The Virgin Elizabeth

by Robin Maxwell

  As Seymour bent his head to nuzzle his wife — who, he noticed, cringed visibly at his gesture — he made sure the sheep-gut finger cot was firmly in place on the middle finger of his free hand. Then quietly he slipped his hand into a pouch at his waist, dipped the protected finger in the tiny jar of flying salve, and lightly coated it with the ointment.

  “We’ve had a fine letter of congratulations from the Protector,” announced Seymour loudly and sarcastically. This served to set his friends in the room agog and made his gesture of grasping Catherine’s wrist seem most natural. The salve-anointed finger was thus hidden from view, and as he continued his boasting talk, quoting liberally from the letter signed “your loving brother,” Seymour began slowly massaging the tender flesh of her wrist with the odorless ointment. She seemed altogether unaware of her poisoning. Poor Catherine, Seymour mused. What a pity that a woman should be worth more dead than alive. And she had been good to him. Had loved him. Provided him with a child, albeit a girl.

  “Did I say,” said Thomas jovially, “that the Protector called Catherine my ‘bedfellow’ and not my wife? I think that insulting, do you not, sweetheart?”

  “Think what?” said Catherine, her eyes bright but ill-focused.

  “My brother calling you my bedfellow. Think you this a proper title for a once queen of England?”

  She did not answer, just closed her eyes. He could see the eyeballs beneath the lids jumping round in their sockets. A soft groan that no one but himself heard escaped her lips. How quickly the potion was working! He wondered if in her mind she was flying through the night sky on her witch’s broomstick. He released her hand in order to replenish his finger with the salve, and resumed its application at once.

  “Oh my ... oh no, no, no!” cried Catherine, and suddenly all attention was upon her.

  Lady Tyrwhitt jumped up from her bench and with a troubled expression placed a hand on her stepmother’s forehead. “Madame? Madame!” She stared at Thomas in alarm. “I feel no fever, but Her Majesty seems to be in great distress.”

  “She does indeed, Elizabeth,” said Seymour. “Perhaps you should go and find Doctor Huick after all.” He was much concerned that Catherine’s stepdaughter might try to grasp Catherine’s hand, the wrist of which was now greasy with the ointment.

  “Why are you laughing at me?” Catherine suddenly roared. “I have no friends.” Her eyes opened but they were wild and panicked. “All of you stand there laughing at my grief.” There was dead silence in the room. “The more good I give to you, the less you give to me!”

  “Catherine, my darling,” crooned Seymour comfortingly “These are our friends. They love you.”

  “No, no, they are hideous creatures, demons!” She was becoming more and more distraught. Thomas ceased his application of the flying salve, for he did not wish to kill her — not just yet. Now he simply wished for these witnesses to observe her delirium. The wilder her utterances and accusations, the better. And it would surely be attributed to her difficult lying-in and delivery, perhaps even to a fever. Catherine’s condition and outbursts would first be spoken of in hushed tones in the kitchens, laundries, and stables of Chelsea House, then spread more vocally in local taverns and churchyards, and finally take the form of self-important gossip amongst the nobles in St. Paul’s and the London court. It was perfect.

  In a few moments Thomas would beg everyone to leave, saying it hurt him to have them see the Queen Dowager in such dire extremities. In privacy he would then import two chosen representatives who would bear witness to the drawing up of her will, have her sign it — and it would be done. Catherine’s great fortune would be his. It was all so simple.

  “Good friends,” he said to those assembled in the bedchamber with so perfect a feigned sadness that not one of them ever suspected the cold avarice of Thomas Seymour’s heart, “I think my dear wife, proud as she is, would not wish you to witness her suffering, so I will ask you to leave us now.”

  In respectful silence Thomas Seymour’s people removed themselves from Catherine’s bedchamber.

  How were they to know they had left the Queen Dowager lying in the devil’s embrace?

  The gibbering demons were finally receding from the cavities of Catherine’s mind, the frantic waves of color and the fearful sensation of soaring and falling from great heights were gone as well. But as she regained her senses she realized with growing horror that she was ill, very ill indeed. She burned, as though the blood was boiling in her veins, and in the next moment she shook with the most fearsome chills.

