The Project Gutenberg eBook, In the Days of Queen Elizabeth, by Eva March Tappan

Cover created by Transcriber, using an illustration from the original book, and placed in the Public Domain.

Elizabeth, Queen of England.

Makers of England Series

IN THE DAYS
OF
QUEEN ELIZABETH

BY
EVA MARCH TAPPAN, Ph.D.

Author of “In the Days of Alfred the Great”
“In the Days of William the Conqueror” etc.

ILLUSTRATED FROM FAMOUS PAINTINGS

BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

Copyright, 1902, by Lee and Shepard
Published August, 1902

All rights reserved

In the Days of Queen Elizabeth

Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass. U. S. A.

PREFACE

Of all the sovereigns that have worn the crown of England, Queen Elizabeth is the most puzzling, the most fascinating, the most blindly praised, and the most unjustly blamed. To make lists of her faults and virtues is easy. One may say with little fear of contradiction that her intellect was magnificent and her vanity almost incredibly childish; that she was at one time the most outspoken of women, at another the most untruthful; that on one occasion she would manifest a dignity that was truly sovereign, while on another the rudeness of her manners was unworthy of even the age in which she lived. Sometimes she was the strongest of the strong, sometimes the weakest of the weak.

At a distance of three hundred years it is not easy to balance these claims to censure and to admiration, but at least no one should forget that the little white hand of which she was so vain guided the ship of state with most consummate skill in its perilous passage through the troubled waters of the latter half of the sixteenth century.

Eva March Tappan.

Worcester, March, 1902.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

In the Days of Queen Elizabeth

CHAPTER I
THE BABY PRINCESS

Two ladies of the train of the Princess Elizabeth were talking softly together in an upper room of Hunsdon House.

“Never has such a thing happened in England before,” said the first.

“True,” whispered the second, “and to think of a swordsman being sent for across the water to Calais! That never happened before.”

“Surely no good can come to the land when the head of her who has worn the English crown rolls in the dust at the stroke of a French executioner,” murmured the first lady, looking half fearfully over her shoulder.

“But if a queen is false to the king, if she plots against the peace of the throne, even against the king’s very life, why should she not meet the same punishment that the wife of a tradesman would suffer if she strove to bring death to her husband? The court declared that Queen Anne was guilty.”

“Yes, the court, the court,” retorted the first, “and what a court! If King Henry should say, ‘Cranmer, cut off your father’s head,’ and ‘Cromwell, cut off your mother’s head,’ they would bow humbly before him and answer, ‘Yes, sire,’ provided only that they could have wealth in one hand and power in the other. A court, yes!”

“Oh, well, I’m to be in the train of the Princess Elizabeth, and I’m not the one to sit on the judges’ bench and say whether the death that her mother died yesterday was just or unjust,” said the second lady with a little yawn. “But bend your head a bit nearer,” she went on, “and I’ll tell you what the lord mayor of London whispered to a kinsman of my own. He said there was neither word nor sign of proof against her that was the queen, and that he who had but one eye could have seen that King Henry wished to get rid of her. But isn’t that your brother coming up the way?”

“Yes, it is Ralph. He is much in the king’s favor of late because he can play the lute so well and can troll a poem better than any other man about the court. He will tell us of the day in London.”

Ralph had already dismounted when his sister came to the hall, too eager to welcome him to wait for any formal announcement of his arrival.

“Greeting, sister Clarice,” said he as he kissed her cheek lightly. “How peaceful it all is on this quiet hill with trees and flowers about, and breezes that bring the echoes of bird-notes rather than the noise and tumult of the city.”

“But I am sure that I heard one sound of the city yesterday, Ralph. It was the firing of a cannon just at twelve. Was not that the hour when the stroke of the French ruffian beheaded the queen? Were there no murderers in England that one must needs be sent for across the water?”

“I had hardly thought you could hear the sound so far,” said her brother, “but it was as you say. The cannon was the signal that the deed was done.”

“And where was King Henry? Was he within the Tower? Did he look on to make sure that the swordsman had done his work?”

“Not he. No fear has King Henry that his servants will not obey him. He was in Epping Forest on a hunt. I never saw him more full of jest, and the higher the sun rose, the merrier he became. We went out early in the morning, and the king bade us stop under an oak tree to picnic. The wine was poured out, and we stood with our cups raised to drink his health. It was an uproarious time, for while the foes of the Boleyns rejoiced, their friends dared not be otherwise than wildly merry, lest the wrath of the king be visited upon them. He has the eye of an eagle to pierce the heart of him who thinks the royal way is not the way of right.”

“The wine would have choked me,” said Clarice, “but go on, Ralph. What next?”

“One of the party slipped on the root of the oak, and his glass fell on a rock at his feet. The jesting stopped for an instant, and just at that moment came the boom of a cannon from the Tower. King Henry had forbidden the hour of the execution to be told, but every one guessed that the cannon was the signal that the head of Queen Anne had been struck off by the foreign swordsman. The king turned white and then red. I was nearest him, and I saw him tremble. I followed his eye, and he looked over the shoulder of the master of the hunt far away to the eastward. There was London, and up the spire of St. Paul’s a flag was slowly rising. It looked very small from that distance, but it was another signal that the stroke of the executioner had been a true one.”

“It is an awful thing to take the life of one who has worn the crown,” murmured Clarice. “Did the king speak?”

“He half opened his lips and again closed them. Then he gave a laugh that made me shiver, and he said, ‘One would think that the royal pantry could afford no extra glass. That business is finished. Unloose the dogs, and let us follow the boar.’ Greeting, Lady Margaret,” said Ralph to a lady who just then entered the room. He bowed before her with deep respect, and said in a low, earnest tone:—

“May you find comfort and courage in every trouble that comes to you.”

Lady Margaret’s eyes filled with tears as she said:—

“I thank you. Trouble has, indeed, come to me in these last few years. Where was the king yesterday—at the hour of noon, I mean? Had he the heart to stay in London?”

“He had the heart to go on a hunt, but it was a short one, and almost as soon as the cannon was fired, he set off on the hardest gallop that ever took man over the road from Epping Forest to Wiltshire.”

“To the home of Sir John Seymour?”

“The same. Know you not that this morning before the bells rang for noon Jane Seymour had taken the place of Anne Boleyn and become the wife of King Henry?”

“No, I knew it not,” answered Lady Margaret, “but what matters a day sooner or later when a man goes from the murder of one wife to the wedding of another?”

“True,” said Ralph. Clarice was sobbing softly, and Lady Margaret went on, half to Ralph and half to herself:—

“It was just two years ago yesterday when Lady Anne set out for London to be crowned. I never saw the Thames so brilliant. Every boat was decked with flags and streamers, edged with tiny bells that swung and tinkled in the breeze. The boats were so close together that it was hard to clear a way for the lord mayor’s barge. All the greatest men of London were with him. They wore scarlet gowns and heavy golden chains. On one side of the lord mayor was a boat full of young men who had sworn to defend Queen Anne to the death. Just ahead was a barge loaded with cannon, and their mouths pointed in every direction that the wind blows. There was a great dragon, too, so cunningly devised that it would twist and turn one way and then another, and wherever it turned, it spit red fire and green and blue into the river. There was another boat full of the fairest maidens in London town, and they all sang songs in praise of the Queen.”

“They say that Queen Anne, too, could make songs,” said Ralph, “and that she made one in prison that begins:—

‘Oh, Death, rock me asleep.
Bring on my quiet rest.’”

“When Anne Boleyn went to France with the sister of King Henry, she was a merry, innocent child. At his door lies the sin of whatever of wrong she has done,” said Lady Margaret solemnly, half turning away from Clarice and her brother and looking absently out of the open window. The lawn lay before her, fresh and green. Here and there were daisies, gleaming in the May sunshine. “I know the very place,” said she with a shudder. “It is the green within the Tower. The grass is fresh and bright there, too, but the daisies will be red to-day with the blood of our own crowned queen. It is terrible to think of the daisies.”

“Pretty daisies,” said a clear, childish voice under the window.

“Let us go out on the lawn,” said Clarice, “it stifles me here.”

“Remember,” bade Lady Margaret hastily, “to say ‘Lady,’ not ‘Princess.’”

The young man fell upon one knee before a tiny maiden, not yet three years old. The child gravely extended her hand for him to kiss. He kissed it and said:—

“Good morrow, my Lady Elizabeth.”

“Princess ’Lizbeth,” corrected the mite.

“No,” said Lady Margaret, “not ‘Princess’ but ‘Lady.’”

“Princess ’Lizbeth,” insisted the child with a stamp of her baby foot on the soft turf and a positive little shake of her red gold curls. “Princess brought you some daisies,” and with a winning smile she held out the handful of flowers to Lady Margaret and put up her face to be kissed.

