The Virgin Elizabeth Read online

  “What, just ‘Tom’?” said Blackjack. “Naa, we all have a pet name ‘ere.” He turned to his mates. “What shall it be then, lads, Tom what?”

  “Tom the Scum!” cried a patch-eyed pirate, asserting with his flagrant disrespect that these men did not abide by the laws of any king or country and that a nobleman such as Seymour was no better than Blackjack’s ruffians.

  “Green Tom,” called another, alluding to his nauseous face.

  “Tom Goldpockets,” cried a wretched man whose face was gouged, chin and cheeks and forehead, with pockmarks.

  “Perhaps that’s closest to the truth,” said Seymour with a look meant to be mischievous.

  “And why is that?” asked Jack Thompson suspiciously. “Have you come bearin’ gifts?”

  “You could say that,” replied Seymour. “Have you not wondered why I’ve asked for this meeting in the Scilly Isles and most particularly on the shore?”

  “On shore for yer seasickness,” Black Jack shot back. “And the Scillies? As good a place as any.”

  “Take a walk with me … Jack,” Seymour said, holding the pirates eye. “The two of us alone.”

  Thompson shot glances at his men that said, Back off, I’ll handle him, and followed Thomas inland to where a green fringe of forest rimmed the beach in a near perfect semicircle.

  “What think you of this isle?” asked Seymour.

  “For a piece o’ land, ‘tis good as the next,” replied the pirate.

  “And this harbor?” Seymour persisted.

  “Plenty deep, a narrow channel for its inlet, good protection from foul weather,” Thompson said as he gazed out over the harbor for a spell. “A heavy chain across the neck and we’ve protection from any botherin’ sons o’ bitches who might want to have at us. And why do ye want to know my opinions … My lord Admiral?” he added warily and with something of a sneer in his voice.

  “Because I’ve bought it for you, Jack. For us. A safe haven.”

  A smile crept over Thompson’s dark face, pulling at the seam in his torn chin. “Goldpockets indeed,” he said.

  “I must protect my partners,” said Seymour, “protect my investments.”

  Black Jack gazed landward along the rocky shoreline. “Mayhap I’ll build me a house here, then.”

  “Mayhap a castle,” added Seymour. “That is, if you’ve a mind for some grandiose booty taking.”

  “Such as … ?”

  “That which the Holy Roman Emperor is plundering from the New World.” Seymour replied.

  “Charles’s Gold?”

  “By the ton.”

  “A good idea,” Thompson said, his mind already beginning to work. “But I’ll need a second ship.”

  “Done,” said Seymour.

  The pirate eyed the Admiral, studying him intently. “You’ve a rich wife, ’aven’t ye?”

  “Very rich,” replied Seymour.

  “But not so rich for yer needs, it appears.”

  Seymour’s eyes narrowed. Black Jack was treading on dangerous ground, knew it, but seemed to care very little about the High Admiral’s displeasure.

  “And what are yer needs, Tom Goldpockets?” Thompson needled.

  Seymour had no wish to discuss his planned rebellion with the pirate captain. “Do you want your island? Your second ship?” Seymour inquired with more than a hint of a threat.

  “I could do with them things,” answered Black Jack in a chilly tone, “and I could do without ‘em.”

  Thomas Seymour regarded the swarthy criminal with impatience. “Find the ship you want and send me the bill. I’ll send you a purse … and intelligence of the Spanish galleons’ movements into Corunna.”

  Black Jack Thompson’s eyebrows rose into an arch of surprise, impressed with his partner’s resourcefulness.

  “You see,” said Thomas Seymour haughtily, “the Admiralty is worth something, after all.”

  It was much the same with William Sherrington as it had been with Thompson, thought Seymour as he sat at Sherrington’s table drumming his fingers in nervous anticipation of his return. They were — as he and Black Jack were — partners in a crime against the Crown for the purpose of moneymaking. But in this case, Seymour knew Sherrington was entirely his creature. He could lord it over the employee of the Royal Mint, secure in his knowledge that the man was entirely under his control. Sherrington, already a thief and a scoundrel before Thomas made his acquaintance, had long been shaving and clipping the edges off gold crowns — the minutest amount per coin but, when gathered from every piece that came through his counting room, an admirable bounty.

