*
Indeed, Catherine was happy Through her own devices she had secured Elizabeth’s place as an honored princess in the royal court of England. Despite the earlier unpleasantness with the Duchess of Somerset, Catherine felt nothing but enjoyment this evening. The King looked very well and made a pretty couple with little Jane. Thomas had nearly taken her breath away when he’d come to fetch her for the banquet. There was no handsomer or more dashing man in the pavilion, she thought. Her life, she decided, was perfect — full and rich with love. She reflected that she had not openly declared that love for him for much too long. As she watched the dancers on the floor an idea was born — she would tell him a moment before the last galliard of the evening. Husbands and wives who for the previous hours had partnered with divers men and ladies would, as unspoken tradition demanded, come together for this special dance. There were high leaps and ladies swung far in the air, their falling bodies pressed for a sweet and fleeting moment to their partners’ bodies. It was a small public intimacy she relished. Yes, she would whisper her most ardent affection for him in the moments before the galliard began, lending yet more sensuality to the dance, for Thomas had always said that so reserved a woman as herself succumbing to passion excited him.
The allemande had ended and Catherine could see the gentlemen and ladies seeking out their partners for the last dance. Eyes modestly downcast and smiling to herself, she waited for the moment Thomas’s hand would be extended to hers and the manly voice would ask for the pleasure of her company on the dance floor. All round her taffeta and velvet rustled, and murmured requests were proffered and accepted. The sidelines cleared and the floor filled. Still Thomas did not appear. Finally the Queen Dowager lifted her eyes and searched the hall for her husband. There he was! Just now skirting the dance floor coming in her direction.
Her heart thumped hard in her chest. Her lips bowed in a contented smile, but in the next moment the smile collapsed into dismay Thomas was reaching out his hand to another lady, half hidden by Lord Winchester. When Winchester turned to his wife and took her onto the dance floor, the lady was revealed.
Elizabeth? Not possible! He would dance this dance with his wife, not some young virgin. Catherine’s mind reeled. Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps this was not the last galliard after all. Perhaps —
But then the music began. It was in fact the galliard.
“May I have the pleasure, Your Majesty?” Catherine turned to see her brother, William Parr. He must have noticed her discomfiture, she realized, and with good grace and charity spared her from the disgrace of being left partnerless for the dance. But tears had begun to sting Catherine’s eyes and a sudden wave of nausea overtook her.
“Thank you, William, but I’m feeling unwell. I told my husband he should ask another lady. In fact, I think I will retire.”
“Shall I see you to your rooms, Majesty?” he asked with genuine concern.
“No, no …” The music was loud and pounding, and dancers’ cries drowned out all attempted conversation.
“I’ll find my own way!” Catherine shouted, then turned and fled the pavilion.
Elizabeth, for a moment suspended in midair, was transported with rapture. She fell gracefully into Thomas Seymour’s waiting arms and he flung her round him in a full circle before setting her lightly on her feet again. As they danced her heart swelled, for he had never for a moment taken his eyes from hers, held them with such intensity she would have turned away but for his command that said, Stay with me, relinquish my gaze never. She obeyed him as her feet and arms obeyed the galliard’s prescribed steps and rhythms and flourishes.
Elizabeth watched as Thomas leapt staglike. Then he swept her into his arms and, hands gripping her waist, thrust her heavenward. A cry escaped her throat, and when she fell to earth it was into a full embrace, his body pressed tightly to hers. It was only for a moment, and unseen by the revelers all round them, but she felt his heat, felt his breath, felt — sweet Jesus — the hardness between his legs. He released her but did not twirl her round him as he should have. He simply stared into her eyes until the music caught them up, announcing the next set of steps, and they began again as though nothing at all had occurred.
But something had occurred, thought Elizabeth, wild with the dance and the sound and the furious confusion in her head.
He returns my feelings! she thought, terror mixed with her joy. He thinks of me as I do of him! Oh, Thomas, she cried silently, Thomas, my love, my love …
Spirits had run so high that evening that after what was to have been the last galliard, the King — to the revelers’ delight — ordered that the musicians play on. Servers brought cups of watered wine and ale to the dancers, and another round of festivities began at the moment they were meant to be finishing.