  “Childbed fever,” she heard Doctor Huick say with the utmost gravity, giving a name to her fearful symptoms. He had finally come to attend her, she realized. “It grieves me to say,” he went on, “ that having escaped danger for three days —”

  Three days? thought Catherine. I have been lost in those nether-worlds for three days.

  “— the Queen has fallen victim to this terrible sickness.”

  Catherine forced open her crusted eyelids in time to see Thomas cover his mouth with a hand, hiding what she knew to be a smile. She understood in that moment, with the greatest clarity, the cause of his amusement. He would not, after all, have to kill her as he had planned. He would allow the puerperal fever to do the deed for him.

  “Catherine ...” Thomas stepped forward to the bedside and took her hand in his. “I am sorry.”

  She managed a cold smile. “I think not, sir. I think you wish me very ill.”

  “Not true, my love.”

  “Too true, Thomas. I would have given a thousand marks to have had Doctor Huick brought to me that first day I delivered, but you saw to it that he did not come.”

  “Her mind is very clear, Doctor,” insisted Elizabeth Tyrwhitt from her place behind the three men now crowding Catherine’s bed — Thomas and Doctor Huick and a local pastor, a young man whose dark robes hung like loose flesh on his skeletal frame. “Clearer than it has been these three days past.”

  “Catherine was clear enough when she dictated her will to us,” said Thomas, unable to hide the triumph in his voice.

  “Will? What will, my lord?” demanded Catherine, struggling to retain her dignity as a sudden chill racked her body with shuddering.

  “This one,” he replied simply, dangling a parchment between his fingers, “witnessed by Dr. Huick and Reverend Blackwell here.”

  She tried to grab the single sheet from Thomas’s hand but he snatched it from her reach.

  “Allow me to refresh you as to the contents of the document that you dictated to us several hours ago.” He began to read. “ ‘I, Catherine, Lady Seymour and Queen Dowager of England, lying on my deathbed, sick of body but of good mind, give all of my estate to my married spouse and husband, wishing my fortune to be a thousand times more in value than it was or had ever been.’” He looked up and added, “Simple and to the point, I think.”

  “I bequeathed nothing to our daughter, then? Nor to the princesses Elizabeth and Mary, nor to Jane Grey, nor my lady Tyrwhitt?” demanded Catherine, ice crisping her voice.

  “All of your wishes have been faithfully rendered in this document, sweetheart. Just the way you told it to us.”

  “Were you witness to this, Elizabeth?” Catherine asked of her waiting woman, her voice barely a croak.

  “No, madame, I was not,” her stepdaughter answered sheepishly.

  “Lady Tyrwhitt was so unnerved by your ravings,” said Thomas, clearly enjoying the lady’s embarrassment, “that she fled from your room for a time. But of course you were attended, and this will was witnessed by two men of the highest moral character. Now you have naught but to sign it with your own hand.”

  Catherine managed a feeble smile. “I would sooner ride to Hell on Lucifer’s stallion than sign your paper of lies,” she said, wholly gratified by the expressions on the three men’s faces. For a moment she felt almost well, as though her strength of will alone could drag her from the arms of the Reaper.

  Then Thomas leaned down and whisper
ed in her ear so that no one else could hear him. “With these men as my witnesses I have no need of your signature.”

  Catherine’s skin began to crawl, horribly, knowing his words were true.

  “I win, sweetheart,” he said even more quietly, “for you are already dead.” He kissed her mouth, more sweetly and tenderly than so filthy a monster had a right to do, then stood and turned to Doctor Huick. “You will see to it my wife does not suffer in her final hours.”

  Catherine heard Elizabeth Tyrwhitt’s sobs and watched as Thomas Seymour turned and disappeared out her door for the last time. She would never lay eyes on him again, of this she was sure.

