The Virgin Queen's Daughter - Ella March Chase Read Free

had to go away.” Father Richard had been our priest at Calverley. He had answered all my questions about God and Martin Luther, the monk from Germany who had nailed a letter to a church door telling all the things the Pope was doing wrong. Trying to figure it all out made my head ache, but Father Richard never got cross with me for pestering him. Mother warned me not to expect God to be as patient as Father Richard. Even her eyes got red when he had to flee to France so no one could take his wife and sweet baby away.
    My father cleared his throat. I knew he missed Father Richard, too. “Sir Thomas Wyatt and the other men who rebelled against Queen Mary last winter were very afraid of King Philip.” Father ignored mother’s reproving glare. “Do you know why?”
    That was easy for a girl who had been raised in the reformed religion to answer. “Because he is Catholic.” I hesitated, and then asked in a hushed voice, “When he is king will he burn us up like they did my godfather?” Father had locked himself in his library for three days after the messenger brought that grim news from Smithfield.
    Sadness took over Father’s eyes again and I knew I had put it there. I hugged my belly, the whalebone busks that kept my bodice stiff digging into my hips. “Wat says Protestants burned up Catholics, so they are just making it even. I did not believe him.”
    “What Wat said is true. I wish it was not. Would God we could allow each other to come to faith in our own way. There is only one Christ. He cannot be happy His followers are trying to murder each other in His name.”
    “You would allow Rome to rule us?” Mother demanded. It was a shock to hear her speak Greek as well. She had learned much while serving as one of Queen Katherine Parr’s ladies before King Henry died, but mother rarely bothered speaking anything but English. “You would have us be vassals to Spain?”
    Father patted Mother’s hand. “Your mother has cut to the practical root of the problem as always, Nell. Spain is much bigger and much stronger than England.”
    “But not braver!” There could be no doubt of that. I had been raised on tales of Agincourt and Crécy, where my ancestors had fought.
    “No. Not braver,” Father said. “Still, think of the conflict this way. You know your friend, Wat?”
    “Wat is not my friend! He pushes me because I am littler than he is.”
    “What would happen if you had some marchpane and he did not? Would he try to take yours?”
    “He might try .” I scowled. “I would stick him with a pin.”
    “I am sure you would fight bravely,” Father said, “but chances are Wat would succeed in taking your sweet, because he is twice as big as you are. That is what people fear Spain will do with England. Take all that is sweet from our country and force us to fight their wars, follow their religion. We would become more Spanish than English.”
    “But I do not want to be Spanish!”
    “That is what the rebels thought. They hoped to sweep the Spaniards out of England.”
    “And Queen Mary off of the throne,” Mother added.
    “But then who would be Queen?” I asked.
    “Sir Thomas Wyatt hoped to put the crown back on Lady Jane Grey’s head.”
    I remembered the story of Lady Jane. King Henry’s sickly boy, King Edward, made her queen of England after he died. She only ruled for nine days before Mary took the throne away from her. They had chopped off Jane Grey’s head at the very fortress we were going to visit. “If Jane cannot be queen, then who else could be?”
    Father cuddled me close. “Princess Elizabeth.”
    “Wat says she is a bastard and her mother was a witch.”
    “People who say Elizabeth is not King Henry’s daughter are fools.” Father stroked my red curls. “Anyone with eyes can see she is Tudor to her bones. The Protestants will rally around Princess Elizabeth in earnest now. May God save her.”
    “Why does God need to do that?” I asked.
    “Because the princess’s head is