The Duke of Somerset stood, one hand resting on the arm of Edward’s empty throne, gazing about the banqueting hall. The King was happily engaged on the sidelines surrounded by a group of fawning courtiers. The Protector could see his wife, attired more exquisitely and expensively in French lace and cloth of gold than all the other ladies this night. She was just now having court paid her by Lord and Lady Wilton. This was a most agreeable sight, for before the couple had always been disrespectful in the extreme. Things were as they should be, thought Somerset, unable to keep from smiling. Indeed, all was right with the world.
“Why don’t you just sit on it, Edward. The throne, I mean.”
Somerset had no need to turn to the speaker to identify the sarcastic voice of his brother Thomas. He forced himself to retain the pleasant countenance he had assumed, for he did not wish anyone to see how angry and discomfited his younger brother could, in the space of a breath, make him feel.
“Good evening, Thomas,” Somerset said mildly, ignoring the “throne” reference, clearly the opening gambit of one of Thomas Seymour’s annoying verbal competitions. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Splendid occasion,” said Thomas. “The duchess your wife is simply sparkling tonight — or is it perhaps Catherine’s necklace that’s sparkling? I cannot be sure.”
“I understood from my wife that the jewels were no longer an issue,” said Somerset, finally turning to look at his brother, who was similarly struggling to keep his composure.
“The ‘issue,’ ” Thomas said pointedly, “is the disrespect that you and your wife” — he spoke the word as if it were a curse — “continue to heap upon the Queen Dowager.”
“Disrespect?” said Somerset innocently. “We have never meant her any disrespect.”
“Then why was she publicly announced merely as Lady Seymour when we arrived?”
“A simple oversight,” said Somerset dismissively.
“And was it an ‘oversight’ that at the King’s birthday supper she and I were seated at the very farthest end of the table?”
There was a silence whilst Somerset collected himself, deciding whether or not to engage with his brother in a duel of wits. Such an activity would no doubt leave him with a headache, but the man was more than an irritant. Thomas was, in his wilding ways, very dangerous to everyone around him and could wreak havoc with Somerset’s own plans. The intentional slights to Thomas and Catherine had not, as he’d hoped, had the effect of announcing the Protector’s superior position over the couple, but only served to enfiarne his brother. The equanimity that Somerset had valiantly attempted to maintain now faded as he realized that there was no solution to the problem of Thomas Seymour. He would, as long as the Protector was in power, be a bone in Somerset’s throat. “I think,” he said, his voice choked with growing fury, “that you should learn the meaning of gratitude.”
“Gratitude?”
“Yes, Thomas, gratitude. You’ve been given the admiralty of the King’s Navy, and the barony of Sudeley. You’ve married yourself a highborn lady.”
“A queen!” Thomas fairly shouted. Several people turned to see the brothers arguing — exactly what Somerset had wished to avoid.
“And you
’ve got plenty of money to go on with. I therefore wish to hear no more complaints about your situation, or I will see to it that you are stripped of those titles and leases that have been so generously granted you by the Crown!”
Somerset was gratified to see the color rise in Thomas’s face, and when his brother turned and strode away without another word, the Protector felt a thrill of victory surge through his being. But as he watched Thomas skirting the edge of the dance floor, stopping to say a few congenial words to every high courtier he met, Somerset saw that his brother was altogether unperturbed by his tongue-lashing, as if it had never occurred.
The glow of victory faded, and in its place in Edward Seymour’s mind began to grow a cold, unreasoning fear.