“I’ll give you one,” said the child to the young man, and again she extended her hand to him.

“Princess ’Lizbeth wants to go to hear the birds sing. Take me,” she bade the attendant. She made the quaintest little courtesy that can be imagined, and left the three standing under the great beech tree.

“That is our Lady Elizabeth,” said Lady Margaret, “the most wilful, winsome little lassie in all the world.”

“But why may she not be called ‘Princess’ as has been the custom?” asked Ralph.

“It is but three days, indeed, since the king’s order was given,” answered Lady Margaret. “When Archbishop Cranmer decided that Anne Boleyn was not the lawful wife of Henry, the king declared that Princess Elizabeth should no longer be the heir to the throne, and so should be called ‘Lady’ instead of ‘Princess.’ It is many months since he has done aught for her save to provide for her safe keeping here at Hunsdon. The child lacks many things that every child of quality should have, let alone that she be the daughter of a king. I dare not tell the king her needs, lest he be angry, and both the little one and myself feel his wrath.”

The little daughter of the king seems to have been entirely neglected, and at last Lady Margaret ventured to write, not to the king, but to Chancellor Cromwell, to lay before him her difficulties. Here is part of her letter:—

“Now it is so, my Lady Elizabeth is put from that degree she was afore, and what degree she is at now, I know not but by hearsay. Therefore I know not how to order her myself, nor none of hers that I have the rule of, that is, her women and grooms, beseeching you to be good Lord to my good Lady and to all hers, and that she may have some raiment.” The letter goes on to say that she has neither gown, nor slip, nor petticoat, nor kerchiefs, nor neckerchiefs, nor nightcaps, “nor no manner of linen,” and ends, “All these her Grace must have. I have driven off as long as I can, that by my troth I can drive it off no longer. Beseeching ye, mine own good Lord, that ye will see that her Grace may have that which is needful for her, as my trust is that ye will do.”

The little princess had a good friend in Lady Margaret Bryan, the “lady mistress” whom Queen Anne had put over her when, as the custom was, the royal baby was taken from her mother to dwell in another house with her own retinue of attendants and ladies in waiting. In this same letter the kind lady mistress ventured to praise the neglected child. She wrote of her:—

“She is as toward a child and as gentle of condition as ever I knew any in my life. I trust the king’s Grace shall have great comfort in her Grace.” Lady Margaret told the chancellor that the little one was having “great pain with her great teeth.” Probably the last thing that King Henry thought of was showing his daughter to the public or making her prominent in any way, but the lady mistress sturdily suggested that if he should wish it, the Lady Elizabeth would be so taught that she would be an honor to the king, but she must not be kept too long before the public, she must have her freedom again in a day or two.

A small difficulty arose in the house itself. The steward of the castle wished the child to dine at the state table instead of at her own more simple board.

“It is only fitting,” said he, “for her to dine at the great table, since she is at the head of the house.”

“Master Steward,” declared Lady Margaret, “at the state table there would be various meats and fruits and wines that would not be for her good. It would be a hard matter for me to keep them from her when she saw them at every meal.”

“Teach her that she may not have all that she sees,” said the steward.

“The table of state is no place for the correcting of children,” retorted Lady Margaret, and she wrote to the chancellor about this matter also. “I know well,” said she, “if she [Elizabeth] be at the table of state, I shall never bring her up to the king’s Grace’s honor nor hers, nor to her health. Wherefore I beseech you, my Lord, that my Lady may have a mess of meat to her own lodging, with a good dish or two that is meet for her Grace to eat of.”

Besides the Lady Elizabeth and her household, the lady mistress, the steward, the ladies of her train, and the servants, there was one other dweller in this royal nursery, and that was the Lady Mary, a half-sister of the little Elizabeth. Mary’s mother had been treated very cruelly and unfairly by King Henry, and had finally been put away from him that he might marry Anne Boleyn.

As a child Mary was shown more honor than had ever been given to an English princess before. The palace provided for her residence was carried on at an enormous expense. She had her own ladies in waiting, her chamberlain, treasurer, and chaplain, as if she were already queen. Even greater than this was her glory when on one occasion her father and mother were absent in France, for she was taken to her father’s palace, and there the royal baby of but three or four years represented all the majesty of the throne. The king’s councilors reported to him that when some gentlemen of note went to pay their respects at the English court, they found this little child in the presence chamber with her guards and attendants, and many noble ladies most handsomely apparelled. The councilors said that she welcomed her guests and entertained them with all propriety, and that finally she condescended to play for them on the virginals, an instrument with keys like those of a piano. If half this story is true, it is no wonder that the delighted courtiers told the king they “greatly marvelled and rejoiced.”

The following Christmas she spent with her father and mother. She had most valuable presents of all sorts of articles made of gold and silver; cups, saltcellars, flagons, and—strangest of all gifts for a little child—a pair of silver snuffers. One part of the Christmas celebration must have pleased her, and that was the acting of several plays by a company of children who had been carefully trained to entertain the little princess.

When Mary was but six years old, it was arranged that she should marry the German emperor, Charles V. He came to England for the betrothal, and remained several weeks. Charles ruled over more territory than any other sovereign of the times, and he was a young man of great talent and ability. The child must be educated to become an empress. Being a princess was no longer all play. A learned Spaniard wrote a profound treatise on the proper method of training the little girl. He would allow her to read the writings of some of the Latin poets and orators and philosophers, and she might read history, but no romances. A Latin grammar was written expressly for her, and she must also study French and music. There seems to have been little thought of her recreation save that it was decreed that she might “use moderate exercise at seasons convenient.”

So it was that the pretty, merry little maiden was trained to become an empress. When she was ten years old, she sent Charles an emerald ring, asking him whether his love was still true to her. He returned a tender message that he would wear the ring for her sake; and yet, the little girl to whom he had been betrothed never became the bride of the emperor.

Charles heard that King Henry meant to put away his wife, and if that was done, it was probable that Mary would no longer be “Princess of Wales,” and would never inherit her father’s kingdom. The emperor was angry, and the little girl in the great, luxurious palace was hurt and grieved.

This was the beginning of the hard life that lay before her. King Henry was determined to be free from his wife that he might make Anne Boleyn his queen. Mary loved her mother with all her heart, but the king refused to allow them to see each other. The mother wrote most tenderly to her child, bidding her be cheerful and obey the king in everything that was not wrong. Mary’s seventeenth birthday came and went. The king had accomplished his wish to put away his wife, and had made Anne Boleyn his queen. One September day their child Elizabeth was born. So far Mary had lived in the greatest state, surrounded by attendants who delighted in showing deference to her wishes, and her only unhappiness had been caused by the separation from her mother and sympathy with her mother’s sufferings. One morning the chamberlain, John Hussey, came to her with downcast eyes.

“Your Grace,” said he, “it is but an hour ago that a message came from his Majesty, the king, and——” His voice trembled, and he could say no more.

“Speak on, my good friend,” said Mary. “I can, indeed, hardly expect words of cheer from the court that is ruled by her who was once my mother’s maid of honor, but tell me to what purport is the message?”

“No choice have I but to speak boldly and far more harshly than is my wish,” replied the chamberlain, “and I crave your pardon for saying what I would so gladly leave unsaid. I would that the king had named some other agent.”

“But what is the message, my good chamberlain? Must I command it to be told to me? My mother’s daughter knows no fear. I am strong to meet whatever is to come.”

“The king commands through his council,” said the chamberlain in a choking voice, “that your Grace shall no longer bear the title of ‘Princess,’ for that belongs henceforth to the child of himself and Queen Anne. He bids that you shall order your servants to address you as ‘Lady Mary,’ and that you shall remove at once to Hunsdon, the palace of the Princess Elizabeth, for she it is who is to be his heir and is to inherit the kingdom.”

“I thank you,” said Mary calmly, “for the courtesy with which you have delivered the message; but I am the daughter of the king, and without his own letter I refuse to believe that he would be minded to diminish the state and rank of his eldest child.”

A few days later there came a letter from an officer of the king’s household bidding her remove to the palace of the child Elizabeth.

“I will not accept the letter as the word of my father,” declared Mary. “It names me as ‘Lady Mary’ and not as ‘Princess’;” and she straightway wrote, not to the council, but directly to the king:—

“I will obey you as I ought, and go wherever you bid me, but I cannot believe that your Grace knew of this letter, since therein I am addressed as ‘Lady Mary.’ To accept this title would be to declare that I am not your eldest child, and this my conscience will not permit.” She signs herself, “Your most humble daughter, Mary, Princess.”

