No More, for Delaney
Title: No More
Setting: Historical
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Sexual References, Non-Consensual Sex
Summary: Lady Elizabeth is reunited with the charming, handsome, and recently widowed Thomas Seymour once more. Despite the scandalous rumours that surround them, King Henry's bastard daughter does not protest the affections of the baron. However, she finds herself falling faster and faster into something she cannot understand or endure and finds herself at a crossroads: to save her love or to save herself.
Author's Notes: The non-consensual sex warning is a small one; better safe than sorry :) All characters, times, and places are historically accurate to the best of my knowledge.
To Delaney: Your prompt was incredibly unique, and upon reading it, I knew what I had to write about. Thank you so much, dear!
No More
I know that he is there. I can feel his eyes staring down at me, and I resist the urge to wriggle lower under the covers. I can hear his quiet breathing and the soft click of his shoes on the floorboards. He thinks himself invisible when shrouded by darkness, but he does not know that my eyes, angel’s eyes as he calls them, are not my only crutch.
I move slightly, as if stirring in my sleep, and the sounds of his advancement cease. In my mind, I will him away before Kat, my Kat, catches me. It is disgraceful to be with a man widowed naught but six months.
I feel the mattress beneath me dip, accommodating the sudden additional weight. The bed creaks as the intruder sidles closer and closer. I snap my eyes shut, hoping that upon seeing me asleep, he would leave and spare me of any trouble.
But God did not see fit to grant the wishes of a simple girl. A warm hand creeps along the top of my covers, resting gently on my shoulder. I steel myself, readying for the rude shaking that would occur, but it does not come. Instead, I feel the pressure of his hand stroking the duvet and tracing the outline of my sleeping form. Safely hidden in the shadows, I blush at the intimacy of his touch and cannot deny that once again, this forbidden man has elicited fiery feelings in me. Feelings I had once welcomed.
Suddenly, I hear the voice of my tutor, Roger Ascham, ringing in my head: ‘for lust is a shameful sin.’ Guilt courses through me, and I gasp out, just before the wandering arm finds its way onto my hip.
“Sir Thomas, please!”
I know I have startled him with my urgent whisper, when he thought me asleep, for he flinches, already halfway out of my bed before realizing it was only me.
He snorts and murmurs back, “For shame, Lizzy, scaring me as badly as you did! And for that…” I feel him lift the heavy covers to deliver the same old punishment. Before I can stop him, his devilish fingers are all over the torso of my body, and despite myself, I let out a giggle and squirm wildly, trying to hide myself from his tickling.
We freeze, all playfulness gone, as we listen to the echo of my escaped laughter travel down the stone corridors and into the ears of those conscious enough to hear them. If we are caught…oh, not even God could save me then!
A long minute later, I hear Sir Thomas exhale. “The whole castle seems to be dead tonight.” He chuckles at his wit, but I do not find it humorous.
“Sir Thomas, you cannot be here!” I try to push him away, but he has already swung his legs under my duvet. “If someone should see you…If Kat should come…”
“Bah,” Thomas responds, “she shan’t catch us here. And even if she should, there’s nothing wrong with a father wanting to comfort his daughter after a nightmare, is there?” His arms wind around me, and he pulls me closer to the warmth of his body. I weakly push at his arms, but secretly, I revel in his attention and after a moment’s hesitation, I relax against him.
He hugs me tighter to him. “There now. ‘Tis the natural order of things.” I feel his lips press against my forehead. “’Tis what a father does for his daughter,” he whispers. I feel his breath ruffle my hair. A hand strokes my cheek softly, and I cannot help but sigh.
A part of me protests at his intimate touch. No man has ever dared treat me the way Sir Thomas Seymour does. Certainly not my father when he was alive. Though this feels strangely inappropriate, I could not say for certain that this is not what a father does, for I have nothing to compare this behaviour to. He had been kind enough to come find me once more after the terrible death of his wife, my stepmother, the last Queen of England, Katherine Parr.
Besides, I should have no worries. Sir Thomas is known as an honourable man in court, I know. My father, King of England, had found him worthy enough for the titles Master-General of Ordinance, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, and Baron of Sudeley. There are whispers amongst the servants of treachery toward his brother, the Lord Protector, but my governess and friend Kat has always told me not to indulge in the gossips of the staff. There can’t be an ounce of deceit in that handsome, smiling face, in those twinkling hazel eyes. He had lovingly tended to me after my real father’s death, and since then, I’ve known no better kindness.
“The sun shall rise soon.” Sir Thomas slides out of my bed. “Get some rest while you can, my Lizzy. Those nightmares shan’t bother you anymore.” He kisses my forehead to bid me farewell, and I do not bother mentioning I have had no ill dreams. I listen to the soft clacking of his boots move toward the door. A soft click of the door, and I am alone in the darkness once more.
*
He haunts my room nightly now, unlike last year, when I lived with him and Queen Katherine at Chelsea. Here at Hertfordshire, though we are closer to the eyes and ears of the courts, our secret glances are no longer heavy with the reminder of my stepmother. The guilt that had forbidden me from melting in Sir Thomas attentiveness has dissipated. I now giggle aloud when Sir Thomas pats my buttocks soundly. I laugh with childish delight when he swoops down and lifts me up, exposing my petticoats for the whole world to see. I relish his touch every time he caresses my cheek or pecks me on my nose.
Kat, my usually smiling friend, now gazes surly on his antics. There was once a time when she laughed boisterously with us, accompanied us on our walks through the Chelsea gardens arm-in-arm with Queen Katherine, and playfully admonished Sir Thomas’ flirtatious winks. Then there were harsh words exchanged between Kat, the queen, and Sir Thomas. I kept hearing the word ‘reputation,’ but the rest was a blur, ending with teary farewells and half-hearted promises. Only Sir Thomas had seemed fervently adamant in keeping his: “I will be with you one day.”
