Just a Girl by Jane Caro Page A

together when his uncle, Edward Seymour, arrived. It was January, as bitterly cold as it is tonight. Snow had been falling intermittently all day and we were trapped indoors. We knew our father was sick, but there is a world of difference between ill and dead, particularly for children, so we were unprepared. Edward Seymour, himself a father of nine, was not, by nature, an unkind man, but he was caught up with the importance of the occasion and the excitement of his opportunity. We were royal, one of us was about to inherit the throne, but he forgot we were alsochildren. He made no attempt to break the news to us gently. Before we knew what was upon us, we heard a commotion in the drive, a clatter of horses that set all the dogs a-barking, the sound of men’s boots on the flagstones and assorted shouts and hoorahs. Then, before we had time to make sense of this unexpected hullabaloo, Edward’s uncle Hertford was on his knees before us.
    â€˜The King is dead. Long live King Edward VI,’ he said and clasped my brother’s hand and kissed it. I stood behind my brother and gasped as the words and their awful meaning slowly penetrated my mind. The king was dead. Which king? My king? The king my father? It did not seem possible.
    Edward was struck just as dumb as I. He stood, still as a statue, then he spoke. ‘You mean my father is dead?’
    â€˜Yes, Your Majesty.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜I left him myself a few hours ago. I wasted no time in riding to acquaint you with the news.’ Then he seemed at last to become aware of my presence. ‘And the princess, of course.’
    â€˜Madame Ysabeau,’ I muttered to myself and burst into noisy tears. My tears unleashed my brother’s and he began to cry bitterly also. King or no king, I swept the small sobbing boy into my arms and we wept together.
    It is a solemn moment for a country when a kingdies, and a sad thing for a child to experience the death of a father. In his life, I had rarely seen my father alone but, then, kings or queens are never alone, as I have discovered. So the memory of the few occasions when he smiled on me and praised me for my wit and scholarship made me glow with particular pleasure. Those rare moments will always be with me; I can dip into my memory any time and bring them back as sweet and as precious as they once were. I well remember the day when he chucked me under the chin and called me his owl. I lowered my gaze in a fluster of exquisite pleasure and curtsied, to cover my discomfiture, but when I left his presence I danced a little jig all the way to my own apartments. I did not care about the quizzical looks, or the smothered laughter from those I passed. I remember how pleased he was when others commented on my resemblance to his father, and how dark his looks when he saw in me the shadow of my mother. Yet I neither deserved praise for one, nor condemnation for the other. I was as I was, and could not be otherwise. I remember his rages, also, and grow hot anew with the shame and fear of them. I loved and feared him equally and could not imagine a world without him. Did I weep for sadness over the loss of my father, or fear over my own future? I know not. All I do know is I was filled with a feeling of dread that chilled my bones and froze my blood.
    â€˜We must make haste to London, Your Majesty,’ said the Earl of Hertford, still on his knees. ‘You must waste no time in claiming your throne. I have taken the liberty of ordering your horse to be saddled.’
    â€˜I will not go without Elizabeth.’
    I looked at little Edward as he clutched at my hand. He was the king and Edward Seymour was to be regent; I was now a king’s sister. I turned my thoughts to Mary and wondered what my father’s death would mean for her. Despite his rage over her stubborn refusal to give up her faith and forswear her mother, he could never forget she was his daughter, and while he might blow