The Book of Princes and Princesses

by Mrs. Lang

RICHARD THE FEARLESS

Nearly a thousand years ago a little boy was living in a castle which stood on the edge of a lake in the midst of a very large forest. We should have to go a long way nowadays before we could find any so big; but then there were fewer people in Europe than at present, and so for the most part the wild animals were left undisturbed. In the forest that surrounded the lake, which from the stillness of its waters was called Morte-mer, or the Dead Sea, there were plenty of bears, besides boars and deer. Of course, from time to time the lord of the castle, William Longsword, whose father Rollo had come from over the seas to settle in Normandy, called his friends and his men round him, and had a great hunt, which lasted two or three days. Then everyone in the castle would be busy, some in taking off the skins of the animals and hanging them out to dry, before turning them into coverings for the beds or floors, or coats to wear in the long cold winter; while others cut up the meat and salted it, so that they might never lack food. In summer the skins were rolled up and put away, and instead rushes were cut from the neighbouring swamps—for around the Morte-mer not even rushes would grow—and silk hangings were hung from the walls or the ceilings, instead of deer skins, and occasionally a rough box planted with wild roses or honeysuckle might be seen standing in a corner of the great hall.

But when little Richard was not much more than a year old a dreadful thing happened to him. As often occurred in those days, duke William sent away his wife, Richard's mother, who was poor and low-born, in order to marry a noble lady called Liutgarda, whose father, the rich and powerful count of Vermandois, might be of use in the wars which William was always carrying on with somebody. Although Liutgarda had no children of her own, she hated Richard, and never rested till she had prevailed on her husband to send him away to the palace of Fécamp, where he was born. William, though fickle and even treacherous to his friends, was fond of his little boy, and for a long while he refused to listen to anything Liutgarda said; but when he was leaving home he suddenly bethought him that the child might be safer if he were removed from the hands of the duchess, so he pretended to agree to her proposal. Summoning before him the three men in whom he had most faith, Botho, count of Bayeux, Oslac, and Bernard the Dane, he placed Richard in their care, and bade them to take heed to the child and teach him what it was fitting he should learn.

We know little of Richard's early childhood, but it was probably passed in just the same manner as that of other young princes of his day. We may be sure that his guardians, all mighty men of valour, saw that he could sit a kicking horse and shoot straight at a mark. Besides these sports, Botho, who loved books himself, had him taught to read, and even to write—rare accomplishments in those times—and on the whole Richard was very happy, and never troubled himself about the future.

After eight years of this peaceful life a change came. Long before his guardians had been obliged to leave him, and others, chosen by William with equal care, had taken their place. One morning the boy came in from spending an hour at shooting at a mark, and ran up proudly to tell his old tutor, who was sitting in the hall, that he had eight times hit the very centre of the target, and that his hand shook so from pulling his bow that he was sure he could not guide his reed pen that day.

'Say you so?' answered the old man, smiling, for he knew the heart of a boy, 'well, there is something else for you to do. Your father, Richard,' he continued, his face growing grave, 'is very ill, and has sent to fetch you to him.'

'My father!' said Richard, his face flushing with excitement at the prospect of a journey, 'where is he? Where am I to go? And who will take me? Is he at Rouen?'

'No, at Chévilly, and we start in an hour, after we have dined, and I will take you myself,' was the answer; and Richard hastened away, full of importance, to make his preparations. He was not at all a hard-hearted little boy, but he had not seen his father for four years, and remembered little about him.

William Longsword was lying in his bed when Richard entered the small dark room, only lighted by two blazing torches, and by a patch of moonlight which fell on the rush-strewn stone floor. In the shadow stood three men, and as the boy glanced at them he made a spring towards one and held out his hands.

'Ah, he loves you better than me, Botho,' gasped William in a hoarse voice, between the stabs of pain that darted through his lungs. 'Take off his clothes, and let us see if his body is straight and strong as that of a duke of Normandy should be.' Yes, he was tall and straight-limbed enough, there was no doubt of that! His skin was fair, as became one of the Viking race, and his eyes were blue and his hair shone like gold. His father looked at him with pride, but all he said was:

'Listen to me, boy! My life is nearly done, but I am so weary that I cannot even wait till it is over before giving up my ducal crown to you. I have done many ill deeds, but my people have loved me, for I have defended the poor and given justice to all. I can say no more now; take his hands in yours and swear!' Then the three men clad in armour knelt before the boy, and one by one, taking his hands in theirs, they swore the oath of obedience. The duke watched eagerly, and when the ceremony was over he motioned them all to leave him, murmuring in a low voice, 'To-morrow.'

The following day William was a little better. He had taken the first step towards Richard's inauguration as duke of Normandy, and his mind was more at ease. The ceremony itself was to take place on Whit-Sunday, May 29, 942, and was to be held at Bayeux, where the boy was to live. For the duke wished his son to be brought up in the full knowledge of the Danish language and customs, and Bayeux was the one city in the whole of Normandy where the old tongue was spoken and the pagan religion prevailed. At the same time he was to learn the best French of the day, that of the court of the king Louis d'Outre Mer—Louis from Beyond the Seas—and to be properly educated in the Christian faith. To this end no man was so suitable as Richard's former tutor, Botho, count of Bayeux, a man of renown both as a scholar and a warrior, and who, though a Dane by birth, had become a Christian and had adopted French ways.

By slow stages William made the journey to Bayeux, his son riding by the side of his tutor, chattering merrily all the way. In obedience to his summons, all the nobles and chieftains from Normandy and Brittany were assembled there, and met him on the day appointed in the great hall of the castle. In spite of his illness, from which he had by no means recovered, William was a splendid figure as he sat on a carved chair placed on the dais, with the ducal crown upon his head, and looked down on the stalwart men gathered before him. By his side stood Richard in a green tunic, a small copy of his father, and he faced them with a smile in his eyes, till their hearts went out to him. Amidst a dead silence, William rose to his feet.

'I cannot speak much,' he said, 'for I have been sick unto death, but I have brought here my young son, to bid you accept him as your duke in my stead, and to tell you the plans I have made for his guidance, while he is still a boy. He will live here at Bayeux, and will learn the lore of his forefathers, and three good men and true, Botho, Oslac, and Bernard the Dane, have the care of him, as before in his early years. Besides them, seven other nobles will give counsel. This is my wish. Will you swear to abide by it, and to take the oath of fealty to your new duke?'

'We swear,' they cried with one voice, and then each man in turn took Richard's hand in his, and did homage. Then father and son bid each other farewell, for William must needs go on other business.

After this wonderful scene, in which he had played so important a part, life felt for a while somewhat tame to Richard, and at first he was rather inclined to give himself airs of authority and to refuse obedience to Botho. The count of Bayeux was not, however, a person to put up with behaviour of this sort, and in a short time Richard was learning his lessons and shooting and fishing as diligently as before. But this state of things did not last long. One evening a man-at-arms rode up on a tired horse and demanded speech of Bernard the Dane. It was a sad story he had to tell; duke William had been bidden, as all men already knew, on a certain day to meet king Louis at Attigny, in order to answer some charges of murder which had been made against him. It was the custom to allow three days of grace on account of the accidents that were apt to befall travellers in those rough times, but the appointed hour was past when William rode up to the castle, and found the door closed against him. Furious at being shut out, he ordered his men to force an entrance, and, striding up to the dais, dragged his enemy Otho of Germany from the throne by the side of the king, and beat him soundly. Of course, such an insult to the ally of the king of France could not be passed over, but instead of punishing it openly, William was entrapped into going to an island in the middle of the river, and there murdered.

At this news all Normandy was in an uproar, for, as has been said, William's subjects loved him well and grieved for him deeply; and by none was he more sorely mourned than by his cast-off wife Espriota, who had for these few past months been living near her son, and had seen him occasionally. But this was now at an end, for Richard was at once removed by his guardians to the palace of Rouen, there to attend his father's burial and his own coronation, which was in its way as important an event as that of the king of France, who had but little territory or power in comparison with some of his great nobles.

When the young duke reached Rouen he found that his father's body had been removed from the palace whither it had been taken after his murder, and was lying in state in the cathedral of Notre Dame, with the famous long sword, from which he had gained his nickname, on his breast. The grave had been dug close by, opposite to his father Rollo's, the first duke and conqueror of Normandy, and beside it was an empty place, where Richard guessed that he would some day rest. The cathedral was crowded that morning, and many thoughts of love and pity were given, not only to the dead man, but to the fair-haired boy of nine who stood by the bier, not overcome with grief for the father whom he had scarcely seen, but awed and a little bewildered at what would be expected of him. All through the long service Richard stood still, now and then gazing wonderingly at the multitude which filled the body of the cathedral. Then, after the coffin had been lowered into the grave, the great doors were thrown open, and he was led forward by Bernard and presented to his subjects, Normans, Bretons, and Danes, who welcomed him with a shout. The priest next came slowly down the chancel, and Richard, kneeling before him, received his blessing, and swore as far as in him lay to preserve peace to the Church and to the people, to put down tyranny, and to rule justly. Rising to his feet, the ring of sovereignty was put on his finger and the sword of government buckled to his side; then, taking his stand before the sacred shrine, the book of the Gospels being held by a priest on his left hand, and the Holy Rood or Cross by another on his right, he waited for the chiefs and nobles to take the oath of loyalty to him.

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Now it was plain to all men that troubles were nigh at hand for the duchy. 'Woe to the land whose king is a child' it is written in Scripture, and Richard's wise councillors knew full well what they might expect from king Louis. They met together the night after the funeral, when the little duke, worn out by all he had gone through, was fast asleep, and consulted together how they could get the better of king Louis, and at last they decided that they would escort Richard without delay to Compiègne, where the king then was, and induce Louis to invest him at once with the duchy. No time was lost in putting this plan into execution; but even Norman cleverness was no match for the wiliness of the king. Blinded by their kind reception and by flattering words, they awoke one day to find that they had taken the oath of fealty to Louis as their immediate overlord, and thus it was he, and not Richard, whom they were bound to obey. Deeply ashamed of themselves, they returned with their charge to Rouen; but during their short absence the Danish party, headed by Thermod, had obtained the upper hand, and soon got possession of Richard himself, even persuading the boy to renounce Christianity and declare himself a pagan. This of course gave the chance for which Louis had been hoping. It was, he said, a duty he owed both to the Church and to Richard to put a stop to such backsliding, and forthwith he marched straight to the capital. After several skirmishes, in one of which Thermod the Dane was killed, Louis entered Rouen as a conqueror, and under pretext of protection took Richard into his own custody, and proceeded to administer the laws.

Perhaps if Louis from Beyond the Seas had been brought up in France he would have known better the sort of people he had to deal with; but when he was a little child his mother had been forced to fly with him to the court of his grandfather Athelstan, where he had grown up, learning many things, but not much of his subjects, several of whom were far more powerful than he. To these Normans, or Northmen of Danish blood, and to the Bretons, who were akin to the Welsh, the king of France, though nominally their sovereign, was really as much a foreigner as Otho of Germany. He was not going to rule them, and that he would soon find out! So one day they appeared before the palace and demanded their duke, and as he was not given up to them they broke into open revolt, and not only gained possession of Richard, but made Louis himself prisoner. In this manner the tables were turned: Richard was once more duke in his own duchy, and Louis was kept in strict confinement till he swore to Bernard the Dane to restore to Normandy the rights which had been forfeited at Compiègne. But even so the boy's guardians had not learned wisdom, for in spite of what had happened before they were persuaded by Louis on some slight pretext to allow him to carry Richard back to the royal town of Laon, and once there he was instantly placed, with Osmond a Norman noble, under arrest in the tower.

By this time, 944, Richard was eleven years old, and the strange life he had led since his father died had ripened him early. On many occasions when his life had been in peril he had shown not only great courage but self-control beyond his age. Danger he delighted in, it only excited him; but in the tower of Laon time hung heavy on his hands, for he was forbidden to go outside the walls, and he was growing weak and languid from want of exercise. Great, therefore, was his delight when one morning at the hour that Louis sat in judgment on the cases brought by his people, his guardian Osmond came to tell him that he had two horses standing at a small gate at the back of the courtyard, and would take him out for a day's hawking.

'How delicious!' cried Richard, springing up out of the deep seat of the window, from which he had been looking longingly over the country. 'Has the king given leave, then, or shall we go without it?'

'Without it,' answered Osmond with rather an odd smile. 'It may not reach his ears, or if it does he can hardly slay us for it.'

'Oh, never mind!' said Richard again, 'what matters it? I would give twenty lives for a good gallop once more,' and following Osmond down the winding staircase, they reached the postern door unseen. The autumn evening was fast closing in when they returned, Richard full of excitement and pleasure over his day's sport. Osmond, however, was not quite so light-hearted. He knew that he had done wrong in tempting the boy out, and he feared the consequences. Well he might! The wrath of Louis was fearful at finding that his birds had flown, and messengers had been sent in all directions to capture them. In his anger he threatened to kill them both, and his rash words were carried far and wide; but, as Osmond knew, he dared not for his own sake carry out his threat, though he could and did make their captivity even more irksome than before, and much they needed the constant prayers offered up for them in Rouen. Things would have been still worse than they were had not Osmond, fortunately, been a man of some learning, and for some hours every day he taught the young duke all he knew. By and bye the severity of the rule was slightly relaxed, and Richard was bidden to perform the duties of a page, and wait at dinner on Louis and his queen Gerberga. This on the whole pleased Richard, though he felt that he ought to consider it an outrage to his dignity; but at any rate it was a change, and it showed him something of the life of courts, though, as matters were, it did not seem very likely that he would ever govern one!

The weather was very wet, and the rain stood in great pools about the courtyard and in the country outside the castle. The damp told upon Richard's health, which had already been weakened by his long captivity, and at last he was too ill to rise from his bed. Osmond nursed him carefully, and by the king's order better food was given him, so that he soon began to show signs of mending; but his guardian was careful that he should not get well too soon, for he had made a plan of escape, and the more the boy was believed incapable of moving the less he would be watched, and the easier it would be to carry out. So when the seneschal of the castle or the king's steward came to make inquiries for the noble prisoner, Richard would turn his head slowly and languidly, and answer the questions put to him in a soft, tired voice.

'The young duke looks in ill case,' the man would report, 'and I misdoubt me'—and then he would stop and shake his head, while the king nodded in answer. Such was the state of affairs when one day it was announced that a huge banquet would be held in the castle of Laon, at which the queen would be present. Great preparations were made in the courtyard, and cooks and scullions and serving-men kept running to and fro. Richard spent all his time at the window, watching the excitement, but on the morning of the feast, when the seneschal paid his daily visit, he was lying on the bed, hardly able to answer, as it seemed, the questions put to him.

'To-night is our time,' said Osmond when they were once more alone.

'Time for what?' asked Richard, who had obeyed, without knowing why, the orders of his guardian to appear more ill than ever.

'Our time to escape from this den of thieves,' replied Osmond. 'I would not tell you before, for the eyes of Raoul the seneschal are sharp, and I feared lest yours should be brighter than need be. But eat well of what is set before you, for you will want all your strength.'

'But how shall we pass the sentries?' asked Richard again.

'Ah, how?' said Osmond, laughing. 'Never puzzle your brain, but what has been done once can be done twice'; and that was all he would tell him.

Hours were earlier then than now, and by seven o'clock there was not a creature to be seen in the passages or before the gates, for all who had not been bidden to the banquet were amusing themselves in the guard-room, quite safe from any detection by their masters. Then Osmond, wrapped in a thick cloak, beckoned to Richard, and they crept across the courtyard, most of which lay in shadow, till they reached the barn where the hay was kept. There Osmond took down a large truss, and tying it securely round Richard hoisted the bundle on to his back.

'Whatever happens, make no noise,' he whispered hurriedly, and stepped out into the moonlight that lay between the barn and the stables. Here was the only danger, for he might be spied by one of the men in the guardroom, and even be stopped if he or his bundle looked suspicious. A voice from behind gave him such a start that he almost dropped his hay; but the man was too drunk to see clearly, and a timely jest satisfied him that Osmond was an old comrade, and was only doing the work of a friend who was too busy feeding himself to have leisure to think of his horses. His heart still beating high, Osmond reached the stable, and, choosing a lean black horse, he put on it both saddle and bridle, and led it out by a side door, which opened out on a dark muddy street. Rapidly he cut with his hunting knife the rope which had bound the hay, and flung it into a corner.

'You must sit in front of me,' he said, lifting Richard on to the saddle. Then, jumping up behind him, he wrapt his big cloak round the boy, till nothing could be seen of him. Carefully they went till the town was passed, when Osmond shook the reins, and the horse bounded away in the night.

'Where are we going?' asked Richard at last, after they had ridden for several miles.

'To Couci,' answered Osmond, 'and there I will leave you in safety with a friend of your father's, while I will get a fresh horse and ride on to your great uncle count Bernard at Senlis.'

Fierce was the wrath of the king when the seneschal awoke him early next morning with the news that Richard's room in the tower was empty, and that both Osmond and the horse Fierbras were gone.

'But how—how did he do it?' asked the king, when he had somewhat recovered the power of speech. 'For none could reach the stable without passing first under the windows of the guardroom, and besides the moon was at the full, and a man and a boy would be noted by all the sentries?'

'Yes, my lord, doubtless,' replied the trembling seneschal; 'and truly a man was seen and challenged by one of the soldiers, but no boy was with him. He was going to feed the horses, and he had on his back a truss of hay.'

'Ah!' exclaimed the king, starting to his feet, and fell to silence, for through the years there came to him the remembrance of how his mother Ogiva had borne him out of reach of his enemies in a truss of hay. Truly, what had been done once could be done twice, as Osmond the Norman had said!

Now, as has been told, there were several nobles in France much more powerful than the king, and of these the greatest was Hugh le Grand, father of the celebrated Hugh Capet from whom all the French kings traced their descent. Him Bernard count of Senlis sought, and implored his aid on behalf of Richard, which Hugh readily promised; but the compact did not last long, for when Louis offered him half of Normandy as a bribe, Hugh abandoned Richard's cause, and made ready for the invasion of the duchy. Bernard turned white with rage when he learnt what had happened, but he did not waste words, and after going to Rouen in order to consult with Bernard the Dane, a swift little ship sailed down the Seine and steered for the coast of Denmark. At the same time a messenger was secretly sent to Paris, where Richard was in hiding, and by night he was brought down the Seine and into Rouen. Three weeks later a fleet with Viking prows, commanded by the famous warrior Harold Blue-tooth, appeared off the Norman coasts and lay at anchor in a quiet bay, till the men they carried were needed. Not many hours later a watchman on one of the towers perceived a large army approaching from the north-east. When within a mile of the city, it halted, and a herald was sent out, summoning the duke to surrender, in the name of the king his sovereign lord. Instead of the duke, Bernard the Dane came forth to speak with him, and bade him return to his master and tell him the only conditions on which the gates would be opened. They were not hard, but chief amongst them was the stipulation that Louis should enter attended only by his pages, and that his army should remain outside. So well did Bernard act, that he not only contrived to set at rest Louis' suspicions of himself by paying him all the honour possible, but when he was safe in the palace contrived to instil into his mind doubts of Hugh, till the king agreed to break the alliance between them. After he had accomplished this, Bernard threw off the mask, and bade Harold Blue-tooth march from Cherbourg and join the Normans in an attack on the French, who were easily defeated. Harold's next step was to take possession of the duchy on behalf of Richard, but, instead of remaining in it himself as the real governor, merely assisted the Normans to obtain the freedom of their country from the captive king. At a meeting between Louis, Hugh and Richard on the banks of the Epte, the king was forced to surrender the rights he had illegally assumed, and Normandy was declared independent. Then they all went their ways, Louis to Laon, which had undergone a siege from Hugh, and Harold to Denmark, while grand preparations were made for the state entry of Richard into Rouen.

Crowds lined the streets through which Richard was to pass, and from the city gate to the cathedral the whole multitude was chattering and trembling with excitement. After many false alarms the banner of Normandy was seen in the distance framed in the doorway, while brightly polished armour glittered in the sun. A little in advance of his guardians rode Richard on a white horse, prouder of wearing for the first time a coat of mail and a helmet than even of taking possession of his duchy and receiving the homage of his subjects. He was barely thirteen, tall for his age, handsome, with a kind heart and pleasant manners. He had more book-learning, too, than was common with princes of his time, and on wet days could amuse himself with chess, or in reading some of the scrolls laid up in his palace of Rouen. Young though he was, his life had been passed in a hard school, and already he was skilled in judging men, and cautious how he trusted them.

Through the streets he rode smiling, winning as he went the love which was to stand by him to the end of his long life. At the west door of the cathedral he dismounted, and, unfastening his helmet, walked, amid cries of 'Long live Richard our Duke,' 'Hail to the Duke of Normandy', straight up to the High Altar. There he knelt and prayed, while the shouting multitudes held their peace reverently. Then at length he rose from his knees and turned and faced them.

'Four years ago,' he said, 'you swore oaths of loyalty to me, and now I swear them to you. In war and in peace we will stand together, and with my people by my side I am afraid of nobody. From over the seas the fathers of many of you came with my fathers, but whether you be Bretons, Normans, or Danes, I love you all, and will deal out justice to all of you.'

'Bretons, Normans, and Danes are we,

'But of us all Danes in our welcome to thee'

was their answer.

FREDERICK AND WILHELMINE

It is often very hard to believe that grown-up people were ever little children who played with dolls or spun tops, and felt that they could never be happy again when the rain came pouring down and prevented them from going to a picnic, or having the row on the lake which had been promised them as a birthday treat.

Frederick the Great, the famous king of Prussia, would have played if he could in his childhood, and if his father would have let him. But, unfortunately for Frederick and his elder sister Wilhelmine, and indeed for all the other little princes and princesses, the king of Prussia thought that time spent in games was time wasted, and when, in 1713, he succeeded his old father, everything in the kingdom was turned upside down. Some of his reforms were very wise, some only very meddlesome, as when he forbade the applewomen to sit at their stalls in the market unless they had knitting in their hands, or created an order of Wig Inspectors, who had leave to snatch the wigs off the heads of the passers-by, so as to make sure they bore the government stamp showing that the wigs had paid duty. Another of the king's fancies was to allow only the plainest food to be cooked in the palace, while he refused to permit even the queen to have any hangings that attracted dust. For this second king of Prussia was very clean, in days when washing was thought dangerous, and all through his life he frequently accuses the crown prince Frederick of being dirty.

But king Frederick William's real passion was soldiering. He had served in the Netherlands under Marlborough and prince Eugene when he was a mere boy, and the roar of the guns sounded always in his ears, as his poor little son found to his cost. Unlike other kings, who were always dressed in the finest silks and brocades, Frederick William wore a uniform of blue, with red collar and cuffs, while his breeches and waistcoat were of buff. By his side hung his sword, and in his hand he carried a cane, which he did not scruple to use on the head of any man whom he caught idling in the streets. Most of his spare moments were spent in drilling his soldiers, and he took particular delight in a regiment of Potsdam Guards, formed of the tallest men that could be found, either in Prussia or elsewhere. To his great delight, the Tsar Peter the Great sent him, in the year 1717, a hundred and fifty giants, from seven to eight feet high, in return for the hospitality he had received from the court of Berlin; and every autumn a certain number were regularly expected. The foolish king never guessed that these poor creatures had not half the strength of men of ordinary size, and would never be able to stand the hardships of war. The regiment was his pride, and if he could not enlist soldiers for it by fair means, he would do so by foul. There is a story of a very tall young carpenter, whom the king heard of as living in the town, and was of course very anxious to recruit. So two of his ministers went to the shop, and ordered a coffin of a special length. The carpenter inquired the name of the house to which it was to be sent, but the gentlemen answered that they would call that evening and see it for themselves. About dusk they appeared with some men in attendance, and were shown into the workshop, where the long black thing lay on the ground, with its lid leaning against the wall close by.

'You have made it much too short,' exclaimed one of the gentlemen.

'Six feet six inches was the length you said, sir?' replied the carpenter.

'Yes; but that does not measure more than six feet four! You will have to make another.'

'Pardon me, sir,' answered the young man. 'You will find that the full length. I know, for it is just my height'; and so saying he laid himself in the coffin. In an instant the lid was placed upon it and fastened down, and the coffin carried off by the attendants to a safe place. There the screws were undone and the lid lifted, but the man within did not stir.

'Here, get up, my good fellow,' cried one of the gentlemen; but there was no answer.

'He has fainted,' said someone uneasily, 'he wants a taste of brandy'; but when the brandy was brought he could not swallow it. What had happened was plain: the carpenter had died from want of air.

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It would have been much happier both for little Fritz and Wilhelmine his sister if the drilling of the army had entirely occupied king Frederick William's time and thoughts; but, unluckily, he felt it to be his duty to lay down rules for the daily life of the crown prince. When he was six, and still in the hands of governesses, a regiment consisting of a hundred little boys was formed, of which Fritz was the captain, and a real colonel commander-in-chief. They were all dressed in a uniform of blue with red facings, and wore cocked hats, and for two years were drilled by a youth of seventeen, till Fritz had learnt his drill properly, and could really command them himself. When this event took place he had already been about a year under three tutors—Duhan (who always remained his friend); von Finkenstein, and Kalkstein; while an old soldier named Von Senning, who had served in Marlborough's wars, taught him fortifications and mathematics.

For of course the king's one idea was to make the crown prince follow in his own footsteps, and to that end he must be strong and hardy. When Frederick William went out to hunt, or to review his troops, the boy was either galloping behind him or seated with a dozen men astride a long pole on wheels, on which it was very difficult to keep your seat when jolting over a rough country. Beer soup was his chief food, whether he liked it or not; and if the king had had his way the child would have been cut off with very little sleep; but this, happily, the doctors would not suffer. As to his lessons, Fritz was to learn all history, especially the history of Brandenburg, and of England and Brunswick—countries which were connected with his illustrious house; French and German, but no Latin; arithmetic, geography, economy 'to the roots,' a little ancient history, and something of the laws of every kingdom. To these strategy and fortification were shortly added; 'For,' writes the king, 'there is nothing which can bring a prince so much honour as the sword, and he would be despised of all men if he did not love it and seek his sole glory in it.' Fritz's religious duties were also strictly attended to, and he was to be brought up a Protestant. 'Every morning (except Sunday) he is to get up at 6 o'clock,' writes his father, 'and after saying his prayers he is to wash his face and hands, but not with soap.' This sounds rather odd, as the king was so particular as to cleanliness, and we are told that he washed himself five times a day. But most likely he was afraid of the expense, for at eleven, when his son appears in his presence, the boy is expressly ordered to 'wash his face with water, and his hands with soap and water, and to put on a clean shirt.' The third washing of hands took place at five, but on this occasion soap is not mentioned.