  Seymour was proud of how he had lured the man into his own schemes, getting the money embezzled from the mint directed to his rebellion, with Sherrington oblivious that he was the victim of Thomas’s blackmail. Instead, his new conspirator believed that he had taken up the cause of his own volition. By a happy coincidence the clerk distrusted the Duke of Somerset. Thomas had reinforced those sentiments with several diatribes against his brother. The Protector, he declaimed, had stolen the regency from King Henry’s hand-picked council for his son. Somerset had perhaps not caused the debasing of the English currency, Thomas Seymour liked to say, but since Somerset’s ascendancy, he had stood by and watched it being debased even further. With such seeds planted in Sherrington’s mind, the man had become convinced that Somerset and his wife, grasping and nefarious as they were, were planning to do away with the King using slow poison so that they could take the throne for themselves. By contrast Thomas Seymour was, despite his noble airs, an honest man who wished to restore the worth of an English coin and restore control to the true king. So Sherrington had decided to help Thomas gain control of the government and become the new Protector. Thomas would require money to lead his revolt, and in this Sherrington could, happily, be of assistance. The High Admiral would of course protect him if his embezzlement were ever discovered.

  The situation presented itself perfectly, Sherrington had explained. His office at the mint lay at the end of a long corridor with floors of raw wood, recently laid. Any footfall could be heard in sufficient time to cease his clipping and shaving and hide his tools, and never a coin was found missing to cause suspicion.

  In just a moment, when Sherrington returned from his bedchamber, Seymour would get an accounting of his earnings, would see for himself the pile of gold that the man had smuggled out of the mint day after day in the secret lining of his jerkin. All employees were searched for filched coins before leaving, but the fine shavings had been unpalpable in his clothing, so no one was the wiser and Thomas Seymour was the richer. He smiled, mightily pleased with himself.

  Sherrington returned lugging a studded wood and gilt chest and placed it carefully on the table in front of Seymour. “The fruits of my labor, my lord,” he announced proudly. He pushed back the heavy domed lid to reveal a tray in which lay what Seymour supposed was the whole of the clerks personal fortune. Then Sherrington carefully lifted the tray from the chest, uncovering a piece of oilcloth folded over itself His spindly fingers peeled back the cloth, and there before Seymour’s eyes was a huge pile of yellow shavings, so thick as to be a solid mass. It filled completely the compartment of the box.

  “How much is there?” Seymour demanded.

  “It’s hard to say, my lord. With any exactness, I mean. I’ve not been able to smuggle a scale from the mint and I —”

  “A guess, then,” snapped the High Admiral impatiently.

  “Well, I’ve kept count of every coin I’ve shaved — twelve thousand, two hundred and thirty-three of them — and the amount taken from each one is approximately six one hundredths of—”

  “Spare me your innumerable calculations. How much have we got?”

  “Slightly more than two thousand pounds.”

  “That’s all?” Seymour’s face darkened with anger.

  “I’ve only been taking the shavings for six months,” Sherrington offered meekly.

  “I have arms to buy, man. A revolt to financ
e. Two thousand pounds ...” Seymour snorted with contempt.

  Seymour saw Sherrington’s eyes darting every which way in his head, as though an idea were taking shape. He therefore remained quiet, allowing the man to conceive of further ways to please the one he believed would soon, next to King Edward, be the highest lord in the land. Finally, with a smile, Sherrington said, “If I were to be very, very careful, my lord, I believe I could take slightly more from each coin.”

  “Excellent!”

  Sherrington smiled broadly, pleased that his solution had met with Seymour’s approval.

  “Then all that is left is to increase the number of coins coming through your hands.”

  Sherrington’s smile faded. “That I cannot do,” he murmured regretfully. “Surely someone will come to suspect —”

  “There are other counters besides yourself, are there not?” interrupted Seymour, an idea forming.

