Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set (113 page)

The king’s acceptance of our marriage quieted any remaining rumbles of dissent. The lord protector pretended to be pleased by the commission’s verdict, as did his wife, but I knew it galled the duchess that I now came directly after her in precedence. My high position was all the more obvious because none of the women who outranked us both was at court.

Princess Mary stayed away because she wished to practice her own religion and it was best to do so quietly and at a distance from the reformers on the Privy Council. Princess Elizabeth remained at Chelsea with the queen dowager, and neither put in an appearance during April or May. The early months of Kathryn’s pregnancy had been difficult. Already ill and irritable, she had no wish to encounter Lady Somerset. The Lady Anna of Cleves, who had become King Henry’s “sister” when he’d had their marriage annulled, preferred her own palace at Richmond. King Henry VIII’s nieces—Lady Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, and Frances Brandon, Marchioness of Dorset—spent most of their time at their husbands’ country estates. The widowed Duchess of Suffolk, Frances’s stepmother, likewise preferred to remain far removed from court. There had been one other duchess in the land, the wife of the Duke of Norfolk, but with his attainder for treason, she’d lost her rank.

That left only Frances Brandon’s eldest daughter, ten-year-old Lady Jane Grey, granddaughter of the late king’s sister Mary by Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. She was in London as the ward of Tom Seymour and made frequent visits to her cousin the king, since they were the same age, but she had importance only as a marriage pawn and was too young to participate in ceremonies at court.

Will and I were assigned lodgings in various royal houses in accordance with Will’s place in the peerage and his position as a privy councilor. They were very fine indeed, made more splendid by the addition of our own furnishings. We lived in great comfort and luxury and, as a marchioness, I was entitled to keep a bevy of attendants with me at all times.

There I experienced the first small check in my happiness. I wanted my sister Kate with me, but she was expecting a child and refused to leave hearth and home. I tried to persuade Mary Woodhull to come with me from Chelsea, but she insisted that the queen dowager needed her more than I did, especially during Her Grace’s coming confinement. I did not see what good an unmarried gentlewoman would be at a lying-in, but I did not argue. Loyalty was a quality I admired. Alys Guildford likewise turned down my invitation and remained in the service of Jane, Countess of Warwick.

I had hoped Jane would be at court, but John Dudley, her husband the earl, was in poor health. I had to rely on letters to maintain my friendship with her and with Alys, although the three Dudley sons at court—Jack, Ambrose, and Robin—also relayed news. When Jane recommended a Mistress Crane as one of my waiting gentlewomen, I accepted the young woman sight unseen. In all, I had six such females attending me—women of gentle birth and flawless upbringing who gave me consequence but did not become my confidantes.

I went back to Chelsea in mid-May, with Will, as an honored guest of his sister and her husband. I was pleased to see Kathryn and Mary again, but Tom Seymour was another matter. The way he looked at me—at every woman!—made me uncomfortable, but his heated verbal attacks on his older brother alarmed me even more.

“The cursed Lord High Popinjay does favors for everyone but me,” Tom complained, prowling his wife’s privy chamber while Will took his ease in a comfortable chair. Kathryn and I shared a window seat that overlooked the river and the gardens on the south side of the house. I nibbled at a piece of marchpane and forced myself to smile. Kathryn obviously thought the name amusing.

Tom went on in this same vein for some time, his language colorful and sometimes blasphemous. His vocabulary was eloquent in that area. Will quaffed ale and waited until his friend wound down. “Accept it, Tom,” he advised. “Somerset has control and is not likely to relinquish it. We must all make the best of things.”

“You have lands in the north and so do I. We could go there and set up house,” Tom grumbled. “We might build our own little kingdom there.”

“I was not raised in the north and have no affection for the region,” Will said. “I much prefer to remain at court and in favor.”

“I am not in favor now and doubt I ever will be again so long as my brother lives.”

Even Kathryn looked shocked at this statement, and she had no cause to love the Duke of Somerset or his wife. Will tactfully changed the subject. While he and Tom discussed horse breeding, I searched for another neutral topic. Below us, in the garden, I caught sight of Princess Elizabeth walking in company with a tall, slender, red-haired young woman all in black. Her manner of dress told me she was a widow.