It must have been very difficult to have been as 'clean and neat' as Frederick William required in the few minutes he allowed to his son for dressing himself—for as soon as possible Fritz was taught to do without help. To begin with, however, a valet combed out his hair, and tied it into a pig-tail or 'queue' with a piece of tape, but no powder was put on till his morning lessons were over. This must have been a comfort, considering he was to eat his breakfast and drink his tea while the hair-dressing was going on, and that by half-past six everything was to be finished. From eleven to two he remained with the king, amusing himself—if he could—and dining with his Majesty at twelve o'clock. At two his afternoon lessons began, and lasted till five, when he was permitted to go out and ride. He also had half holidays, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when his morning's work was over, provided that his 'repetition' had been satisfactory; and these free hours we may be sure that Fritz spent with his sister Wilhelmine, who, though three years older, was always his loyal companion and friend. Poor little princess, she was small for her age and very delicate, and in years to come she suffered almost as much as Fritz from the harsh treatment both of her father and mother; but do what they might, nothing could break her spirit, or force her to betray her brother's confidence. Wilhelmine was a pretty child, and could use her eyes as well as her tongue. She was also a very good mimic, and could even pretend to faint so cleverly that she frightened those about her so much that the doctor would be sent for to see if she was really dead. This, of course, was exactly what the naughty girl wanted, and the more she took them all in the better she was pleased. No one could be more agreeable than Wilhelmine when she chose, but she was very vain, and it was therefore easy to wound her feelings. When she was nine years old she had a sharp illness, from which she was not expected to recover. At length, however, she took a turn for the better; and the first thing she did was to beg the king to allow her to wear grown-up dresses, and to put on the mantle which in those days meant that a young lady had 'come out.' Her interest in her new clothes did as much to cure her as the medical treatment of the time, which was so severe that it was a miracle that anyone ever lived through it; and as soon as she could stand she ordered her maids to dress her hair high over a cushion, and to put on her gown of white silk heavy with embroidery, and the much coveted purple velvet mantle.

'I looked at myself in the mirror,' she writes in her memoirs, 'and decided that they really became me wonderfully well. I next practised moving and walking, so that I might play the part of a great lady. Then I entered the queen's apartments, but unluckily, directly her Majesty saw me she burst out laughing, and exclaimed: "Good gracious, what a figure! Why she looks like a little dwarf."' Perhaps the queen's remarks were true; but, none the less, the little girl's feelings were deeply wounded. The two children were very much afraid of the king, and never scrupled to deceive him whenever it was possible. As they grew older, Wilhelmine encouraged her brother in all kinds of disobedience, especially in playing the flute, which his father hated, and in reading and studying French books, which were likewise forbidden. The king wanted him to be a German and a soldier, and nothing more; but to the end of his life Fritz could neither spell nor write his own language properly. The breach thus early made grew always wider by reason of the vexed question of the marriage of both Fritz and Wilhelmine.

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The princess Wilhelmine was still in the long clothes of a tiny baby when her mother, like many mothers, began to dream of her future. She was to be beautiful and clever and charming, and she must marry a prince as beautiful and clever and charming as herself, and who could he be but the queen's own nephew, son of her brother, George, prince of Hanover, a boy just two years older than Wilhelmine, and known to us later as the duke of Gloucester, then as the duke of Edinburgh, and lastly as Frederick prince of Wales? And when, on a snowy January day of 1712, the little crown prince entered the world, there was another child to plan for, and was there not a small princess called Emily or Amelia, a newcomer like himself, who would make a suitable bride, say eighteen years hence, for the king of Prussia one day to be? The princess of Hanover, Caroline of Anspach, was written to, and declared that she was delighted to think that some day the bonds already uniting the two countries should be drawn closer still; so the children sent each other presents and pretty notes, and sometimes messages in their mothers' letters when they were too lazy to write for themselves.

Now, in spite of all this, Fritz did not trouble his head much as to the future; the present, he soon found, was quite difficult enough, and besides, he thought much more about his flute—which he was forbidden to play—than about Amelia. But Wilhelmine, who passed most of her time in the palace of Wustershausen, a big castle twenty miles from Berlin, had plenty of time to brood over her coming greatness. Often she was alone there with her governess; but in the summer Fritz and his tutors spent some months at the castle also, and the boy would remain for hours in the day watching for strangers to cross the bridge that spanned the moat.

'You never can tell,' he said to Wilhelmine, 'whether they will be most frightened at the four eagles' (there were two black and two white) 'swirling about their heads, or at the black bears which come tumbling towards them! It is always one or the other, and sometimes it is both; and, anyhow, it is great fun.'

But in the year 1727, when Fritz was fifteen, these pleasant things came to an end. No more Wustershausen or Berlin; no more talks with his sister in the childish language they had invented for themselves, no more fishing expeditions to the ponds in the sandy moor that surrounded the palace. The crown prince was major now of the Potsdam Grenadiers, and we may be quite sure that the king never suffered him to neglect his work. Dressed in a smart uniform covered with gold lace, he was to be seen at every muster and every review, leading his men; but, even now, the boy who, thirty years later, was to prove one of the three greatest generals of his century, had no love for war, and would hurry back to Potsdam to exchange his uniform for a loose dressing-gown, and the duties of drilling for a practice on the flute. In this year, too, an event happened which had a great influence on the home life of both Fritz and his sister. This was the sudden death of George I. on his way to Hanover, without his having obtained the consent of Parliament to the Double-Marriage Treaty, which the queen of Prussia, Sophia Dorothea, had hoped to have obtained four years earlier. The new king of England, George II., had no particular love for his brother-in-law of Prussia, and for his part Frederick William, though at that time he desired the marriages quite as much as his wife, amply returned his feelings. At length the repeated delays drove him nearly out of his mind with fury, and he vented his anger on the queen (who would have suffered any humiliation rather than give up her project) and on the prince and princess. Henceforth the life of the royal family was made up of violence on the one part and deceit on the other. People began to take 'sides,' and the quarrel between father and son grew worse daily.

It was to keep him under his own eye, and not in the least to give him pleasure, that, in 1728, Frederick William bade Fritz accompany him to Dresden on a visit to August the Strong, elector of Saxony and king of Poland, and even gave him leave to order a blue coat trimmed with gold lace for himself, and six new liveries for his attendants. The crown prince, who was only now sixteen, must have felt that he had indeed entered into another world, when he contrasted the Saxon court, with its splendid surroundings and incessant amusements, with the bare rooms and coarse food of the palace of Berlin. Other comparisons might be made, and Fritz did not fail to make them. Here he was treated as a welcome guest, and as a person of importance, while at home he was scolded and worried from morning till night. So, instead of the silent, sulky boy Frederick William was accustomed to see about him, there appeared a gracious, smiling young prince, with a pleasant word for everyone, enjoying all the pleasures provided for him, the opera most of all.

---

On his return to Berlin, Fritz fell suddenly ill, and for a while there seemed to be a chance of reconciliation between him and his father. But this reconciliation did not last, and the prince had, or pretended to have, a relapse, in order to avoid going with his father on a tour through Prussia. But, ill or well, he could not escape from the rules the king laid down for him, and they were as strict now as they had been nine years before. A lesson on tactics was to occupy two hours every morning, after which, at noon, he was to dine in company with his tutors major Senning and Colonel von Kalkstein, and the master of the kitchen as well, which sounds rather strange to us. He might, however, invite six friends of his own, and dine or have supper with them in return; but he was always to sleep in the palace, and 'to go to bed the instant the retreat sounded.' Then the king went away, sure that everything would go on to his liking.

But no sooner had he turned his back on Berlin than a sort of holiday spirit took possession of the palace. 'We were perfectly happy,' writes Wilhelmine, in her memoirs, and there was no reason that they should ever have been anything else, as the 'happiness' mainly consisted in hearing as much music as they wished for, and for Fritz in also playing the flute. From this instrument, which was fated to bring him into so much trouble, the crown prince never parted, and even when hunting with his father he would contrive to lose himself, and hiding behind a large tree or crouching in a thicket, he would play some of the tunes which so delighted his soul. During this memorable month, when the 'days passed quietly,' the queen gave concerts, aided by famous musicians, Bufardin, the flutist, and Quantz, who was not only a performer but a composer, and others who were celebrated at the Saxon court (whence they came at the queen's request) for their skill on spinet or violin. All this, however, ceased on the reappearance of the king at Wustershausen, and matters fell back into their old grooves: on one side there was suspicion and tyranny, on the other lies and intrigues. Fritz tried to break away from it all by persuading Kalkstein to ask his father's permission to travel in foreign countries. But Frederick William absolutely refused to let his son quit Prussia, and things were worse than they need have been, owing to the smallness of the house where they were all shut up together. Certainly never had a father and son more different tastes.

'To-morrow I am obliged to hunt, and on Monday I am obliged to hunt again,' writes Fritz. He is bored by the court jests and jesters, as well as by the king's guests. As for the days, they seemed perfectly endless, and well they might, seeing that it was no uncommon thing for him to get up at five and go to bed at midnight! No wonder he exclaimed 'I had rather beg my bread than live any longer on this footing.' Once again Fritz made an effort after a better state of things, and wrote to his father to apologise for any offence he might unwittingly have committed, and to assure him of his respectful duty. He had perhaps been wiser to have let ill alone, for the king only replied by taunts of his 'girlishness,' and hatred of everything manly—which is all rather funny, when we remember that the object of these reproaches was Frederick the Great—and in general was so unkind and unjust, that both Kalkstein and the other tutor Finkenstein resigned in disgust.

During this same autumn the discussion about the two English marriages was re-opened. As regards the king, he was as anxious as the queen for that of Wilhelmine with the prince of Wales, but, unlike her, he considered Fritz too young and unsteady to take to himself a wife. This did not please king George at all, and in answer to a letter from Sophia Dorothea, queen Caroline wrote that both marriages must take place—or neither. This reply put Frederick William in a towering passion. Wilhelmine should marry somebody, he said, and that at once. She was nearly twenty now, and had five younger sisters for whom husbands would have to be found. Indeed, he was not at all sure he should not prefer the margrave of Schwedt for a son-in-law, than the stuck-up English prince! So he stormed; and meanwhile the queen, Wilhelmine, and Fritz kept up a secret correspondence with the court of St. James.

About this same year (1729) the crown prince made friends with one of the king's pages, Keith by name, and also with a certain lieutenant Katte. These two young men had the same tastes as himself, and were with him during all his leisure hours. When Fritz could escape from the hated reviews or hunts, in which he was forced to bear his father company, he would hurry back to his own apartments, throw off his tight uniform, slip on a dressing-gown of scarlet and gold brocade, and begin to play on his beloved flute. In his rooms he often found his teacher Quantz awaiting him, and then for a time his troubles were forgotten in the soothing tones of the great flutist. One day both master and pupil were practising together a difficult passage, when Katte rushed in breathless.

'The king is on the stairs,' he panted, snatching up flutes and music, and hiding them in the wood closet. In an instant Fritz had flung his dressing-gown behind a screen, and put on his coat; but he could not manage to tie his hair, which he had loosened, and which hung about his face, in a way that the king disliked. The confused bearing of all three naturally attracted Frederick William's attention, and, bursting into a fit of rage that rendered him almost speechless, he kicked down the screen in front of him. 'I knew it,' he shouted, catching up the dressing-gown, and thrusting it into the fire where he stamped it down with his heavy boot. Then, sweeping a pile of French novels from a little table, he thrust them into the arms of the gentleman-in-waiting, bidding him send them back at once to the bookseller; for even in his wrath the king did not forget to be economical.

After this affair father and son were on worse terms than ever. It was not at all an uncommon thing for Frederick William to throw plates at the heads of his children when they vexed him, and one evening, after dinner, as he was being pushed about in a wheel-chair during an attack of gout, he aimed a blow with his crutch at Wilhelmine. The girl sprang aside, and it fell harmless, but this only increased the king's fury, and he called to the attendants to push his chair quickly so that he might prevent her reaching the door. They dared not disobey, but contrived to find so many obstacles in the way that the princess was able to escape. As to Fritz, he was struck by his father almost daily, and on one occasion, about a month before the prince's eighteenth birthday, when the young man entered the room, his father leaped at his throat, dragged him by the hair, beat him violently with his stick, and forced him to kneel down and beg his pardon—for what offence the crown prince did not know! Not content with this, the king exulted in his son's misery, and even told him that worse was in store.

It is hardly wonderful that under these circumstances the prince felt that his life was in danger, and began to form plans of escape; but they were so badly laid and so transparent, that everybody could guess what was happening, and three or four times he was forced to give them up. His favourite project was to reach France and go next to London, where he was sure of protection, and in all this his principal confidant was his friend Katte. Early in July the king started for Potsdam, taking the crown prince with him. After remaining there a few days, he announced his intention of making a progress by way of Wesel, and this gave Fritz the idea that from Wesel he could gain Holland and cross to England. He managed to obtain a secret interview with Katte, and it was arranged that they should write to each other through a cousin of Katte's, of the same name, who was recruiting near Anspach, as they knew the king intended to stop at this city and visit his daughter who had married the margrave the year before.

The king spent a week at Anspach, during which time he was busy with the affairs of the young couple, whom it would have been much wiser to have left to themselves. Fritz meanwhile was fuming at the delay, but tried to turn it to account by gaining over the page Keith to his service. It was settled between them that young Keith should take advantage of his position to secure some horses, and the crown prince wrote to Katte that he was to go in a few days to the Hague and there inquire for a certain count d'Alberville—for under this name Fritz proposed to travel. Keith was ordered to join him there also, and from the Hague they would slip across almost before their absence was discovered. Unluckily all the hardships he had suffered had not yet turned Fritz into a man. Passionately though he longed to escape from his father's tyranny, he still expected life to be like the French novels he was so fond of, and from one of which the name of count d'Alberville was taken. So, instead of putting on an old suit of clothes, in which he might have passed unnoticed, he ordered a fine new red cloak for himself, and a blue one for young Keith, to wear on the great occasion.

From Anspach they went to visit the duke of Württemberg, and thence set out for Mannheim, where the elector palatine was awaiting them. Fritz had arranged to make his flight from a place called Sinsheim, but, to his dismay, the king announced that he meant to push on to Steinfurth, which was nearer Mannheim. The whole royal party slept in two barns, and more than once Fritz almost gave up his plan in despair, so impossible it seemed for him to steal away without waking somebody. However, they were very tired after their long day's journey, and slept soundly, all except Fritz's valet, Gummersbach, who, hearing a sound soon after two, awoke with a start to see the crown prince dressing himself.

'But your Royal Highness'——stammered Gummersbach, in surprise, rising to his feet.

'If I choose to get up it is no business of yours,' replied Fritz, in an angry whisper. 'Give me my red cloak, I am going to the king.' And he crept softly from the barn, never hearing Gummersbach's answer that the king intended to start at five instead of three. The valet said nothing, but hastened to wake Rochow, the prince's tutor, who was lying on some straw with all his clothes on.

'What is the matter?' cried he.

'Quick! quick! sir, the prince!' was all Gummersbach could answer, and without wasting time in questions Rochow rushed away in the direction of an open green space in front of the farm. Seeing in the dim light the outline of two heavy carriages, he altered his pace, and strolled carelessly up to young Keith, who was holding two horses.

'Whom are these for?' asked Rochow politely.

'They are for myself and the other page to accompany his Majesty,' answered the boy.

'Ah, yes, of course; but you should have been informed that his Majesty does not intend to start till five to-day, so you had better take them back to the stables.' And, unwilling though he was, Keith was forced to obey, especially as some of the generals in the king's suite had come on the scene, and advanced to one of the carriages against which Fritz was leaning.

'Can we be of any use to your Royal Highness?' asked Rochow respectfully; but, with an oath, the prince brushed him aside, and throwing off the red cloak that covered him, went straight to the place where his father was sleeping. He may have thought that the officers would say nothing in his presence, and indeed they were mostly on his side, and far from anxious to make things worse for him.

'Is it so late?' asked the king, who was still lying on the rough bed, wrapped in a large coat. 'Well, your carriage is heavier than mine, so you had better start early.'

The prince bowed and went out, but contrived to delay on one pretext or another, so that the king's own carriage was brought up first to the gate of the farm, and soon his Majesty was on the road to Mannheim. All the way the king expected to catch up his son, but even when Fritz was not found at Heidelberg he suspected nothing, and his only uneasiness was in the fear that the prince had entered Mannheim without him. When, however, he reached the city himself, at eight in the evening, and there was still no Fritz, he grew seriously disturbed, and to quiet him, the elector sent some of his servants to look for the crown prince. At half-past ten the whole party appeared, Fritz tired and very sulky, but as determined as ever not to remain a moment more than could be helped in his father's power. He had hoped for a chance of flight along the road, but none presented itself, and now he was resolved to begin all over again. Once more a message was sent to young Keith to be ready with the horses as soon as he received a signal, but the page was not cast in the same mould as his master. In mortal terror of his life, he threw himself at the king's feet, confessed the whole plot, and implored forgiveness. For once in his career Frederick William managed to control his temper; he would have his son closely watched, but he should not be arrested till he was on Prussian soil; yet all through the rest of the tour Fritz was well aware that someone had betrayed him. Immediately on their arrival at Wesel, the prince was put under arrest, and sent, without once being allowed to leave the travelling carriage, to the castle of Spandau, whence he was afterwards removed to Cüstrin. General Buddenbrock was appointed his gaoler, and ordered to shoot him dead in case of a rescue.

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And where was Wilhelmine all this time, and what was she doing? Well, she was at Berlin, still very weak and sickly from a bad attack of smallpox the year before, and the severity of the treatment which followed it. The king remained always fixed in his determination to find a husband for her; if not the prince of Wales, then the margrave of Schwedt, the margrave of Baireuth, who was young and agreeable, or, best of all, the duke of Weissenfeld, not so young, and perhaps not so agreeable, but the man most favoured by Frederick William. 'After all, marriage is not of such great importance,' said one of her ladies to the princess, in well-meant consolation. 'Nobody makes such a fuss about it elsewhere. A husband that you can turn and twist as you like is an excellent thing to have, and however angry the queen may be now, when once the thing is over she will make up her mind to it. So take my advice, and accept the hand of the duke of Weissenfeld, and you will please everybody.' But Wilhelmine did not agree with madame la Ramen. She knew too much about marriage to think that the choice of a husband mattered nothing, and she had not the slightest intention of sacrificing her whole life to the whims of her very changeable father. So she gave a vague answer to the earnest entreaties of madame la Ramen, and let the subject drop.

On the evening of August 11, the princess entered the palace from the garden, where she had passed several hours, feeling excited and melancholy by turns; why, she could not imagine, as everything was going on as usual. Therefore, she did not, as usual, go straight to her rooms, but instead, ordered a carriage and drove to Montbijou where a concert was taking place. In this way she missed the strange events that were happening in her mother's apartments. Let Wilhelmine tell her own story; it is a very surprising one:—-

'That night the queen was seated before her dressing-table having her hair brushed, with madame von Bülow beside her, when they heard a fearful noise in the next room. This room was used as a kind of museum, and was filled with precious stones and gems, and some very rare and tall Chinese and Japanese vases. Her Majesty thought at first that one of these vases must have been knocked over, and have been broken in pieces on the polished floor, and she bade madame la Ramen go and see who had done it, but, to her amazement, on entering the museum, the lady-in-waiting found everything undisturbed. Scarcely had she rejoined the queen when the noise began afresh, louder than before, and madame la Ramen ran back, accompanied by another of the queen's attendants, only to discover all in perfect order, and the room dark and still. Three times this occurred, and then the noise ceased in the museum altogether, to start again far more loudly in the corridor which led from the queen's apartments to those of the king. At each end of this corridor stood a sentinel, to prevent anyone passing but the servants on duty, so the disturbance was all the more strange.

"Bring lights, and we will pass down the corridor," said the queen to her ladies, and left her room, followed by all but madame la Ramen, who hid herself, in a great fright. But hardly had they stepped across the threshold when fearful groans and cries broke out around them. The ladies trembled at the sound, and the guards at each end were half-dead with fright; but the queen's calmness made them all ashamed, and when she ordered them to try the doors along the corridor, they obeyed in silence. Each door was locked, and when the key was turned and the room entered, it was empty. Her majesty then questioned the guards, who confessed that the groans had sounded close to them, but they had seen nothing, and with that she was forced to be content, and to return to her own apartments, rather angry at having been disturbed in vain. Next morning she told me the story, and though not in the least superstitious, ordered me to write down the date of the occurrence. I am quite sure that there must be some simple explanation, but it is curious that the affair happened during the very night that my brother was arrested, and a most painful scene between the king and queen afterwards took place in this very corridor.'

It was at a ball given by the queen at Montbijou, five days later, that she learned the terrible news. 'It was six years since I had danced,' says Wilhelmine, 'and I flung myself into it without paying attention to anything else, or to the repeated wishes of madame von Bülow, who told me it was time for me to go to bed.

'"Why are you so cross to-night?" I asked, at length; "I don't know what to make of you!"'

'"Look at the queen," she replied, "and you will be answered." I turned and looked, and grew cold and white at the sight of her, standing rigid in a corner of the ball-room between two of her ladies. In a moment more she bent her head and said good-night to her guests, then walked to her carriage, making a sign to me to follow her. Not a word did we utter all the way to the palace; I thought my brother must be dead, and in this terrible silence and uncertainty my heart began to palpitate so furiously that I felt as if I should be suffocated.'

For some time her ladies, under the queen's orders, refused to tell Wilhelmine what had happened, but seeing the poor girl was firmly convinced of the prince's death, madame von Sonsfeld informed her that letters had arrived from the king, stating that the crown prince had been arrested, as he was attempting to escape. Next day they learned that Katte also had been taken prisoner, but Keith cleverly managed to place himself under the protection of the English ambassador to the Hague, lord Chesterfield, and to pass over to England in his suite. When the shock of the news was passed, the first thought of both the queen and Wilhelmine was for the numerous letters they had written to the prince, in which they had said many bitter and imprudent things about the king's behaviour. Wilhelmine hoped they had been burned, as she had always bidden Fritz to do the moment he received them; but the queen feared that they might have been entrusted to Katte (as he was known to have in his care many of the prince's possessions), and in this case they must be got from him at all cost, or the crown prince's head would certainly pay forfeit. The queen was right: the letters were among Katte's papers, with the official seal placed upon them.

In this desperate plight, Sophia Dorothea threw herself upon the generosity of marshal Natzmar, Katte's superior. No direct answer was received, and the queen and Wilhelmine were almost ill with anxiety, when, one day, when the princess was alone with madame von Sonsfeld, the countess von Fink entered bearing a heavy portfolio.

'It is most mysterious,' said she, sinking into a chair with her burden; 'when I went into my room last night I found this great portfolio, with a chain and seals round it, addressed to the queen, and this note for you, madame. As I did not like to disturb her Majesty I have brought them to you.'

Wilhelmine's heart beat with excitement, but she dared not betray herself. She took the note quietly, and read its contents, which were very short. 'Have the goodness, madame, to deliver this portfolio to the queen. It contains the letters which she and the princess have written to the crown prince.'

Carrying the portfolio, and grumbling all the while as to the unknown risks she might be running, countess von Fink followed Wilhelmine and madame von Sonsfeld into the presence of the queen, whose joy was boundless on receiving the precious letters. But in a few minutes her face clouded over again, as she perceived that many difficulties still lay before her. First, there were the spies by whom the king had surrounded them; they would at once detect the absence of so large an object. Then there was the danger that Katte would mention the letters in the cross-examination he would have to undergo, and once their existence was known, and madame von Fink questioned, the prince's cause was lost, and his mother and sister might have to undergo imprisonment for life. What could be done? All day long plan after plan was thought of and rejected, but at length it was Wilhelmine who hit upon one that might do. The portfolio was openly to lie in the queen's apartments as if it had been brought to her for safe custody, and then, with great precautions, the seal could be raised without breaking it, and the chain filed through where it could easily be joined again. Then the letters could be taken out, and others, quite harmless, written and put back in their place. Clever though it all sounded, it would have been impossible to carry out the scheme had it not been for a most lucky accident which had befallen the queen's confidential valet Bock, who was called in to raise the seal. On examining the coat-of-arms on the wax he recognised it as the same engraved on a seal he had picked up four weeks earlier in the garden at Montbijou, and which, he now discovered, belonged to Katte. By this means the wax could be broken and re-sealed without the slightest risk.

The letters were now in the hands of the queen and princess, and were to the full as dangerous as they had expected to find them; but there was no time to spare for lamenting their folly if they were to have others ready to await the king on his return. Of course, there was no need to replace the whole fifteen hundred; but a great deal had to be done, and without delay Wilhelmine and her mother sat down to write a large number, taking care to obtain paper with the proper water-mark of every year. In three days they had seven hundred ready, and in order to give the impression that they wished to conceal the letters, the queen filled up the portfolio with handkerchiefs and various articles of fine linen.

All was now ready for the arrival of the king, and when the day and hour was fixed the queen awaited him in her apartments. As soon as he reached the threshold, he shouted out: 'Well, Madame, your wretched son is dead.'

'Dead!' repeated the queen, clutching at a chair as she spoke. 'Dead! you have had the heart to kill him?'

'Yes, I tell you,' was his answer; 'and I want the portfolio containing his letters.'

Hardly able to walk, the queen went to fetch the portfolio, which the king slashed in pieces and took out the letters. Then, without another word, he walked away.

'Have you heard? Fritz is dead!' said the queen to Wilhelmine, in a terrible voice that seemed dead also. The princess fainted at the horrible news, but when she recovered her senses, madame von Sonsfeld whispered not to be afraid, as she had reason to know that the prince, though strictly guarded, was alive and well. These words put fresh life into the hearts of his mother and sister, and enabled Wilhelmine to bear the blows and kicks which her father showered upon her, till he was dragged off by his other children. Then he confessed that Fritz was still living, and accused Wilhelmine of having been his accomplice in an act of high treason against the king's person. This was more than the poor girl could bear.