King Henry was angry, and when Queen Anne came to him in tears and told him a fortune-teller had predicted that Mary should rule after her father, he declared that he would execute her rather than allow such a thing to happen. Parliament did just what he commanded, and now he bade that an act be passed settling the crown upon the child of Queen Anne. Mary’s luxurious household of more than eightscore attendants was broken up, and she herself was sent to Hunsdon. Many of her attendants accompanied her, but they were bidden to look no longer upon her as their supreme mistress. They were to treat the child Elizabeth as Princess of Wales and heir to the throne of England.

CHAPTER II
THE CHILD ELIZABETH

It was a strange household at Hunsdon, a baby ruler with crowds of attendants to do her honor and obey her slightest whim. Over all was the strong hand of the king, and his imperious will to which every member of the house yielded save the one slender girl who paid no heed to his threats, but stood firmly for her mother’s rights and her own.

For more than two years all honor was shown to the baby Elizabeth, but on the king’s marriage to Jane Seymour, he commanded his obedient Parliament to decree that Elizabeth should never wear the crown, and that, if Jane had no children, the king might will his kingdom to whom he would. To the little child the change in her position was as yet a small matter, but to the young girl of twenty-one years the future seemed very dark. Her mother had died, praying in vain that the king would grant her but one hour with her beloved daughter. Mary was fond of study and spent much of the time with her books. Visitors were rare, for few ventured to brave the wrath of Henry VIII., but one morning it was announced that Lady Kingston awaited her Grace.

“I give you cordial greeting,” said Mary. “You were ever true to me, and in these days it is but seldom that I meet a faithful friend.”

“A message comes to your Grace through me that will, I hope, give you some little comfort,” said Lady Kingston.

“From my father?” cried Mary eagerly.

“No, but from one whose jealous dislike may have done much to turn the king against you, from her who was Anne Boleyn. The day before her death,” continued Lady Kingston, “she whispered to me, ‘I have something to say to you alone.’ She sent away her attendants and bade me follow her into the presence chamber of the Tower. She locked and bolted the door with her own hand. Then she commanded, ‘Sit you down in the royal seat.’ I said, ‘Your Majesty, in your presence it is my duty to stand, not to sit, much less to sit in the seat of the queen.’ She shook her head and said sadly, ‘I am no longer the queen. I am but a poor woman condemned to die to-morrow. I pray you be seated.’ It seemed a strange wish, but she was so earnest that I obeyed. She fell upon her knees at my feet and said, ‘Go you to Mary, my stepdaughter, fall down before her feet as I now fall before yours, and beg her humbly to pardon the wrong that I have done her. This is my message.’”

Mary was silent. Then she said slowly:—

“Save for her, my mother’s life and my own would have been full of happiness, but I forgive her as I hope to be forgiven. The child whom she has left to suffer, it may be, much that I have suffered, shall be to me as a sister—and truly, she is a winsome little maiden.” Mary’s face softened at the thought of the baby Elizabeth.

She kept her word, and it was but a few weeks before Mary, who had once been bidden to look up to the child as her superior, was generously trying to arouse her father’s interest in his forsaken little daughter. Henry VIII., cruel as he showed himself, was always eager to have people think well of him, and in his selfish, tyrannical fashion, he was really fond of his children. Mary had been treated most harshly, but she longed to meet him. Her mother was dead, she was alone. If he would permit her to come to him, it might be that he would show her the same kindness and affection as when she was a child. She wrote him submissive letters, and finally he consented to pardon her for daring to oppose his will. Hardly was she assured of his forgiveness before she wrote:—

“My sister Elizabeth is in good health, thanks to our Lord, and such a child as I doubt not but your Highness shall have cause to rejoice of in time coming.”

The months went by, and when Elizabeth was about four years old, a message came from the king to say that a son was born to him, and that the two princesses were bidden to come to the palace to attend the christening.

Such a celebration as it was! The queen was wrapped in a mantle of crimson velvet edged with ermine. She was laid upon a kind of sofa on which were many cushions of damask with border of gold. Over her was spread a robe of fine scarlet cloth with a lining of ermine. In the procession, the baby son was carried in the arms of a lady of high rank under a canopy borne by four nobles. Then came other nobles, one bearing a great wax candle, some with towels about their necks, and some bringing bowls and cups, all of solid gold, as gifts for the child who was to inherit the throne of England. A long line of servants and attendants followed. The Princess Mary wore a robe of cloth of silver trimmed with pearls. Every motion of hers was watched, for she was to be godmother to the little child. There was another young maiden who won even more attention than the baby prince, and this was the four-year-old Princess Elizabeth. She was dressed in a robe of state with as long a train as any of the ladies of the court. In her hand she carried a golden vase containing the chrism, or anointing oil, and she herself was borne in the arms of the queen’s brother. She had been sound asleep when the time came to make ready for the ceremony, for the christening took place late in the evening, and the procession set out with the light of many torches flashing upon the jewels of the nobles and ladies of rank and upon the golden cups and bowls.

Along the wide hall and down the grand staircase went the glittering line. The baby was christened “Edward,” and then was proclaimed “the beloved son of our most dread and gracious Lord, Henry VIII.” On the return the little Elizabeth walked beside Mary, keeping fast hold of her sister’s hand, while the long train was borne by a noble lady of the court. The trumpet sounded all the way back to the royal bedchamber where lay the queen, waiting to greet her son with her blessing. It was midnight, and Elizabeth as well as her baby brother must have been glad to be allowed to rest.

Only a few days later came the death of the mother of the little prince. Greatly as King Henry disliked black, he wore it for four months, even on Christmas day. Elizabeth was probably at Hunsdon, but Mary spent Christmas with her father. She did not forget the little sister, but sent her a box decorated with silver needlework made by her own hand. She gave the baby brother a cap which must have been very elaborate, for it cost enough to pay the wages of a working man for four months. To the baby’s nurse she sent a bonnet that cost half as much as the cap. Another gift, which she herself made, was a cushion covered with rich embroidery.

This baby brother was a delight to both the princesses. Mary went often to see him, and looked after him as if he had been her own child, and to Elizabeth he was the most precious thing in all the world. “I pray you, take me to see my brother,” she often pleaded. One day the older sister said to her, “Elizabeth, is there aught that I can do to please you greatly?”

“I would gladly go to see my brother,” was the child’s answer.

“That cannot well be,” said Mary. “Is there nothing better that you can wish?”

“No, sister.”

“But there is surely one thing better. When it is two of the clock, stand you close by the west window of the hall, and what is to come will come.”

Clocks were not very common in those days, but there was one in the hall at Hunsdon, and the excited little girl watched the hands move slowly around until they marked the hour of two. What was to come?

A little after two a single rider appeared. “Make way for his Grace, Edward, Prince of Wales!” he cried. Then came the trumpeters and, following them, the nobles. After the nobles came the royal baby for whom all this ceremonial had been arranged. He lay in the arms of his nurse, “Mother Jack,” and was borne in a litter. The upright poles were heavily gilded, and the canopy was of the richest white silk edged with a golden fringe. Clusters of white plumes were fixed at each corner. On the shoulders of eight men rested the shafts of the chair. All around it gathered noble lords and ladies, mounted on horses whose trappings were marked with the monogram of many a family of rank and power. Every man wore a sword to defend the heir of England’s king, if need should arise, and stalwart guards marched on either side.

“It’s my own little brother,” cried Elizabeth.

“And he comes to abide with us for a while,” said Mary. “Is not that better, my little sister, than going to him to pay a visit of a day?”

“Will Lady Margaret grant me leave to show him my birds and my rabbits? He shall play on my virginals, if he will; and, truly, I’ll not mind the sharp prick of the needle, if I may but sew a dress for him. I would fain learn to make letters with the needle, sister Mary, that I might sew one all myself on everything that he will wear. Oh, it will be an ‘E,’ even as it is on whatever is mine.”

It is quite possible that the next few years were the happiest that Elizabeth ever knew. She was four years older than Edward, and she had been so carefully trained by Lady Margaret that King Henry was glad that she should be the playmate of the sweet-tempered little fellow who was his only son and heir. Lady Margaret was troubled because Edward’s best coat was “only tinsel” instead of cloth of gold, and because he had “never a good jewel to set on his cap;” but this was nothing to the little prince so long as he had his sister. Lady Margaret wrote to the king that she wished he could have seen the prince, for “the minstrels played, and his Grace danced and played so wantonly that he could not stand still.” Elizabeth taught him to speak, and for his sake she even conquered her dislike to the “prick of the needle,” for when his second birthday came and the rich nobles of the kingdom sent him jewels and all sorts of beautiful things made of gold and silver, she gave him a tiny cambric shirt, every stitch of which had been made by the little fingers of his six-year-old sister. Mary sent him a cloak of crimson satin. The sleeves were of tinsel. It was heavily embroidered with gold thread and with pansies made of pearls.

