The Lady Elizabeth (20 page)

Mary saw his flattery for what it was, but was nonetheless moved by it. He really was so handsome: the dark, mocking eyes, the full lips, the trim beard, the chiseled cheekbones. A very proper man, she thought, tall and muscular. For one dizzying moment, she tried to imagine what it would be like to have such a man make love to her, and failed abysmally, her heart pounding.

“It is a pleasure to see you back at court, sir,” she replied; to her embarrassment, her cheeks felt hot. The blush did not escape Sir Thomas’s notice. Here’s a virgin ripe for the taking, he thought to himself. Outwardly, he continued to observe the courtesy due to her.

“I trust Your Grace is in good health,” he continued.

“I am very well, sir, thank you,” she said, and forced herself to move on. She dared not be seen passing any more than brief pleasantries with this man who had the reputation of being such a rogue with the ladies.

“How could the Queen ever have loved him?” she asked herself primly, but in her heart, and her stirring body, she knew the answer.

“Sir Thomas Seymour is returned to court,” Henry said, apparently carelessly, watching for Katherine’s reaction.

“I trust his tour of duty was successful,” she said, betraying neither by look or gesture that the news meant anything to her. Inside, however, her heart was beating just that little bit faster. She must not think of this man. He was forever forbidden to her. She must love her husband: that was her bounden duty. And she did love Henry, she could say that with truth. It was just that she was not
in love
with him.

“He has done well,” the King said, still watching her. “Now we have a fresh task for him. He is to be made Lord High Admiral.”

Another duty that will keep him away from court, thought Katherine. And from me.

“I make no doubt he will live up to Your Majesty’s good expectations,” she said aloud.

Henry nodded, apparently satisfied.

Sir Thomas Seymour bowed low before the King and Queen, having just received the news of his promotion. It struck Katherine that he looked more dashing than ever.

“I am greatly honored, Sire,” he declared.

“Serve us as well on the high seas as you have in the embassy, and you will give us cause to bestow further honors upon you,” Henry said, extending his hand to be kissed and thus intimating that the audience was at an end.

Now it was Katherine’s turn. The fleeting brush of Thomas’s lips upon her hand was electrifying, but she kept her gaze steady and inclined her head as regally as she could, all too aware of the scrutiny of her husband enthroned by her side.

“Good luck, Sir Thomas,” she said, wanting to drink him in with her eyes but not daring to look on his beloved face for too long.

“Your Majesties!” He bowed again, then paced backward from the dais and was gone. In Katherine’s breast, relief mingled with longing. She had thought herself over her lovesickness; now she knew differently, yet she was resolved once more to suppress it and do her duty. And Henry needed her. Since his return from France, he had become an old man; he had attempted too much, and was now paying the price, with his bad legs worse than ever. They stank dreadfully when she replaced the bandages, yet she took care never to recoil or reveal her distaste. Infirmity alone was humiliating enough to Henry, whose prowess in jousting and sports had once been legendary. But that was hard to believe, looking at him now. Constant pain made him difficult, even dangerous, yet she told herself that his life had not been easy, and reminded herself that he had ever been a kind and loving husband to her. She had not wanted to marry him, had wanted Tom, madly, passionately, but there had been unexpected compensations. Love came in many guises—so much had surprised her. She could never betray Henry, she knew that.

“This,” said a smiling Master Grindal one day, entering the schoolroom with a pleasant-faced man of about thirty, “is Master Roger Ascham, my former mentor and our greatest Greek scholar.”

“Oh, Master Ascham! I have heard of your fame,” Elizabeth exclaimed, rising to acknowledge his bow. “You are more than welcome.”

Roger Ascham looked at her with admiration. So this tall, elegant young lady, with the flame-red hair and earnest, heart-shaped face, was the Princess whose erudition was already highly renowned and celebrated among academics throughout the land and even in the universities.

“It is truly an honor to meet you, my lady,” he said.

“Master Ascham has joined the Prince’s teaching staff, to assist Dr. Coxe and Dr. Cheke,” Grindal explained.

“I have the honor of teaching that noble imp calligraphy,” Ascham added, “but I really came here to see for myself this wondrous paragon of learning. If you would allow me the privilege of looking at some of your excellent work, my lady, it would make me the happiest man alive!”

Elizabeth found herself basking delightedly in his admiration, and willingly she showed him her Greek and Latin translations, her commentaries on Scripture and the classics, the historical works she was reading, and even samples of her embroidery. Ascham devoured them all with his eyes, appraised them to the minutest detail, quizzed her on her knowledge, then pronounced her the best scholar he had ever met.

“And may I ask how old you are, my lady?” he inquired.

“I am eleven,” Elizabeth told him.

“Then, madam, without reserve, I do declare that you have a formidable—yes, formidable—intelligence way beyond your years. Your mind, it is so—so
acute.
I have never known a lady with a quicker apprehension or a more retentive memory. You have a masculine power of application. Continue as you have begun, and you will become the equal of men in learning.”

Elizabeth was ecstatic to hear such praise. She had no false modesty and knew she was a good scholar; Dr. Coxe and Master Grindal had often told her so. But to learn that she was considered to be brilliant, and from someone as celebrated as Master Ascham, fired her with such elation that she could have kissed him.