'I will marry anyone you like,' she cried, 'if you will only spare my brother's life—the duke of Weissenfeld, or anybody else; it is all the same to me.' But the king was deaf to everything but the sound of his own voice, and did not hear her, and a moment after Katte, pale and calm, passed the window, under the guard of four soldiers, for his examination by the king.

Frederick William behaved with his usual brutality, even kicking the unhappy prisoner, who threw himself at his feet, confessing his own part in the plot, but denying that Wilhelmine had any part in it. He acknowledged, however, that by the prince's orders he had sent the letters to her, and these were closely examined by the minister Grumkow, 'in the hope,' says Wilhelmine, 'of finding something that would condemn us.' But the closest scrutiny revealed nothing of the least importance, though the king was still suspicious, and commanded the princess to keep her room till he had time to question her further.

Meanwhile the crown prince was locked up in the fortress of Cüstrin, and obliged to obey a set of those minute rules which Frederick William loved to draw up. 'Every morning at eight a basin and a little water, to wash himself with, is to be taken to his cell by a scullion'; and this seems to have been the only washing allowed him by the king, who is always reproaching him for his dirty habits. Two meals, one at twelve and the other at six, were all he was allowed, and 'his food is to be cut up before he has it.' Several times a day he was visited by the officers in charge, but they were strictly forbidden to speak to him. By-and-bye the king declared that the prisoner had forfeited his right to the Prussian crown, and ordered him to be spoken of as 'colonel Frederick.'

At last a council was appointed to try both the prince and Katte, and Keith—if they could get him! The trial was long, and at the end of it Katte was condemned to death for intended desertion, but strongly recommended to mercy. With regard to the prince they considered that, as he had been deprived of his military rank and suffered many months of close imprisonment, he was sufficiently punished, especially as he had expressed his willingness 'to do all that His Majesty requires or commands.' Touching the charge of disobedience, the council declined to pass judgment.

The recommendation to mercy was not heeded. Katte's grandfather, field marshal von Alvensleben, wrote a touching letter begging for his life, and recalling the many occasions on which he himself had risked his own in the service of Prussia. He received a reply stating that Katte deserved 'to be torn with red-hot pincers,' as was the law in Prussia, 'but that, "out of consideration" for his father and grandfather, his head should be cut off.' This document is signed 'Your very affectionate king.' Probably nothing that Frederick the Great ever endured in his whole life was as bitter as the scene which his father had prepared for him. Katte was to be beheaded under the windows of the crown prince's prison. If the span was too narrow, another place was to be chosen, 'but so that the prince can see well.' For this purpose the condemned man was to take a two days' journey to Cüstrin, but, perhaps by the mercy of his gaolers, Frederick was told nothing till he was awakened at five o'clock on the morning of November 6, and informed that Katte had been in Cüstrin since the previous day, and was to be executed at seven. The unexpected news upset the prince completely. He wept and wrung his hands, and begged that the execution might be delayed till he could send a courier to the king at Wustershausen. He offered to resign the crown, to suffer perpetual imprisonment, even to sacrifice his own life, if only he might save that of Katte. The officers were full of pity, but they were powerless.

Gently but firmly he was at length forced to the window beneath which the block stood, between the prison and the river Oder. Then Katte appeared, a minister on each side of him, holding his hat under his arm. As he passed the window he looked up, and Frederick flung himself across the bars, crying 'Katte! Katte! forgive me.'

'There is nothing to forgive, my prince,' answered Katte, bowing; and he walked steadily on to his place in the centre of the little group of soldiers, where his sentence was read. He took off his wig, replacing it with a white cap, and opened his shirt collar. A soldier came forward to bind his eyes, but he motioned him away, and knelt quietly on the sand before him, waiting for the sword to fall. But Frederick did not 'see well,' for he had fainted.

In a few days whispers were heard in the court of Berlin that the crown prince had been 'pardoned' by his father for his wickedness in trying to run away—which he never would have thought of doing had he not suffered such abominable treatment. He remained for a little time yet at Cüstrin, but was allowed to have books—and better light to read them by. No doubt the king took for granted that, after the severe lesson his son had received, the 'books' would be works on fortifications or strategy, or something useful of that kind. Had he known that philosophical treatises, Aristotle's 'Poetica' and Molière's plays, were among them, another explosion would probably have occurred. And what would he have said if it had reached his ears that the prince had written a long poem in French called 'Advice to Myself,' dedicated to Grumkow, whom he hated? The poem is really not bad, considering, and one cannot help wondering if Grumkow guessed that the royal prisoner was making fun of him. In a little while he was set free, and even nominated to a seat on the council of war, but he was not yet admitted to Berlin. Poor boy! he was only nineteen even now, but he had learned that if he was ever to live at peace with his father he must give up all his own tastes and pleasures, and submit body and soul to the king's will.

During these dreadful months Wilhelmine had been kept entirely in her room, and if we may believe her own account, which perhaps it is better not to do altogether, she was half starved, and thankful to eat a crust which a crow had left on the window-sill. 'In general,' she says, 'the dinner of myself and my lady-in-waiting consisted of bones without any meat on them, and plain water.' Besides her anxiety about the fate of her brother, the princess had been tormented with fears as to her own marriage, for the king had made up his mind that she should no longer be on his hands. The queen still obstinately clung to the old project of having the prince of Wales as her son-in-law; but the king contrived to break off the negotiations, greatly to the wrath of Sophia Dorothea, as well as of Wilhelmine herself, who shared her mother's opinion that to accept any husband who was not of royal birth would be impossible to one of her rank.

But who the bridegroom was really to be was a question that remained undecided. Sometimes it seemed as if the choice would fall upon a member of the House of Brandenburg, the margrave of Schwedt; but at the very moment when this appeared most likely the king sent a message to Wilhelmine, by his porter, announcing that she was to become the wife of the fat and elderly duke of Weissenfeld, a prince of the Empire. The princess was terribly upset—partly by the news itself and partly by the messenger whom the king had chosen to break it to her; but the next morning her anger was redoubled, on receiving a second visit from the porter, while she was still in bed, informing her that he had been ordered by His Majesty to prepare her trousseau! Wilhelmine was speechless with rage, and refused to send any answer. Then, shutting herself into her boudoir, or cabinet, as it was called, she began to play on her spinet, in order to calm herself a little.

'Four gentlemen are below, madame, and beg that you will do them the honour of seeing them alone,' cried madame von Sonsfeld, suddenly opening the door. The princess rose, feeling that something of serious importance was about to happen, and there entered Grumkow, followed by three other ministers. He declared solemnly (what she knew already) that the English marriage was abandoned, and that the king was forced to choose a husband for her from another house; that the fate of the crown prince, now undergoing a strict imprisonment at Cüstrin, depended on the willingness of the princess to obey His Majesty's desire, which Grumkow earnestly hoped she would do, as otherwise it would be his painful duty to carry her off at once to the fortress of Memel. Finally, he announced that the king's choice had fallen on the hereditary prince of Baireuth—rich, young, and a cousin of her own. After begging for a short time for consideration, Wilhelmine agreed to do as her father wished, and on his return to Berlin, a few days later, he behaved to her with much affection—for the first time for many years. The queen, on the contrary, vowed she would no longer look on Wilhelmine as a daughter, and on the sudden appearance at Berlin of the prince of Baireuth, on the eve of a great review, was so rude to him that he told her politely, but with spirit, that if she objected so much to receiving him into her family he would withdraw his request for the hand of her daughter. The queen saw that she had met her match, and accordingly changed her behaviour.

When she had once seen the prince, Wilhelmine's sadness began to disappear, and she began to think that her future life might be tolerably happy. The bridegroom had a pleasant, frank face, and good manners; he was besides tall and well-made, and had a good education. The betrothal took place at seven o'clock on June 3, 1731, in the palace, and the king, who had got his own way, was quite charming and affectionate, and gave his daughter a magnificent toilette service of gold, besides other presents. The marriage itself was not to be till November—for what reason we are not told, but most probably the delay was owing to some underhand schemes of the queen, who hoped that it might still be broken off. However, the prince of Baireuth was appointed colonel of a Prussian regiment, which gave him an excuse for staying in the neighbourhood, and the morning after the betrothal he asked Wilhelmine if he might see her alone. The few words that he spoke did him honour, and must have sounded strange indeed in the ears of the princess. He only wished, he said, for her happiness, and would do all in his power to secure it, and to deserve the trust which she and her father had given him. Affection had hitherto played such a small part in Wilhelmine's life, that she did not know what to answer; but it must have thawed her poor frozen heart a little, for that evening at supper she 'pulled a cracker' with the prince. But this sign of good spirits was more than the queen could bear, and she bade her daughter follow her out of the room, scolding her roundly, as they went, for her want of modesty.

The long months passed somehow, and to the relief of everybody (except the queen) the wedding-day (fixed for November 20) arrived. 'When dinner was over,' says Wilhelmine, 'the king ordered the queen to begin to dress me, for it was already four o'clock, and the ceremony was fixed for seven. The queen declared that she meant to do my hair herself, but she was not clever with her fingers, and could not manage it. Then her ladies tried their hands, but as soon as they had dressed it properly the queen would pull it about, so that it had to be done all over again. At last, however, between them they contrived to make twenty-four large curls, each as thick as your arm, with a royal crown poised on top. The weight was dreadful, and I could hardly hold my head up. Then they put on my dress, which was of cloth of silver, trimmed with Spanish point picked out with gold, my train, twelve yards long, being held up by four ladies.' Hardly able to stir under all this grandeur, the bride moved as best she could through six magnificent galleries, in the last of which the ceremony was performed. A ball then followed, but as Wilhelmine could not possibly have danced to save her life owing to the weight of her clothes, the bridegroom opened it with her sister the margravine of Anspach.

The festivities were kept up for several days, and on the 23rd another ball took place, at which seven hundred people were present. This time Wilhelmine who, as we know, loved dancing, did not allow her dress to interfere, and she was in the middle of a minuet when Grumkow approached her.

'Your feet seem to dance of themselves, madame,' he said roughly; 'don't you see that strangers are present?'

Wilhelmine stopped and stared at a young man whose face was unknown to her.

'Go and embrace the crown prince,' said Grumkow.

And she went.

UNE REINE MALHEUREUSE

On the day that the whole of Lisbon was convulsed by the most terrible earthquake that Europe has ever seen—and by the tidal wave that followed after it—a little daughter was born, far away in Vienna, to the empress Maria Theresa. The baby, who bore the names of Marie Antoinette Josepha Jeanne, was the youngest of several children; and three of her brothers, as well as her father Francis, wore the Imperial crown. From the first she was her father's favourite, and, as far as he was able to find leisure for her, his companion. Of course, being emperor, there were a great many duties which he had to perform, but he was not so clever at business as his wife, who was the heiress of Austria and Hungary.

'We will die for our king Maria Theresa,' shouted the Hungarian parliament, when she first appeared before them; and a 'king' she was till the day of her death.

The empress was a good mother, and was very fond of her children; but she could not have them much with her when they were little. Sometimes a whole week would slip by without her seeing them, but they had an excellent doctor of their own, who visited them daily, and made careful reports about their health. Maria Theresa was also most anxious about their being properly taught, but unluckily she was deceived in their governesses, who were good-natured, lazy people. 'The children were so clever,' these ladies would say one to the other, 'they really could do without learning lessons like other girls. And besides, were they not princesses, and what need had they to be always poring over books?' So Marie Antoinette and her sisters bade fair to grow up in perfect ignorance of everything except Italian, in which Metastasio the poet was their master.

This state of things might have gone on much longer had not Marie Antoinette remarked one day, in her mother's hearing, that her copies were always pencilled for her before she wrote them. This startled the empress, and, in her usual energetic manner, she began making inquiries as to the methods of teaching pursued by her daughter's governesses. The end of it was that these ladies were dismissed, and the Comtesse de Brandès, a clever and trustworthy woman, took charge of the education of the young archduchess. The change was very much for the better, but it came rather late for Marie Antoinette. She had never been forced to fix her attention steadily upon anything, or to do anything that she did not like. The slightest sound would distract her thoughts, and she would break off in the midst of the 'History of the Thirty Years' War,' or the account of the appearance of John Sobieski before the walls of Vienna, to wonder if she would be allowed to appear at the approaching fête, or what operas would be given in the coming week. For Marie Antoinette, like all her family, was extremely fond of music, and though she could never play well herself on any instrument, she had a sweet voice, which was carefully cultivated. When she was nearly seven years old there was great excitement in the palace of Schönbrünn, near Vienna, at the news that a little boy called Mozart, younger even than Marie Antoinette, was coming from Salzburg to play to them. 'What instrument did he play on? Oh! both the harpsichord (a sort of piano), and the violin. And he could compose too! Think of that, at six years old! Would Wednesday never come, that they might hear him!'

Wednesday did come, after long waiting, and there entered a little figure in court dress, with a wig and sword all complete. He was followed by his father and mother, and sister Marianne, who, though five years older than himself, was far more shy than he was. Wolfgang, indeed, was not shy at all: it was his music he was thinking of, not himself; he came forward towards the harpsichord, stopping, when he remembered his manners, to make a funny little bow right and left. The archdukes and their sisters gazed at him as if he was a being from another world, and could hardly contain their delight when the emperor mentioned a short composition which the boy was to play with one finger. It could not have been very interesting, but it was a very difficult thing to do, and Wolfgang did it to perfection. When it was over, he wriggled down off his high stool, and bowed three times, waiting for the emperor to tell him what he wished for next. Francis praised his cleverness, then, taking up a piece of silk from a chair, he said: 'See, I will arrange this over the keys, and you must play me a minuet without looking at the notes.' This was just the sort of thing that pleased Wolfgang; he gave a little laugh of satisfaction, and wriggled on to his stool again. In a moment the notes rang out clear, and the children looked at each other and longed to dance to them.

'Well done, my boy,' cried the emperor; 'now you shall choose.' Then Wolfgang turned to a composer attached to the court who had been eagerly watching his fingers.

'I will play a concerto of yours, and you must turn over for me.' And when the concerto was over, and the Emperor inquired how he had liked the performance, the musician answered in the heartiest tones, that never had it sounded so well.

'I think so, too,' said the empress, and signed to the child to go over to her. In his haste to obey he slipped on the shining floor, and fell down, his sword clattering as if it had been a man's. Marie Antoinette, who was nearest to him, ran to pick him up, and he thanked her with a smile, saying: 'You are very kind; I should like to marry you.' Then, without waiting for a reply, walked with careful steps up to the empress, and jumped on her lap.

Wolfgang was a great man when he returned to Salzburg, and everybody he saw asked the same questions about the imperial family.

'And when you had finished, what did her majesty say to you?'

'She said, "Are you tired?"'

'And what did you answer?'

'I said "No, your majesty."'

'Did she say nothing more?'

'She said "You play very well."'

'And what did you reply to that?'

'I said, "Thank you, your majesty."'

---

For some time after little Mozart went away the beautifully painted stool in front of the harpsichord was never empty; but by-and-by the children's zeal wore off, and their mother was too busy to see that they practised daily. They passed most of their time at Schönbrünn, which both the emperor and empress preferred to Vienna, and it was so near the capital that ministers and ambassadors could easily drive out to consult them when needful. In their leisure moments, which were few, it rested them to watch the growth of their flowers, or to plan alterations in their garden, while the empress would sometimes go to see the poor in their cottages, and take Marie Antoinette with her.

But, in the summer of 1765, when the little archduchess was nine years old, a break suddenly occurred in their peaceful, happy life. The emperor was obliged to go to Innsprück, and had already bidden farewell to his family and entered his carriage, when he suddenly ordered the coachman to stop.

'Be kind enough to bring me, the Archduchess Marie Antoinette,' he said to the equerry; and soon the little girl was flying down the road. 'Good-bye, my darling, good-bye,' he whispered, taking her in his arms; 'now run home again.' And as she disappeared round a corner he remarked to his equerry: 'I just wanted to see her once more.'

It was as if he had guessed what would befall him, for, shortly after, news was received that he had died on his journey. The empress had loved her husband dearly, but she was not the sort of person to shut herself up with her grief, and before the year was out an event happened which occupied all her thoughts. This was a hint let fall by Louis XV., king of France, of a marriage, by-and-bye, between his grandson the dauphin and Marie Antoinette. The plan was to be kept entirely secret for the present, but the empress was greatly pleased, unlike the bridegroom's mother, or his aunt the strong-willed madame Adelaide. The dauphine, mother of the young Louis, was a Saxon princess, and wished her son to marry his Saxon cousin. The dauphin, a good-natured, heavy, ill-mannered youth, did not wish to marry anybody, or indeed do anything except hunt—but he was not consulted. Still, out of respect to his daughter-in-law (and perhaps because he was a little afraid of her), the French king kept a profound silence on the matter to all but the empress, till things were suddenly altered by the death of the dauphine in 1767. Then, no one knew how, the marriage began to be spoken of in Paris, and much more openly at Vienna, to the great embarrassment of the French ambassador. Louis XV. had already an Austrian great-granddaughter, for the emperor Joseph II. had some years before married the Infanta Isabel, and they had one little girl, named Maria Theresa, after her grandmother. Unfortunately the young empress was seized with smallpox, which was the scourge of those times, and died, while her sister-in-law, the Archduchess Josepha, likewise fell a victim to the same disease a few days later, just as she was starting off to be married. Joseph, in terror lest his little girl should be the next victim, had her inoculated, as people were before vaccination was introduced, and wrote to tell Louis XV., who was very anxious about her, that she was getting on very well. With his letter went one from the little archduchess herself.

'I know, dear grandpapa, that you love me, so I write to tell you that I am quite well, and that I had only fifty spots, which I am very glad of. How I wish I could show them to you, and hug you, for I am very fond of you.'

Now, although not a word had been said to Marie Antoinette as to the fate that was in store for her, she was quite clever enough to guess a great deal that was happening. In the first place two French actors arrived in Vienna to teach her how to speak clearly and prettily. They were followed by the abbé de Vermond, who instructed her in the history of France and its literature, while the celebrated Noverre gave her lessons in dancing and the French mode of curtseying, which was far more difficult to learn than the curtsey practised in Vienna. Marie Antoinette delighted in the hours she spent over her dancing, and those passed in playing on the clavecin, under Glück, whose opera of 'Orfeo' had just been finished; but her new teachers found the same fault that the old ones had done, that she must have everything told her like a child if it was to dwell in her memory. She never got impatient or cross, in fact she tried to turn everything into a joke; but the abbé discovered her to be ignorant and inattentive, and though she had plenty of good sense, she disliked being made to think. And in all this she was not different from a hundred thousand other little girls!

At length, in September 1768, the King of France made a formal proposal for the hand of the archduchess, who was not yet thirteen years old, and the empress wrote to count Mercy d'Argenteau, her ambassador in Paris, to give orders for the trousseau, on which she was prepared to lay out 16,000l. As the wedding was not to take place for a year and a half at any rate, this seems a little early to begin, but there was so much beautiful lace to be made, and wonderful embroidery to be done, that the workers did not think the time any too long. Then her brother Joseph II. often came into her private sitting-room in the evening and talked to her about European politics, of which, he truly said, she ought to know something, or the abbé de Vermond was bidden to join the family in the evening and relate the lives of the French queens, and the genealogy of the Bourbons and Valois, besides the names of the chief officers of state and of the great nobles. All these things Marie Antoinette picked up quickly; and as for the army, the abbé used to say she would soon know every colonel of every regiment. Besides this sort of education, the empress felt that her daughter must learn how to take her place in the world, so once or twice a week she was allowed to have parties of ten or twelve in her own rooms, at which she presided, and here they would play cavagnol or other fashionable card games, for in those days cards were played every night, and large sums were staked.

The wedding-day drew nearer and nearer, and the empress's heart sometimes failed her at the thought of the child she was sending forth alone. As she was very busy all day, she made her daughter sleep during the last weeks in her room at night, and here she warned her against all the temptations she might find in the court, and read to her out of a little book which her husband had once written for his children. Very useful was the counsel he gave, the dangers he foresaw being mostly those which beset Marie Antoinette during her married life, and led to her downfall. 'Beware,' he said 'of making friends quickly, or of allowing pleasure to become a business when it should only be an amusement. Beware of flattering tongues, and of persuading yourself that things may be innocent when really they are harmful. Do not let the world absorb you, till you forget that you are mortal, but put aside two days in every year to think of death.'

As the young archduchess read these words her soul grew serious within her, and she promised her mother that she would keep the book always, and strive to act as her father would have wished. And so she did; but she was young and alone, and if court life is difficult everywhere, in France it was harder than anywhere else.

For three days in Holy Week Marie Antoinette went into retreat, and when she returned to the palace for Easter she had to give audience to the principal Austrian and Hungarian nobles, and to reply in Latin (probably carefully learnt for the occasion) to an address of the University. Next, the empress held a crowded court, and in the midst of it the French ambassador presented the archduchess with a letter from the dauphin, together with his portrait set in diamonds, which was hung at once round her neck by the countess of Trautmannsdorf, who was in attendance. Then, much to the relief of the bride, they went to the theatre, to see a French play. There only remained one more ceremony to be performed, and this, considering that the archduchess was the youngest of a very large family, was merely formal, and in the presence of a number of witnesses she signed a paper renouncing her claim to any Austrian, Hungarian, or Bohemian territory. This done, a few balls and banquets were given in her honour, and, on April 19, her marriage by proxy took place in the church of the Augustinians, her brother, the archduke Ferdinand, taking the oaths instead of the bridegroom. The papal nuncio, or special envoy, gave the blessing, and little Marie Antoinette was dauphine of France.

---

Her progress from Vienna, under the care of the prince of Stahremberg, was a series of fêtes. On an island of the Rhine the ladies and gentlemen of her suite awaited her in a magnificent pavilion, and here she took off her Viennese clothes, even her stockings, and put on one of her beautiful trousseau dresses, sent straight from Paris. The prince of Stahremberg delivered her into the charge of the comte de Noailles, and bade her farewell. Then the dauphine entered one of the carriages which had been built for her in Paris. In those days the carriages were worth seeing, for each was a work of art. Those intended for the use of Marie Antoinette were things of wonder and beauty, and had astonished even Paris, where splendid coaches were to be seen all day in the streets. One was covered entirely with crimson velvet on which the emblems of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, had been worked in gold thread, while a wreath of flowers, in gold and enamel, ran along the top; the other was also decorated with flowers in their natural colours, and the body of the carriage was in blue, with pictures representing earth, air, fire, and water, embroidered in silver. At that period carriages cost great sums of money, for the paintings of them were done by good artists, and they were handed on from father to son. Strange to say, many of them escaped the fury of the mob in the French Revolution, and brightened the Paris of the Restoration. But a curious fate was in store for them after all. One night, in the year 1848, a young lady living in Paris with her family, was beckoned out of the room by the old courrier.

'If you will come out with me, I will show you something you will never forget,' said he, 'only you must say nothing.' The girl promised, and wrapping herself in a cloak and hood, went with the old man to the place du Carrousel, behind the Tuileries. Here a huge fire was burning, and all along the walls the lovely coaches were ranged, to be dragged one by one into the midst of the fire. For a while the girl looked on, as if fascinated by the work of destruction, then suddenly she turned away. 'Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful pity!' she cried; 'I wish I had never come. Oh, take me home at once.'

But we have wandered far down the years from Marie Antoinette, whom we left driving across the bridge to the French town of Strasburg. The carriage could only go very slowly, for, besides the regiments of cavalry which lined the streets, crowds of people stood on every bit of available ground. Guns fired, bells pealed, voices shouted, and Marie Antoinette enjoyed the deafening noise, and smiled and bowed and waved her hand, and looked so pleased and happy that the cries of welcome grew louder and more heartfelt than before. At last she reached the archbishop's palace, where all the great Church officials were drawn up to receive her, headed by her host, the cardinal de Rohan himself; by his side stood his nephew and helper, prince Louis de Rohan, who afterwards did Marie Antoinette a cruel wrong. Gaily the dauphine entered the palace, where she at once held a reception, to which only ladies were admitted, and to each of these she said a few pleasant words and begged to know their names. Next she dined in public, and glad she must have felt of a little rest and food; but she was not allowed to sit long over her dinner, for she had to visit the theatre, drive about the illuminated streets, and attend a ball, before she went to bed. It was a day that would have tired most girls, but Marie Antoinette loved pleasure, and seemed to thrive on it, and it was with regret that next day she took leave of the hospitable city, which never forgot her or her pretty manners. 'Ah!' the people would say to each other, when the dark days came by-and-bye, 'she was better than beautiful, and had a heart of gold. Did you not hear when monsieur le maire addressed her in German, how she would have none of it, and answered, "You must not speak to me in German, Monsieur, for now I understand nothing but French"? Ah, poor thing, poor thing!'

The May trees were in blossom and the lilacs and laburnums bloomed in the gardens when Marie Antoinette arrived at the little town of Compiègne which the king, the royal family, and his cousins, the princes of the blood, had reached the day before. The first person whom she met was the duc de Choiseul, the king's minister, sent to welcome her by the king.

'I shall never forget,' said the dauphine, holding out her hand for Choiseul to kiss, 'I shall never forget that it is you who have made my happiness.'

'And that of France,' answered the minister. And then the royal carriage drove out and the king dismounted, followed by his daughters, and Marie Antoinette fell on her knees before him, as her mother had bidden her. But Louis raised her and kissed her, and presented the dauphin, who took far less interest in the bride than his grandfather. For some reason or other, the court of France had not expected the future queen to be more than tolerably good-looking, and when she entered the royal apartments where the princes of the blood were awaiting her, led by the king and the dauphin, they were all startled by her beauty. It was not only the brilliant complexion, the fair hair with hardly a touch of powder, or the bright blue eyes which they admired, it was the sort of radiance of expression, the life and power of enjoyment, shown in the pictures painted at that time. And she had charms besides, which in the French court were more dearly prized than mere loveliness; she had an air of distinction and dignity not always possessed by people of high birth. She was tall for her age, and held herself well, and could answer the fine compliments that were then in fashion, with equal grace and courtesy.

