Читать книгу The Sixth Wife - Suzannah Dunn, Suzannah Dunn - Страница 4

The next day, she was all for telling me how it had happened. Except that, it seemed, she couldn’t. Which was, as far as she was concerned, somehow part of it: the magic of it. ‘It just did,’ she insisted, exhilarated, trailing frosted breath. We were riding with a few of the household children – the doctor’s and falconer’s sons and a couple of excitable pages – and some liveried attendants in the parkland beyond the manor. Kate was a very good rider, a daily rider, a natural in the saddle. I’m probably as at home now on horseback when I have to be, but for me it comes from years of hard practice. From having two horse-mad boys and wanting to join in with them.

It just did? Well, yes, and quickly.

‘Mind you,’ she was calling back to me over the pounding of hooves, ‘we’ve always been friends.’

No, not ‘always’. The Seymours are relative newcomers. Compared to our families, they are. If it hadn’t been for their sister, Jane, the two boys would have got no further than that creaking old manor house of theirs in the West Country. Poor plain Jane, dull as ditchwater, around for a mere couple of years in which she was required only to be everything that Anne Boleyn hadn’t been. In other words, nothing much. And to produce the son that Anne Boleyn hadn’t been able to. Which she did, just, before draining away into that childbirth bed. By that time, the brothers had got their feet under the top table. They were uncles to the future king, no less.

I didn’t know them in those days. I’ve never been one for court. Best to leave them to it has always been my view – confirmed for me by the Anne Boleyn years. If you value your freedom, you’re better off away from court. Too much bowing and scraping. Kate was like me in that respect, so I don’t know how – where – it ever developed, that friendship of hers with Thomas. His brother, the elder of the two, I did get to know. I’ve had various dealings with Ed Seymour, and we’ve become friends. I like Ed in spite of himself. He has fingers in a lot of pies. It’s not hidden, though, that feathering of his nest, and I like that, I respect it. Being on the make isn’t bad if it’s honest. It’s subterfuge that I don’t like. Ed’s nothing like his younger brother. He’s even the opposite in looks: pallid, thin-lipped. Hardly fun, but straightforward. And despite all that – fingers in pies, feathering of nests, no nonsense – he’s somehow also a man of vision, full of interesting ideas. Whereas I wouldn’t want to think about any visions Thomas might have.

‘He makes me laugh,’ Kate yelled of Thomas as she thundered away from me.

I didn’t come back at her with, Yes, but my dog makes me laugh and I haven’t married him, have I.

Nor, Yes, but I make you laugh.

People underestimated Kate in one respect: kind but serious, was a lot of people’s opinion of her. Maybe it was as simple as that, it occurred to me as I trailed in her wake: maybe Thomas Seymour truly appreciates her.

Yes, but why marry him, and so soon?

Well, that was quite simple, too, in the end, it seemed. He’d asked her, she told me later. Marry me, he’d said: that’s what she told me. Marry me, marry me, marry me: he’d said it a lot. So that it seemed less and less ridiculous, presumably. Why not? he said. I’ve been away for years and you’ve been – well, you haven’t had an easy time of it for years, for your whole life, in fact, so…and then that smile of his.

Enough. That smile. I didn’t know what she was talking about at the time, but now I can well imagine it.

We were back at the stables, dismounting amid rowdy dogs, when she said, ‘So, the boys are fine?’ She was all lit up from her ride. And not only from her ride: it was how she seemed to be now, which, despite my misgivings, was good to see.

‘Yes, fine, thanks.’A measly word, though – ‘fine’ – for my wonderful boys.

‘You should bring them again, sometime.’ Then, as she handed the reins to one of her grooms, ‘Thomas is so good with children.’

Well, we’d see about that, wouldn’t we. ‘Next time.’ A second groom staggered away with Kate’s saddle and gold-tassled, crest-embroidered saddlecloth. I handed over my own horse and began removing my gloves.

‘Elizabeth’s coming to live here,’ Kate added, ‘did I tell you?’

‘No. No, you didn’t.’Was my wariness audible?

She enthused, ‘She’s a good girl, you know, Cathy.’

Well, to be honest, I didn’t know. All I knew of Elizabeth was that she was thirteen, had the Tudor-rose colouring and was clever. That’s what Kate said: very, very clever. Kate had great hopes for her. Couldn’t bear to think of her shut away in some country house with any so-so tutor. Nor did she like her having to do all that kneeling at her brother’s feet on her rare invitations to court. Elizabeth was very much looked down upon by her sister Mary, too. Of Henry’s three children, Elizabeth was definitely the poor relation. Which was, of course, down to who her mother was. But Kate had been working on Mary. It disturbed me, Kate’s bond with Mary. I don’t like catholics at the best of times, but Mary’s fervour feels to me like something else altogether. Like grief, in fact. As wilful as grief. But Kate was friends with everyone and, anyway, she and Mary had been at school together. Now Kate was telling me, ‘I said to Mary, Elizabeth’s incredibly bright.’ Well, that was a good move, because Mary would hate to think of any clever girl going uneducated; I’ll say that for her. Kate was saying, ‘I said, she needs to study here with Jane.’

Little Jane Grey. ‘Jane’s all right, is she?’ Earlier, I’d unwittingly made the mistake of asking Jane if she’d be riding with us. Her expression had been one of incomprehension as she’d declined and shrunk away, presumably to lessons or prayers.

‘Oh, Jane’s Jane,’ Kate said, diplomatically, with one of her wide-eyed twinkles.

Jane Grey: that tiny, serious girl, top-heavy with brains. Jane must have been so pleased to be at Kate’s. I’d had nice parents, if rather absent, but Jane’s situation was the opposite: parents not nice, and far too present in her life.

Walking from the stables, I puzzled over Elizabeth’s impending move into Kate’s household. Because there was something I knew about Elizabeth, wasn’t there: something that Kate didn’t seem to know. That Thomas Seymour had, only months ago, been pursuing her. But, then, I reminded myself, he’d left her alone, hadn’t he. Kate was the one he’d married, and as quickly as possible. So perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it had always been Kate for him. After all, Elizabeth was way out of his reach and surely he couldn’t have ever seriously imagined otherwise. Council would never have stood by and let him marry her, and he’d have known that, wouldn’t he. He must have known that. Anyone would know it. Perhaps, then, sensibly, he’d been covering up his interest in the king’s widow. In that way, it made sense, his play for Elizabeth. It was the only way it made sense: Elizabeth as red herring.