Chapter 4 #2
Elizabeth sent me a pitying glance. We might be the same age, but she looked upon the world with eyes that were older and wiser than mine.
“Such things can happen,” she answered. “But not very often. This time, my stepmother married for love, but from my observation, when she married her first two husbands and then my father, all for duty, she was much more contented.”
I was not certain I agreed. I remembered Catherine as Henry’s wife, a patient woman keeping her emotions in check.
I imagined she’d been the same in her first marriages, one to the young Sir Edward Burgh, and the second to Baron Latimer, who at least had given her a title and left her with some wealth.
When Catherine had married Seymour, with whom she’d shared a close friendship before her marriage to Henry, she’d dared to be happy, laughing and enjoying herself.
Her serious demeanor, which Henry had praised, had vanished.
Henry had married Catherine for her beauty, so the tales went, which had been unmarred by her two widowhoods. Catherine’s attractiveness remained, and I do not believe Seymour was immune to it.
I’d come to highly suspect that Seymour’s interest in Elizabeth had more to do with the fact that she was now second in line to the throne than anything else, though I did not discount her charms for him.
I’d learned that Seymour was plenty lecherous enough to want Elizabeth for her young beauty as well.
“I shall not marry at all,” I said with conviction, suppressing a shudder at the memory of Seymour’s hands on me in the dark hall.
“A gentleman is expected to rule his wife, and I dislike that notion. It is natural for a woman to obey a mother and father, and even an aunt and uncle, but most husbands, in my opinion, take advantage of their power.”
Elizabeth listened to me thoughtfully. She never dismissed my words out of hand when we had these sorts of conversations, a consideration I was grateful for.
“Would the husband take such advantage, think you, if the wife was a queen?”
“I am afraid so,” I answered. “There is not much that will stop husbands wanting mastery.”
“The husband would be the queen’s subject, though, would he not?” Elizabeth had a strangely persistent note in her voice. “If she ruled England herself?”
“But a woman has not ruled England,” I pointed out. “Not for centuries. There has always been a male heir, who marries and produces at least one son, unless there is a war and another king takes over.” At least, this was my somewhat muddled view of our history.
“True, but if my brother does not sire a son, my sister, Mary, will be queen.” Elizabeth flicked a page of her book, as though the conversation was only of partial interest. “My father willed it thus.”
Elizabeth did not continue that train of thought, but her implication was clear. If Edward left no heirs, and neither did Mary, Elizabeth would step into the role of monarch, as Aunt Kat had suggested.
I studied Elizabeth’s firm jaw, her no-nonsense eyes, the tilt of her head that suggested arrogance.
Arrogance could become a detriment if taken too far. But it could also be an asset, an air that set a person apart from others and forced awe from those who beheld them.
“Mary will surely take a husband,” I argued. “One that will benefit the kingdom. I would think a queen has less freedom than any other woman when it comes to choosing her life’s mate.”
Elizabeth lifted her head, the late summer light making her eyes gray like uncut diamonds. “But she would be queen. All must obey her then.”
She challenged me, awaiting my response. I should bow my head meekly and say she knew best, but my honest tongue rattled on.
“From what I understand, Your Grace, the people of England do not swallow things readily. It is not like the Saracen lands, where the people live in absolute terror of their kings.”
I could not claim complete knowledge of the Saracen lands—or even where they lay—but I believed that in those places, the common subjects would never dream of criticizing their ruler, for fear of being put to death.
I did not remind her that when Henry had put aside his beloved first wife to marry Elizabeth’s mother, rebellion had boiled under the waters of the then-placid pond of our kingdom.
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.