Beware, Princess Elizabeth (3 page)

That night we retired to the chambers assigned to us. All but one of the candles were extinguished, and we climbed onto the high bed and drew the curtains against the cold. Our servants slept.

"Tom Seymour and the queen...," I began hesitantly.

"She was in love with him before, you see," said Kat, almost as though she had read my thoughts. "Catherine has been in love with Tom Seymour these many years, since long before she married King Henry. And who can blame her? Do you not think him extraordinarily handsome?"

The handsomest I have ever seen,
I thought. Aloud I said, "I scarcely noticed," and feigned a yawn. Then, "Will they wed, then, do you think?"

"The dowager queen must first complete a year of official mourning," said Kat. "We shall see if she lasts six months."

With that Kat rolled onto her side and fell fast asleep, leaving me to lie awake pondering this bit of news.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
after a solemn procession from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, the coronation commenced, hours of pomp and ceremony that left everyone exhausted. By evening the celebrants had recovered sufficiently, and the revelry began at Whitehall Palace, the new king's official residence.

Throughout the banquet no one paid me the least attention, as usual. I was seated far down the table from King Edward and completely ignored, as only a thirteen-year-old princess of lowly status can be ignored in the vast sea of dukes and duchesses, marquises and marchionesses, earls and countesses, barons and baronesses. But when the dancing began, my old friend Robin Dudley suddenly appeared at my side.

Robin had shared lessons with Edward and me and our tutors when Robin and I were eight years old—our birthdays are within days of each other. He was a merry lad then, as good-looking as he was good-humored, but I had not seen him in some time. Now thirteen, no longer a boy but not yet a man, he had the same bright eyes, reddish brown hair, and quick smile that I remembered well. He approached me shyly, but as soon as we joined the other dancers, his shyness vanished.

The dance was my favorite—lavolta, in which the partners take turns lifting each other off the floor. Of course, the lady does no actual lifting; the gentleman first executes a leap and then seizes the lady by the waist and propels her high into the air. When finally we stopped, breathless and laughing, Robin brought me a cup of hippocras and begged me to tell him where my life was taking me.

"I cannot say, Robin," I told him frankly as we sipped the spiced wine. "I am the king's daughter, but I think they have all forgotten me."

"I have not," he said, suddenly serious and taking my hand. "I shall never forget you, Elizabeth."

The passion with which he uttered this promise startled me, for I'd always thought of him as a brother. Yet his tone as well as his words held my attention. "Nor shall I forget you," I said.

I was happy passing the time with my old friend. But to my surprise, Tom Seymour appeared and claimed me for the next dance, a grave and stately pavane. I had felt lighthearted and at ease with Robin Dudley, but my feet turned to lumps of clay and my hands were cold as fish when I was on Tom Seymour's arm. I wanted to hide from embarrassment, and at the same time I wanted the dance to go on and on. The attraction I felt for this man was strong, the strongest I had ever experienced, and I sensed that he was drawn to me as well. But I knew the attraction was improper, even dangerous.

Later, when I looked again for Robin, he had disappeared. Then Kat materialized and announced that it would be wise for me to retire. "King Edward has long departed for his bedchamber," she said, frowning at me, "and so must you, madam."

I blamed the fireworks and booming cannons for keeping me awake until dawn. In truth the faces of a handsome man and a handsome boy troubled my sleep.

The day after Edward's coronation, Dowager Queen Catherine, my father's widow, astonished me with an invitation to come live with her at Chelsea Palace in London. "I would be happy for your company, Elizabeth," she said, "and it would give me great pleasure to continue to oversee your education. What do you say? Are you in agreement?"

"Oh yes, my lady Catherine!" I said, for I was fond of my stepmother.

London was noisy and dirty, unlike my quiet country home at Hatfield, where the only noise came from flocks of sheep in the nearby fields. But London was also exciting.

In preparation for the move from Hatfield, Kat bustled from chamber to chamber, giving orders to the serving maids. Now and again she paused to smile broadly at me.

"To London, to London!" she fairly sang. "Such a life you shall now have, madam!"

