless them both,” said Robin emphatically, his own tears threatening to spill.

  “Indeed,” said Elizabeth. Steering them away from a display of emotion that might open a veritable floodgate of the same, she went on, “I can tell you Lord Tyrwhitt was very angry, and conceived of punishing me by placing his wife, Lady Tyrwhitt, in my service. ‘Twas on this matter, in fact, that I lodged my first, though not my last, complaint with Lord Somerset.”

  “What did you tell him?” asked Robin, amazed at Elizabeth's boldness.

  “That by denying me my long-devoted servant Kat and replacing her with the Queen Dowagers stepdaughter and confidante — a lady openly contemptuous of me — he was humiliating me and worse, announcing to the people that I somehow deserved, through my lewd behavior, such a detestable keeper.”

  “You said that to the Protector?” Robin asked incredulously.

  “In one of my letters to him. In another,” she went on, “I demanded Kat and Parry be returned to my service, and requested that a public proclamation be issued to clear my name immediately, to silence the talebearers spreading lies about me.”

  “Elizabeth!”

  “I want my good name back, Robin!” Then she paused. “Though I may not deserve it.”

  He had seen the pain in her eyes, even as she was relaying her triumphs. He was therefore taken aback when she said, “You look so sad. I would think you jolly on the day my lord Seymour died.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth …” Robin found the words choking his throat. “What is it? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I am afraid to tell you.”

  She questioned him with demanding eyes.

  “You’ll hate me for what I’ve done!”

  Elizabeth looked suddenly fragile, like a pale, porcelain-headed doll. “Perhaps,” she said quite seriously, “you should not tell me, then.”

  “But I must, else I cannot live with myself.”

  Elizabeth turned away from Robin Dudley that she should not see his face when he began to speak, and walked slowly but deliberately down the winding path of the formal gardens. On this late winter day little here was green or cheering to the soul, but perhaps, she thought, moving would ease the pain of what terrible news was to come.

  “‘Twas I who spied on Thomas Seymour, Elizabeth!” Robin blurted the words, the only way they would come. “The intelligence of his plots and rebellions that I gathered was what led to his arrest.”

  Elizabeth stopped dead. Robin's words were like knives sinking into her flesh. Still she refused to meet his eye, and when she spoke again, each syllable echoed in her own ears.

  “How did you come to spy on him?” she asked.

  Robin was silent for a long while, and Elizabeth knew that th
is was perhaps the most difficult part of his confession.

  “I knew from our meeting on the road outside Cheshunt that you and he were corresponding regularly. That you had plans to meet with him … alone. I was frightened, Elizabeth. I knew how dangerous he was, and I knew you would never listen to reason from me.”

  “And?” she said coldly.

  “And so … I told my father of your plans.”

  “Oh, Robin —”

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth. No,” he corrected himself, “I’m not sorry! Seymour was in fact planning to kidnap, perhaps kill your brother, he was planning treason, and —”

  “You promised you would never tell a soul!” she cried. “You promised me —”

  “I know, I know. Let me finish, please.”

  She could feel the fury at yet another betrayal rising with the blood into her face, but she contained herself and let Robin go on.

  “When I told my father of your plans, he told me of his suspicions about the Admiral’s illegal activities. He said he needed hard evidence to stop him, and only by stopping his rebellion could we keep you out of harm’s way. I never dreamt — and only now I see how stupid I was not to have — that his arrest would put you in jeopardy.”

  “But your father knew!”

  There was a long terrible silence before Robin Dudley replied. “Yes, my father knew.”

  Without warning Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears that could not be contained any longer. She turned and saw Robin’s face. His cheeks were wet, his expression shamed and altogether wretched.

  He had been miserably betrayed by his own father. Worse, the betrayal had nearly cost Elizabeth her life. Now her heart ached for Robin as mightily as it did for the many betrayals she herself had suffered.

  “Is there more?” she asked fearfully.

  “Good heavens, no!” he exclaimed.

  As their eyes met, the pain and tribulation they had known — stretched and expanded to their limits of endurance — burst suddenly, and the two of them exploded with simultaneous laughter. It rolled and pealed round them, brought them to tears, coursed through their bodies, and finally cleared in their minds a place for forgiveness.