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  With a gasp, I bolted upright, but before I could turn around to confront my molester, a second arm stole round my waist and I felt through my full, layered skirts the hard physique of a man pressed close against me as a voice sang softly in my ear:

  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!

  A warm, wet tongue flicked out to lick the nape of my neck and a hot voice that made my skin crawl as if someone had just walked over my grave whispered, “Just think, Lady Mary, you could have had me!” And with a mocking, somewhat sinister, little laugh, Tom Seymour released me and returned to the brightly lit Great Hall.

  I left court the very next morning without even saying good-bye to my brother or sister, leaving Jane to travel back to Chelsea with Elizabeth, Kate, and that rogue Tom Seymour. It didn’t really matter; I knew I would not be missed. But I could no longer bear to witness such sacrilegious atrocities, and it only confirmed that I was correct—young people, such as my brother, sister, and little cousin Jane, lack the wisdom to make decisions in such important matters as religion and are easily led astray. But they are not without hope; with kind and proper guidance, they could just as easily find their way back to the true faith and become good and devout Catholics. Why could they not see that just as that big ugly orange ape had put on white robes and pretended to be the Pope when they attended their stark, unadorned Protestant services and listened to the preacher’s sermons, delivered in English, not priestly, sanctified Latin, they were listening to Satan showing off how skillfully he could quote Scriptures? Why could they not see that as clearly as I could? As I rode back to Hunsdon, weeping in my litter, I prayed that God would cure their blindness and let them see the truth before it was too late and their souls were damned and lost forever.

  10

  Elizabeth

  One afternoon I idly traversed the paths of the garden, just happy to be outside. I had spent the morning forcing myself to stand still for the portrait painter. The moment he was done with me, I ran straight out into the fresh air and sunshine, still wearing the gown Tom had chosen for me. It was a bright red damask, of a shade popularly known as “Lusty Gallant,” with a deep square bodice cut low off the shoulders and edged with large white pearls and gold-framed wine-dark garnets that appeared almost black until the light struck them and the red came bursting out like a spontaneously delivered kiss. It had long, full, bell-shaped sleeves, worn over puffed and padded wrist-length under-sleeves and a kirtle of pease-porridge green and gold brocade. And there was a red French hood trimmed with pearls and gold-set garnets to match.

  Catching me unawares, Tom crept up behind me and slipped a silken kerchief over my eyes, blindfolding me. He pulled me close and kissed me, then, laughing, spun me round and round and, leaving me reeling, scampered off, his boots crunching upon the graveled path. He bade me follow the sound of his voice and began to sing.

  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!

  With my arms outstretched before me, I followed him blindly. When I brushed against a wall of greenery I knew he was leading me into the hedge maze.

  “Tom, wait! Stop!” I begged as I bumped and bumbled my way after his song.

  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!

  Sometimes he would dart back and take me in his arms, and steal a swift kiss, then, with a laugh, he would be off again, bidding me to follow him as he sang and skipped along, leading me deeper and deeper into the emerald-green heart of the hedge maze.

  I knew that at the center stood a pair of white marble benches, half-moon in shape and facing each other, with a white marble statue of Cupid upon a pedestal with his bow raised, poised to fire a heart-tipped arrow, in the center between them.

  When Tom stopped singing I sensed we had reached the heart. He came to me then, took my hands, and guided me to Cupid’s statue.

  We stood facing one another—though I was blindfolded still and could see nothing—across Cupid’s arrow.

  Tom pressed something against my lips, something soft, moist, slightly warm, and smelling of honey.

  “Taste, Bess,” he instructed, and I bit into the delicious golden warmth of a fresh-baked honey cake sticky with drizzled honey.

  Next he pressed the cool metal rim of a cup against my lips, and I obediently took a sip of ale.

  Leaning across Cupid’s arrow, Tom’s lips grazed my ear. I shuddered and felt my knees go weak at the warmth of his breath, and the very nearness of him, as he softly sang:

  I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,

  I gave her Sack and Sherry;

  I kist her once . . .

  He paused to kiss me.

  . . . and I kist her twice,

  A second time, he kissed me.

  And we were wondrous merry!

  I heard a rustle of clothing, as if Tom were riffling about inside his doublet, searching for something as he sang.

  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!

  “It’s not beads or a bracelet, Bess.” He took my hand and, raising it to his lips, turned it over, and pressed a kiss onto the blue vein pulsing beneath the milk-pale skin of my wrist. “A bracelet would only slip off such a slender wrist as this. No, rather a ring to adorn these beautiful, long white fingers!” And so saying, he slipped a ring onto the third finger of my left hand, the one upon which tradition and custom decreed a woman should wear her betrothal ring.

