Prince Edward was a Seymour, but Lady Elizabeth had descended from the Howards—she was the wayward Duke of Norfolk’s grandniece. Princess Mary, daughter of Henry’s first wife, carried the blood of the Spanish royal families.
Even I, not astute at politics in any way, realized what a boiling mixture that would be.
I did help make Elizabeth’s new clothes, to my delight, but none for a funeral. Elizabeth did not attend King Henry’s burial and neither did Edward. Nor did Elizabeth attend the new king’s coronation.
As it turned out, the first sumptuous clothes I made for Elizabeth were for a wedding. Her stepmother, Catherine, the widowed queen, wed none other than Lord Hertford’s younger brother, Thomas Seymour.
Thomas had, with the ease of a dancer, stepped into the position of Lord High Admiral. He’d proposed to Queen Catherine, and Catherine, in love like a starry-eyed girl, had quickly accepted.
The boiling had begun.
Chapter 2
April 1547
* * *
I fell in love with Thomas Seymour, now Baron Seymour of Sudeley, the moment I saw him. How I fell out of love with him again transformed me from naïve child to wary woman.
Thomas Seymour was tall, strong, and athletic, with a full red beard and dark eyes that caught and held whomever he decided to turn his gaze to. When he smiled, or better still, laughed, whatever chamber he stood in warmed.
Aunt Kat and my Lady Elizabeth fell in love with him too, I saw in the softening of their faces whenever they beheld at him. Catherine Parr had been in love with him well before she’d married Henry, and only a few short months after the former king’s funeral, she became Thomas Seymour’s lawfully wedded wife.
Seymour’s older brother, Hertford, who’d announced Henry’s death to Edward and then elevated himself to Duke of Somerset, was furious at the marriage. He excluded Catherine from court, making his own wife the first lady in England, although Catherine, stepmother to the boy-king Edward and widow of Henry, should have had that right.
Looking back, I do not believe Catherine cared a farthing about losing her lofty position. Court formality and playing nursemaid to a wretched, gouty, and aging man were now in her past. Catherine had landed the gentleman she’d loved for years, and now she divided her time between their large home in Chelsea and his castle in Sudeley.
Catherine invited Elizabeth to reside with her, to Elizabeth’s joy, as she was very fond of her stepmother. And so, the ladies of Elizabeth’s household, including myself and Aunt Kat, moved with her to Chelsea Manor.
In my eyes, the house was beautiful, with its many windows lighting the interior and its gardens stretching to the river, whose waters ran clean this far west and south of London. The property belonged to Catherine, bestowed on her by Henry at his death.
While I assisted Catherine’s ladies and Seymour’s gentlemen in waiting on the family at supper each night, I feared my bold gaze at Seymour would gain me dismissal. I need not have worried. All the ladies’ eyes were fixed on the queen’s new husband, and no one noticed my wanton stare.
Seymour was a man to be admired. After Edward’s coronation, he’d been made Lord High Admiral of England, which I was told meant he commanded the navy and the seas.
Seymour and his older brother, Somerset, ran the kingdom between them. Somerset, who was now Lord High Protector and flaunting it, gripped most of the power. Thomas Seymour was left to bedazzle this household of ladies, and he succeeded admirably.
Seated near him, Catherine smiled, pleased with her lot. At thirty-five, she was still stately and pretty. She drank wine, laughed, and made merry, ready to let happiness enter her life.
Uncle John had made it clear to Aunt Kat and me that he was one who did not admire Seymour. “That man is trouble,” he said darkly one night after we’d been in Chelsea a few weeks. The three of us had gathered as usual after the household’s supper, in a chamber high in the house, to partake of our own meal.
“Nonsense,” Aunt Kat answered. “See how fond the Admiral is of the queen. She deserves to marry for love. He is a breath of fresh air.”
“Fox in a hen house,” Uncle John muttered, then said no more of it.
Later that same night, I carried a pile of new cloth to Queen Catherine’s chambers. Catherine liked my work and had asked me to assist her lady of the wardrobe in constructing new gowns for her as Lady Sudeley. Catherine, for all she was a modest woman of the reformed religion, dressed well, and I looked forward to creating ensembles for her.
I had a love affair with fabric. Nothing else on earth, not even the eyes of a handsome gentleman, could make my blood sing and my skin tingle like a finely woven piece of cloth. The moment I’d touched this velvet, I’d envisioned the perfect gown it would make for Catherine—a soft overskirt paired with a bodice of cloth of silver over an underdress of blue satin.
So infatuated was I with my velvet, that I never noticed Seymour until he was in front of me, filling the dark passage to the queen’s antechamber and blocking my way.
I started, and then warmed with pleasurable heat. First the velvet, then encountering the very handsome Admiral by himself, thrilled my girl’s heart.
I’d never stood so close to him and now realized how very tall he was. I had to tilt my head a long way back so I could take in all of him.
“Is that a pile of clothes with legs?” Seymour’s voice was muted but as rich as the velvet I held.
I curtsied, trembling, and nearly overbalanced my load. A broad hand landed on top of the pile, steadying it, then Seymour’s dark eyes danced as he peered down at me. His wide smile showed white but crooked teeth.