And so he is. I feel myself lighter and more beautiful when he is around. The worries of my illegitimate standing, the stony silence between me and my best friend, my equally-bastard of a sister’s taunting letters, and my brother’s, the King’s, spies melt away when I see Sir Thomas standing at the opening of the garden, one arm offered to me. For that moment, I am no longer Lady Elizabeth but Princess Elizabeth, as Sir Thomas insists on calling me despite the threat of treason for doing so. For that moment, I am not the banished maiden, prohibited from returning to my rooms in the King’s castles. For that moment, I am loved.
Yet there is something much darker behind Sir Thomas’ stares, something that was not there when we last parted. Oftentimes, I catch him staring at me, and the split second before he can recompose his usually open and inviting countenance, I see an expression that scares me. Something akin to hunger.
The night I first see this on his face is the night the dreams began.
*
I can barely hear him approaching. His hunting skills have much improved, and he now walks carefully as if on the prowl. As always I feel the mattress dip with his added weight, but there is no creak. I open my mouth to call to him, to ruin the surprise, but I find that I cannot make a noise. Apprehension melts away to sheer horror when I find I cannot move as well. He draws aside my covers, leaving me exposed the night air.
A hand creeps along my shoulder.
I cannot turn my head away.
A damned finger pushes my red locks from my face, giving me no veil to cover my eyes.
I see his usual grin though this times the shadows make him seem demonic. I open my mouth in a wide ‘O,’ but my scream does not come out.
With his other hand he puts a finger to his lips. “Shh, Lizzy.”
The hand on my shoulder ventures lower. A flick of the wrist, and two of his fingers find my breast beneath my sheer nightgown. I shudder at his touch. His smile widens. A moment more of his blatant rubbing, and once more his hand is on the move.
I dare not watch where his hand drifts next. Feeling it is already too unbearable. I want to plead for him to stop. I want to scream at him to continue. I hate him. I love him.
Lower and lower it goes. Past my belly button. On my hips - no, past it. Lower and lower. The journey slows but does not cease.
Lower.
Lower.
I bolt upright, trembling and drenched with sweat. I am relieved to find my duvet snugly around my waist.
“Shh. There, there. I’m sorry I have awoken you, my Lizzy, my princess.”
I freeze. Am I still in the nightmare? It sounds too real. I am able to turn toward the voice though my neck feels stiff.
I recognise the outline of the man on the edge of my bed. I feel a clammy hand pat my arm. He means to reassure me, but the hotness of his touch reminds me too much of my dream. He gives me a squeeze and a tug. When I do not scoot into his arms, he slides closer to me.
“There, there. Have no fear, Lizzy. I am here.”
*
A fortnight has passed from the night when I awoke and regarded him with dread in my eyes. I am not so attentive to his affections anymore. At first, I thought I could shake him gently from my side, but Sir Thomas has latched on even tighter.
As for me, I do not know what I feel. A part of me wants him, but another shakes at the thought of his intimacy. I was and always will be grateful for his kindness. In the intricacy that is fashionable of the English court, I am connected to him by more than one means. It was his sister, Jane Seymour, who had unseated my mother, Anne Boleyn, from the queen’s throne. Instead of pushing me aside as well, Sir Thomas had ensured that I received the same education any princess would receive, despite the rumours that I was a product of witchcraft and despite the wishes of his own family. He took me in when I was left with nothing, much like Queen Katherine had done for me, and I will forever be in his debt.
But I am not ready to become what he seems to want me to be: a lover. Already, his hands wander so low that the maids and ladies of Hertfordshire chirrup noisily behind closed doors to anyone who would listen. Kisses on the nose have traveled to the lips and then evolving from innocent to lingering. I do not encourage his behaviour, but neither do I push him away during these intimate acts. Constantly, the word ‘love’ jumps to my mind, and I find myself wondering if that is the name of my emotions. The explanation for my torment.
The stress takes its toll on my everyday life. I beg to have a servant girl sleep on a pallet in my parlour. I leave my chamber door open a crack. I sleep fitfully and in small doses for fear of seeing his menacing face. I wander the halls aimlessly in search of him. I am aware of my watery eyes whenever he approaches me. Master Ascham has routinely chided me for drifting off during my studies. I smile and carry light conversation with him, batting my eyelashes a number of times, resembling the other court flirts.
I am sitting before my dresser, brushing my hair idly. I have a rare moment of peace, for Sir Thomas has gone to London on business. I scrutinize my reflection. I am a mousy girl. My face, too narrow, is not one to launch a thousand ships. My fiery-red hair, when not tamed, sprouts in different directions, giving me a wild look. My lips are pale and thin. My nose is straight, and my dark eyes, the ones I inherited from my mother, are satisfactory. I do not possess the charisma my mother, Queen Anne Boleyn, had, and I certainly do not have the title of court flower as she had. Nonetheless, Sir Thomas pursues me. Me. There is a good selection of beauties here at Hertfordshire. Why me above all others?
I long to talk to someone - anyone - about what haunts me. But who would listen? Only three people knew the true reason why I had been sent so abruptly and unceremoniously from Chelsea; I didn’t know it myself. One leaves me not a moment’s peace. One has died in childbirth.
I regard Kat in the mirror. She is not aware of my stare and continues to write a letter to her husband, Sir John Ashley. Kat is my only friend, even after all these years. Even after I, upon learning her role in my expulsion from Sir Thomas’ presence, had coldly instructed that she not speak to me unless spoken to. Tears threaten to spill over as I realise how much I had wronged her and how much I need her now.
“Kat?” my voice trembles slightly. She looks up, surprised, but does not put down her quill. “Will you come brush my hair?”
With a smile, Kat places her quill carefully in the ink pot and comes over. I am saddened to see how the ordeal has aged her. Here is the woman who had taken me up when my father expelled me, a four-year-old, from his court. Here is the friend who tumbled with me to the ground during dance lessons. Here is the woman who I had shunned and who has accepted my unspoken apology with nothing but a tender smile.
