by Jean Plaidy
He would have a buxom wife—the seventh and the best; and she should bear him many sons in the years that were left to him.
SIR THOMAS SEYMOUR rode out to Hatfield House, where the Princess Elizabeth now lived with her brother Edward.
Thomas knew that the children were to be separated and that the following day Edward would be sent to Hertford Castle and Elizabeth to Enfield. These were the King’s orders. It might be that His Majesty believed the young Elizabeth to have too strong an influence on the boy.
Thomas felt pleased as he rode through the countryside. He saw the house in the distance and thought longingly of Elizabeth. He guessed that she might be watching his approach, from a window; but if she were, she would feign surprise at his arrival.
She was sharp for her thirteen years and was no doubt watching events as eagerly as any.
A groom took his horse, and he went into the house. He was received by the tutors of the royal children, Sir John Cheke, Dr. Cox and Sir Anthony Cooke.
“Greetings, gentlemen!” he cried in his jaunty way. “I hear there is to be a parting between our Prince and Princess; and I have ridden hither to see them both while under the same roof.”
“They will welcome your coming, Sir Thomas. The Prince speaks of you often and has been wondering when you will come to see him.”
“And the Princess?”
“She has not spoken of you, but I dare swear she will have pleasure at the sight of you.”
He went to the apartment where the young Prince and his sister were together. There were traces of tears on the faces of both.
Thomas knelt before the heir to the throne and kissed his hand.
“Uncle Thomas!” cried Edward. “Oh, how glad I am to see you!”
“Your Highness is gracious,” said Thomas. He turned to Elizabeth. “And the Lady Elizabeth, is she pleased to see me?”
She gave him her hand and let it linger in his while he fervently kissed it.
“You come, my lord, at a sad time,” she said.
“We have been so happy here,” said Edward passionately, “but we are to be parted. I am to be sent to Hertford, and my sister to Enfield. Oh why, why?”
“Those are your royal father’s commands,” said the Admiral. “I doubt not that he hath good reason.”
He thought how fair she was, this little girl who, in spite of her slender child’s body—she was too restless of mind to put on flesh— had all the ways of a woman.
“I have wept,” said Elizabeth, “until I have no tears left.”
Thomas smiled. She had not wept so much that the tears had spoiled her prettiness. She would have wept discreetly. It was the poor little Prince who was heartbroken at the prospect of their separation. Elizabeth’s tears had been a charming display, an outward sign of the affection she bore to one who soon—surely very soon—must be King of England.
“We have been so happy,” persisted the Prince. “We love Hatfield, do we not, sister?”
“I shall always love Hatfield. I shall remember all the happy days I have spent here, brother.”
Hatfield! mused Seymour. A lovely place. A fitting nursery for the royal children. The King had taken a fancy to it and had intimated to the Bishop of Ely, to whom it had belonged, that he should present it to his royal master. It was true that His Majesty had given the Bishop lands in exchange, but one’s possessions were not safe when such covetous eyes were laid upon them.
And as she stood there, with the faint winter light on her reddish hair, in spite of the fact that she was a girl and a child, she reminded the Admiral of her father.
But I’ll have her, he swore. If I wait for years I’ll have her.
And so did he believe in his destiny, that he was sure this thing would come to pass.
The Prince dismissed his attendants, and the Admiral sat on the window seat, the Prince on one side of him, the Princess on the other; and never did he take such pains to exert his charms as he did on that day.
“My dear Prince, my dearest Princess,” he said, “you are so young to be parted. If I had my way I should let you do exactly as you wished.”
“Oh, Uncle Thomas, dearest Uncle Thomas,” said the Prince, “if only you had your way! Have you seen Jane? I see her so rarely now.”
“She is happy at court with the Queen.”
“I know. She would be happy with our dearest mother. But how I wish she could be with me. And now they would take Elizabeth from me.”
“It may not be for long,” said the Admiral recklessly, yet deliberately indiscreet.
The two children looked at him in astonishment.
“My dears, forget those words,” he said. “By God’s precious soul, I should never have uttered them. It is tantamount to treason. Would you betray me, Edward?”
“Never! Never! I would rather die than betray you, dearest Uncle.”
He put his arm about the boy and, holding him, turned to Elizabeth.
“And you, my lady, would you betray poor Thomas?”
She did not answer for a moment. She lowered her silky lashes so that he could not see her eyes. He put his unengaged arm out to seize her.
He said: “Edward, I’ll not let her go until she swears she will not betray me.”
To the boy it was horseplay, in which Uncle Thomas Seymour loved to indulge.
Her face close to his, Elizabeth said: “No. No. I do not think I would betray you.”
“And why is that?” he asked, putting his lips near hers.
He now held the children tightly. Edward was laughing, loving the man who made him forget the difference in their ages.
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, “it might be that I like you well enough not to.”
“Too well?” said the Admiral.
She lifted her eyes to his and hers were solemn with the faintest hint of adoration.
The Admiral’s hopes were soaring as she said: “That might be so.”
Then Seymour kissed the boy’s cheek and turned to the girl. She was waiting. She received his kiss on her lips, and as he held her she felt his heart beating fast.