  Indeed, she thought as the next surge of heat swept over her like a wave of fire, Thomas has won and Mary, my daughter, is soon to be motherless, friendless, and altogether lost. The Old Testament speaks of a cruel, vengeful God, Catherine mused as consciousness began to slowly slip away, and today he has shown his terrible face in England.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thomas Seymour wished to God he did not have to see the whimpering little brat Jane Grey. She would, he supposed, be prostrate with grief for her beloved Catherine, and dripping with compassion for the grieving widower she supposed him to be. He wondered, as he made for Jane’s apartments the day after Catherine’s agonizing death, if he should bother pretending some sadness for the girl’s benefit. For his, really. Should he appear too cold-blooded, he knew, she might judge him unworthy of her loyalty, which till this time had been complete. But Jane was necessary to his plans now, and he would soon be forced to the unpleasant task — aside from all the others — of informing her that she was to return to her father’s house quietly after the funeral. She would probably cry and carry on at the news, for Lord and Lady Dorset were appallingly cruel parents, even by his undemanding standards. But what was he to do with a prissy virgin in this household without a wife? He had much to do and no time to worry about her, for he had completely abandoned his plans to marry Jane off to King Edward. Well, he would send her home for now. Perhaps his aging mother, who was coming to look after his baby daughter, would look after Jane too. Something to think about.

  The moment Seymour was admitted into Lady Jane’s room the girl flung herself at him weeping, but with far more passion than he believed she possessed.

  “Oh, my lord, my lord!” she cried through muffled sobs.

  “There, there,” he muttered, attempting some semblance of comfort. “She’s gone to a better place, child. She’s with Jesus now.”

  “But you, my lord. It is you who are all alone.”

  Yes, said Thomas to himself, but not for long if I have my way. He said aloud, “I do find much comfort from dear friends like you, sweet Jane.”

  “You do?” she sniffled, gratified by such a sentiment.

  “But of course,” he said, then cursed himself, thinking, Idiot! Now I cannot tell her she must leave my house.

  “I want you to know, Admiral, that I am entirely at your service. So many plans must be looming for Catherine’s funeral, and the household is in terrible disarray. None of us expected her to die.” With this the girl fell into even more uncontrollable weeping.

  “Jane, Jane, you must gather your wits, do you hear me?” Seymour pushed her to arms length and gave her tiny shoulders a shake. “If you’re going to be of help to me, you cannot be carrying on like this.”

  “You’re right,” she said and, straightening her spine, pressed her lips tightly together, forcibly holding back any further vocalization.

  “Good,” he said. “Much better. Now listen carefully. I’ll be leaving here in two days’ time.”

  He could see her silently calculating and was prepared for her next outburst. “But the funeral is not for four days yet!”

  He forcibly restrained himself from any sarcastic retorts about her mathematical skills and only said, “I’m afraid I’ve urgent business to attend to in the West Country In fact, I’ll be seeing your father there.”

  “But, my lord —”

  “You will therefore,” he interrupted, “at my express command, be Lady Catherine’s chief mourner. I know you will execute the task with the utmost reserve and perfect dignity.”

  Jane’s eyes were dark pools of confusion. She whined, “You will not stay to see your wife buried?”

  At her words, the doors to Seymour’s patience slammed shut.

  “I will do what I will, my lady,” he answered coldly. “I will do as many a loving husband in these circumstances does, and absent myself from the ordeal of his wife’s funeral. And I will furthermore tolerate no judgment from a —” Seymour was seized at that moment by a rare fit of restraint, for he wished to use one of the many epithets with which he had come to think of the gnome-like Jane Grey, any one of which would have lost him her adoration forever. So he chose his words with care — enough venom to properly chastise her for her impudence, and enough compassion to retain her love. He continued, “— from an hysterical if well-meaning child.”

  He saw, with pleasure, the color of humiliation rise in the girls cheeks. He had chosen precisely the description of Jane that she herself most feared.

  “Forgive me, Admiral, I had no right —”

  “Jane, Jane,” he crooned, pulling her to him. “There is nothing to forgive. I know you’re up to this most daunting task. ‘Tis not every day a young lady is named chief mourner to a queen of England.”

  Seymour realized with irritation that he had lost any possible opportunity to break the news of Jane’s own departure for her father’s house. He would simply leave it to Dorset, and consequences be damned. He’d spent too much time on this silly girl and unpleasant task already — he, one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in England. Indeed, he’d made quick work of having Catherine’s will, still unsigned at the time of her death, deemed good in law. There was a rebellion to be raised and a princess to be wooed. The memory of Elizabeth’s white velvet skin and powdery fragrance buoyed him suddenly, and his good humor returned.

