My Lady Viper By E. Knight
Tales from the Tudor Court
Dedication
To my husband:
who mopped away my blood, sweat and tears as I embarked on the amazing, heart-wrenching journey through Anne’s footsteps.
Cast of Characters
The court of Henry VIII is vast in occupancy, and for this story, while I’ve used a number of its inhabitants and key players, I have also for the sake of the reader’s sanity and confusion, taken liberty to neglect a few. Even still, the number of characters within this book is staggering, and as such, necessitated an introduction of sorts. Additionally, many people in history had the same names, and so while reading, it can become confusing who is who.
Main Characters:
Anne Seymour Stanhope–wife of Edward Seymour, sister-by-marriage to Queen Jane Seymour.
Edward Seymour–brother to Queen Jane Seymour.
Jane Seymour–third wife of Henry VIII.
Henry VIII–King of England.
Sir Anthony Browne–member of the king’s Privy Council and knight of the realm.
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey–son of the Duke of Norfolk, cousin of Anne Boleyn. He wrote a poem to Anne Seymour, verses of which grace the beginning of each chapter. I have made a lot of conjecture on my part in regards to Surrey, which I’ve noted in the back of the book in my author’s note.
Secondary Characters:
Anne Boleyn–Queen of England.
Jane Rochford–widow to George Boleyn (brother of Anne Boleyn).
Ambassador Chapuys–Ambassador of Spain. Close to Queen Katharine of Aragon and her daughter Princess (then-Lady) Mary.
Archbishop Cranmer–Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer. Instrumental in Henry’s “great matter” of annulling his marriage to Katharine of Aragon, as well as in the Dissolution of Monasteries. He was King Henry’s “main” man of the cloth.
Secretary Cromwell (later Sussex)–king’s secretary. Loathed by most because he is from humble origins and yet presumes to have a hold over His Most Royal Majesty.
Elizabeth “Beth” Seymour–sister to Jane Seymour and sister-by-marriage to Anne Seymour.
Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk–noble member of Henry VIII’s Privy Council. Uncle to Anne Boleyn. Father of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.
Elizabeth Bourchier, Lady Page–mother to Anne Seymour, widow of Sir Edward Stanhope, and remarried to Sir Richard Page.
Elizabeth “Lizzie”–half-sister to Anne Seymour, the daughter of Elizabeth Bourchier and Sir Richard Page.
Sir Richard Page–Anne Seymour’s stepfather.
Michael Stanhope–Anne Seymour’s older half-brother. Born to her father and their father’s first wife, Avelina. Michael played several significant roles throughout the Tudor era.
Richard Stanhope–Anne Seymour’s older half-brother. Born to her father and their father’s first wife, Avelina. Cause of death unknown, date questionable.
Will Somers–king’s fool.
Sir Francis Bryan–member of the king’s Privy Council and knight of the realm.
The Lady Mary–also known as Princess Mary, daughter to King Henry VIII and Katharine of Aragon.
Anne of Cleves–Henry VIII’s fourth wife of German descent.
Katheryn Howard–Henry VIII’s fifth wife.
Catherine Parr–Henry VIII’s sixth wife and a rival to Anne Seymour at court.
Anne “Annie” “’Nan” Bassett–maiden in Queen Jane’s court. A known lover of the king’s.
Thomas Seymour–Queen Jane’s brother. A second son, who was often seen as jealous of his older brother Edward’s position.
Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter–Anne’s ally and friend.
Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter–ally of the Seymour faction.
Reginald Pole–traitor to the king, sides with the pope and is abroad.
Margaret Pole, Lady Salisbury–Reginald Pole’s mother.
Henry Pole, Lord Montagu–part of the Seymour faction and a gentleman of the king’s privy chamber. Brother to the traitor, Reginald Pole.
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk–Henry VIII’s close childhood friend, widower of Henry’s sister Princess Mary (Queen of France), a noble member of the king’s Privy Council.
Edward “Eddie” Seymour–First child of Anne Seymour and Edward Seymour. (I have fabricated his nickname.)
Edward “Beau” Seymour–Second child of Anne Seymour and Edward Seymour.(I have fabricated his nickname and history.)
Francis Newdegate–Edward and Anne’s steward.