“Here you go, Elizabeth.” She hands me her handkerchief, embroidered with her initials. I take it gratefully and wipe my wet cheeks. As I clean up, Kat runs the brush carefully through my hair. She lets out a whistle. “How sleek and fine your hair is! Tell me, Elizabeth, have you been shirking your studies and washing everyday?”
Despite my tears, I snort with laughter. “Of course not.” As our chuckles die down, I see Kat staring at me with open concern.
“Elizabeth, is there something on your mind?”
So I do wear my heart on my sleeve. I hesitate, but only for a moment. Before I can stop it, all my fears, all my sorrows and anguish pour out of my mouth. I see her eyes blacken as I mention his name, but she does not interrupt. I have to pause several times to subdue my sobs, and I am thankful for the steady strokes Kat makes.
When I am finished, Kat asks, “You have not given yourself to him, have you?” I do not miss the growl.
“I have not.”
Satisfied, she purses her lips. “Queen Katherine and I had thought it unreasonable to tell you last year. We did not want to burden you with our dark words. But I think it best to tell you now. A young lady of fifteen - almost grown!” She reaches down to pinch my cheeks as if I were six again. I playfully swat at her.
“Sir Thomas,” she heaves a weary sigh, “is a passionate man. And at the moment, he has a passion for you.”
I blush at her blunt words. “Why?”
“Well, I believe he fancies himself a crown.” Kat’s voice drops to a hush as she utters those traitorous words.
My mouth falls open. “What?” I say incredulously. I am no closer to the crown than he is. Father had long declared me a bastard and therefore illegitimate for the throne.
“Have you seen the way he looks at the King Regent? His own brother? He wants that power. I suppose it is a battle between brothers, but Sir Thomas must feel insulted by the titles and glories heaped on Edward while he is still tending to a small manor in the countryside with naught but a baron to his name. You,” she looks at me pointedly through the mirror, “are the link between him and what he wants.”
“But I’m not in line for the throne anymore, Kat! Surely he must know that!”
“Oh he does. But he also knows of your brother’s weakness. How he constantly suffers from sweats and chills. King Edward has no male heir to succeed him, so if he should die, and be it to God to see that it is not soon, the people will turn to you or Mary.”
The thought of me in competition with Mary for Sir Thomas’ attentions makes me sick. It is strangely reminiscent of our childhood rivalry for our father’s affection.
“Sir Thomas has gambled and apparently decided you are the better choice. After all, the people of England will need a Protestant queen - not a Catholic one.”
I see myself pale. Me - queen of England. It is treason for me to, but I cannot blot out the image of me perched regally on the golden chair my father so often sat on. I can almost feel the heavy, bejeweled crown on my head. The cheers I hear now in my reverie are but an echo of what will greet me. I have never even entertained the possibility, yet now, I feel - no, know - that I would make a good ruler.
Kat stops brushing. “He will hurt you no more, Elizabeth. He will not damage you beyond repair and reap rewards from your remains. That, I will make certain.” Another fervent promise. I find myself relieved and apprehensive.
Before I can ask her what she means, a knock on the door causes us both to jump. My heart races. Has Sir Thomas returned? Has he heard our treachery? When Kat opens the door and allows a servant girl in, I sigh with relief.
“A man, Sir Robert Tyrwitt, is here to speak with you, Lady Elizabeth,” the maid informs me with a curtsy. “Says he would like to ask you a few questions. Lady Ashley as well.”
I do not recognise the name. When the girl does not elaborate, I say, “Very well. I will see him in a moment. Have him come to my rooms.” The servant dips low once more than exits.
After deeming myself suitable for receiving company, I open my door to my parlour. A heavyset man, dressed in the dark red livery of the King Regent, spins around and bows solemnly. I return the greeting with a curtsy of my own.
“My apologies, Lady Elizabeth, for dropping by on such short notice, but I am afraid this cannot wait.”
I push aside my anxious thoughts; surely, he could not have read my mind and seen what I had pictured. “It is no trouble, Sir Tyrwitt. What is it?” The way this man stares at me does not put me at ease.
He glances at Kat who lingers at my elbow. “Perhaps it is best if we speak alone?”
I hesitate before motioning to Kat and the other attending maids to leave the room. Just as Kat taught me, I sit slowly in an armchair and beckon Sir Tyrwitt to sit beside me. “What urgent matters have you to say to me?” Inside, I smile at my charming manners and diplomacy.
The elder man groans softly as he lowers himself in a chair. “Your…former guardian, Sir Thomas Seymour, has recently been caught entering the King’s apartments at night.” I blanch, but he continues, pointedly ignoring my sudden stiffness. “We have reason to believe that he has been plotting against the crown for some time now. Accordingly, we are investigating everybody he knows for some evidence to substantiate the accusation. Because of your…close relationship with the Baron of Sudeley, we want to know if you have seen anything that could support you brother’s cause.”
I sit, frozen and speechless. Sir Tyrwitt gazes at me patiently, awaiting my answer, but I struggle to find the words. I want to demand what he means by close relationship, what he means to imply. I want to shout and curse at the laughable timing of all of this. I struggle to compose myself and answer instead, “Of course. What would you like to know, Sir Tyrwitt?” I am beginning to lose the air I had entered the room with.
Sir Tyrwitt bows his head slightly. “What is your relationship with Sir Thomas?”
The question catches me off-guard. I know my surprise shows on my face. After stammering a bit, I answer, “He is a friend.”
Sir Tyrwitt raises his eyebrows. “Lady Elizabeth, it does your brother and your country no good if you, ah, decide to tell falsehoods.”
“I speak no falsehoods,” I speak with clenched teeth.
Sir Tyrwitt stares at me with hard eyes. “Lady Elizabeth, should situations mount, we would not want any misunderstandings as to what exactly your role in Sir Thomas’ troubles is.”
