Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (14 page)

“God knows I never envied you the post—always said you’d have more

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Susan Kay

than one body’s work. She’s a haughty little piece, isn’t she? Gives you

trouble aplenty, I’d say.”

“She’s very young,” said Kat loyally, flushing as though her sister

criticised her own child, “and whatever you’ve heard I don’t doubt has

been grossly exaggerated. The Lord Admiral would turn any girl’s head.

You take my word for it, Joan—she’s more sinned against than sinning.”

“Well, my dear, I’m sure you know her best.” Joan sniffed and glanced

doubtfully at the girl on the steps. “She’s very pale, don’t you think?” she

added meaningfully. “I hope she’s not ill.”

“She’s been having headaches lately—very bad headaches.”

“Any vomiting?”

“Well, once or twice she—” Kat saw her sister’s smile and broke off

sharply. “What are you trying to suggest, Joan?”

“I’m not trying to suggest anything,” said Joan smoothly. “Merely that

if she’s ill perhaps we ought to send for the Protector’s physician.”

“When I think that’s necessary, I’ll send for him myself,” snapped Kat,

and followed her mistress into the house without another word.

t t t

The violent headaches continued throughout the summer and were

accompanied by irritability, and a drastic weight loss. Kat was on the

very point of sending London for Dr. Bill when, at the end of August,

Katherine’s child was born, and Elizabeth’s fierce tension relaxed. And

when she began to eat a little and talk hopefully of going home, Kat was

reasonably certain the worst was over.

Late one evening in early September a courier arrived from Sudley

Castle where the Seymours were now in residence, and Kat left her seat

at Elizabeth’s bedside to receive him in the solar. Much later, returning

with a slow, wretched step to Elizabeth’s room, she found her charge

sitting bolt upright in bed.

“Where have you been?” Elizabeth accused wildly. “I thought you

were never coming back.”

“Downstairs,” said Kat vaguely, keeping her face carefully averted

from the bed. “Just downstairs—”

“I heard a horse in the courtyard. Has someone arrived?”

“There’s been a message,” Kat swallowed hard. “From the Admiral’s

household.”

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Elizabeth was silent, staring at her. After a moment she said softly,

“Did the baby die?”

“It wasn’t the baby.”

There was no need to say any more; Katherine’s name hung unspoken

on the air.

“But she was well,” gasped Elizabeth. “I had a letter—they told me

she was
well
!”

“Child-bed fever,” Kat muttered. “Very sudden. That’s the way it

always strikes, just when you think they’re out of the woods. The courier

told me the Admiral is out of his mind with grief—of course, it’s a terrible

shock for him—”

“He’ll get over it!” Elizabeth turned her head away on the pillow; her

face was suddenly stony. “God knows, my father always did. Wives are

far easier to replace than a good horse!”

Mrs. Ashley recoiled at this unexpected savagery, so uncalled for,

so unkind!

“What a wicked thing to say, Your Grace. You must write at once and

comfort him in his great sorrow.”

“I won’t—I don’t believe he needs it.”

“But, Your Grace!” Kat was appalled. “There must be a letter of

condolence for decency’s sake!”

“Then write it yourself, for I’m damned if I will.”

Mrs. Ashley stiffened, curtsied formally and went to the door.

“Is that Your Grace’s final word on the subject?”

“It is!”

“Then I shall deal with the matter as I see fit.”

There was no reply from the bed and Kat went out of the room.

Elizabeth waited until her indignant footsteps had died away and then

unleashed the tears that threatened to choke her.

t t t

In the autumn Dr. Bill came down to Cheshunt, and was sufficiently

concerned to recommend a complete change of scenery; but his visit and

his vague diagnosis did little to disperse the rampant speculation about

Elizabeth’s condition down in the Great Hall.

“It’s not a doctor she needs but a midwife—I never knew a pregnant

woman yet that wasn’t cured by time—nine months to be exact!”

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Susan Kay

Oh yes, it was good to get away to Hatfield where her childhood attend-

ants remained loyal and discreet. Change of scenery worked a remarkable

change in Kat too. Once removed from the sharp eyes of her sister, the

governess, an incurable romantic, found herself viewing recent events in

a very different light. So the Queen was dead—very sad, very tragic, of

course, but women died in childbed every day and, really, it was an ill

wind that blew no one any good. The fact remained that the Admiral was

now free once more, to make the marriage he ought to have made in the

first place. Certainly he was making tentative overtures in that direction.

“What a man,” said Kat indulgently. “Never a thought for conven-

tion. Imagine sending to know whether Your Grace’s buttocks have

grown any less—you know what he means by that of course.”

“It hardly sounds like a proposal.” Elizabeth stabbed her needle into

the embroidery frame and pushed it aside angrily.

“Don’t be coy,” said Kat archly. “Your old husband is free again and

you know very well you may have him if you will.”

Elizabeth spat into the hearth.

“I wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth. I’ve told you

before, I don’t intend to marry anyone.”

“Oh, we’re not back to that old nonsense, are we?” Kat sighed. “I

can’t understand you at all. He’s the noblest man unmarried in the land

and you were always his first choice. You’d not deny it if the Protector

and the Council gave their consent would you?—and you know you

can trust me of all people with—” She glanced up, saw Elizabeth’s eyes

fixed on her like the cold steel points of twin daggers, and subsided into

uncomfortable silence.

It was not a restful silence and it grew oppressively; Kat crept out of

the room to arrange a hot cordial, reflecting that it was impossible to

know what to say for the best these days.

