Beware, Princess Elizabeth Read Free Page A

their rich velvet robes. Henchmen carrying gilded poleaxes and knights in purple satin riding fine horses would precede my royal litter.
    But I was not the queen, and short of a miracle I would never be queen. I was assigned a place far back in the procession, behind my sister, Mary, who sat in a chariot with Dowager Queen Catherine, the highestranking woman in the kingdom. Beside me rode Anne of Cleves, my father's fourth wife, a German princess my father had decided to wed seven years earlier on the basis of a small portrait he'd seen.
    Anne of Cleves had spoken only German when she'd stepped off the ship that brought her to Dover. She was stoutly built, her skin pockmarked, her gowns and headdresses drearily old-fashioned. The king immediately saw that the flesh-and-blood woman did not match the portrait, much less his dreams of her, but he married her anyway. Six months later he had the marriage annulled—and sent to the gallows his chief secretary, Cromwell, who had arranged the match. Since the divorce Anne had had the status of "the king's sister" and had lived comfortably in one of the country houses he had given her with plenty of jewels and money to soothe her injured feelings. We were often paired at official occasions. We were fond of each other, and I was glad for her company. We were two women, one old and one young, who counted for little in the kingdom. Anne may not have cared, but I confess that I did. I was the trueborn daughter of King Henry VIII!
    That night Edward slept in the Tower of London, traditional for each monarch in the history of England, including my mother, who spent the night there before her crowning as queen. It amuses me to think that I was present for that event, less than three months before my birth, riding in her belly, beneath all her jeweled finery.
    But now my thoughts were not of Edward's coronation, but of another matter entirely that had been troubling me for days: the look I had seen Queen Catherine bestow upon Tom Seymour. I knew that Kat would speak forthrightly once I had found a way to introduce the subject.
    That night we retired to the chambers assigned to us. All but one of the candles were extinguished, and we climbed onto the high bed and drew the curtains against the cold. Our servants slept.
    "Tom Seymour and the queen...," I began hesitantly.
    "She was in love with him before, you see," said Kat, almost as though she had read my thoughts. "Catherine has been in love with Tom Seymour these many years, since long before she married King Henry. And who can blame her? Do you not think him extraordinarily handsome?"
    The handsomest I have ever seen,
I thought. Aloud I said, "I scarcely noticed," and feigned a yawn. Then, "Will they wed, then, do you think?"
    "The dowager queen must first complete a year of official mourning," said Kat. "We shall see if she lasts six months."
    With that Kat rolled onto her side and fell fast asleep, leaving me to lie awake pondering this bit of news.
     
    T HE NEXT MORNING, after a solemn procession from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, the coronation commenced, hours of pomp and ceremony that left everyone exhausted. By evening the celebrants had recovered sufficiently, and the revelry began at Whitehall Palace, the new king's official residence.
    Throughout the banquet no one paid me the least attention, as usual. I was seated far down the table from King Edward and completely ignored, as only a thirteen-year-old princess of lowly status can be ignored in the vast sea of dukes and duchesses, marquises and marchionesses, earls and countesses, barons and baronesses. But when the dancing began, my old friend Robin Dudley suddenly appeared at my side.
    Robin had shared lessons with Edward and me and our tutors when Robin and I were eight years old—our birthdays are within days of each other. He was a merry lad then, as good-looking as he was good-humored, but I had not seen him in some time. Now thirteen, no longer a boy but not yet a man,