The ceremony of presentation that now took place would have been rather alarming to most young princesses. One by one the king introduced his cousins. First the duc d'Orléans and his son the duc de Chartres (hereafter to become Philippe Egalité, and lose his head on the guillotine), then the whole Condé family, and the duc de Penthièvre and his son, and the lovely princesse de Lamballe; then those who were more remote. After each one had bowed or curtseyed, he or she sat on an armchair and when all the armchairs were full, as in a game, the duc d'Orléans, the senior prince of the blood, rose, bowed again, and backed to the door, followed by the rest in order of precedence.

The following morning a number of splendid carriages drawn by six or eight long-tailed horses, might have been seen on the road from Compiègne to Paris. The king's coach, containing the bride and bridegroom, drew up at the doors of the Carmelite convent at St. Denis, where the princess Louise was a professed nun. Here they entered, accompanied by madame Adelaide, madame Victoire, and madame Sophie, who were anxious to take this opportunity of seeing their sister, for the Carmelite rule was very strict, and visitors, even royal ones, were rare. The gentle sœur Louise was delighted with her new niece, and still more pleased when she learnt that it was she and not the king, who had wished to pay the visit, while on her side Marie Antoinette had a sense of rest in the presence of the nun, which she never felt when with the other princesses. But the king soon rose, good-byes were said, and the carriages rolled along outside Paris to La Muette in the Bois de Boulogne, where the dauphin's younger brothers, the comte de Provence and the comte d'Artois were ready to receive them. The elder boy was serious and heavy, like the dauphin, but the younger was bright and gay, and at once made friends with his sister-in-law. But best of all were the two little princesses, madame Clotilde, the king's favourite, and madame Elizabeth, the girl who in after years stood by Marie Antoinette in all her trials, and followed her to the guillotine. However, no shadows lay over that warm May day when the dauphine set out from La Muette for Versailles, for the celebration of her marriage in the chapel. The Swiss Guards were drawn up before the palace, the same corps which, twenty-two years after, were cut down before the Tuileries in defending Marie Antoinette and her husband, and they presented arms as she got down from her carriage, and went to change her dress in the rooms which she was temporarily to occupy.

At one o'clock she appeared again, dressed in a white brocade dress, looped back over panniers. Holding her hand high in the air walked the dauphin, wearing the robes of the Order of the St. Esprit, glittering with diamonds and gold. Although more than a year older than the archduchess, he looked like a clumsy boy by her side, and instead of his gorgeous garments lending him dignity they seemed to smother him. After the princes of the blood and their attendants came the bridegroom's two brothers, then followed the king leading princess Clotilde, mesdames his daughters, and a train of seventy of the noblest ladies of France. The blessing was given by the archbishop of Paris, grand almoner to the king, and then the royal family signed the register, but their writing was so very bad that it could hardly be read.

The rest of the day was passed in the manner usual at royal weddings: fêtes were held during the afternoon; at six, card tables were set, and the public were admitted to stare at them while they were playing at cavagnol or lansquenet; at half-past nine they had supper in the new hall of the opera house. Marie Antoinette went through it all with the life and spirit she put into everything, though she could hardly have helped feeling irritated with the bored face of her bridegroom. Next day seemed very long indeed to her—and to him also. Etiquette did not allow him to hunt, and he cared for nothing else; and though she tried to forget that she had a husband, and only to think of the gaiety about her, yet the gloomy youth at her side weighed down her spirits, and no doubt all the excitement of the last few days had tired her. When, the next morning, the dauphin set out with a beaming countenance to hunt with the king, she felt quite relieved, and glad to spend a few quiet hours with her dog and her lady-in-waiting. Still, just now she was not allowed much time to feel lonely, for she seemed always dressing and undressing to go to some brilliant festivity. One evening a great ball was given, at which even madame Clotilde was allowed to appear, and a young princess of Lorraine, Marie Antoinette's cousin, was present. For two hundred years the French nobles had always been jealous of the dukes of Lorraine, and never lost any chance of being rude to them; so when they heard that the king had allotted the princess a place in the first state quadrille, they ordered their wives and daughters to stay at home. Of course the ladies were all bitterly angry, and wept tears of disappointment; but they sobbed in vain, and it was only when a special order from the king arrived, that the injured nobles were forced to give way—to the great delight of their families.

The marriage rejoicings were to end by a display of fireworks given by the City of Paris, intended to be the most wonderful ever seen. They were to be sent up from the Place Louis XV. which later changed its name to the Place de la Revolution, and then to the Place de la Concorde, and the wide space was filled with wooden platforms for the spectators, grouped round a Temple of Hymen. After streams of flame from the mouths of the dolphins, and rockets and fire-balls had fascinated the people, the scene was to be crowned by the ascent of the temple into the air, where it was to burst into a thousand fiery fragments. Holding their breath, the dense crowds watched the temple rising into the sky, and a gasp of admiration followed its explosion. So intent were they in gazing at the spectacle that they never noticed that one of the burning rockets had fallen on a platform standing at the back till the wood was flaming up behind them. Had they kept their presence of mind they might all have got safely away, but the panic spread as quickly as the fire, and there was a general rush to the side where the carriages stood, as that was the only part of the Place not blocked by the wooden buildings. In their mad flight they dashed up against the horses, which, already excited by the noise of the fireworks, plunged and tried to bolt; many of the fugitives were trampled under their feet, or fell, for others to fall over them. Some struggled through, but, blinded with terror, could not see where they were going, and stumbled over the bank into the river, which ran close by. Now, owing to an accidental delay, the dauphine, who was to drive to the Place Louis XV. with mesdames, had been delayed in starting, and only arrived when the panic was at its height. She was horror-stricken at the sights and sounds around her, and when she found there was nothing to be done at the moment, directed the coachman to return to the palace. All night long the cries and groans rang in her ears, and as soon as it was daylight both she and the dauphin sent all the money they had to the chief of the police, begging him to lay it out for the good of the sufferers from the fire.

From these, and many other acts of kindness, the bride became very popular with the Parisians, over whom she was some day to rule; and her mother was forced to write and warn her not to put too much faith in their loyalty, or to think herself the piece of perfection they called her, for they were very fickle, and easily threw down their old idols, to worship new ones in their stead. Marie Antoinette replied dutifully to her mother's letters, but, being young, put little faith in her counsels. What the empress said might be true of most people, she thought, but it could never be true of her. So she smiled and danced, and beamed with happiness—till the crash came, and she laid her head down on the Place Louis XV., where the guillotine was erected.

Like the king's own mother, the little duchesse de Bourgogne, and Louis XIV., she became the pet and plaything of the dauphin's grandfather. Louis XV. enjoyed being treated by her in a friendly, unceremonious fashion, and her spirits and gaiety roused him from the boredom which had been the bane of his life. 'Mon papa,' she called him when they were alone, and she would fling herself into his arms, and tell all that she had heard and seen, and the amusements she had invented. How that when they were next at Fontainebleau she meant to have donkey rides with her friends every day in the forest, and then she would take long walks, as she used to do at Schönbrünn—nobody at Versailles seemed to have any legs at all; and by-and-bye, when the bad weather came, she would have singing lessons again, and study the harp. Perhaps she might even read some history, if the snow was not hard enough for sledging! Yet, in spite of Marie Antoinette's power of being happy, she had many difficulties, to fight against, though she was often unconscious of the fact. Mesdames, with whom she passed much of her time, were fond of her and kind to her, but unluckily the eldest of the three, madame Adelaide, had the strongest will and the worst temper, and the other two were afraid of opposing her, lest they should make her angry. Besides being strong-willed and bad-tempered, madame Adelaide had very little common-sense and a great deal of pride, and often gave the dauphine advice which got her into trouble. Then, at first, the dauphin, who was very shy, and not at all clever, held aloof from her, and left her to pass her time as best she could while he was away hunting. But after a while his timidity wore off, they became good friends, and he consulted her and asked her opinion on all sorts of subjects. When a couple of years had passed, he had grown so far like other people that he would be present at the little dances of intimate friends which Marie Antoinette gave once a week in her own apartments, and allowed proverbs and comedies to be played in his own rooms, which amused them much and cost but little. Sometimes Marie Antoinette herself would act, with her brother-in-law the comte de Provence, or they would have music, when fat and friendly princess Clotilde would accompany herself on the guitar, and Marie Antoinette would sing also. At length, to the dauphin's great delight, she declared her intention of hunting on horseback, which no dauphine had done for hundreds of years. When every other amusement failed there were cards—always cards—which the king's aunts preferred to everything else.

The years sped gaily on to the young dauphine, who never heard, or did not heed, the rumblings of the discontent of the starving and down-trodden people. She herself was always kind to them, not merely in words but in taking trouble, which is much harder work. Yet the flattery she received from the friends who were constantly with her had worked her evil. She fancied herself all-powerful, and became vexed and impatient if her wishes were not immediately carried out. She began to meddle in politics, too, of which she knew absolutely nothing, and in this, though she would have been shocked to think it, she worked positive harm.

In May, 1774, a change came into her life. The king had been taken ill of small-pox about a fortnight earlier in the cottage of the Little Trianon, where he was having supper, and was hastily removed in a carriage to the palace of Versailles. It was curious to note the total indifference with which his subjects, especially the Parisians, received the news of his danger. Louis the Well-Beloved, as the child of five had been named, was passing away, and Louis the Wished-for was to take his place. Nobody cared—nobody pretended to care—except his daughters. Only Marie Antoinette, to whom he had always been kind, was really sorry, and offered to stay with him and mesdames; but, being forbidden, she shut herself up in her own room, where her sisters and brothers-in-law, bewildered with the strangeness of it all, gathered around her. The dauphine felt bewildered too, in the midst of her grief.

'I feel as if the skies were falling on me,' she said. As for the dauphin, he had given orders that the moment the king died the carriage should be ready to go to Choisy.

So they waited, watching the lighted candle in the window of the sick room, which was to be extinguished the moment the king had ceased to breathe. He could not see the sunset—that they knew; but there was something awful in that solemn silence. Suddenly a noise was heard outside, and madame de Noailles entered.

'The courtiers are in the Œil-de-Boeuf, Madame,' she exclaimed; 'will your Majesties deign to go there to receive them?'

Arm-in-arm, the queen of eighteen and the king of nineteen advanced into the room, where the duc de Bouillon, grand chamberlain, came forward to meet them. As they paused in the doorway he threw himself on one knee: 'The king is dead,' he said. 'Long live the king!'

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Many years ago, an old lady who had passed her hundredth birthday, told the writer of this story that on a cold day in January, 1793, she went to a children's party in London. The house was large, and was filled with little boys and girls all eager to begin to dance on the beautifully polished floor. The musicians had already tuned up, and the eager faces of the little guests were turned towards the door, waiting for their hostess to enter. At length she came, dressed in black, her eyes red with weeping. 'Children,' she said, 'you must all go home. I have just heard the king of France is dead.'

The king was Louis le Désiré, the husband of Marie Antoinette, who had died on the guillotine.

THE 'LITTLE QUEEN'

A queen at seven and a widow at twelve. Who can guess that riddle? Yet there have been very few little girls in Europe who could be described in such a way, and, out of those, fewer still who were not mere dolls, but left a mark on the history of the time, and therefore of the time to come.

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At the close of the year of grace 1395 a group of children were living in the Hôtel de St. Pol, on the banks of the Seine in Paris. They were all pretty—their mother Isabeau de Bavière, queen of France, was as famous for her beauty as for her wickedness—but the prettiest of all was Isabel, the eldest daughter, with her large brown eyes and pink and white skin. Charles VI., the father of these little princes and princesses, was subject to terrible fits of gloom, which in later years deepened into madness. Still, he always had a special love for Isabel, who was everybody's favourite, even her mother's, though it was not to be expected that the queen would give up any of her own pleasures in order to look after her children. By-and-by two little sisters, years younger than any of these, princess Michelle, hereafter to be duchess of Burgundy, and little princess Katherine, who became the wife of Henry V. and queen of England, were so neglected by their servants (who thought they might safely follow the queen's example) that the poor little things were half-starved and clad in dirty rags. But at the time we are speaking of matters were not so bad. Queen Isabeau was proud of princess Isabel, and gave her masters to teach her music and the old romances. The child was quick and fond of books, and would often leave the games which she had been playing with her brothers and sit in the small dark rooms with carved ceilings and tapestry hangings, embroidered in fleurs-de-lis, listening to the old stories of Sir Galahad and the Holy Grail, or the adventures of Huon of Bordeaux. In the dark evenings she would lie on a silken cushion on the floor of the great hall, her fingers absently thrust in the hair of the small greyhound that was curled up against her, her mind wrapped up in the lays sung by the minstrels to charm away the gloom of the king.

In the midst of this quiet life there one day entered the gates of Paris a goodly array of ambassadors from England to demand from Charles VI. the hand of the princess Isabel on behalf of Richard II., king of England. The envoys had not set forth without fierce protest from the English people, who still remembered Crécy and Poitiers, won by Richard's own father when still a boy, and hated the thought of an alliance with their foes. Besides this, they had all loved Richard's first wife, Anne of Bohemia, who had only died the year before; and though it was necessary for him to marry again, and have a son to wear the crown after him, they did not wish him to forget so soon, still less for his choice to fall on a French princess, and a mere baby! Richard summoned parliament to meet and talk over the matter, and the famous chronicler Sir John Froissart, who had newly entered England, was present at the debates. But whether his subjects approved or not, the king was determined to have his way. He was half French himself, he always declared; for was he not born at Bordeaux, and did he not love the songs and the poetry that came from France? And then, though perhaps he may have kept this reason in the background, where else could he find a bride endowed with such great riches? And Richard was always extravagant and always in debt.

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Of course Richard had not called his parliament together without first finding out the mind of the French king on the subject. The first messenger who was sent to Charles received for answer that the princess was already betrothed to the son of the duke of Brittany, that it would be five or six years at least before she was of marriageable age, and that Richard was twenty-two years older than she. But Richard, who now and then behaved like a spoilt baby, only gave a scornful laugh when he read Charles's letter. Had not the king another daughter who would make as good a duchess of Brittany as Isabel? And as for the rest—and with a shrug of his shoulders he turned away and began to talk with Sir John Froissart about the next yearly meeting of the jongleurs, or minstrels, to be held at his court.

Now these matters had been carefully concealed from the princess Isabel, who had no idea that the splendidly arrayed and armed body of five hundred men riding along the banks of the Seine towards the Hôtel de St. Pol had come to decide her fate.

'Look, look!' she cried to her brothers and sisters as they all crowded at the small window. 'Who can they be? One has a mitre; is he a bishop, think you? or an archbishop? And the others? I know not the devices on their shields, but they are richly dressed, and they hold themselves proudly. And, see, they are entering the gateway. Oh, Louis, you are the dauphin! I wonder if they will send for you!'

After all, it was not Louis but Isabel, who was summoned, and in a few words learned from her great-uncle the duke of Burgundy the object of this magnificent embassy. Isabel listened in surprise, but it was not the first time that she had heard talk of her marriage; so she showed no signs of shyness, and bade her maids put on with all haste her light blue velvet dress, the colour of France, and clasp the loose folds with her jewelled belt. Then, escorted by her uncle, she entered the great hall, and, standing by her mother's side, awaited the appearance of the envoys.

'Who can know how such a child will behave?' the council of regency, who governed France during Charles's fits of madness, had asked of the English nobles when they had begged for an interview with the princess herself. But the earl marshal, looking at the tall and dignified young lady before him, felt that they need not have been afraid. This was no child, beautiful indeed, but caring for nothing except sweet confections and puppets, but a girl whose face and manner showed marks of thought and of careful training in the ways of courts.

'Madam, if it please God, you shall be our lady and queen,' said the earl marshal, falling on one knee, and Isabel answered, 'Sir, if it please God and my lord and father that I be queen of England, I shall be content, for I know that I shall be a great lady.' So saying she signed to him to rise from his knee, and, taking his hand, led him to the queen her mother, who was well pleased with her reply.

So Isabel's fate was settled, and as the poor French king was not in a state to talk about business, it was the duke of Burgundy with whom the ambassadors held daily discussions. It was decided that, though the earl marshal should represent Richard in the marriage ceremony, which, at the urgent request of the English king, was to take place at once, the young bride should remain in Paris another year, to get her trousseau and be taught the duties of the 'great lady' she was to be. Among these 'duties' we may be sure the learning of English was included, and also the practice of music, which Richard loved. No doubt she managed to find out something of her future husband from the count of St. Pol, who was his brother-in-law, and she would only hear the many good things that could truly be said of him: of his grace, his beauty, his cleverness, and his gallantry when as a boy of fifteen he faced the rebel archers of Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, and won them over to his side. Of his wilfulness, his extravagance, and his heedlessness there was no need to tell her; and indeed, whatever were his faults, Richard was always true and loving to her.

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The year that was to pass between the marriage by proxy and the real marriage most likely seemed as long to the 'queen of England,' as she was now called, as it would have done to any little girl of her age. But at length it was announced that at the end of October Richard would cross over to Calais, which was to be English ground for nearly two hundred years longer. The king, who, unlike his people, much desired a peace with France, sailed with a noble company across the Channel, for at his express wish his famous uncle, John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, with his third duchess, the duke and duchess of York, and the duke and duchess of Gloucester, with their two daughters, sailed with him. It was with great unwillingness that Gloucester obeyed the summons of the king to attend his marriage. He hated his nephew for many reasons, and Richard was not slow to perceive and return his feelings. Well he knew that his uncle was an ambitious man, who would fain have seen his daughter queen of England; and, besides, the duke longed to go to war with France, and lost no chance of exciting the passions of the English people and making the French alliance more unpopular than it was already. Perhaps Gloucester had cherished secret hopes of being left behind to rule the kingdom while Richard was away; but if so he was disappointed, for the king's cousin, Henry earl of Derby (afterwards Henry IV.), was declared regent.

It was on October 27, 1396, that the kings of France and England met in a plain outside Calais. Everything had been carefully planned beforehand, and the two sovereigns quitted their lodgings at precisely the same moment and walked slowly to the appointed place, which must be reached at exactly the same time, as it would be unfitting for one king to look more eager than the other! Tents splendidly furnished had been prepared for them, and all around stood eight hundred French and English knights, their drawn swords shining bright in the autumn sunshine. From one direction came Charles, with Richard's two uncles, Lancaster and Gloucester, on each side of him, while from the other Richard was escorted by the dukes of Burgundy and Berri, brothers of the late king. 'At the moment of the meeting,' says the chronicler, 'the eight hundred knights fell on their knees; the two kings swept off their hats and bowed, then took each other by the hand, and so entered the French king's tent, while the four dukes followed them.' Here another welcome awaited Richard, for he was received by the duke of Orleans, brother of Charles, and the duke of Bourbon, his cousin. But as soon as they had greeted the bridegroom these two left the tent to join the dukes outside, and at length Charles and Richard were alone and could talk over business.

Next day—the feast of St. Simon and St. Jude—a grand banquet was given by Charles, and when it was over presents were exchanged between the kings, a ceremony which kept them employed until the little bride arrived, attended by the duke of Orleans (who had gone to fetch her) and a great suite. Some of the ladies were drawn in the long carriages, like furniture vans, that were fashionable in the days of Charles VI., while Isabel herself and her young maids of honour were mounted on beautiful horses, with gorgeous velvet trappings, embroidered in gold. The 'queen of England' wore a golden crown, which must have felt very uncomfortable on horseback, and her dress was blazing with precious stones. She had ridden a long way and was very tired, but she greeted her uncles gaily as they lifted her from her horse, and went forward to speak to the duchess of Lancaster and Gloucester. Then she entered the tent, where Richard sat awaiting her.

It was not until Isabel had knelt twice before him, as she had been told to do, that Richard got up, took her in his arms, and kissed her. When he set her down, she looked at him, anxious to see what her future husband was like. She found his eyes fixed upon her, and they both smiled, well pleased with their first sight of each other. He was not at all like what Isabel had expected: a man of thirty—almost an old man, too old to care for anything but serious matters, such as making laws and governing his kingdom. Why, the king was quite young and very, very handsome, with his dark blue eyes and golden hair, and a complexion as white and fair as her own. He could laugh, too, and be merry, she was sure. Oh no, she could never be afraid of him, and some day she might even be able to chatter to him as she did to Louis. And Richard read her thoughts in her face and was content with what fate had brought him.

The marriage did not take place till four days later, on All Saints' Day, and, curiously enough, neither the king nor queen of France was present at it. Since they had bidden farewell to their daughter, after her meeting with Richard, they had stayed quietly at the little town of St. Omer, though they had news of Isabel from the duke of Orleans and the duke of Burgundy, who went over to see her at Calais, before she sailed for England. It was the first time that Isabel had ever been upon the sea, and she did not like crossing, for though the wind was in their favour, it must have been very high, as the ship reached Dover in three hours. Two days later she dismounted at the palace of Eltham in Kent, and at last had time to rest from her journey.

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In those days houses were few and there were no coal fires to make smoke, so Isabel was able to see in the distance the towers of Westminster Abbey, where by-and-by she would be crowned. Between the Abbey and Eltham stretched the gorse-covered common of Blackheath, the scene of some of Richard's youthful deeds, and the tall trees of Greenwich Park. And when she was tired of looking at the view, and wandering through the gardens with her maids of honour and madame de Coucy, her lady-in-waiting, she would summon them to her own rooms to watch the unpacking of her trousseau. This of itself was a wonderful sight. It not only included dresses of velvet covered with fur and jewels and embroideries for grand occasions, but gowns of the finest scarlet or green or white cloth for every day. The sleeves were very long, and so was the train; but this could be drawn through the belt and tucked up when the wearer wanted to play or run races, as we may be certain Isabel often did. When they had finished admiring her clothes and jewels, there were the rich stuffs and tapestries to be arranged on the different walls or hung on the different beds; and, better than all, had not Isabel brought with her a store of figs and sweet things of her own choosing, which she bade her waiting women set out on little silver plates before her friends?

But after a few days these joys were interrupted, for it was necessary that Isabel should make a progress through the City of London and show herself to her new subjects, who hated her so much, though she did not guess the fact. So she left Eltham under a strong escort and rode to Greenwich, where she stepped on board the royal barge, and was rowed down to Kennington, near Lambeth. Richard was delighted to welcome her here in the old palace which had belonged to his father, the Black Prince, and where he himself had lived for a while with his mother when she became a widow. The next morning Isabel rose early, for she knew she must be carefully dressed so as to look her best to her husband's people. Her long bright hair was brushed till it shone, and over it a fine white veil hung from a golden circlet. Luckily the day was fine and warm, for of course the hood which she usually wore out of doors had to be laid aside. Then her richest robe of velvet edged with ermine and covered with gold embroidery was put on, with a jacket of the same colour over it, and her golden shoes with the long pointed turned-up toes were fastened, and very fair she seemed to her ladies and her husband as she was placed on her white palfrey, covered like herself with gold.

Her face was so full of happiness as she rode along by the side of the king, mounted also on a white horse, whose housings or trappings tinkled with silver bells, that the hearts of many who most bitterly disliked the French marriage melted towards her. Behind followed the king's uncles and great nobles, all wearing their special badges or coats of arms, and accompanied by their retainers. The procession passed through Southwark and came at last to London Bridge, which, though made of stone and not yet cumbered with houses, was filled with such a dense crowd that there was hardly room for the king and the queen to move, even at a foot's pace. Then an accident happened, as it was sure to do. Something touched a horse; he grew frightened and kicked; the throng pressed back on each other; someone stumbled and fell. There were no policemen or soldiers lining the way to keep order or to give help, and by the time the procession had crossed the bridge nine persons had been trampled to death.

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In Isabel's day, and for long, long after, the street which we call the Strand was filled with the palaces of great noblemen with their large gardens sloping down to the river and barges moored to the bank; for the streets were so narrow and so dirty that no one willingly went through them even on horseback or in a carriage. However, on the day that Isabel first saw them the fronts of the houses were draped with rich hangings and crowded with shouting people, while every now and then a platform might be seen on which a show of some kind would be given or a company of minstrels would sing a song. Altogether, pleased and touched though she was with her welcome, Isabel must have been glad when the houses were left behind and Westminster was reached—Westminster, not as we know it now, with houses everywhere, but as it was when Guinevere went a-maying, with broad fields and pleasant streams, and in the distance northwards the russet leaves of a forest. But queens are not so fortunate as their subjects, and have little time to rest themselves, and Isabel's days for some time to come were spent in receiving graciously and smilingly as she well knew how, the homage of all who came to pay their respects. Soon after there followed a tournament which lasted fourteen days, held in the open space of Smithfield, where the victor claimed his prize from the hands of the queen. The tournament over, the preparations were begun in good earnest for Isabel's coronation.

At length the festivities were finished and life went on quietly as before, Isabel remained in the palace at Westminster, and daily rode out past the marshy ground which is now Conduit Street, where flag flowers and forget-me-nots and marsh marigolds might be plucked in spring, and wildfowl were shot when the weather grew colder. Or sometimes she would accompany the king and his friends to a grand hunt after boar or deer in the woods that lay about the stream called the West Bourne, whence the chase would often lead them eastwards to the heathery spaces beyond what was afterwards the Moorgate. When it grew too dark or too wet for these sports, Richard would bid the queen play to him, and he could correct her faults as well as any master; or she would try and speak English to him, and they would both laugh heartily over the blunders she made.

Thus the days went by, and Richard was so good and kind to her that Isabel was perfectly happy, and thought him the most wonderful person in all the world. She did her utmost to please him and to take an interest in all he told her, and she noticed with pride that he never treated her as a little girl, but talked to her as he might have done to a grown-up woman. Inside the palace all was peace; but outside the people had begun to murmur again, and faces grew dark at the sound of Richard's name, and men spoke of the debts that were daily increasing and the taxes that were ever growing. But if Richard took no heed of these signs, there was one person who never failed to watch and listen, and every now and then to put in a careless word, which somehow always made matters worse. This was the duke of Gloucester, uncle to the king, and a great favourite of the Londoners. He, like them, wished for war with France, and lost no opportunity of letting his views be known on the subject. When things seemed ripe the duke sent for the earl of March, next heir to the kingdom, to his castle of Pleshy in Essex, and there unfolded to him a plot which he and the earl of Arundel had woven between them.

It was not without some hesitation that the duke of Gloucester told his tale to the earl of March, for he knew that his great-nephew was a true and loyal man, and that he dearly loved the king his cousin. But he had prepared a bait which he thought could not fail to land the most obstinate fish, only he resolved not to speak of that till the end of his story. Therefore he began by relating all Richard's acts of misgovernment—and they were many—and the burdens laid on his subjects, which were many also.