  “You are the dearest of all girls, Jane,” he said, lifting her chin so she could meet his eyes. “And I will be eternally in your debt if you will do me this —”

  “Honor!” she finished for him. “Yes, it would be my greatest honor, my lord. I will make you proud.”

  “Excellent, excellent,” Seymour said with finality and relief. “Now, dry your eyes and go downstairs. There’s much to be done before my departure.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said somberly and turned away. But a moment later Jane had turned back and thrown her arms about Seymour’s neck in order to reach his cheek, upon which she planted a wet-faced kiss. “You are so good, my lord Admiral. So very, very good.”

  I am indeed, thought Thomas Seymour with a self-satisfied smile. I am all that and more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When first the rider appeared at the end of the long rutted road he was no more than a tiny bobbing speck against the browning autumn fields, but in that moment when he’d appeared, Elizabeth’s heart fairly leapt from her chest. She was, as she’d done every day since Thomas Seymour’s first letter had been secretly delivered to her, waiting on horseback for his courier, several discreet miles from Cheshunt. Their clandestine correspondence was the only thing keeping her alive in this dreadful season since her enforced exile from Chelsea House and Catherine’s untimely death, just two days before Elizabeth’s fifteenth birthday.

  Catherine. Just the remembrance of her name sickened Elizabeth with shame and pity. That she’d died before there had been full reconciliation between them would plague Elizabeth, she was sure, for the rest of her life. Catherine’s letters after the Princess’s hasty departure had been altogether kind, with scant reference to the terrible betrayal she’d suffered, but Elizabeth had expected that after the baby’s birth she would visit the Queen Dowager in person and beg her forgiveness for her miserable behavior. She had played the scene over in her mind dozens of times and could almost feel Catherine’s loving arms around he
r, a hand stroking her hair, the motherly voice allaying Elizabeth’s guilty confessions.

  But that day would never come. Catherine was in her grave and her widower, free of his bondage — as Thomas liked to call it — had begun pursuing Elizabeth with a fervor that reignited her desire for the man she had sworn vehemently to forget. Whilst he had begun meeting frequently with Thomas Parry to discuss the Princess’s land holdings, patents, and the costs of her household — even suggesting an exchange of their properties and making very clear his intentions to marry her as soon as he’d received the Council’s permission — Elizabeth and Thomas’s correspondence was an altogether secret affair. Their letters, exchanged every day via his courier, spoke of their most torrid passions each for the other and would, if uncovered, be so damaging to them that a promise had been made on both their parts that the pages, once committed to memory, must be immediately destroyed. For the most part, Elizabeth had eagerly complied, as many of Thomas’s letters made her blush just to read them, but there were several of late whose sentiments describing a state of eternal marital bliss were so tenderly and lovingly couched that she had hesitated, even procrastinated, before consigning them to the flames.

  Thomas had traveled far in the West Country for many weeks after Catherine’s death and then had gone on to London. It was there that Parry had met with him, and Thomas had been attempting to lure Elizabeth to the city for some time. Her brother Edward had, in his letters, also been pressing her to attend him at court, and she truly wished to leave the unpleasant memories of Chelsea and Cheshunt behind. But Elizabeth’s own establishment in London, Durham House, had been turned into a mint. Seymour had invited the Princess and her household to take up residence at his London home, Seymour House, on the Strand overlooking the Thames. But even Kat, beside herself with joy at the prospect of Elizabeth’s love match with the Admiral — now a legally available suitor — believed the plan unseemly. As far as Kat and Parry knew, however, Elizabeth had not, since leaving Chelsea House, corresponded with Seymour even once. The waiting lady had nagged the Princess incessantly about writing her condolences to the Admiral, conveying her great respect for him and her desire for the Council to grant them the needed permission to marry. But Elizabeth had demurred, pretending little interest in the man. When asked by Parry if she liked Seymour’s pursuit of her and if she would consent to such a marriage, she had simply replied that if the time came she would do “as God put in her mind to do,” exasperating him thoroughly.