***The various Katherine’s are spelled differently to differentiate, but also because I found proof of those various spellings for each of them.***
Dear Reader,
Not much is known about the Duchess of Somerset's life before she became a duchess. Using what information I could find through extensive research, conjecture based on facts and a liberal use of creative license, I've written My Lady Viper—Tales From the Tudor Court, to illustrate this prior period of her life at court with the famous Tudor players already known to so many readers.
Gracing the beginning of each chapter are several lines—in order of appearance—from a poem written by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, allegedly about Anne Seymour. The poem was of great influence to me and the inspiration for this book.
In the back of the book you will find my author’s note, which goes into more detail about my research, the history that I altered and where I used fiction to fill in the blanks. You can feel free to read it now, or wait until the end, since it does contain spoilers.
I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Anne Seymour was a fascinating woman, and one who I know dealt with a lot of hardship in life. She has been named a vicious viper of a woman, but I like to think that beneath her steely court exterior, she was a woman with heart and soul.
Happy Reading!
E. Knight
If Love Now Reigned as it Hath Been
by
King Henry VIII
If love now reigned as it hath been
And war reward it as it hath sene,
Nobel men then would sure enserch
All ways wherby they might it reach;
But envy reigneth with such disdain,
And causeth lovers outwardly to refrain,
Which puts them to more and more
Inwardly most grievous and sore:
The fault in whom I cannot set;
But let them tell which love doth get.
To lovers I put now sure this case —
Which of their lovers doth get them grace?
And unto them which doth it know
Better than do I, I think it so.
Chapter One
Each beast can choose his fare according to his mind,
And also can show a friendly cheer, like to their beastly kind.
A lion saw I late, as white as any snow,
Which seemed well to lead the race, his port the same did show.
~Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
London, Court of Henry VIII
May 19, 1536
Dead.
The queen would soon be dead. Her head cropped short of her neck for a crowd on Tower Green to watch.
Poor, poor Anne.
The king’s pardon we’d heard whispers of had not yet come. But surely he must! There was no coffin prepared. Not even a discarded box. Rumors that the king’s secretary Cromwell had convinced King Henry VIII against a pardon ran rampant. A lack of coffin had to be evidence that Cromwell had not succeeded.
Even as Anne Boleyn emerged from the Tower, dressed in a gray gown, her red, quilted petticoat showing with each step she took, the genteel fabric swishing back and forth, I looked about frantically for the king’s man to say this was all a show, that she would be spared. Her skin was pale, her lips red. Her black as night eyes calmly scanned the crowd, searching for something—perhaps the king himself. My heart went out to her. That she could put on such a fa?ade at the time of her execution only proved she was indeed a queen and of noble birth. Four of her ladies-in-waiting walked with her to the four-foot-tall scaffold. She passed out alms to the poor along the way, her movements slow and deliberate. Her last queenly duty. A shiver stole over my body.
Those who’d shunned her in life now greedily accepted her coin. How backward people were. Even I felt remorse for the events that would take place. For even though not a friend of mine, she did not deserve this.
Queen Anne, now dubbed Lady Anne—her marriage to the king annulled just hours ago—took the rickety steps slowly, regally, perhaps more like a queen now than I had ever seen her before, though she still did not touch the grace of the late Queen Katharine of Aragon—Henry VIII’s first wife—whose poise and decorum were unmatched at court. Lady Anne’s ladies appeared sullen, but in truth, not one shed a tear. Even my eyes stung, but these ladies were not her friends. They were ladies Henry had supplied her with in the Tower—women who would not sympathize with Anne.
“Good Christian people, I am come hither to die.” Her voice rang out over the hushed crowd. I swallowed hard, not certain that had I been in the same place I could have summoned the strength and found my voice.
I glanced briefly beside me at my husband, Edward. He stared intently before him and I wondered if he was seeing right through the spectacle, or if he watched every move, every person as keenly as I did.
The crowd leaned in, some with hands covering their mouths, tears in their eyes. Others with brows furrowed, lips thinned in a grimace.
“Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, for by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak of that whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never, and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord.” She looked up toward the heavens, her long slim fingers folded gracefully in front of her. “And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. Oh, Lord, have mercy on me! To God I commend my soul.”
Anne reached up and removed her headdress, replacing it with a white cap one of her ladies handed to her, the same one who helped to tuck in her long raven hair. She was still beautiful, hauntingly so. The four ladies hurried to surround her, removing her white ermine cloak, her necklace.
