brayed and stood there looking generally miserable at the turn of events that had befallen her. (As narrators, we’d like to inform you now that Mary was never seen as a human again. She remained an ass, all the rest of her days. As asses typically do.)
Edward didn’t laugh at her with the others. He turned to the guards. “Take her away.”
A man—it was Peter Bannister, actually—slung a rope around the former queen’s neck and led her from the room.
Edward approached the throne. It was just a glorified chair, he thought. It wasn’t even that comfortable. Nevertheless, he sat down on it carefully and surveyed the room. Because that was what was expected of him.
The people quieted once more. Then slowly, in a rustle of fabric and a shuffle of shoes, they kneeled before Edward. “Long live King Edward,” they said in one voice. “Long live the king.”
A lump rose in his throat. He didn’t feel the way he’d expected to feel in this moment. He didn’t feel triumphant, or victorious, or righteously entitled to the throne. He felt much the way he did the first time he’d been told that he was king. A sinking in his stomach. A dread.
Bess bent to pick up the crown from where it had clattered to the floor when Mary had showed the world her true self. She walked slowly and purposefully to stand beside Edward. She smiled. Then she raised the crown above his head and . . .
Edward caught her wrist. “Wait.”
She froze. “Edward, what are you doing?”
“What Mary said is true,” he whispered. “I’m not the rightful ruler.”
“Of course you are,” she said.
“Why, because I’m a boy?”
“Did you not hear what I said before? About why Father chose you?”
He looked down at his feet and smiled wistfully. “You’re the generous one, sister. I never really considered the welfare of my people. I’m not wise. I’m just a boy.”
“You’ve never been just a boy,” she said.
“I don’t have the heart of a king, but you do,” he said earnestly.
She stared at him. “Me?”
“You’re the one who’s going to make England great.” He took the crown gently from her hands and stood. Jane and Gifford and Gran were all standing near the front, mouths open in shock—even Gran, who he’d always thought unshockable. He wished that Gracie were here. He’d been trying not to dwell too much on Gracie, as she was probably still fighting alongside his soldiers at the city wall, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the thought of what was happening with her. But he would have liked to have seen her face when he did what he was about to do.
“Listen well,” he announced to the people assembled. “I, King Edward the Sixth, do hereby abdicate my crown to my sister Elizabeth Tudor, who I find, by both her birthright and her immeasurable good qualities, to be the rightful heir to the throne of England. Any rights and privileges I have heretofore enjoyed as monarch of this fine land, I bestow upon her.”
Silence.
He met Jane’s eyes. She closed her mouth and tried to smile. Then she nodded slightly.
“Long live Queen Elizabeth!” she called out, her voice small but strong. She turned to Gifford, who had been clasping her hand all the while, and nudged him.
“Oh. Long live Queen Elizabeth!” he added, and then the other voices began to join in, louder and louder.
“Come, sister,” he said to Bess. He took her hand and led her to the throne.
“Are you sure?” she whispered as she sat carefully in his chair. (King or not, it was going to be a while before he stopped thinking of it as his chair.) “Consider what you’re giving up.”
He knew what he was giving up. Power. Prestige. Wealth beyond measure. A life of leisure and luxury. A person always standing by to make sure he didn’t choke. And, most of all, his future. Edward couldn’t honestly imagine who he would turn out to be if he wasn’t king. By stepping down he was relinquishing his very identity.
But his country needed a ruler who was worthy and capable. England needed Bess.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” he said. “You’re going to be a fine queen, Bess. The best. Even better than Father. Trust me.”
She gave him that subtle, thoughtful smile at his familiar words before she bowed her head for a moment, her eyes closed, her face as pale as chalk. He could see all twenty-two of her freckles.