  “Yes.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Oh, but, my lord, I should not trust them with such —”

  “I do not mean to trust them, Sherrington. I trust only you.” Seymour knew the words men longed to hear. Words that made them cleave heart and soul to his causes. He saw the set of Sherrington’s shoulders relax almost imperceptibly. “If any of them were to be ‘indisposed’ for a time,” Seymour went on, “would a share of their work fall to you?”

  “Yes, it has happened before. A man in the office next door was ill for a month. I was altogether swamped until his return.” Sherrington thought for a moment. “But you do not mean to harm one of the other clerks?”

  “Only incapacitate him for a while. Don’t you see, Sherrington? With his absence, he will be assisting the rebellion, helping his country, and never be the wiser.”

  “But these men have families and —”

  “I will see to their families,” Seymour snapped impatiently. “Just make me more money England is depending on you.”

  Seymour watched as Sherrington puffed with pride at the thought.

  “Have you many guns put by, my lord — for the rebellion, I mean?”

  “My armory at Holt Castle has indeed begun to fill. I’ve plenty of arquebuses, muskets, and shot, and half a dozen large cannon soon to be shipped from the foundry.”

  Sherrington grew visibly aroused at the talk of artillery, and so Seymour embellished his description of the armory the clerk was responsible for having financed. He was a man who had never known war, never held a weapon in his hand, and was bewitched by the masculine allure of the gun.

  “Powder is our next purchase,” said Seymour, placing a congenial arm round the clerks shoulder. “You can see why more money must be made, and you must know, William, how important your work is.”

  Tears sprung unbidden into the clerks eyes. “You know I’ll do everything I can, my lord.”

  Seymour rose to go.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it true” — Sherrington became shy — “that you mean to marry the princess Elizabeth?”

  Seymour was taken altogether off his guard. He’d not known how far and wide the rumors had traveled. If Sherrington had heard such gossip, the talk must have made it clear into taverns and inns, into sculleries and kitchens and backstairs of houses all over England. But he was not displeased. Clearly Sherrington saw him as a man fit to marry royalty.

  “You must understand, my friend, that I cannot divulge such sensitive information.” He leaned close to whisper, as if they were in the halls of Hampton Court with countless eager ears straining to hear his words. “But I can tell you that she is the loveliest virgin ever to walk God’s earth, and if He wills it, the Princess and I shall marry”

  An involuntary sigh escaped Sherrington’s lips.

  “Now, get some sleep,” said Seymour with a conspiratorial smile. “You are going to be a very busy man.”

  God blast John Dudley! thought Thomas Seymour as he slammed out the double doors of the Privy Council Chamber. Blast him to hell! How dare the man defy his authority as Lord High Admiral? If he wished to oversee naval operations for his brother’s Scottish campaign from his base in London, that was his affair, not John Dudley’s — he of the deviously reserved manner that won over even his bitterest and most jealous rivals. Seymour’s fist tightened around the hilt of his sword hanging at his side as he strode down the broad stair into the ground floor of Hampton Court, and he realized he wished that the fingers were gripped round Dudleys throat instead.

  The man had goaded him in the Council meeting, flaunting his own long experience as High Admiral and parading his administrative genius, insinuating to the others that Thomas was incompetent. Incompetent! And this on the very day he had planned important inroads against the Protector, planting seeds of doubt within the Council members’ minds about his brother’s competence. But Dudley had very slyly taken control of the meeting in Somerset’s absence, exuding a maddening confidence that had, since the last days of Henrys reign, inspired Thomas’s jealous hatred of him. The man was too popular. Even courtiers who complained about Dudley jumped at the chance to ally themselves with him. And soldiers and sailors who had served under him were unerringly loyal. God blast him! Thomas would have to think hard about it, devise a clever plan to rid himself of John Dudley — but not now.

  As he passed the huge subterranean kitchen of Hampton Court where hundreds of cooks and bakers and roasters sweated over the midday meal, he resolved to put his nemesis out of his mind, for he had far more important business to which he must attend. His bootsteps on the brickwork floors echoed down the long corridor that needed the light of torches, even on the brightest day. Finally he approached the door he sought and knocked twice, then once. A moment later a key turned and the door opened enough for the man inside, thrusting a candle through the crack, to recognize his caller.

