Elizabeth waited until she'd laced her sister into a riding habit and waved good-bye as Jane and the other ladies rode out with the king. Elizabeth pled a headache and asked to be excused. With the king and other nobles like Suffolk away, she had a chance of catching Cromwell alone at his desk.
"Lissie, whatever you do…do not do it without speaking with Edward," Jane told her softly but firmly. Lately, it seemed neither of them could do anything without speaking to Edward.
Strange to live by another's leave again, Elizabeth thought as she went back into the palace. Until a few years ago, she had been living at her husband's estates in the North. Too cold and desolate to do anything else, except sit by the fire and read or paint. Her husband had been too old to do much else other than occasionally pinch her cheek or grope her breast. He had been so old that he'd survived his own heirs; when she inherited his lands and wealth, she dismissed the pinching and the groping as a small tithe on a very large gain. Even with her return to court and Queen Anne's service, she had something the other ladies did not: something of her very own. She held lands and earned income in her own right. Edward could not hold that over her head, at least.
So when Elizabeth strode purposefully towards Cromwell's office, she could not help but feel the seductive tug of youthful rebellion. Disobedience for its own sake. Edward and Jane were always speaking softly, minding the rules—while she and Tom hurtled themselves towards mischief and the ensuing sharp cracks on their rumps. Which was likely why her father had married her off to some old Northern lord. Elizabeth taught herself to read Latin and French in that damp castle, but it never occurred to her to instruct herself on submissiveness.
As she neared his offices, she became self-conscious of the click of her jeweled heels on the wood paneled floors. When was the last time a woman was even down here? Certainly not since Cromwell's men had marched Anne's ladies in to be interrogated. Even before she reached the rooms themselves, she could hear the scratch of quill against paper and discreet, clerical murmuring. She caught bits and pieces of the conversation. Oh, no we must check the statute again. Yes, I am quite sure it has been amended since last Parliament. No? Well we ought to change it anyhow.
Dozens of young men, indistinguishable in a sea of black jackets and white linen, scribbled frantically. They only looked up to consult a book every now and then. The place smelled of wood, ink, and vellum. In truth, the placed reminded her of the now dissolved abbeys and monasteries where monks silently transcribed holy words.
The mortified young man who had brought her necklace in the first place was also the first to notice her. He glanced up, as if sensing something was not quite as it should be. Perhaps the smell of rosewater alerted him. At the sight of her, the poor boy flushed so deeply his skin looked hot to the touch. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and motioned her head to the end of the long corridor where Cromwell himself sat.
He tried to get out of his seat as quietly as he could, but the sound of his chair against the wood caused all the other clerks to look simultaneously and see her. Any remaining pretense of keeping her visit quiet flew out the window as all the clerks stood and swept her the bow given to a sister of the Queen of England. Small chance now of keeping Edward out of this. Whatever this was.
Elizabeth walked quickly past all the bowed heads and doffed caps. By the time she made her way to Cromwell's own desk, he had managed to bury his head in a letter and studiously ignore her. The two clerks that personally assisted him glanced at one another, gulping and panicking. She stood there flushed, watching Cromwell make a spectacle of ignoring her. Finally, one of them found the bullocks to announce her.
"Her Majesty's sister, Lady Elizabeth Seymour."
Cromwell did one of his characteristic double-takes: one short glance, then a longer one—as if he would like you to believe that he himself cannot really believe that you have honored him with your presence.
"Ah, my Lady Elizabeth. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" he purred. He stood to offer her a chair. Elizabeth wondered if he too remembered what happened the last time Thomas Cromwell offered her a chair. Still, she sat and gingerly spread her skirts, thanked him prettily for the glass of wine he put in her hands. He shared a look with his clerks, then motioned for them to leave.
Alone again, Elizabeth thought. She drained her wine. It gave her a little recklessness. She produced the velvet wrapping that contained the necklace and placed it on the table between them.
"Is this a bribe?" she asked baldly. He had his implacable smile in place, totally unruffled. His eyes shut briefly as he chuckled.
"I had hoped you would think better of me, my lady," he answered without really answering. Sighing, he relented. "I also thought that given my suit for your hand, the sentiment behind the necklace was perfectly obvious. Tell, me honestly, do you like it?"
For a moment, Elizabeth was sure she had forgotten how to breathe. Marriage? Her marry him? Surely this time he overreached himself? Henry could not, would not permit this? Handsome Charles Brandon almost had to make do without his handsome head because he had married the king's sister. Her mouth tried to form words, but she could put no sound to them.
Finally, he rescued her from her flailing. "His Majesty agreed. Your father, your brothers did not inform you?" He leaned back against his great chair. "Well, no matter. I think it is better for a woman to settle these things on her own account, anyway. See how alike we are already? No peacocking around in courtly love for us."