It takes all of my energy not stand up right now and walk away. It takes even more of me to keep from yelling at the insolent. “I should hope,” I say as calmly as I can manage, “you are not threatening me, Sir Tyrwitt. I do not think my brother, the King would appreciate your method of interrogation.” The truth is, Edward couldn’t possibly care about a bastard half-sister, and from his twitching lip, Sir Tyrwitt knows it. “As for my role, I was a guest at Chelsea Manor, Lady Katherine Parr’s residence, a year ago. Nothing too scandalous about that?”
I can see that Sir Tyrwitt is beginning to lose his patience. “And that is the only relationship you have with Sir Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Could you, Lady Elizabeth, explain his visit to Hertfordshire? He has no relatives and no business in this area.”
I manage to suppress my flinch. “He has…” I give a slight cough to cover the croak of my suddenly hoarse voice. “He has come to visit me.”
“Oh?” Sir Tyrwitt is not good at keeping his courtier expression, for I see a moment of triumph flicker across that fat face. “Visit his wife’s guest?”
I keep my hands folded in my lap, hiding the tremors with the folds of my dress. “There is nothing unusual about that, Sir Tyrwitt. I consider him a…a friend.” Dear God, I do not know how much longer I can suppress the tears.
“A friend, you say.” Sir Tyrwitt regards me with narrowed eyes as if planning his next words very carefully. “And you swear that such a friendship has appropriate boundaries?”
“Yes, of course.” I stare stonily back. “I am the King’s elder sister, Sir Tyrwitt. I behave accordingly.”
“Lady Elizabeth.” Sir Tyrwitt’s wide face has turned red with frustration. “I do believe you know of the gossip circulating amongst the people of the court.” Ah, the true purpose of Sir Tyrwitt’s visit. “Are you saying that they are unfounded?”
I stand abruptly. Courtier or not, this goes beyond the limits of what I will endure. “Sir Tyrwitt, I believe you have said enough.” I do not bother hiding my fury, and it is my turn to flush. “I shall not stand to be interrogated in such a manner and accused based on hearsay by foolish women who have nothing better to do than to sully my reputation. My maids will see you out.” I turn to leave, not gracing him with a curtsy.
“A moment, my lady. I am here to also speak to the Lady Katherine Ashley.”
I whirl around. “You will do no such thing,” I almost snarl. I feel my heart racing at the very thought of what Kat will say.
Sir Tyrwitt coolly ignores my reaction. “’Tis by the will of the King Regent, my lady. I shall have to see Lady Katherine before I leave.” He bows. “If you could beckon the Lady Katherine, I will speak to her for but a few moments, and I will be on my way.”
I am still for a minute longer, shaking with terror and anger. I lament at my loss of control - this man, dressed in merely the colours of the King Regent, can bully me into betraying my friend, my nightmare, and I can do nothing about it. I stalk to my private chambers.
Immediately Kat is at my side. I can hear the babble of the maids in the corner hush and know that they watch us closely. “The maids have told me,” she whispers in my ear, “that you are suspected of treason against the King. That you and Sir Thomas have plotted to steal the throne. Untruths, I know. What?” She sees my pale expression and places her hands on both sides of my arms. “What did he say to you?”
“He…he wants to speak to you. About Sir Thomas.” My vision becomes blurred with tears.
“What will you have me do, Elizabeth?”
Tears stream down my cheeks. I hate this weakness, this pain that Sir Thomas has caused me. I need to end it. “Tell him,” I gasp, “tell him I have lain with the Baron of Sudeley. Against my will.”
“What? You’d have me lie?” Kat shakes me a little. “Elizabeth, what are you doing?”
“’Tis no lie, Kat.” I implore her to leave. “’Tis no lie. Remember your promise, Kat.”
Kat’s eyes wondered. “Oh dear girl, you love him, don’t you? You have grown to love the monster.”
My lips tremble. “It hurts so,” I whimper. I turn from her before I can throw myself upon her and plea that she spare him. Without another word, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch Kat slip out the door. I do not speak to the girls in the corner, and they do not begin their incessant chatter again. And so, we wait.
*
We wait until the hourly bell rings for the third time since Kat left. She does not return. A lady whose name I cannot remember tells me that she has been taken to the Tower of London for further questioning. I coldly dismiss everyone from my presence.
As soon as they leave, I place my head on my duvet and let the sobs come.
*
We receive word of Sir Thomas’ execution and Kat’s release two weeks after Sir Tyrwitt’s visit. As soon as the messenger delivered the letter, I excuse myself to my bedchambers.
The dullness and loneliness of routine life is hard to adjust to, and I find myself thinking of Sir Thomas surprising me with a small trinket or of Kat doing my hair. The nightmares have not plagued me for a week, but I have no Kat beside me to tell this to. I pray that she will arrive soon.
I stare at the elegant snow outside my window, draped over every branch, twig, and inch of ground. Frost has decorated the panes with icy ornaments, and I feel cold just looking outside. I crumple to the floor, numb, but I do not weep any tears; I spent them all the day I betrayed Sir Thomas.
Sir Thomas, for all his lies and ambitious flirtations, has still been kind and loving toward me. I have decided that I love him, for every moment we have spent together, we spend smiling, laughing, and giggling with light hearts. And I know that for all of Sir Thomas’ grins of deceit, there had always been a part of him that truly loved me, not for the potential I had, but for me - just Lady Elizabeth.
I will forever live with his blood on my hands, an everlasting reminder of my moment’s weakness. I had not been able to endure the powerful emotion of love, and I had not been prepared to handle the pain, and for that, a man has been sacrificed. But no more. Sir Thomas was right about one thing - I am destined for greatness. I think of what he could have stolen from me, and I feel my once soft heart harden.
I touch the window pane and shudder at its iciness. Cold will be my heart with only enough warmth for England. Never a man.