CHAPTER
9

1545

T
he painter was Flemish; Elizabeth had not caught his outlandish name. He had set up his easel in the presence chamber, and she was watching him setting out his charcoal and chalks. Today, he was to draw the Prince’s likeness. The King was present too, come to satisfy himself that his son’s pose was sufficiently regal. He had seated himself on the throne beneath the canopy of estate; behind him, the arms of England were emblazoned on a richly embroidered backdrop.

“Edward, come and stand by me,” Henry commanded. “Here.” He positioned the seven-year-old boy at his right hand, and himself ruffled up the plumes on his son’s bonnet. “Your hand on your dagger like so,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir,” Edward replied obediently in his cold, formal way. This was a big day for him, and he was conscious of the need to emulate his august sire in his stance and his royal manner.

“Now stay like that,” the King ordered, then heaved himself out of his chair and departed to his privy apartments. His son remained very still, gazing straight ahead, as the artist sketched his portrait.

Mary had explained to Elizabeth and Edward that, when all the likenesses had been taken, the painter would incorporate them into one big picture.

“It is to be an official state portrait of our father and his heirs,” she announced proudly, “and it will hang in the gallery at Hampton Court.” Elizabeth was thrilled that she herself was to be included—it was now her right, no less, of course—and was looking admiringly at herself in the burnished silver mirror. The new cloth of gold damask looked very well, she thought. Thus attired, no one could doubt her importance, or her royal status. And the red velvet hood and sleeves set it off very nicely…

“Sister!” Mary sounded exasperated. “Cease your daydreaming. The Queen bade me ask you to attend her briefly before your sitting. You will find her in her privy chamber.”

Elizabeth sped off as fast as her long court train would permit. She found Katherine seated at a table with a painted wooden jewelry casket open before her.

“Elizabeth!” She smiled. “I wanted to see you all dressed up for the painter.” She regarded her stepdaughter admiringly. “You look very fine,” she declared as Elizabeth preened. Then Katherine hesitated.

“There’s another reason for my summoning you,” she said. “I wanted you to have this.”

She held out a delicate gold chain with something hanging from it. Taking it, Elizabeth saw that it was a finely wrought A.

“It was your mother’s,” the Queen said. “It is fitting that you should wear it.”

“But my father the King—”

“This is between ourselves,” Katherine interrupted firmly. “I found it among the jewels I inherited from my predecessors. I can never wear it, and rightly it ought to go to you.”

“Madam, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Elizabeth said, kissing her stepmother. It was what she had always wanted, a proper keepsake of her mother.

She clasped the chain around her neck, aware that the last flesh that it had probably touched was Anne’s. So absorbed was she in the gift that it took a while to dawn on her that the Queen was not wearing her court finery, just a simple green silk gown with a stand-up collar and jeweled girdle.

“Is that what you will be wearing in the picture, madam?” she asked in surprise.

“I am not to be in the picture,” Katherine told her.

“Not to be in it?” echoed an astonished Elizabeth.

“No,” the Queen said equably. “It is to be a picture of the Tudor dynasty, with the very likeness of Queen Jane, who bore the King his heir.”

“But you must be in it!” Elizabeth insisted with passion. “It is unthinkable that you are being left out.”

“Rest assured, I am content,” Katherine said truthfully. “The King has assured me that no slight is intended, nor would I have imagined any. And that excellent artist, Master John, painted my portrait last year, so there is no need for another one just yet.”

Elizabeth left the room thinking how strange it would be to see the late Jane Seymour occupying the Queen’s place in the picture, as if she were still alive and had survived to see her son grow up. What power her father had! It was almost as if he were resurrecting his late wife from her grave, and could play tricks with time like a magician or a god!

Yet when the finished painting was finally displayed, it was not just the image of Jane Seymour that disconcerted Elizabeth and her sister Mary.

Of course, the King himself dominated the composition, gazing majestically from his throne, one hand on the shoulder of his son, who stood at his knee. Beside them, looking demure on her stool, sat Queen Jane, eerily large as life.

Edward, unnaturally composed for a child of his years, was looking up at her image. Elizabeth wondered what he made of it. He never spoke of his mother; of course he had never known her, and now he gave no sign of being moved at being brought face-to-face with her picture.

Mary, however, was frowning. In the painting, the canopy of estate, the throne on its rich Turkey carpet, and the three central figures were placed between two sets of richly ornamented pillars. Beyond the pillars, on either side, stood the King’s daughters. Mary suspected that their father had had them both positioned beyond the pillars to set them apart from the legitimate heir, who occupied the place of honor beside their father, and to remind everyone who looked on the picture that, although the King had restored his daughters to the succession, he still regarded both as base-born: Positioning them outside the magical inner circle proclaimed to the world their bastard status and set them apart from the King and his trueborn heir. To Mary, the symbolism was hurtful and demeaning. Yet to Elizabeth, marveling at the rich detail and the faithful representation of herself in this, the first portrait ever painted of her, it was simply a wonderful picture.

The King was peering at the panel, well satisfied with the work he had commissioned. Here, at last, was the Tudor dynasty captured for posterity. Then he leaned forward, scrutinizing the figures, until they came to rest on that of his younger daughter. His eyes narrowed.