The executioner stepped forward, begging her pardon for doing his duty to king and realm. She nodded solemnly, told him she willingly gave him her pardon. Still, her eyes searched, and I found myself searching, too. I’d had a hand in this, but... Guilt and panic twisted my stomach. I had never wanted her to die, just to be set aside as was good Queen Katharine. That is what everyone said would happen. He would not truly kill Anne Boleyn. It was all to frighten her, and the rest of us, into obedience, wasn’t it?
And yet, no messenger with a pardon.
No one shouting for this debacle to end. Sweat trickled down my spine and yet I was cold all over.
The executioner bade her to kneel and say her prayers. She knelt on wobbly knees, her frame slender and stiff, eyes glazing over, perhaps a moment of fear when she realized her execution was truly eminent. She righted herself, both knees locked together upon the straw that had been laid to catch her blood when the deathblow should be struck. I stifled the urge to run forward, to shout for them to stop. To beg my husband to search for the messenger who was surely on his way with the king’s pardon. Another wave of panic seized me. I took deep, gulping breaths and tried to maintain my own noble bearing.
Anne Boleyn straightened her skirts, smoothing them down the front and covering her feet behind her. She turned toward her ladies, asked them to pray for her, then faced the crowd.
“To Jesus Christ I commend my soul. Lord Jesu, receive my soul,” she repeated over and over, her lips moving, twitching, her fingers clasped tightly in front of her.
A moment of panic seemed to take control of her. She looked about herself aimlessly, fingered her cap, muttered to the executioner that perhaps she should take off the cap. The man tried to console her that he would strike when she was ready. He went to put the blindfold on her, but she stayed his hand, shaking her head.
I failed to quell the sob that escaped my throat. I could picture myself kneeling there. One moment full of confidence and poise, and the next my mind slipping and utter fear taking over. Within those few seconds of her fumbling, I prayed heartily His Majesty would come to pardon her. The executioner motioned to one of her ladies, who gently tied a linen cloth to her eyes, her piercing gaze having unsettled both the executioner and the crowd, myself included.
Oh, dear God! Have mercy!
With her voice shaken but strong, Anne told the man she was ready. She began to pray again, “My God, have pity on my soul. Into thy hands, oh Jesu, have pity on me.”
The executioner silently pulled a four-foot, shining, steel blade from within the straw. He held it alight, the sun beaming off its length, drawing my eyes to the macabre sight.
“Bring me the sword,” he ordered loudly as he tiptoed behind her from the other direction. The man was tricking her about where he stood!
Anne turned her head, not aware he was no longer there. He lifted the sword high behind her, two-fisted, his hands trembling slightly, and then swung in an arcing motion down, severing her head from her neck in one swipe. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands coming to my own slender neck.
It was done and could not be undone. This horrible deed was real. Not a dream. Not a lesson in anything except the cruelty of this world and the men in it. The cruelty of our king.
And I wanted to scream. I wanted to scream, but could not, for I was sister-by-marriage to the next queen—Jane Seymour. I could not show that I grieved for this young woman, cut down in the prime of her life. I had to be completely focused now on my husband, his family and moving us upward in the realm. Keeping us alive. Keeping us in power. Personal feelings could not play a factor. The king’s desires, Jane’s needs, and Edward’s love and approval were all I sought to concentrate on.
As heartily as I had prayed for the king to intervene, I was now no longer as shocked as I should have been at there being no pardon. I stood, my face now void of emotion, as the executioner held Anne Boleyn’s head for the crowd to see. Although, it was said they held the head for the opposite reason, so the one beheaded could see the crowd and their body, now headless on the platform, blood pouring from the severed neck.
Was her mind still alive? How long would it take for her to pass? Her lifeless black eyes staring out at the crowd indicated she could no longer be with us. Catching sight of the Howards—Anne Boleyn’s family, our rivals—I quickly glanced away. I could not look at them. Could not meet their eyes when their beloved was dead and they’d done nothing to save her.
I’d done nothing to save her.
Cannons fired, their loud booms making me jump slightly. The firing of the cannons would let the king and all the realm know the deed was done, the queen was dead.
Cheers resounded in my ears, which shook me. The people were now glad she was dead? All the tears and remorse they’d shown her while she stood there, pleading for God to have mercy on her… I glanced around and was relieved to still see a few with tears in their eyes.
I suspected that most of the cheers were likely from courtiers whose secrets she’d held, along with the power to dispose of their lives. They cheered with relief. No longer would they have to worry that Anne Boleyn would betray them. No, they’d done that themselves.