The maids were packing my chemises, my petticoats, my kirtles and gowns, my shoes and stockings and boots—all now too short, too tight, or too worn or threadbare—into wooden trunks. Kat looked first at a blue velvet gown she was holding in her hands and then at me. "You need a new gown, or two or three. You have grown at least a hand span since this one was made for you. I shall speak to Mr. Parry about it."

Thomas Parry, a puffed-up little Welshman, was my cofferer, in charge of the allowance that my father used to send for the upkeep of my household. His sister, Blanche Parry, a plainspoken and practical woman, was also in my service. Blanche and Kat had always complained there were not enough funds to provide properly for the king's younger daughter, although there always seemed to be plenty for his elder daughter, Mary. I wondered if that might now change with my brother on the throne.

On a wintry day in early March, under clouds heavy with snow, Kat and I and a small retinue of servants once again set out for London. Thick mud sucked at the horses' hooves, slowing our pace.

"Does my sister know of this change?" I asked Kat.

"Why, I have no idea, Elizabeth," Kat said. "Did you not write to her?"

I'd thought of sending word to Mary to inform her of my whereabouts, but in the commotion of the past weeks, I had neglected to do so. But then, I thought, neither had Mary taken the time to write to me.
Later,
I decided;
when I am settled, then I shall write.

And I promptly forgot about her.

O
UR WELCOME
at the queen's beautiful Chelsea Palace was as warm as one could wish for. Queen Catherine didn't wait for me to beg her to receive me, but as soon as she had word of our arrival, she stepped out into the snowy courtyard to greet me. "How happy I am you have come to be with me," she said with an affectionate embrace.

She led Kat and me through elegant halls with marble floors and walls paneled in oak to our own apartments, a spacious suite of chambers with windows overlooking the River Thames. After inviting us to join her at supper when we were ready, the queen left us to recover from our journey.

As servants carried in our trunks and boxes, Kat went about examining everything from the candles in the sconces on the wall ("Good quality beeswax," she said approvingly) to the tester bed, with its canopy and curtains of heavy blue damask. "Look!" Kat whispered, poking her finger into the lofty bedding with its coverlet, also of blue. "Three mattresses, all well stuffed with wool."

I took more interest in a small writing desk, intricately carved, with two wooden stools covered in leather. There was even a supply of goose quills and a knife to sharpen them, and a little inkhorn. A cozy fire crackled on the hearth. I felt that I should be content here.

After we had rested, cleansed our hands and faces, and changed our muddy petticoats for fresh ones, we made our way to the gallery. Fine tapestries lined the walls. At one end, in a place of honor, hung a portrait of my father. Nearby was a smaller portrait of my grandfather, King Henry VII. I stood gazing into the eyes of the two portraits and tried to imagine what those great kings might have been thinking as the artist painted their images. Then a servant in livery of green and white, the Tudor colors, appeared and announced that the dowager queen awaited us in her private apartments.

The servant pushed open a heavy door. I entered the queen's privy chamber, ready to kneel before Catherine. But before I could do so, I found myself enveloped in the arms of Tom Seymour. I barely managed to suppress a startled cry.

"Welcome, dear sister Elizabeth!" he roared, and twirled me around before setting me down rather unsteadily on my feet. All of my life I had been carefully schooled in royal deportment, and so I was shocked at his behavior. At the same time, I confess, I was also thrilled.

I looked with alarm from this handsome, boisterous man to the sweet, smiling countenance of my stepmother. Queen Catherine must have observed my confusion, for she immediately took care to present him formally: "Thomas Seymour, baron of Sudeley."

What are you doing here?
I thought, but I made a curtsy and murmured a bit breathlessly, "My lord."

The baron bowed deeply. "My lady Elizabeth," he said, now looking straight-faced and rather pompous, as though he had not just moments before swept me off my feet.

And the queen, still smiling benignly, called for hippocras to be brought.

As it was the Lenten season, our supper consisted of manchet—fine white bread—and several dishes made of fish. While we ate, the baron described to me the stone castle called Sudeley, three days' journey to the northwest in Gloucestershire.

