by Jane Caro
In the winter of 1546, Edward and I were sent once more to the country. By this time, Mary and her household came rarely to court. As she had been since the days of my mother, she was in almost permanent disgrace for still refusing to acknowledge our father as the head of the church, and the primacy of the Church of England, so we saw but little of her. Life was easier for Mary in the country, away from the intrigue and tension that surrounded my father and stepmother, particularly now, as he was ailing. Men began to think of power and position, conscious that, as the next king would be my brother, a mere boy of nine, the man who had his ear would rule the kingdom.
The tension at court increased daily as it became clear that my father would not live much longer, no matter how tenaciously he clung to life. He sat at the great table one last time at Christmas and then he took to his bed. The court fell into a kind of anxious torpor. No real government could take place while all England waited for one king to die and another, a mere stripling, to take his place. Great men plotted and schemed – none more avidly than my brother’s maternal uncles, Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford and Thomas Seymour, Admiral of the Fleet (the very same Thomas my stepmother would far rather have married). Despite their usual differences, as my father lay slowly dying, the Seymour brothers were united in their aim to secure the throne for their nephew and keep him firmly under their stewardship. And they had another ally in their plans for power. My stepmother, the queen, remained much influenced by her past love. The admiral took full advantage of her fond feelings towards him and, when it became clear my father could fight on no longer, persuaded her not to send for my sister, brother or me.
Later, I asked my stepmother if the king had said any last words to her before he sank into his final stupor. I dared not hope that he would have any in particular for me, but perhaps he might have whispered his old pet name for me, Madame Ysabeau. She told me his old friend and servant Sir Anthony Denny had been the last living soul my father spoke to. Good Sir Anthony, she said, had been the only man brave enough to warn my father that his time was nearing an end. Denny asked his old friend and prince if he would like to speak to anyone in particular to make his peace with God, and my father answered thus – but in such a whisper that poor Sir Anthony had to draw closer to make out the words – ‘If I had any, it should be Dr Cranmer, but I will first take a little sleep. And then, as I feel myself, I will advise upon the matter.’ After that, my father closed his eyes and his voice was heard no more. I cried when my stepmother told me what he had said, for it seemed to me he had not made his peace with God and still had not accepted that – as for all other men – his fate was to die. That he still felt a ‘little sleep’ would be enough to restore him to himself seemed unbearably poignant to me.
Once he had breathed his last, the queen took her place by his side and prayed devoutly for his soul, but the new king’s uncles wasted no time. As soon as the doctor pronounced the king dead, Edward Seymour gave instructions that the door to the death chamber be barred and that no one but the queen and his brother be allowed to enter until his return. Then he mounted his horse and rode posthaste to Hatfield, to his nephew, the new King Edward VI, and, as it happened, to me.
Edward and I were 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 also children. 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.
‘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?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘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.’
‘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 king dies, 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.
‘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.’
‘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 icy displeasure her way, her life was safe. Now she had many enemies. As frail Edward’s heir and a Catholic among Protestants, she threatened many with her continued existence – not least the ambitious man before us – and threat begets threat, in my experience. The regent would show her no kindness, and my brother, though he loved his sister, had been trained to regard her as misguided. And, even then, at that relatively tender age, I knew he had no real power; he was but a little boy, about to be given over to the tender mercies of men who lusted for it.
We rode that night for London, the thunder of hooves from our retinue shattering the peace of many a sleeping village. There was something frantic about Edward Seymour’s determination to get my brother to the capital. I knew the time between the death of one king and the coronation of another was dangerous, but I still did not quite understand the desperation of this journey. Frightened and disoriented, Edward and I longed for some solitude to absorb this new world we now lived in and our very different places within it, but such an opportunity was not to be. I consoled myself that we would have moments alone together once we ar
rived, but I was sadly mistaken. When we clattered through a yet sleeping London in the early hours after our helter-skelter ride, as tradition demanded of the heir apparent, Edward was taken straight to the Tower. I wept afresh when I realised he was to be taken away from me.
This ancient tower has a strange effect on all who pass through its gates, home as it often is to both those who are at the pinnacle of good fortune and those who have run out of luck altogether. It was hard not to feel my fragile and well-beloved brother was a prisoner, luxurious though his quarters no doubt were and deferential as the Lord Hertford and his attendants were to him. I could see by his distress when they separated us that his feelings were not dissimilar to mine.
‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth!’ he cried out, as he noticed that attendants were ushering me away. ‘I want to stay with my sister,’ he cried, turning as if he would dismount and run towards me. I turned also and found firm hands restraining me.
‘No!’ said Hertford and he grasped the reins of my brother’s horse and held them. ‘No, Majesty,’ he said again, remembering to whom it was that he spoke and softening his tone. ‘You must attend to your duties. You can rejoin the Lady Elizabeth ere long.’
‘Everything is as it should be, Ed – Your Majesty,’ I added, yearning to soothe my poor brother’s fear. ‘You are the king now and must do your duty. I will be nearby and will come whenever you want me.’
To my great relief, I was taken to my stepmother. I allowed myself to be comforted. What else could I do? Within hours my sister Mary joined us at Whitehall, solemn faced and dressed elegantly in sombre black. She greeted my stepmother fulsomely and sympathetically, dropping into a deep curtsy. When she turned to survey her little sister, only twelve years old to her twenty-five, she saw my eyes were red and raw from weeping and – as always, susceptible to the sorrows of children – she let go her formal and courtly manner, took two steps towards me and held me in her arms. It pains me now to remember that this was to be the last time ever my sister held me so. If I close my eyes I can still feel her breath on my hair and the soft, fine velvet of her gown.
‘Ah, poor little Ysabeau, motherless and fatherless now are we both.’ She whispered her melancholy words so that I alone could hear. Then she let me loose and I burst into a fresh storm of weeping. Together the three of us wept over my father and his passing and then we waited for whatever it was that would happen next. We waited for a long time. The strange inertia that had fallen over the royal household in my father’s dying days remained: it seemed that no one was sure what to do. My father had reigned for so long, no one quite remembered the protocol between the death of one king and the accession of another – though there are many far more practised in the procedure now.
The dead king still lay in his chamber, while the door remained barred. No one was permitted to go in and see his body. One day passed and then another. My anxiety grew. Where was my brother? Why had he not sent for me? What were they doing to him? I knew how frightened he would be, surrounded by men who were virtual strangers. King or no, he was but a little boy.
Finally, three days after the death of my father, on the 31st day of January, Hertford brought my brother in state from the Tower. My brother had agreed Hertford should be lord protector until he reached his majority. Once the all-important document was signed, as lord protector Edward Seymour finally issued a proclamation declaring King Henry to be dead and his son, Edward, king in his place, and the strange limbo that had surrounded us began to lift. My father’s body in its huge coffin was moved at last into the chapel, where masses could be said for his soul and the people could come and pay their respects. Unlike his bewildered children, most of the great and the good were more interested in the future than consumed with grief for the past, and so they came in their droves, eager to swear their allegiance to their new liege lord, according to custom.
Even so, the atmosphere in the palace remained strange, discordant. The lines of courtiers and councillors paying their respects were subdued. I knew how they felt; it was as if a pale and feeble moon had risen to take the place of the sun, as if the earth had become liquid and the sea solid. None of us could quite comprehend a world without the colossus of my father astride it.
Edward held his nerve and his dignity, accepting the words of loyalty and sympathy with a solemn nod of his head. Queen Catherine, Mary and I stood at the rear of the great hall. When I could I tried to catch his eye and send to him my love and my encouragement, but I do not know if he saw me at all. He said little and looked tiny, pale and drawn, sitting in my father’s large chair. The contrast between the bulk of the old king and the slender proportions of the new one could not have been more pronounced. A footstool saved my brother from the indignity of swinging his feet in the air, but nothing could make him look other than a frightened little boy playing at power. It was clear that all the important conversations were taking place in side rooms, between the lord protector and his newly appointed council. When at last the long dreary day was over, no doubt my poor little brother made his way to his private quarters, then dropped his head and sobbed into his arms as if his heart would break. Was he weeping for the loss of his father, who had loved him? Or for fear of the great responsibility that had just crushed him under its weight? People envy princes, they tell me. They would not, methinks, if they knew the reality of their lives. In only a few short weeks, small imperious Edward disappeared and that which we call king settled itself in his place. I am twenty-five, well versed in the ways of the world and the fearful duplicity of ambitious men, and if I approach my new life in sleepless trepidation, how must it have felt for the nine-year-old boy? Eventually it killed him, I suppose.