Chapter Five
She stood tall and naked in a spring meadow, pale green grasses tickling her ankles. A mild breeze from one side set her long loosened hair caressing her cheek and neck and small rounded breast, the rosy nipple rising and hardening to the curls’ touch. A smile played about her lips, for the feeling was so delicate and lovely. Yes, such a sweet sensation, sweet, joined now by the touch of air moving the golden bush in the vee of her thighs, mmm, the faintest touch, sweet sensation, lazy as the spring day. Her eyes lowered and found to some surprise no breeze, but a gentle hand brushing the silky hairs of her virgin mound. The man on his knees seemed to worship at her feet, the hands now descending slowly the length of her slender ivory legs, his touch so soft it barely disturbed their pale down. She felt his warm lips kiss her bare feet, the tongue flicking the clefts of her toes. She swooned with the loveliness, not merely the sensation of flesh on flesh, but the thought of a man's utter worship of herself It warmed her soul first, and as his lips and hands began to move, slowly higher and higher, again her body’s heat rose. She reached out her long white fingers to follow and, as if blessing the man, touched the crown of his auburn mane. He raised his head and she saw it was Thomas. Beloved Thomas. He resumed his ascent, the heat once more suffusing her torso and limbs, now congealing into pure liquid pleasure in the central place, the secret place so lovely and sweet. Unbearably warm, his breath unbearably sweet. Hot red-gold curls brushing her nipples. Suddenly, oh, an explosion of sweetness, there, oh, oh ... !
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open as she gasped with surprise. It was not simply in-taken breath that flooded her being, but shame. She lay face up, naked under lawn sheet and coverlet, as she always did, her red-gold curls now falling round her shoulders brushing, as in her dream, the soft of her breasts. She exhaled and sighed deeply, as though she had escaped the sensual ordeal somehow intact, yet somehow irrevocably changed. What had just occurred? What world had she been inhabiting in her dreams? Had she been possessed by some unmentionable demon? Surely such pleasure was a serious and punishable offense. And with Lord Thomas Seymour! At the thought of him, Elizabeth blushed furiously, even as she told herself that such embarrassment was entirely private and therefore unnecessary. Kat Ashley lay asleep and snoring softly on the pallet next to the canopied bed in which Elizabeth lay.
Her mind resumed the logical analysis of what had happened. No one had ever mentioned such a miraculous sensation. Married women and girls of loose virtue gossiped endlessly, sometimes laughing behind their hands at some shared and lascivious secret. Was this it? But surely what they knew, their guilty pleasures, were to be found with men of flesh and blood, not the solitary act attended only by a dream creature who looked, who was none other than Thomas Seymour, a married man! Still a virgin, thought Elizabeth, and I have yet committed adultery!
An unexpected giggle escaped her throat, and she rolled over to bury her face in the pillow, muffling her laughter. It would not do to wake Kat this way. She would insist upon knowing the source of Elizabeth’s merriment, and as the Princess had never, ever been able to lie convincingly to her nurse, her humiliating secret would soon be revealed.
She heard the squeak of the heavy bedchamber door as it slowly opened. Blanche Parry must be up and about already, bringing the warmed water for Elizabeth’s morning ablutions. But she was not yet ready to face the day, still wished to wallow in memory of the delicious dream. She would pretend to be sleeping. Let the woman go about her business and —
A sudden weight came down on her body. Hands grappled with her bedclothes, and a boisterous shout of “By Gods precious soul!” rang through the chamber.
Elizabeth’s heart came nearly bursting out of her chest. Shrieking loudly, she wrestled for control of the sheets now threatening to be wrenched away, revealing her slim nakedness. As she turned, squirming, to face her attacker, she came face to face with the visage of Thomas Seymour, his eyes bright to madness, his white teeth revealed beneath a leering smile.
“My lord!” Elizabeth squealed just as the sheet was snatched from her grasp to allow full view of her breasts.
His eyes feasted on the sight for only a moment before Elizabeth snatched the white lawn up to her neck again. Then Kat came aboard the storm-wracked ship and, thumping the Admiral aside with her shoulder, threw her ample body crossways over Elizabeth’s slender one, leaving Thomas with a view of the good woman’s nightgowned rump.
Her muffled voice was still loud and commanding enough to bring the staunchest criminal to his senses. “God’s blood!” she roared. “Have you lost your senses, Admiral?”
At the sound of the reprimand Elizabeth fully expected apologies to begin flowing, but what she heard as she gently pushed her waiting lady aside was jolly laughter from the man. Laughter!