The two earls nodded their heads. What Gloucester said was nothing but truth, and well they knew it. But how to find a remedy? That, as they say, needed sharper wits than theirs. Then Gloucester proceeded, choosing his words carefully, but in spite of all his prudence he saw March beginning to move uneasily.

'I do not think I understand,' he said, and Gloucester repeated that the patience of English people had come to an end, that they would bear no more, and demanded (for so his tale went) that Richard and his queen should be taken possession of, and kept for life as honoured prisoners in separate palaces. This news struck the earl dumb with amazement, but before he could speak Gloucester added that, after asking counsel of many wise and powerful men, they had determined that, as soon as Richard was deposed, March should be declared king.

A dead silence followed. The earl burned to tell his tempter what he thought of such treachery; but in those times speech was not always safe, so he held his peace. Gloucester, however, read in his face something of what was passing in his mind, and entreated him to ponder the matter, and above all things to keep it secret, or the lives of many of his friends would be endangered. This March joyfully promised, and instantly returning to London obtained leave from Richard to go and govern Ireland, of which he had just been made viceroy. Every man among the conspirators was not, however, as loyal as March. The plot was betrayed to the king, who instantly summoned his two uncles, Lancaster and York, and his brother-in-law the count de St. Pol lately sent by Charles VI. to see the queen. The king laid the matter before all three and asked their advice how to prevent the success of the conspiracy. The two dukes could not deny the truth of what the king told them—for the scheme that was being planned had come to their ears also; but they spoke soothing words, saying that Gloucester ever threatened more than he meant or could do, and assuring Richard that, even if he really cherished such an evil purpose, they would see that it was not carried out. Then, to avoid taking sides against either brother or nephew, they retired hastily to their castles, leaving Richard to fight his own battles as best he could.

---

The way which he chose has left a dark stain on his memory. He felt helpless and alone, and there were not wanting people about him to whisper that he would never be secure on his throne as long as Gloucester lived. Still Richard knew too well that if he dared to arrest him publicly his own doom would be sealed, for all London would at once fly to arms. Therefore, taking some men with him on whom he could rely, Richard rode down into Essex to the duke's house of Pleshy, and with fair words requested his company to the Tower of London. Gloucester went without misgiving—would he not be in the City which adored him?—and was lodged in splendid apartments close to the king, on pretence, perhaps, of caring the better, for his uncle who was at that time suffering from illness. This may also have sufficed for a pretext to keep the duke in his room, thus hiding his presence. But a night or two later he was hurried over to Calais, doubtless by the river, which flowed conveniently past the fortress, and handed over to the governor by the earl marshal, now duke of Norfolk.

'What have I done to be so treated?' the duke inquired indignantly of Norfolk, and the earl marshal answered soothingly that 'the king his master was a little angry with him, and had given orders that the duke was to be locked up for the present in his good town of Calais, and, sorry as he himself was to displease his grace, he was forced to carry out his orders.' Gloucester understood, and without further parley begged that a priest might be sent for, to hear his confession and give him absolution. The rite over, he was preparing to dine when four men entered the apartment. The duke had not expected them so soon, but he made no resistance. What would have been the use? He was speedily strangled, and a messenger sent over to tell Richard that his uncle was dead. 'As to the manner of his death, in France no man cared,' says the chronicler; but the Londoners were furious, and the dukes of Lancaster and York trembled for their lives, though they afterwards found that it was to their interest to make peace with the king. More troubles followed this act of treachery; several nobles were condemned to banishment or execution, and a fierce quarrel broke out between Henry of Bolingbroke, duke of Hereford (son to John of Gaunt), and Mowbray duke of Norfolk. A court of chivalry to decide the matter was summoned to meet at Windsor, and we can imagine Isabel's excitement as she watched the assembling of the barons, knights, and bannerets of England in the courtyard of the castle. The scene is described by Shakespeare in the opening of the play of 'Richard II.' (though he places it in London), and you can all read it for yourselves. After much talk judgment was passed that the quarrel should be fought out at Coventry on September 16, in presence of the king, a body of representatives of the house of commons, and the people.

On the day appointed the dukes rode to their places clad in the heavy armour of the time. 'God speed the right!' cried Norfolk, and Henry of Bolingbroke solemnly made the sign of the cross. Each had his lance in rest, and leaned forward, listening for the expected signal; the trumpets were already raised for sounding the charge, when the king's warder was suddenly thrown down between the combatants.

'Hold,' he cried; 'our kingdom's earth should not be soiled

With the dear blood that it has fostered;

Therefore we banish you our territories:

You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,

Till twice five summers have enriched our fields.

Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom:

The hopeless word of "Never to return"

Breathe I against thee upon pain of life.'

'Those whom the gods will to destroy they first infatuate.' Surely the old Latin proverb was never more true than in this act of Richard II. He thought to rid himself of two powerful nobles, and instead he turned them into two undying enemies, and he soon learned with dismay that Hereford had been welcomed at the French Court. Then came news which caused the king bitter grief; the earl of March, whom he so dearly loved, had died in Ireland. Matters there needed a master's eye, and Richard knew not whom to trust. At last, troubled as were the affairs of England, the king felt that he must go himself and try to settle things. And Henry duke of Hereford, on the other side of the Channel, watched it all, and knew that his chance would soon come.

After the sentence had been passed on the banished lords, Richard had sent prince Henry of Monmouth (son of Hereford) and his sisters to Windsor, where the widowed duchess of Gloucester and her two daughters had been living ever since the death of the duke. It was, we may believe, with great unwillingness that the duchess consented to dwell under the roof of her husband's murderer; but she dared not disobey the king, and reminded herself that Isabel not only was innocent of the crime, but ignorant of it, as she was of all Richard's evil deeds. The 'little queen,' who daily grew more beautiful and womanly, only knew that her aunt had lost her husband, and judged her grief by what she herself would feel at the death of Richard. So she busied herself in doing all the kindnesses she could to the duchess and her daughters, though these young ladies were some years older than herself, and did not care to play the games in which prince Henry, her devoted friend, and his sisters Blanche and Philippa delighted. Henry was about her own age, but the little girls were younger, and Isabel, who had in the days that now seemed so long ago taken care of her own brothers and sisters, no doubt mothered these children also, and saw that they learned their lessons, especially French, and that their manners were good. The duke of Hereford had three other sons, but they were not sent to Windsor.

But games and lessons and everything else was forgotten when one day Richard came into the queen's 'bower,' as a lady's boudoir was then called, and told her that he must leave her and proceed at once to Ireland, where he was much needed. Isabel wept and clung to him, and besought him to take her with him; but he shook his head gently, and said that Ireland was no place for ladies, still less for queens, and that she must stay at home and look to her household. He went on to say that he had been greatly wroth at discovering the state that the lady de Coucy had taken on herself, and had dismissed her from her charge about the queen, and bade her to go back to France. In her stead he had given her place to his niece, the young and widowed countess of March, who would shortly arrive with her two small children, and join the sad company in the castle.

---

Left alone, the queen remained sitting in her carved high-backed chair, gazing straight before her, but seeing nothing. Her thoughts wandered away through the past year, and to the Christmas which she and Richard had kept in the bishop's palace at Lichfield, and to the journey they had made during the summer, riding under shady trees and hedges gay with honeysuckle and wild roses, and over downs sweet with gorse and bright with heather, amongst the towns of the west country, where they had seen splendid cathedrals and stately abbeys, and listened to the people talking a strange speech, which even Richard, clever as he was, could not understand! How happy they had both been, laughing over all their adventures, and what merry evenings they had passed in the tents that Richard had ordered to be spread for the night, wherever Isabel fancied. And how wonderful it was to visit the places where Guinevere had lived, and Arthur had fought his last battle! And now, now he was going to leave her, and travel over the seas, where he might suffer shipwreck, and run into dangers that she might never know. Oh no! It was impossible! She could never bear it.

But it had to be.

On April 25, St. Mark's Day, Richard and Isabel went hand in hand to St. George's chapel at Windsor, kneeling side by side while a solemn Mass was sung and one of the collects chanted by the king himself. When the service was over they left the church as they came, Isabel with her face white and drawn, with her eyes bright and tearless, and walking steadily. Outside the great door was set a table with wine and food, and together they ate, for the king did not mean to return again into the castle, but to ride straight into the west. When they had eaten, or pretended to eat, the king lifted up the queen in his arms, and holding her to his heart he kissed her many times, saying, 'Farewell, madame, until we meet again,' not knowing that it was farewell for ever. Then he rode away without looking back, his young cousins, Henry of Monmouth and Humphrey duke of Gloucester, riding behind him.

The queen stood watching till the cavalcade was out of sight, then slowly turned and walked towards the castle, none daring to speak to her. She mounted the narrow stone staircase like one in a dream, and shutting her door flung herself on her bed, with a burst of weeping. Kind lady March heard her sobs and longed to comfort her; but she too knew what sorrow was, and for some hours left Isabel alone with her grief. For a fortnight the queen was too ill to move from her room, and suffered no one except lady March and her old French maid to attend on her. But one morning the sun shone for her once more, for in came lady March carrying a letter tied with silk and bearing the royal arms, which Richard had sent by a special messenger from Milford Haven.

'He had been thinking of her, as he knew she had been thinking of him,' he wrote, 'while he rode along the same roads on which they had travelled last year together. But she must keep up a good heart, and not grieve if she heard nought of him, for the seas were rough, and not easy for boats to cross, but to remember that he loved her always.'

Perhaps, if the earl of March had lived to rule Ireland, things might have turned out differently, or at any rate Richard's ruin might have been staved off a little longer. As it was, the expedition to Ireland only hurried on the calamity. The murmurs of the Londoners, which had hitherto been low, now became loud, and men shook their heads and reminded each other of the fate of Edward II. 'Trade grows daily worse,' said they, 'and no honest dealer can carry his wares along the roads without fear of robbers and outlaws, while should the thief be caught justice is never done on him.' At length a meeting was held, and it was decided that Henry, now duke of Lancaster by the death of his father, should be invited to come from France and seize the crown. Most likely Henry had expected such a message, but he was too cautious to accept the invitation at once, and he merely replied that he must take a day to consult with his friends. The envoy, however, had noticed a sudden sparkle in his eye, and had little doubt of the answer, and a few days later Henry, with an escort of ships, was seen sailing up the English coast.

The news spread like lightning, and as soon as it was known that he had landed at Ravenspur, in Yorkshire, men flocked to join him. Richard alone remained ignorant of the enemy at his gates, and when, three weeks after, a boat managed to cross bearing the evil tidings and the king took ship for Holyhead, it was only to learn that Henry was advancing to meet him with an army of 60,000 men. The king had entrenched himself in Flint Castle when Henry knocked at the entrance.

'Who goes there?' cried a voice from within, and the newcomer answered:

'I am Henry of Lancaster, and I have come to claim my heritage, which the king has taken for himself. And so you can tell him.'

The man within the gate hastened across the courtyard and up the stairs, and entering the hall where Richard and his knights were holding counsel he said to him:

'Sire, it is your cousin the earl of Derby who knocks, and he demands that you shall restore to him all that belongs to the duchy of Lancaster.'

Now as to this matter Henry spoke truly, for Richard had indeed taken the money and lands that belonged of right to his cousin, and had spent them upon his ill-fated expedition to Ireland. Therefore he looked uncomfortably at his councillors and inquired of them what he should do.

'Sire, he speaks well,' replied the knights, 'and it is our advice that you listen to him, for he is much loved throughout the kingdom, and especially by the Londoners, who sent for him beyond the sea to make cause with him against you.'

'Then open the gate,' said Richard, 'and I will speak with him.'

So two knights arose and went across the courtyard of the castle and through the small door which was in the great gate, and bowed themselves before Henry and his friends, taking care to bear themselves politely and graciously, for they knew that the strength did not lie on their side.

'My lord the king will gladly see you and speak with you,' said the oldest of the two, 'and he prays you to enter.'

'Thus will I do,' answered Henry, and entered forthwith, thinking nothing of the danger he ran, for the king might have straightway put him to death. He walked across the hall, up to the chair where Richard was seated, and the king changed colour at the sight of him. Not that he was in bodily fear, for no Plantagenet was ever a coward, but because he knew in his heart that he had done his cousin grievous wrong. 'Have you breakfasted?' asked Henry without further greeting.

'Not yet,' replied the king, who had expected bitter reproaches, and half thought this must be a jest; 'it is still early. But why do you ask me?'

'You had better eat something at once,' answered his cousin, 'for you have a long journey before you.'

'A journey?' said Richard; 'and where to, I pray?'

'To London,' replied Henry; 'therefore I counsel you to eat and drink, that the ride may seem more merry.'

Richard understood; resistance was useless; so he commanded food to be brought, and ate and drank without haste and composedly.

---

The castle gates were thrown open wide, and a multitude of soldiers and archers pressed in and advanced to the doors, but Henry ordered them to stand back, and bade them do damage to none, for the castle with all in it was under his protection. After that he fetched the king into the courtyard, and while the horses were saddled they talked together in a corner.

Now Richard had a greyhound of great size and beauty called Math, which he loved much, and the dog would suffer none but the king to touch him. When he rode out Math was always by his side, and often the two would play together in the hall, and Math would put his two huge paws on the king's shoulders. And when Math beheld the horses ready saddled, and being led to the spot where Richard and his cousin were standing, he sprang up, and came with quick bounds towards them. Richard held out his hand to his favourite, but the dog passed him by, and, going to the side of Henry, reared himself on his hind legs and rubbed his head against the duke's cheek.

'What is he doing?' asked Henry, who had never seen Math before.

'Cousin,' answered the king, 'that caress holds a great meaning for you and a little one for me.'

'What is your interpretation of it?' inquired Henry, looking puzzled.

'My greyhound hails you to-day king of England, as you will be when I am deposed, and my crown taken from me. Keep him with you; he will serve you well.'

Henry answered nothing; perhaps in his heart he may have felt a little ashamed; but the dog stayed with him, and did not leave him till the day of his death.

---

Meanwhile, at the first whisper of invasion, the duke of York, who had been left regent, had removed the queen from Windsor to the stronger castle of Wallingford. The poor girl thought nothing of her own danger, but was wild with despair at the idea that the crown of England might be placed on the usurper's head and the rightful king be ignorant of the fact. Soon arrived the news that Richard had fallen into the hands of the duke of Lancaster, and was to be taken to London. Luckily she never heard that at Lichfield, where he was probably lodged in the same house where they had passed their happy Christmas so short a time ago, he had tried to escape, but was recaptured in the garden. After this his guards were doubled during the long ride to the Tower.

If Henry was in London, Isabel was clearly not safe at Wallingford, and the regent took her by lonely roads and obscure villages to the castle of Leeds in Kent. Here she was within reach of the coast, and could, if needful, be sent over to France. It was at Leeds that Isabel received a messenger from the Londoners to the effect that the lady de Coucy (who had lingered about her mistress in spite of Richard's order) and all French attendants of the queen should be despatched to Dover and conveyed to Boulogne. By the envoy's desire the lady de Coucy was summoned to the queen's presence, and found to her surprise a plain man in the dress of a citizen standing by the window.

'Madame,' he said, without taking the trouble to bow, 'bid your maids get ready your packages, for you must quit this place without delay. But beware of telling anyone that you do not go of your own free will; instead, say that your husband and daughter need you. Your life hangs on your silence and obedience, and the less you hear and see the better for you. You will have an escort as far as Dover, where you will find a ship to put you ashore at Boulogne.'

'I will obey your orders, good sir,' answered the lady de Coucy, who had listened trembling; and she lost no time in making her preparations and in bidding the queen farewell. Indeed, she was in such a haste to be gone that she would hardly wait to hear the loving messages which Isabel sent to her father and mother, or allow her to take leave of the faithful servants who had come with the queen from France, but hurried them down into the courtyard, where horses of all sorts were saddled and bridled. A troop of soldiers was in readiness to accompany them to Dover, but on their arrival there the fugitives—for they were nothing less—found to their dismay that they were expected to pay heavily for the honour, 'each according to his condition,' as Froissart says. Right thankful were they to get on board the vessel which was to land them on French soil. Once in France the lady de Coucy hastened to Paris, and it was from her that Charles learned, for the first time, the peril of his daughter.

At their departure poor Isabel felt more lonely than she had done since she had bidden her parents farewell before her marriage. Far more lonely, for then she had Richard, and now the new English attendants which 'the Londoners' placed about her were forbidden even to mention his name. So her days were spent in torturing thoughts and her nights in evil dreams; she could hardly have been more wretched had she known he was in the Tower. The suspense would have been terrible for a grown-up woman, and for a girl under twelve it was almost unbearable; but her grief would have been deeper still if she had known that Richard had prayed to have his wife with him in his captivity, and had been refused.

Shut up in the Tower, Richard had plenty of time to look back on the events of the twenty-two years that his reign had lasted and to note the folly and extravagance which had led to his ruin. Some friends he still had, and of these the earl of Salisbury was the chief; but a little while after this an effort made by the earl to assassinate Henry only ended in his own death and in the death of the king he was so anxious to save. The advice of Richard's attendants was to resign at once, lest worse should befall them, and, bitter though it was to him, the king felt that the counsel was good. Therefore he sent a message to Henry, now living in his own house on the banks of the Thames, to say he would like to speak with him. The duke, with a company of knights in attendance, arrived in a barge, and was conducted to the king. Humbly Richard confessed all the wrongs he had done him, and declared himself ready to abdicate the throne in his favour. Henry replied that this must be done in the presence of parliament and with the consent of its representatives; but in three days a sufficient number of these could be assembled for the purpose. Not being a generous man, he did not stop there, but went on to point out that if Richard had followed in the steps of his grandfather, Edward III., and of his father, the Black Prince, all would have been well; instead, he had chosen to go his own way without considering his people. 'Still,' cried Henry—and perhaps at the moment he meant what he said—'out of pity I will defend you and preserve your life from the hatred of the Londoners, who would have you die.'

'I thank you, cousin,' replied Richard; 'I have more faith in you than in the whole of England.'

---

After remaining for two hours with Richard the duke of Lancaster returned home, and sent out letters to all his relations of Plantagenet blood and to the nobles, Churchmen, and citizens of London, summoning them to meet at Westminster. When they arrived he rode to the Tower with a great company, who, leaving their horses outside, entered the fortress. Here Richard awaited them in the great hall, wearing on his head the crown of his coronation and holding the sceptre in his hand, while the royal mantle flowed from his shoulders. 'For twenty-two years,' he said, standing on the steps of the dais and looking steadfastly into the faces of the men around him—'for twenty-two years I have been king of England, duke of Aquitaine, and lord of Ireland. I now resign crown, sceptre, and heritage into the hands of my cousin Henry duke of Lancaster, and in the presence of you all I pray him to accept them.' Then he held out the sceptre to Henry, who stood near him, and taking off the crown placed it before him, saying as he did so, 'Henry, dear cousin and duke of Lancaster, I give you this crown, with all its duties and privileges,' and the duke of Lancaster received that also and handed it to the archbishop. This done, Richard—king no longer—returned to his apartments, and the company who had witnessed the act of abdication rode silently back to their own houses, while the sceptre and the crown were deposited for safety in the treasury of Westminster Abbey. The bitterest moment of Richard's life had come. He had, through his own fault he knew, been forced to yield up the inheritance that had descended without a break from father to son for 200 years. He had worn out the patience of his subjects, till he stood alone, and they refused him even the comfort of his wife's presence. Ah! she was faithful, and would suffer with his pain! And in thinking of Isabel for a while he forgot himself.

He had done what was required, and the last acts of the drama were gone through without him. Perhaps Henry was merciful; perhaps he did not care to risk his throne by showing the people their rightful king, of whose beauty and boyish gallantry they had once been so proud. In any case it was Henry who presided at the parliament held at Westminster, 'outside London,' in September 1399, and demanded that he should be declared king on the ground of three claims which he set forth: First, by right of conquest; second, by heirship; and third, by the resignation of Richard in his favour, in presence of nobles, bishops, and citizens gathered in the Tower. 'You shall be our king; we will have none other!' they cried, and twice more Henry repeated the same question and received the same answer. Then Henry sat himself on the throne covered with cloth of gold, and the people stretched out their hands and swore fealty to him. Before parliament separated, October 8 was fixed for the coronation.

At nine o'clock on the appointed day the royal procession left the palace. The sword of justice was borne by Henry Percy earl of Northumberland; the sword of the Church by the young prince of Wales; while the earl of Westmoreland, marshal of England, carried the sceptre. Seats had been erected in the Abbey for the nobles and clergy, and in their midst was a raised platform, on which was a vacant chair draped with cloth of gold. Henry walked up the steps and took possession of the throne, while the archbishop turned to the four sides of the platform and demanded if it was the wish of that assembly that Henry duke of Lancaster should be crowned king. 'It is, it is!' they cried as before; so Henry came down from the throne and walked to the High Altar, and the crown of Edward the Confessor was put on his head, and he was anointed in six places. Then deacon's robes were placed on him, signifying that he would defend the Church, and the sword of justice was blessed, and Henry IV. was proclaimed king.

In spite of the dark whispers that had been heard during the past year as to the fate of Edward II., it is doubtful if Richard's life would not have been spared but for the plot made by the earl of Salisbury for assassinating Henry. The plot failed because Henry did not appear at the tournament; but, nothing daunted, Salisbury persuaded a man named Maudlin, who had a strong likeness to Richard, to personate the deposed king, and sent word to Isabel that her husband was marching to rescue her at the head of a large army. The queen, who knew by this time that Henry had been proclaimed king of England, believed all that was told her, and instantly left Sunning Hill, near Reading, where she had been staying for some time, and joined the body of troops commanded by the earl of Kent, nephew of Richard. Happy and excited, and full of hope, she knew no fatigue; but her spirits fell a little as they drew near Cirencester without either letter or message from her beloved husband. Once inside the gates the mayor betrayed them to Henry, and, while Kent and Salisbury were beheaded at once, Isabel was sent, strictly guarded, to Havering-atte-Bower, not far from London. Here three French attendants were all the company allowed her—a maid, a physician and confessor, and her chamberlain; but these like the rest of her household were forbidden to mention the late king; even the two gentlemen sent over by Charles VI. to inquire into the condition of his daughter received orders from Henry himself to keep silence on this subject, though they were assured that Isabel would be kept in all the state befitting a queen dowager. They found her at Havering surrounded by Richard's relations, 'who honourably kept her company,' as Froissart tells us. There were the duchess of Ireland, sister of lady de Coucy and wife of Robert de Vere; the duchess of Gloucester, whose little son had lately died on his voyage from Ireland, her daughters, and several other ladies. Isabel looked up eagerly when the Sieur Charles de Labreth and the Sieur de Hangiers were ushered in, and was about to question them eagerly on the matter next her heart when M. de Labreth slightly shook his head. Isabel had grown apt in reading signs. She understood, and the brightness left her face; but she begged them to tell her all they knew about her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, and what had become of her old servants and friends who had returned to Paris. The envoys, very ill at ease, feeling themselves surrounded by spies, did not stay long, but rode back through London to Eltham, where they took leave of Henry, who gave them fine jewels and fair words.

In the end that which was bound to happen did happen. At the first news of the conspiracy of the earl of Salisbury, Richard had been hastily removed from the Tower of London to Pontefract Castle, in Yorkshire, and there, early in February 1400, he met his death. How is not exactly known: stories of all kinds went abroad, and, to make sure—a vain precaution—that no pretenders should hereafter spring up, his body was brought to London and carried in procession through the City. Four black horses led by two grooms drew the open car, and, four knights in mourning rode behind it. Slowly they travelled along Cheapside, while twenty thousand people pressed around to gaze their last upon the beautiful face of their dead king, who looked scarcely older than on the day on which he had faced Wat Tyler. 'Some were moved to pity,' says Froissart, 'but others declared that he had brought his fate on himself, and felt no sorrow for him.' And the body passed on, unconscious alike of friend or foe, till it lay for a while in the church of St. Paul's, and then found rest at Langley.

In these days it is difficult to understand how no whisper of her husband's death reached Isabel, but it was several weeks before Henry allowed the fact to be broken to her. She had thought that she was prepared for every misfortune and every grief that could befall her, but at twelve one does not easily give up hope, and by the despair that took possession of her the 'little queen' at last knew that she had expected 'something' might happen to bring them together again.

Considering all that had passed, it seems scarcely possible that Henry IV. should have been so stupid as to think that he could bring about his dearest wish and unite in marriage Henry prince of Wales with the young queen dowager. His accession to the throne had been attended with so little difficulty that he had ceased to reckon with opposition—he remembered that prince Harry and Isabel had played together while he was in exile, and forgot that he had usurped her husband's crown and countenanced his murder. The horror with which Isabel rejected his first proposals did not open his eyes to his folly, and during the two years and a half that she remained in England he spared no effort to bend her to his will. But Isabel was as determined as he, and in her refusal was supported by the French council of regency—for at this time her father was insane.

After much consideration and many messages passing between London and Paris it was finally settled that Isabel should be restored to France and allowed to live with her family. But in all these transactions the meanness of Henry's nature came out. When we remember that Richard had appropriated the revenues of the lands of Lancaster to defray the expenses of the Irish expedition we may perhaps find some excuse for his division of Isabel's jewels amongst his children (though a large number of them had been given her in France); but he pretended that he had ordered their return, which was plainly untrue, and declined to give her and her attendants proper clothes for their journey. The French court was far more indignant with his conduct than Isabel, who, still stricken with grief and wearied with imprisonment, was longing to be back in her own country. At the end of May Isabel set out from Havering with a great train of ladies, the noblest in the land. They rode slowly, for the roads were bad, and in the towns people crowded to see them and to wonder at the beauty and sad face of the 'little queen,' whose six years of sovereignty had held more of sorrow than the lifetime of many of those who watched her. Through the green fields and past the country houses at Tottenham and Hackney she went, till at length she reached the Tower, and her cheeks grew white as she glanced at the great hall which was the scene of Richard's abdication. Happy memories there were, too, of her early married life, and of her progress through the City; but these did not bear thinking about, and she hastily turned and spoke some kindly words to the old countess of Hereford, who was behind her.