Elizabeth went to open the casement and lean out of the window,

letting the sharp autumn air cool her flaming cheeks. Hatfield park spread

beneath her, a rambling rustic solitude dotted with great oak trees. The

night was black as pitch beyond the flickering lights of the old palace and

somewhere in the graveyard stillness she heard an owl hoot.

So it was true then, this crazy whisper of marriage with him! How

dared he even think of it? He must be mad to dream of uniting himself

with a claimant to the throne beneath the Protector’s very nose, and she

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must be mad herself to listen. And yet she was listening—listening and

blushing when she should be writing a furious letter denouncing him to

the Council for his presumption.

Closing her eyes she tried to shut out of her mind the ugly rumours

which were now filtering down into the countryside, rumours which

said Katherine Parr had died of poison as well as a broken heart, poison

administered by a husband who wished to be free once more; free to

marry the Princess Elizabeth.

Was it true? She knew him to be ruthless and self-seeking, but was

he really capable of such a deed? Or were his enemies, led by his own

brother the Protector, spreading these rumours preparatory to destroying

him? She felt as though she stood on the edge of a whirlpool, waiting for

his hand to reach out and pull her forward into complete disaster. Love,

passion, and death—her mother had trod the steps of that fatal dance; did

the same music now await her daughter, the relentless, inevitable dance

of death?

Shivering, she closed the casement and crouched down by the fire.

His support in the country was growing steadily. It was just possible that

he might gain the consent of the Council to the marriage, and if he did

what was she going to say when he asked for her hand again? Once he

would ask—only once—if she didn’t marry him now then he would

marry someone else to further his ambition—perhaps Anne of Cleves or

even Mary. Her blood throbbed hot with rage at that thought and her

body cried out that she could not lose him again of her own free will.

“I hate him,” she said to the flickering fire. “I hate him.” But even in

her own ears the words had the false unsteady ring of a lie.

t t t

On a dark drizzling day in November, as the King’s retinue wound

its weary way through the muddy London streets to Parliament, Lord

Russell, the elderly Lord Privy Seal, edged his horse alongside Tom

Seymour’s to spit in a quarted deck whisper, “My Lord Admiral, there

are certain rumours of you which I am sorry to hear.”

Tom cast a wary glance at the Protector, riding, so he judged, just out

of earshot.

“Perhaps,” he said, deceptively pleasant, “you would care to tell me

what they are, my lord.”

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Susan Kay

Russell sensed the mockery and stiffened. “It is said in many quarters

that you hope to marry either the Lady Mary or the Lady Elizabeth…”

“Indeed!”

“…in which case,” continued the old man pompously, “I would say

you seek the means to destroy yourself, sir.”

The Admiral slapped his horse’s side heartily and laughed—it seemed

wise to laugh it off.

“Father Russell, you are very suspicious of me. Who’s been telling

you these tales of marriage?”

Russell coughed delicately.

“That I am naturally not at liberty to say, my lord.”

“Naturally!” It was a sneer and the old man bridled accordingly.

“I advise you for your own sake, sir, to make no suit to either of

these ladies.”

Tom could contain his irritation no longer.

“Good God, man,” he snapped, “isn’t it high time they were

married—married within this realm rather than any foreign place—and

why not to me, or to another raised by their father?”

Russell shot him a look of pitying contempt. “I tell you, to attempt

such a match would destroy you utterly. Think of the King’s suspicions.

Married to one of his heirs, he’ll think you wish for his death whenever

you see him. And anyway,” he veered off at an angry tangent, “what the

devil do you hope to have from either of them?”

“Three thousand a year,” said the Admiral, a little too promptly; he

had looked into the matter with Elizabeth’s steward, Thomas Parry, some

time ago.

The Lord Privy Seal snorted in disgusted amusement and steadied his

restless horse.

“I can tell you now that whoever marries the princesses will have no

more than ten thousand all told in money, plate and goods. No land at

all. And what’s that to a man of your charges and estates if you match

yourself there?”

The Admiral grew angry, suspecting a trick of his brother’s.

“They must also have three thousand a year,” he insisted furiously.

“By God, they may
not
!”

The Admiral resisted a very real impulse to knock the stubborn old

fool off his horse.

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Legacy

“By God, none of you will dare say no to it!” he roared, and some-

where in front, the Protector glanced over his shoulder uneasily.

“By God, I
will
say no to it.” A nerve had begun to jump in the old

man’s cheek, his eyes bulged and for a moment Tom thought he would

fall to the ground in a seizure. “It’s clean against the King’s will. And I

warn you, sir, to have a care how you go about your business!”

Tom caught his brother’s agonised glance and repressed the desire

to laugh. This had been Ned’s idea of a subtle warning, no doubt, the

futile roar of an elderly, toothless lion. If this was the best he could do in

the way of threats, then the whole affair could easily be settled without

bloodshed. Such pathetic opposition—Tom was almost ashamed to

encounter it from his own kin.

And there was too much at stake to back down now, with Elizabeth

almost his for the taking. Already he had the governess and her steward

eating out of his hand. No word from Elizabeth herself, of course, but it

would come, it would come. A fresh surge of buoyant confidence had

suddenly swept away his earlier doubts of winning her. And if she wanted

to play the coy maiden a short while longer he was willing to humour

her, waiting until that little flame he had lit within her consumed the last

of her inherent caution. A pity Katherine had caught them before and

not after the act. He was a rogue but not quite a villain, and even while

he thought that, he remembered his dead wife with sadness and a stab of

regret for the cruel blow he had dealt her that day at Chelsea. Women!

They were all so damnably possessive, wanting to own a man body and

soul or else believing his love was false. Every man should have at least

four wives—he hadn’t much time for the new or the old religion but it