The Fallen Queen (6 page)

“A pox upon Plato, it’s too lovely a day, and you’re too lovely a maid to squander on a musty old Greek!” he exclaimed, causing Jane to almost jump out of her skin as he snatched the book and flung it away, giving Mrs. Ellen quite a fright. The poor lady had fallen into a doze over her sewing and suddenly awakened to find her headdress knocked askew by a black-bound volume of ancient philosophy that had come flying at her like a bat.

“Come out and walk with me, Jane!” the Lord Admiral insisted. And, before she could demur, he already had hold of her hand and was pulling her out into the sunshine, even as she stumbled over her hems and glanced back helplessly and shrugged her shoulders at poor Mrs. Ellen.

When Mrs. Ellen regained her senses and ran after them, protesting that the Lady Jane must first put on a hat, to protect her complexion as she was prone to freckling, the Lord Admiral took the straw hat she held and sent it sailing across the rose garden where the breeze took it up and landed it upon the river, declaring that he loved freckles, and blushes too, as they lent character to faces that would otherwise be as pale and boring as marble statues, and that for every new freckle the Lady Jane acquired from their little walk he would give her, and Mrs. Ellen too—he paused to flash the nurse a saucy wink—three kisses. And that was the end of that. He gave Jane’s hand a tug and set off along the garden path at a brisk pace, and Mrs. Ellen was left standing there alone, gaping after them, wringing her hands, feeling quite flustered, and wondering whether she should feel charmed by the Lord Admiral or insulted and go straight inside and complain to the Dowager Queen. The Lord Admiral tended to have that effect upon people.

He led Jane out, beyond the garden, into the Great Park, where a blanket was spread beneath the broad branches of one of the ancient and majestic oaks. And while Jane sat modestly arranging her skirts, eyeing with dismay the grass stains and tears upon the hem that had marked their hurried progress, the Lord Admiral took from a basket a plate of “still warm” golden honey cakes, a flagon of ale, two golden goblets wrought with true lovers’ knots all around the rim, and a lute bedecked with gay silk ribbon streamers. And then he began to sing, slowing the jaunty, rollicking pace of the salacious tavern ditty to a sensual caress, like a velvet glove, lingering over,
savouring,
certain words, as his warm brown eyes met Jane’s, and his fingers plucked the lute strings in such a brazen way that called to mind what they might do if given free rein to rove over a woman’s body.

At the end, as the last notes hovered in the air, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Jane’s.

“There now,” he said, “whatever happens, I shall
always
be the first. Come what may, whether you are ever Queen of England or remain only Queen of My Heart, my darling Jane, I will
always
be the
first
man to kiss Lady Jane Grey, and no one can
ever
take that away from me; that honour—that very
great
honour—will be mine forever.”

Jane sat back on her heels blinking and befuddled. “M-My L-Lord, wh-what … what are you saying?”

The words had scarcely left her lips before she found herself enfolded in Thomas Seymour’s strong embrace, pressed suffocatingly tight against his hard, muscular chest in such a way that the pins holding her hood in place stabbed into her scalp like tiny knives, some of which Mrs. Ellen would later discover, when she helped Jane prepare for bed that night, had actually drawn blood.

“What am I saying?”
he repeated. “Only that I love you, darling Jane,
I love you!
I love you! I love you! Can you not hear it in every breath I take, in every move I make, in every beat of my heart? I love you, Jane, I love you! You—
only
you!”

And then he let her go, so abruptly that Jane fell back onto her elbows and almost crushed the lute. With a resigned, defeated sigh, he sat back, but as he did so he deftly caught up her hand. With one last smouldering gaze and heart-tugging sigh, he took a moment to compose himself before he shut his eyes and then, reverently, bowed his head and pressed his lips chastely against the back of her trembling hand. “But, for England’s sake, for the greater good, I must sacrifice my heart and let you go,” he said with a crestfallen sigh. “You, my darling, were meant for far greater things than I can give you. You were meant to wear a crown and be the torch that leads the English people out of the Papist darkness into the light of the Reformed Faith! You, my darling, as much as it hurts me, must be Edward’s helpmeet, not mine.”

