“Say no more of it,” Elizabeth said quickly, flinching. “There’s none of our saying will bring her back. She’s dead … and saying that, is all.”
The brusque words covered throbbing pain, and Cecil knew it. He persisted gravely, “I fear it is not so. The feud between the Seymours grows, and the Queen being now dead, Protector Somerset may dare do what he never dared before, against his brother.”
“He can do nothing,” Elizabeth said contemptuously.
“He can do much with little.”
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her throat.
“The little the Duke needs has come his way,” Cecil continued. “Your pardon if I speak plain: there is talk of you and the Lord Thomas, of trouble between the Queen and you, of reasons why you left Chelsea.”
“What say they?”
Cecil’s eyes did not waver.
“That he made free with you, and you were sent from there in disgrace.”
“Then I must to London myself, to scotch it,” Elizabeth said instandy.
“No, you must not,” Cecil told her equably but inexorably.
“I will send suit for it, then,” she flared.
“If you do so,” the level voice said, “I as counselor will advise against it.”
Elizabeth gazed at him incredulously.
“Then—what would you have me do?”
“Nothing.”
“If nothing happens, nothing will I do,” she assented. “But if this thing you fear takes place, and Tom’s in danger, think you I’ll stay in my house and do nothing?”
“You will do more by doing nothing, and that nothing wisely. I told you that, before.”
“I cannot keep silent and let a man— God’s blood! Think
you I can let a man go down to his death, and do nothing?”
“And go down yourself by being the knot in the net that snares him?”
“They’ll kill him! ” she cried frantically.
“And you too, if they get you in it.”
“I care not! ” Elizabeth said, her eyes blazing.
“And for England?” Cecil asked. “Do you care nothing for England? Elizabeth! You are the hope of England.”
“My brother is the King, and Mary his presumptive heir,” she said, her flat young breast rising and falling with her quickened breathing.
“You are your father’s daughter,” Cecil said.
“What gives you leave to speak to me like this?” Elizabeth said breathlessly.
“My love for England. I will not see what hope she has cut down for Thomas Seymour.”
Elizabeth put her hands to her head and swept up and down the floor.
“I must think. I must think.”
A voice rising up the stairs from the hall made itself heard: “Cecil, are you within?”
Elizabeth stood still.
“Who calls thus? Who dares to call thus in my house?”
The door opened: Sir Robert Tyrwhitt stopped on the threshold.
“Oh! … My Lady Elizabeth! I crave pardon. I had not thought—”
“Your Grace,” Cecil said, “you remember Robert Tyrwhitt? One of Protector Somerset’s ablest men…”
A blandly amiable smile was on his face as he waved an introductory hand in the direction of the intruder. Elizabeth onlv stared at him. Or rather, Cecil thought, she stared through him…
“Your Grace!” Sir Robert bowed. “Cecil! I am right sorry for this unmannerly interruption, but we must back to London with all haste.”
“Aye. that must we,” Cecil agreed.
Sir Robert gave Elizabeth a look of solemn regret.
“Your Grace, ’tis sorry news, this of the Queen. Lord Thomas must have grieved to bring it to you…”
“Lord Thomas?” Cecil repeated.
“Aye. We saw Lord Thomas ride away a short while since, Cecil.” His voice dropped to a respectfully deprecating note. “I fancy the Duke of Somerset will not be pleased…”
“By my faith, Tyrwhitt,” Cecil said roundly, “if you mean Lord Thomas Seymour, I never saw him here, in this house, at any time!”
“1 saw him leave,” Tyrwhitt persisted evenly.
“Some other gentleman, I am sure. Come, Robert, as you say, we must make haste. Go down before me. If the men are rested, we will start.”
“Good day, Your Grace,” Tyrwhitt said, and bowed, bending a lean shank.
Elizabeth, who had stood motionless and in total silence, whirled on Cecil as the door shut.
“Cecil, you must help Tom.”
He faced her gravely, steadily, compassionately.
“1 must do nothing that will hurt any who love England… God keep you well, Elizabeth. And keep you here… for England.” With one steady look, he bowed, and left the room.
Elizabeth went to the window, looked down at the stirring horses and riders.
“Oh God! if she must die, why must it be at such a time?” she breathed, and dropped her throbbing forehead against the window pane. “Heard you what Cecil said? ”
Ashley put an arm round her.
“Darling,” she spoke coaxingly, “these matters of the realm are men’s affairs!”
“Oh God! ” Elizabeth moaned.
“Well, now, weep if you will,” Ashley advised comfortably. “ ’Tis natural! You are but young!”
“Oh God!” It was a cry of torment.
“Sweetheart—” Ashley remonstrated, at a loss.
“If I could have married with Lord Thomas!” Elizabeth muttered wildly.
“Lady, he loves you in his heart. But that’s too soon to say. I’ve known long since that he saw you as one he would fain take to wife had he been—free — and matters—otherwise…” Ashley was floundering. “That was in truth why I so set my face against his light and jesting ways with you. He sported; but his heart was in the sport… Well, now, this is a heavy day, but who can tell what joy’s to come? Only, be circumspect, for it’s too soon—”
Elizabeth broke across her muttered ramblings. And Ashley’s mouth fell open and her eyes started at the ringing vehemence of the cry.
“No, by the everlasting God, too late! And has been, since the first breath that I drew. No man can love me now.”
“Bess-”
“In loving any man, my name with his can give these crawling little seekers after power a whip whereby to cut him down, and me. Because I am a Princess — aye. Kate said it — and I could be Queen.”
“Lady—”
“Could-be-Queen! This is the thing, this crown, this throne, this England! Why should the common birthright and the joy of every daughter of a common man be denied me?”
“Bess,” Ashley quavered, “I know you not in this mood. You’re overtired, poor lamb, with all the happenings of this day. Come to your bed, Bess—come!”
Elizabeth turned on her.
“Peace on your Bess! Go stuff it in your mouth and choke on Bess! Take it away — and with it all things I hoped to have! It’s done! No more of it! … But tread on my heritage, and they shall see. I am my father’s daughter—and my mother’s. … I am England… Let them deny me that!”
The trees of Hatfield were stripped against a winter sky and the turf dusted to pewter with frost. Ashley sat placidly by the fire sewing, when Parry came in with more than his habitual look of busy worry in his grizzled face. He shut the door behind him and stood against it. Ashley looked up.
“What ails you, man? You look for all the world as though a pack of wolves were after you!”
“You speak more than you know, I fear me,” Parry rumbled. “Ashley, there’s a carriage below, from London.”
Ashley dropped her sewing and clapped her hands.
“Well, that’s good news. And not before it’s time, neither. Who is it?”
“Sir Robert Tyrwhitt and his lady. I am uneasy at their coming, Ashley. I know of no reason why they should come here.”
“Good dolt!” Ashley chuckled. “To fetch Elizabeth to London, of course.”
“I pray God not,” Parry said.
“Why not, pray God?” Ashley mimicked, bristling. “Is she the King’s sister or is she not? Why are you so timid of honor, Parry?”
“There were soldiers riding with the carriage,” he muttered.