It was about this time that King Henry sent an officer of high rank expressly to bestow the royal blessing upon the two princesses. On his return he reported to the king the grateful message that Mary had sent.

“And how found you her Grace, the Lady Elizabeth?” asked King Henry.

“Truly, your Majesty,” replied the chancellor, “were the Lady Elizabeth not the offspring of your illustrious Highness, I could in no way account for her charm of manner and of speech. ‘I humbly thank his most excellent Majesty,’ she said, ‘that he has graciously deigned to think upon me, who am verily his loving child and his true and faithful subject.’”

“She is but six years old,” mused Henry. “Were those her words?”

“I would gladly have had pen and paper,” answered the chancellor, “that no one of them should have been lost, but I give the message as it has remained in my memory. She asked after your Majesty’s welfare with as great a gravity as she had been forty years old.”

More than one trouble came to the older princess. Soon after the king had sent his blessing to the two sisters, a councilor came to Mary with a message of quite another character.

“It is his Majesty’s pleasure,” said he, “that your Grace should receive the Duke Philip of Germany as a suitor for your hand.” This German duke was a Protestant, and Mary was a firm Roman Catholic, but she dared not refuse to obey the king’s bidding.

“I would gladly remain single,” said she, “but I am bound to obey his Majesty. I would, too, that the duke were of my own faith, but in so weighty a matter I can do naught save to commit myself to my merciful father and most sovereign lord, knowing that his goodness and wisdom will provide for me far better than I could make provision for myself.”

The duke sent her a beautiful diamond cross, but before a year had passed, she was bidden by the king to return the gift. Henry had wedded a German wife, and had treated her so badly that Mary’s betrothal was broken.

There were sad times in England in those days. When Henry VIII. wished to marry Anne Boleyn, he asked the Pope to declare that his marriage to the mother of Mary was not lawful. The Pope refused. Henry then asked the opinion of several universities in England, Italy, and France, and it is probable that his question was accompanied by either bribes or threats. The universities declared the first marriage unlawful, but the Pope would not yield. Henry then declared that the English church should be free from the Pope, and that the king himself was properly the supreme head of the church in his own kingdom.

There were tyrants, and most cruel tyrants before the days of Henry VIII., but they were generally satisfied to rule men’s deeds. Henry was determined to rule his subjects’ most secret thoughts. If he suspected that a man did not believe that his divorce was right, he would pursue the man and force him to express his opinion. If the man was too honest to tell a falsehood, he was imprisoned or executed, for Henry said that it was treason to refuse to acknowledge that the king of England was at the head of the church of England. Many of the noblest, truest men in the land were put to death for this reason. This was not all, for although Henry would not acknowledge the authority of the Pope, he nevertheless declared that he was a Roman Catholic, and that all Protestants were heretics and deserved to be burned to death. The result of this strange reasoning was that if a man was a Protestant, he ran the risk of being burned at the stake, while if he was a Roman Catholic, he was in danger of being hanged.

Mary was often at the court. She must have heard her father’s brutal threats against all those who did not love his will. One after another of her childhood’s friends was beheaded or burned at the stake; her old teacher, her mother’s chaplain, and the beloved countess to whose care her mother had confided her as an infant. Not a word or look of criticism might she venture, for the despot would hardly have hesitated to send his own daughter to the stake if she had dared to resist him in this matter.

The case was quite different with Elizabeth and Edward. They knew little of burnings and executions. Whatever of gentleness and kindness was in King Henry was shown to the children, especially to his son. The little ones played and studied together. “My sweetest and dearest sister” was the little boy’s name for Elizabeth. She was a favorite wherever she went. The king married three times after the death of Jane Seymour, and each of these stepmothers was fond of the merry, pleasing little girl.

The first of the three was the German princess. She was rather slow and dull, and Henry took a great dislike to her. When the little Elizabeth, then about seven years old, begged to be allowed to come to court to see the queen, King Henry roared, “Tell her that her own mother was so different from this woman that she ought not to wish to see her.” This was the only time that he ever spoke of Anne Boleyn.

Elizabeth met the new stepmother after a short delay, and this lady was so charmed with the little maiden that she begged to see much of her, the only favor that she ever asked of the king. The next wife was a distant relative of Anne Boleyn, and when she dined in public, she gave the place opposite herself to the child. “She is of my own blood,” said the queen, “and it is only right that she should be next to me.”

At Henry’s last marriage Mary and the two children were present, and this new queen became like the others a warm friend of Elizabeth, who was now fully ten years old. Henry must have felt some affection for Anne Boleyn, for he was never displeased to hear the praises of her daughter. He seemed beginning to have a real fondness for the child, and one day he looked at her keenly and said:—

“There’s more than one that would be glad to have you. Would you be married, Elizabeth, or would you stay with your books and birds and viols and lutes?”

“I would fain do that which your Majesty bids,” answered the child. “I know well that what your Majesty commands is ever the thing which is best.”

“She’s a child of wisdom,” declared Henry with a smile of gratification, “and I’ll do more for her than anyone can guess.” Then said he to Elizabeth:—

“It shall be brought about that you shall become the bride of some great man. If any German emperor plays you false, he shall feel the weight of my hand. How would it please your Grace to marry a prince of Portugal?” he asked playfully, for he was in a rarely good humor, “or perhaps Philip of Spain? Philip will be a king, and he would make you a great lady. Would it please you to wed one that would make you a queen?”

“Far rather would I wed one that I could make a king,” answered the child, drawing herself up to her full height.

“What!” cried the king, his face changing in a moment, and his eyes flashing ominously. The girl seemed looking not at the king, but far away into some distant future. She did not see the warning glance of the queen.

“I would fain be so beautiful and so great,” said she, “that whoever came near me should admire me and should beg me to become his wife. I would say no to one and all, but by and by I would choose one for myself. Him I would raise to be as great as I, and I would——” Elizabeth of England, even as a child, rarely forgot herself, but she was absorbed in the picture that she was making, and she stopped only when she felt the silence and saw her father’s wrathful gaze fixed upon her. His eyes were fairly blazing with anger, and his face was purple.

“So that is what you plan, is it?” he roared. “And here you stand before me and tell your schemes to become queen and raise some miserable rascal to the throne. Get out of my sight, ingrate that you are.”

Quick-witted as Elizabeth was, she did not at once see wherein she was in fault. She was so dazed by this sudden fury that she did not even think to throw herself at the feet of the king and beg to be forgiven, even though she knew not for what. The stepmother pleaded, “Pardon the child, my king. She meant no wrong.”

“No wrong,” thundered the king. “Is it ‘no wrong’ to plan what she will do as soon as the breath is out of her father’s body? I tell you, girl, that you may find another father and another throne, for never shall you sit upon mine. Get to your litter, and do you never come before my eyes again.”

The little Edward had slipped up softly behind his angry father and had laid his tiny hand upon the king’s purple cheek.

“Your Majesty is naughty,” he declared gravely. “You have made my sweetest sister cry. I don’t want my sister to cry.” Never had the little boy received a harsh word from his father, and he was perhaps the only one in the kingdom who had no fear of the king. “Come,” said he, “and tell her not to cry.” He caught the king by the hand, but even for his son King Henry’s anger could not be suppressed.

“You little know her,” he said. “It is you that she would rob. She would seize upon the place that is your own and drive you from it. Tell her to depart from the palace and never enter it,” he commanded his chamberlain, and soon the little girl, not yet twelve years old, was sent away from the court in disgrace.

“Hold yourself with patience,” whispered the queen to the child. “Trust me, and believe that it shall not be long before you will again be sent for.”

CHAPTER III
A BOY KING

The queen did all in her power for the little offender, but it was a whole year before she was again allowed to come to court. There was war in France, and the king sailed away in his ship with its sails of cloth of gold, apparently forgetting all about the little daughter whom he had left without a word of farewell. The child dared not write him, but she wrote the queen a grateful little Italian letter. “I feel bound not only to be obedient to you,” she said, “but also to look up to you with filial love, and chiefly because I learn that you, most illustrious Highness, never forget me in your letters to his Majesty, the king.” Then she begged the queen when writing the king, always to speak of her. “Commend me to him with my continual prayer that he will give me his kind blessing,” pleaded the anxious child.