“Who is that with Her Grace?” I asked.

“That is Elizabeth, Lady Browne. Her husband, Sir Anthony died not long ago and she is on her way to take up residence in her dower house at West Horsley, in Surrey. She stopped to pay her respects to me and to Elizabeth. A very pleasant young woman.”

“There is something familiar about her, but I do not think I have ever met her.”

“Are you speaking of fair Geraldine?” Tom asked, coming up beside his wife to peer out the window.

At my puzzled expression, Will explained. “Fair Geraldine was what Surrey called her in the sonnet he wrote to her when she was just a child.”

“She was wasted on old Browne,” Tom Seymour said. “He was too feeble to appreciate a nubile young bride.”

“I am sure they managed as well as most couples,” Kathryn chided
him. “Still, she was very young when they wed, and he had already seen over sixty winters.”

“And now she is a wealthy widow. Not a bad bargain for her, alhough I imagine she thought she’d have her freedom somewhat sooner.”

“Perhaps she came to care for her husband,” I said, annoyed by Tom’s callous attitude.

He had the gall to laugh at my suggestion. I turned my back on him and resumed watching the two young women below, wondering once again where I had seen Lady Browne before. I was still wondering later that evening when I turned a corner and unexpectedly came upon her. She was not alone. Tom Seymour had her backed up against the wainscoted wall, one hand flat against the surface on either side of her shoulders. His face was only inches from hers and about to move closer.

A moment later, the pomander ball Lady Browne wore suspended from her waist by a long chain flew upward to strike Tom on the side of the head with a dull thump. He jumped away from her with a yelp, cursing fluently. The casing was heavily enameled and studded with semiprecious stones.

“Neither your behavior nor your language does you any credit, Lord Seymour,” Elizabeth Browne said, “and you do not deserve the fine woman who is your wife.”

Tom, still holding his head, paled at her words. “There is no reason to say anything to the queen dowager about this. You know I meant you no harm. You are a beautiful woman. You tempted me.”

“That is a pitiful excuse.” Contemptuous, she shoved him out of her way. She stopped in midstride when she saw me.

Tom swore under his breath.

Suddenly uncertain, Lady Browne sent a nervous smile in my direction. That expression, combined with the shape of her nose and the color of her hair, triggered my memory. I remembered where I had seen her before.

“You were at the banquet King Henry gave, the one to which he invited only unmarried ladies.”

She blinked at me in surprise, then slowly nodded. “That was a long time ago. I was only fourteen.”

“It is not surprising that King Henry should have taken an interest in two such charming girls. He always . . .” Tom’s words trailed off as we both glared at him.

I thought of several tart responses, including one about making a habit of taking the king’s leavings, but I thought better of saying such a thing aloud. Instead I turned back to Lady Browne. “He cannot help being a fool,” I said, “but it will serve no purpose to force the queen dowager to see him for what he really is, especially now when she carries his child.”

“I will say nothing,” Lady Browne promised.

“You are wise as well as charming.” Tom seemed unable to stop flirting even when it would have been the better part of valor to remain silent.

Lady Browne toyed with her pomander ball until he went away.

“He should not be allowed around young, impressionable girls,” she remarked when we were finally alone.

I agreed with her, but there was nothing either of us could do to change the fact that the Princess Elizabeth was in the queen dowager’s keeping, or that Tom held the guardianship of the Marchioness of Dorset’s eldest daughter, ten-year-old Lady Jane Grey, who lived in his London house, Seymour Place.

Whit Sunday of that year fell on the twentieth of May. On the twenty-seventh, Mary Woodhull wrote to tell me that Princess Elizabeth and her entourage had left Chelsea to take up residence at Cheshunt, Sir Anthony Denny’s manor in Hertfordshire. She gave no reason, making me wonder if Tom’s ongoing flirtation with the princess had finally come to light.

In June, the queen dowager and her household, which now included the young Lady Jane Grey, moved to Hanworth, in Middlesex. Tom chafed at not being able to leave London to join her there, but he was
both lord admiral and a privy councilor and there were fresh rumors of a new French plot. As soon as he could, however, he left Westminster for Hanworth, and soon after that he and Kathryn retreated to Sudeley Castle in Gloucestershire. Tom was still there on the thirtieth day of August when his daughter was born.