Setting: Historical
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Sexual References, Non-Consensual Sex
Summary: Lady Elizabeth is reunited with the charming, handsome, and recently widowed Thomas Seymour once more. Despite the scandalous rumours that surround them, King Henry's bastard daughter does not protest the affections of the baron. However, she finds herself falling faster and faster into something she cannot understand or endure and finds herself at a crossroads: to save her love or to save herself.
Author's Notes: The non-consensual sex warning is a small one; better safe than sorry :) All characters, times, and places are historically accurate to the best of my knowledge.
To Delaney: Your prompt was incredibly unique, and upon reading it, I knew what I had to write about. Thank you so much, dear!
No More
I know that he is there. I can feel his eyes staring down at me, and I resist the urge to wriggle lower under the covers. I can hear his quiet breathing and the soft click of his shoes on the floorboards. He thinks himself invisible when shrouded by darkness, but he does not know that my eyes, angel’s eyes as he calls them, are not my only crutch.
I move slightly, as if stirring in my sleep, and the sounds of his advancement cease. In my mind, I will him away before Kat, my Kat, catches me. It is disgraceful to be with a man widowed naught but six months.
I feel the mattress beneath me dip, accommodating the sudden additional weight. The bed creaks as the intruder sidles closer and closer. I snap my eyes shut, hoping that upon seeing me asleep, he would leave and spare me of any trouble.
But God did not see fit to grant the wishes of a simple girl. A warm hand creeps along the top of my covers, resting gently on my shoulder. I steel myself, readying for the rude shaking that would occur, but it does not come. Instead, I feel the pressure of his hand stroking the duvet and tracing the outline of my sleeping form. Safely hidden in the shadows, I blush at the intimacy of his touch and cannot deny that once again, this forbidden man has elicited fiery feelings in me. Feelings I had once welcomed.
Suddenly, I hear the voice of my tutor, Roger Ascham, ringing in my head: ‘for lust is a shameful sin.’ Guilt courses through me, and I gasp out, just before the wandering arm finds its way onto my hip.
“Sir Thomas, please!”
I know I have startled him with my urgent whisper, when he thought me asleep, for he flinches, already halfway out of my bed before realizing it was only me.
He snorts and murmurs back, “For shame, Lizzy, scaring me as badly as you did! And for that…” I feel him lift the heavy covers to deliver the same old punishment. Before I can stop him, his devilish fingers are all over the torso of my body, and despite myself, I let out a giggle and squirm wildly, trying to hide myself from his tickling.
We freeze, all playfulness gone, as we listen to the echo of my escaped laughter travel down the stone corridors and into the ears of those conscious enough to hear them. If we are caught…oh, not even God could save me then!
A long minute later, I hear Sir Thomas exhale. “The whole castle seems to be dead tonight.” He chuckles at his wit, but I do not find it humorous.
“Sir Thomas, you cannot be here!” I try to push him away, but he has already swung his legs under my duvet. “If someone should see you…If Kat should come…”
“Bah,” Thomas responds, “she shan’t catch us here. And even if she should, there’s nothing wrong with a father wanting to comfort his daughter after a nightmare, is there?” His arms wind around me, and he pulls me closer to the warmth of his body. I weakly push at his arms, but secretly, I revel in his attention and after a moment’s hesitation, I relax against him.
He hugs me tighter to him. “There now. ‘Tis the natural order of things.” I feel his lips press against my forehead. “’Tis what a father does for his daughter,” he whispers. I feel his breath ruffle my hair. A hand strokes my cheek softly, and I cannot help but sigh.
A part of me protests at his intimate touch. No man has ever dared treat me the way Sir Thomas Seymour does. Certainly not my father when he was alive. Though this feels strangely inappropriate, I could not say for certain that this is not what a father does, for I have nothing to compare this behaviour to. He had been kind enough to come find me once more after the terrible death of his wife, my stepmother, the last Queen of England, Katherine Parr.
Besides, I should have no worries. Sir Thomas is known as an honourable man in court, I know. My father, King of England, had found him worthy enough for the titles Master-General of Ordinance, Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, and Baron of Sudeley. There are whispers amongst the servants of treachery toward his brother, the Lord Protector, but my governess and friend Kat has always told me not to indulge in the gossips of the staff. There can’t be an ounce of deceit in that handsome, smiling face, in those twinkling hazel eyes. He had lovingly tended to me after my real father’s death, and since then, I’ve known no better kindness.
“The sun shall rise soon.” Sir Thomas slides out of my bed. “Get some rest while you can, my Lizzy. Those nightmares shan’t bother you anymore.” He kisses my forehead to bid me farewell, and I do not bother mentioning I have had no ill dreams. I listen to the soft clacking of his boots move toward the door. A soft click of the door, and I am alone in the darkness once more.
*
He haunts my room nightly now, unlike last year, when I lived with him and Queen Katherine at Chelsea. Here at Hertfordshire, though we are closer to the eyes and ears of the courts, our secret glances are no longer heavy with the reminder of my stepmother. The guilt that had forbidden me from melting in Sir Thomas attentiveness has dissipated. I now giggle aloud when Sir Thomas pats my buttocks soundly. I laugh with childish delight when he swoops down and lifts me up, exposing my petticoats for the whole world to see. I relish his touch every time he caresses my cheek or pecks me on my nose.
Kat, my usually smiling friend, now gazes surly on his antics. There was once a time when she laughed boisterously with us, accompanied us on our walks through the Chelsea gardens arm-in-arm with Queen Katherine, and playfully admonished Sir Thomas’ flirtatious winks. Then there were harsh words exchanged between Kat, the queen, and Sir Thomas. I kept hearing the word ‘reputation,’ but the rest was a blur, ending with teary farewells and half-hearted promises. Only Sir Thomas had seemed fervently adamant in keeping his: “I will be with you one day.”