After keeping his anger for a whole year, the king finally deigned to send his blessing to “all” his children. The poor little girl was comforted, and made so happy by this tardy forgiveness that she cast gratefully about her to see what she could do to show her gratitude to the kind stepmother who had done so much to appease his wrath. She knew of a little French book that was a favorite of the queen’s, and this she translated into English and sent to her. The cover was embroidered in blue and silver, and there was a quaint little dedication saying that she knew nothing in it “was done as it should have been.” It is no wonder that the grateful child became a great favorite with her kind-hearted stepmother.

Henry was successful in France; England had been well governed by the queen during his absence; he was on good terms with all his family; and although there had been a visitation of the plague, his children were safe. It was probably at this happy time that a large picture was painted of Henry, his three children, and the mother of Edward. The king sits on a kind of dais with Jane Seymour beside him. He is gorgeous in scarlet and gold brocade, and his two daughters are almost equally dazzling in their crimson velvet and cloth of gold. The precious little prince stands at his father’s right hand, and the king’s arm is thrown around the child’s neck. Both king and prince wear velvet caps, each with a long white plume. Gold chains and rubies and pearls are everywhere.

Queen Katherine does not appear in the picture, but she had a strong hold on the daily lives of the royal family. She saw to it that so far as lay in her power the neglected elder daughter should have the position that belonged to her. Princess as she was, Mary never had after her mother’s divorce an allowance half large enough to do what was expected of her, but now she was helped in many ways by the thoughtful stepmother. The queen would send a handsome gown or a generous gift of money, or she would arrange to pension off some aged, helpless servant of Mary’s, and so lessen the demands upon the girl’s slender purse. She was little older than the princess, but she showed a motherly watchfulness of Mary’s interests.

No less thoughtful was she of the training of her younger stepchildren. It was the fashion for young people of rank to be highly educated, especially in the languages, and if half the reports of the knowledge acquired by the two children are true, they must have been wonderfully industrious students. One who knew them well declared that they called for their books as soon as it was light. First came the reading of the Scriptures, then breakfast, and after that the study of various languages. When the long hours of work were over, the little prince was allowed to exercise in the open air, while Elizabeth “betook herself to her lute or viol, and when wearied with these, employed her time in needle-work.” Four or five modern languages this industrious princess learned to speak and write. She had some knowledge of Greek, and she spoke Latin almost as easily as English. A little book in which she wrote her Italian exercises is still in existence. They are well written, but there are mistakes enough to show that even a princess does not learn a language without hard work.

Both children had a great admiration for Queen Katherine, and whatever she did was right in their eyes. Edward seems to have had as hard a time learning to write as any child of to-day, and he sent a letter to the queen about his troubles. “When I see your beautiful handwriting,” says the discouraged little boy, “I am sick of writing. But then I think how kind your nature is, and that whatever proceeds from a good mind and intention will be acceptable, and so I write you this letter.”

The gentle boy, not yet nine years old, was soon to be put forward to represent the king. Henry had grown so enormously stout that he could not climb the stairs. After a while he could no longer even walk about his room, and he had to be moved in a rolling chair. Commissioners from the king of France were coming to England to arrange terms of peace. The king ordered his son to take his place.

“Your Majesty,” reported the officer in whose charge the child had been, “truly, never was there a prince of such courtesy and amiability. His Grace rode on the charger most gallantly, and led the two thousand knights and nobles with as much of ease and stateliness of demeanor as if he had been forty years of age.”

“And did he speak as he was taught?” asked the king.

“Surely, your Majesty, and with such grace and sovereignty in his manner that men were affected even to tears.”

“And what said the admiral?”

“I verily believe, your Highness, that he would have caught up the prince’s Grace and clasped him to his breast had it not been for the dignity of his Grace’s manner and bearing. He put his arm about the neck of his Grace, but it was a kiss of affection and not of state that he gave.”

“And after that?”

“After the speech of welcome, my lord prince again took the head of the cavalcade. Never before the time of your Majesty have they been handled by such a leader. He led the French away from the Heath to meet your Highness’s gracious welcome at the palace.”

The boy was not spoiled by all this honor and praise, but went willingly away from the glories of the court to stay with his beloved sister Elizabeth. Less than a year were they together, and then it was thought best for them to be separated. Edward was but a lonely little child in spite of his stateliness when on the great charger, and he grieved so for his sister that she wrote to him suggesting that they write frequent letters to each other. The boy caught eagerly at the idea. “Nothing can now occur to me more grateful than your letters,” he wrote in the prim, stilted fashion of the day, and he added, “It is a comfort to my regret that I hope shortly to see you again if no accident intervenes.” He did see her again before many weeks had passed, for there was news to tell which the councilors wished both children to hear.

King Henry had been growing more and more feeble. For some time before his death, it was so difficult for him to sign his name that three men, acting together, were given the right to do it for him. Two made an impression of his signature with a dry stamp, and the third traced the letters with ink. Henry grew no less bitter in his enmity to all who opposed him, and one of his last acts was to order the execution of his aunt’s husband.

One winter day two men galloped swiftly over the road to the palace which was then the home of Edward.

“Inform his Highness that the Duke of Somerset and Sir Anthony Brown await his pleasure,” was the message brought to the prince. The Duke of Somerset was Edward’s mother’s brother, and he went eagerly to meet his guests.

“I rejoice that you bring me word of his Majesty,” said the boy. “Is it not yet his will that I should come to him?”

“Your Grace,” answered the Duke, “his Majesty sent no such message, but he would that you go with us to the home of her Grace, the Lady Elizabeth.” The prince did not question a command that was so in accordance with his wishes, and they set off on horseback.

When the children were together, the duke bowed low before the boy of ten years, his own nephew, and said:—

“Your Majesty, graciously permit your faithful servants to kiss your hand and to promise you their humblest obedience both now and ever. A grievous duty is it, indeed, to declare to you that our illustrious king, Henry VIII., no more governs this realm of England. There is comfort for his sorrowing subjects in the thought that he has left us so noble and gracious a prince to rule us in his stead.”

Edward had known nothing but kindness from his father, and now that the king was dead, Elizabeth no longer remembered what he had made her suffer. Edward forgot that he was a king, and the children threw themselves into each other’s arms and sobbed and cried until those who were about them wept for sympathy.

Now the king had died three days before, but lest there should be some insurrection or an attempt to put Mary on the throne, the Duke of Somerset and others who meant to be the real rulers of the reign of Edward kept the news of his death a secret until they could get the young king safely into their hands and could establish the government in his name. Edward was conducted to the royal apartments in the Tower of London with an honorable escort of troops and nobles. There was great blowing of trumpets and waving of banners, and the boy was proclaimed king of England, France, and Ireland, and supreme head of the church in England and Ireland. A few weeks later the coronation took place, and then there was a rejoicing indeed. The streets through which the young king rode were hung with tapestry and banners. Here and there booths, or stages had been built, and in them all sorts of games and plays were carried on to amuse the people. A rope was stretched from the steeple of St. Paul’s church and fastened firmly to a great anchor lying on the ground. An acrobat contrived to creep halfway up this rope, “aided neither by hand nor by foot,” the old account says. Then he performed many feats in mid-air, “whereat,” as the story puts it, “king and nobles had good pastime.”

There was no longer a cruel king on the throne, but a child who is described as a marvel of goodness and learning. He is praised not only for his ability to speak different languages, but for his knowledge of geography. One of the historians of the day said that he could recite all the harbors and creeks in England, France, and Scotland, and could tell what kind of entrance there was in each for ships, and even which tides and winds were most favorable. It was claimed, too, that he knew the names of all the men of authority in his kingdom, where their homes were, and what their religion was.

This matter of religion was dividing the kingdom. Henry had called himself a Catholic, but he would not admit the Pope’s authority. Edward and Elizabeth had been brought up in their father’s belief. The Duke of Somerset was one of the men chosen to carry out Henry’s will, and he was so decided a Protestant that he was almost as determined to make every one accept the Protestant faith as Henry had been to make all his people agree with himself. In spite of all King Henry’s declarations that neither Mary nor Elizabeth should ever wear the crown, he had finally willed that it should descend first to Edward, then to Mary and then to Elizabeth. The Catholics were eager to have Mary come to the throne, because she was of their own faith; but the Duke of Somerset had been chosen Protector, that is, he was really to govern the kingdom until Edward was old enough to rule, and he meant to oblige the people to become Protestants.

There was even more scheming going on around the boy king, for his councilors were already planning for his marriage. A little five-year-old girl in Scotland was the one whose hand they meant to secure for their sovereign. Her name was Mary, and she was the Queen of Scots. This plan had been one of King Henry’s favorite schemes, but it had never pleased the Scotch. The Protector led an army against them, a most remarkable fashion of winning a bride for the young king, but the Scotch would not yield.

