The Virgin Elizabeth Page 13

  Walking alone in the south garden she came upon Jesus, barefoot, with birds playing fearlessly at his feet. There was no heavenly light surrounding him, no halo round his head. He was, strangely, just a man in the south garden, albeit one who exuded a blessed peace. As Elizabeth came closer, even knowing he was the Lord, Son of God, she was altogether unafraid. Jesus held out his hand to her, and Elizabeth’s heart burst with joy and relief that her sins had not debased her, that Jesus loved her still. His comfort flowed freely into her. He fixed her with his piercing eyes and in a voice deep and mellifluous said, “Have no fear, for where there is love, there is no sin. ”

  Elizabeth woke then, the words echoing in her head. She felt altogether refreshed and purified. Her breath, previously sour, was suddenly sweet. As the face of Jesus faded slowly in her memory, she seemed to float in bed. Daylight flooded her bedchamber, and she felt the first happiness she had known in many months.

  She had not sinned for loving Thomas, nor had he for her.

  She must tell him this, free him from his pain!

  Elizabeth slipped silently from her bed and, leaving Kat to sleep on, dressed herself. Then she went out into the quiet halls of Chelsea House to search for Thomas Seymour.

  She knew she must speak to him alone, and so Elizabeth was forced to stalk him for the better part of that day. Several times she was frustrated, for he was a gregarious man, seeming more comfortable in the company of others than in his own. People, she noticed, were somehow drawn to him like flies to honey, and as he moved through the day she saw that he would naturally gravitate to others — for a brief conversation with a laundress or a lengthy one with the chaplain, lending his opinion on a stone wall being mended or a horse being shod. Elizabeth had, all of the morning, stayed a discreet distance from Seymour, but only when mid-afternoon had passed did he make for the river and the boathouse in which Catherine’s barge was housed.

  Allowing him first to disappear into the wooden structure and careful that no one was watching her, Elizabeth, book in hand, pretended to stroll across the broad lawn to a bench near the boathouse and the water’s edge. She sat to steady herself before entering, then realized suddenly that she was strangely calm. But of course she would be. She had a message of peace and comfort to deliver from Jesus himself! Perhaps she and Thomas would even pray together. Elizabeth laid down her book and, pulling herself proud and tall, entered the boat-house.

  The dim light of the place after the full sun of the afternoon blinded her almost completely. She stood, therefore, quite still while she slowly regained her sight, listening to the creak of the wooden deck underfoot and the slapping of the water on the sides of the barge.

  The hand, laid lightly on her shoulder, caused Elizabeth to start violently, though she knew immediately it was Thomas. When she turned to face him she wore a serene smile, and was therefore entirely unprepared for the visage that greeted her. Savage desire distorted Thomas Seymour’s normally handsome features. Gone was the constrained gentleman signaling his affection for her with the subtlest of gestures. Elizabeth had only heard about the passion of lust, but now she could see it blazing in Seymour’s eyes — blazing for herself.

  Without a word he seized Elizabeth. No thoughts of struggle restrained her. Instantly lost, she went willingly into his rough embrace. Her arms flew up to encircle his neck. His hard mouth found her lips and crushed them in a bruising kiss. Never in her wickedest dreams had love felt so raw or cruel or beautiful. Elizabeth clung to Thomas as if her very life might be extinguished were they to part, and so his hands, free to explore, boldly sought all of her — long slender neck, the flesh of a breast, delicate save the hardened nipple, slender waist straining against the stays. The kisses never ceased, nor did his moving hands. The skirt lifted, a creamy thigh caressed. Elizabeth’s gasp as fingers found her cleft’s soft wetness. Groans of delight. Ecstatic dreams come real —

  No! A voice commanding him to stop. But not her voice, not her voice. She wished him to continue the pleasure forever —

  “No!”

  Thomas stiffened, arms dropping to his sides. His head whipped behind him.

  Senses returning, Elizabeth peered round the firm trunk of Seymour’s body, saw a specter so terrible her knees jellied.

  Catherine! One arm clutching the boathouse wall to keep the high-bellied figure from crumpling. Face ravaged with pain and defeat. Lips moving, but no sound emerging.

  Thomas gazed down at Elizabeth for the space of time needed to say a silent good-bye and then was gone, pulling his wife from the wreckage of this moment. With his going, all light and heat, all life receded from the boathouse.

  Elizabeth was alone, bereft, drowning in the horror of what she, in her reckless passion, had done to beloved Catherine — the only woman she had ever called mother. And Thomas, hers for the briefest moment in time, was now gone without a word. Gone forever.

  Elizabeth’s legs failed her then and she crumpled to the boathouse floor. She was altogether dazed, bewildered, knew the furor that would shortly erupt all round her, shatter the existence she had known for these last years, known and cherished.

  She was a wicked girl, she decided, wicked and deserving of whatever punishment was forthcoming. She must steel herself to face the storm of scandal and gossip, anger, derision, and richly justified scorn that was her future. There was much to do, thought Elizabeth, a cloud of weariness beginning to settle over her. Much to think about and plan. But for now, for just a few moments longer, she would stay where she was, in the cool dark of the boathouse, and remember the taste of Thomas Seymour’s lips, and the feel of his hands on her delicate flesh.