And so he is. I feel myself lighter and more beautiful when he is around. The worries of my illegitimate standing, the stony silence between me and my best friend, my equally-bastard of a sister’s taunting letters, and my brother’s, the King’s, spies melt away when I see Sir Thomas standing at the opening of the garden, one arm offered to me. For that moment, I am no longer Lady Elizabeth but Princess Elizabeth, as Sir Thomas insists on calling me despite the threat of treason for doing so. For that moment, I am not the banished maiden, prohibited from returning to my rooms in the King’s castles. For that moment, I am loved.
Yet there is something much darker behind Sir Thomas’ stares, something that was not there when we last parted. Oftentimes, I catch him staring at me, and the split second before he can recompose his usually open and inviting countenance, I see an expression that scares me. Something akin to hunger.
The night I first see this on his face is the night the dreams began.
*
I can barely hear him approaching. His hunting skills have much improved, and he now walks carefully as if on the prowl. As always I feel the mattress dip with his added weight, but there is no creak. I open my mouth to call to him, to ruin the surprise, but I find that I cannot make a noise. Apprehension melts away to sheer horror when I find I cannot move as well. He draws aside my covers, leaving me exposed the night air.
A hand creeps along my shoulder.
I cannot turn my head away.
A damned finger pushes my red locks from my face, giving me no veil to cover my eyes.
I see his usual grin though this times the shadows make him seem demonic. I open my mouth in a wide ‘O,’ but my scream does not come out.
With his other hand he puts a finger to his lips. “Shh, Lizzy.”
The hand on my shoulder ventures lower. A flick of the wrist, and two of his fingers find my breast beneath my sheer nightgown. I shudder at his touch. His smile widens. A moment more of his blatant rubbing, and once more his hand is on the move.
I dare not watch where his hand drifts next. Feeling it is already too unbearable. I want to plead for him to stop. I want to scream at him to continue. I hate him. I love him.
Lower and lower it goes. Past my belly button. On my hips - no, past it. Lower and lower. The journey slows but does not cease.
Lower.
Lower.
I bolt upright, trembling and drenched with sweat. I am relieved to find my duvet snugly around my waist.
“Shh. There, there. I’m sorry I have awoken you, my Lizzy, my princess.”
I freeze. Am I still in the nightmare? It sounds too real. I am able to turn toward the voice though my neck feels stiff.
I recognise the outline of the man on the edge of my bed. I feel a clammy hand pat my arm. He means to reassure me, but the hotness of his touch reminds me too much of my dream. He gives me a squeeze and a tug. When I do not scoot into his arms, he slides closer to me.
“There, there. Have no fear, Lizzy. I am here.”
*
A fortnight has passed from the night when I awoke and regarded him with dread in my eyes. I am not so attentive to his affections anymore. At first, I thought I could shake him gently from my side, but Sir Thomas has latched on even tighter.
As for me, I do not know what I feel. A part of me wants him, but another shakes at the thought of his intimacy. I was and always will be grateful for his kindness. In the intricacy that is fashionable of the English court, I am connected to him by more than one means. It was his sister, Jane Seymour, who had unseated my mother, Anne Boleyn, from the queen’s throne. Instead of pushing me aside as well, Sir Thomas had ensured that I received the same education any princess would receive, despite the rumours that I was a product of witchcraft and despite the wishes of his own family. He took me in when I was left with nothing, much like Queen Katherine had done for me, and I will forever be in his debt.
But I am not ready to become what he seems to want me to be: a lover. Already, his hands wander so low that the maids and ladies of Hertfordshire chirrup noisily behind closed doors to anyone who would listen. Kisses on the nose have traveled to the lips and then evolving from innocent to lingering. I do not encourage his behaviour, but neither do I push him away during these intimate acts. Constantly, the word ‘love’ jumps to my mind, and I find myself wondering if that is the name of my emotions. The explanation for my torment.
The stress takes its toll on my everyday life. I beg to have a servant girl sleep on a pallet in my parlour. I leave my chamber door open a crack. I sleep fitfully and in small doses for fear of seeing his menacing face. I wander the halls aimlessly in search of him. I am aware of my watery eyes whenever he approaches me. Master Ascham has routinely chided me for drifting off during my studies. I smile and carry light conversation with him, batting my eyelashes a number of times, resembling the other court flirts.
I am sitting before my dresser, brushing my hair idly. I have a rare moment of peace, for Sir Thomas has gone to London on business. I scrutinize my reflection. I am a mousy girl. My face, too narrow, is not one to launch a thousand ships. My fiery-red hair, when not tamed, sprouts in different directions, giving me a wild look. My lips are pale and thin. My nose is straight, and my dark eyes, the ones I inherited from my mother, are satisfactory. I do not possess the charisma my mother, Queen Anne Boleyn, had, and I certainly do not have the title of court flower as she had. Nonetheless, Sir Thomas pursues me. Me. There is a good selection of beauties here at Hertfordshire. Why me above all others?
I long to talk to someone - anyone - about what haunts me. But who would listen? Only three people knew the true reason why I had been sent so abruptly and unceremoniously from Chelsea; I didn’t know it myself. One leaves me not a moment’s peace. One has died in childbirth.
I regard Kat in the mirror. She is not aware of my stare and continues to write a letter to her husband, Sir John Ashley. Kat is my only friend, even after all these years. Even after I, upon learning her role in my expulsion from Sir Thomas’ presence, had coldly instructed that she not speak to me unless spoken to. Tears threaten to spill over as I realise how much I had wronged her and how much I need her now.
“Kat?” my voice trembles slightly. She looks up, surprised, but does not put down her quill. “Will you come brush my hair?”
With a smile, Kat places her quill carefully in the ink pot and comes over. I am saddened to see how the ordeal has aged her. Here is the woman who had taken me up when my father expelled me, a four-year-old, from his court. Here is the friend who tumbled with me to the ground during dance lessons. Here is the woman who I had shunned and who has accepted my unspoken apology with nothing but a tender smile.