"It was the pleasure of your brother, the king, to present me with both castle and title," Tom explained. Then, at the queen's urging, Tom Seymour told several tales of wild adventure that I only half believed and made jokes that I did not entirely understand.

So the evening passed merrily, until at last Catherine excused us. The liveried servant reappeared to conduct Kat and me back to our chambers. The fire was dying, and once our maids had removed our gowns and kirtles we retired for warmth to our bed, which turned out to be just as comfortable as it looked.

"What think you now of the baron of Sudeley?" Kat murmured into the darkness.

"I think him—," and here I hesitated, remembering his raucous greeting. "I think him very bold," I replied at last.

"I believe that the baron would have you as his bride," said Kat calmly, as though informing me that a cat likes cream, "were you of an age. And it is not long until you shall be."

"He would marry
me?
" I gasped. "But does not Catherine love him? Does the baron not intend to wed the queen, once her mourning ends?"

"So she hopes. But I believe it is
you
to whom Tom Seymour has lost his heart."

"But, Kat!" I protested, excited but also frightened. "This cannot be! What shall I do?"

"Do nothing at all, dear Elizabeth," Kat replied in that placid way that at times infuriated me. "Wait and see."

Wait and see,
I thought as I lay awake, staring into the darkness long after Kat's breathing had deepened in sleep. Too much of my life was "wait and see." Yet, for now, I had no choice—even if I had known what my choices were.

***

N
OT LONG AFTER
I moved to Catherine's mansion, I learned that Tom's brother, Edward Seymour, had also been given a new title by the king. He was now duke of Somerset. Furthermore, he had been named (or more likely had named himself) lord protector of King Edward.

"This means that Edward Seymour will rule in your brother's stead until the king comes of age," Kat said. "The lord protector is supposed to assist and advise the young king, but you can imagine who will have the real authority for the next nine years."

This was not a surprise, for I had known from the moment my father's death was announced that Edward Seymour intended to grasp the reins of power in England.

One more thing: Tom Seymour had acquired yet another new title. He was now called lord admiral.

I learned this during one of the many dinners and suppers I shared during the following weeks with Queen Catherine. At least half the time, the lord admiral had no navy to command, no ship's crew to attend; he only had us. I was better prepared now for his rambunctious greetings, as he would jump out at me from behind a tapestry or a table, seize me and swing me once or even twice around, and call out, "Welcome, my lady Elizabeth!"

I confess that I was not only prepared for his unconventional greeting, but I now looked forward to it. Catherine always watched this little ritual with a benevolent smile. When the lord admiral happened to be away on business, as he often was, I was disappointed. Of course, I took care to hide my disappointment. It would not do to have my kind stepmother suspect how eagerly I awaited those few precious, playful moments in Tom's arms. I knew from the looks they exchanged that Catherine was deeply in love with Tom. What was not so plain was the depth of his feeling for her.

I was, as I have said, thirteen years old at the time, and I had begun to think of love for myself. Marriage did not tempt me, although I assumed it was my fate, as it was the fate of all women. Marriage was about securing property or power, and seldom had anything to do with love. I had only to look at my father's six marriages to shudder at the prospect. Queen Catherine herself had been married twice to men much older than herself before she married my father, also much older.

Yet, I thought, when I do marry, it must be to a man like Tom Seymour: handsome, charming, dashing. "And," as Kat was quick to point out, "with a bit of the devil in him." She made that sound like a
good
thing. Increasingly, I wasted time in daydreams about what it might be like to be the wife of the lord admiral.

Then, early one May morning, Queen Catherine called me to her chambers. I was instructed to come alone. As soon as I arrived, she dismissed her waiting women. The queen bade me sit by her side, which I did, quite mystified by this unusual meeting. "I have a secret for you, Elizabeth, and for you alone. For my sake you must tell no one, although in time all of England will know."

"I swear that I will speak of this to no one," I said breathlessly.

"The lord admiral, baron of Sudeley, and I have married," she said, blushing prettily. "Tom Seymour will no longer be a frequent visitor to our house. He will be living here with us."