The Fallen Queen. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ she made that another woman with ruddy-hued hair might shy away from. “I need to borrow a little of your bravery, my dear,” Jane heard her say softly as she reached out a hand for Elizabeth’s. Perhaps it was only a charade to keep her stepdaughter in her sight and away from her husband, but sincere or feigned diversion, either way Elizabeth couldn’t say no without appearing impolite and ungrateful to her stepmother and hostess.

      So Jane, who had no interest in such fripperies and believed that “plain garb best becomes a Protestant maid,” was left to amuse herself and nurse the still healing bruises from a recent visit to Suffolk House in London where she had dared show herself “balky and sulky” at the prospect of becoming King Edward’s bride, boldly proclaiming that she didn’t want to marry at all, but to remain a lifelong virgin and give all the devotion a girl is expected to give her husband and children to the Reformed Faith instead.

      Our lady-mother had worn out her arm and painfully pulled a muscle trying to horsewhip such “nonsense” out of Jane and had to have the doctor in to poultice and bind it. She was angry as a baited bear for a week afterward since her injury forced her to stay home and forgo the pleasure of several hunting parties. And without her restraining presence, Father had gained several pounds at the picnics and banquets that attended these events and had to have most of his clothes let out.

      When our lady-mother heard that he had devoured the entire antlered head of a marzipan stag at the banquet following a royal hunt, she nearly screamed the house down and yanked several of his hunting trophies, his treasured collection of heads and antlers, from the wall and hurled them downstairs. Poor Father only narrowly avoided being impaled by the magnificent antlers of the king stag he had slain at Bradgate. And whenever our father came home, cheeks ruddy from riding hard in the bracing wind, the blood of the kill staining his hunting clothes, in a high good humour ready to boast of his prowess, our lady-mother would send a goblet of wine or a platter of food flying at his head and sulk all the more because she had missed all the fun, the thrill of being in the lead herself, the knife clutched in her hand, seeing the blade glinting in the sun, the scent of blood hovering like perfume in the air accompanied by the music of buzzing flies as she closed in for the kill, and woe to Jane, the cause of her missing her favourite pastime, if she happened to cross our lady-mother’s path at such a time.

      That day at Chelsea, the Lord Admiral had found Jane curled up in a window seat, extra petticoats beneath her plain grey gown cushioning her still tender buttocks and thighs, with an apple in her hand and a book open on her lap, brow furrowed intently beneath the plain grey crescent of her French hood as she pored over the pages, lips moving as she translated the ancient Greek of Plato’s Phaedo.

      “A pox upon Plato, it’s too lovely a day, and you’re too lovely a maid to squander on a musty old Greek!” he exclaimed, causing Jane to almost jump out of her skin as he snatched the book and flung it away, giving Mrs. Ellen quite a fright. The poor lady had fallen into a doze over her sewing and suddenly awakened to find her headdress knocked askew by a black-bound volume of ancient philosophy that had come flying at her like a bat.

      “Come out and walk with me, Jane!” the Lord Admiral insisted. And, before she could demur, he already had hold of her hand and was pulling her out into the sunshine, even as she stumbled over her hems and glanced back helplessly and shrugged her shoulders at poor Mrs. Ellen.

      When Mrs. Ellen regained her senses and ran after them, protesting that the Lady Jane must first put on a hat, to protect her complexion as she was prone to freckling, the Lord Admiral took the straw hat she held and sent it sailing across the rose garden where the breeze took it up and landed it upon the river, declaring that he loved freckles, and blushes too, as they lent character to faces that would otherwise be as pale and boring as marble statues, and that for every new freckle the Lady Jane acquired from their little walk he would give her, and Mrs. Ellen too—he paused to flash the nurse a saucy wink—three kisses. And that was the end of that. He gave Jane’s hand a tug and set off along the garden path at a brisk pace, and Mrs. Ellen was left standing there alone, gaping after them, wringing her hands, feeling quite flustered, and wondering whether she should feel charmed by the Lord Admiral or insulted and go straight inside and complain to the Dowager Queen. The Lord Admiral tended to have that effect upon people.

      He led Jane out, beyond the garden, into the Great Park, where a blanket was spread beneath the broad branches of one of the ancient and majestic oaks. And while Jane sat modestly arranging her skirts, eyeing with dismay the grass stains and tears upon the hem that had marked their hurried progress, the Lord Admiral took from a basket a plate of “still warm” golden honey cakes, a flagon of ale, two golden goblets wrought with true lovers’ knots all around the rim, and a lute bedecked with gay silk ribbon streamers. And then he began to sing, slowing the jaunty, rollicking pace of the salacious tavern ditty to a sensual caress, like a velvet glove, lingering over, savouring, certain words, as his warm brown eyes met Jane’s, and his fingers plucked the lute strings in such a brazen way that called to mind what they might do if given free rein to rove over a woman’s body.

       I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,

       I gave her Sack and Sherry;

       I kist her once and I kist her twice,

       And we were wondrous merry!

       I gave her Beads and Bracelets fine,

       I gave her Gold down derry.

       I thought she was afear’d till she stroked my Beard

       And we were wondrous merry!

       Merry my Heart, merry my Cock,

       Merry my Spright.

       Merry my hey down derry.

       I kist her once and I kist her twice,

       And we were wondrous merry!

      At the end, as the last notes hovered in the air, he leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Jane’s.

      “There now,” he said, “whatever happens, I shall always be the first. Come what may, whether you are ever Queen of England or remain only Queen of My Heart, my darling Jane, I will always be the first man to kiss Lady Jane Grey, and no one can ever take that away from me; that honour—that very great honour—will be mine forever.”

      Jane sat back on her heels blinking and befuddled. “M-My L-Lord, wh-what … what are you saying?”

      The words had scarcely left her lips before she found herself enfolded in Thomas Seymour’s strong embrace, pressed suffocatingly tight against his hard, muscular chest in such a way that the pins holding her hood in place stabbed into her scalp like tiny knives, some of which Mrs. Ellen would later discover, when she helped Jane prepare for bed that night, had actually drawn blood.

      “What am I saying?” he repeated. “Only that I love you, darling Jane, I love you! I love you! I love you! Can you not hear it in every breath I take, in every move I make, in every beat of my heart? I love you, Jane, I love you! You—only you!”

      And then he let her go, so abruptly that Jane fell back onto her elbows and almost crushed the lute. With a resigned, defeated sigh, he sat back, but as he did so he deftly caught up her hand. With one last smouldering gaze and heart-tugging sigh, he took a moment to compose himself before he shut his eyes and then, reverently, bowed his head and pressed his lips chastely against the back of her trembling hand. СКАЧАТЬ