“Here you go, Elizabeth.” She hands me her handkerchief, embroidered with her initials. I take it gratefully and wipe my wet cheeks. As I clean up, Kat runs the brush carefully through my hair. She lets out a whistle. “How sleek and fine your hair is! Tell me, Elizabeth, have you been shirking your studies and washing everyday?”
Despite my tears, I snort with laughter. “Of course not.” As our chuckles die down, I see Kat staring at me with open concern.
“Elizabeth, is there something on your mind?”
So I do wear my heart on my sleeve. I hesitate, but only for a moment. Before I can stop it, all my fears, all my sorrows and anguish pour out of my mouth. I see her eyes blacken as I mention his name, but she does not interrupt. I have to pause several times to subdue my sobs, and I am thankful for the steady strokes Kat makes.
When I am finished, Kat asks, “You have not given yourself to him, have you?” I do not miss the growl.
“I have not.”
Satisfied, she purses her lips. “Queen Katherine and I had thought it unreasonable to tell you last year. We did not want to burden you with our dark words. But I think it best to tell you now. A young lady of fifteen - almost grown!” She reaches down to pinch my cheeks as if I were six again. I playfully swat at her.
“Sir Thomas,” she heaves a weary sigh, “is a passionate man. And at the moment, he has a passion for you.”
I blush at her blunt words. “Why?”
“Well, I believe he fancies himself a crown.” Kat’s voice drops to a hush as she utters those traitorous words.
My mouth falls open. “What?” I say incredulously. I am no closer to the crown than he is. Father had long declared me a bastard and therefore illegitimate for the throne.
“Have you seen the way he looks at the King Regent? His own brother? He wants that power. I suppose it is a battle between brothers, but Sir Thomas must feel insulted by the titles and glories heaped on Edward while he is still tending to a small manor in the countryside with naught but a baron to his name. You,” she looks at me pointedly through the mirror, “are the link between him and what he wants.”
“But I’m not in line for the throne anymore, Kat! Surely he must know that!”
“Oh he does. But he also knows of your brother’s weakness. How he constantly suffers from sweats and chills. King Edward has no male heir to succeed him, so if he should die, and be it to God to see that it is not soon, the people will turn to you or Mary.”
The thought of me in competition with Mary for Sir Thomas’ attentions makes me sick. It is strangely reminiscent of our childhood rivalry for our father’s affection.
“Sir Thomas has gambled and apparently decided you are the better choice. After all, the people of England will need a Protestant queen - not a Catholic one.”
I see myself pale. Me - queen of England. It is treason for me to, but I cannot blot out the image of me perched regally on the golden chair my father so often sat on. I can almost feel the heavy, bejeweled crown on my head. The cheers I hear now in my reverie are but an echo of what will greet me. I have never even entertained the possibility, yet now, I feel - no, know - that I would make a good ruler.
Kat stops brushing. “He will hurt you no more, Elizabeth. He will not damage you beyond repair and reap rewards from your remains. That, I will make certain.” Another fervent promise. I find myself relieved and apprehensive.
Before I can ask her what she means, a knock on the door causes us both to jump. My heart races. Has Sir Thomas returned? Has he heard our treachery? When Kat opens the door and allows a servant girl in, I sigh with relief.
“A man, Sir Robert Tyrwitt, is here to speak with you, Lady Elizabeth,” the maid informs me with a curtsy. “Says he would like to ask you a few questions. Lady Ashley as well.”
I do not recognise the name. When the girl does not elaborate, I say, “Very well. I will see him in a moment. Have him come to my rooms.” The servant dips low once more than exits.
After deeming myself suitable for receiving company, I open my door to my parlour. A heavyset man, dressed in the dark red livery of the King Regent, spins around and bows solemnly. I return the greeting with a curtsy of my own.
“My apologies, Lady Elizabeth, for dropping by on such short notice, but I am afraid this cannot wait.”
I push aside my anxious thoughts; surely, he could not have read my mind and seen what I had pictured. “It is no trouble, Sir Tyrwitt. What is it?” The way this man stares at me does not put me at ease.
He glances at Kat who lingers at my elbow. “Perhaps it is best if we speak alone?”
I hesitate before motioning to Kat and the other attending maids to leave the room. Just as Kat taught me, I sit slowly in an armchair and beckon Sir Tyrwitt to sit beside me. “What urgent matters have you to say to me?” Inside, I smile at my charming manners and diplomacy.
The elder man groans softly as he lowers himself in a chair. “Your…former guardian, Sir Thomas Seymour, has recently been caught entering the King’s apartments at night.” I blanch, but he continues, pointedly ignoring my sudden stiffness. “We have reason to believe that he has been plotting against the crown for some time now. Accordingly, we are investigating everybody he knows for some evidence to substantiate the accusation. Because of your…close relationship with the Baron of Sudeley, we want to know if you have seen anything that could support you brother’s cause.”
I sit, frozen and speechless. Sir Tyrwitt gazes at me patiently, awaiting my answer, but I struggle to find the words. I want to demand what he means by close relationship, what he means to imply. I want to shout and curse at the laughable timing of all of this. I struggle to compose myself and answer instead, “Of course. What would you like to know, Sir Tyrwitt?” I am beginning to lose the air I had entered the room with.
Sir Tyrwitt bows his head slightly. “What is your relationship with Sir Thomas?”
The question catches me off-guard. I know my surprise shows on my face. After stammering a bit, I answer, “He is a friend.”
Sir Tyrwitt raises his eyebrows. “Lady Elizabeth, it does your brother and your country no good if you, ah, decide to tell falsehoods.”
“I speak no falsehoods,” I speak with clenched teeth.
Sir Tyrwitt stares at me with hard eyes. “Lady Elizabeth, should situations mount, we would not want any misunderstandings as to what exactly your role in Sir Thomas’ troubles is.”