“What greater honor do you expect for the queen?” demanded the English council. “How can Scotland gain more sure protection than that of the king of England?” The Scotch knew very well that if Edward married Mary, it would be for the purpose of gaining a surer control of Scotland, and they refused in spite of the Duke of Somerset and all his army. They betrothed the little queen to the son of the French king, and sent her to France to be educated. “The Scotch are a perverse and wilful people,” then said the English.

Besides the difficulty in gaining a wife for the king and the religious persecutions, there was trouble from other causes, especially among the poor. Part of this arose from what was called “enclosing.” On every great estate there had always been land that the poor people living on the estate could use as a common pasture for their cows. The rich landowners were beginning to “enclose,” or fence in these tracts of land and to use them either for private parks or for sheep pastures. The poor had no longer any way to feed their animals, and they were in great distress. Somerset tried to forbid this enclosing, but the owners of land were too powerful for him, and the enclosing went on in spite of the strictest laws against it. Indeed, the laws caused a new difficulty, for now that the poor people had a decree in their favor, they revolted in several districts, and tried to seize the land. A writer who lived in those times says, “The poor people swarmed in the realm.”

Of course when there were revolts, Somerset was obliged to suppress them, no matter how much he sympathized with the revolters, and often accused men were punished with little effort to make sure of their guilt. It is said that a miller who had been a revolter suspected that he was in danger, and said to his servant, “I must go away on business. If anyone asks for me say that you are the miller and have owned the mill these three years.” The king’s officer came as the miller feared. “Are you the miller?” he demanded. “Surely,” replied the servant proudly. “The mill has been mine for three full years.” “You have been a busy rebel,” declared the officer, “and now you shall be hanged to the nearest tree.” “Indeed, I’m not the miller, but only his man,” cried the frightened servant. “The man tells two tales, hang him up,” bade the officer. A little later one who knew the miller said, “Truly, he was not the miller, he was but the miller’s man.” “Then has he proved a good servant,” declared the officer contentedly, “for how could he have done his master better service than by hanging for him?”

The nobles were angry at Somerset’s attempt to prevent enclosing, and they were indignant that he should have so much power. The result was that he was accused of treason and the Duke of Northumberland became Protector.

Although all these acts were done in the name of Edward, the boy king had really very little freedom. “He is not alone half a quarter of an hour,” said one who knew of his life. When he first became king, he wrote to Mary, “I will be to you a dearest brother and overflowing with all kindness;” but he was taught by Somerset and others that it was a danger to the kingdom to allow his sister to remain a Catholic. When he had been on the throne for about three years, she was summoned to court.

“Your Highness,” said the chamberlain to Edward, “I have to announce the arrival of her Grace, the Princess Mary.”

“Give welcome to her and her train,” said the young monarch, “and say that it is my will and that of my councilors to receive her straightway.” This visit was not for the pleasure of meeting her brother, though they greeted each other most cordially. The royal council was sitting in another room, and there she was summoned.

“Your Grace,” said the councilors, “is it true that, contrary to the wishes of his Majesty the king, mass is still said daily in your house?”

“It is true,” answered Mary, “that the worship of God is carried on in my house in such wise as I do firmly believe is most pleasing to him.”

“There is then no hope of your Grace’s amendment shortly?”

“None, my lord.”

“It is the will of his Majesty, who is supreme head of the church in England, that the mass should be no longer celebrated in his realm. It becomes the duty of all that owe him allegiance to obey. It is his Majesty’s command that you obey as a subject, attempting not to rule as a sovereign.”

“I will neither change my faith nor conceal that which is my true opinion,” declared the princess, “and in testimony of my belief I am ready to lay my head upon the block for the truth, though I am unworthy to suffer death in so good a cause.”

Mary soon left the palace. Letters bidding her give up her religion came from the king, but the elder sister replied:—

“They may be signed with your own name, but they cannot be really your own, for it is not possible that your Highness can at these years be a judge in matters of religion, and by the doings of certain of your councilors I mean not to rule my conscience.”

With his councilors telling him how dangerous it was to the peace of the kingdom for Mary to be allowed to practise a form of religion that was contrary to the law, the brother and sister can hardly have been very happy together, and their meetings grew further apart.

Elizabeth was living quietly in her own house, spending most of her time in study. The boy king was hardly more than a toy in the hands of his councilors. Somerset was finally condemned to death, but when he wrote to Elizabeth and begged her to appeal to the king and save his life, Elizabeth was obliged to answer:—

“The king is surrounded by those who take good care to keep me away from him, and I can no more gain access to his Majesty than you can.”

The one who was keeping Elizabeth from her brother was the new Protector, the Duke of Northumberland. Edward became ill, and everyone knew that his life would be short. Elizabeth tried to visit him, but was prevented. Then she wrote him a letter, but it is not probable that he ever saw it. Northumberland was in power, and he did not mean that either Mary or Elizabeth should wear the English crown; he had quite another plan in his mind.

CHAPTER IV
GIVING AWAY A KINGDOM

Edward was not fifteen when the Duke of Northumberland became Protector. At eighteen the boy king was to be really king and to govern his kingdom as he chose, but until then, although everything was done in his name, it was the Protector who would rule. Northumberland thought that in those three years he could gain so great an influence over the young sovereign that even when the time came to give up the high office, he would still retain much of his power.

Edward had never been strong, and before many months had passed, it was clear that he would not live to be eighteen. Northumberland had no mind to lose his power. What could he do?

One morning in June he went to the chamber of the king. Edward lay by the window looking out into the bright sunshine.

“My humble greeting to your gracious Majesty,” said Northumberland. “I have brought news that cannot fail to give to your Highness an increase of health and strength.”

“I think that nothing can do that,” said Edward, “but good news will at least make the day less weary. What is it that you have to tell?”

“That two of those followers of the Pope who have most strongly opposed your Majesty’s efforts for the good of the land have at last accepted godly counsel.”

“I rejoice,” said the king. “Would that the Princess Mary were one of them. Is it true, my lord, that no word of submission to him who is rightly the supreme head of the church in England has come from her Grace?”

“It is true, your Highness.”

“Then when I die—no, my lord, do not deny it. I know well that few days are left to me—my sister will be on the throne. She will bring back the falseness of the old religion. Not the sovereign but the Pope will rule in the land, and I can do nothing to prevent it. How little power a king has!” Northumberland’s heart beat fast. Now was his opportunity.

“Has your Majesty considered that the rightful heirs of king as well as of subject are those whom he himself shall name?”

“Do you mean, my lord, that it is my right to name her who shall follow me? that I could leave the crown to her Grace, the Princess Elizabeth, if I would?”

“Our glorious ruler, Henry VIII., bequeathed his crown as he would have it to descend. Surely, it would be in your Majesty’s power to leave it to the Princess Elizabeth’s Grace or to whomever of the descendants of the illustrious sovereign, King Henry VII., your Majesty might choose.”

“The Princess Elizabeth was taught the principles of the truth even as I myself was,” mused the king.

“True, your Majesty,” agreed the duke, “but she is only twenty years of age. It might easily come to pass that she would wed a foreign prince of the false faith, and that the land, now so favored with the light of truth, would be again plunged into darkness. If she were already wed, it would be safer, though many in the realm believe that neither of the daughters of King Henry can rightfully inherit the crown. An heir upon whom all must unite would save strife and it may be bloodshed.”

“That might well be,” said the king thoughtfully. Then Northumberland suggested boldly, though with some inward fear:—

“The sisters of your Majesty’s illustrious father, could you——” the duke hesitated.

“The granddaughter of Margaret Tudor is the Queen of Scots, the little maiden who refused my hand,” said the king with a faint smile, “but she is of the false faith. The granddaughter of Mary Tudor is my old playmate, the lady Jane Grey, or is she not now Lady Dudley, my lord? Was it not a few days ago that she became the wife of your son? She is well-principled in the truth.”

“Do not fancy, I beg your Highness, that a thought of what your Majesty had in mind moved me to look with favor upon the mutual affection of the young couple.”

“No,” said the young king a little wearily. “Arrange it in any way that you will to have the kingdom fall into the hands of her who will lead it more fully into the light, and bear it further from the idolatrous worship of the earlier days.”

Northumberland had obtained his wish, but there must be lawyers to write a deed of gift of the crown. He went to three judges of the realm and gave them the king’s command.

“Gladly would we see the faith of his Majesty more fully established,” they said, “but, my lord duke, in the time of King Henry Parliament decreed that whoever did aught to change the order of succession to the crown should suffer death as a traitor.”

Northumberland persuaded and threatened, but the judges had no mind to run the risk of losing their heads for the sake of setting his daughter-in-law upon the throne of England.

