The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir

and children for which she longed were to be forever denied her. Oh, the King had made various noises about betrothing her to this prince or that, but it never came to anything, and likely never would.
    She pulled herself up. One must be grateful for the consolations that God did send, she told herself severely. She had the love of her father, which had been restored to her, a good friend in her stepmother, and a child to care for in the person of her little sister, the most toward and engaging child one could wish for. And now there was this new baby to love. She must be contented with these things that God had vouchsafed her, and not look for more.
     
    It was late evening, and the air chilly. The palace was lit by hundreds of torches set in sconces on the walls. Hordes of people were gathering in the Base Court, each with a part to play in the christening of the Prince, be it in the procession or the ceremony itself. There were knights, squires, ushers, and members of the royal households; bishops, abbots, clerics, and choristers from the Chapel Royal; the King’s councillors, the ambassadors from foreign lands, and a chattering throng of great lords and ladies richly dressed in their peacock finery.
    Lady Bryan held on tightly to Elizabeth’s hand as she searched for the Queen’s brother, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, among the crowd. He was to escort Elizabeth in the procession.
    Elizabeth was wide-eyed, taking in all that was going on around her, and very conscious of being dressed in her best gown, the orange satin one. It was a little tight now around the bodice and sleeves, and Lady Bryan had had the hem let down, but with its gay green underskirt and matching French hood, it looked very fine, Elizabeth thought, and it showed off her red hair to advantage. Holding herself as a princess should, chin in the air, back straight, she followed her governess, nodding left and right at the courtiers, as she had seen her father do. Not a few of them smiled and bowed in return.
    My lord of Hertford was very grand, as was often the case with many new-made lords, and swept a flourishing obeisance to Elizabeth, doffing his lavishly feathered bonnet. With him was one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, reverently holding a tiny, richly embroidered garment, neatly folded, and a golden vial.
    “These you must bear to the Chapel Royal, my Lady Elizabeth,” the Earl explained. “They are the Prince’s baptismal robe and the chrism oil for his anointing. Do you think you can manage to carry them?”
    “Yes, my lord,” said Elizabeth solemnly, aware of the importance of her task.
    The lady-in-waiting carefully laid the robe across Elizabeth’s outstretched hands, then placed the vial on top.
    “She has no hand free to manage her train,” pointed out Lady Bryan.
    “Then I will carry her,” said Edward Seymour, bending to lift a delighted Elizabeth in his arms. He walked with her, she clutching her precious burdens, to the waiting line of dignitaries, and took his place at the rear, behind the peers.
    “His Highness the Prince approaches!” someone said, and the cry was taken up. Elizabeth twisted her head around to see the royal infant being borne toward them in the arms of the Marchioness of Exeter; a golden canopy supported by four lords was above their heads, and the long train of the Prince’s velvet mantle was carried by his nurse, Mistress Penn, who followed behind. After her came the Lady Mary with a great company of ladies. As the little procession approached, everyone present sank to their knees on the ground, then rose and took up their places in the procession, which was now about to enter the palace.
    Elizabeth felt very important indeed as she was borne along by Lord Hertford just ahead of the Prince, and she played her part well in the chapel, delivering a rather crumpled robe to Mistress Penn and offering the vial to the splendidly vested Archbishop of Canterbury, but by the time the long ceremony had