“By God’s precious soul!” he bellowed again. “’Twas a jest, Mistress Ashley, a jest!” His laughter, rolling and echoing in the bedchamber, outrageous as it was, proved infectious, and suddenly Kat Ashley was giggling like a schoolgirl as Elizabeth sat rigidly holding the sheet to her neck, face hot with embarrassment.
“My lord, you took us both by surprise,” said Kat. “Snatched us out of a dead sleep.”
“My point exactly,” he replied, making no move to leave the bed, but instead sitting up with his back to the headboard beside Elizabeth. She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s well past six,” he insisted. “The Princess should be up and dressed for her morning ride.”
“If you leave us, I will dress her,” answered Kat, but the indignance was wholly gone from her voice.
“And what will she wear this morning?” Seymour demanded, and with casual familiarity reached out and squeezed Elizabeth’s knee under the covers.
She was reminded of his hands but moments before, in that place —just there — in her dream, and again flushed crimson. Then he leapt off the bed and strode to the wardrobe, flinging open the doors.
“Shall I choose for you?”
“No!” cried Elizabeth, finally finding her voice. “You must leave my room at once, my lord.”
He turned slowly to face the women, an amused grin defying Elizabeth’s command. “Oh, I must, must I?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, her confidence slipping away like milk through a sieve.
“You command me in my own house, then?” he asked as if sincerely interested in her answer.
“’Tis the Queen Dowagers house,” was Elizabeth’s feeble retort.
“And I am her husband. So, ‘tis my house, you see.”
Elizabeth elbowed her nurse for some assistance, but Kat Ashley seemed stupefied, altogether flummoxed at the circumstances. The best she could mutter was, “The visit at such an hour is unseemly, Admiral. My lady’s reputation —”
“Your lady is my stepdaughter, and I say what is seemly in my own house. But I will leave you now.” He fixed Elizabeth with a stare so raw and direct that she was forced to avert her eyes. “Let me see you in the olive green with gold braid this morning, Princess. It sets your milky skin aglow.” Then he was gone, striding out the bedchamber door.
The great heat and force of his presence suddenly absent left Elizabeth and Kat strangely more bereft than relieved. The nurse, perhaps ashamed that she had acted so w
eakly, jumped up and like a large clothed hen began clucking busily about the room in preparation for Elizabeth’s morning toilette. The girl sat stunned, watching but not seeing Kat’s frenetic rounds of the bedchamber, immobile with utter confusion. One moment Thomas had appeared to her in a shockingly sweet dream, the next he was all flesh and booming voice and, far from worshipping at her feet, had taken liberties and commanded her as a husband commands a wife.
Which was real? Elizabeth wondered silently. What was happening to her? Who on earth could she tell? Certainly not Kat, who had behaved so oddly in the presence of this red-haired giant. And certainly not Queen Catherine.
The door cracked open again. Both lady and nurse, breath catching in their throats, turned and saw Blanche Parry, still in her morning robe, enter with a pitcher of water.
“’Tis only myself,” she said matter-of-factly. “You look like a pair of owls. Who were you expecting to come through that door then, Satan?”
Kat clucked dismissively and Elizabeth pulled the covers that Thomas Seymour had wrested from her back over her body, then slid down till she was hidden completely. She was not ready to face the day, not with her mind a roiling cauldron of emotions.
“I’m staying abed,” she announced to her servants through the sheet and coverlet.
“You’re doing nothing of the sort,” said Kat, who took the covers down off Elizabeth’s face. “’Tis a beautiful morning for a ride. Go and have a wash while the water’s warm.”
As she reluctantly rose, Elizabeth could see that Kat had already laid a riding outfit across the foot of her bed. It was the olive green velvet with gold braid.
When Elizabeth saw what had been chosen for her to wear, her heart began to pound anew. She glanced at Kat and realized with alarm that the woman, altogether oblivious of the fact, had fallen under the spell of the Admiral’s magic.
Nothing, thought Elizabeth, would ever be the same.
The Virgin Elizabeth Page 7