“Piddling pile, my lord?” spat Sherrington. “I’ve risked my neck every day for a year to shear those coins to pay for your bloody rebellion, and what thanks do I get?”
Robin ducked out of sight as Seymour swung round and began pacing the room.
“ ‘Tis your rebellion too, sir,” said Seymour, “or so you would have had me believe.”
“You are dreaming, my lord Admiral,” said Sherrington contemptuously. “If you search your memory for the truth, you’ll remember our dealings were the result of blackmail, with me the victim.”
“True,” replied Seymour. “You’d already started your little ‘shaving’ operation, but I thought you agreed that there was no better use for it than removing that worm of a man from power.”
“If you call your own brother a worm behind his back, my lord, I do wonder what you call me.”
Robin took another furtive peek just in time to see Seymour wheel on Sherrington in fury.
“What I call you is an incompetent fool! How shall I pay for the powder on its delivery, and food for my men? Or would you have them eat dirt for their service in this righteous revolt?”
“Righteous!” shrieked Sherrington. “You call yourself righteous? You are correct in one thing, Admiral. I am a fool. A fool to have taken up with the likes of you!”
“Just give me the gold,” demanded Seymour, “what there is of it.”
“No sir, I will not,” cried Sherrington, slamming the chest shut and turning the key in its lock. “And if you try carrying it off by force I shall call ‘thief,’ very loudly.”
“Will you?” said Thomas Seymour, menacing the smaller man with his powerful body and the full force of his wrath. “And how will you say these four thousand pounds in gold shavings came into your possession, Master Sherrington of the Royal Mint?”
“At this moment I would rather stand in the Star Chamber on charges of treason than give you this gold.”
To Robin’s amazement, Sherrington produced a carefully planted pistol and leveled it at Seymour’s chest. “Now if you would be so kind as to leave my house, sir.” The smile that creased the man's face was perfectly smug — happy at least for this brief moment to have bested the Lord High Admiral of the King’s Navy.
Seymour, red-faced and silenced by his own frustration and rage, wheeled about and headed for the door.
In the same instant, Robin Dudley scrambled down the vines with no thought to stealth or cunning, just the will to remove himself from his perch on the wall and out of sight before Thomas Seymour came through the front door. His feet hit the ground at the same moment the door flew open and Seymour exploded through the portal. Robin tried to disappear amidst the ivy but his efforts were, in the end, unnecessary, for Seymour, blind with fury, mounted his horse and without a backward glance rode off hell-bent down the cobbled lane.
Once Seymour had disappeared round the corner, young Dudley raced after him to retrieve his horse. He found the boy into whose keeping he had given his mount, still muttering oaths and nursing two bloodied knees sustained when the Admiral’s horse had knocked him down. Robin paid the boy extra for his pain, then took his saddle and, with intelligence most vital to the kingdom, galloped off to Hampton Court and his father.
*
John Dudley, as he closed the door behind his son and sent Robert off for a well-deserved rest, smiled with the profoundest pleasure. The evidence of Seymour’s rebellion — one that in the fullness of time would probably have emerged stillborn — was nevertheless more than sufficient to bring the High Admiral to justice. It was, thought the elder Dudley, difficult to concentrate his thoughts on Thomas Seymour alone, for he saw the man’s downfall as only the first step in his own great design. And in the day’s dealings with Robin — a show of enormous pride for his effort and achievement in bringing the damning evidence of Seymour’s wrongdoing — it was incumbent upon him to hide the coming torment that the boy was likely to endure. For John Dudley knew full well that Princess Elizabeth, in the course of Seymour’s fall, would herself suffer, though to what degree he did not know. His son would surely be heartsick with the knowledge that his actions had placed Elizabeth in danger, when his prime motive had been to protect her. Robin would — and John Dudley regretted this — feel betrayed by his own father.
But in the end he cared less for his son’s hurt feelings than for the good of the kingdom. At least this is how he framed his actions. If he were perfectly honest he would have to admit that his plan to bring the brothers Seymour to ruin was simply a matter of personal ambition. Young Robin would one day forgive him. But, thought John Dudley as he settled himself at his table to write the Privy Council of this most momentous intelligence, if the boy did not, it was — in the greater scheme of things — all the same to him.