Backstabbers, the lot of them … and I suppose I was lumped in with them, now. A moment of disgust swirled in my gut but was quickly gone when I thought of my duties to our family, to the realm.
The crowd rushed forward, perhaps trying to cut off a bit of her hair, collect her blood. The vile creatures would keep it, sell it, whatever their whim.
But her ladies quickly jumped from their kneeled positions, tossed a white handkerchief over the queen’s prone head, and tried to protect her body from the pressing spectators. Perhaps in death what little compassion they’d had for her in life came forth. No one was there to pick up the queen’s remains. No coffin was waiting for her severed parts to be placed inside. The four ladies, speaking in hushed, frantic whispers, gathered her head and body.
I stepped forward, feeling as though I should help. Good God, for as much preparation that had gone into the execution—the building of the scaffold, finding the swordsman—so little had been done for her in the end.
My husband’s hand on my arm stayed my movement, and I watched in dismay as the ladies wrapped their queen in white linen, tossed bow staves from an old elm chest and placed her body in its depths. Where would they take her? Burial plans had not been made, either.
I could watch no more. I turned from the gruesome, troubling scene, my gaze catching sight of Jane Rochford. She’d been the one who said the heinous things that condemned Anne Boleyn. Sex between brother and sister—Anne and her brother George. Lies, all of it. But those lies had been to our advantage, so none of the Seymours said anything against it.
Perhaps that was the reason for the disgust I felt for myself, now turned on Jane Rochford. Evil, vile creature. I could scarcely look at her.
But when I did, a smirk turned the corners of her lips. She looked happy.
“Lady Seymour.” She nodded toward me.
I nodded back but did not try to hide the disapproval in my gaze. She’d single-handedly seen to the death of her husband and the queen. I supposed she wanted to be in the king’s bed.
I tried to keep my thoughts from my face as I turned from the crowd. Did not they all want to be in his bed? But now, Jane would be. Our Jane.
There were rumors that His Majesty was riddled with disease from some previous maid he’d bedded repeatedly only to find out she’d been bedding the entire court.
I shuddered slightly, rubbing my arms to ease away my horror of it all.
I found myself craving the comforting touch of my husband. Edward spoke in hushed tones to two courtiers and the Spanish Ambassador. My mind still reeled and I couldn’t concentrate on what they were saying. But I did notice the absence of the courtiers’ wives.
More horror clawed at my insides as I reflected upon the plain truth of our situation now.
Life in great King Henry VIII’s court was like walking a double-edged sword—one false step, and you were massacred. I had to tread carefully in all things. We would all have to tread carefully. What happened to Anne and her family could happen to us.
If my true objective was to secure our status, a realm of our own making, then we needed to learn from the past but also move forward without another backward glance.
Because the past was filled with transgressions aplenty.
Flashes of angry flesh assaulted my memory and I shook my head to dislodge them. No. I could not think any more about Anne Boleyn, nor could I think of Surrey. The young courtier, son of the Duke of Norfolk, had taken it upon himself to fall in love with me. Written me poems, whispered in my ear, danced with me, begged for my affections, and at each turn I’d pushed him away. He’d sulked, until one night my denials of his affections did not work. He’d caught me alone. Crushed his lips to mine. Yanked my skirts up. Scratched my flash. Pinned me. Slapped me hard on the face. And then he was… Bitter, angry, ugly memories.
He’d taken from me what he had no right to. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, drawing blood. We all had our hidden monsters. I could only thank God that Edward had been walking down that corridor and heard my cries. Edward had saved me. Edward Seymour.
And that is why my allegiance must now be to him and his family. Our family.
A swath of red velvet caught my eye. I watched Jane Rochford slink away. What pain would she cause next? Edward’s gaze followed her out and a stab of jealousy took me for a moment. My husband was not always faithful. Would she try to take him to her bed? I thrust my chin up.
That was one woman I would not abide. And I was certain with her recent betrayal of Anne Boleyn, Edward would steer clear of an affair with her. But who would he choose? I supposed, to give the man some credit, he was always deep within his cups when such occurred. And a wife’s duty was to care for and obey her husband—and did scripture not state that forgiveness was a virtue? I liked to think of myself as a virtuous woman.
But so did Anne Boleyn. And now she was dead.
I stepped closer to Edward, feeling his warmth, his power. Edward was a powerful and passionate lover. Sometimes brazenly so.
