6
Elizabeth
I could not remain at court, for the Lord Protector had decreed that during the King’s minority, while Edward was unmarried, it would not be seemly for single ladies, including the King’s sisters, to reside at court. I thought I was destined to go, yet again, back to Hatfield, and languish there for many years to come, with only occasional visits to Mary and the court at Christmastime to relieve the tedium, but Katherine Parr came to my rescue once again. I was like a daughter to her, she said, and she dreaded so to part with me, and asked me if I would like to come live with her.
It was a dream come true to be at cheerful Chelsea, Katherine’s redbrick manor house set in a verdant green heart of woodlands, parks, and gardens overlooking a usually placid expanse of the Thames. The mullioned windows welcomed in the sun as if to dare the gloom to intrude, and everyone, even the lowliest servant, always went about with a smile on their face; everyone was happy at Chelsea. And I settled happily into a quiet routine of study and pleasant pastimes in Kate’s company.
And there was a mystery to spice up this bland but nonetheless pleasant existence—titillating gossip that Kate had a lover. And so soon after my father’s death! It was as unexpected as it was scandalous. Who would have believed it of Kate? I had always thought of Kate as such a practical, prim, level-headed, decorous lady, altogether lacking in passion, but apparently she had hidden depths. Even though her beliefs about religion and education were newfangled and excitingly bold, I never once thought of her as the sort of woman who would fling herself into a lover’s embrace, especially not before the official period of mourning for her husband had expired.
My dearest, darling Kat, my plump, fussy, mother hen of a governess, Katherine Ashley, and I would crouch on the window seat in my bedchamber at night, bundled in our velvet dressing gowns, and watch by moonlight as Kate crept out cloaked and veiled amidst the night blooming jasmine to the gate at the back of the garden to let him in, a tall, dark shadow stealthy as a phantom.
He would take her in his arms, bend her over backward, and kiss her with a scorching passion that even we, sitting there watching from the window above like a pair of giddy, giggling housemaids, could feel as we tried to guess his identity. Then she would take his hand and lead him to the house and, presumably, up the back stairs to her bed.
And with the dawn’s first faint light, when Mrs. Ashley still slept soundly, snoring in the small room adjoining mine, I would sometimes creep from my bed, the stone floor cold beneath my naked toes, making me shiver, to watch them, arms about each other’s waists, leaning into one another, as they walked slowly back to the garden gate, pausing to steal one last, lingering kiss before he took his leave, as the jasmine closed its petals for the day.
And then came the day when it wasn’t a secret anymore. I received a summons bidding me to come to Kate’s chamber. And there he was—the rash and reckless, hotheaded and handsome, Lord Admiral Thomas Seymour of the winning smile and ready laugh. Handsome beyond words and measure, with sun-bronzed skin, wavy auburn hair, a long luxuriant beard, twinkling cinnamon-brown eyes, and a voice like a velvet glove on bare skin, he moved with a bold, larger-than-life, confident swagger that suggested he had never in his life known a moment of self-doubt, and wielded his charm like a weapon. Every woman who crossed his path seemed to succumb to that charm. Even staid and proper matrons were reduced to giggling, giddy schoolgirls simpering and blushing in his presence, with hearts aflutter and knees like butter, hanging on his every word, and men were enraptured and enthralled by his tales of adventure and derring-do upon the high seas and his dealings with the pirates who plied the Scilly Isles. He was the complete and contrary opposite of his icy, calculating, meticulous cold fish of a brother, the Lord Protector. Tom Seymour was the man every woman wanted to wed or bed and every man wanted to be.
When I walked in he was standing before the fire in Kate’s bedchamber, stretching his hands out to the welcoming warmth of the fragrant applewood logs as raindrops dribbled from his cinnamon velvet cloak onto the bearskin rug upon the hearth.
The moment I saw him my heart felt a jolt as if it had been struck by lightning and unaccountably I began to blush and tremble. I could not speak; my lips could not form the words to utter even a simple greeting. I felt as if my tongue had become a useless pink ribbon all tied up in tenacious, impossible knots. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why. Then he was crossing the room. His hands were on my waist and he was lifting me up high, my feet dangling uselessly above the floor. My long red hair swung down over my shoulders to tickle his face as I gazed down at him and he in turn fixed me with an intense, penetrating gaze. Then, very slowly, he lowered me, and pressed me close against his strong chest—I felt sure he could feel my heart pounding as if there were a wild, bucking horse trapped inside my breast—and then . . . he kissed me! Long and lingeringly upon my lips, he kissed me! I surprised myself, even as I knew I should shove him away and slap him for his impertinence, and instead I wrapped my arms around his neck and clung to him.
“My Lord!” I gasped, blushing and befuddled, when his lips left mine.
“Well met, My Lady Elizabeth.” He smiled at me, displaying a set of perfect pearl-white teeth, sparkling from amidst his bushy beard, as he released me and his hands reached out knowingly to catch my elbows and steady me as my knees threatened to give way beneath my black damask and velvet mourning gown.
“I thought it only fair that since I have swept you off your feet at both our previous meetings I should continue in the same vein,” he said teasingly.
As he spoke his eyes roved over my body and I felt as if every stitch I wore was being peeled away, leaving me stark naked before his piercing gaze.
“Do you not remember?” An incredulous little frown creased his brow before he shook his head to chase it away and smiled again. “No, you cannot have forgotten! I am a man who always makes a lasting impression! The first time was on the occasion of my dear sister Jane’s first, and sadly last, Christmas as Queen . . .”
“Y-Yes, M-My Lord, I . . . I . . . remember . . .” Blushing and tongue-tied, I stammered, as my mind hurtled back in time to that Christmas of 1536 when Tom Seymour, dressed in motley colored silks and ribbon streamers all trimmed with tiny bells, and a gilded tin crown, had presided over the Yuletide celebrations as the Lord of Misrule. All of a sudden he had swooped down on me and swept me up high into the air and demanded a kiss from me. Laughing, I threw my arms around his neck and complied wholeheartedly with a hearty smacking kiss that made all those about us laugh. I was but three at the time and not so mindful of my dignity, and everyone is apt to let decorum slip when the jolly, cavorting Lord of Misrule holds sway and the wine and wassail are flowing freely. Everyone looked on smilingly, observing that “Jolly Tom” had such a way with children, they naturally responded to him, and what a shame it was that he was still a bachelor and had none of his own. Then he set me down, and taking out a flute, called the other children to gather round, and bade us follow him, forming a living serpent of gaily garbed little bodies, weaving our way through the adults amassed in the Great Hall.
“And the second time,” he prompted, “was when I carried you in the procession for . . .”
I gulped and nodded. “. . . my brother Edward’s christening.”
“Yes! God’s teeth, you do remember!” He smiled broadly. “I knew you could not have forgotten! My brother Ned was supposed to have the honor of carrying you, but you took an instant dislike to him—and who could blame you?—and kicked his shin and ran to me and threw yourself into my arms and said as regally as a little queen, ‘You may carry me,’ and when he tried to take you from me you bit him.”
I blushed at the memory and hung my head; I could not meet his eyes knowing my face was all aflame, and my stomach felt as if it were aswarm with thousands of anxious bees.
“Y-Yes, M-My Lord,” I said quietly, “I . . . I remember.”
“And now . . .” Tom smiled, oblivious to my embarrassment. “Here I am, to sweep