He kept his arms about her.
“We three are friends,” he said. “We will stand together.”
How exciting he is! thought Edward. He makes everything seem gay and amusing, dangerous though it all is. He makes it seem a wonderful thing to be an heir to a throne. He never says: “You must do this; you must learn that by heart.” He never tires you. You feel that merely to be with him is an adventure, the pleasantest, most exciting adventure in the world.
Elizabeth was thinking: To be near him, to listen to him, is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me.
“If our beloved King should die,” said the Admiral gravely, “and he is sick…very sick…Edward, my dearest nephew, you will be the King. You will not forget your old uncle then, will you?”
Edward took the Admiral’s hand and solemnly kissed it.
“I will never forget thee, dearest Uncle.”
“There will be many to tell you they are your dearest, when you are the King.”
“There is only one that could be that in very truth.”
“You will be a King. Your word will be law.”
“They will not let that be so,” said Edward. “My Uncle Hertford, Cranmer… Lisle…Wriothesley, Brown, Paget, Russell…. My father has appointed them to govern me. I must be guided by them, he says, for I am young yet to take the reins of kingship. I shall have to do as I am told…more then than now.”
“You will always be my dearest nephew,” said Thomas. “You will always receive me, will you not, and tell me your troubles?”
“As ever, dear Uncle.”
“And if they should keep you short of money, it shall be into Uncle Thomas’s purse that you will dip your fingers?”
“It shall, dearest Uncle.”
This was reckless talk. To speak of the King’s death was treason. But he was safe. He knew he was safe. He could trust Edward, for Edward was a loyal l
ittle boy. And could he trust Elizabeth? He believed he could. He had seen that in her eyes which told him that if there was a weakness in her nature, there was one person who could play on it; and that person was Sir Thomas Seymour.
“And you, my lady?” he said. “What of you? Doubtless they will find a husband for you. What shall you say to that?”
His arm had tightened about her. This was, she well knew, flirtation of a dangerous nature, though disguised, because the words spoken between them had a hidden significance.
“Rest assured,” she said, “that I shall have a say in the choice of my own husband.”
He smiled at her and his fingers burned through the stuff of her dress.
“May I…rest assured?” he said lightly.
“You may, my lord.”
Then she remembered suddenly the dignity that she owed to her rank; she removed herself haughtily from his grasp.
When Sir Thomas left Hatfield House he was sure that the visit had been an important one. He believed that he had made progress in his courtship and that he had taken one step nearer to the throne.
CHRISTMAS CAME AND WENT. Everyone, except the King, knew that he was about to die. Henry refused to accept this dismal fact. Ill as he was, he insisted on meeting his council each day and discussing matters of state. He saw little of Katharine. He did not wish to see her. Since the cauterization of his legs he had not wished any female to come near him; and in any case, he was still contemplating ridding himself of her.
January came, cold and bleak. On the nineteenth of that month, the poet Surrey went out to meet the executioner on Tower Hill.
The young man died as he had lived, reckless and haughty, seeming not to care.
People of the court shivered as they watched the handsome head roll in the straw. What had this young man done except carry royal blood in his veins and boast of it? Well, many had lost their heads for that crime.
That was the end of Surrey; and his father, it was said, was to follow him soon.
The King, in his bedchamber, received news of the execution.
“So die all traitors!” he mumbled.
He was, in these days of his sickness, recalling to mind too vividly those men and women he had sent to the block. But he had an answer to his conscience, whatever name his memory called up.
“I have to think of my boy,” he told his conscience. “That is why Surrey has gone. That is why Norfolk shall go. He is too young, my Edward, to be without me and surrounded by those ambitious men who fancy their heads fit a crown.”
Surrey then. And after him, proud Norfolk.
Norfolk now lay in the Tower awaiting his trial.
Seymour was beside the King, proffering a cup of wine to his lips. There were times when Henry’s hands were so swollen with dropsy that he could not hold a cup.
“Good Thomas!” he murmured.
The handsome head was bent low. “Your Grace,” said Seymour, “the Lady Elizabeth was grieved to leave her brother. I thought it would please you to know how much they love each other.”
“Would the girl were a boy!” muttered Henry.
“Indeed, Your Grace, that would be well. But alas, she is a girl, and what will become of her? Will she grow, like her sister Mary, into spinsterhood?”
Henry gave the Admiral a sly glance. He knew what thoughts were going on in that handsome head.
“’ Twould be a sad thing, Your Grace,” persisted the bold Admiral.
“Aye! ’T would be a bad thing,” said the King.
“And yet, Sire, on account of the frailty of her mother, and the fact that she was not married to Your Grace because of that precontract with Northumberland, what… will become of the Lady Elizabeth?”
The King softened toward Seymour. He liked boldness, for he himself had been bold.
He smiled. “More wine, good Thomas.”
“Your Majesty might give her to one of your gentlemen…if his rank and wealth were commensurate.”
“I might indeed. But she is young yet. There’s no knowing… no knowing, friend Thomas.”
And the King’s friend Thomas felt elated with his success.
