Читать книгу The Sixth Wife - Suzannah Dunn, Suzannah Dunn - Страница 3

A month or so into Kate’s widowhood I went to stay with her in the Chelsea countryside, at the old manor that Henry had left to her. I set off from home later than I’d envisaged because my friends the Cavendishes, en route to their Hertfordshire manor, stopped by for longer than they’d intended; and when they did eventually depart, we saw that one of their horses needed a shoe.

‘Go,’ Bess Cavendish dismissed me, ‘or you’ll be on the river in the dark.’

‘It’s February,’ I countered with a laugh. ‘Half the day’s dark; dark’s unavoidable.’

Then, back indoors at last, I had to see a local shoemaker whose home and workshop had burned down, because my steward wanted to discuss with me how much assistance we should give the family.

We didn’t launch the barge until the evening and, despite hard rowing by my men, arrived at Chelsea too late for dinner. I can’t say I minded. I sat cosily at the fireside in Kate’s room with my two accompanying ladies to eat excellent pigeon pie, and peaches that had been bottled in lavender-infused syrup. I’d brought Joanna and Nichola, my youngest ladies, knowing they’d fit in best at Kate’s. We all have girls in our household, of course, come to us to learn the ropes, but trust Kate to have only girls, every last one of her attendants a fledgling under her wing. There had been some changes, though, now that she was no longer at court. A couple of new faces. One was Marcella, who, Kate told me, was married to one of Thomas Seymour’s men; the other was the Lassells girl – Frances, ‘Frankie’ – an eager twelve-year-old.

It was an easy, gossipy evening, Marcella playing the virginals beautifully in the background. I wasn’t late going to bed, to the room that was mine whenever I was there. I hadn’t been there for long, though, when Kate turned up, nightdress-attired, barefoot, hair down, unattended by any of her girls. There was never any bustle to Kate, just this walk, loose, light, and tall. She sat on the edge of my bed and switched those big clear eyes of hers to my maidservant, Bella.

‘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.