The Sixth Wife. Suzannah Dunn

him, have I.

      Nor, Yes, but I make you laugh.

      People underestimated Kate in one respect: kind but serious, was a lot of people’s opinion of her. Maybe it was as simple as that, it occurred to me as I trailed in her wake: maybe Thomas Seymour truly appreciates her.

      Yes, but why marry him, and so soon?

      Well, that was quite simple, too, in the end, it seemed. He’d asked her, she told me later. Marry me, he’d said: that’s what she told me. Marry me, marry me, marry me: he’d said it a lot. So that it seemed less and less ridiculous, presumably. Why not? he said. I’ve been away for years and you’ve been – well, you haven’t had an easy time of it for years, for your whole life, in fact, so…and then that smile of his.

      Enough. That smile. I didn’t know what she was talking about at the time, but now I can well imagine it.

      We were back at the stables, dismounting amid rowdy dogs, when she said, ‘So, the boys are fine?’ She was all lit up from her ride. And not only from her ride: it was how she seemed to be now, which, despite my misgivings, was good to see.

      ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’A measly word, though – ‘fine’ – for my wonderful boys.

      ‘You should bring them again, sometime.’ Then, as she handed the reins to one of her grooms, ‘Thomas is so good with children.’

      Well, we’d see about that, wouldn’t we. ‘Next time.’ A second groom staggered away with Kate’s saddle and gold-tassled, crest-embroidered saddlecloth. I handed over my own horse and began removing my gloves.

      ‘Elizabeth’s coming to live here,’ Kate added, ‘did I tell you?’

      ‘No. No, you didn’t.’Was my wariness audible?

      She enthused, ‘She’s a good girl, you know, Cathy.’

      Well, to be honest, I didn’t know. All I knew of Elizabeth was that she was thirteen, had the Tudor-rose colouring and was clever. That’s what Kate said: very, very clever. Kate had great hopes for her. Couldn’t bear to think of her shut away in some country house with any so-so tutor. Nor did she like her having to do all that kneeling at her brother’s feet on her rare invitations to court. Elizabeth was very much looked down upon by her sister Mary, too. Of Henry’s three children, Elizabeth was definitely the poor relation. Which was, of course, down to who her mother was. But Kate had been working on Mary. It disturbed me, Kate’s bond with Mary. I don’t like catholics at the best of times, but Mary’s fervour feels to me like something else altogether. Like grief, in fact. As wilful as grief. But Kate was friends with everyone and, anyway, she and Mary had been at school together. Now Kate was telling me, ‘I said to Mary, Elizabeth’s incredibly bright.’ Well, that was a good move, because Mary would hate to think of any clever girl going uneducated; I’ll say that for her. Kate was saying, ‘I said, she needs to study here with Jane.’

      Little Jane Grey. ‘Jane’s all right, is she?’ Earlier, I’d unwittingly made the mistake of asking Jane if she’d be riding with us. Her expression had been one of incomprehension as she’d declined and shrunk away, presumably to lessons or prayers.

      ‘Oh, Jane’s Jane,’ Kate said, diplomatically, with one of her wide-eyed twinkles.

      Jane Grey: that tiny, serious girl, top-heavy with brains. Jane must have been so pleased to be at Kate’s. I’d had nice parents, if rather absent, but Jane’s situation was the opposite: parents not nice, and far too present in her life.

      Walking from the stables, I puzzled over Elizabeth’s impending move into Kate’s household. Because there was something I knew about Elizabeth, wasn’t there: something that Kate didn’t seem to know. That Thomas Seymour had, only months ago, been pursuing her. But, then, I reminded myself, he’d left her alone, hadn’t he. Kate was the one he’d married, and as quickly as possible. So perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it had always been Kate for him. After all, Elizabeth was way out of his reach and surely he couldn’t have ever seriously imagined otherwise. Council would never have stood by and let him marry her, and he’d have known that, wouldn’t he. He must have known that. Anyone would know it. Perhaps, then, sensibly, he’d been covering up his interest in the king’s widow. In that way, it made sense, his play for Elizabeth. It was the only way it made sense: Elizabeth as red herring.

      Four

      

      A week or so later, when I was back home, Thomas’s brother turned up at my Barbican house. ‘Cathy,’ he said, and gave me a cold kiss on the cheek, somehow both diligent and absent-minded. Offered a drink, he requested warm milk and I suppressed a smile: England’s most powerful man, sipping warm milk. Bella fetched our drinks and a bowl of roast almonds, and Ed and I spent a while exchanging the usual pleasantries and making enquiries after family and mutual friends. Not Kate or Thomas, though: my best friend, his brother. Notable absences. Looming absences.

      Presumably there was something that he felt would be best said if and when we were alone. So, I suggested a stroll in the garden. I’d probably have suggested it anyway because Ed is rather dull – he’d take no offence at my saying so, it’s something he seems to cultivate – and half an hour in his company is improved by there being something else to look at. Even a wintry garden. He hunched himself back into his luxurious cape and down we went to the terracotta-tiled terrace, then further down into the garden. At the bottom of the steps he launched in with, ‘My brother’s a bloody fool.’

      So much for no one knowing.

      He explained that he’d learned the news from the little king, who’d learned it from Thomas himself.

      ‘No one’s supposed to know,’ I said.

      Ed’s smile was a sneer. ‘Thomas doesn’t keep secrets about his own good fortune.’

      I asked how little Eddie had taken the news.

      ‘Thinks it’s nice: his favourite uncle and his beloved stepmama.’ Then he dropped the sneer and worried, ‘It’s just…too soon,’ touching his forehead as if placating a pain. His velvet cap didn’t disguise that he was more grey than when I’d last seen him, which was only weeks ago. No longer greying, but grey. The same thick, sleek head of hair, though.

      ‘Yes, I know.’

      He gave an apologetic shrug: of course I knew. But then a double-take: ‘Did you…?’ You didn’t know beforehand, did you?

      ‘No! No. I’d have told her…’Told her what exactly? Any number of things. I voiced my doubts, or, more accurately, my incomprehension: ‘It’s not just that it’s too soon, is it. It’s that it’s him.’

      He stopped, almost smiled.‘But I thought you’d have been all for that.’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘Marrying “for love”.’ He handled the words with a show of reluctance but it was clear that he enjoyed saying it. Probably the biggest thrill he’d had in ages.

      I’ve never made any secret of my opinion. And if anyone fails to understand quite why I object to arranged marriages, a good start would be to have a look at Ed’s wife. Nasty piece of work. Or, indeed, look at Ed himself: pallid and shadowed.

      ‘It helps,’ I said, sarcastically,‘if both parties feel the same.’ We walked on, alongside joyless, brittle lavender.

      ‘So, you don’t think my brother is in love with Kate?’

      ‘Do you?’

      Wearily: ‘I suspect he’s up to his usual tricks.’

      I brushed my fingertips against a rosemary bush – the dusting of flowers, tiny knots of brightest blue – and enjoyed the sting of its deep, dark scent in the air. ‘What was all that