“But I don’t want to marry Edward!” Jane protested, for the first time giving voice to her feelings. “He … he … frightens me! And I don’t … I don’t … love … him.”

“I know you don’t, my darling.” Thomas Seymour enfolded her in his arms once again. “And I don’t blame you. No one loves Edward, not
really!
He is my own nephew, the son my own beloved sister lost her life giving birth to, yet I cannot find it in my heart to love him and must in his presence resort to playacting. He is as chilly as a fish, a frigid little prig who takes himself far too seriously. He has none of his great sire’s charm or the common touch, and no sense of fun, and he knows
nothing
of love and warmth and has no desire to learn. But you
must
marry him, my love; it is your destiny to be Edward’s godly and righteous, virtuous and learned queen; united together you will be the rulers of a new Jerusalem, the thunderbolt of terror to Papists everywhere; your reign will be the death blow to the Catholic faith in England! We must each sacrifice our own hearts, and deepest desires, for the greater good, for England, and the Reformed Faith, my darling. Our love shall be the martyr of duty!”

He pulled the hood from her head and plucked the pins from her hair and stroked it before drawing her close again and pressing his lips warmly, tenderly against her temple. “When you lie in his arms, think of me, darling Jane, think of me and how my heart beats only for you! We will always have our dreams to console us and the knowledge that they were sacrificed, selflessly, for the greater good. And as cold as Edward is, always remember, my love for you is pulsing hot, and it will keep you warm and give you the strength to go on and do your duty, as you must, indeed, as must we all.

“And when he enters you, close your eyes, my love, and think of all the good that you, our homegrown Protestant queen, can do for England, all the souls you will save, and the seed he plants in your womb is England’s future, the son that will someday rule and keep us all safe from Papist enslavement, the Catholic shackles and chains that the Pope and Mary Tudor would fasten tight upon us! England needs you, Jane, and that claim, that need, must take precedence over my desire for you, and yours for me. For you do desire me, don’t you, Jane?”

In that moment Jane suddenly realized, even as she was nodding her head and stammering it, that yes, indeed she did. How curious that she had never known it until the moment when she must renounce it. It was, she said, like never knowing you had an arm until the surgeon came to cut it off. The Lord Admiral really was the most persuasive and overwhelming man!

Jane was so overcome by the Lord Admiral’s declaration of love that she couldn’t eat a bite, only gulp nervously at the ale, and the honey cakes grew cold as her face and heart grew hotter. And when they walked back to the house, arm in arm, this time at a more leisurely pace, the Lord Admiral paused to pluck a pink rose and present it to Jane.

“Every morning when the dew appears upon the roses, always remember, my dearest, darling Jane, that they are weeping in envy because their colour cannot compare with the pink in your cheeks …” And then he bent his head and pressed a last lingering kiss onto her cheek. “And lips …” And he kissed her, long and deep, and she tasted the cakes and ale still fresh upon his mouth.

When Jane ascended the stairs, she encountered Elizabeth upon the landing in a bold red gown that, coupled with the fiery unbound hair streaming down her back, made her look like a figure of flame. She was standing beside the window that overlooked the garden, idly tracing the
CP
and
TS
worked in red, gold, and green stained glass, moving her long, pale white finger in such a manner that, with a confident brush of her fingertip, the
C
acquired an extra appendage and became instead an
E
with a middle arm reaching out greedily for
TS—
Thomas Seymour. At Jane’s approach, she abruptly turned around and gave Jane such a
blazing, burning
stare, the fire in her eyes as bright as her Tudor red hair, that Jane was certain that Elizabeth had seen what had just passed between the Lord Admiral and herself, that looking from a window above she had witnessed that tender kiss and imagined the words of love that accompanied it. Then Elizabeth turned on her heel, her loose hair flying out like a curtain of flame, almost slapping Jane in the face, and, with her nose in the air and a impertinent flounce of her harlot-scarlet skirts, flounced upstairs to her room and gave such a resounding slam to her door that it echoed throughout the manor.

