“Juliana,” Kate said weakly. “Come close. I cannot pass my sickness on to you, for it is childbed fever I suffer from.”
I drew my chair near to the side of her bed. There was another chair on the other side of her bed, and though I could see no one, I well sensed who sat in it, swinging his legs, abiding his time impatiently. It was the Angel of Death. Therefore, when she next spoke to me, I did not contradict her.
“I will die,” she said simply. “Soon.” And then she burst out in tears. “I have accomplished so little of what I wanted to. I have been of nearly no use to our Lord above all!”
I drew near and kissed her hot cheeks. “Nay, that is not so. By your sweet temper and remaining clothed with humility, you turned aside the king’s wrath, and because of that, King Edward’s council is led by reformers who make great strides in all religious manner, which you love. And your books, madam, your books. Many thousands have already partaken of your sweet words of faith, and many thousands more shall do likewise throughout the ages.”
She nodded some and then her tears and anguish rekindled. “But there I leave undefended and unloved Mary, my own babe, my own child. After I have mothered so many children I have not borne—my Lord Latimer’s children, His Majesty’s children, Lady Jane—’tis a folly of injustice to not have time to love mine own child!”
I took her fingers in mine and pressed them to my lips afore speaking. Her hand was aflame. “‘The righteous by Christ are never offended at the works of God because they know by faith that God does all things well, and that he cannot err, neither for want of power, nor by ignorance nor malice: for they know him to be almighty, and that he sees all things and is most abundantly good.’”
For the first time that day, I saw a small smile. “My own words return to tutor me.”
“As you wrote them, lady, in your most excellent book.” I stroked her brow. “They have brought me much comfort in ways you shall never know, and I know they do likewise for others. Now, what may I do to assist you, Kate, to bring you comfort?”
She rolled her head toward me. Her eyes were glassy and still, like the eyes of a newly killed doe. “I have much to tell you, much to ask of you, and little time before Lady Tyrwhitt comes to rejoin us.” She kept hold of my hand. “I have a confidence that I must share with you, one that is like to bring you great grief, but I must tell you anyway.” She seemed to be gathering what little strength she had. “Although Sir Hugh St. John raised you as his own child, you are not his daughter. Your father is Thomas.”
I looked at her strangely. “Thomas … whom, lady?”
“Lord Thomas Seymour,” she said.
I withdrew my hand. “Nay, lady, you are in a delirium is all. My father was a knight in Marlborough,” I reminded her. “And Lord Thomas owed him a favor”—at that I slowed a bit—“for business purposes.” My voice grew quiet and I saw that she recognized I was beginning to understand. Dread crawled over and through me.
“Your mother was, indeed, a companion to Jane Seymour, when her own family, though of good standing, fell upon difficult times. Whilst they were both young, and living at Wulf Hall, Thomas and your mother began to keep company. Within a little time it became clear that your mother was with child. That child was you.” She took my hand again. “I am sorry, but Thomas’s mother did not find the idea of her son marrying your mother to her approval. So the family arranged to have a knight, nearby and of good honor and personal qualities, marry your mother.”
“My father,” I whispered. “Nay, not my father.” My heart rushed between beating so hard that I felt near to fainting and stopping altogether. My lovely, honorable, noble father was not my father at all. Instead, I was the offspring of Lord Thomas, a rogue now chasing a girl much younger than his own daughter! How could this be? I was desperately dismayed and could scarce breathe, and yet I didn’t want to unduly upset Kate on her deathbed.
“Who else knows of this?” I whispered.
“Thomas’s mother, of course. Edward Seymour and Lady Seymour, I am sure. And my Lady Suffolk, when she had a concern about Lord Thomas’s insistence upon placing you in my household, inquired as to the relationship. Because we were dear friends, I told her. But that is all.”
I nodded. It was a confidence well kept. I did not have time to dwell upon the implications for myself, though, as Kate pressed on.
“Do not think ill of Lord Thomas,” she said. “He has not shared this truth with you these many years so as not to shame your mother. He, too, knew how beloved your father was to you and did not want to turn you from that affection. He sought to prosper your father’s business and to undertake to assist you and your brother. He has sometimes ill used King Edward, but he has also sought to bring pleasure and joy into the young king’s life. For all his faults—and they be many—Thomas does have finer qualities too.”
“He waited to marry you, lady,” I said, pointing out one point she had missed.
“Yes,” she said. “He did. But now he is blinded and consumed with anger and grief and greed over his brother’s position, and I worry for my daughter. If I were here to protect her, she’d be fine. But I will not be.” She rolled over, her damp hair falling limply upon her silken cushion. “Juliana, I beg you to remain in charge of my daughter’s household, as a highly placed and highly esteemed gentlewoman, mayhap as a governess, though the babe shall not need tutors just yet, until such time as Lord Thomas has remarried and his new … wife”—her voice caught like a snagged embroidery thread on that sharp word—“has settled my daughter in her household and provided for her.”
“But I am not yet married, madam. May I take such a position? And I have little experience with children.”
“Mistress Ashley was not yet married when she became a gentlewoman in the Lady Elizabeth’s household. If you have questions, she would be a guide unto you.” She smiled at me softly. “’Tis not your experience with children that will do Mary good. It is your honor, and strength, and spirit.”
“Will Lord Thomas agree?” I asked.
“He will,” she said. “I shall insist upon it. I shall leave funds for you to use at your disposal in assisting with her household, and you may hire your own servants. Mary’s nurse will of course remain with her, unless Sir Thomas’s new wife”—she began to sob again—“disagrees.”
“I shall ensure she is well placed and much beloved,” I promised her. “For this reason you have told me of Lord Thomas?”
She nodded and I began to see her mood whip up again like a squall. “I know you love me well and would endeavor to assist, but now that you know she is your sister—and she has no other but you—there is an especial reason to make sure she is well settled. I have seen the affection and devotion with which you looked after your brother, Hugh. I know you will do right by Mary too. And then, once Thomas has married and my daughter is cared for, you, my dear, should marry too.”
“I will do as you say, lady,” I said. Tears ran down my own face and I wiped them away with the back of one hand. “I shall love her as you have loved me. And as I love you even now. I shall ensure Lord Thomas’s … household”—I could not say new wife—“treats her gently and well and toward the station that she, as the daughter of a queen, deserves. I will remain with her till that be certain.”
She threw off her coverlets and I saw her shivering in her thin bed gown, blood newly staining the sheets. Her eyes grew wild again. “His new household is like to be headed by someone you well know,” she said. “If he has his way.”