Dearest Princess,
I am at the end of my wits with longing for the sight of you. Can you come to my lodgings at Seymour House this evening? In disguise would be best, and with no one’s knowledge, even dear Kat who wishes us well. I await you breathlessly.
Your friend and future husband,
T. Seymour
Chapter Nineteen
Elizabeths plan had been in place for weeks. It was only the call to come that had been lacking and finally she had been summoned. With less trepidation than she’d imagined, the Princess had had delivered to her London residence, Crosby House, at four of the clock in the afternoon, a sealed letter to Kat — one that Elizabeth had paid very handsomely for a court scribe to write. It called her waiting lady to the bedside of a desperately sick aunt in Cheapside. Elizabeth knew she would in due time be forced to face Kat’s prodigious wrath for the deed, but she felt equal to her nurse’s most severe recriminations if it meant a meeting alone with Thomas.
With news of her aunt’s illness, Kat became hen-like, clucking importantly as she searched her private apothecary shelf for the needed remedies. She was ready by the time her conveyance, not half an hour later, pulled up to the front of the house. When Kat poked her head into Elizabeth’s bedchamber to say good-bye, she found the Princess at the writing table immersed in a translation of Pliny with which she had been struggling for the last week.
“You’ll stop when it begins to grow dark, Elizabeth,” she cautioned. “Your eyes will suffer first if you do not, and then your head.” It was the same warning she gave Elizabeth virtually every afternoon of her life.
This day, instead of the mild irritation with which the Princess normally answered her nagging, she mildly replied, “I will, Kat. And I do hope your poor aunt recovers quickly this time.”
“Thank you, my dear. Blanche will be up to see you to bed. I’ll return the soonest I can.”
“Never you mind me. 'Tis your aunt who needs you now.”
When the door shut behind Kat, Elizabeth slumped with relief and went quickly to lock and bolt it. There was a brief moment of remorse for such boldfaced lying to the one person in the world who had loved her the longest and the best, but Elizabeth had no time for anything now except the precise execution of her subterfuge.
From under her bed she pulled a shallow chest in which was stored a suit of men’s clothing, a purchase she had made from Master Coke, one of King Edward’s young wardrobesmen. She’d smoothly explained that the suit was one she’d be needing for a court masque.
The moment she received Thomas’s letter Elizabeth had initiated her plan. She had already been dressed for the day in a stiff stomacher which corseted her into a wine-colored gown with separate laced sleeves and a hundred tiny buttons. She knew that without the normal help of one or two waiting ladies she could never possibly extricate herself from her garments, so she began complaining loudly to Kat about a pain in her belly. Pretending to swoon, she suggested that perhaps her condition was being made worse by the washboard-stiff stomacher. As she had no plans for going abroad this day, did not Kat think it wise to change into a simpler gown with no underpinnings? Kat had sniffed with minor disapproval, for she believed that a lady — and
a princess in particular — should for modesty’s sake be firmly encased and held upright by her rigid undergarments. But the woman’s heart was altogether soft when it came to Elizabeth’s health, and the girl’s complaint had been authentically delivered.
Elizabeth had therefore been able, with hardly a struggle, to undress herself and don the young man’s suit. It was not particularly fine, for when she rode out she did not wish to draw attention to herself, but hoped she would pass for a courier or page boy. She easily put on the hose, shirt, and doublet. But the breeches — two legs with a seam only at the back and tied round her waist — required her to carefully lace the front together with a codpiece. Elizabeth giggled at the absurdity of the contraption, then blushed at the thought of the male parts it was meant to cover.
Her hair presented the greatest problem, for when the mass of it was stowed under the boy’s felt cap, her head appeared unnaturally large and lumpy. It would never do. She thought hard for a moment, then snatched up one of her own stockings and pulled it down over her head, tucking all the red curls underneath its edges. Now the cap fit her, but she looked bald beneath it. She tugged a few strands out from the stocking and placed them artfully round her hairline for a natural effect.
