Tags:
Biographical,
Biographical fiction,
Fiction,
General,
Historical,
Historical - General,
Fiction - Historical,
History,
Biography & Autobiography,
Great Britain,
Royalty,
American Historical Fiction,
Queens,
Tudors,
Elizabeth,
queen of england,
Queens -- Great Britain,
1485-1603,
Great Britain - History - Tudors; 1485-1603,
Elizabeth - Childhood and youth,
1533-1603,
I,
Childhood and youth
is he?” Elizabeth asked. Suddenly, she wanted the comfort of his strong arms, his powerful presence, his reassuring confidence.
“He has gone from here,” Mary said. “He left for Windsor before sunrise. He would see no one, and wants to bear his grief alone.”
Elizabeth felt doubly bereft. Two mothers had she lost, both in a short space of time, and her father had ridden away without even attempting to console her.
Clutching Mary’s hand, Elizabeth entered the Chapel Royal. There before them, on a black-draped bier, lay the still body of Queen Jane, dressed in robes of state with her crown on her head and jewels at her throat and breast. Her hands lay crossed on her bosom; her eyes were shut forever.
The sisters were wearing somber black mourning gowns and white hoods.
“The white hoods signify that the Queen died in childbed,” Mary had explained.
They knelt together through the solemn Mass, then when the priest and choristers had departed, they approached the bier. A faint odor of spices, masking something less pleasant, emanated from the body of the Queen, which had now been lying here three days; and when Elizabeth, lifted by her sister, kissed the dead woman’s white forehead, she found it as cold as the marble it resembled. Yet Jane Seymour looked as if she were merely sweetly sleeping. If only, Elizabeth thought desperately, if only she would wake up, then everyone would be happy again, and the King would come back. But she knew that the Queen would never wake up, that her soul had fled, and that, in some mysterious way, having the Prince had killed her.
Appalled by the sweet scent of death, and realizing with dread that there were more perils in the world than she had ever imagined, Elizabeth buried her face in her hands to shut out the sight of the white, waxen face and tried very hard to pray.
“How does the King?” Lady Bryan looked up as Sir John Shelton joined her by the roaring fire. It was November, and Sir John had returned to Hatfield as soon as the Queen had been laid to rest at Windsor. Elizabeth was lying on her belly near the hearth, pretending to be learning the letters inscribed on her horn book.
“I fear he is in low spirits,” said the governor, “but by all reports, he has framed his mind patiently to bearing his loss. It is said he has also framed his mind to…” He leaned forward and murmured something in the governess’s ear. Elizabeth, straining to hear, caught the words “fourth time.”
“And the Queen not yet cold in her grave!” Lady Bryan exclaimed. Oh, but she was cold, she had been very cold, before they ever laid her in it, thought Elizabeth, remembering with a shudder that marble body.
“Master Secretary Cromwell was saying that it is his tender zeal toward his subjects that has overcome his sad disposition,” said Sir John. “He was referring to the matter of the succession. The life of the Prince is all that stands between stability and chaos in this realm, and you well know how many children die young. For the sake of all our futures, the King needs other sons—he himself has clearly recognized this. And, of course, there are advantages to be gained through a new marriage alliance.”
Elizabeth wasn’t interested in marriage alliances. She was more concerned about her dear little brother, that sweet babe, who—like herself—now had no mother to love him. Was Sir John hinting that he was like to die? Please God, no—that would be more than she could bear.
Her fears were immediately allayed.
“At least the Prince is in good health, praised be God—a lusty child, I hear,” said Sir John. “And so he should be, for the King guards his health rigorously.”
“Poor little lamb,” Lady Bryan murmured.
“His Majesty has commanded that the walls, floors, and ceilings of the Prince’s chamber be washed down thrice daily, and that none who has been in contact with any infection may approach His Highness,” Sir John told her. “You
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