and stood facing the heavy velvet arras. “Go on, I won’t peek.”
Kat and Elizabeth exchanged a dubious look.
“I’m not leaving, so make haste, ladies.”
With an embarrassed giggle Elizabeth jumped out of bed, winding the thin sheet round her, and stood as her waiting woman hurriedly slipped a cotton kirde over her reed-thin frame.
“Wear the russet jacket and the black brocade skirt,” he snapped as though he were still at sea barking orders to his seamen.
As Kat laced her into a bone corset the Princess wondered if her stepmother knew where her husband was, if she knew what a fool he was making of her. Elizabeth tried to push all thoughts of the mild-mannered Catherine Parr from her mind, for she loved the woman dearly. Indeed, Catherine was the only mother Elizabeth had ever known. A slap to her petticoated buttocks made Elizabeth squeal with surprise. She turned to see Thomas Seymour grinning impishly at her. But before Kat could push him away he had kissed Elizabeth’s flushed cheek and given her waiting woman’s thigh a good pinch.
“Beautiful,” he said, looking Elizabeth up and down in a quick inspection. “The stables in three quarters of an hour, no later!” He bounded out the door, leaving the two women floundering in the wake of his audacity.
Now as the royal coach rocked and rumbled over the pitted road Elizabeth conjured the memory of her adored stepmother Catherine Parr. Elizabeth had been nine when Henry, by then an old and sickly man, had married Catherine, his sixth wife. Finally relieved of any illusions of marrying for love or producing more male heirs, he’d been content with a woman whose holdings would strengthen his northern borders, one who might offer him some comfort in his old age. And comfort she gave him, sitting for hour upon hour with his sore leg propped upon her lap, arguing companionably about philosophy and religion. When Henry chose Catherine, she had been for many years central to a coterie of steely-minded, forward-thinking noblewomen who, by patronizing the great scholars and tutors of the Continent, brought the teachings of humanism and religious reform to court and wielded the first real, if limited, power over kings and princes that Englishwomen had ever enjoyed.
But, Elizabeth mused, her adoration for Catherine Parr sprang from something far deeper than respect, for she had within months of her coronation not only soothed the raging spirit and pain-racked body of her husband but plucked the long-estranged “bastard” child of Anne Boleyn back from lonely exile and into the warm bosom of the royal family. Henry once again showered his red-haired girl with affection and allowed Catherine to oversee Elizabeth’s brilliant classical education. The Queen in one swift maneuver had bestowed upon her stepdaughter her life’s most precious gift — the restoration of Elizabeth’s place in the royal succession.
Four years later Henry had died, leaving his widow the richest woman in England. Elizabeth’s home was with the Queen at Chelsea, and she and her younger half brother, Edward — now king at age nine — were comforted by Catherine’s kind ministrations. But then within three months of Henry’s death everything changed again. The dowager queen had fallen hopelessly and passionately in love with Thomas Seymour, uncle to the young king and Lord High Admiral of the Navy.
In those bewitching days the house at Chelsea had fairly thrummed with sensuality and Elizabeth found the high-spirited courtship of Thomas and Catherine unfolding before her girlishly romantic eyes. There was laughter and music and merriment and kind affection shown all round — an utterly intoxicating existence for the studious and modest young princess. Elizabeth watched fascinated to see the once demure and utterly serious-minded Catherine dissolve into a giddy, lovestruck girl. And so when Thomas Seymour’s pursuit of Elizabeth had begun in earnest, she had been entirely unprepared
Kat and Elizabeth exchanged a dubious look.
“I’m not leaving, so make haste, ladies.”
With an embarrassed giggle Elizabeth jumped out of bed, winding the thin sheet round her, and stood as her waiting woman hurriedly slipped a cotton kirde over her reed-thin frame.
“Wear the russet jacket and the black brocade skirt,” he snapped as though he were still at sea barking orders to his seamen.
As Kat laced her into a bone corset the Princess wondered if her stepmother knew where her husband was, if she knew what a fool he was making of her. Elizabeth tried to push all thoughts of the mild-mannered Catherine Parr from her mind, for she loved the woman dearly. Indeed, Catherine was the only mother Elizabeth had ever known. A slap to her petticoated buttocks made Elizabeth squeal with surprise. She turned to see Thomas Seymour grinning impishly at her. But before Kat could push him away he had kissed Elizabeth’s flushed cheek and given her waiting woman’s thigh a good pinch.
“Beautiful,” he said, looking Elizabeth up and down in a quick inspection. “The stables in three quarters of an hour, no later!” He bounded out the door, leaving the two women floundering in the wake of his audacity.
Now as the royal coach rocked and rumbled over the pitted road Elizabeth conjured the memory of her adored stepmother Catherine Parr. Elizabeth had been nine when Henry, by then an old and sickly man, had married Catherine, his sixth wife. Finally relieved of any illusions of marrying for love or producing more male heirs, he’d been content with a woman whose holdings would strengthen his northern borders, one who might offer him some comfort in his old age. And comfort she gave him, sitting for hour upon hour with his sore leg propped upon her lap, arguing companionably about philosophy and religion. When Henry chose Catherine, she had been for many years central to a coterie of steely-minded, forward-thinking noblewomen who, by patronizing the great scholars and tutors of the Continent, brought the teachings of humanism and religious reform to court and wielded the first real, if limited, power over kings and princes that Englishwomen had ever enjoyed.
But, Elizabeth mused, her adoration for Catherine Parr sprang from something far deeper than respect, for she had within months of her coronation not only soothed the raging spirit and pain-racked body of her husband but plucked the long-estranged “bastard” child of Anne Boleyn back from lonely exile and into the warm bosom of the royal family. Henry once again showered his red-haired girl with affection and allowed Catherine to oversee Elizabeth’s brilliant classical education. The Queen in one swift maneuver had bestowed upon her stepdaughter her life’s most precious gift — the restoration of Elizabeth’s place in the royal succession.
Four years later Henry had died, leaving his widow the richest woman in England. Elizabeth’s home was with the Queen at Chelsea, and she and her younger half brother, Edward — now king at age nine — were comforted by Catherine’s kind ministrations. But then within three months of Henry’s death everything changed again. The dowager queen had fallen hopelessly and passionately in love with Thomas Seymour, uncle to the young king and Lord High Admiral of the Navy.
In those bewitching days the house at Chelsea had fairly thrummed with sensuality and Elizabeth found the high-spirited courtship of Thomas and Catherine unfolding before her girlishly romantic eyes. There was laughter and music and merriment and kind affection shown all round — an utterly intoxicating existence for the studious and modest young princess. Elizabeth watched fascinated to see the once demure and utterly serious-minded Catherine dissolve into a giddy, lovestruck girl. And so when Thomas Seymour’s pursuit of Elizabeth had begun in earnest, she had been entirely unprepared
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