“If you had the written pardon of the king, would you do it?” demanded Northumberland, and after much discussion the judges hesitatingly agreed. Edward was now as eager as the Protector to have it made sure that Lady Jane would ascend the throne, and he willingly signed a pardon to free them from all punishment, if they were ever accused of breaking the law of the land. The pardon was signed, then the deed of gift, bequeathing the crown to Lady Jane, was signed. The dying king rejoiced, but the bold schemer trembled.

There were very good reasons why each of four women had a right to feel honestly that she alone ought to be queen of England. These four were Mary, Elizabeth, Mary, the child Queen of Scots, who was descended from Margaret, sister of Henry VIII., and last, Lady Jane, who was descended from his youngest sister Mary. According to King Henry’s will, which Parliament had confirmed, the crown was to go to Lady Jane, if Henry’s three children died without heirs. It seemed quite possible that she might some day be the ruler of England, and her parents set to work to prepare her to become a queen.

Now when less than a century ago a lady in England found that her little daughter Victoria would probably be the sovereign of her country, she said, “I want you to be a good woman, and then I shall be sure that you will be a good queen.” Lady Jane’s parents thought more of training her to do everything according to the etiquette of the court, and they were so anxious that she should walk and talk and sit and eat and dance precisely as they thought a queen ought to perform those acts, that they were exceedingly severe with her. She was a gentle, loving girl, and she did her best to satisfy them, but she was upbraided and pinched and struck whenever she was in their presence. The one great pleasure in her life was the time that she spent with her teacher, whom she called “Master Aylmer,” for he was so kind to her and so gentle in all his ways that she was happy when the hour of study had arrived.

Everyone knew that Northumberland was the most powerful man in the kingdom, and when he said to Lady Jane’s father, the Marquis of Dorset, “If you will give your daughter to my son Guilford to wife, I will persuade the king to make you a duke,” the marquis was delighted. Lady Jane was but sixteen and Lord Guilford Dudley was only one year older. They were married at once with the most brilliant festivities.

Not many days after the wedding, King Edward became very ill. “Hold yourself in readiness for what may be demanded of you,” said Northumberland to Lady Jane. “Should the king fail to recover, you are made by his Majesty heir of his realm.”

The girl of sixteen had never thought of such a thing as becoming queen of England until many years should have passed, and probably not even then, and she was greatly troubled. She dared not disobey Northumberland, and when a few days later he sent his daughter to bring her to the royal council, she did not venture to refuse. When the duke and the other members of the council entered the room, they fell on their knees before her and kissed her hand.

“We make our humble submission to your Majesty as our sovereign lady and rightful ruler of this realm of England,” said they.

Lady Jane was much abashed, and she said:—

“My lords, I can but thank you for the grace that you show to one who is so unworthy of such honor; but if I understand your words aright, you greet me as your sovereign lady and ruler. My lords, there is surely some grievous error. His Majesty, King Edward, is, happily, still on the throne, and even if it had pleased God to remove his Grace from earth to heaven, no claim have I so long as the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth live. Will your lordships grant me permission to withdraw?”

Then spoke the Duke of Northumberland:—

“Your Majesty and members of the royal council, it is a painful duty that falls to my lot to announce the death of our beloved and illustrious king, Edward VI. Much reason have we to rejoice not only in his praiseworthy life and his countless acts of goodness and clemency, but especially in that he, being at the close of his days, thought most earnestly upon the welfare of his realm. In his last hour on earth he prayed that his kingdom might be defended from the popish faith, and he left it in the hands of her who he believed would be faithful to the trust, and would guard the land from falsehood and from error.”

All her life Lady Jane had known and loved the young king. Tears came to her eyes. She looked pitifully about the room. Several noble ladies had been brought into the council chamber, but not one had even a glance of sympathy for the young girl. The Duchess of Northumberland frowned at her, and her own mother whispered sternly, “Demean yourself as is fitting for a queen.”

“His Majesty gave command to his council,” said the duke, “and they have no choice save to obey him. Thus declares the will of the king, signed and sealed, and drawn up by three capable judges of the realm. It names as his heir and successor on the throne of England her gracious Highness, Lady Jane, descendant of Mary, who was the youngest and most beloved sister of his Majesty, King Henry VIII.”

Then all the lords of the council knelt at the feet of Lady Jane. “We render to your Majesty only the honor that is due,” said they, “for you are of true and direct lineage heir to the crown. With deliberate mind we have promised to his Highness, King Edward VI., that in your Grace’s cause we will spare neither goods nor lands nor the shedding of our blood.”

Lady Jane stood before them, white and trembling. Then grief and pain overcame her, and with a sudden burst of tears she fell to the ground. When she was a little recovered, she said to them:—

“My lords, I can but grieve from my heart for the death of so noble a prince and one that was so dear to me. I am weak and feeble. I have little power to govern the land as he in his greatness of mind and of heart would have done, but if that which you say has been given me is rightfully and lawfully mine own, then will I turn to God in my insufficiency and humbly beseech his grace and spirit that I may rule the land to its advantage and to his glory and service.”

In the afternoon of the same day Lady Jane went in state to the Tower of London, for it was an old custom that sovereigns should go forth from the Tower on the day of their coronation. Her relatives knelt before her and humbly promised to be obedient to her commands; and her own mother walked meekly behind her, bearing the daughter’s train. In the evening she was proclaimed in London ruler of the kingdom. There was little rejoicing. The people as a whole were sullen and silent, for most of them understood that the affair was but a scheme of Northumberland’s to gain power for himself.

Lady Jane Grey and Roger Ascham.—From painting by J. C. Horsley.

The duke knew that if Mary and Elizabeth were free after Edward’s death was known, a party would be formed in favor of one or the other, and therefore he had planned to get them both into his hands. He sent messengers to them to say that the king was very ill and begged that they would give him the happiness and comfort of their presence.

Elizabeth paid no heed to the message. Either she was really ill, as she said, or she was wise enough to suspect that there was some trickery about this sudden demand for her society, when for so long a time she had not been allowed to see her brother. At any rate, she remained in her own house.

Mary returned word by a swift rider that she was made very happy by the thought that she could help to bring cheer and consolation to her brother, and she set out at once to go to him. When she was only a few miles from London, a man who had been her goldsmith came riding in hot haste.

“Your Grace,” he said, “I beg that you will go no farther. The king is not ill, he is dead. Northumberland plans to set Lady Jane upon the throne. Flee, I do pray you.” Mary hesitated. Was the word of the goldsmith true? Whom could she trust? Should she go on to London and perhaps be thrown into the prison of the Tower by Northumberland? Should she flee to Norfolk and refuse, it might be, her brother’s last tender wishes? Was it a trap to make her declare herself queen and then behead her for treason? While she questioned, another rider came, a nobleman whom she trusted, and he told her that the king was indeed dead.

Mary turned toward Norfolk. Night came on. The princess herself and many of her retinue were exhausted. They asked for shelter at a country-seat. It was given them, but the Protestants in the neighborhood had heard that Edward was dead and that the Catholic princess was among them. A mob set out in the morning to destroy the house that had sheltered her. Mary had been warned of the danger and had ridden away. She glanced back from the top of a hill and saw the house in flames. “Let it go,” she cried. “I will build him a better one.”

As soon as she reached her own castle in Norfolk, she sent a letter to the royal council saying:—

“We are greatly surprised that we have had from you no knowledge of the death of our brother, but we trust your love and your loyalty. Whatever may have been said to us of any disloyal intentions on your part we do put far from us, and do agree to grant you pardon and receive you graciously into our service as true and faithful subjects.”

Even though the councilors had failed to secure Mary, they still believed that their side would win, and they sent her a rather arrogant letter. It said:—

“Lady Jane is our queen, but if you will show yourself quiet and obedient as you ought, you will find us all ready to do you any service that we with duty may.”

Mary then rode to Framlingham, a strongly fortified castle some twenty miles away. It was so near the sea that she could escape to the continent if flight should become necessary, but she could hardly have been in a safer place. The walls of the stronghold were eight feet thick; town and fortress were surrounded by three deep moats. Here she flung out her banner and called upon all loyal subjects to come to the assistance of their rightful queen. So many thousands gathered that she ventured to set out for London, and as she drew near the city, she met such a welcome that she disbanded her army.

Now at Edward’s death when Northumberland saw that his plan to capture Elizabeth had failed, he sent a messenger to promise her land and money if she would but resign all title to the crown. With rare wisdom for so young a woman, she replied:—

“That is not for me to say. Lady Mary is by my father’s will and by decree passed in open Parliament the rightful queen of the realm. Whatever my claim may be, I can make no challenge so long as my sister doth live.” Elizabeth then set out to meet Mary, and they entered London together, followed by a long train of ladies and noblemen, and escorted by the city guard.