What stared out at her now from the mirror, however, startled and dismayed her. She was a perfect boy. Her tiny breasts, even unbound, would never give her sex away. Without her red-gold mane framing her pale face, she observed, she looked handsome enough, but not at all a beautiful woman. What would Thomas think? Would he be repulsed at the sight of her? Perhaps she should have disguised herself as a scullery maid or a laundress. What had possessed her to pose as a boy?
But it was too late for such thoughts. Thomas was waiting for her. And she — blessed Jesus, she was dying with anticipation to see his face again, to feel his arms round her, to breathe in the manly musk of him. But they would act with restraint, this they had in their letters promised one another. They had much to discuss, to plan. She would thrill him with news of the letter she had decided to write to the Privy Council, setting forth with bold dignity and Socratic logic her reasons for believing the match with Thomas Seymour a good one, as well as her passionate desire to become the High Admiral’s wife.
It was time to leave. This was the most dangerous part of Elizabeth’s escape from Crosby House — to get from her upstairs bedchamber, unseen and unrecognized, into the lower level of the house and then to steal away to the stables.
Elizabeth stood in place for perhaps the longest moment of her life. Nothing had prepared her for this. She was a princess of England, just fifteen years old, dressed as a boy and about to ride out into the night alone for an assignation with her love. Was she mad? she asked herself. Before she could draw another breath, the silent answer rolled over her like a wave. Yes, I am mad! Mad in love with Thomas Seymour!
To fortify herself she brought to mind again the story she’d heard about her aunt, Henry’s youngest sister, the Princess Mary. Mary had fallen into passionate love with the King’s dearest friend, Charles Brandon. But before they could wed, Henry promised Mary’s hand in marriage to his craftiest enemy, the ancient and decrepit King Louis of France. The marriage was no more than a peace treaty signed in a virgin’s blood, but that was the way of the great dynasties and the lot of royal princesses. Mary was sent from England — and her beloved Brandon — to be crowned queen of France. Ninety-two days later she found herself a widow. Henry thereupon sent his most trusted friend across the Channel to fetch his sister home. When Charles Brandon arrived in France, Mary acted with boldness so shocking that Brandon had no choice but to bend to her will, blown like a sapling in a gale. She had carried on for two weeks, alternating hysterical tears with coldblooded remonstrances, proclaiming to him unequivocally that she meant to marry him, and marry him before they left France. She had, she insisted, struck a bargain with her brother before her departure from England, that when the old king of France died she would be free to marry for love. That King Henry had not confirmed his approval since that time meant nothing. He had promised, and she meant to hold him to that promise. If Charles Brandon did not marry her, she would kill herself. It was as simple as that.
Reckless? wondered Elizabeth. Dangerous? Outrageous behavior for a princess of England? Yes, all of these things! But what had been the outcome of such audacity and willfulness? Mary and Brandon had married in France. Henry had at first been livid with rage, thundering about betrayal and treason. But the lovers had held firm in their resolve, and in less than a year the King had forgiven them both and called them home. As Henry loved his sister and his friend Brandon, Elizabeth reasoned, King Edward similarly loved his sister and his uncle Thomas Seymour. If their own resolve could hold as faithfully as Mary and Charles Brandon’s, Edward would surely come round. The Council, and even the Protector, would finally be compelled to relent in the light of the pair’s sincere devotion and firm commitment.
Such a thought strengthened Elizabeth. She felt her back grow a little straighter, her chin harder. She was ready.
A sudden knock at the bedchamber door caused her heart to leap to her throat. Someone was jiggling the latch.
“Elizabeth! Are you in there? Why is the door locked?” It was Blanche Parry, sounding distinctly irritated.
“I’m lying down,” called Elizabeth, collecting herself. “I’ve a headache, Blanche. I read too long by candlelight again.”
“Silly child. Let me in and 111 fix you a poultice.”
