Henry had executed plenty of gentlemen who would not support his divorce with Catherine of Aragon or the acts that had made Henry head of the Church of England and proclaimed Anne Boleyn’s issue first in line for the throne.
Anne had been reviled, Aunt Kat had told me, openly hissed at in the streets and in danger of the mob whenever she went out. A monarch marrying badly carried dire consequences in England.
“That is true,” Elizabeth conceded. “The people here have affection for their queens, and for their princesses.”
“They do cheer most heartily when you ride out.” Indeed, any time we ventured from the house, the villagers lined up to wave and shout for their Lady Elizabeth.
“That is not an affection one should take for granted,” Elizabeth said, her voice softening. “A reputation must be guarded.”
I thought back on Aunt Kat relaying Catherine’s almost exact words to Elizabeth. Her admonishment seemed to have had impact.
This was the closest Elizabeth had ever come to discussing the reason she’d been sent from Catherine’s household, and I feared to upset her by remarking on it.
“You are wise, Your Grace,” I murmured.
Elizabeth sent me a sharp look, sensing I could say more about her situation if I dared, but she let the matter drop.
August ended on a brisk wind, and the trees began turning lovely shades of orange, red, and gold. Also, with the end of August came word from Sudeley Castle that Queen Catherine had delivered to Thomas Seymour a girl, who was called Mary.
We rejoiced in Catherine’s good fortune, and Elizabeth’s hope grew that Catherine would send for her soon.
But the rejoicing was short-lived. Another message came from Sudeley hard on the heels of the first, that while the daughter survived, Queen Catherine had died of child-bed fever.
Chapter 5
Catherine’s death plunged Elizabeth into illness so severe that Lord Protector Somerset had to send a physician to attend her at Cheshunt.
In those dark days, Elizabeth liked me to sit beside her while she lay abed in her chamber. Her illness made her thinner, but the lines around her mouth had been etched there by wariness and grief. She grew quiet and watchful, as though she knew some terrible fate approached her.
Catherine was buried at Sudeley Castle, with all honors. Seymour attended, appropriately grieving, from what Aunt Joan told us. But reports servants gave of Catherine’s last illness dismayed me.
Catherine, in her delirium, had apparently raved that the love she bore her husband had been ruined, that he was false and had used her for his own ambition. Seymour had pursued Elizabeth under her nose and had wished Catherine to die—indeed, had he poisoned her?
Then Catherine would come to herself and say that no, she was only dreaming, and declare she loved her Thomas dearly.
In the end, Catherine had willed Seymour everything she owned, including the lovely Chelsea Manor, and had died with words of forgiveness on her lips.
The stories alarmed me not a little. Catherine’s fevers had brought to the surface ugly truths that had been kept buried in her troubled household.
Despite our sorrow at the queen’s death, I was happy when King Edward sent word that Elizabeth was allowed to move to Hatfield again, where she would set up her own household. I was sorry to leave Cheshunt, a peaceful place, but Hatfield had many possibilities.
At Hatfield, Elizabeth would be a princess in truth, with her own entourage and gentlemen at arms, and she would begin managing the estates willed to her by her father. Despite whispers that Seymour was once again trying to gain more power at court, I hoped happier times approached.
Hatfield was a fine red brick house north and west of Cheshunt and twenty or so miles directly north of London. The estate had long country lanes for rambling and good hunting in the forests nearby. We were isolated from the rigorous pace and stink of London but close enough for an easy visit to Whitehall or Greenwich. Elizabeth professed to be fond of the property where she and I had spent our innocent days of childhood, before we’d understood what a frightening place the world could be.
“The Lord Admiral will no doubt seek permission to marry her now,” Aunt Kat said to me a few weeks after we’d settled Elizabeth into the house. “Mark my words.”
I was in our rooms, laying out fabrics for one of Elizabeth’s new gowns, which she’d wear on upcoming visits to her brother. Elizabeth was fifteen, an adult by royal standards, and she’d need to be arrayed in finery.
My entire body thrummed as I brushed my fingers over the brocade, dreaming of the gowns that would take shape. It was an exciting time, and I’d have the opportunity to show the entire court what I could do.
An arranged marriage for Elizabeth would likely not be long in coming, I reasoned as I listened to Aunt Kat. Given Thomas Seymour’s rivalry with his brother, the Lord Protector, I doubted the Protector would allow Seymour to extend his hand to Elizabeth.
“I thought you disapproved of Seymour’s schemes,” I returned.
Aunt Kat shrugged. “If he offers to take Elizabeth respectably to wife, what can there be to disapprove of? The Admiral is a handsome man, wealthy, and intelligent. I’d rather our lady marry him than any other man in the kingdom.”
“He has spoken of it to you?” I asked in concern.
