I shook my head. “Nay, but thank you.” I leaned back in my chair and quickly changed the topic. “I am relieved for the Lady Elizabeth.”
“I too,” she said. “But I fear that Lord Thomas will not have such an outcome.”
On February 25, 26, and 27 the bill of attainder against Thomas Seymour was read out in the House of Lords. On the third day it passed and was sent to the House of Commons. The bill was strongly objected to there, mainly because Seymour had been denied the right to speak for himself and much of the supposed evidence was hearsay; it was not seemly to attaint him without a trial. It was sent to the king for his consideration and on March 4, someone responded in the king’s name that he did not think it necessary for Seymour to see the king. In the end, they even accused Lord Thomas of hastening Kate’s death.
I wrote to Lady Seymour, on behalf of her granddaughter, Mary, and requested she come to London during this difficult time. I knew a messenger left often from Syon to Wulf Hall and I was surprised she was not already present. She did not respond to me directly, but had her secretary respond that Lady Seymour was too ill to travel and, in any case, had no interest in the present proceedings nor in Lord Thomas’s child. It was ambiguous enough that I knew not whether she referred to me or to Mary. I was indignant for us both.
In March, Lord Thomas was found to be guilty of treason and sentenced to death by beheading. The warrant was signed by all of the king’s councilors, but the first, and largest, name writ on the document was that of his brother, Edward Seymour. Thomas requested that his execution be delayed, that he have some of his own servants attend to him, and that his daughter, Mary, be left in the care of the Duchess of Suffolk.
His last two requests were granted, but not the first. On March 20, my father, Thomas Seymour, died by the harsh bite of the axe. Gerald later told me that it had taken two arcs of the headsman to fully sever his head and that when it rolled away his jaw was clenched shut with distress, a grim and terrible picture I knew I should not ever banish from my thoughts and dreams.
I dismissed all of Mary’s servants that day and kept her to myself. After singing to her, I played quietly with the child and tried to ignore the pressing recollections of the hideous death of Anne Askew, the only execution I’d witnessed, which helped me envision Seymour’s all too well.
I’d had, in my lifetime, two fathers and two mothers, and now I had none. Mary had had one of each and yet she was an orphan afore she had lived one year.
“What shall become of you?” I whispered as she slept, her warm neck tipped back into the crook of my arm. For six months earlier Kate had left all her money to Thomas. And Thomas, as a traitor, had been relieved by the council of every shilling. There was nothing left.
NINETEEN
Summer and Autumn: Year of Our Lord 1549
Winter and Spring: Year of Our Lord 1550
Syon House
Barbican House
Grimsthorpe
Lady Seymour, Edward’s wife, could not rid herself of Mary’s household quickly enough, now she had leave to do so. We were, to her, an infestation to be quickly flushed out. But I was determined to speak with her before we left, as she was Mary’s aunt and mine. Her husband had, at best, helped bring this down upon us, if in fact he was not the architect in chief.
I sent one of Mary’s servants with a note requesting an interview and, to my surprise, the duchess granted it. I met her in her fine sitting chamber. She had a page usher me in and seat me in the chair across from her. She wore one of Kate’s finer diamonds. I looked at it, and then at her, with revulsion, and I saw her acknowledge my recognition of the piece and her pleasure in my so doing.
“Mistress St. John. You asked to speak with me afore you depart for my Lady Suffolk’s London property, Barbican House.”
“Yes, madam,” I said. “I come to speak on behalf of the child. She is motherless, she is fatherless. She is now, more than ever, in need of family who will champion and protect her. I know not why Lord Thomas chose the Duchess of Suffolk as her guardian, but I am come to ask that you will assist in caring for her. In particular, for her financial needs. Her mother was once rich”—I glanced at the diamond around Lady Seymour’s neck—“but now Mary has naught.”
She smiled superficially. “You’ll be pleased to know that the council has voted to give Mary five hundred pounds per year for the upkeep of her household, as is becoming for the daughter of a queen. I shall ensure that the funds are delivered promptly to the Duchess of Suffolk.”
I nearly collapsed with relief. I took her hand in my own and kissed it, not caring that she had been cold to me and sharp with Kate. She would see to it that Mary was taken care of. “Thank you, madam,” I said. “I, I had not realized how rich in true Christian charity you are.”
She smiled condescendingly. “I shall see to it that Mary’s plate is sent along too.”
I thanked her profusely and returned to Mary’s chambers with hope. Five hundred pounds was a fair sum—enough to run her household with all the requisite tutors and educators, food for all, travel and servant expenses for Mary, and anything else she might need.
It was entirely possible that I would remain with Mary as governess, now that there would be no new wife for Lord Thomas, as Kate had envisioned, nor any widower come along to marry me, as we’d once imagined. I wished that there was a pleasant prospect for the future, but there wasn’t. I felt disheartened and downtrodden at the lack of possibility. I deeply loved the child, and always would, but this was not the life I had hoped for or desired. I would, however, see my vow to Kate through, and take care of Mary as long as need be. My loyalty now was as much or more to the sweet child herself as it had been toward Kate.
We were installed at Barbican House within the month. The duchess did not often eat with or entertain us, as she was oft occupied with flirting with her master of horse. She had a full staff of a hundred or more, many wellborn, and we fit in with her household and passed merry hours. I was surprised, then, that when I went to inquire about the pay for the staff for the month of July she dismissed her staff and closed the door behind them.
“I have not yet received any promised funds from the council,” she said. “I have been paying the staff out of my own purse thus far, and, as you can imagine, this is a great expense to me. I am in difficult straits financially, and Mary is yet another burden. This cannot continue.”
Difficult straits? She was clearly one of the richest women in the realm. And yet it was true that the five hundred pounds annually required for Mary’s household was a sum under which anyone may falter and should have been borne by the king.
“I have written again to Lady Seymour, who had promised me that she would ensure that the funds would come for Mary. She has yet to do so, and she has kept Mary’s plate for herself as well. ’Tis clearly an unsustainable position. I will write to Cecil and see if he can assist me in this. You may stay, Mistress St. John, as the letter is composed to see if there be anything in addition you care to add, as governess.”
Her secretary came with his quill and paper and she began to speak aloud. “It is said that the best means of remedy to the sick is first plainly to confess and disclose the disease, wherefore, both for remedy and again for that my disease is so strong that it will not be hidden, I will disclose myself unto you.”
She likened her guardianship of Mary to being slain with disease!
“I am in tight financial circumstances,” she continued. “All the world knoweth what a beggar I am, and now most especially if you will understand, because the queen’s child hath layen, and still doth lie at my house, with her company about her, wholly at my charges. I have written to Lady Seymour at large, that there be some pension allotted unto her according to my lord grace’s promise. And yet, nothing comes despite my pleading.”