  Thomas.

  Chapter Nine

  It should be raining, thought Elizabeth grimly, pissing down cold, hard rain for this monstrous occasion. But it was, in fact, an exquisite day, the air soft and warmed by the sun in a rare cloudless sky. Twelve carts and carriages had been loaded with the belongings of her household in embarrassed silence by the Princess’s staff.

  Neither Catherine nor Thomas had shown their faces since the day of the boathouse debacle, though a message had been delivered to Elizabeth’s door that very evening. It had been a brief and dignified epistle requesting that the Princess and the whole of her household remove themselves from Chelsea House at their earliest possible convenience. Arrangements had been made for their extended stay at Cheshunt under the patronage of Sir Anthony Denny.

  When she’d returned from the boathouse Elizabeth had prepared Kat and the Parrys as best as she’d been able, choked with uncontrollable sobs that at times grew so hysterical her servants worried for the girl’s sanity. Kat had at first been outraged at the scene described by Elizabeth, believing that Seymour had forced himself on her, but the waiting woman was tearfully disabused of that notion by her mortified charge.

  “I allowed it, Kat. I encouraged it,” Elizabeth had cried. “I love him,” she wailed, “and he loves me. He does love me. ...”

  “Our fault,” Kat had muttered to Thomas Parry as she passed him on the way from Elizabeth’s room. She’d put the girl to bed, though it was clear that there would be sleep for none of them that night.

  Parry was silent, knowing that Kat had spoken truthfully, that all their encouragement of the flirtation had rendered the soil too fertile for something not to grow from it. The calm, responsible behavior of the last months since the scene in the south garden had been no more than a sham. Emotions had been growing rampantly, fulminating, festering. Those close to Elizabeth should have known, should have seen the inevitable coming. Done something to stop it.

  Now Elizabeth had disgraced herself, alienated the most powerful woman in England, one who had adored the Princess as if she’d been her own child.

  It had been decided that something had to be done to salvage Elizabeth’s reputation. Kat and Parry sat together by candlelight that whole night and composed a letter to the Queen Dowager, begging her forgiveness for Elizabeth’s aberrant behavior. Try as they might, the
y found neither explanation nor excuse for it, but they hoped Catherine could find it in her heart to help minimize the scandal, to speak of the reason for Elizabeth’s sudden expulsion from Chelsea House to no one, so that gossip would not spread like a plague through the countryside, the court, and all of England.

  With unbelievable grace Catherine had complied, and in the days following, as preparations were made for the Princess’s hasty departure, the rumors flying rampant round the manor never lit upon the exact details of Elizabeth and Seymour’s sordid tryst.

  This blessing, however, gave the Princess no joy, for she believed herself worthy of the greatest scorn. Catherine’s kindness made her misery all the more poignant.

  Now the members of Elizabeth’s household were themselves piling into the carriages as Elizabeth and the Ashleys and Parrys vacated the Princess’s lodgings for the last time. The girl’s eyes were red-rimmed, her face puffed from sleepless nights and days of crying. She kept her gaze full forward, refusing — as if punishment for her actions — to look round her and gather pleasant memories of the place she had called home for the past two years. She took the stairs stiffly and carefully, and when she passed through the front door she did not turn back. Elizabeth allowed herself to be helped into a conveyance, and waited while the Ashleys and Parrys took their places beside her. Signal was given to the driver and the carriage lurched forward.

  She was dry-eyed now. Perhaps, thought Elizabeth, if it were raining she would be able to weep, but the sun was bright and warm, giving lie to the tragedy of the day. Nothing, she thought as the carriage passed through the gates of Chelsea House, would ever be the same. And even Jesus would be unable to forgive her most heinous sins.

  Chapter Ten

  “ ‘Tis a clever ruse, my lord Admiral,” said Lord Rutland as he followed Thomas Seymour by torchlight through the basement doors of Holt Castle, “to use the dungeons here for your armory ‘Tis so pretty a palace, no one would guess at its real content.”

  Seymour smiled at the compliment. Rutland, a fat and pompous nobleman of ancient heritage, was one of the growing number of Council members whom he was confident to have won over to his cause. It had taken little argument to convince the man, irritated by the Protector’s ruthless and domineering personality and disgusted by his poor showing in Scotland, that the harsh, overly ambitious Somerset should be overthrown and replaced by his younger brother. Thomas and the much-beloved Queen Dowager would make a far more congenial joint protectorate for the boy king who, according to the Admiral’s glowing reports, had already thrown his support behind them.

  Thomas fixed his and Rutland’s torches in the stone sconces and with a triumphant smile swung open the tall cabinets that had been specially built along the walls of the musty dungeon. They were already half filled with firearms and well-made halberds, pikes, and swords. A corner of the flickering chamber boasted a dozen cannon and neat piles of shot.