During the six weeks that Isabel remained in the Tower Henry renewed his son's suit, and urged truly that nowhere would Isabel find a more gallant husband. The prince of Wales, boy though he was, had always admired and loved Isabel; 'there was no princess like her,' he thought, 'and now that she was free why should she not be queen of England again?' And so she might have been had not the shadow of Richard lain between them; once more she refused, though she liked the youth well, and would have been content to know that years after she was dead he would marry her sister Katherine. It was only on French soil that Isabel parted with tears from her English ladies, to whom she gave as remembrances the few jewels she had left. Then she was delivered by Sir Thomas Percy to the count de St. Pol, who was waiting with a company of high-born damsels sent to attend on her, and by him she was conducted to the dukes of Burgundy and Bourbon, with an armed force at their back.

So the merry little girl of seven years old came home again, sad, widowed, and penniless, for Henry had refused to restore her dowry or to make her the customary allowance. This behaviour so enraged her uncle, Louis duke of Orleans, that he is said to have challenged Henry to fight a duel, but Henry had replied that no king ever fought with a subject, even one of royal blood. Isabel herself cared little about the matter. She found, on arriving in Paris, that things were changed very much for the worse. Her father's fits of madness were more frequent and more severe, her mother was more bent on pleasure, and her children were more neglected than before. Isabel did what she could, we may be sure; but the queen of France, though she omitted to perform her own duty, would not suffer it to be done by other people; and Isabel, finding she could be of little use, passed most of her time with her uncle, the duke of Orleans, and his wife, Violante Visconti.

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Now the duke of Orleans had a son, Charles, three years younger than the 'queen of England,' and it was his cherished plan to marry him to his niece. The two cousins had much in common; they both loved music, and old romances, and songs, and Charles had already begun to write some of those poems that sound sweet in our ears to-day. Of course the boy was too young for a marriage to be spoken of at present, but after a while it became understood that the ceremony of betrothal would shortly take place. Isabel had not given her consent (in those times that counted for little) without a long struggle. The memory of Richard was still green in her heart, but she was alone in the world. Nobody wanted her except her uncle and aunt, and her friend Charles. Oh yes! and one other, but she would not think of him. Charles was her friend, and in a way she loved him; so, to his great joy, she promised to be his wife, and when she burst into tears during the magnificent ceremony of betrothal he imagined that she was tired with all the feasting, and he led her away to rest and read her the little song he had written all about themselves.

A year after the betrothal the duke of Orleans was stabbed by the duke of Burgundy in the streets of Paris. No notice was taken of the murder, so Isabel and her mother-in-law dressed themselves in deep mourning and, mounting in front of the carriage, which was drawn by white horses with black housings, they drove weeping to the Hôtel de St. Pol, where the king was, followed by a long train of servants and attendants. But Charles was in no state to settle these questions, for any excitement only brought on a paroxysm. The duke's murder remained unavenged, and a year afterwards his widow died, deeply mourned by her son and by Isabel, to whom in the last years she had been a true mother.

It was only in 1408 that Isabel was really married to her cousin, and the one year that was left to her to live was a very happy one. If she had not forgotten Richard, Charles had grown to be part of herself, and once more she was heard to laugh and jest as of old. But in September 1409 a little daughter was born, and in a few hours after the mother lay dead with her baby beside her. At first it was thought her husband would die too, so frantic was his grief, as the poems in which he poured out his heart bear witness. But after a while he roused himself to care for the child, and later to fight for his country, and was taken prisoner at Agincourt by Isabel's old suitor, Henry V. Orleans was brought to England, and in the Tower, where he was imprisoned for twenty-three years, he had ample time to think about his lost wife—of her life in that very Tower, of her body resting quietly in the abbey of St. Lammer at Blois. It lay in the abbey for over two hundred years, and was found, in the reign of Louis XIII., perfect as in life, the linen clothes having been wrapped in quicksilver. By this time the Valois had passed away from the throne of France, and their cousins the Bourbons reigned in their stead, and by them Isabel's body was reverently brought from Blois and laid in the sepulchre of the dukes of Orleans.

TWO LITTLE GIRLS AND THEIR MOTHER

And what became of the Ladies Blanche and Philippa, the playmates of the 'Little Queen'? Well, Blanche's life was, unlike that of her friend, a very happy one; but she and the 'Little Queen' died, strange to say, in the same year, leaving behind a son and a daughter. Philippa lived many years longer, but she had no children, and her husband was restless and quarrelsome, and always at war with his neighbours; and Philippa had often to govern the kingdom in his absence, and ruled a great deal better than he did himself. But this all happened 'by-and-by,' and we must begin at the beginning.

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Towards the end of Edward III.'s reign there died Humphrey de Bohun, the great earl of Hereford, leaving a widow and two daughters. These little girls, whose names were Eleanor and Mary, were the richest heiresses in England, and many greedy eyes were cast upon them and the vast estates which they were to share. Mary was a mere baby at her father's death, and Eleanor only a few years older, so for a while they lived quietly at home with their mother; but as soon as Eleanor was old enough to marry, the king's youngest son, Thomas of Woodstock, then earl of Buckingham, and later duke of Gloucester, came forward as a wooer. His offer was accepted by the countess of Hereford, and after the ceremony was completed he took his young bride to Pleshy in Essex, one of her own estates. Mary remained with her mother, under the care of John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster, who was her guardian.

Now, rich though he had become through his marriage, the earl of Buckingham was not content, and longed to become richer still and more powerful than either of his elder brothers, Lancaster and York. So, under pretext that he was frequently obliged to be away at the wars, and that his wife was very lonely during his absence, he prevailed on the duke of Lancaster to allow Mary de Bohun (at this time about eleven years old) to come to Pleshy and keep her sister company. Once at Pleshy, Buckingham believed that his persuasive tongue would easily turn the girl's thoughts to a religious life,—for she was quiet and gentle, and liked music and books better than tournaments and dances,—and when she had become a nun, her money and lands would go to him and his children. Thus he plotted in his secret heart, for he was too wary to take any man into his confidence; but he constantly sent for the nuns from the convent of St. Clare 'to attend her and tutor her in matters of religion, continually blaming the married state.' Great, we may feel sure, was his delight when he saw that 'the young lady seemed to incline to their doctrine, and thought not of marriage.'

Careful as was the earl to hide his plans, whispers got abroad as to the frequent visits of the nuns to Pleshy, and reached the ears of the duke of Lancaster. It happened that Lancaster also had a son, a handsome and promising youth, called Henry of Bolingbroke, earl of Derby, and, says Froissart, 'the duke had for some time considered that he could not choose a more desirable wife for him than the lady who was intended for a nun, as her estates were very large and her birth suitable to any rank; but he did not take any steps in the matter till his brother of Buckingham had set out on his expedition to France. When Buckingham had crossed the sea, the duke of Lancaster had the young lady conducted to Arundel castle, for the aunt of the two heiresses was the sister of Richard, earl of Arundel. At the desire of the duke of Lancaster, and for the advancement of her niece, this lady went to Pleshy, where she remained with the countess of Buckingham and her sister fifteen days. On her departure, she managed so well that she carried the lady Mary with her to Arundel, where the betrothal between her and Henry took place.' 'The earl of Buckingham,' ends the chronicler, 'felt no desire to laugh when he heard these tidings; and when he learned that his brothers had all been concerned in this affair he became melancholy, and never after loved the duke of Lancaster, as he had hitherto done.'

We do not know exactly what Eleanor thought about it all. Most likely she was delighted that her beautiful young sister should get a husband whom she could love, though she was too much afraid of the earl of Buckingham to approve openly. The bride went back at once to her mother, and a large sum was allowed by her guardian for her expenses, though Mary cared but little for the fine clothes and extra servants that were given her, and busied herself with her books and music as before. If she wanted amusement, were there not the minstrels and jongleurs, singers and dancers, whom young king Richard had brought over from France; and could she wish anything better than to sit and listen to their songs, while she sat close to the window to get light for her embroidery?

As Mary's fourteenth birthday approached, an ever-increasing stir might be noticed in the castle. Travelling merchants drew up in the courtyard, accompanied by pack-horses laden with rare silks and velvets and laces. These were carried into lady Derby's bower, and she and her mother spent hours in fingering the stuffs and determining which to take and which to leave. Jewellers too rode down from London, with an escort of armed servants, for highwaymen were much to be dreaded on the lonely heaths; and then at last came the journey to Arundel, where Henry was waiting for Mary; and her wedding day drew near.

Unlike some of the marriages common in those times, as well as these, this wedding was not merely a matter of riches on one side and high rank on the other. Henry and Mary loved each other dearly, and nothing ever came between them. Mary was always ready to be pleased with everything and everybody, and made friends at once with her sisters-in-law: Philippa, two years older than herself, and by-and-by to be queen of Portugal; and Elizabeth, about her own age, who soon after married the earl of Huntingdon, half-brother of the king. The chapel of Arundel must have been a fair sight during the ceremony, with all the gallant young nobles and their youthful wives, and no handsomer pair was present than king Richard with his queen, Anne of Bohemia, now a bride of two years' standing. Knowing Mary de Bohun's passionate love of music, Richard had brought his court minstrels with him, and sweetly they sang through the banquet which followed the marriage. And never once did the bride's thoughts stray back to the nuns of St. Clare, or her heart 'blame the marriage state.'

When the rejoicings were over, the earl and countess of Derby bade their friends farewell, and journeyed down to the hilly west country, to their home in Monmouth castle, where the little river Monmow flows into the Wye. Mary would gladly have stayed there for ever, but soon Henry was called away to fight, and her mother came to keep her company. In a little while she had another companion also, who took up all her time and attention, her baby, Henry of Monmouth, afterwards Henry V. Thus the years came and went, and the earl of Derby was sometimes at home, but more often travelling. At one moment he joined the band of Teutonic knights who were fighting some pagan tribes on the south-east coasts of the Baltic, with the hope of converting them. Then he sailed for Morocco, and later visited Austria, and altogether he must have had many interesting adventures to tell his wife whenever he returned to England. Meanwhile four little boys were growing up under their mother's care, and in 1392 his eldest daughter was born in Peterborough, where lady Derby was then living, and was christened Blanche after her grandmother. More than a year later Blanche had a little sister to play with, and to her was given the name of Philippa, after the Queen of Edward III.

Henry of Monmouth, the eldest of the six children, was only seven years old when, in 1395, his mother died after a short illness, and the countess of Hereford took her place. Lady Hereford was a very different woman from Mary, and thought that children should be kept at a distance, so, though she meant to be kind to them, they missed their mother deeply. Mary had never been too busy to listen to them, or to play with them, or to sing them old songs, but now everyone was in too much of a hurry to pay them any attention. Soon they were removed into Lincolnshire, and shortly afterwards Henry, whom the rest considered a man and full of wisdom, was sent to Leicester, and little John to his kinswoman the lady Margaret Plantagenet.

In this manner things continued for a year, and when the day of their mother's death came round again, the countess of Hereford ordered fresh suits of deep mourning to be prepared for herself and her little granddaughters, and set forth with a train of servants to the Abbey at Leicester, where Mary de Bohun was buried. Blanche and Philippa, who were now only three and four, had forgotten what their mother was like, and the long hours passed kneeling in the black-hung chapel must have seemed endless to them, and very trying to their poor little backs; but they were delighted to see Henry again and to watch the twenty-four poor women, who each received a warm black cloak, in memory of the dead lady who was twenty-four when she died. And they hung about Henry and admired him, while he on his part told them how much he had learned since he last saw them, and bade them take heed to their lessons, and learn courtly ways and manners. Then they returned to Bytham, and the next morning, when they looked round for their dark dresses, they had vanished, and instead gay scarlet frocks edged with green lay in their place. If they went out to walk in the stately garden, or accompanied their grandmother on a visit to some neighbour in the big stuffy coach, they were wrapped up in hoods and cloaks to match if the weather was cold, while on the occasions that a great lord or noble lady spent a few days at Bytham cloth of gold and ermine capes were put on their small figures, and golden coronets upon their heads, in case they should be summoned into the hall to pay their respects. A few months after their journey to Leicester their grandmother considered it was time that they should each be given special attendants, and sometimes even a house of their own. One would have thought that with the number of servants already in the castle two or three nurses and governesses would have been enough for little girls of three or four, but children in those times were treated very differently. The ladies Blanche and Philippa had cooks and scullions, pages and waiting-maids, and a steward called John Green, who kept all the servants in order. They also had a head-governess, and a knight of the chamber, named Sir Hugh Waterton, in whom their father placed absolute trust. Indeed they were sent to pass a whole year in his house at Eton, which must have been very large if it was able to hold all his servants as well as theirs, and when they left they paid some visits to their relations, before joining their father in his beautiful home at Bishopsgate, on the outskirts of London. Rich people changed their houses very often then, for though they were rich they were not clean, and the houses became unhealthy.

In spite of his long absences, the earl of Derby had always been very fond of his children, and Blanche and Philippa were enchanted to go and live with him again, and to watch their two eldest brothers, Henry and Thomas, taking their daily riding lessons, while their father, who next to king Richard was the best horseman of the day, corrected their faults. How Philippa longed to have a pony too, and to jump the barricades with them. She was sure she would not fall off any more than Thomas did—why should she? Of course Henry was different, she could never sit as he did; why, he did not move when Black Roland gave that plunge! but her father said she was too little and must wait awhile, and wait she did. But when Blanche was married, and Philippa, though only nine, was, 'the first Lady of England,' what a store of horses and saddles and housings her stables could show!

Whatever attention was paid to their manners, neither Blanche nor Philippa seems to have learnt anything, though it is very certain that had their mother lived she would have taught them as she had taught Henry. But when the 'Little Queen' came to Court, and people talked of the songs she knew, and the tales she had by heart, and the poetry she could repeat, the earl of Derby felt ashamed of the ignorance of his own little girls. So he ordered some alphabets for them, and very costly they were, for there was no printing then, and books were all written and copied mostly by the monks, who often put beautiful pictures in them. The children were both clever, and anxious to imitate the queen, to whom they paid frequent visits, and as she could dance and play the lute, of course they must do so too. But it was more difficult for Blanche to do her lessons than her sister, as she was constantly sent for by her father to be present at some banquet to his friends, and though she was no more than six, the child knew how to behave like a grown-up woman, and never showed when she was tired or bored.

But all this came to an end a few months later, when the King suddenly banished the earl of Derby for ten years, just after he had created his cousin duke of Hereford. At Richard's wish, the little girls and their brother Henry, now an undergraduate of Queen's College, Oxford, were sent to Windsor Castle, to be brought up with queen Isabel. The king was always fond of children, and treated them all kindly, Henry in particular. And Henry never forgot this, and one of his first acts after succeeding to the throne was to bring Richard's body up from its resting-place at Langley, and bury it with honours in Westminster Abbey.

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After Richard II. had abdicated and died, and Henry, now duke of Lancaster, was crowned as king Henry IV., the princess Blanche was forced by her father to take her mother's place entirely. It was she of whom the knights had to ask leave before fighting in a tournament, and it was she who gave the prize to the victor. How glad Blanche felt for the months she had passed by the side of the 'Little Queen', when she had learned from her how such things ought to be done! And Blanche's thoughts would go back to her former playfellow, and all the troubles she was passing through, and tears of sorrow would fill her eyes, for the princess was always faithful and loving to her friends.

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It was early in 1401 that the emperor sent over messengers from Germany to ask for the hand of the princess Blanche for his son Lewis. Henry IV. had just returned from fighting some Welsh rebels, and he would much have liked to have kept his little girl with him for a few years longer; but the marriage pleased him, and he readily gave his consent. In general, as we know, the bride was suffered to remain at home for some time after the ceremony of betrothal, but the emperor desired that Blanche should come over at once to her new country, so she was bidden to begin her preparations as soon as possible.

The two little sisters were very sad when they heard their father's decision. They had never been separated in their lives, and how strange and dreadful it would feel not to be able to talk together about all that interested them! Of course they knew they would be married 'some day,' but 'some day' is always a long way off, and meantime there were journeys and tournaments and music, and all manner of delightful things in the world, especially horses.

'Oh, you must give a prize to that grey horse!' Philippa would whisper in Blanche's ear, as she sat by her side at the lists at a tourney.

'But how can I,' asked Blanche, 'if the knight that rides him is not the victor?'

'Oh, he must be when he has a horse like that,' Philippa would answer. Then the trumpet would sound, and the eyes of both children would be fixed on the field. Now it was Philippa whose lot it would be to give the prize, and Blanche would be far away amongst strangers.

The young leaves were out, and the 'ways and the woods smelt sweet,' when the day of parting actually came. 'They say the lord Lewis is good and kind, and has many books and a number of minstrels about him,' observed Philippa, who always tried to make the best of things. 'You will write and tell me what he is like, and about your palace, and your wedding. Oh, and you will promise to be married in the dress of cloth of gold that you bought from master Richard Whittington, who had the black cat which made his fortune? It is so much, much more beautiful than any of the rest!' Then good-bye was said, and Blanche began her journey with the household that her father had formed for her. The countess of Salisbury was her lady-in-waiting, and Henry could not have made a better choice. Blanche's old friend John Green was to go too, and the child's heavy heart grew a little lighter as she remembered that here was someone who knew all about her, and who could talk of Philippa and her brothers as well as she could herself. And besides the servants and attendants of every degree, her uncle the duke of Somerset was in charge of the party, together with the bishop of Worcester, who was to perform the marriage.

It was high summer before Blanche reached Cologne, for travelling was slow in those days, and many times she stopped to rest and to receive guests who came to give their homage to the daughter-in-law of the emperor. But at length the town was in sight, and a halt was called, so that Blanche might be gaily dressed in one of her grand new dresses, while her golden coronet was placed upon her flowing hair and her collar of pearls was hung round her neck. Then she mounted the white horse with silver trappings which had been sent expressly for her, and wondered as she did so what Philippa would have thought of him. The emperor was not present at Cologne, for business had kept him elsewhere, but his son Lewis, the bridegroom, was awaiting her at the gate, with an escort of nobles behind him. He looked, as Philippa had said, good and kind and very pleased to see her, and that was all that Blanche cared for, as, unlike queen Isabel, she had no wish to be 'a great lady.' But her attendants felt that a slight had been put on their king and their country, and murmured among themselves at the emperor's absence. However they were wise enough to hold their peace in the presence of the Germans, and not to mar the wedding festivities with cross faces. And Blanche was married three days later in Dick Whittington's famous gold brocade, and once more she gave away the prizes at a tourney.

Perhaps the feelings of the English might have been soothed if they had seen the welcome given their princess by the emperor in his palace of Heidelberg, and his admiration of her beauty. She touched his heart by her modesty and unselfishness, and he felt he had done well in choosing his son's wife. Blanche was grateful for his kindness, and soon loved him and her husband dearly, while she was never tired of standing at the windows of the castle, whose ruins you may see to-day, looking over the broad Rhine and the vine-clad mountains. Here she had more time for reading, too, as there were no great Court ceremonies that needed her presence, and her husband would tell her tales of bygone emperors, and teach her how to speak his native tongue, which she found much more difficult than French.

'How can I remember all those different endings?' she cried, 'and by the time I come to the verb, I have quite forgotten what I was going to say! and Lewis—who bade her call him 'Ludwig'—would laugh, and relate to her the brave deeds of Henry the Fowler, or recite some verses of the 'Lay of the Nibelungs,' till Blanche would stop her ears at the cruelties of Brunhilda and Chriemhild. Or if the days were fine the husband and wife would go out together, and visit some church or citizen's house that was being built, and Lewis, who had much skill in these things, would show Blanche the wonderful carving or bid her mark the fine proportions of the architecture. Blanche—the 'electoral princess'—would have liked to stay in Heidelberg, but after awhile she was obliged to leave Cologne to go to Alsace, and preside over a Court again. She always did what came in her way pleasantly and graciously, but she was very sorry to give up her happy life, with its books and music and church-building, and pass her time in public ceremonies, even though the little Court of Alsace was much quieter and more homely than that of either Richard II. or her own father. But the climate did not agree with her, and as she grew older she also grew more delicate. This she managed to conceal from her husband who was busy with many things, fearing to distress him, and she kept gay words and a smile for everyone as long as she possibly could. But at length she grew too weak to ride or walk, and by-and-by lay amongst pillows at her window gazing at the mountains, and now and then saying a word to her husband, who never left her when he could help it.

One day, early in May, when the birds were singing and the streams gurgling, he returned from a long journey to find Blanche lying with a little son beside her and a look of rapture on her face.

'Ah, you will get better now!' he cried joyfully, noting the happiness in her eyes; but she said nothing, only kissed his hand, and drew it towards the baby. And she was right: from that moment she grew worse, and a few days later she was dead, leaving this one child behind her. Hardly sixteen! yet how well and nobly she had filled the place and done the duties that had been given her!

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The news of Blanche's death was a terrible grief to her father in England, and to her sister Philippa, who had been for nearly three years queen of Denmark. It was not that they ever saw her—perhaps they never would—but they felt she was there, thinking about them and caring for them; and what joyful days those were when a special courier or travelling knight brought them letters from her! Yet as she read with streaming eyes what her brother-in-law, 'the lord Lewis,' had written, Philippa's heart ached for herself, as well as for the dead girl. Blanche's life at least had been happy from first to last, but to Philippa some bad days had already come, and others were casting shadows before them.

Except for parting from Blanche, Philippa had also had a happy childhood, and she being very lively and full of plans, nobody ever felt dull in her presence. No sooner had Blanche set out on her journey to Cologne than Henry was obliged to go into Wales, and he left Philippa and her second brother, John, duke of Bedford, together with the children of the late earl of March, under the care of Sir Hugh Waterton at Berkhamstead Castle. It was summer, and the pretty Hertfordshire commons were golden with gorse and sweet with bushes of wild roses and honeysuckle, and, strictly guarded though they were, Philippa and the rest had many a merry gallop over the grass, for her love of horses had become a passion with her. Sometimes, when they were tired of playing, she and John used to walk soberly up and down the alleys in the castle garden, talking of their new stepmother—for even before the departure of Blanche Henry had been married 'by proxy' to the widowed duchess of Bretagne, Jane of Navarre.

'She sounded kind in the letter she wrote,' said Philippa in a doubtful tone, 'and if Blanche had been here I should not have been afraid. But suppose she should be like the stepmothers in the nursery tales, and send me down into the kitchen to do scullion's work!'

'And do you think the king would not miss you and bring you back?' asked John mockingly. 'Oh, Philippa, what nonsense you talk, and what a bad scullion you would make!' and they both laughed, and Philippa's tears, which had been very near her eyes, went back to their proper place. 'Besides,' continued John, 'remember that she will not be here for many months yet, and during all that time you will have to take Blanche's place, and preside at the pageants and tourneys. And then, when she does come, she will bring her daughters, the ladies Blanche and Marguérite, with her.'

'Just like the nursery tales,' thought Philippa to herself; but before she could say more the little Mortimers ran up to say that the sun was now sinking, and they could have a game of hoodman blind without getting too hot. And in chasing her cousins all over the garden Philippa forgot the terrors of a stepmother.

She need not, however, have been afraid. When queen Jane and her daughters arrived at Winchester, wearied with their long, cold, and muddy ride all the way from Falmouth, their hearts warmed to the handsome, bright-faced child standing a little behind her father in the hall of the castle. Philippa's own fears melted away like snow as she saw how pale and tired they all looked, and with genuine kindness (mixed perhaps with a feeling of importance) she ordered hot possets to be brought instantly to warm them, and begged them to be seated in the great chimney-place till supper was ready.

Though her new subjects never forgave queen Jane for having a large train of French people ever about her, which was foolish and ill-judged on her part, she always showed great wisdom in her dealings with her husband's daughter. She knew that, owing to her mother's early death and her sister's marriage, Philippa had had a great deal more liberty than most princesses of her age, and that it would be very hard for her to be banished from court festivities, or to remain in the background like her own little girls. Perhaps she, too, had read some of the nursery tales, which are the same all over the world, and remembered about cruel stepmothers and ill-treated stepdaughters; but at any rate, as far as possible, she left Philippa alone, and the child saw this and was grateful. She was quite content with her life and her playfellows, and tried to forget the marriage which had been arranged for her at Berkhamstead, and which threatened to put an end to it all!

While they had been living in Hertfordshire an embassy had arrived from Margaret, queen of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, seeking a wife for Eric, her great-nephew and successor. Considering that it was only six years since the three kingdoms had been united in one, and that Eric, changeable, weak and hasty, showed small signs of following in his aunt's footsteps, and being able to hold the kingdom together, we cannot help wondering why Henry did not refuse Margaret's offer and wait for a better match. But, curiously enough, he seemed quite satisfied, and only stipulated that three years should pass before the contract was fulfilled. Philippa breathed a sigh of thankfulness. There was so little traffic with the North in those days that it seemed strange and far away; and besides, she was very happy as she was, and did not want to be married at all. But three years! Oh, that was an eternity! and as at present the marriage only meant, as far as she was concerned, the title of 'Queen of Denmark' and an establishment of her own, with as many horses as she could wish for, she enjoyed the pleasures she had, and shut her eyes to the price that must be paid for them. By-and-by there came the moment when her trousseau had to be got ready, but Philippa took far more heed of the housings and trappings of her horses, and of the cushions for her coaches, than of her own gowns, which queen Jane, whose taste was not bound down by strict fashion, ordered after her own fancy. In those days court dresses were embroidered with precious stones, and cost immense sums, and Philippa's wedding dress of cloth of gold, with the stomacher of pearls, cost the enormous sum of 250l. She was surprised and delighted when she saw it, and only wished Blanche could see it too, for she thought, though she was not quite sure, that it was even finer than the gold brocade of Master Whittington.

