It was a great responsibility for such a small boy and such a frail one. No wonder he liked to sit in an alcove with Jane and talk to her of what he had read or what he had learned.
Yet it was pleasant to gaze at Elizabeth, with the color flaming under her pale skin, the freckles across her nose. Such a diplomatic Prince did not mention the freckles—although they pleased him— for Elizabeth’s women prepared lotions to make them disappear, as the vain creature imagined that they spoiled her lovely skin.
When she kissed him and told him he was her dearest brother, he could not be quite sure whether she was not remembering all the time that one day he would be the King and very important, and that she would need him to be kind to a Princess of uncertain birth.
Today she was excited. She had news.
She came in haughtily, as she did when the mood took her; and he fancied that she played a game of makebelieve in which she was a Queen and he her subject. With her came Mistress Ashley, her governess, whose life the Princess plagued, though the woman adored her.
Elizabeth was dressed in a new gown of which she was very proud, yet she was angry because she lacked jewels. She had told him that she wished for emeralds, because emeralds suited the color of her hair. He wished that he had emeralds that he might give her. When he was a King he would do so; but he hoped that would not be for a long time; he dreaded that day when he would have to be the King.
Now here was his sister, taking his hand and kissing it. “Nan Bullen’s girl,” he had heard her called; that was when people were angry with her. “Who is she?” they said then. “Who but Nan Bullen’s bastard.”
He knew of Nan Bullen, who, some said, had been a witch, a sorceress, and who had died that his father might marry his mother, the one pure Queen whom his father had loved.
Elizabeth, in her haughtiest manner, dismissed all attendants.
“That is what you wish, is it not?” she demanded, almost menacingly of the little boy.
“Yes,” he answered. “That is what I wish.”
Then Elizabeth looked from him to little Jane and back to him, and said: “Have you heard the gossip, brother?”
“What gossip?”
“The gossip that is all over the court. Our father has chosen his new wife.”
“A new wife!” cried Jane.
“A new stepmother for us!” said the boy with a perplexed look.
“But you like your stepmothers. You liked the last one.”
“Queen Catharine was so pretty,” said Edward wistfully.
“But she died.” Jane’s gentle eyes filled with tears. It was obvious that she knew in what manner Queen Catharine had died.
None of the children ever mentioned the way in which the Queen had died. The beheading of Queens was a sore subject with Elizabeth. If any lightly mentioned her own mother, her face would grow dark with anger. Edward knew that it was because Mistress Ashley had married a kinsman of Queen Anne Boleyn that Elizabeth kept the woman with her, loved her dearly, and would suffer none other to command and scold her as Mistress Ashley did.
“Who…is the new one?” asked Edward.
“Can you not guess?” demanded Elizabeth. “You know her. She has paid you many a visit. You will love her as much as you loved Queen Catharine Howard.”
“Please tell me quickly who it is,” said the small boy imperiously, for he could be imperious when kept in suspense.
“Lady Latimer.”
“Oh!” The two younger children exchanged smiles. They knew her well. She was a delightful lady. A short while ago when Edward had been recovering from a sickness, and there had been one of those dreaded scenes at his bedside, with the King cajoling and threatening all those in attendance, Lady Latimer had come to see him. He had thought her sweet and gentle, as a mother ought to be.
“You are not then displeased by this news?” said Elizabeth.
“Nay. It delights me. She will be Queen Katharine and our stepmother.”
“I too am pleased,” said the Princess. “I love her well.”
Mistress Ashley came into the apartment to tell them that the Lady Mary was on her way and would be with them in a few moments.
“She has heard the news, I’ll warrant,” said Elizabeth. “It will please her also.”
“She will be always at court,” said Edward, “when she is our stepmother.”
Elizabeth looked momentarily serious. She was old enough to remember a good deal more than Jane and Edward could. She remembered a dark-eyed, very beautiful woman who laughed and cried, who embraced her warmly and called her “Daughter,” and who loved her more than anyone in the world had ever loved her. Then quite suddenly Elizabeth had understood that she no longer had a mother; but it was not until some years after her loss that she knew the reason.
Cruel things had been said about her mother; and what was said about her mother must reflect on Elizabeth. Some had said she was not the King’s daughter at all, but the daughter of a man named Norris, who was supposed to have been the Queen’s lover and had died with her. Some said a thing even more horrible: that she was the daughter of Anne Boleyn’s own brother, Lord Rochford. But the King did not believe this. Indeed, how could he? He had but to look at her to know that she was his own daughter. And although there were times when he seemed to care not whether she had a rag to her back or a crust to eat—while if aught befell the precious body of young Edward all the great doctors of the realm must congregate at his bedside—still Elizabeth felt that the King had as
