Innocent Traitor (21 page)

Her Grace adds that there was also weeping in Parliament when his late Majesty’s demise was announced there, and on the streets of London, through which the King’s body was carried yesterday, amidst great pageantry, on its way to Syon Abbey, where it rested overnight before being conveyed to Windsor for burial beside Queen Jane.

“And you, Frances—what are your plans now?” asks the Queen.

“Well, madam, I shall serve our new King in any way I can,” my lady replies. “Otherwise, I shall look to my daughters’ upbringing, perform my charities, help run the estates. Life goes on.”

“It does, indeed,” sighs Queen Katherine.

Mrs. Zouche comes hurrying into the nursery apartments to see Mrs. Ellen. She can barely contain herself.

“My dear, you will never believe what I have heard. People are saying that, when the King’s coffin was placed in the chapel at Syon, it burst open, and blood and other matter seeped out onto the pavement, causing a terrible stink.”

“How frightful!” exclaims Mrs. Ellen.

“That’s not all. When men came to repair the coffin—imagine, what a terrible job—they had a dog with them, and the dog licked the King’s blood off the floor.”

Mrs. Ellen shudders, and I feel sick.

“The prophecy,” says Mrs. Zouche. “You remember the prophecy?”

“I don’t think…” Mrs. Ellen says uncertainly. Katherine and I are agog.

“Well, in the days when the King was determined to marry Anne Boleyn, a friar publicly warned him that, if he persisted in his wicked course, he would be as Ahab in the Bible, and the dogs would lick his blood.”

“Then it would appear it has come true,” whispers Mrs. Ellen.

“I fear so, yet some in London dismiss it as popish nonsense, and some deny that the coffin burst at all.”

“It was probably just a coincidence,” says Mrs. Ellen, with a sharp nod in our direction. “Those papists will say anything to disparage the late King’s reforms.”

“Soon they will have to hold their tongues,” Mrs. Zouche tells her. “Only this morning, my lady was saying that the country is going to turn Protestant, and that the Mass will be banned. She seems very pleased about it.”

“She and his lordship will follow whatever faith is in fashion, I think,” observes Mrs. Ellen tartly. “Power is more important to them than religion. And don’t forget, her ladyship is often with the Queen. I think we can guess where she gets her ideas from.”

“From what my lady was telling me, those ideas are held by many now at court, from the Lord Protector down. And the young King’s tutors have seen to it that he is hot for the new religion.”

And I too, I think. Anne Askew’s burning first made me question my faith, and then Dr. Harding’s teaching made me see that a lot of what I had been told about religion was lies. I cannot believe any more in the miracle of the Mass, since it is against all reason. And I do not see why we should have to ask the Virgin Mary and the saints to intercede for us when we can pray directly to God. I also believe that the Bible should be available in English for all to read and interpret. These beliefs, I realize, make me a Protestant. And, in the eyes of the law, a heretic.

For some time, and for obvious reasons, I have kept these opinions strictly to myself. But, listening to the conversation between Mrs. Zouche and Mrs. Ellen, I have hopes that the time will soon come when I can be honest and open about my beliefs.

The Lady Mary

NEWHALL, ESSEX, SPRING 1547

As I emerge from the chapel, there is a letter waiting on the table. I pick it up and look at the seal, which bears the Seymour arms. Is this a summons to court from the Lord Protector?

It isn’t. My poor eyesight has again deceived me. It’s from his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, who was created Baron of Sudeley in the distribution of honors that preceded the coronation. What on earth could Lord Sudeley want with me?

I open the letter and read it with amazement, for it contains a proposal of marriage. This is staggering. I barely know the man, although I have heard much of his reputation, and I hardly think he is fitted to aspire to marriage with one of the royal House, such as myself. The barefaced daring of the man! And he says nothing of having obtained the council’s permission to approach me. He must surely know that he cannot marry me without its sanction.

I don’t like this. I could be compromised by it. My honor, my reputation, stained. Yet in some strange way I am excited at the notion of such a man paying his addresses to me. I have carried my virginity like a burden for many a long year, yearned for marriage and the love of a good man, and above all for children. Has Thomas Seymour looked at me and found me desirable, or is he merely ambitious to be wed to the heiress presumptive to the throne? I cannot deceive myself: it is far more likely to be the latter.

What do I know of this man? He’s the younger brother of the Lord Protector and Queen Jane, of blessed memory, and uncle to the King. I suppose he thinks that qualifies him to approach me. At one time, he was said to be bent on marriage to Queen Katherine, before the King my father came along and put paid to it. The court grapevine had it that it would have been a love match, yet she was a rich widow and it would have been a great marriage for him, so I’m not so certain. Then he spent much time abroad, on diplomatic missions and undertaking various duties as Lord High Admiral. He’s never held any high political office, though. My late father, God rest his soul, didn’t trust him. He called him a rash adventurer.

The notion of marrying such a man makes my poor flesh tingle. Sir Thomas is a handsome fellow, with dashing dark eyes and boundless charm. Most women, I imagine, would be easy prey. And I too; yes, I think I would, if I were not my father’s daughter and the heiress to England.

I must write at once and refuse his proposal. And yet, and yet…my pen stays poised in my hand. I am thirty-one, and I am desperate to be married. I cannot imagine what it must be like to bed with such a man. I dare not imagine it, although I suspect I might enjoy the experience, once I had overcome my extreme shyness and modesty. Yet, once again, policy compels me to reject a suitor, even though in my innermost heart I might wish to accept him. And he has been most impertinent and presumptuous to propose marriage in so underhand a fashion to a princess of the blood.

