Innocent Traitor (27 page)

Reminding myself that I must kneel again whenever I address him, I rise to my feet, lift my eyes to his, and see a slight, copper-haired boy with pointed ears and a pointed chin. He looks a bit like an elf, although a majestic one. But his eyes are cold and shuttered. I imagine that he will not be an easy person to get close to.

“I have heard that you are something of a paragon,” His Majesty is pleased to say.

I kneel once more and reply meekly, “I do my poor best at my lessons, sir.”

“You’re taught by Dr. Aylmer,” he says, becoming more animated. “Dr. Cheke has a high opinion of him. You are very fortunate to have such a tutor, Cousin.”

This boy is a little younger than me, but his manner gives the impression that he is far older.

“I have the greatest affection for him, sir.”

“What do you think of this?” the King asks, producing a parchment from his pocket. He hands it to me. It’s a translation into Greek, quite ably done.

“Is this your own work, sir?” I venture.

“Yes. I did it this morning. Well, Cousin, what do you think of it? Have you yourself progressed so far?”

A sight further, I think, but of course I cannot say that, and I should not allow myself to fall into the sin of pride. These things come easily to me, and that is not my doing, but God’s.

“I am astonished by Your Majesty’s scholarship.”

“Could you translate it back into the Latin?” he asks, looking at me speculatively.

“I will try, sir.” I gaze at the Greek, and somehow it resolves itself at once in my mind into Latin. I pretend to hesitate and stumble purposefully on a word or two, but nevertheless the King looks a little nonplussed.

“Dr. Aylmer is to be congratulated on his pupil,” he says when I have finished. Do I detect a trace of irony in his voice?

He has now lost interest in schoolwork and suggests we play cards. He sits down on a cushioned chair and waves me to a stool. The courtiers, fine lords and ladies in their jewel-encrusted, peacock-colored clothes, gather round in the tapestry-hung chamber to watch us. We enjoy a spirited game, and I begin to relax in his company. For all the formality surrounding us, he seems to like me. He smiles rarely and is oversolemn for his years, but he is friendly enough in his reserved way.

When the game is finished, he walks me along his private gallery, pointing out the portraits of our mutual forebears.

“That’s King Henry the Seventh, my grandfather, and your great-grandfather, my Lady Jane. And this is your grandmother, Mary Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk.”

“They say she was very beautiful, sir.”

“Probably when she was young, but not in that portrait,” he replies candidly.

“I like this one,” I say. It’s a likeness of a fair young woman in a golden dress and hood.

The King gazes at it for a moment. “That was my mother. She died when I was born.” There is no emotion in his voice, and how could there be? He never knew her. But his cool terseness is disconcerting. I cannot imagine anything moving him.

Soon it is time for his archery practice. When he dismisses me, I kneel to kiss his hand.

“Farewell, Cousin,” he says. There has been no indication that he has any special affection for me, still less any acknowledgment of the possibility that I might one day be his queen. As I walk backward out of his presence, curtsying again as two pages throw open the doors, I wonder if I will ever grow to love this cold, dispassionate boy as a wife should.

Queen Katherine Parr

CHELSEA, MARCH 1548

It is Sunday morning, and we are preparing for worship in the chapel. This should be a reflective, tranquil time, yet I am uneasy. The Lady Elizabeth has pleaded one of her headaches as an excuse to stay in bed, and my lord is missing.

At the entrance to the royal pew, I pause. I bid Jane be seated, then send Anne Vaux, one of my ladies, back to my private chambers.

“There’s still time before the service begins, Anne,” I tell her. “See if you can find the Admiral and ask him to hurry up.”

Anne hastens away. She returns five minutes later. She has not seen Tom. He is not in our apartments.

I decide to go and look for him myself and instruct the chaplain to wait.

As I hasten through the gallery that leads from the chapel, I encounter Mrs. Ashley on her way to worship. I inquire after the Lady Elizabeth.

“I’ve just left her, madam. She is sleeping.”

I wish I could believe her, but her eyes slide away from mine.

I wait until Mrs. Ashley has gone into the chapel, then make my way, not to the royal apartments, but to my Lady Elizabeth’s. All is quiet as I approach. But then, from behind a closed door, I hear a girl’s muffled giggle.

Taking a deep breath, I push the door open. They are there together, tumbled on the bed, my husband and my stepdaughter, both in a shocking state of disarray. Instantly Tom leaps up, throws the coverlet over the girl’s exposed breasts, and tugs at his hose. Our eyes meet, and he looks away. There is nothing he can say in his defense, so he just shrugs and spreads his hands helplessly, as I gaze at him in horror. Words will not come, and mutely I turn and flee from the room, as he hurries after me, shouting my name.

We face each other in the privacy of our chamber. I am trembling with the shock of his betrayal; he is aggressive with guilt.

