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      “The King is dead. Long live the King!” Edward Seymour, the Duke of Somerset, pronounced in a voice both loud and sombre. Even as Father’s minion, that heretical serpent Cranmer, leaned down to close Father’s eyes, all other eyes were turning towards the future – pale and weeping little Edward, aged only nine.

      He sat there mute and quaking between my sister and me. And then he turned away from me and flung himself into Elizabeth’s arms, weeping more, I think, at the enormity of what lay ahead of him than for the loss of our father.

      Though Edward had been his greatest treasure, the son he had spent most of his life longing for, Father had never truly taken him under his wing, never forged a bond of friendly father-and-son camaraderie with him; instead, like a priceless jewel, he had locked Edward away, safe under guard with every possible precaution, trying to protect him from any enemy or illness that might threaten the safety of his person and lessen his chance of surviving to adulthood and inheriting the throne. But in doing so, I fear, he made my brother unsympathetic and cold, immune to and unmoved by human suffering.

      It hurt me, I confess, to have Edward turn from me instead of to me, and to hide my pain, I went to kneel by Father’s bed, to pray for his soul and say a private farewell.

      Though I tried hard to hide it, I gagged at the stench, and tears pricked my eyes, but I did my duty and knelt at his side with the ivory rosary beads my sainted mother had given me twined around my hands. Poor Father, he would have much to answer for and, I feared, would linger long in Purgatory.

      Tentatively, I reached out and touched the mottled pink-and-grey flesh of his hand. I bowed my head and kissed it and let my tears cleanse it. How often I had prayed for his anger to end, and for his love for me to bloom anew, like the perfect rose it had once been, not the blighted blossom that had struggled along for years after sweet Jane Seymour broke The Great Whore’s spell that had held Father captive like Merlin in the cave of crystal.

      And now that he was gone, selfishly, I wondered what would become of me. Anne Boleyn’s ambition had paved the way for heresy to take root in England. And those roots had grown into tenacious vines that already held those dearest to me – Edward, Elizabeth, and the Dowager Queen Catherine – in their deadly, soul-destroying grasp.

      I knew I would be pressured to conform. Most of the men on the Regency Council had profited well by the dissolution of the monasteries. They would be loath to relinquish their ill-gotten gains, and return to Rome all that they had stolen; thus they would encourage this heresy to flourish whilst they stamped and rooted out the true religion.

      But I would confound them; I would rather give up my life than my religion. And I knew then, with complete and utter certainty, as I knelt beside the corpse of my father, that it was my duty to save the soul of England and, like a good shepherdess, lead these poor lost sheep back to the Pope’s flock. I prayed to God to give me, one lone weak and fragile woman, the strength to prevail against the virulent Protestant heresy that had come like a plague to blacken and imperil the souls of the English people, born of ambition and greed, not out of a true but misguided faith. And I knew then, as surely as if a holy beacon of pure white light from Heaven had just shone down upon me, that I had been chosen to guide my country back into the light. I felt a divine presence enfold and embrace me, as if angels knelt on either side of me, enveloping me in their snowy wings, and whispering in my ear that this was my purpose, my divine mission in life, the reason I had been born and survived all the perils and pitfalls that had marked and marred my life, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than fail our Heavenly Father!

      I kissed Father’s forehead and stood up. I promised him that I would make right his wrongs, that the sins he had committed out of Satan-sent carnal lust and the wiles of that witch-whore would all be undone. England would again become a nation of altars blazing with candles as a reminder to all that God is the light of the world. I would be His instrument, His light-bearer, and lead my people out of the dark night of heresy!

      

4

      Elizabeth

      Poor little poppet, I thought as Edward wept in my arms. They will dress you up, put words in your mouth, and make you dance to their tune. And there, intently watching his prey with the same greedy, carrion-hungry jet eyes of a raven, is the puppetmaster – Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector of the Realm, who will head the Regency Council, presiding over fifteen equally ambitious, power-hungry men, all of whom would not hesitate to pull him from his lofty pedestal and take his place. Poor little poppet indeed – I patted Edward’s back and murmured soothing words – you will have nine years to contend with this before you come into your own and can tell them all to go to the Devil and leave you be to rule your kingdom as you please.

      From the shadowy, candlelit gloom of the deathbed they began to step forward, slowly surrounding us, first Seymour, then the other members of the Council, like sharks closing in around a lone sailor clinging to some bit of flotsam as they circle around, hungry for his blood. And I wondered then if my little brother, who was not so robust as he and our late father liked to pretend, had the stamina and spirit to survive until he reached his majority.

      Boldly, I stared back at Edward Seymour, meeting those beady, black bird-of-prey eyes, and hugged my brother tighter, wishing I had the power to protect him.

      “Edward,” I said firmly, pulling away from him. “Look at me,” I commanded as I stood up.

      “The King is dead,” I said, calmly and straightforwardly. “Long live the King.” With those words I sank in a deep curtsy before my brother and kissed his trembling hand.

      “I am too young to rule!” Edward sobbed.

      “But not too young to reign,” I corrected.

      With a gentle pressure of my hand, I urged him to stand beside me.

      “You were born for this, Edward,” I said, my mind harking back to the three lives, three wives, that had been lost to bring this pale, frail boy into the world. “Your Majesty, it is time for you to greet your Council. These” – I waved a hand to encompass the solemn and stern-faced men who belatedly knelt before the pale, sobbing boy – “are the men who will assist you to govern in your minority and help you acquire the wisdom and skill to rule alone when you are of age.”

      Edward Seymour came forth then and knelt before my brother, and I knew then that he was doomed. This ruthless man would never let go of the reins of power unless they were snatched from him by force. And my brother, God help him, had not that strength; he would never be more than a puppet king. A shiver snaked up my spine then and told me that Edward would never make old bones; either malaise or malice would send him early to the grave. And then the tears that I had fought so hard to hold back began to flow and, though I tried to stifle it, a sob broke from me.

      “God’s teeth, stop that blubbering, Bess!” Edward snapped, endeavouring to make his voice sound gruff and deeper as he struck a pompous pose in imitation of our father’s favourite stance, hands on hips, legs apart. “I never could abide weeping women! Stop it, I say, I am the King and you must obey me; is that not so, My Lord?” he asked, turning to Edward Seymour for approval.

      “Quite right, Your Majesty, quite right.” Seymour smiled as the rest of the Council began to praise my brother’s resemblance to his sire.

      “My brother,” I whispered, “though you do not know it, you have just stepped upon a snake in the grass.”

      “Do not vex me with riddles, Bess, I have not the time for them!” Edward glowered impatiently at me. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his Council and then strode, with them scurrying and smiling after him, in a pompous parody of majesty, from the room where our father lay dead.

      Poor Edward, he thought playacting was enough to make him worthy to fill our father’s shoes, and those about him would do nothing but encourage him to ape the king they had called

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