Philippa told Isoult that the Queen suffered fearfully. She sat many days on the floor of her chamber, her knees higher than her head. The pain in her head was dreadful; and people began to say that she, who was originally accounted merciful, had been merciful all through, for that others had given orders for the burnings, and she, even in sceptring the Acts, had scarcely known what she did. The last time that she went to the House of Lords, she was too ill to walk, but was borne by her gentlemen in waiting to the throne. James Basset told his sister, that “he counted all burned or beheaded in the Queen’s reign had not suffered so much, body nor soul, as she.”
James Basset, who had been ailing for some time, grew worse on the 16th, when the Queen and the Cardinal were both so ill, that it was thought doubtful which of them would die the sooner. All matters of state, and many of business, were held as it were in the air, waiting the Queen’s death. Many of the Council had already set forth for Hatfield. “That should not like me,” said Isoult, “were I either the dying sister or the living.” And she who lay in that palace of White Hall must have known (if she were not beyond knowing anything) that round her grave would be no mourners—that she had done little to cause England to weep for her, and much to cause rejoicing that she could harm England no more. Did she know that men without were naming the day Hope Wednesday, because every hour they expected news of her end?
“God save Queen Elizabeth! Long live the Queen! Yea, may the Queen live for ever!”
These were the first sounds which Isoult heard when she was awoke from sleep on the Friday morning. Indeed, there was far too much tumult for sleep. Great crowds of men were pouring through Aldgate; and as she looked from the window she saw men kissing, and embracing, and weeping, and laughing, and shouting, all at once, and all together. And but one was the burden of all—“The Queen is dead! The Lady Elizabeth is Queen! God save Queen Elizabeth!”
“Hurrah!” said Mr Ferris, an hour later, flinging up his cap to the ceiling as he came in. “Hurrah! now is come the Golden Age again! We may breathe now. Long life to the Queen of the Gospellers!”
“I thought she were rather the Queen of the Lutherans,” suggested John.
“All one,” answered he. “Lutherans burn not Gospellers, nor clap them into prison neither. What have Gospellers to fear from Queen Anne’s daughter?”
“They may have something from King Henry’s,” answered John.
“Jack, thou deservest—I cannot stay to tell thee what: and I have shouted and danced myself an hungered. Mrs Avery, have you to spare of that goodly round of beef?”
“Pray you, sit down with us, Mr Ferris,” said she; “we shall not lack a shive for you.”