  “Now,” he directed, “stroke my beard, Bess, like the song says, and I shall lift up your blindfold for just a moment and let you glimpse how this love-token glitters against it.”

  As he spoke, he did just that and I saw upon my finger a garnet heart ringed by fiery rubies set upon a golden band of lovers’ knots sparkling against the luxuriant auburn of his beard. As my hand stroked, the jewels seemed to give off sparks in varying shades of red, from wine-dark to the color of new-spilt blood, with teasing, fast, fleeting glimpses of orange and pink, all coaxed out by the light and the movement of my hand. But it was, as he said, only a glimpse, for my eyes had barely taken it in before he lowered the blindfold and I was in the dark again.

  “Touch his arrow, Bess, for luck,” Tom said, taking my hand, “and love,” he added in a caressing whisper as he guided my fingers along the smooth, straight, hard white marble shaft of Cupid’s arrow. Then he sang another verse.

  Merry my Heart, merry my Cock,

  Merry my Spright.

  Merry my hey down derry.

  I kist her once . . .

  He paused to brush a kiss, swift and feather-light, against my lips.

  . . . and I kist her twice,

  Again, he kissed me, this time lingering a moment longer.

 
; And we were wondrous merry!

  He sang the last line low and slow, and even as the last word lingered on his lips he guided my hand down, to another shaft, this one made of pulsing hot flesh and blood. I curled my hand around it, savoring the heady empowering sensation, the knowledge that desire for me had caused this.

  Across Cupid’s arrow, we kissed, then Tom pulled me around, past the point of Cupid’s arrow, and into his embrace. He eased down my bodice, baring my breasts. I shivered at the cool air upon them, feeling my nipples stiffen and the rosy halos of flesh about them pucker. Tom’s tongue and teeth teased the pert pink nubs, and I sighed and arched my neck and clutched tight his head as I moaned and reveled in the blissful sensations. Then he reached down to gather up my full skirts, my starched petticoats rustling as his practiced fingers gently delved into the warmth and wetness between my thighs. I gave an anguished, disappointed little cry as I felt his fingers withdraw.

  “You taste as sweet as honey,” he said. I felt his fingers brush my lips. My nostrils quivered at the scent of my own juices. “Taste!” he whispered, his beard and warm lips grazing my ear, and I did.

  He took my hands again and led me over to the nearest of the two benches, where he sat down. I stood before him, at once tense and trembling, excited, eager, and afraid, as his hands reached down to gather up the folds of my full skirts and petticoats once again. Clasping my naked hips, he drew me down astride his lap, slow and straight onto his arrow of flesh, aimed straight at my maidenhead, poised to shatter the Shield of Hymen.

  I gasped at the brutal assault of pain. I had expected only pleasure, rolling, intense waves that would engulf and threaten to drown me in the love Tom and I made together, not this sharp stab that at once made me think of the Hungarian prince infamously called Vlad I had heard tales of, who delighted in torturing his victims by having them impaled upon stakes so that the weight of their bodies would drag them down the wooden shaft in a slow and agonizing death. The pain shook me so I cried out.

  I tried to push him away, but Tom, intent on his own pleasure, groaning and thrusting, his fingertips digging bruisingly hard into my naked hips, was oblivious to my pain and distress, and continued to hold tight. And then, deep within me, his manhood shuddered, and a warm, sticky, wetness filled the raw, sore, and torn place inside me. And it was over.

  Tom’s hands, still clasping my hips, eased me off his lap. He reached out and pulled the blindfold from my eyes and used it to wipe himself. And I was left standing there, watching him, with my blood and his seed dripping out of me.

  I found the act itself curiously hollow. Though his seed had filled me I felt empty inside. Is that all there is to it? I wondered. Was there to be no pleasure for me?

  Instinctively, I knew that everything was different now. When Tom looked up at me and smiled I had the distinct feeling that I was no longer the center of his attention but merely an afterthought.

  When he reached out for me I leapt back. As suddenly as it had flared up, the flame of passion had burnt out, and I had lost all desire for his touch. I gathered up my skirts and ran as fast as I could, fleeing from the infatuation—I knew now it would be a lie to call it love—that had almost devoured and destroyed me.

  Tom ran after me, snatching up the basket of honey cakes and the flagon of ale, crying out for me to stop and wait, to come sit and sup with him on the cakes and ale he had brought just for me, and that he longed to lap up ale from the hollow of my throat, and that he would dip the honey cakes in my own honey to make them taste all the sweeter. To him, it was as if nothing of any importance had just happened, and we were only having a high-spirited game of chase, and as he ran after me he began to sing.