Northumberland too, had collected an army, but his men deserted by hundreds. In less than two months after he had triumphantly set his daughter-in-law upon the throne, he was executed, together with two of those who had most strongly supported him. Lady Jane and her husband were imprisoned. Mary’s advisers declared that there was no safety for her so long as Lady Jane lived, but Mary refused to put her to death.

As the day for the coronation drew near, there were great rejoicings. Many of those that did not wish to have a Catholic ruler were so glad to be free from Northumberland’s schemes and to feel that she who was lawfully their queen was now on the throne that they were ready to unite in the joy of the others. In the procession to the Tower, Queen Mary rode in a litter, or chariot, drawn by six horses, glittering in their trappings of cloth of silver. She was robed in the richest of blue velvet, made even richer by bands of ermine. She wore a sort of head-dress, so heavy with gold and pearls and jewels that she often had to hold up her head with her hands. In a litter almost as splendid as her own rode Elizabeth and her first stepmother, Anne of Cleves. Noble ladies rode on horseback in all the splendors of crimson velvet. Companies of guards followed in white and green, the royal colors.

The next morning after all this magnificence, there was such a brilliant display as made the gorgeousness of the ride through the city seem simple and modest, for the queen was to be crowned in Westminster Abbey.

When she was on the platform in full view of the people, the Bishop of Winchester demanded of them whether it was their will that the crown should be placed on the head of the most excellent princess, Mary, eldest daughter of King Henry VIII. The people shouted, “Yea, yea! Queen Mary, Queen Mary!” Mary made a solemn promise to govern England aright and faithfully preserve the liberties of the people. Then followed all kinds of ceremonies, changing of robes, and sounding of trumpets. She was girded with a sword, a ring was put upon her finger, and at last the crown was solemnly placed upon her head. This was by no means the end of it all, for many nobles came to kneel before her and promise to be true to her. Each one of them kissed her cheek.

In all this ceremonial as well as in the feasting and the entertainments that followed it, the Princess Elizabeth was in every way ranked next to the queen. Elizabeth wore the coronet of a princess. “It is very heavy,” she whispered to the French ambassador. “Be patient,” murmured he, “it will be parent to a better one.”

Parliament was soon in session, and one of the important questions to be decided was what should be done with Lady Jane.

“She attempted to seize the crown from Mary, who is our rightful sovereign,” declared one, “and she should be put to death as a traitor.”

“What she did was done at the bidding of the Duke of Northumberland,” said another. “She was but a tool in his hands, and she should be freed.”

“That cannot well be,” objected a third. “Whoever commits a crime is guilty of that crime and must bear the punishment.”

“Yes,” agreed the first, “and moreover, some who would question Elizabeth’s right to the throne would perchance unite under the banner of Jane. There will be neither rest nor safety in the kingdom so long as she is spared to lead any rebellious faction that may need a head.”

Parliament decided that Lady Jane was guilty of treason, and she was sentenced to be either burned or beheaded as the queen should choose. Everyone was sorry for her. Even those that condemned her could hardly look upon the young girl without tears, and when she was taken back to her prison in the Tower, crowds of weeping people followed her.

“She is to be put to death ‘at the queen’s pleasure,’” said one royal attendant to another. “Do you believe it will be soon?”

“He who dwells in a palace should see but not speak,” answered the other. “To you, however, I may venture to whisper that the death of Lady Jane will never be ‘the queen’s pleasure.’”

CHAPTER V
A PRINCESS IN PRISON

Mary did not forget to show gratitude to those who had aided her in gaining possession of her crown. To some she gave high positions, and for the one whose house had been burned she built a much finer residence.

“And now, my well-beloved cousin and councilor,” she said to the Earl of Sussex, “we would gladly show to you our hearty appreciation of your loyalty in a troublous time. Ask what you will of us, and it shall be granted.”

The only way of heating houses in those days was by means of fireplaces, and therefore, even the royal palaces were full of chills and drafts. Whenever the earl came to court, he took cold. A thought struck him and he said:—

“If your Grace is really of intent to bestow upon me the gift that will give me most of comfort and peace of mind and body, I would beg humbly for the royal permission that I need no longer uncover my head before man or woman.”

Mary was greatly amused. “Either cap or coif or nightcap [skullcap] may you wear,” said she, “and woe to the one that dares to dispute your privilege.” The next morning a parchment bearing the royal arms was presented to the earl with all formality. It read:—

“Know ye that we do give to our well-beloved and trusty councilor, Henry, Earl of Sussex, license and pardon to wear his cap, coif, or nightcap, or any two of them, at his pleasure, as well in our presence as in the presence of any other person within this our realm.”

Not all the questions of the day were settled as easily. One of the most important ones was who should succeed Mary on the throne. If she married and had children, they would be her heirs, but if not, the Princess Elizabeth would probably follow her as ruler of England. Now Mary was a strong and sincere Catholic, and her dearest wish was to lead England back to the old faith and have the Pope acknowledged as the head of the English church. She hoped to be able to bring this to pass, but she was not well, she had little reason to look for a long life, and when Elizabeth became queen, all Mary’s work would be undone, the land would be again Protestant. Elizabeth was to Mary still the little sister whom she had so often led by the hand. Would it not be possible to persuade her to become a Catholic? Elizabeth had loved Edward, would she not go with Mary to hear a mass for the repose of his soul? Elizabeth refused. Again Mary asked, and again Elizabeth said no.

“She would not dare be so bold if stronger than herself were not behind her,” declared Mary’s councilors. “There is danger to life and throne in this audacity.” Others too were to be feared, those Protestants who did not believe in the right of Elizabeth to the crown. They were not sorry to see disagreement between the two sisters, for if the younger should be shut out from the succession, Lady Jane, prisoner in the Tower as she was, would be accepted as Mary’s heir. Evidently Elizabeth must be induced to become a Catholic if it was possible. Mary begged and then she threatened. She had sermons preached before Elizabeth, and she sent the royal councilors to talk with her, but in vain. At last the princess was made to understand that she must yield or withdraw from court. More than this, it was said to her, “There are suspicions that you are bold in resisting the queen because you have support from without.”

Elizabeth was alarmed, and she sent a message to the queen:—

“I pray you, let us meet, there is much that I would say.” Soon the meeting came to pass. Mary entered the room attended by only one lady, who followed her at a greater distance than was customary. Elizabeth threw herself at Mary’s feet and said with many tears:—

“Most gracious queen and sister, I have ever looked up to you with love and respect, and since I have had the use of my reason, I have been interested in everything that concerns your greatness and glory. It grieves me to the heart to feel that for some reason unknown to myself I am no longer as dear to your Majesty as I have believed myself to be.”

“My well-beloved sister,” answered the queen, “gladly would I show to you all affection if I were but sure that your heart was turned toward me and toward that which is not only my dearest wish but is for the salvation of your own soul.”

“I have but followed the belief in which I was brought up,” said Elizabeth. “Such books as my father approved have been my reading. I will study others if you will, and it may be that my mind will be opened to perceive truth in doctrines wherein I had not thought it to lie.”

“It will be a pleasure to my chaplain to choose for you those that are of such quality as to lead a truly inquiring heart into the way of right.”

“Yet another kindness do I beg of you, my queen and sister,” said Elizabeth. “I have listened to those whom I was told to hear. Will your Grace send to me some well-taught preacher to instruct me in the way wherein you would have me to walk? Never have I heard any learned doctor discourse in such wise as to show me where lay my error.” Mary agreed, and a few days later the two sisters attended mass together. Elizabeth even wrote to the German emperor that she intended to have a Catholic chapel opened in her own house, and asked his permission to purchase in Flanders a cross, chalice, and such ornaments as would be needed.

No one had much confidence in her sudden change of creed. Those Protestants who were discontented went on with their plots to make her queen, convinced none the less that once on the throne, she would restore the Protestant form of worship. The German emperor, who was Mary’s chief adviser, urged that to insure the queen’s safety Elizabeth ought to be imprisoned, or at any rate, so strictly guarded that she could do no harm. There was reason for his fears. Mary, Queen of Scots, would soon become the daughter-in-law of the French king, and while he was pretending to be a true friend to Elizabeth, he was in reality doing all in his power to make trouble between her and Mary. If Elizabeth could be led into some plot that would anger Mary and so could be shut out from the succession, his daughter-in-law might easily become queen of England as well as of Scotland. Vague rumors of discontent and plots came to the ears of Mary, and for some time she refused Elizabeth’s request to be allowed to go to her own house.