The next morning, warm under the fringed velvet coverlet of her deep feather bed, Jane would smile to herself and wiggle her toes when she heard Tom Seymour creeping down the corridor and the door to Elizabeth’s room creaking open, happy and secure in the knowledge that it was herself that the Lord Admiral
truly
loved,
not
the brazen and fiery tart Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth is just a toy, a peppery little tart to add spice to a man’s life, a dalliance that means
nothing
.” Thomas Seymour had shrugged when she dared to tentatively mention his seeming infatuation with the princess. “I am a man, with needs and urges, my darling,” he explained, “and, since I cannot have you, as there cannot be
any
hint of unchaste behaviour to sully the name of our future queen”—he lifted his handsome shoulders in a light, carefree shrug—“since I cannot have you … I amuse myself with Elizabeth, a little whore born of a great one, but I don’t
love
her. How could I? When I love you, Jane,
only
you! I love you with enough nobility, respect, and honour to renounce you, to lay my own heart on the altar as a sacrifice and set you free, to serve a greater purpose. I cannot hold you back, my darling, for I love you far too much to think only of my greedy pleasure and deny England the queen it both deserves and needs.”

In her bed at Bradgate, under the covers, safe in the loving arms of her sisters, Jane shook with sobs. “But I did not ask him about Catherine, his wife; I could not! I could not forget her. I could
never
forget her. She was so kind to me, but in those happy moments when he professed his love for me, I did not want to remember her either! He loved me!
Someone
loved me,
really loved me!
And that was enough! We knew we could not have each other, and I tried to tell myself that in truth we did no wrong, but we did, we did! The thoughts, the feelings, the desires were
real
and
true
and thus worse than what he did with Elizabeth, which was base and false and meant nothing! And now Queen Catherine is dead, and I cannot confess and beg her forgiveness. I shall have to live with the guilt for the rest of my life!” She sobbed and there was nothing we could say to comfort or console her; all we could do was hold her and let her cry herself to sleep.

After the Dowager Queen’s death it all began to crumble. Her baby daughter died, yet another unloved, unwanted, and inconvenient little Mary. And without Catherine Parr’s restraining hand to rein him in, the Lord Admiral cast off all caution and common sense and galloped headlong at full speed straight into the briar patch of disaster. His last flamboyant gamble cost him all when he crept into the King’s bedchamber late one night and tried to steal the sleep-befuddled boy away to marry him secretly to Jane, hoping to see the marriage consummated and thus legally binding before the first light of dawn. In the morning light, he planned to return to the palace with the King and his new Queen, and replace his brother, Edward Seymour, as Lord Protector of the Realm.

But he had forgotten to factor a watchdog into his plans—upon spying an intruder, the King’s pet spaniel barked. The Lord Admiral tried to distract the dog by snatching off one of his soft-soled velvet slippers—eminently more suitable for creeping about the palace after midnight than the Spanish leather boots he usually wore—and tossing it across the room, but Edward’s vigilant pet showed no interest and instead ran at the intruder and lunged to bite. The Lord Admiral panicked and pulled out a pistol and shot the dog dead, and thus ruined any chance he had of charming his nephew into an act of royal clemency. The guards came rushing in as Edward howled and wept, his bare feet slipping in the loyal canine’s rapidly cooling blood as he pummeled his formerly favourite uncle’s chest.

Thomas Seymour spent the rest of his life in the Tower as, one by one, all his crimes came to light, his intrigues with pirates, a coin clipping scheme to embezzle money from the Royal Mint, the stockpiling of arms, and, most interesting of all to a public avid for royal scandal, the sordid details of his dalliance with Elizabeth. And that was the emphatic end to all plans to make a royal match for Jane as our parents hastily moved to distance themselves from Thomas Seymour and his foolhardy schemes.