‘Bella,’ I said,‘that’s fine for now, thanks.’ She was unpacking for me. ‘Why don’t you take a little time to yourself Bella wrapped herself in her cloak and made herself scarce.
Kate scooped her hair behind one ear and said,‘I’ve something to tell you.’ She held my gaze steady with her own and told me: ‘I’ve married Thomas Seymour.’ With a brief laugh, she turned her eyes to the ceiling, or just upwards, somehow both nervous and bold, as if taking pleasure in admonishing herself.
Thomas Seymour? They were friends, he and Kate; had been for years. Odd little friendship, theirs: a friendship that I’d never understood. Well, never even considered really. I couldn’t remember ever having seen them in each other’s company. She’d mentioned him sometimes, over the years, in a manner that might in retrospect be said to be friendly, but Kate was friendly with everybody. Her close friends, though, were reformers and scholars, people who believed in and worked for a better life for everyone. From what I knew of Thomas Seymour, the only life he was keen to better – and he was very keen indeed, from what I’d heard – was his own. But there I was, thinking about her friendship, and hadn’t she just said ‘married’?
Married?‘That was impossible. She was married to the king. Well, no, widowed, but only by a month. She was the king’s widow, still. Not some other man’s wife. And certainly not – certainly not – Thomas Seymour’s.
She got up, moved to the window. ‘No one must know, though, obviously, for a while.’
She had said ‘married’. ‘Thomas Seymour?’
She laughed, delighted. ‘Yes, Thomas Seymour.’Then, less boisterous, ‘It’s been so odd, Cathy. Such an odd time. And I couldn’t tell anyone.’
You, she meant.
Me.
It was an apology, but I was glad I hadn’t known. And wished I still didn’t. Because this was madness. Married to Thomas Seymour? Kate? No one must know? Oh, don’t worry, Kate, I won’t be the one to tell them.
Thomas Seymour had been away – High Admiral – for at least a couple of years. I’d had the distinct impression that he was regarded by those in power as someone best kept busy. The polite word for him would be ‘colourful’: a colourful character. Not only in character, though. I’d only ever known him in passing, but I remembered exactly how he looked. Because he was a good-looking man. No point in denying that. He certainly didn’t; he dressed the part. Fiercely cheekboned: that was what I recalled, now, of him. Sulky-mouthed. Moved fast, talked fast. Well, he’d certainly done that in this case, hadn’t he. Moved fast; fast-talked Kate. Kate. I looked at her, really looked. Those big fish-eyes of hers. She had a gaze – unlike his – that rested on people. And on books: those eyes of hers spent a lot of time resting on books. Thomas Seymour had the reputation of being quick-witted, but that, I gathered, was the extent of it: quick. Too quick – seemed to be the consensus of opinion – for his own good. Here’s the truth: I can’t claim that it was hard to imagine why some women would go for Thomas Seymour. Not, though, a woman such as Kate.
That was only half the puzzle, though, because what on earth had attracted him to her? I’d have sworn that Kate would have been Thomas Seymour’s very last choice. The very last choice for a man such as him. But, then, I knew nothing of his choices in women, did I. There were no women, was how it seemed. Somehow he – forty, now – had managed to stay unmarried. And he was the kind of man of whom I’d have expected to hear rumours of women, but I never had. Except, that is, for the very recent one. The big one. Big enough and recent enough to make me very worried.
He’d had his eye on the Princess Elizabeth, only weeks ago, and had been warned off: this I’d had from a reliable source, namely his brother, to whom it had fallen to do the warning. He had to remind Thomas that it’s treason to make such an approach to someone in line to the throne. Certainly the princess was Thomas Seymour’s type. In line to the throne. Sitting on a fortune. The latter, she had in common with her stepmother: both princess and dowager queen had been amply provided for by Henry. Was it the money, for Thomas? And the status? He was, after all, in the unenviable position of not being on the Council supervising the new boy-king. Sixteen men, none of whom were him. Worse: sixteen men headed by his own brother. Marriage to the dowager queen would be a smart move in the face of such a snub. Suddenly, he’d be husband to the kingdom’s first lady. Was it, then, Kate’s money and status? Well, let’s face it: what else could it be? Kate was going into her mid-thirties, three marriages behind her, with no children, so there’d almost certainly be no heir in this for him. And as for her other assets: you wouldn’t look at her twice, if looking was what you were about. And good-looking men – like Thomas Seymour – do look, don’t they. It’s a luxury they have.
If Kate wasn’t for looking at, though, she was for listening to. And she spoke so well that it was easy to overlook that she did it at all. A few quiet words from her: that was how she worked. Oh, and a kind of twinkle in her bulbous eyes. That’s all it took, for people: that wide-eyed, steady gaze of hers, and nothing much said, or so it seemed. And then whatever needed to happen would happen as if it had been that person’s own idea all along. Clever, that. Made her a lot of friends. So, you could say it was the money, for Thomas – and I will say it – but there was more to it. Kate took people on. She made their lives. I should know, because I was one of them. Kate made everything all right, and I now know there was a lot that wasn’t all right with Thomas.
Three
The next day, she was all for telling me how it had happened. Except that, it seemed, she couldn’t. Which was, as far as she was concerned, somehow part of it: the magic of it. ‘It just did,’ she insisted, exhilarated, trailing frosted breath. We were riding with a few of the household children – the doctor’s and falconer’s sons and a couple of excitable pages – and some liveried attendants in the parkland beyond the manor. Kate was a very good rider, a daily rider, a natural in the saddle. I’m probably as at home now on horseback when I have to be, but for me it comes from years of hard practice. From having two horse-mad boys and wanting to join in with them.
It just did? Well, yes, and quickly.
‘Mind you,’ she was calling back to me over the pounding of hooves, ‘we’ve always been friends.’
No, not ‘always’. The Seymours are relative newcomers. Compared to our families, they are. If it hadn’t been for their sister, Jane, the two boys would have got no further than that creaking old manor house of theirs in the West Country. Poor plain Jane, dull as ditchwater, around for a mere couple of years in which she was required only to be everything that Anne Boleyn hadn’t been. In other words, nothing much. And to produce the son that Anne Boleyn hadn’t been able to. Which she did, just, before draining away into that childbirth bed. By that time, the brothers had got their feet under the top table. They were uncles to the future king, no less.
I didn’t know them in those days. I’ve never been one for court. Best to leave them to it has always been my view – confirmed for me by the Anne Boleyn years. If you value your freedom, you’re better off away from court. Too much bowing and scraping. Kate was like me in that respect, so I don’t know how – where – it ever developed, that friendship of hers with Thomas. His brother, the elder of the two, I did get to know. I’ve had various dealings with Ed Seymour, and we’ve become friends. I like Ed in spite of himself. He has fingers in a lot of pies. It’s not hidden, though, that feathering of his nest, and I like that, I respect it. Being on the make isn’t bad if it’s honest. It’s subterfuge that I don’t like. Ed’s nothing like his younger brother. He’s even the opposite in looks: pallid, thin-lipped. Hardly fun, but straightforward. And despite all that – fingers in pies, feathering of nests, no nonsense – he’s somehow also a man of vision, full of interesting ideas. Whereas I wouldn’t want