I could not blame Edward for trying to flaunt his authority and masculinity. His previous wife had cuckolded him in the worst way—with his own father—and bore the vile man two children whom she tried to pass off as poor Edward’s. Even the king had begun to deny that he was Princess Elizabeth’s father, that Anne Boleyn had made a cuckold of him. How many fathers were there whose children weren’t really their own? For this very reason, I must be cautious. I could never have done such a thing to Edward. He had been too good to me. There were tricks every woman should know and secrets every intelligent woman took to the grave. If the adulteresses held an ounce of intelligence, they would have kept their own counsel and made certain their partners did the same.
“My lady, come.” Edward clutched my arm, startling me, and pulled me through the throngs of people, back to Greenwich Palace to our suite of rooms now permanently housing us at court.
Henry had awarded us the apartments only last month, evicting his secretary Cromwell on our behalf. The man had been more than happy to do so, however, when he’d learned the reason.
Secretary Cromwell was a touchy subject on anyone’s lips. Rising from the ranks of the lowborn, he’d somehow managed to land a position with Cardinal Wolsey, also a man of low birth, and was there noticed by King Henry, who’d made the lawyer into his secretary and now elevated him to the peerage. However, the man was becoming increasingly powerful and rich. Cromwell had grown wealthier than half of the court’s nobles, and his men were everywhere. A man like that was dangerous.
We all had cause to be suspicious of him with his rather tight hold over the king. The notion of which drew Edward’s ire along with most of the court. The man harkened to believe he ruled over the king, and such a mindset was a dangerous thing—especially since the king often listened to him. But since he was willing to aid our cause, I was making an attempt to like the man.
Our rooms were connected through a series of hidden passageways to the king’s own rooms. Henry VIII’s latest interest for a wife was my sister-by-marriage Jane. With our connected rooms, he’d been able to court her privately, although all of court knew of their romance, and the rumor had even spread like wildfire across to the continent.
He’d already assured us the engagement and their betrothal would be announced imminently. Henry considered that Jane would be his first true and lawful wife. No issue of consanguinity, like with Katharine, and no issue of him not being legally free to marry, as there had been with Anne. Both previous queens were with the Lord now. And there was no one who would naysay the king. I supposed, for Jane, I should have been happy. For my family and the favors that had been bestowed on us, I should have been proud. But witnessing the destruction and pain that all of this had brought left me feeling weak and sick of heart.
We swept into the room, owning it, taking pride in our status at court. Jane was not here but waited for us at Wulfhall, the Seymour family seat in Wiltshire. We would meet with her again soon, but my lord husband had wished to see the deed—Anne’s execution—done, and in the flesh so he might further foolproof our elevated status.
Our rooms were large, with a presence chamber and Edward’s book room flanked by our respective bedchambers. Rich burgundy drapes adorned the windows, and we were lucky enough to have a view of the beautiful gardens.
Tossing my cloak over a chair, I watched as a maid quickly ran to pick it up. I walked to the windows, opening them to let in the spring breeze. I needed air. My stays felt like they were suffocating me, squeezing my ribs. Perhaps I would retire so that I might remove them, lie in bed and sleep away the misery of the day. A fanciful wish, for now, hard work was truly in store for us if we wished to see this marriage through and our family rise.
I squeezed my eyes shut, again trying to get the image of Anne’s lifeless eyes from my mind, reminding myself that her death had been necessary in order to move our own positions forward. No matter how vile such a thought was.
Jane, what fate will your end be? For surely if Edward and I did not do everything in our power, Jane would be… what? Pushed aside like the stoic and beautiful Katharine I had served from my youth or butchered on the block like the twenty-nine-year-old vivacious, fierce Anne Boleyn?
“Dear God in heaven.” I prayed for a miracle. Jane’s end would surely mean ours, and I was not ready to feel the executioner’s blade. I had so much to live for!
I waved to the waiting footman for him to bring me some wine, and I dropped into a chair near the hearth. The man rushed toward me and handed me the goblet, the metal cool, the wine soothing.
Edward paced the room, running his hands through his dark chestnut hair, then over his chin, tugging at his tightly trimmed beard. He saw me with my wine and grabbed it from my hands as I went for another sip. He gulped the wine. I rolled my eyes. The footman rushed to hand me another cup. Wine in hand, I drank deeply, letting the rich flavor fill my senses and gentle my frayed nerves. Edward had had the wine brought in from France, and I admitted it was much better than our English wine.