  Thomas was admitted into the locksmith’s workroom. Peter Highsmith was a skinny fellow who resembled, with streaks of oil in his shaggy hair, the long-haired dog who slept on the stone floor and had not awoken at Thomas’s arrival. He was dreaming, the dog was, his legs twitching as he ran in an imaginary field. The locksmith’s tools were neatly arranged on benches and shelves about the tiny windowless cell that smelled of sweat and burnt metal. There were countless long iron keys, one for each chamber of the thousand-room palace, hung in their places on nails.

  “My lord,” Highsmith muttered as he made room for the admiral in his humble workplace.

  There was nowhere to sit, but Thomas had not come for a pleasant visit, rather to conclude a vital piece of business. Without a word he plunked a plain leather purse down in the center of the man’s workbench.

  The locksmith stared at it warily, then glanced up. “I’ve thought about this, and I’ve thought about it some more.”

  “And what did you think, Highsmith?” Seymour said, trying to keep contempt from creeping into his voice, furious that yet a second man in one day might attempt to thwart his well-laid plans.

  “I thought, my lord,” Highsmith replied slowly, “that me makin’ you a duplicate set of keys to the King’s apartments is, uhm, shall we say … suspect? Shall we say, illegal? Shall we say … treasonable?”

  “We’ve discussed this, Highsmith, and I’ve explained my need for them. I am the King’s uncle and, if not his Protector in name, certainly his protector in principle.”

  “And if you’re caught with these keys,” Highsmith said, bending down to rub his sleeping dog’s belly, “you are the King’s uncle and protector and, might we say, protected.’ But I, who made the keys for you, illegally, am just a lowly locksmith and unprotected.”

  Thomas considered the man’s objections. They were, truthfully, not unexpected, and after a moment he produced another leather purse from his doublet. This one was fancier, worked in colors and gilt and tied with braided strings. Seymour opened the purse and fished out three gold pieces, throwing them down on the table next to the promised purse. Highsmith’s eyes flashed hu
ngrily -— a year’s wages in addition to the small fortune in the purse. He could afford to leave the King’s service with so much money to his name, move to Maidstone and start a business there. Afford to marry. Leave behind this underground dungeon and all the corrupted nobles, their arrogant ways, their condescending treatment of tradesmen like himself. He reached for the purse and the coins, stowing them on a shelf under his workbench. Then he lifted a nondescript set of keys off a nail and handed them to Seymour.

  “There are your keys, my lord,” he said. Highsmith could not miss the fire that flashed in Seymour’s eyes as his fingers tightened round them. “You be sure you use those in His Majesty’s best interests,” he added, unable to hide the impertinence in his voice.

  Outraged, Seymour leaned across the table and snatched High-smith by the throat and shook him, his long, lanky hair flopping about his face. “How dare you!” Seymour cried.

  The locksmith remained calm but the dog, sleeping no longer, had suddenly sprung to his feet and was baring his teeth, growling at the Admiral. Highsmith smiled a smug smile and Seymour thrust him away in disgust. Then the nobleman wiped the hand on his breeches as if to cleanse it from the touch of so lowly a creature and, sidestepping the threatening dog, left the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

  He breathed to calm himself as he retraced his steps past the kitchen, from which an endless stream of servants were now carefully carrying steaming tureens and platters up the stairs to the dining hall. He must restore a good-natured visage at once, he told himself, appear solid and confident in purpose. There was yet so much to be accomplished if his scheme was to work. There was the small matter of acquiring a stamp of the King’s signature. And he still had not secured young Edward’s assistance in returning Catherine’s jewels to her.

  It was a blessing that his brother was gone away to his ridiculous war. It laid the field wide open for himself to play. At dinner, seated next to the King, he would reveal his most charming self, then afterwards, alone with the boy, he would begin to pull the strings that bound them tighter, and little Edward would come to understand which of his two uncles was the one he should trust with his life.