There were two other important actors in England’s drama at this time—two of the most ambitious people in the kingdom—a Princess of thirteen and a man in his thirties.
Why not? the Lord High Admiral asked himself. I verily believe the King would have given me his daughter, had he lived. But he is dead and Kate is free, and the Council will put obstacles between myself and the Princess.
The Admiral had need of caution, and he was the most reckless man in the kingdom.
And the Princess Elizabeth? She was impatient of her youth, impatient of her inexperience. She longed for the Admiral. She had her mother’s love of gaiety and admiration and she yearned for the man who titillated her senses and roused within her that which was delightful and wholly dangerous. And yet… she must remember. There were two lives between herself and the throne. She was sure that her brother would never have an heir. And Mary with her ills and complaints—how long would she last? And then…! The glory of it was dazzling. She wanted it so eagerly, so urgently. But she also wanted Seymour. She wanted the man
Here was a problem for a girl not yet fourteen years of age to solve. What could she do? She could wait; she could watch; she could remember always to act with caution, the greatest caution she could muster. Those who were very near the throne were in great danger until they reached it. And even then… But not a Tudor. No, once a Tudor was on the throne, he—or she—would know how to stay there.
Such were the dreams of those who had lived near the King, as the funeral procession went its solemn way.
The body was brought to rest for a while in the chapel at Sion House; and while it was there the chest burst open and the King’s blood was spilt on the chapel floor.
Horror ran through the land when this became known. The terrible tortures, which had been inflicted on many during this King’s lifetime, were remembered; and the names of thousands who had died at his orders were recalled.
What has this King to answer for? it was whispered.
And the people shuddered.
A certain William Greville declared that a dog had appeared and licked the King’s blood; and although great efforts had been made to drive the dog away, none had been able to do so.
It was a ghost, said the superstitious—the ghost of one whom he had murdered.
It was then recalled that his fifth wife, Catharine Howard, had rested at Sion House on her way to the Tower, and this was the anniversary of that day when she had laid her head on the block and departed this life.
Had not Friar Peyto, greatly daring, preached against the King when he had put Queen Katharine of Aragon away from him and married Anne Boleyn? Had not the bold man compared Henry with Ahab, and prophesied that the dogs would, in like manner, lick his blood?
In the church of Windsor, Gardiner stood at the head of the vault, surrounded by the chief officers of the King’s household while the corpse was lowered by means of a vice and sixteen of the strongest Yeomen of the Guard. Out of favor with the late King and looking fearfully toward a new reign by a King indoctrinated with the new learning, he turned his eyes to the Princess Mary and prayed God that it might not be long ere she took her place on the throne.
The Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Treasurer and all the company which stood about the grave held their rods and staves in their hands, and when the mold was cast down, each in turn broke his staff upon his head and cast it on to the coffin.
“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God King of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble order of the Garter,” repeated Garter’s officers; and three times they said this while the trumpets rang out.
A new reign had begun. A mighty ruler was laid to rest, and in his place stood a pale-faced boy.
It seemed to many who watched that ceremony that among them were the ghosts of murdered men and women.
CHAPTER
VI
THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH WAS DEEPLY PERPLEXED.
There had come to her that day a proposal of marriage. It was her first proposal of this nature, because it was an appeal to her direct. There had, in the course of her thirteen years, been other suggested marriages, but she had never been called to give her opinion on these. When she had been a few months old and high in her father’s favor, he had negotiated a marriage for her with the Duke of Angouleme, the third son of King Francois. That could not be expected to materialize after the King had called her a bastard, and it had long been forgotten. Later she had been promised to the heir of the Scottish Earl of Arran—a poor match for a royal Princess of England—and that, as perhaps had been intended from the first, had also come to nothing. Later there had been a more ambitious plan to unite her with Philip of Spain, son of the Emperor Charles, but that was also doomed to failure.
But this proposal she had now received was different from all others. This was a declaration of love; and it had been made by the man whom Elizabeth could now admit that she herself loved. The Lord High Admiral of England, Sir Thomas Seymour, craved the hand of the Princess Elizabeth in marriage.
She sat at a window of her apartments in White Hall, those apartments which her stepmother had begged the King to give her, and which she used when she was with the court and the court was at this palace.
For a short hour she was giving herself up to romantic dreams; she was allowing herself to think that she could marry whom she pleased.
He was handsome, that man. Handsome? That was inadequate to describe him. There were many handsome men at court, but there was none like Thomas Seymour. He was so gay, so jaunty, and there was about him that air of wickedness which delighted her as it must delight so many more. She loved his boldness, the strength in those arms that seized her, the speculation in the laughing eyes as though he were wondering how far he dared go. There
