Читать книгу The Tudor Throne - Brandy Purdy - Страница 9

4

Elizabeth

Poor little poppet, I thought as Edward wept in my arms. They will dress you up, put words in your mouth, and make you dance to their tune. And there, intently watching his prey with the same greedy, carrion-hungry jet eyes of a raven, is the puppet-master—Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector of the Realm, who will head the Regency Council, presiding over fifteen equally ambitious, power-hungry men, all of whom would not hesitate to pull him from his lofty pedestal and take his place. Poor little poppet indeed—I patted Edward’s back and murmured soothing words—you will have nine years to contend with this before you come into your own and can tell them all to go to the Devil and leave you be to rule your kingdom as you please.

From the shadowy, candlelit gloom of the deathbed they began to step forward, slowly surrounding us, first Seymour, then the other members of the Council, like sharks closing in around a lone sailor clinging to some bit of flotsam as they circle around, hungry for his blood. And I wondered then if my little brother, who was not so robust as he and our late father liked to pretend, had the stamina and spirit to survive until he reached his majority.

Boldly, I stared back at Edward Seymour, meeting those beady, black bird-of-prey eyes, and hugged my brother tighter, wishing I had the power to protect him.

“Edward,” I said firmly, pulling away from him. “Look at me,” I commanded as I stood up.

“The King is dead,” I said, calmly and straightforwardly. “Long live the King.” With those words I sank in a deep curtsy before my brother and kissed his trembling hand.

“I am too young to rule!” Edward sobbed.

“But not too young to reign,” I corrected.

With a gentle pressure of my hand, I urged him to stand beside me.

“You were born for this, Edward,” I said, my mind harking back to the three lives, three wives, that had been lost to bring this pale, frail boy into the world. “Your Majesty, it is time for you to greet your Council. These”—I waved a hand to encompass the solemn and stern-faced men who belatedly knelt before the pale, sobbing boy—“are the men who will assist you to govern in your minority and help you acquire the wisdom and skill to rule alone when you are of age.”

Edward Seymour came forth then and knelt before my brother, and I knew then that he was doomed. This ruthless man would never let go of the reins of power unless they were snatched from him by force. And my brother, God help him, had not that strength; he would never be more than a puppet king. A shiver snaked up my spine then and told me that Edward would never make old bones; either malaise or malice would send him early to the grave. And then the tears that I had fought so hard to hold back began to flow and, though I tried to stifle it, a sob broke from me.

“God’s teeth, stop that blubbering, Bess!” Edward snapped, endeavoring to make his voice sound gruff and deeper as he struck a pompous pose in imitation of our father’s favorite stance, hands on hips, legs apart. “I never could abide weeping women! Stop it, I say, I am the King and you must obey me; is that not so, My Lord?” he asked, turning to Edward Seymour for approval.

“Quite right, Your Majesty, quite right.” Seymour smiled as the rest of the Council began to praise my brother’s resemblance to his sire.

“My brother,” I whispered, “though you do not know it, you have just stepped upon a snake in the grass.”

“Do not vex me with riddles, Bess, I have not the time for them!” Edward glowered impatiently at me. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his Council and then strode, with them scurrying and smiling after him, in a pompous parody of majesty, from the room where our father lay dead.

Poor Edward, he thought playacting was enough to make him worthy to fill our father’s shoes, and those about him would do nothing but encourage him to ape the king they had called “Great Harry.” After all, playing and perfecting the part would consume much of Edward’s attention, leaving them free to rule the realm as they pleased. It was as if they had taken a portrait of our father down from the wall, cut out the face, and bade Edward stand behind it, with his face poked through, parroting the lines they whispered, like a prompter in a theater helping the actors to remember their lines. Edward would never be encouraged or allowed to be himself. He would grow up always pretending to be somebody else and in doing so would lose himself before he even knew who he truly was; that was the real tragedy of his life and reign.