All these things and a great many more having been prepared for her benefit, Philippa set out to pay some farewell visits to the friends and relations she was never likely to see again. Between each visit she went back to her father at Eltham, for she wished to spend as much time as possible with him and the queen, who was now very lonely, as her own two daughters had returned to Brittany. Philippa's very last visit was to the bishop of Durham, and after that was ended the king and his four sons, together with the Swedish ambassadors who had been sent to escort the bride, took her to Lynn in Norfolk. From here, says the chronicler Stow, 'in the month of May, 1406, dame Philip, the youngest daughter of king Henry, accompanied by divers lords spiritual and temporal, was shipped to the North and so conveyed to Denmark, where she was married to the king of that country in a city called London.' The vessel in which Philippa sailed was, of course, very different from anything we can imagine, and even when fitted up for a princess must have been very uncomfortable. It was the largest in the English navy, but would have looked very small in our eyes, and must have rolled terribly. The admiral of the North Sea was in command, and he placed on board some of the unwieldy cannon then used, in case pirates or foreign ships should be met with; but no mishap of any sort occurred, and Philippa landed safe in Sweden, where queen Margaret and the young king Eric gave her a hearty welcome. After a short rest they journeyed to Lund (or 'London' as Stow calls it), the old Swedish Capital in the very south of the country, where Philippa's marriage and her coronation took place.

From the day that Philippa set foot on board the vessel she left her childhood behind her. She felt that she was going, alone and for ever, to a land of which she knew nothing, with a language and customs entirely strange to her. It was enough to make a brave man sad, and Philippa was barely thirteen, yet she dared not show her grief or her fears for the sake of her father and brothers who were watching her anxiously. So she smiled and chattered up to the very last moment, and then came a storm of tears, as she clung silently to one after the other. However, she had contrived to banish all traces of sorrow by the time she reached Sweden, and queen Margaret saw with pleasure the good sense and dignity which marked her behaviour. A girl who cared only for amusement would have been a bad wife for the young king, and have encouraged him to be more idle than he was already. But Philippa, she was sure, was made of different stuff, and would some day walk in her own footsteps—if only she was sensible and would listen to her counsel! Philippa did listen, and it speaks highly for her that, though for the last five years she had been suffered to do very much as she liked, and had lived more with horses than with books, she now, by the queen's wish, went meekly back to her lessons, and spent several hours a day in learning the history and Sagas (old stories) and languages of the three countries over which she was now queen. Margaret herself, queen of all three kingdoms, taught her the special laws and customs of each, and Philippa, to her surprise and delight, took an interest in everything, and tried with all her might to do the things that Eric her husband left undone—which were many. Very soon the people came to know this, and they thanked her in their hearts and loved her dearly.

So matters went on for six years, and though Philippa was not very happy with her husband, and had no children to comfort her, there was always queen Margaret to go to for help, and consolation. But in 1412 Margaret died, and then Philippa felt lonely indeed. However, she still strove to help her subjects, and had more power than most queens, because the king was always fighting with his neighbours, and left her to rule as she thought best. When her cares pressed heavily she used to go for a holiday to a Swedish convent, and there got strength to carry on her work. And thus, in harness, she died in 1430 at the age of thirty-seven; and nine years later king Eric, who had at last wearied out the patience of his people, was driven from the throne.

THE TROUBLES OF THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH

'What reign in English history do you like best to read about?'

I think that if you were to put this question to twenty children you would get the same answer from at least fifteen.

'Oh, Queen Elizabeth's, of course!' And in many ways they would be quite right. After the long struggle of the Wars of the Roses, which had, a hundred years before, exhausted the country, the people were losing the feeling of uncertainty and anxiety that had possessed them for so many years, and were eager to see the world and to make new paths in many directions. The young men were so daring and gallant, so sure of their right to capture any ship laden with treasure they might meet on the high seas, so convinced that all other nations—and Spaniards in particular—which attacked them, were nothing but pirates and freebooters, whose fit end was 'walking the plank' into the sea, or being 'strung up on the yard arm,' that, as we read their stories, we begin to believe it too! And when we leave Drake and Frobisher and the rest behind, and turn to sir Walter Raleigh throwing down his cloak in the mud for the queen to tread on, and the dying sir Philip Sidney, on the field of Zutphen, refusing the water he so much needed because the wounded soldier beside him needed it still more, we think that, after all, those days were really better than these, and life more exciting. If, too, we should chance to love books better than tales of war, we shall meet with our old friends again in the beautiful songs that almost every gentleman of those times seemed able to make—Sidney, and Raleigh, and many another knight, as well as Shakespeare, and Marlowe, and Ben Jonson. The short velvet tunics and the small feathered hats, which was the ordinary dress of the young men of the period, set off, as we see in their portraits, the tall spare figures and faces with carefully trimmed pointed beards of the courtiers who thronged about the queen. While the head and crown of them all, restless, energetic, courageous as any man among them, was Elizabeth herself.

Yes, there is a great deal to be said for the children's choice.

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But perhaps you would like to hear something of the life the queen led before she ascended the throne, which was not until she was twenty-five. As, no doubt, you all know, Henry VIII. had put away his wife Katharine of Aragon, aunt of the emperor Charles V., in order to marry the beautiful maid of honour Anne Boleyn; and his daughter Mary had shared her mother's fate. It was all very cruel and unjust—and in their hearts every one felt it to be so; but Henry managed to get his own way, and in January, 1533, made Anne Boleyn his wife.

It was on September 7, in that same year, that Elizabeth was born in the palace of Greenwich, in a room that was known as the 'Chamber of the Virgins,' from the stories told on the tapestries that covered the walls. The king was greatly disappointed that the baby did not prove to be a boy, but as that could not be helped he determined to make the christening as splendid as possible. So, as it was customary that the ceremony should take place a very few days after the child's birth, all the royal secretaries and officers of state were busy from morning till night, writing letters and sending out messengers to bid the king's guests assemble at the palace on the afternoon of September 10, to attend 'the high and mighty princess' to the convent of the Grey Friars, where she was to be given the name of her grandmother, Elizabeth of York.

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At one o'clock the lord mayor and aldermen and city council dined together, in their robes of state; but the dinner did not last as long as usual, as the barges which were to row them to Greenwich were moored by the river bank, and they knew Henry too well to keep him waiting. The palace and courtyard were crowded with people when they arrived, and a few minutes later the procession was formed. Bishops wore their mitres and grasped their pastoral staffs, nobles were clad in long robes of velvet and fur, while coronets circled their heads. Each took his place according to his rank, and when the baby appeared in the arms of the old duchess of Norfolk, with a canopy over her head and her train carried behind her, the procession set forth, the earl of Essex going first, holding the gilt basin, followed by the marquis of Exeter and the marquis of Dorset bearing the taper and the salt, while to lady Mary Howard was entrusted the chrisom containing the holy oil. In this order the splendid company passed down the road which led from the palace and the convent, between walls hung with tapestry and over a carpet of thickly-strewn rushes.

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But in spite of the grandeur of Henry's preparations, the godparents of the baby were neither kings nor queens, but only Cranmer, the newly-made archbishop of Canterbury, the old duchess of Norfolk, and lady Dorset. Henry knew full well that it would have been vain to invite any of the sovereigns of Europe to stand as sponsors to his second daughter: they were all too deeply offended at his divorce from Katharine of Aragon and at the quarrel with the Pope. He did not, however, vex himself in the matter, and took pleasure in seeing that the ceremony was as magnificent as if the child had had a royal princess for a mother, instead of the daughter of a mere country gentleman. At the close of the service the Garter King-at-Arms advanced to the steps of the altar, and facing the assembled congregation cried with a loud voice: 'God of His infinite goodness send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess Elizabeth of England.' Then a blast of trumpets sounded through the air, and the first act of little Elizabeth's public existence began among the noise and glitter that she loved to the end.

By this time it was growing dark, and everybody was hungry. As the church was not very far from the palace, it might have been expected that the company would return there and sit down to a great banquet; but this was not Henry's plan. Instead, he had ordered that wafers, comfits and various kinds of light cakes should be handed round in church, with goblets full of hypocras to wash them down. When this was over, and the christening presents given, the procession re-formed in the same order, and lighted by five hundred torches set out for the palace by the river side, where their barges were awaiting them.

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For three months the baby was left with her mother at Greenwich, under the care of her godmother, the duchess of Norfolk, and lady Bryan, kinswoman to Anne Boleyn, who had brought up princess Mary. After that she was taken to Hatfield, in Hertfordshire, and then moved to the country palace of the bishop of Winchester, in the little village of Chelsea. The bishop's consent does not seem to have been asked, for the king never troubled himself to inquire whether the owners of these houses cared to be invaded by a vast number of strangers. If he wished it, that was enough, and the poor bishop had to give up his own business, and spend all his time in making arrangements for the heiress of England—for so she was now declared to be—the rights of Mary being set aside. Right glad must he have been when the king's restless temper removed the baby again into Hertfordshire, to a house at Langley, and sought to provide her with a husband. The prince chosen, first of a long line of suitors, was Charles duke of Orleans, the third son of Francis I. of France. The match was in some ways a good one; but Henry wanted so many things which the French king could not grant that the plan had to be given up. In any case it could hardly have come to pass, as the boy died before his bride had reached her twelfth birthday.

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Having contrived to get rid of one wife when he was tired of her, Henry saw no reason why he should not dispose of his second for the same cause. Therefore, when he took a fancy to wed Jane Seymour, maid of honour to Anne, he thought no shame to accuse the queen of all sorts of crimes. One day the booming of the Tower guns told that the Traitors' gate leading down to the Thames had been opened, and Anne, whose life had been passed in pleasure and gaiety, stepped out of the barge; the laughter had died out of her eyes and the colour from her face. Well she knew the fate that awaited her, and in her heart she felt it was just. Had she not in like manner supplanted queen Katharine, and thrust her and her daughter from their rightful place? Thus she may have thought as her guards led her to her cell, from which she walked on May 19 to the scaffold on Tower Hill.

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'The young lady,' says Thomas Heywood, 'lost a mother before she could do any more but smile upon her.' But ten days later her vacant throne was filled by Jane Seymour, whose brothers, Edward earl of Hertford and sir Thomas Seymour, were constantly seen at Court. Elizabeth, no longer heiress of the crown, had been sent down to Hunsdon, in Hertfordshire, under the care of lady Bryan and her kinsman Shelton, and here she was left, forgotten by everyone, and without any money being allowed for her support. As for clothes, she had really none, 'neither gown, nor petticoat, nor no manner of linen, nor kerchiefs, nor rails (or nightgowns), nor sleeves, nor many other things needed for a child of nearly three years old.' Neither, according to the rest of lady Bryan's letter to the king's minister, Thomas Cromwell, does she seem to have been provided with proper food. Lady Bryan evidently did not get on well with master Shelton, who shared her charge, and complains that he knows nothing about children, and wished Elizabeth to dine and sup every day with the rest of the household, and that 'it would be hard to restrain her grace from divers meats and fruits and wines that she would see on the table.' No doubt it was hard, for Elizabeth was always rather greedy, and set much store by what she ate and drank. Just at this time, too, simple food was specially necessary for her, as she had 'great pain with her great teeth which come very slowly forth'; and most likely she was rather cross and fretful, as children are apt to be when they have toothache; so lady Bryan is sorry for her, and 'suffers her grace to have her will,' more than she would give her at other times. But when her teeth are 'well graft,' or cut, her governess trusts to God 'to have her grace after another fashion than she is yet, for she is as toward (or clever) a child and as gentle of conditions as ever I saw in my life.'

It was not only lady Bryan whose soul was filled with pity at the forlorn situation of the little girl, whose birth had been made the occasion of such rejoicings. Her sister, princess Mary, now restored to favour, also entreated the king on her behalf, but we are not told if their letters produced the changes prayed for.

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One day in October, 1537, when Elizabeth was just four and Mary about twenty-one, a messenger rode up to the house at Hunsdon, clad in the king's livery, and craved permission to deliver a letter to the princess. He was shown into the hall, and there, in a few moments, the two sisters appeared. Bowing low before them, the man held out the folded paper, bound with a silken thread and sealed with the royal arms of England. Mary took it, guessing full well at its contents, which were, indeed, what she had supposed. A boy had been born to the queen, Jane Seymour, and the king summoned the prince's sisters to repair without delay to Westminster in order to be present at the christening of the 'Noble Impe.'

Elizabeth, full of excitement, listened open-mouthed as princess Mary told her that they had a little brother, and were to ride next morning to London to see him in the palace. Like her father Henry VIII., whom she resembled in many ways, the little princess loved movement of any kind, and all her life was never so happy as in journeying from place to place, as the number of beds she is supposed to have slept in testify. Like the king also, she loved fine clothes; and the old chroniclers never fail to describe what the king wore in the splendid pageants in which he delighted. His taste seems to have been very showy and rather bad. At one time he is dressed in crimson turned up with green, at another he is gorgeous in a mixture of red and purple. Elizabeth, we may be sure, was arrayed in something very fine, as she proudly carried the chrisom containing the holy oil, with which the baby was to be anointed. Princess Mary, his godmother, held him at the font, and when the ceremony was over, and they left the chapel, the king's two daughters went into the room where lay the dying queen.

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From that day Elizabeth had a new interest in life. She felt as if the little prince belonged to her, and when he gave signs of talking, she was sent for to London by the king 'to teach and direct him.' She made him a little shirt as a birthday present, and as he grew older she taught him easy games, and told him stories out of books. By-and-by she begun to repeat to him simple sentences in French, or Latin, or Italian, and when his tutors took him away, or she grew tired of being governess, she would practise her music on the viols, or try some new stitch in needlework.

In this way time slipped by, and Elizabeth had passed her sixth birthday, when it became known at Court that the king was about to wed a fourth wife, and that his choice had fallen on princess Anne of Cleves. This new event was of the deepest interest to Elizabeth, and she at once, with her father's permission, wrote the bride a funny stiff note, 'to shew the zeal with which she devoted her respect to her as her queen, and her entire obedience to her as her mother.'

This letter gave great pleasure to the German bride, and laid the foundation of a lasting friendship between the two. For though rather big and clumsy, and not at all to Henry's taste, Anne was very kind-hearted, and grateful to the little girl for her welcome. All the more did she value Elizabeth's affection because it was plain, from nearly the first moment, that the king had taken a violent dislike to her, and though she knew he would not dare to cut off her head, as he had done Anne Boleyn's, because she had powerful relations, yet she felt sure he would find some excuse to put her away. And so he did after a very few months; but during all that time Anne busied herself with the interests and lessons of the young princess, and when the decree of divorce was at last pronounced, begged earnestly that Elizabeth might still be allowed to visit her, as 'to have had the princess for a daughter would be a greater happiness than to be queen.'

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In reading about Elizabeth in later years we feel as if she much preferred the company of men to women; but in her childhood it was different, and the three stepmothers with whom she was brought in contact were all very fond of her. Jane Seymour, of course, she hardly knew, and besides, Elizabeth was only four when she died. But when the pretty and lively Katharine Howard stepped speedily into the place of the 'Flanders Mare' (for so, it is said, Henry called the stout Anne of Cleves), she insisted that the child should take part in all her wedding fêtes, and being herself a cousin of Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth's mother, gave the princess the place of honour at the banquets. Elizabeth, no doubt, was flattered and pleased at the honours heaped on her, but in her secret heart she would rather have been with Anne of Cleves.

Henry's marriage with Katharine Howard came to an end even more swiftly than his marriages were wont to do. This one only lasted six months, and after the queen's execution, which took place in February 1542, Elizabeth was sent to rejoin her sister Mary in the old palace of Havering-atte-Bower. Here she remained in peace for a whole year, as the king was too busy with affairs of state, with rebellions in Ireland and a war with Scotland, to think about her, or even about a new wife. Still, marriage, either for himself or somebody else, was never far from Henry's mind, and soon after he not only offered Elizabeth's hand to the young earl of Arran, who did not trouble himself even to return an answer, but tried to obtain that of the baby queen of Scotland, Mary Stuart, for prince Edward. We all know how ill this plan succeeded, and that in the end, when Henry was dead and the English had again invaded Scotland, queen Mary was hurried by guardians over to France, and Edward VI. left to seek another bride. 'We like the match well enough, but not the manner of the wooing,' said the Scots, so Mary became queen of France as well as queen of Scotland.

But all these things were still four years ahead, and Henry had yet to marry his sixth and last wife, Katharine Parr, the rich widow of lord Latimer.

This event took place during the year 1543, when Katharine had been only a few months a widow. Unlike three out of her five predecessors her ancestry was as noble as that of the king himself, to whom, indeed, she was fourth cousin. Her mother had brought her up carefully and taught her to write her own language well, besides having her instructed in those of other countries. She insisted, too, on the child spending much of her time at needlework, which Katharine particularly hated, and escaped whenever she could. However, in spite of her dislike, she grew very clever with her fingers, and some beautiful pieces of embroidery still remain to show her skill. Katharine was fair and gentle, and full of sense and kindness, and as she was known to be a great heiress, her suitors were many. Before she was twenty she had been twice married, and had several stepchildren, and as she was often at Court, where many of her relations filled important offices, she was no stranger to Henry, who had great respect for her judgment. At Lord Latimer's death she was only thirty, and hardly was he buried when sir Thomas Seymour, the king's handsome and unscrupulous brother-in-law, began to woo her for his wife. Perhaps it was because he was so different from either of her previous husbands that lady Latimer fell in love with him, but before the marriage could be accomplished Henry stepped in, and Seymour retired in haste. He knew better than to cross his sovereign's path! So six months after Latimer's death, his widow became queen of England, and Elizabeth went to live with her fourth stepmother.

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All her life Elizabeth was able, when she thought it worth her while, to make herself pleasant in whatever company she might be in; tyrannical and self-willed as she often proved in after-years, she invariably managed to control her temper and thrust her own wishes aside if she found that it was her interest to do so. She had learned this in a hard school; but luckily she had the gift of attracting friends and keeping them, and as a child there was not one of her mother's successors on the throne—little though they had in common—who did not delight in Elizabeth's presence. Queen Katharine at once obtained the king's consent to fetch her to Whitehall, and to give her rooms next to the queen's own. Here the princess, now ten years old, could work under Katharine's eye, with her brother Edward, and, as Heywood says, 'Most of the frequent tongues of Christendom they now made theirs: Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, Dutch, were no strangers,' and by the time she was twelve Elizabeth knew a little about mathematics, astronomy and geometry; but history was her favourite study, and many were the hours she passed with old chronicles in her lap. Love of music she inherited from her father, who composed anthems, which you may still hear sung; and needlework had always been a pleasure to her, so that she had plenty to do all day. Now, every one would declare that so much time spent over books was very bad for her, but Elizabeth never seemed any the worse, and could ride over heavy roads from dawn to dark without the least fatigue. If you wish to see a specimen of her labours you can find one in the British Museum, where lies a little book she made for her stepmother when she was staying at Hertford, which bears the date December 20, 1545! It is a translation in French, Latin and Italian, done by Elizabeth herself, of some meditations and prayers written by the queen, and copied by the princess in a beautiful clear hand. The cover appears to be made of closely worked stitches of crimson silk on canvas, with the initials K. P. raised in blue and silver, which time has sadly tarnished. Perhaps it was meant for a Christmas present and a surprise for the queen, who must have been very pleased with her gift.

Prince Edward was a delicate child, and most likely for that reason he was sent down by his father to live at Hatfield House, with Elizabeth to keep him company. Hatfield had formerly belonged to the bishops of Ely; but a mere question of possession mattered no more to Henry than it had done to Ahab before him, and, like Ahab, he took for his own the land he coveted, and gave the unwilling bishops other property in exchange. Here in the park, through which the river Lea ran on its way to join the Thames, Edward and Elizabeth could wander as they pleased, while inside the beautiful house, part of which had been built in the reign of Edward IV., they did their lessons with the excellent tutors the king had chosen for them. One of these, Sir Anthony Cooke, was allowed to have his daughters with him, and these young ladies, afterwards as famous for their learning as their father, were destined to be closely bound up in Elizabeth's life, as the wives of Bacon and of Burleigh. So, 'these tender young plants, being past the sappy age,' as Heywood poetically calls them, spent some happy months, till an event happened which changed everything for everybody.

On January 30, 1547, Elizabeth was at Enfield, where she had been passing the last few weeks, when to her surprise she beheld, as dusk was falling, her brother, whom she imagined to be at Hertford, riding up to the house with his uncle, Edward Seymour earl of Hertford on one side, and sir Anthony Brown on the other. The prince glanced up at the window and waved his hand as she leant out, but Elizabeth, who was quick to notice, thought that, even in the dim light, the faces of his escort looked excited and disturbed. In a few minutes they were all in the room, where a bright fire was blazing on the huge hearth, and then, hat in hand, the earl told them both that their father was dead, and that his son was now king of England.

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The brother and sister gazed at each other in silence. Then Elizabeth buried her head on Edward's shoulder, and they wept bitterly and truly. As yet neither of them had suffered much from Henry's faults, and though Edward had been his favourite just because he was a boy and his successor, he had been proud of Elizabeth's talents and her likeness to himself. Thus, while many in England who had trembled for their heads felt his death to be a deliverance, to two out of his three children it was a real sorrow. Poor Mary had suffered too much, both on her own account and on her mother's, to have any feeling but a dull wonder as to her future.

The reading of the king's will did something, however, to soothe her bitter recollections, for it placed her in the position which was hers by right, heiress of the kingdom should her brother die childless, and in like manner Elizabeth was to succeed her. Meanwhile, they both had three thousand a year to live on—quite a large sum in those days—and ten thousand pounds as dowry, if they married with the consent of the young king and his council.

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The moment that Henry was dead Katharine Parr left the palace and went to her country house at Chelsea—close to where Cheyne pier now stands; and here she was immediately joined by Elizabeth, at the request of the council of regency. Katharine had been in every way a good wife to Henry, and had nursed him with a care and skill shown by nobody else during the last long months of his illness. He depended on her entirely for the soothing of his many pains, yet it was at this very time that he listened to the schemes of her enemies, who were anxious to remove her from the king's presence, and consented to a bill of attainder being brought against her, by which she would have lost her head. Accident revealed the plot to Katharine, and by her cleverness she managed to avert the danger—though she never breathed freely again as long as the king was alive.

The old friendship between Katharine and her stepchildren was destined to receive a severe shock, and in this matter the two princesses were in the right, and the queen wholly wrong. It came about in this way.

As far as we can gather from the rather confused accounts, sir Thomas Seymour, Katharine Parr's old lover, a man as greedy and ambitious as he was handsome, had taken advantage of Henry's affection for him to try to win the heart of the princess Elizabeth, not long before the king's death. As she was at that time living at Hertford, under the care of a vulgar and untrustworthy governess, Mrs. Ashley, it would have been easy for Seymour to ride to and fro without anyone in London being the wiser. Certain it is that, from whatever motive, he was most anxious to marry her, and a month after her father's death wrote, it is said, a proposal to the princess in person—a very strange thing to do in those days, and one which would assuredly bring down on him the wrath of the council. But Elizabeth was quite able to manage her own affairs, and answered that she had no intention of marrying anybody for the present, and was surprised at the subject being mentioned so soon after the death of her father, for whom she should wear mourning two years at least.

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Although Seymour thought highly of his own charms, he had a certain sort of prudence and sense, and he saw that for the time nothing further could be gained from Elizabeth. He therefore at once turned his attention to the rich widow whom the king had formerly torn from him, and with whom he felt pretty sure of success. He was not mistaken; and deep indeed must have been Katharine's love for him, as she consented to throw aside all the modesty and good manners for which she was famed and to accept him as a husband a fortnight after the king's burial, and only four days after he had been refused by Elizabeth, with her knowledge and by her advice.

The marriage seems to have followed soon after, but was kept secret for a time.

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It is difficult to say whether Mary or Elizabeth was more angry when these things came to light. Elizabeth had, as we know, been almost a daughter to Katharine, but she and queen Mary had always been good friends, and many little presents had passed between them. At her coronation Katharine had given the princess, only three years younger than herself, a splendid bracelet of rubies set in gold, and when Mary was living at Hunsdon a royal messenger was often to be seen trotting down the London road, bearing fur to trim a court train, a new French coif for the hair, or even a cheese of a sort which Katharine herself had found good eating. Mary accepted them all gratefully and gladly, and passed some of her spare hours, which were many, in embroidering a cushion for the closet of her stepmother.

And now, in a moment, everything was changed, and both princesses saw, not only the insult to their father's memory in this hasty re-marriage, but also the fact that royalty itself was humbled in the conduct of the queen, who should have been an example to all. Mary wrote at once to her sister, praying her to mark her disapproval of the queen's conduct by leaving her house and taking up her abode at Hunsdon. Elizabeth, however, though not yet fourteen, showed signs of the prudence which marked her in after-life, and answered that having been placed at Chelsea by order of the king's council, it would not become her to set herself up against them. Besides, she feared to seem ungrateful for the previous kindness of the queen.

But though living under the protection of the queen-dowager, either at Chelsea or in the country village of Hanworth, Elizabeth had her own servants and officers of the household, amounting in all to a hundred and twenty people. It was very unlucky in every way that the governess chosen to be her companion should have been her kinswoman, Mrs. Ashley, a good-natured, vulgar-minded woman, who was never so happy as when she was weaving a mystery. Of course Katharine took care that the princess passed many hours in the day in lessons from the best tutors that could be found, but still there was plenty of time left when the governess, whose duty kept her always by the girl's side, could tell her all manner of silly stories and encourage her foolish fancies. At length, about Whitsuntide 1548, the queen's ill-health put an end to this state of things, and Elizabeth was sent down, with all her servants, to the castle of Cheshunt, then under the command of sir Anthony Denny; and from there she wrote a letter to her stepmother, thanking her for the great kindness she had ever received from her, and signing it 'your humble daughter Elizabeth.' After this, they wrote frequently to each other during the following three months, which proved to be the last of Katharine's life. By the end of the summer she was dead, leaving a little daughter behind her, and bequeathing to Elizabeth half of the beautiful jewels she possessed.

Elizabeth's sorrow was great; but when Mrs. Ashley asked if she would not write a letter to the widower, now baron Sudeley and lord high admiral of England, the princess at once refused, saying 'he did not need it.' He did not, indeed! for a very short time after the queen's death he came down to see Elizabeth, and to try and obtain from her a promise of marriage, which the girl, now fifteen, refused to give. But he still continued to plot to obtain possession of the princess, and, what he valued much more, of her lands. At length his brother the protector thought it was time to interfere. The admiral was arrested on a charge of high treason, committed to the Tower, and executed by order of the council in March 1549. Seymour's downfall brought about that of many others. Mrs. Ashley, her husband, and the princess's treasurer Parry, were all thrown into prison, on suspicion of having helped the admiral in his schemes to marry Elizabeth, and she herself was in deep disgrace at Court. For a whole year she was kept as a sort of prisoner at Hatfield, under the watchful eye of sir Robert and Lady Tyrwhit, and she would have been very dull indeed had it not been for her books. However, as we know, Henry had been careful to give his children the best teaching, and the celebrated sir John Cheke and William Grindall, who had formerly been tutors to Edward and Elizabeth, were now replaced by the still more famous Roger Ascham.

