she said, “so that our father can rest. They are saying he has a cold, but I don’t believe it.”
“Can I see him?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.
“No one is allowed near him,” Mary told her. “I begged the Queen, but even she has been barred from his chamber by the doctors.”
Elizabeth stared at her.
“Then he must be very ill,” she whispered.
“We must pray for him,” Mary replied. “Come, Sister, come with me to the chapel.”
Together, they knelt at the altar rails, where once the Black Friars had celebrated Mass. Mary raised her eyes in rapturous beseeching to the impassive image of the Virgin that adorned the altar, and Elizabeth tried hard to pray as devoutly as her sister, but disturbing images kept intruding. She kept thinking of her magnificent father, now ill, in pain and helpless in his bed and at the mercy of the royal physicians, whose cures were often revolting and painful, and rarely successful. She thought too of the waiting nobles, the ambitious Reformists, hungry for power, men who would rejoice in the King’s demise. The notion brought hot tears to her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands to conceal the fact that she was weeping.
Henry knew very well, although no one had dared tell him, that his days were numbered. No fool, he was aware that the remedies his physicians prescribed were useless, and that they could no longer do anything to delay the inevitable. He was not afraid, in fact he was content to go: So much that had been pleasurable in his life was now beyond his capacity, and that he could not bear. What mattered was that Edward’s succession should be a smooth one, and that the wily Hertford should not set himself above the other members appointed by the King to the regency council. Power, he was determined, must be shared among them. As for their religious persuasions, again, he was no fool. He knew which way the tide of opinion was flowing. Well, let them have their heads, these reformers. He would not be here to see it.
There was a soft knock. The Queen put her head around the door.
“How are you feeling, my lord? Can I get you anything?”
He managed a weak smile. She was a good woman, and he had not been much of a husband to her. Doubtless after he had left this world she would marry Tom Seymour. Well, good luck to her. She deserved a proper man in her bed: He himself could not have had a more devoted wife or nurse, but that had been—mostly—all that had been between them. Although he was damned if he was going to allow that rogue Seymour to be anywhere near the regency council.
“A cup of wine, if you please, Kate,” he said, content just to watch her moving about the room, doing his bidding. She looked very trim in her crimson gown. She thought he knew nothing of her secret conversion to the Lutheran faith, he reflected. Well, let her be. Let them all be. Kate, Hertford, Archbishop Cranmer, John Dudley, Coxe, Cheke, Ascham…heretics all. They would do well under the new regime. But not yet…not yet.
“It’s going to be a sorry Christmas, Kate,” he said, taking the cup from her. “There’ll not be many disports for you and my children, with me lying here and everyone tiptoeing around as if I’ve died already.”
Katherine winced.
“Nay, Sweetheart, I but jested,” Henry assured her, then sighed. “I’ve a mind to close the court to visitors. There’ll be no revelry this year.”
“I will keep you company, my Husband,” she said, patting his hand. “We’ll have some quiet revelry in private. You can beat me at cards, as usual—”
“No, Katherine,” Henry cut in. “Tomorrow, you, Mary, and Elizabeth will go to Greenwich and keep Christmas there in proper fashion. Edward can travel to Ashridge. I don’t want him mingling with lots of people. He might catch something, with all these winter chills that are going about.”
“But my lord,” the Queen protested, “I would stay with you.”
“It’s only for the festive season,” he told her. “No, no arguments! It is my will, and you are bound to obey me. Now go, make ready. I would sleep a little. I will see my children before they leave.”
They stood before him, two slim girls and a child. The fruits, he reflected, of his six marriages. For a moment, it was as if Katherine, Anne, and Jane were in their places: pious Katherine, with