At the end of that long and wearisome day, we were finally permitted to see my brother in his private apartments, and my stepmother did not stand on ceremony. She took my brother into her arms and soothed his tears. She held him on her knee, rocking him from side to side, as he gulped and sobbed. But they had only a few minutes together before the lord protector, who appeared to hate my brother being out of his sight for any time at all, came unannounced into the room, puffed up in his newly acquired robes and chains of office. It was clear he did not like what he saw. ‘How now, my lord? What is this? A king does not mewl like an infant or sob like a girl. Leave the weeping and wailing to women, my lord.’ When this failed to do anything except unleash a torrent of even more heartfelt sobs, the lord protector turned his attention to the queen. ‘This is your doing, woman. Unhand him before you entirely unman him.’ I gasped audibly at his arrogance in talking to her with such disrespect, but Queen Catherine, though she eyed him sharply, let it pass. She had been deeply annoyed that, although his will left her a wealthy woman, my father had not also seen fit to declare her regent. But with that decision she was also wise enough to understand that any power she may once have had when my father depended on her so utterly was rapidly waning.
‘Kings are not the province of women, no matter how recently they were in swaddling clothes. Come with me, my lord,’ he continued, ‘let me take you to your new apartments.’ The little king, once so imperious, obeyed, still hiccuping with sobs. He got down from his stepmother’s knee and took the man’s proffered hand, but he held out his other hand for the queen, clearly indicating that he wanted her to go with him also. At this, the lord protector fell to his knees so he was speaking to my brother eye to eye. This time he tried a different approach: a softer, more cajoling manner.
‘Now, now, my lord, what is this? The queen is tired, too and needs to be attended to by her ladies. Your tutor Master Cheke awaits you in your new rooms, but he has agreed there will be no lessons this day. You are to rest, my lord, and eat sweetmeats and Master Cheke has promised to read to you quietly. Will you come, Your Majesty, and take your rightful place among the men?’
My brother wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and nodded wearily, but as he walked with his uncle from the room, he looked back at us and two larg
e tears rolled from his eyes to his chin.
Poor little Edward, pitiful little king, we left him, my stepmother, my half-sister and I. We had no choice: the hard men of his privy council were hungry for government, eager to stamp their personality on the country and to reap the rewards that come with power. They wanted no soft-hearted women between them and their king. When my brother walked away, clutching the hand of the man who was called his protector, I did not protest. I merely curtsied, as a subject should, and pretended I did not see his trembling bottom lip and terrified eyes. I did not know then that it would be more than a year before I would see him once more.
When next I saw him, more than a twelvemonth later, he was a different child: his eyes cold, his tongue well guarded, his attitudes stiff and unbending, particularly when we spoke of men worshipping God. Master Cheke, religious zealot that he was, had done his work well. I do not even know if my brother was pleased to see me. We spent a few awkward and formal hours together, talking in polite generalities, before I left and wept again for the lively little boy I remembered. I felt bereft. They had ripped him from me and I knew we would never play or converse with one another in the old easy way as brother and sister ever again. I also knew I no longer had much place in his new life and that I would see him but rarely. Indeed, between that meeting and the next almost as much occurred to change me as had happened to change him.
My sister and I stayed with our stepmother at court until April, then Mary, being fully grown, departed for her own household to manage her newly acquired estates. As a girl of only thirteen, I left the court with the queen and went to live with her permanently. By this time, my stepmother had a brash and vigorous new husband, my brother’s other uncle, the admiral, Thomas Seymour. Somewhat to my chagrin, Queen Catherine had wasted no time in marrying the man she had always loved. It suited me ill that anyone could forget a man like my father so quickly, no matter how old, smelly and querulous he had become, but what choice did I have? I was wounded, frightened and grief-stricken; I clung to my stepmother as the only family I had. My sister Mary, kind though she still was, had no interest in caring for me, and no doubt Hertford would have had much to say about the two princesses living cheek by jowl. I was in need of a guardian, I loved Catherine despite my sulking, and it suited Hertford well to keep me under the weather eye of his brother – at least at first.