  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!

  With an anguished cry, I tore his ring from my finger. They say the vein in that finger connects directly to the heart—that is why the wedding ring is worn upon it—and it felt as if that garnet and ruby heart were burning my own heart like a red-hot brand, marking me as Tom Seymour’s property, like a prized piece of cattle. I turned and flung it back at him as hard as I could before I gathered up my skirts and ran even faster, wishing I could cover my ears against that infernal song, but knowing that even if I did it would still ring like an eternal echo within my ears, and that as long as I lived, I would never be free of it; it would haunt me like a ghost. I would never be able to hear that popular ditty sung and not think of him even as every honey cake proffered me from now on would conjure him up like a necromancer’s demon to torment me.

  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!

  I was in the house and halfway up the stairs when Tom thrust the cakes and ale into the arms of a startled maidservant and bolted up after me.

  On the landing, he caught up with me, and roughly grabbed my wrists and whirled me around to face him. There we stood, awash in the scarlet and gold light pouring in through the stained-glass windows. Recklessly, not caring who might see, Tom wrestled me into an embrace. Even as I fought to free myself, Tom clutched me close to his chest and pressed his lips hard against mine in a bruising kiss, such as a man gives to prove himself the master and the woman his chattel or slave, bound to serve and obey.

  My fists pummeled him, and I struggled to break free, but he only held me tighter and kissed me harder, determined to conquer me, to prove his supremacy, his masculine might and power over me.

  It was thus that Kate came upon us in a stealthy whisper of sky blue and creamy satin with her clasped hands folded benignly over her big round belly. All she saw was the kiss, not my struggle to resist and pounding, pummeling fists and the hellcat fingernails that tried to claw and rake his face. She said not one word. She didn’t have to; the pain of our betrayal was in her eyes, and writ plain across her parchment-pale face, and in that instant I saw her heart break. But she, an erstwhile queen, was too proud to shriek and strike out and scream at me like a tavern wench bawling and brawling over a man. She merely drew her spine up straight, summoned forth all her dignity, and turned her back on us and walked away, back upstairs.

  “Kate, wait! You don’t understand!” Tom let go of me as if I were a flame that burned him, and ran after her. “It’s not what you think! I can explain! The conniving little minx is sick with love for me! Have you not seen her mooning about, flaunting herself and making eyes at me? What else can you expect from Anne Boleyn’s daughter? She was born with harlotry coursing through her veins! She threw herself at me! She took me unawares upon the stairs! It was not my fault! Kate! Wait! Look! I have brought you cakes and ale! You down there!” He leaned over the banister and bellowed at the maid, who all this time had been standing with her mouth agape, dumbly clutching the ale and honey cakes. “Bring up that basket of honey cakes and that flagon of ale. They are a gift for my lady-wife! Kate! Wait!” He continued on up the stairs after her, protesting his innocence all the while.

  I waited until their bedchamber door
had closed behind them, then went slowly up the rest of the stairs to my own room. I sat upon the window seat, staring out without seeing, as the twilight fell, then full darkness, and the stars came out. To save himself, Tom had lied and branded me a harlot and thrown me into the lion’s den. What a fool I had been, as is, in that moment I realized, any woman who puts her trust in a man. Love is just a lie men tell that women want to believe, and sincerity is the liar’s dressing gown.

  Later, Kat came in, her shoulders hunched in shame, and, without a word to me, began to pack my things. Kate wanted no open scandal, but we were being sent away; she wanted me out of her house. We were to go to stay with Kat’s sister, Joan, and her husband, Sir Anthony Denny, at their country manor, Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire. There were to be no good-byes. Kate would not see me.

  I slept not at all that night. My shame was as sharp as a dagger embedded to the hilt in my breast, and gave me no respite or rest, yet I could not weep; there was a strange numbness that enshrouded me.

  As dawn broke Kat mutely helped me into a traveling gown of moss-green velvet. Tom crept softly to my locked door as I was dressing and entreated entry, but I spoke not a word to him, and when Kat, compassion written plainly across her face, started toward the door, I shook my head sharply to stay her. I was done with Tom and all his lies and games. He had played with my heart, body, and head as if they were tokens on a gameboard, and there was no forgetting or forgiving that. Trust is a fragile thing and once broken can never be seamlessly put back together again; the cracks will always show and be ever vulnerable to fresh fractures and doubt. And I had no desire to glue what Tom and I had shared back together again. It was finished.