Beware, Princess Elizabeth. Carolyn Meyer. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Carolyn Meyer
Издательство: HarperCollins
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Год издания: 0
isbn: 9780007389445
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      I blamed the fireworks and booming cannons for keeping me awake until dawn. In truth the faces of a handsome man and a handsome boy troubled my sleep.

       CHAPTER THREE The Lord Admiral

      The day after Edward’s coronation, Dowager Queen Catherine, my father’s widow, astonished me with an invitation to come and live with her at Chelsea Palace in London. “I would be happy for your company, Elizabeth,” she said, “and it would give me great pleasure to continue to oversee your education. What do you say? Are you in agreement?”

      “Oh yes, my lady Catherine!” I said, for I was fond of my stepmother.

      London was noisy and dirty, unlike my quiet country home in Hatfield, where the only noise came from flocks of sheep in the nearby fields. But London was also exciting.

      In preparation for the move from Hatfield, Kat bustled from chamber to chamber, giving orders to the serving maids. Now and again she paused to smile broadly at me.

      “To London, to London!” she fairly sang. “Such a life you shall now have, madam!”

      The maids were packing my chemises, my petticoats, my kirtles and gowns, my shoes and stockings and boots – all now too short, too tight, or too worn or threadbare – into wooden trunks. Kat looked first at a blue velvet gown she was holding in her hands and then at me. “You need a new gown, or two or three. You have grown at least a hand span since this one was made for you. I shall speak to Mr Parry about it.”

      Thomas Parry, a puffed-up little Welshman, was my cofferer, in charge of the allowance that my father used to send for the upkeep of my household. His sister, Blanche Parry, a plainspoken and practical woman, was also in my service. Blanche and Kat had always complained there were not enough funds to provide properly for the king’s younger daughter, although there always seemed to be plenty for his elder daughter, Mary. I wondered if that might now change with my brother on the throne.

      On a wintry day in early March, under clouds heavy with snow, Kat and I and a small retinue of servants once again set out for London. Thick mud sucked at the horses’ hooves, slowing our pace.

      “Does my sister know of this change?” I asked Kat.

      “Why, I have no idea, Elizabeth,” Kat said. “Did you not write to her?”

      I’d thought of sending word to Mary to inform her of my whereabouts, but in the commotion of the past week, I had neglected to do so. But then, I thought, neither had Mary taken the time to write to me. Later, I decided,when I am settled, then I shall write.

      And I promptly forgot about her.

      OUR WELCOME at the queen’s beautiful Chelsea Palace was as warm as one could wish for. Queen Catherine didn’t wait for me to beg her to receive me, but as soon as she had word of our arrival, she stepped out into the snowy courtyard to greet me. “How happy I am you have come to be with me,” she said with an affectionate embrace.

      She led Kat and me through elegant halls with marble floors and walls panelled in oak to our own apartments, a spacious suite of chambers with windows overlooking the River Thames. After inviting us to join her at supper when we were ready, the queen left us to recover from our journey.

      As servants carried in our trunks and boxes, Kat went about examining everything from the candles in the sconces on the wall (“Good quality beeswax,” she said approvingly) to the tester bed, with its canopy and curtains of heavy blue damask. “Look!” Kat whispered, poking her finger into the lofty bedding with its coverlet, also of blue. “Three mattresses, all well stuffed with wool.”

      I took more interest in a small writing desk, intricately carved, with two wooden stools covered in leather. There was even a supply of goose quills and a knife to sharpen them, and a little inkhorn. A cosy fire crackled on the hearth. I felt that I should be content here.

      After we had rested, cleansed our hands and faces, and changed our muddy petticoats for fresh ones, we made our way to the gallery. Fine tapestries lined the walls. At one end, in a place of honour, hung a portrait of my father. Nearby was a small portrait of my grandfather, King Henry VII. I stood gazing into the eyes of the two portraits and tried to imagine what those great kings might have been thinking as the artist painted their images. Then a servant in livery of green and white, the Tudor colours, appeared and announced that the dowager queen awaited us in her private apartments.

      The servant pushed open a heavy door. I entered the queen’s privy chamber, ready to kneel before Catherine. But before I could do so, I found myself enveloped in the arms of Tom Seymour. I barely managed to suppress a startled cry.

      “Welcome, dear sister Elizabeth!” he roared, and twirled me around before setting me down rather unsteadily on my feet. All of my life I had been carefully schooled in royal deportment, and so I was shocked at his behaviour. At the same time, I confess, I was also thrilled.

      I looked with alarm from this handsome, boisterous man to the sweet, smiling countenance of my stepmother. Queen Catherine must have observed my confusion, for she immediately took care to present him formally: “Thomas Seymour, baron of Sudeley.”

      What are you doing here? I thought, but I made a curtsy and murmured a bit breathlessly, “My lord.”

      The baron bowed deeply. “My lady Elizabeth,” he said, now looking straight-faced and rather pompous, as though he had not just moments before swept me off my feet.

      And the queen, still smiling benignly, called for hippocras to be brought.

      As it was the Lenten season, our supper consisted of manchet – fine white bread – and several dishes made of fish. While we ate, the baron described to me the stone castle called Sudeley, three days’ journey to the northwest in Gloucestershire.

      “It was the pleasure of your brother, the king, to present me with both castle and title,” Tom explained. Then, at the queen’s urging, Tom Seymour told several tales of wild adventure that I only half believed and made jokes that I did not entirely understand.

      So the evening passed merrily, until at last Catherine excused us. The liveried servant reappeared to conduct Kat and me back to our chambers. The fire was dying, and once our maids had removed our gowns and kirtles we retired for warmth to our bed, which turned out to be just as comfortable as it looked.

      “What think you now of the baron of Sudeley?” Kat murmured into the darkness.

      “I think him—” and here I hesitated, remembering his raucous greeting. “I think him very bold,” I replied at last.

      “I believe that the baron would have you as his bride,” said Kat calmly, as though informing me that a cat likes cream, “were you of an age. And it is not long until you shall be.”

      “He would marry me?” I gasped. “But does not Catherine love him? Does the baron not intend to wed the queen, once her mourning ends?”

      “So she hopes. But I believe it is you to whom Tom Seymour has lost his heart.”

      “But, Kat!” I protested, excited but also frightened. “This cannot be! What shall I do?”

      “Do nothing at all, dear Elizabeth,” Kat replied in that placid way that at times infuriated me. “Wait and see.”

      Wait and see, I thought as I lay awake, staring into the darkness long after Kat’s breathing had deepened in sleep. Too much of my life was “wait and see”. Yet, for now, I had no choice – even if I had known what my choices were.

      NOT LONG AFTER I moved to Catherine’s mansion, I learned that Tom’s brother, Edward Seymour, had also been given a new title by the king. He was now duke of Somerset. Furthermore, he had been named (or more likely had named himself) lord protector of King Edward.

      “This means that Edward Seymour