“Oh, Blanche,” Elizabeth whined. “I’m too sore and weary to raise myself from the bed. I’ll be all right, I promise you. I just need to rest undisturbed for a while.”
“Let me at least bring you some broth.”
“No please, I was almost asleep when you knocked. Soon as I wake, I promise I’ll knock on your door and then you can put me to bed properly.”
“Are you sure?” the waiting lady called in.
“Quite sure. Thank you, Blanche.” Then she added, calling in a pathetic voice through the heavy wooden door, “Blanche, would you go to the kitchen and ask them to fix me a marchpane sweet for later?” The Parrys’ bedchamber door was dangerously close to her own and she wanted the woman out of the way when she made her escape.
“Of course, dear. Rest well.”
It was only after Elizabeth heard Blanche Parry's footsteps fading away down the corridor and main stairway that she exhaled with relief. Now was the time to hasten out, with Blanche occupied in the kitchen.
Elizabeth unlocked the door, peered in both directions, and slipped out. Down the servants’ stairs she tiptoed to the laundry, which at this late hour was empty except for a sole laundress wearily folding and sorting linen by candlelight. The woman looked up briefly from her work to see a young man hurry by. She did not recognize him, but then, countless messengers and couriers regularly came and went from a royal household, so she thought nothing of it.
Out in the night air Elizabeth breathed more easily, but in the stable, she knew, she faced a greater hurdle. Every day she saw and spoke to the stable hands. All of them knew the princess Elizabeth. Now, she must pass herself off as a common boy and, without explanation of this unknown “courier’s” presence at Crosby House, secure from the stablemen a mount on which to ride off to her rendezvous.
She’d planned for this by writing for the “courier” a note in her own hand, explaining simply that the boy should be given a horse. There was only one stable hand who could read, Geoff, and it was he that Elizabeth sought in the stables, now blessedly awash in shadows, lit only by a few lamps.
But Geoff was nowhere to be seen. Two of the other regular stable hands, Peter and Ned, were crouched together throwing dice against the rough wood wall, and hardly looked up when she entered. Realizing she would be forced to speak, Elizabeth fought panic, then cleared her throat and said in a tone she hoped sounded boyish, “Where is Geoff?”
“Gone for his supper,” called Ned offhandedly as he threw the dice again, whooping wi
th glee at the result.
“I’ve a note for him from the Princess,” she mumbled at the men. “Need a horse.”
“I’ll ’ave a look this note,” said Ned, rising and approaching Elizabeth.
Peter snorted. “And do what with it, ye little turd? Ye canna read.”
“Shut yer face,” replied Ned, snatching the note from Elizabeth’s hand. He held it up to a lantern and squinted at the writing in the flickering light. “What’s it say?” he finally demanded from the courier.
“Need a horse,” muttered Elizabeth, her panic rising as the time in these men’s company lengthened past the short, safe interlude she had imagined.
“And where’s the one you rode in on, then?” Ned asked suspiciously.
“Well, just as I was —” Elizabeth suddenly coughed loudly in the stable hand’s direction and pretended to be unable to stop. Ned backed away.
“Uugh,” he cried disgustedly. “Back off, lad!”
“The note,” Elizabeth continued through her hacking, “is in the Princess’s own hand. See here —” She cleared her throat and pointed with her gloved finger at her own elegant signature, then turned and spat on the ground for good measure. She was, she realized perversely, beginning to enjoy herself. By the time Elizabeth turned back, Ned had already begun saddling a horse.
Peter was eyeing this strange messenger from the shadows, and Elizabeth pretended to be examining the horses in their stalls to keep their eyes from meeting.
A sudden hand on her shoulder caused her to jump.
“Easy, lad,” said Ned. She half turned to face the stable hand, and he gave Elizabeth the reins to her mount.
“Take care of that chest, young fella,” offered Ned as Elizabeth took the saddle, “or ye’ll be a corpse before the week is out.” With a final slap to the horse’s rump the stable hand sent Elizabeth on her way. As she headed into the London streets the Princess thought she had never in her life been so relieved or so grateful for a misty, moonless night.
The Virgin Elizabeth Page 19