It takes all of my energy not stand up right now and walk away. It takes even more of me to keep from yelling at the insolent. “I should hope,” I say as calmly as I can manage, “you are not threatening me, Sir Tyrwitt. I do not think my brother, the King would appreciate your method of interrogation.” The truth is, Edward couldn’t possibly care about a bastard half-sister, and from his twitching lip, Sir Tyrwitt knows it. “As for my role, I was a guest at Chelsea Manor, Lady Katherine Parr’s residence, a year ago. Nothing too scandalous about that?”
I can see that Sir Tyrwitt is beginning to lose his patience. “And that is the only relationship you have with Sir Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Could you, Lady Elizabeth, explain his visit to Hertfordshire? He has no relatives and no business in this area.”
I manage to suppress my flinch. “He has…” I give a slight cough to cover the croak of my suddenly hoarse voice. “He has come to visit me.”
“Oh?” Sir Tyrwitt is not good at keeping his courtier expression, for I see a moment of triumph flicker across that fat face. “Visit his wife’s guest?”
I keep my hands folded in my lap, hiding the tremors with the folds of my dress. “There is nothing unusual about that, Sir Tyrwitt. I consider him a…a friend.” Dear God, I do not know how much longer I can suppress the tears.
“A friend, you say.” Sir Tyrwitt regards me with narrowed eyes as if planning his next words very carefully. “And you swear that such a friendship has appropriate boundaries?”
“Yes, of course.” I stare stonily back. “I am the King’s elder sister, Sir Tyrwitt. I behave accordingly.”
“Lady Elizabeth.” Sir Tyrwitt’s wide face has turned red with frustration. “I do believe you know of the gossip circulating amongst the people of the court.” Ah, the true purpose of Sir Tyrwitt’s visit. “Are you saying that they are unfounded?”
I stand abruptly. Courtier or not, this goes beyond the limits of what I will endure. “Sir Tyrwitt, I believe you have said enough.” I do not bother hiding my fury, and it is my turn to flush. “I shall not stand to be interrogated in such a manner and accused based on hearsay by foolish women who have nothing better to do than to sully my reputation. My maids will see you out.” I turn to leave, not gracing him with a curtsy.
“A moment, my lady. I am here to also speak to the Lady Katherine Ashley.”
I whirl around. “You will do no such thing,” I almost snarl. I feel my heart racing at the very thought of what Kat will say.
Sir Tyrwitt coolly ignores my reaction. “’Tis by the will of the King Regent, my lady. I shall have to see Lady Katherine before I leave.” He bows. “If you could beckon the Lady Katherine, I will speak to her for but a few moments, and I will be on my way.”
I am still for a minute longer, shaking with terror and anger. I lament at my loss of control - this man, dressed in merely the colours of the King Regent, can bully me into betraying my friend, my nightmare, and I can do nothing about it. I stalk to my private chambers.
Immediately Kat is at my side. I can hear the babble of the maids in the corner hush and know that they watch us closely. “The maids have told me,” she whispers in my ear, “that you are suspected of treason against the King. That you and Sir Thomas have plotted to steal the throne. Untruths, I know. What?” She sees my pale expression and places her hands on both sides of my arms. “What did he say to you?”
“He…he wants to speak to you. About Sir Thomas.” My vision becomes blurred with tears.
“What will you have me do, Elizabeth?”
Tears stream down my cheeks. I hate this weakness, this pain that Sir Thomas has caused me. I need to end it. “Tell him,” I gasp, “tell him I have lain with the Baron of Sudeley. Against my will.”
“What? You’d have me lie?” Kat shakes me a little. “Elizabeth, what are you doing?”
“’Tis no lie, Kat.” I implore her to leave. “’Tis no lie. Remember your promise, Kat.”
Kat’s eyes wondered. “Oh dear girl, you love him, don’t you? You have grown to love the monster.”
My lips tremble. “It hurts so,” I whimper. I turn from her before I can throw myself upon her and plea that she spare him. Without another word, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch Kat slip out the door. I do not speak to the girls in the corner, and they do not begin their incessant chatter again. And so, we wait.
*
We wait until the hourly bell rings for the third time since Kat left. She does not return. A lady whose name I cannot remember tells me that she has been taken to the Tower of London for further questioning. I coldly dismiss everyone from my presence.
As soon as they leave, I place my head on my duvet and let the sobs come.
*
We receive word of Sir Thomas’ execution and Kat’s release two weeks after Sir Tyrwitt’s visit. As soon as the messenger delivered the letter, I excuse myself to my bedchambers.
The dullness and loneliness of routine life is hard to adjust to, and I find myself thinking of Sir Thomas surprising me with a small trinket or of Kat doing my hair. The nightmares have not plagued me for a week, but I have no Kat beside me to tell this to. I pray that she will arrive soon.
I stare at the elegant snow outside my window, draped over every branch, twig, and inch of ground. Frost has decorated the panes with icy ornaments, and I feel cold just looking outside. I crumple to the floor, numb, but I do not weep any tears; I spent them all the day I betrayed Sir Thomas.
Sir Thomas, for all his lies and ambitious flirtations, has still been kind and loving toward me. I have decided that I love him, for every moment we have spent together, we spend smiling, laughing, and giggling with light hearts. And I know that for all of Sir Thomas’ grins of deceit, there had always been a part of him that truly loved me, not for the potential I had, but for me - just Lady Elizabeth.
I will forever live with his blood on my hands, an everlasting reminder of my moment’s weakness. I had not been able to endure the powerful emotion of love, and I had not been prepared to handle the pain, and for that, a man has been sacrificed. But no more. Sir Thomas was right about one thing - I am destined for greatness. I think of what he could have stolen from me, and I feel my once soft heart harden.
I touch the window pane and shudder at its iciness. Cold will be my heart with only enough warmth for England. Never a man.