  “We have a way to go with the arms and ammunition,” said Seymour, “but our forces are growing with every passing day.” He cleared a wooden trestle with a heedless sweep of his arm and unrolled a large parchment map of England before them. His eyes gleamed with firelight and genuine excitement as he began poring over it. England was to Seymour nothing more or less than a great campaigning ground, filled with potential soldiers who were either for him or against him in his cause.

  “See here, Rutland, in the West Country,” he said, indicating the counties surrounding his family’s estates. “All that be in these parts be my friends. But here” — he stabbed with his forefinger several counties south and east of London — “men are loyal to John Dudley, and others to Lord Somerset.” With a dismissive gesture he added, “The northern parts are Catholic, of course, and no good to any of us.”

  “How many do you count in your favor then?” asked Rutland, studying the map intently. Certainly the nobleman’s own interests came first. He would never be so stupid as to back a rebel leader short of troops.

  “Ten thousand of my own servants and tenants alone,” answered Seymour with obvious pride. “This counts neither my other supporters nor the French.”

  “The French!” cried Rutland disbelievingly.

  “I have the word of a high duke in Orleans that two thousand armed soldiers are at my disposal. My brother’s Scottish campaign sits poorly with the Frogs.”

  “They’ll cause us problems later,” warned Rutland.

  “And we will deal with them later,” replied Thomas with a confident grin. “By my calculations, I have twice the forces that both my brother and Dudley have combined. In the meantime, we shall gather our loyal men to us. I say we recruit the gentlemen, but more importantly the wealthy yeomen in larger towns. They are the true ringleaders. A gentleman may waver once he’s fallen in behind you, but never a yeoman.”

  “You’re right about that, my lord,” Rutland agreed, a touch of admiration creeping into his voice. Seymour might be a reckless man on a dangerous errand, but he did seem to know men’s hearts.

  “We should go out amongst the small landholders where they live,” Seymour went on, “and make much of them. Dine with them in their modest homes like friendly fellows. In this way we will gain their goodwill once and forever, I promise you. And what loyalty we cannot curry with our fellowship,” he added archly, “we shall buy with gold.”

  “Money does speak sweetly,” agreed Rutland. “Have you enough put by for bribery and arms? By the look of this,” said the nobleman, suddenly skeptical, sweeping his hand round at the gun closets, “you’re short many weapons and much ordnance.”

  “Come back in one month’s time and see how short I am,” challenged Thomas with more than a touch of bravado. “For I have everything I need for this rebellion, and more. Keep your eyes open and watch one Seymour fall, my lord Rutland, and the other rise to glory”

  His business completed at Holt Castle, and satisfied that his preparations were moving apace, Thomas Seymour rode for London. The weather was unusually fine. With the sun and wind on his face all his hopes flowered, and he strolled blissfully in the warm garden of his dreams.

  His brother and sister-in-law were disappeared. Where, he knew not and cared not. But he and Catherine, ensconced where they belonged in the royal chambers, frolicked with young Edward, who showered them with favor as they embraced him with familial affection. All was light and happiness. His own son by Catherine was as near to Edward as if he were the Kings own brother, and of course his wife had forgiven him his indiscretion with Elizabeth. Marriages for the two princesses had been arranged at the highest levels — Elizabeth to a French dauphin, Mary to her Spanish cousin. These matches had strengthened England’s alliances with their enemies, and both the nobility and the common people rejoiced in the country’s leadership.

  All of it was possible, thought Thomas as he spurred his horse to pass a fine coach on its way to London — his destiny!

  Beyond the carriage he discovered the road crowded with riders and was forced to rein his mount to a complete halt. He saw, to his delight, that the crush was a gaggle of Privy Councillors who had, each for his own reason this day, taken the road and not the river back to London for the opening of Parliament.

  Riding boldly into their midst, he was glad to find his friend Dorset, who rode next to Lords Clinton and Wriothesley. The trio were embroiled in an earnest conversation regarding the Protector’s policy toward the unrest brewing in Devonshire and Cornwall and, after a brief but cordial greeting to the High Admiral, resumed their discussion. Thomas found that both the content of their conversation and their rude dismissal annoyed him. He listened, occasionally interjecting an opinion, but he was having little impact on the course of their argument. He felt the bile rise in his throat and the blood to his cheeks. Finally he could stand it no longer.

  “It is wrong that I should not share the protectorate with my brother!” he blurted.

  Dorset, Clinton, and Wriothesley were instantly silenced, and the rest of the men in the party
looked up from their divers conversations in surprise at the outburst.

  “Thomas ...” said Lord Dorset, trying to hide his alarm. His outward tone was placating, for he did not wish to give away his own part in Seymour’s schemes. “The Protectors policies may not be perfect, but for now they will suffice.”

  But the words seemed only to enflame Seymour further.

  “If this is how I am to be treated by you all…” Thomas paused as if gathering the furious force of his malevolence. “They speak of a black Parliament,” he declared passionately. “Well, by God’s precious soul, I will make the blackest Parliament that ever was in England!”

  “My lord Admiral!” exclaimed Wriothesley, appalled at such an oath. “This is a rash threat!”