THE OLD DUKE OF NORFOLK lay in his cell awaiting his death. How many years had he expected this? All through his life there had been these alarms which he was too near the throne to have escaped. But he had been a wise man and had always made the King’s cause his own.
But the wisest men could be betrayed, and often by those who were nearest and dearest to them.
Tomorrow he was to die.
In the Palace of White Hall the King lay sick. He will not live long after me, reflected Norfolk.
When a man is going to die he thinks back over his life. He had been a great statesman, this Duke of England’s noblest House; he had had his place in the building of England’s greatness. He was a proud man and he hated to die thus…as traitors die.
Proud young Surrey had betrayed him—not with plots, but with vanity, pride.
Norfolk’s thoughts went back to his marriage with Buckingham’s daughter—a proud woman, a vain woman. He himself had been Earl of Surrey then and had inherited the title of Duke of Norfolk some years later. The trouble with Bess Holland had started when he was still Earl of Surrey.
Bessie! he brooded, seeing her as she had been then, with the sleeves of her cheap gown rolled up over her elbows showing her buxom arms—a slut, some might say, but bearing that indefinable attraction which even a great nobleman—so conscious of his status—found irresistible.
He had seduced her on their first meeting; yet he almost believed that she had seduced him. It had not ended there. One went back, and back again, to such as Bessie.
Naturally his wife had been furious. A daughter of noble Buckingham to be set aside for a laundress: But Bessie had had something more alluring than noble lineage. Bessie had that way of setting aside all the barriers of class.
Well, it was a lusty age and, although he was the most noble man in the realm, under the King, and one of its keenest statesmen, he had been unable to give up Bessie.
His Duchess had been a vindictive woman, determined to make trouble; so between her and Bess he had had enough of that in his life.
His family… his accursed family! First Anne Boleyn—though not all Howard, being part lowborn Boleyn—and then Catharine Howard. Both of these Queens had brought wealth and advancement to the Howards, and when they fell, the Howard fortunes declined with them.
He remembered now—he who believed he would soon go to Tower Green—how he had flayed with his scorn those two kinswomen of his, those fallen Queens. More fiercely than any, his tongue had condemned them. He had stood by the King and deplored the fact—so tragic for the House of Howard—that it was those two women who had made the King suffer.
And now his own son—his elder son—on whom he had fixed his pride and hope, had lost his head. Gay Surrey, the handsome poet who could not keep his mouth shut—or perhaps did not care to do so.
“My son…my son…” murmured the Duke. “But what matters it, for tomorrow I shall join you.”
And as he lay there, waiting for the dawn, he wished that he had often acted differently during his long life. He could not forget the scornful flashing eyes of Anne Boleyn when he had conducted her to the Tower; he could not shut out of his mind the memory of Catharine Howard’s tears.
He waited calmly for the dawn.
THE KING HAD not yet signed Norfolk’s death warrant. He was too ill to deal with matters of state and kept to his bed that day. His limbs were swollen with dropsy; he felt low and was in great pain; and he was only half aware of the candlelit room in which he lay.
In a corner waited several gentlemen of the bedchamber. With them were members of his Council—the Seymours, Lord Lisle, Wriothesley, and Sir Anthony Denny among them.
They whispered together.
“He cannot last the night.”
“He has never been in this condition before.”
“He should be told. He s
hould be prepared.”
“Who will dare tell him?”
All were silent; and then the King’s voice was heard calling.
“Go,” said Hertford to his brother. “You go. He has a liking for you.”
Sir Thomas went into the chamber and stood by the King’s bed.
“Who is there?” asked Henry, peering before him. “Who is it?”
“Thomas Seymour, my lord. Your humble servant and your friend.”
“Friend Thomas… friend Thomas… My arms are burning stumps of fire. My legs are furnaces. My body lies in the grip of deadly pain.”
“Rest, Sire. Speak not,” said Seymour, “for speech doth bring out the sweat beads, big as grapes, upon thy brow.”
“An we wish it, we will speak,” growled the King. “We will not be told, by a subject, when to speak.”
“Your Grace’s pardon. I but feared for you.”
“How goes the hour?”
“Creeping on to midnight, Sire.”
“I hear the bells in my ears, Seymour. I seem to be walking on soft grass. I think I ride in Richmond Park. I think I am up the river in my state barge. I think I sit beside my Queen, watching the jousting in the tiltyard. But…I lie here… with furnaces for limbs… adying in my bed.”
Two members of the Council had come into the chamber. They stood by the hangings and whispered together concerning the King’s condition.
Henry heard them. He tried to lift his head, but fell back groaning.
“Who whispers in the shadows? ’tis Surrey…’ Tis my lord Earl.”
Seymour bent his head and murmured: “Nay, Sire. Your Grace forgets. Surrey laid his head on the block nine days ago.”
“Surrey!” muttered the King. “Surrey…a poet…a handsome boy…a proud and foolish boy.”
“A conspirator against the Throne, Your Grace.”
Henry’s voice was more distinct. “’ Twas Surrey who first wrote blank verse. I remember it. He gave us the sonnet. A poet… but…a proud and foolish boy.”
“He plotted against Your Grace. He displayed the royal arms on his own. Your Grace forgets. Surrey thought himself more royal than royalty.”