Thomas. From the feel of it, maybe forever.”
Unconsciously examining the Queen’s face for signs of serious fatigue or illness, Parry handed her a flask of clear water. Elizabeth drank deeply until it was empty. Parry, like Kat Ashley, had been in Elizabeth’s service since her early childhood. His wife, Blanche, had rocked the Princess in her royal cradle. Now the young queen collapsed wearily next to Kat, glancing affectionately at the older woman.
“She couldn’t wait to be gone from that stinking, flea-infested house, but I think she hates the traveling more,” whispered Elizabeth, hoping not to wake her waiting lady.
“Well, she’ll be having to get used to it, will she not? July to November, every year from now on,” said Parry.
“I expect I’ll get to see a lot of my kingdom.”
“Aye, you will do that.” Thomas Parry smiled at the thought. Elizabeth’s kingdom. How close she had come to losing it all before it could be hers.
Elizabeth, too, was remembering — the dangerous tribulations that she and Kat, Thomas and Blanche Parry had shared and suffered. She had thought much on those times in recent days, since reading Anne’s diary describing the early months of Henry’s enforced courtship of her mother.
What choice has a young girl when a king or nobleman forces his affections on her, what choice but to submit? thought Elizabeth. A woman had no escape. A hart — a hind — pursued by the hounds. A woman’s mind confused by the rigid teaching that a man must always have what he desired. That a woman’s wants meant nothing, nay, less than nothing. Her mother pursued by Henry. Herself, but a girl, pursued by Thomas Seymour.
Lord High Admiral. The name and the image of him flew into her mind unbidden. She could see him clearly, handsome and swaggering with his long red beard and iron-hard arms.
Thankfully Parry had gone back to his accounts, so he did not notice Elizabeth’s face flush with the simple thought of a man dead more than ten years.
She closed her eyes. She could smell him … oh God, taste him … could even now hear that rich voice booming “By God’s precious soul!” in a jovial oath that pierced the dull haze of sleep a moment before the heavy bedcurtains were ripped open and Thomas Seymour’s overlarge presence filled her sunny apartments.
“Rise and shine, Princess. ‘Tis too fine a day to lay about in bed.”
Elizabeth had flushed scarlet as she sought to cover her small naked breasts with the lawn sheets and squirmed lower under the covers, unable to speak for sheer embarrassment.
“Admiral, for shame!” cried Kat Ashley springing from her pallet at the foot of Elizabeth’s bed. Seymour, barelegged in his nightgown and slippers, had already leapt into Elizabeth’s four-poster and was tickling the thirteen-year-old girl until her shrieks of helpless laughter echoed through Chelsea Manor. Kat rushed to the bedchamber door and slammed it, then stood arms akimbo over the writhing tangle of bodies and bedclothes, trying to decide how to end this outrageous display.
But as she watched the pair of them, the large, handsome red-bearded man and her dear Lady Elizabeth, she felt her sternly pursed lips soften into a smile. They were a pretty couple, far prettier than the one Seymour made with his homely middle-aged wife, Catherine. Kat wished desperately that she had never harbored such scandalous thoughts, but she had to admit that Elizabeth and Catherine were not the only women in this household that Thomas Seymour had bewitched.
Seymour rolled onto his back and lay smiling up at Kat. “Come woman, dress your charge quickly. We hunt this morning.”
“Out of the bed now,” she ordered him, finally finding her voice which, she lamented, was less one of authority than playfulness. “All right, Elizabeth,” she added. “Up you get.”
“Make him leave.”
“Out,” Kat told Seymour. “The Princess needs her privacy.” “I’ll turn my back,” he replied
Unconsciously examining the Queen’s face for signs of serious fatigue or illness, Parry handed her a flask of clear water. Elizabeth drank deeply until it was empty. Parry, like Kat Ashley, had been in Elizabeth’s service since her early childhood. His wife, Blanche, had rocked the Princess in her royal cradle. Now the young queen collapsed wearily next to Kat, glancing affectionately at the older woman.
“She couldn’t wait to be gone from that stinking, flea-infested house, but I think she hates the traveling more,” whispered Elizabeth, hoping not to wake her waiting lady.
“Well, she’ll be having to get used to it, will she not? July to November, every year from now on,” said Parry.
“I expect I’ll get to see a lot of my kingdom.”
“Aye, you will do that.” Thomas Parry smiled at the thought. Elizabeth’s kingdom. How close she had come to losing it all before it could be hers.
Elizabeth, too, was remembering — the dangerous tribulations that she and Kat, Thomas and Blanche Parry had shared and suffered. She had thought much on those times in recent days, since reading Anne’s diary describing the early months of Henry’s enforced courtship of her mother.
What choice has a young girl when a king or nobleman forces his affections on her, what choice but to submit? thought Elizabeth. A woman had no escape. A hart — a hind — pursued by the hounds. A woman’s mind confused by the rigid teaching that a man must always have what he desired. That a woman’s wants meant nothing, nay, less than nothing. Her mother pursued by Henry. Herself, but a girl, pursued by Thomas Seymour.
Lord High Admiral. The name and the image of him flew into her mind unbidden. She could see him clearly, handsome and swaggering with his long red beard and iron-hard arms.
Thankfully Parry had gone back to his accounts, so he did not notice Elizabeth’s face flush with the simple thought of a man dead more than ten years.
She closed her eyes. She could smell him … oh God, taste him … could even now hear that rich voice booming “By God’s precious soul!” in a jovial oath that pierced the dull haze of sleep a moment before the heavy bedcurtains were ripped open and Thomas Seymour’s overlarge presence filled her sunny apartments.
“Rise and shine, Princess. ‘Tis too fine a day to lay about in bed.”
Elizabeth had flushed scarlet as she sought to cover her small naked breasts with the lawn sheets and squirmed lower under the covers, unable to speak for sheer embarrassment.
“Admiral, for shame!” cried Kat Ashley springing from her pallet at the foot of Elizabeth’s bed. Seymour, barelegged in his nightgown and slippers, had already leapt into Elizabeth’s four-poster and was tickling the thirteen-year-old girl until her shrieks of helpless laughter echoed through Chelsea Manor. Kat rushed to the bedchamber door and slammed it, then stood arms akimbo over the writhing tangle of bodies and bedclothes, trying to decide how to end this outrageous display.
But as she watched the pair of them, the large, handsome red-bearded man and her dear Lady Elizabeth, she felt her sternly pursed lips soften into a smile. They were a pretty couple, far prettier than the one Seymour made with his homely middle-aged wife, Catherine. Kat wished desperately that she had never harbored such scandalous thoughts, but she had to admit that Elizabeth and Catherine were not the only women in this household that Thomas Seymour had bewitched.
Seymour rolled onto his back and lay smiling up at Kat. “Come woman, dress your charge quickly. We hunt this morning.”
“Out of the bed now,” she ordered him, finally finding her voice which, she lamented, was less one of authority than playfulness. “All right, Elizabeth,” she added. “Up you get.”
“Make him leave.”
“Out,” Kat told Seymour. “The Princess needs her privacy.” “I’ll turn my back,” he replied
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