No, Master Secretary, she thought, We are nothing alike. Instead, she replied, "Master Secretary I cannot accept this gift." Still reeling from shock, she inadvertently looked directly into his eyes. But something about their intensity—the pale blue of the irises blazing against the large black pupils—made her look down again. She pushed the pouch towards him.
"Of course you can accept it." He inhaled deeply and his voice softened. "In fact, it would give me great pleasure to see you wear it. Accepting a gift does not end with two people kneeling at an altar." He pushed the pouch back to her.
She blinked rapidly and shoved the jewel towards him forcefully. That slow boiling panic and dread that she felt before, when she realized too late what a dangerous man he was. She could not marry him, not a man like that, a man capable of anything. She could not lay down next to a man she feared and call it matrimony.
"Master Cromwell, I cannot marry you," she said softly.
He waved his hand dismissively. "My lady, you have barely even considered it. Must I have the king himself recommend me to you?"
"I do not know you, sir," she swallowed. Sweat trickled down her neck, and as it evaporated, she shivered.
"Perhaps we had a bad beginning," he conceded. She thought, Yes, a bad start was made when you slammed my face onto the desk. A poor beginning, even for the son of a Putney smithee.
Undeterred, Cromwell continued, " But, over time a familial affection develops—"
"That's not what I mean," she cut in. At the interruption, his mask fell. He leaned forward, and the chair creaked menacingly. She swore her heart faltered for a beat or two. She had just interrupted Master Cromwell, the second most powerful man in England. Her fingers went numb with cold, but her cheeks felt ablaze.
"What I mean to say is," she said slowly, "is that I do not know what kind of man you are. Some say you are the son of a brewer, others a blacksmith. I hear you were a mercenary in the French army—and then I hear you were a banker, a lawyer. Master Cromwell, you are everywhere at court, always there, always watching. But, I know no more of you than my first day at court. I do not know who you are, and that is why I cannot marry you." Well, partially true. She did not want to have to come out and say the obvious: I am afraid of you. I am afraid you will be a cruel husband.
She peered up at him. He had shifted in his chair, chin leaning on his right palm, while his eyes fixed on something in the distance. He did not blink. He did not speak.
"I'm very sorry Master Cromwell." She folded her hands in her lap, and bent her head. Elizabeth breathed in deeply and counted backwards from ten. Yet, still he said nothing. As the silence stretched into discomfort, she dared to rise without being invited to do so. She backed away slowly, as if she'd stumbled across a sleeping bear in the woods.
"Lady Elizabeth."
She froze in her tracks and stared dumbly ahead. He did not look up.
"I am glad to see a Papist family like yours embrace the Reformation. There are rumors, gossip, that her Majesty will resurrect the Catholic Church. Treasonous slander—I try to stamp it out where I can. But, I would hate to see anymore come of it. You wouldn't either, would you?"
Elizabeth shook her head swiftly and bobbed a tight curtsey.
"I do not know what to make of your intransigence, Lady Elizabeth. We are both here to help your sister, and protect His Majesty." He bends down and leans in like a lover coming in for a kiss. "Unless, the Queen involved you in her harem? Is that why you do not want to speak against her? Did you offer up your cunny?"
On reflex, Elizabeth's hand flies out and slaps him hard across the cheek. The crack echoes throughout the room.
"How dare you? You filthy son of a brewer." She draws back her hand again, but he quickly grabs it, yanking her out of her chair. She yelps at the pain that shoots through her shoulder and gasps in surprise when he kicks her feet out from under her. He twists one arm behind her while pulling her to her feet. Desperately, her feet try to find the floor themselves. But, he shoves her forward so that her stomacher smashes against the desk. He pins her arm while grabbing a hold of her hair with the other hand. Her small feet—that have by now lost their shoes—scramble to kick behind her. The soldier in him roughly shoves his knee in between her legs so that she cannot kick at his knees or groin.
Yanking her hair, he slams her face down on to the desk. "You do something like that again, and I will name you as one of her accomplices. I don't need you to make your sister a queen," he hisses. He pulls her hair up and slams her face into the wood again.
"God help me if it continues to go badly with you," he warns her. He shifts his weight off of her, standing up to straighten out his robes and gold chain. She lays belly down on the table, dazed. After a few moments, she collects herself and returns to her seat. She hears a faint ringing in her ears, and reaches up—almost incredulously to feel the warm blood flowing from her nose.
He dabs his forehead with his kerchief and then tosses it across to her. Gratefully, she presses it to her nose.
"So tell me, was the male company that the Queen kept…troubling to you? Wanton, even?"
"Yes, yes I suppose you could call it wanton," Elizabeth says distantly. She is distracted. She runs her tongue over her teeth to make sure none have been knocked loose or out.