We had only just received a letter announcing the birth when Mary Woodhull arrived at Norfolk House in person. The moment she entered my withdrawing room, she burst into tears. “Oh, Bess,” she sobbed. “She’s dead. The queen dowager is dead.”

The news stole my breath. I felt as if I’d taken a physical blow. It was not just the loss of a former mistress and a former queen that left me stunned and shaken, but the sudden void that can only be created by the death of a kinswoman. I could not have felt more bereft if it had been my own sister Kate who was dead.

“We thought Her Grace was recovering,” Mary said when she’d taken a few sips of a reviving posset, “but then her condition began to worsen.” She glanced at Will, who had joined us as soon as he heard the news. “The queen grew disturbed in her mind toward the end. She pushed the lord admiral away when he would have lain in the bed with her to offer comfort.”

Eyes brimming, I heard Mary tell us how it had taken nearly a week after giving birth for the queen dowager to lose her battle for life. Beside me, Will sat as stiff and still as a statue. I could sense his struggle not to show the depth of his grief and wished he could give way to tears, as a woman would.

“The lord admiral left orders for Her Grace to be buried at Sudeley with the Lady Jane Grey as chief mourner, and he commanded that the queen dowager’s household be broken up immediately after.”

“She has already been interred?” The furrows in Will’s brow deepened. “She was queen of England. She is entitled to lie in state and to be buried with King Henry at Windsor.”

I placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Tom was her husband. He had the right to make that decision.”

As I dashed away my tears, I remembered the reason Kathryn was dead. “Mary, what of the baby?”

Mary had to blow her nose before she could answer. “We left her at Sudeley. The lord admiral wished to travel in all haste to Syon.”

Will and I exchanged startled glances. It was not the custom for a husband to attend his wife’s funeral, but it seemed strange that Tom would have gone to his brother’s house. Before Tom’s departure for Sudeley, they’d been the bitterest of enemies.

32

A
fter Kathryn’s death, Tom Seymour was a changed man. He lost weight, giving him a gaunt and haunted appearance that was emphasized by the black garments he wore in mourning. His eyes blazed with a burning intensity.

He was often with us at Norfolk House, once more full of complaints about the lord protector. He had brought suit against his brother touching the queen dowager’s servants, jewels, and the other things that were hers. He talked of making his manor of Bewdley in Shropshire his country seat and keeping as great a house there as he had in Kathryn’s lifetime.

“I have been considering remarriage,” Tom confided just before Christmas. “A number of noble, even royal ladies are well disposed to consider my suit.” Catching sight of Will’s disapproving expression, he hastily added, “But not, certes, until my year of mourning is past.”

Will busied himself refilling our glasses and the awkward moment passed.

Tom sipped the fine, imported Xeres sack, then lowered his voice.
“There are stirrings in the countryside, Will. You know that well. My brother has been trying to force his brand of religion on everyone, and the steps he’s taken are not popular with the people. They cannot see how it serves God to strip their churches of all images and melt them down for the gold.”

“Nor did the common man understand how dissolving the monasteries did so, but King Henry’s reforms moved ahead despite objections and ended by enriching those of us who supported them. Never say you did not gain by the establishment of the Church of England, Tom.”

“Some who objected to the closing of abbeys and priories and nunneries rebelled,” Tom reminded him. “There are rumblings in the land. More troubles are coming.”

“You come perilous close to speaking treason.”

“Only if you believe that my brother and not young Edward is king. Because the mighty Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset and lord protector of England, insisted upon purging so much all at once, those who have always taken comfort in tradition are cut adrift. The average man does not understand why there are no longer any candles on Candlemas or ashes on Ash Wednesday or palms on Palm Sunday. When the new Book of Common Prayer, rendering the entire Latin mass into English, is forced upon every church in the land, there will be riots.”

“Perhaps Kathryn’s death has unhinged his mind,” I suggested after Tom left us. “He must be mad to talk openly of rebellion.”