“Why do you pace so? You are making me dizzy.” My tone was irritated, perhaps more so than I’d intended, but it had the desired effect. Edward ceased tramping the presence chamber.
He took a long sip of wine, his gaze roving my form.
“I was thinking of my sister.”
I nodded, having surmised as much. His thoughts were most likely along the same lines as my own. I finished my wine and waved for the footman to refill our cups. After this morning, and what was ahead, Edward and I could use an added boost to our courage and something to smooth our nerves. He started pacing again.
Always plotting, always planning. The man never sat still. Although, I could not blame him. Our position within the court was treacherous, and I found myself pacing more than only occasionally. One wrong thing said or done, and everything could end. My throat tightened just thinking about it. Even on a rumor, as had happened with poor Anne Boleyn, we could be extinguished.
It would not have mattered that Edward was brother to the future Queen of England and, God willing, uncle to the future king. The king executed anyone he pleased. Now more than ever, we must tread lightly but with heavy feet, inserting our thoughts here and there, seeing our wills be done. We must love the king as we should and seek to remain in power—at any cost.
Well, almost any… Some secrets were better kept hidden deep within a buried treasure chest, the key long since rusted to dust. Our heads must remain intact.
At times I found myself disgusted by all this. Life would have been easier if I had been the wife of a simple squire, as Mary Boleyn had made certain to do after being tossed aside by the king, betrayed by her sister, and widowed by her courtier husband. I shook my head slightly. Do not wish such things, for those things which one wishes for can often come into being.
But I could not help it. Courtiers were almost as ravenous as a pack of hyenas. We hovered on the outskirts of the field, pacing, pawing, growling, waiting for whatever scraps our lion king left—and we would fight for the best pieces, the most succulent, the most sought after. And the Seymours had those pieces now.
We must beware of the hyenas on the outskirts waiting, biding their time to snatch our prizes.
Edward stopped his pacing and sprawled in the chair beside me. Slamming his cup on the side table, his long slender fingers came to tap at his temples.
“She must bear him a son and soon.” His brows were furrowed, his lips pursed.
“The wedding date has yet to be set.” I placed my cup gently on a side table, took a deep breath—as deep as my cutting stays would allow. Taking a nap had become more and more enticing.
“Soon. I have no doubt, they shall be married within a month.” He nodded his head as if confirming this information to himself. “Bishop Cranmer has issued a dispensation for their marriage just this morning.”
“And I have no doubt, she will soon conceive a child, God willing, a prince for the realm.”
Edward’s frown decreased as he took comfort in my words. As wives went, Edward had often told me, I was far above the rest. He sought me out for conversation, political and the like, heeding my advice. Such was rare for a man to see and believe the things his spouse said. The gentler sex was often tossed aside, our opinions and ideas thought to be witless and na?ve. I often wondered if the richness of my blood made me different than others, for I was descended of kings. Whatever the reason, I was much comforted and took pride in Edward’s opinion of me.
“Our entire future—our very lives—depend on her bringing forth a son.”
His words echoed my fears. More than one wife gone, having failed in that respect. Not that they hadn’t tried. Katharine had delivered of a prince, who sadly had passed before reaching two months of life, and Anne herself had delivered a boy, although he was stillborn.
Oh, please, God, let Jane deliver a healthy, robust son!
“Yes,” I answered, unclear of what else to say. I had lost energy for a clever answer after perhaps our three-hundredth conversation on the topic. My prayers were now my only answer to his statement.
“You must see to it,” he demanded.
My brows furrowed, and I opened my mouth to respond but quickly shut it again. I sat forward, catching my Lord Seymour’s deep brown gaze. “And how am I to do that? I lack…certain equipment.”
The conversation was getting dangerous. What was he implying I should do?
Edward grunted and stretched his legs out before him. “Always one for words, my lady.” He drummed his fingers on his thighs, drawing my gaze to his lap.
He was well formed, athletic. I licked my lips, hungering for this conversation to end and for Edward to take me to bed. After this morning, I needed to be whisked away.
“You will teach her. You are certainly knowledgeable enough in the art of seduction.”
For a moment I feared he thought me an adulteress, and I let his words sink in, not knowing how to respond. But then his eyes met mine. Desire emanated from their depths. He meant only for how I had succeeded in pleasing him. I stood and went to stand between his legs, my hands resting on his broad shoulders. I leaned down, my lips brushing his.
“Teach her, I shall.”