Resolutely I write my rebuff: a brief, formal note to say that it would be unseemly for me to consider marriage so soon after the death of my beloved father, and that when I do so, I am determined to be governed by the decision of my brother the King and his council.

There, it is done, I have done the right thing, the only thing. But I fear that, when I am alone in my bed at night, I might feel rather differently about the matter.

I am on my knees in the chapel, praying to Our Lord to turn the hearts of those who have banned the Mass in this kingdom. The prospect of having to live without the consolation of my religion is utterly intolerable to me; how could God allow such a wicked thing to happen?

But God has allowed many wicked things to happen. He does it to test us. As my sainted mother used to tell me, we never come to the kingdom of Heaven but by troubles. And God knows how many troubles I have had to face in my life. The years spent forcibly parted from my mother, that witch Nan Bullen’s vindictiveness and cruelty, the unkindness of my father, and my own craven submission to him. Yet for all that, I loved him, and I miss him now that he is gone.

And now my little brother is King. He has been brought up by heretics, and I fear that his soul is irrevocably lost. I grieve for him, as I grieve for this realm of England, which is being inexorably steered toward perdition and ruin.

“Grant me strength to bear it, O Lord!” I pray, gazing up in rapture at the painted stone statue of Our Lady with the Child in her arms, which stands in its niche above the altar, flanked by two stained-glass windows depicting the Annunciation and the Assumption. “Give me the strength to bear all my trials!”

The serene features of the Virgin smile tenderly down at me. As I gaze in adoration, ecstasy floods me. With the help of the blessed Mother of Christ, I know I can bear all my trials, because right is on my side, and I follow the path of the true faith.

Five weeks have passed since I turned down Lord Sudeley’s proposal, and not a word from him. Today, however, there is another letter. It’s from my sister, Elizabeth, who is now living with my good stepmother at Chelsea. Astonishingly, she writes to tell me that she has also received a proposal of marriage from the Lord Admiral, but has turned it down, telling him that neither her age—she is thirteen—nor her inclinations allow her to think on marriage, and that she wishes to be left to mourn our father a full year or more before contemplating it.

So it was pure ambition, after all. If he couldn’t get the second in line to the throne, he’d try for the third. Oh, the perfidy of men! What a fool I was to think he could ever have desired me for myself, poor, thin, ailing creature that I am. And how well Elizabeth has dealt with him.

“I made him wait a week or so for a reply, good sister,” she writes. “I told him he must permit me to decline the honor of becoming his wife. Some honor that would be!”

Something tells me we have both done wisely in rejecting the Admiral. Whatever his schemes are, they are underhand and colored purely by self-interest. I think I have just had a lucky escape.

Queen Katherine Parr

CHELSEA, SPRING 1547

The Lord Admiral stands before me. I have not seen him since long before the King died, so I am unprepared for the impact of his virile good looks. Tall and debonair, with an easy grace, he stoops to kiss my hand, and I suddenly feel as if I were drowning. It was like this when he came a-courting before, but that was four years ago, and much has happened in the meantime. I am now a wealthy royal widow, and guardian of the Lady Elizabeth, and I am beginning to enjoy being free of the constraints of court life, not to mention the intrigues and the backbiting.

“It has been too long since I saw Your Majesty,” he declares, his eyes roving appreciatively up and down me. “I am come to offer my condolences on your sad loss.”

“I am growing used to it now,” I say, a trifle tartly. “The King has been dead these eight weeks.”

“Ah, I am sorry I did not come before.” He smiles ruefully. “I thought Your Majesty would need time to grieve. I did not like to intrude.”

“No matter. I appreciate your coming now, my lord.”

“My lord?” He raises an eyebrow. “You used to call me Tom.”

“I used to be a commoner,” I remind him. “Now I am a queen. Formality has ruled my life for so long. But you are very welcome…Tom.”

He smiles at me. His smile is devastating, revealing perfect white teeth.

“It gladdens my heart to hear it…Kate,” he says boldly. I raise an eyebrow but say nothing. I know I should reprove him for his forwardness, but I am enjoying it so.

I was in love with Thomas Seymour before the King claimed me. I would have walked on hot embers for him. He pursued me with flattering ardor and refused to heed my protests about its being too soon after Lord Latimer’s death. He begged me to marry him, and then when I said I would, he laid siege to my virtue.

“We are going to be wed,” he told me. “What difference does it make?” And the citadel would perhaps have fallen, had not the King made known his interest. Then Tom had no choice but to withdraw and make himself scarce. I mourned his loss desperately, but over the years the pain dulled, as did the hot lust that infused me every time I thought of him or relived his caresses. I resigned myself to God’s will, and in the end the King proved himself a kind husband.

Now Tom has returned, we are both of us free, and the old attraction is still there between us. I cannot take my eyes off him as he seats himself in my privy chamber and jokes with my ladies, a lean and muscular Adonis with a wicked wit that I find irresistible.

The women fetch refreshments and withdraw to the other side of the room, leaving us free to talk in private. Our conversation is not of love or sweet nothings—rather we speak of what is happening at court, although there are naturally other, more personal things that I would rather discuss. But Tom is eager to touch on politics, and soon it becomes clear that he is a disappointed man. Even though the Seymours are riding high in this realm, Tom is bitter because it is his brother, of whom he is jealous, who wields power, and not he.