“Do you realize the enormity of what you have done?” I cry, my voice trembling. “Setting aside the hurt to me, your wife, you have compromised the King’s own sister.”

“I have not harmed her,” he retorts.

“By that I suppose you mean you have not deflowered her.”

“Yes. I mean, no, I have not. It was just a flirtation, Kate, that got out of hand. You must believe me.”

“Yes, so out of hand that you felt the need to unlace your breeches. God knows what would have happened had I not interrupted you. Christ, Tom, how can you be so stupid?”

“She bewitched me, the little temptress,” he mutters. “She’s a sorceress, just like her mother.”

“That’s a feeble excuse. I suppose you had no mind of your own in the matter?”

Tom says nothing. There is nothing he can say.

A terrible thought occurs to me.

“This reflects so badly on me,” I whisper, sounding flat and bitter. “It is I too who have been remiss. The Lady Elizabeth has been entrusted to my care, and I have been lax in my vigilance. It had never occurred to me that there was any need for it. I believed that you were mine alone….” I break down and he moves to embrace me, but I push him away.

“Don’t touch me!” I cry. I walk, sobbing softly into my handkerchief, to the window. “I can only thank Heaven that you have not got her pregnant. I hope to God you are telling me the truth.”

“I am, Kate. I am,” he says brokenly.

“Then I must, for my own sanity, believe you,” I whisper. “But if the council were to discover what has been going on under my roof, I should not escape the sternest censure.”

“I am so sorry, Kate,” Tom cries. “Believe me, I am sorry. I was mad. I acted like a fool. It’s you I love, you, Kate.”

“Really? The evidence of my own eyes tells me otherwise.”

Tom falls to his knees and looks up at me. There are tears in his eyes.

“I’m begging you, Kate, to forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, or you, but I’m only human, with a man’s frailties. I love you, sweetheart—doesn’t that count for something?”

Something hardens in me. “It certainly didn’t this morning,” I snap.

“You have to believe me!” he cries frantically. “I love you!”

“Love?” I echo disdainfully. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

I walked out on him then, and I have not seen him all day. Nor has Elizabeth shown herself.

Now, Tom and I face each other over the supper table, both of us calmer and more rational. But his betrayal lies between us like a dark shadow.

I break the silence. “I am resolved to draw a line under this morning’s disgraceful episode.” He looks up hopefully, but I refuse to meet his eyes. He’s not going to get off so lightly.

“The Lady Elizabeth, by virtue of her youth, is the innocent party in this sordid affair,” I say. “It is my duty to send her to a place where she can come to no further harm. I shall say I can no longer take responsibility for her care because of my pregnancy, which obliges me to lead a quieter life.”

Tom hangs his head, cradling it in his palm. “What more can I say?” he asks pathetically.

“You must pray to God for forgiveness, because I can give you none.”

Elizabeth is leaving for the house of Sir Anthony and Lady Denny at Cheshunt. No one has been fooled by the official explanation for her departure, and I can tell that the household is buzzing with speculation. Clearly, too many people have seen and heard too many things, and I am fearful in case loose tongues undermine the plans I have made to protect Elizabeth’s reputation, not to mention my attempt to conceal that my marriage is in ruins. It doesn’t help that, when Elizabeth takes her leave of me, she bursts into weeping, which gives further cause for gossip.

I kiss her kindly, wishing her well.

“Allow me to write to you, madam,” she sobs.

“By all means,” I soothe. “Now, farewell.”

And she is gone, leaving me my faithless husband and the perils of childbirth to come.

Lady Jane Grey

CHELSEA AND HANWORTH, MARCH 1548

Ever since I saw the Lady Elizabeth emerge in tears from the Queen’s closet at Chelsea, I have wondered if she upset Her Majesty in some way, and whether that was the reason for her abrupt departure for Cheshunt. If I’m right, then surely Her Majesty has forgiven her, for when Elizabeth left that morning, and the whole household gathered to bid her farewell, I saw Katherine kiss her and smile kindly at her and stand waving until the little procession vanished from sight. Since then, she has corresponded with the Lady Elizabeth and sometimes reads her letters aloud so that I and the other ladies can hear news of her.

I fear that Elizabeth’s offense had something to do with the Admiral; relations between him and the Queen are visibly strained, and the coldness between them permeates the entire household. I am lonelier than I expected without Elizabeth’s stimulating company, so I feel that chill more than most, I suspect, and I therefore pray daily that God will reconcile my kind guardians.

My prayers are answered for, as the spring draws on and the Queen’s pregnancy advances without mishap, she and the Admiral are drawn together again by their shared expectations for the future. Her manner toward him thaws, and he is as attentive as ever, boisterously kissing her and chucking her under the chin.

There is no mention of the Lady Elizabeth returning to Chelsea.