Perhaps Elizabeth was not quite so learned as Roger Ascham describes her in a letter to an old friend in Germany. Tutors sometimes think their favourite pupils cleverer than is really the case, and do not always know how much they themselves help them in their compositions or translations. But there is no reason to doubt that, like sir Thomas More's daughters, her cousin lady Jane Grey, and her early playfellows, the daughters of sir Anthony Cooke, Elizabeth understood a number of languages and had read an amount of history which would astonish the young ladies of the present day. At that time Greek was a comparatively new study, though Latin was as necessary as French is now, for it was the tongue which all educated people could write and speak. The princess, according to Ascham, could talk it 'with ease, propriety and judgment,' but her Greek, when she tried to express herself in it, was only 'pretty good.' It does not strike Ascham that during this part of her life she cared much for music, though she had been fond of it as a child, and, by her father's wish, she had then given so much time to it that she played very well upon various instruments. Cicero and Livy she read with her tutor, and began the day with some chapters of the Greek Testament. Afterwards they would read two or three scenes of a tragedy of Sophocles, specially chosen by Ascham not only for the beauty of their style, but for the lessons of patience and unselfishness that they taught—lessons which it is feared Elizabeth did not lay greatly to heart.

Scholar though he was, and writing to another scholar, it was not only about Elizabeth's mind that Ascham concerned himself. The princess, he says, much prefers 'simple dress to show and splendour; treating with contempt the fashion of elaborate hair dressing and the wearing of jewels.'

We smile as we read his words when we think of the queen whom we know. It is very likely that the king's council, who heard everything that passed at Hatfield or Ashridge, did not allow Elizabeth enough money for fine clothes or gold chains; but at that time, and for some period after, her garments were made in the plainest style, and she wore no ornaments. No sooner, however, did she ascend the throne than all this was completely changed, and she was henceforth seen only in the magnificent garments in which she was frequently painted; and there is even an old story, that has found its way into our history books, telling us how, after her death, three thousand dresses were discovered in her wardrobes, 'as well as a vast number of wigs.'

---

All this time Somerset the protector had strictly forbidden the king to see his sister or to hear from her. But receiving, we may suppose, good reports of her conduct, both from Ascham and the Tyrwhits, he though it might be well to allow both her and her brother a little more liberty, and gave Edward leave to ask Elizabeth to send him her portrait, and even to make her a present of Hatfield. Elizabeth was delighted to be able once more to exchange letters with the young king, and writes him a letter of thanks in her best style, to accompany her picture.

'For the face, I grant I might well blush to offer, but the mind I shall never be ashamed to present. For though from the face of the picture the colours may fade by time, may fade by weather, may be spotted by chance; yet the other (her mind) nor Time with her swift wings shall overtake, nor the misty clouds with their lowerings may darken, nor Chance with her slippery foot may overthrow.

'Of this, although the proof could not be great, because the occasions have been but small, notwithstanding as a dog hath a day, so may I perchance, have time to declare it in deeds, where now I do write them but in words.'

---

Elizabeth must have been very pleased with herself when she read over her letter before sealing it and binding it round with silk. Not one of her tutors could have expressed his feelings with greater elegance, and Edward no doubt agreed with her, though most likely a brother of these days, even if he happened to be a king or prince, would have burst out laughing before he was half through, and have thrown the letter in the fire.

---

All that summer, part of which was spent among the woods and commons of Ashridge near Berkhamstead, Elizabeth hoped in vain to be sent for to Court, but for some reason the summons was delayed till March 1551. A messenger in the king's livery arrived one day at the house, and the princess was almost beside herself with joy as she read the contents of the letter he brought. Then she sprang up and gave orders that a new riding dress should be got ready, and her favourite horse groomed and rubbed down till you could see your face in his skin, and her steward himself was bidden to look to the trappings lest the gold and silver should have got tarnished since last the housings were used. And when March 17 came, she set forth early along the country roads, and at the entrance to London was met by a gallant company of knights and ladies, waiting to receive her. Oh! what pleasure it was to ride through those narrow streets again and to look at the gabled houses, every window and gallery of which was thronged with people! Many times in after years did Elizabeth make royal progresses through the city, but never once was her heart as glad as now. She had escaped from the solitude which she hated so much, and come back to a life of colour and movement.

And so she reached St. James's Palace, and was led to her room.

Here she rested all the next day, while Mary in her turn made an entry, surrounded by an escort very different to look upon from Elizabeth's. The princess and her ladies were all alike dressed in black, while rosaries hung from their girdles and crosses from their necks. There was no mistaking the meaning of these signs, and though they did honour to Mary's courage, it was hardly a civil way of answering her brother's invitation, and it irritated the council against her, which there was no need to do.

---

It was on the day after Mary's entrance that Elizabeth again mounted her horse, and in the midst of the company of nobles and ladies rode across St. James's Park to the palace of Westminster, where the king received her with open arms.

'My sweet sister Temperance,' he called her, with a laugh, when he noted the extreme plainness of her dress and the total absence of jewels; in these respects a great contrast to the ladies in her company. But it is probable that in choosing such simple clothes the princess had acted from an instinct which told her that by so doing she would gain for herself the goodwill of the all-powerful council, with whom she had been, as we know, for two years in disgrace. And if this was her motive, she had reasoned rightly, for according to her cousin, lady Jane Grey's tutor, 'her maidenly apparel made the noblemen's wives and daughters ashamed to be dressed like peacocks, being more moved with her most virtuous example than with all that ever Paul or Peter wrote touching that matter.'

Perhaps the good Dr. Aylmer did not know much about the hearts of women, or the influence of a fashion that is set by a princess. In any case, the change in the dresses—and feelings—of the noble ladies did not last long, for in a few months we find them all, Elizabeth excepted, 'with their hair frounsed, curled and double curled,' to greet Mary of Guise, the queen-dowager of Scotland, who passed through England on her way from France. Edward, now fourteen, gave her a royal reception, and we may be sure that he would not allow his 'dearest sister' to remain in the background. When the fêtes were over, the princess returned to Hatfield, triumphant in knowing that she had gained her end, and established her place in the affections of the people.

---

The household formed for Elizabeth was suitable to her rank, and she had a large income on which to support it. From an account book that she has left behind her it is easy to see that even at this time of her life she was beginning to suffer from the stinginess which, curiously enough, was always at war with her love of splendour. She hardly spent anything on herself, and only gave away a few pounds a year—not a great deal for a princess with no one but herself to think of!

Meanwhile grave events were taking place in Edward's Court. The earl of Warwick, soon to be duke of Northumberland, had long hated Somerset, and now contrived to get him committed for the second time to the Tower. Somerset is said to have implored Elizabeth, whom a short time before he had treated so harshly, to beseech Edward to grant him pardon; but the princess replied that owing to her youth her words would be held of little value, and that, besides, those about the king 'took good care to prevent her from approaching the Court.' This was quite true, and whether she wished to save Somerset or not, certain it is that she had no power to do so.

So, in January 1552, the protector's head fell on Tower Hill, and Northumberland, who succeeded to his place, began secretly to prepare a marriage between his youngest son, lord Guildford Dudley, with the king's beautiful and learned young cousin, lady Jane Grey, whose grandmother, the duchess of Suffolk, was Henry VIII.'s youngest sister. Edward's own health was failing rapidly, and often after being present at the council, or at some state banquet, he was too tired to care about anything, so that it was easy, as Elizabeth had said, to keep his two sisters from him. Northumberland even managed to persuade the boy that it was his duty to pass over Mary, the natural heir to the crown, on account of her religion, and in this design he was greatly helped by the princess's foolish behaviour. As for Elizabeth, the case was more difficult. At first he thought of arranging a marriage for her with a Danish prince, and when this failed he fell back on some Acts of Parliament excluding her from the throne which had never been revoked, although, of course, if Elizabeth had no right to succeed to the crown on account of her father's previous marriage (as some now said), the same thing applied to Edward.

The object of all these plots and plans concocted by Northumberland was plain to be seen: it was to have his daughter-in-law, lady Jane Grey, declared heir to the throne; and he so worked on the king, who was too weak to oppose him, that Edward was induced, shortly before he died (on July 6, 1553), to appoint his cousin his successor.

---

As frequently happened in those times, the fact of the king's death was kept a secret for some days, and during this period Northumberland tried to get both the princesses into his power by sending letters to say that Edward greatly wished to see them once more. If they had come—and Mary nearly fell a victim to his treachery—the Tower would have speedily been their lodging, and probably the scaffold their portion, but they happily escaped the snare. Next, he tried to buy the consent of Elizabeth, promising both money and lands if she would give up her rights. In this, however, he was foiled by the princess, who answered, with tact, that while Mary was alive she had no rights to resign.

---

While this was going on the sixteen-year-old Jane was forced by her father-in-law into a position she was quite unfitted for, and which she very much disliked. She loved her young husband dearly, and was perfectly happy with him and her books, taking no part or interest in politics. Suddenly, she was visited at Sion House near Brentford, to which she had gone at her father-in-law's request, by a number of powerful nobles of Northumberland's party, who informed her that the king was dead, and had left his kingdom to her, so that the Protestant religion might be well guarded. Then all the gentlemen present fell on their knees before the bewildered girl and swore to die in her defence.

Jane was overwhelmed. She grasped hastily at a chair that was near her, and then sank fainting to the ground. The duchess of Northumberland, who was present with some other ladies, dashed water in her face and loosened her stiff, tight dress, and soon she grew better, and was able to sit up. Rising slowly to her feet she looked at the little group before her, and said: 'My lords, sure never was queen so little fit as I. Yet, if so it must be, and the right to reign is indeed mine, God will give me the grace and power to govern to His glory and the good of the realm!'

Little heed did those who heard her so submissively take of her words. She had done what they wished, and that was all that mattered: the rest was their affair. So, leaving Jane to her own thoughts, they departed and went their own ways. A day or two later, on a blazing July afternoon, their victim was taken in a barge from Chelsea to the Tower, and there, mounting the stairs, her train carried by her grandmother the duchess of Suffolk, once queen of France, the crown was held out to her by the royal treasurer. Then, and then only, the death of Edward was publicly announced, and a letter, which, it was pretended, had been written by Jane, was distributed among the citizens of London, stating the grounds for setting aside the princesses and putting the granddaughter of Henry's younger sister in their place.

---

It did not take long for Northumberland to find out that he had laid his plans without reckoning with the will of the people or the courage of the princesses. The country had seen through him, and even gave him credit for more evil than he had actually done, for a rumour went abroad that he had poisoned Edward to serve his own ends. This adventurer, high as he had risen, should never dictate to Englishmen. Why, most likely even lady Jane herself, or 'queen' as he would have the world call her, would come to a bad end when it suited him! No! No! No Northumberland for them! and Mary's religion and cold, shy manners were forgotten, and gentlemen called together their friends and followers and marched towards London.

Northumberland was no match for them, and knew it; and what was more, he knew that he had no ally in Jane herself. His energy was not of the kind that increases with difficulties, and when he heard that Jane's grandfather, the duke of Suffolk, had signed with his own hand the order for the proclamation of queen Mary, he rightly judged that all was lost, and tried to escape. But it was too late, and next day he was charged with high treason and lodged in the Tower.

Nobody cares what became of Northumberland, as he only got what he deserved; but every one must mourn for the Nine Days Queen, who never could have been a danger either to Mary or Elizabeth.

---

July was not yet over when Elizabeth, now nearly twenty, was bidden to leave Hatfield and ride by her sister's side in her state entry into the city. So far the two sisters had always got on fairly well together; still, Elizabeth misdoubted the temper of the Catholic party, and rode through the lanes and over the commons with an escort of two thousand armed men. That night she lay at Somerset House (now her own property), on the banks of the Thames, and the next morning went out to Wanstead, on the North Road down which Mary would come. It had not taken the princess long to discover that at present she herself ran no risks, so she dismissed half her guard, and with five hundred gentlemen dressed in white and green, and a large number of ladies, she passed smiling through the crowded streets, which rang with shouts of welcome. No one seemed to remember the king, who still lay unburied; but so much had happened since he died, that everybody, even including his 'sweet sister Temperance,' had forgotten him for the moment.

---

The first breach between Mary and her subjects, and also her sister, was not long in coming. The ways and services of the old religion were speedily restored, and Elizabeth was given to understand that she was expected to attend mass. This she refused to do, and thereby increased her popularity tenfold; but she seems to have allowed Mary secretly to think that it was possible she might some day change her mind, and, in order to keep her sister in a good humour, requested to be given Catholic books to read and priests to teach her.

In this way matters went on till September, when Mary's coronation took place. Elizabeth drove the day before, in the state procession to Westminster, in a coach drawn by six white horses decorated with white and silver to match her dress, Anne of Cleves being seated by her side. All through the ceremonies she was given her proper place as the heiress to the throne, and even publicly prayed for.

Unluckily, this happy state of things did not last long, and the different views of religion held by the two sisters were embittered by many whose interest it was that there should be constant quarrels between them. A plot was set on foot to marry Elizabeth to her cousin, Courtenay earl of Devon—who had already been refused as a husband by Mary herself. This was encouraged by Noailles, the French ambassador, for his own purposes; but Elizabeth, who feared her friends more than her foes, sought to escape from it all, and to retire at once to Ashridge in Hertfordshire.

Here she received a letter from Mary begging her to come at once to St. James's Palace; but, knowing as she did that sir Thomas Wyatt was doing his best to stir up a revolt against the queen, Elizabeth thought it more prudent to make the most of an illness under which she was suffering, and remain where she was. She likewise put Ashridge in a state to stand a siege, should it be necessary, filling the castle with provisions and armed men.

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It was Wyatt's rebellion that sealed the fate of lady Jane Grey and her husband, and made Elizabeth tremble for her own head. The Nine Days Queen had hitherto been warmly defended by Mary herself, in spite of the assurances, which had been so frequently whispered in her ears, that her throne would never be safe during the life of such a claimant. Now, with the successes of Wyatt among the men of Kent, these whispers became louder, and this time Mary listened to them. Not that she believed her young cousin to have any share in Wyatt's treasonable schemes; she knew her too well for that. But as long as she lived she would be used as a handle for all plotters, so, with deep and real regret, Mary signed the warrant that was placed before her, and within a few days Jane was beheaded in the square of the Tower, the only woman who was not executed on Tower Hill. She and her husband had never met since they had been arrested; but now Mary sent a messenger to lady Jane, granting permission for a farewell interview. But lady Jane refused. 'What,' she asked, 'would be gained by their bidding each other farewell on earth, when they would so shortly meet in heaven?' It may be that she feared for his courage more than her own, for she stood unseen at her window while he was led forth to the scaffold on Tower Hill, and remained there till his body was brought back. Then her own turn came, and cheerfully she left her cell and walked the few steps that lay between her prison and the green. Here she paused in front of the block, and turning, spoke to those who were gathered round:

'The plot of the duke of Northumberland was none of my seeking,' she said, 'but by the counsel of those who appeared to have better understanding of the matter than I. As to the desire of such dignity by me, I wash my hands thereof before God and all you Christian people this day.'

After that, she begged those present to help her with their prayers, and repeated a psalm, and then, kneeling, laid her head on the block.

---

If lady Jane was the most important victim of all these conspiracies, she was by no means the only one, for Wyatt and other leaders were shortly to pay the same penalty, not, however, without declaring that all they had done was with the knowledge and consent of the princess Elizabeth, and of Courtenay earl of Devon. Mary had no difficulty in believing this; Elizabeth's own conduct had for the last few months given rise to suspicions, so a company of gentlemen, headed by the princess's kinsman lord William Howard, and including a certain Dr. Wendy, who had formerly attended Henry VIII., were sent down to Ashridge to see how far the princess's illness was real, and to bring her to London if possible. It was ten o'clock at night when they arrived, and Elizabeth refused to admit them; but they politely insisted, and she was obliged to open her door.

No trace of guilt or fear, or indeed of anything but impatience, could be read in her face, as the queen's messengers entered her apartment.

'Is the haste such,' she said, 'that it might not have pleased you to come in the morning?'

The ambassadors held it wiser not to state how great 'the haste' was, but they only answered that they were sorry to see her grace in such a case, referring, of course, to her supposed illness.

'I am not glad at all to see you at this time of night,' she replied; and went on to say that 'she feared her weakness to be so great that she should not be able to travel and to endure the journey without peril of life, and therefore desired some longer respite until she had recovered her strength.

In this matter neither Howard her great-uncle, nor her old friend Wendy the doctor, agreed with her. It is true that anxiety for herself, if not sorrow for the fate of lady Jane Grey, about whom she seems to have cared nothing, had thrown her into some sort of fever, but it was quite plain that there was nothing to prevent her undertaking the short journey. In order, however, that no risks might be run the thirty-three miles that lay between Ashridge and Westminster were divided into five stages, and every night she was to sleep in some gentleman's house. A week later she started in a litter, and when, several days after, she entered Aldgate, the curtains were thrown back at her bidding, so that the people, who had always loved her, might be touched by the sight of her thin pale face. But well or ill, when the moment came in which courage was needed, Elizabeth was always herself, and her bows and smiles betrayed no fear as, dressed in white, she was carried through the city, with an escort of scarlet-coated gentlemen riding in front.

Rooms were given her in Whitehall, and here she hoped to see the queen, and be able to convince her of the innocence she so loudly proclaimed to everyone. But to her great disappointment and secret terror, Mary refused her an interview, and ordered her to be taken at once to the palace of Westminster and placed in an apartment which had no entrance except through the guard-room. A certain number of personal attendants were allowed her, and through them she heard with dismay that Courtenay had been lodged in the Tower, and every day was examined for some time as to his share in Wyatt's conspiracy.

For three weeks Elizabeth waited, not knowing exactly how much the council knew, but remembering, with dread, two notes which she had written with her own hand to Wyatt. She guessed truly that all the weight of Spain would be thrown in the balance against her, for the emperor Charles V. had neither forgotten nor forgiven the divorce of his aunt, and, besides, his son Philip was already betrothed to the queen.

At last, one Saturday, ten members of the council visited her, and told her that a barge was in waiting at the stairs, which would take her to the Tower. Elizabeth received the news without flinching, though she felt as if the nails were being knocked into her coffin, but begged permission to finish a letter to the queen which she had just begun. This the council could not well refuse; but the princess made her letter so very long that the tide ran out too far for her to embark, and as Sunday was a day when no work was done, her gaolers were obliged to wait until Monday.

On Monday, however, even Elizabeth could invent no more pretexts for delay, and entered her barge with as good a grace as might be. But when the rowers shipped their oars at the Traitors' Gate, she objected that it was no entrance for her, who was innocent.

'You have no choice,' said one of the lords who was with her, and stooped to lay his cloak as a carpet on the muddy steps. With an angry gesture Elizabeth dashed it aside, and sat down on a wet stone, as if she intended to sit there for ever. The lieutenant of the Tower, who was awaiting his prisoner at the top, prayed her to come in out of the rain and cold, which at last she consented to do, and was conducted by him to her prison, a room that led only into the lieutenant's own house on one side, and a narrow outside gallery on the other, used by the prisoners for air and exercise. Here Elizabeth's suitor, sir Thomas Seymour, had been lodged before his execution, and here Arabella Stuart would be confined, in years that were yet to come.

For two months Elizabeth's imprisonment lasted, though the extreme strictness with which she was kept was afterwards relaxed, and she was suffered to walk in a little garden under a strong escort, and to receive flowers from the children belonging to the servants about the Tower, with whom she had made friends. At first she had, like Courtenay, constantly to undergo examinations as to her guilt, but she somehow managed to gain over the earl of Arundel, hitherto one of her most bitter enemies, and henceforth she had no warmer partisan. She seems to have answered the questions put to her with her usual cleverness, as the Spanish ambassador writes that though 'they had enough matter against Courtenay to make his punishment certain, they had not yet been able to obtain matter sufficient for Elizabeth's conviction,' partly owing to the fact that several witnesses were in hiding.

It was in May that the queen sent an unexpected summons to Elizabeth that she was to join her at Richmond, where she was passing the Whitsun holidays; and how beautiful the flowers and trees must have looked in the eyes of the prisoner, accustomed for so many weeks to nothing but the walls of the Tower, with the bitter memories they contained! She did not stay there long, however, for the queen, irritated at Elizabeth's firm refusal to marry the prince of Savoy, sent her in a few days to the castle of Woodstock, with sir Henry Bedingfield as her gaoler.

On the road, according to the old chroniclers, she more than once tried her favourite trick of gaining time by delaying her arrival. At one place where she was to spend the night she was anxious to have a match at chess with her host, and another day she declared that her clothes and hair had suffered so much from a storm that she must positively enter a house they were passing in order to set them straight. But Bedingfield was not easy to dupe, and politely insisted on continuing their way.

'Whenever I have a prisoner who requires to be safely and straitly kept, I shall send him to you,' she said, laughing, when four years after he attended her first Court as queen.

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At Woodstock Elizabeth remained till 1555, writing sad poems about her captivity and doing large pieces of needlework; but towards Christmas a welcome change was in store for her, as Mary, who had been married in July to Philip of Spain, now sent for her to Hampton Court.

Even here her life as a prisoner was not yet over, for she was shut up in her rooms for a week, and never once saw the queen. At length, late one night, she was bidden to Mary's room, and there they had a long talk. Elizabeth was most careful to do and say nothing to vex her sister, and seems to have succeeded, for she stayed as a welcome guest in the palace for some months, taking part in all the amusements, and receiving, not at all unwillingly, the attentions of prince Philibert of Savoy, though she never meant to marry him. With Philip she appears to have been on the most friendly terms, and at a great tournament held just after Christmas she occupied a place next him and the queen. Altogether, as the fears for her own safety gradually melted away, she greatly enjoyed herself, and pleased Mary by sometimes attending the services in her own private chapel, decked out, we are told on one occasion, in white satin and pearls. Early in the spring Elizabeth returned to Woodstock, bearing with her a splendid diamond, worth four thousand ducats, the gift of her brother-in-law.

But no sooner had she gone back to Woodstock than rumours of another plot spread abroad, and as usual Elizabeth was supposed to be concerned in it. It does not seem at all likely that the accusation was true, but Mary thought it safer to have her under her own eye, and sent for her a second time to the palace. Elizabeth must have satisfied her to some extent that she was guiltless in the matter, for Mary gave her a beautiful ring, worth seven hundred crowns, and allowed her to go to Hatfield, though she placed with her, as some check on her actions, one sir Thomas Pope, with whom Elizabeth lived very pleasantly.

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The story of the next three years is much the same: repeatedly plots were discovered, and in all of them Elizabeth was accused of taking part—probably quite falsely. Still, it was natural that the queen should be rather suspicious of her, though she often invited her to court, and Elizabeth did her best to set her mind at ease by frequently attending Mass in her company. Indeed, she was the less likely to be engaged in any schemes against her sister as it was quite plain that Mary's life was fast drawing to an end. When free to follow her own way the princess buried herself in books, reading Demosthenes at Hatfield with Roger Ascham, besides studying Italian under Castiglione. They all write enthusiastically of her cleverness, but when Castiglione remarks that she had not only 'a singular wit,' but a 'marvellous meek stomach,' we feel either how great was Elizabeth's power of deceiving—or how bad was her judgment.

During these three years also suitors were frequent, and among them her old lover, Philibert of Savoy, was the most pressing. Courtenay, to whom she had for political reasons once betrothed herself, had died in exile at Pavia, so, as far as she herself went, Elizabeth was free to marry whom she chose; but though all her life she liked the excitement and attentions which went hand in hand with a marriage, when it came to the point she could not make up her mind to forfeit her liberty. It was also clear to her that if, during Mary's lifetime, she took a foreign husband, and went to live abroad, her chance of sitting on the throne of England was gone for ever.

At this period Elizabeth made up for the 'Seven Lean Years' of her Puritanical garments by clothing herself and her suite in the most splendid of raiment, for which she constantly ran into debt. During the last year of Mary's reign she was constantly in and about London, and once we have notice of a visit of the queen herself to Hatfield, when the choir boys of St. Paul's sang and Elizabeth played on the virginals. Soon, however, the queen was too weak for any such journeys. Philip was away, engaged in the war between France and Spain, and Mary remained at home, to struggle with her difficulties as best she might. She knew quite well she had not long to live, and declared Elizabeth her successor, entrusting to her maid of honour, Jane Dormer, the crown jewels, which were to be delivered to the princess. To these she added three petitions: that Elizabeth would be kind to her servants; that she would pay her sister's private debts, and that she would support the old faith, now established by law; which, of course, Elizabeth could not do, or her throne would have been instantly forfeit. Then Mary died, knowing that she had failed in all she had attempted; and, amidst the welcoming shouts of the English people, the Elizabeth whom you all know was proclaimed queen.

FINIS

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Transcriber's Notes:

Punctuation errors repaired. Varied accents were retained except as noted. For example, Schönbrunn castle is spelled this way in "His Majesty the King of Rome" and as Schönbrünn in "Une Reine Malheureuse."

Page x, "Naploeon" changed to "Napoleon" (Even Napoleon himself)

Page 55, "directy" changed to "directly" (and directly after he added)

Page 99, "chateâu" changed to "château" (the château of Fontainebleau)

Page 112, "perect" changed to "perfect" (she had perfect freedom)

Page 137, "familar" changed to "familiar" (as familiar to her)

Page 146, "enbroidered" changed to "embroidered" (scarlet liveries embroidered)

Page 188, "deliever" changed to "deliver" (I deliver it to you)

Page 194, "Stanelys" changed to "Stanleys" (The Stanleys all agreed)

Page 204, "litttle" changed to "little" (when the little duke)

Page 211, "Normany" changed to "Normandy" (of Normandy as a bribe)

Page 250, "Antionette" changed to "Antoinette" (Marie Antoinette remarked one)

Page 259, "fetes" changed to "fêtes" (series of fêtes)

Page 307, repeated word "was was" changed to "who was" (who was waiting with)

Page 345, "wadrobes" changed to "wardrobes" (discovered in her wardrobes)