The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir

them.
    “Aren’t you going to smile for me?” prompted Elizabeth, pulling a face. There was a faint reaction, no more.
    “He’ll soon find his tongue, my lady,” predicted the nurse.
    Gently, Elizabeth tickled the Prince’s sides. He jumped in her arms and chuckled.
    “You’ve done well with him, my lady,” Mistress Penn remarked. “He’s a solemn boy and rarely smiles.”
    Edward was now beaming at Elizabeth. She beamed back and bent to rub noses with him.
    “May I hold him now?” asked Mary. The nurse passed Edward to her, and Mary seated him on her knee, crooning to him, caressing him, and hugging him tightly to her. The child bore this for a few moments before struggling to get down, much to her evident disappointment. He toddled over to his playthings and picked up the hobbyhorse; soon he was careering around the room on it, chasing an imaginary quarry.
    “When the Queen arrives,” Elizabeth said, “I hope we will all be able to live together at court.”
    Mary looked doubtful.
    “We must wait on the will of our father and our new stepmother,” she said.
    Just then, Edward drew to a halt in front of them.
    “Bow!” he piped imperiously. His sisters looked at him in surprise, hesitating.
    “Bow!” he repeated. “I’m going to be king, like my father!”
    Mary and Elizabeth rose, suppressing their smiles, and swept deep curtsies before him.
    “Rise,” he ordered them, in perfect imitation of King Henry. The sisters obeyed.
    “Now you may go,” Edward said. Mrs. Penn was shaking her head at his forwardness.
    As they left, Elizabeth took a rather sticky piece of marchpane from her pocket and pressed it into the nurse’s hand.
    “Give this to the Prince,” she whispered.
     
    Christmas had passed in a whirl of festivities, with everyone eagerly anticipating the coming of the new Queen. Now the New Year’s Eve revels were in full swing: The great hall at Whitehall was packed with people; candles flickered, the fire roared in the great hearth, dogs scavenged for scraps, and servants with ewers were passing about the room, topping up goblets. Elizabeth was enjoying herself hugely. The Lord of Misrule had demanded a forfeit of her, and she was commanded to kiss the ten most handsome gentlemen in the room. Everyone, her father included, roared with mirth as she selected first this man, then that, and, with eyes screwed shut, offered a puckered-up mouth to each. In the end, she was so helpless with laughter that she had to abandon the play for a space, holding her aching sides till she got her breath back.
    “What of me?” cried the King with mock indignation. “Am I not the handsomest man in the room?” Elizabeth, still breathless, ran to him and planted a big kiss on his lips. The courtiers clapped and cheered.
    “Of course you are, sir!” she panted.
    It was at that point that a messenger in the King’s livery entered and whispered in her father’s ear. Henry smiled broadly, drew himself to his majestic height, and raised his hand for silence.
    “Great news, my lords and ladies! The Princess Anna of Cleves is arrived safely in this kingdom and is even now at Rochester. What say you? Shall we await her formal reception before we behold our bride, or shall we ride to Rochester now, in the guise of an ardent suitor, to nourish love?”
    The company, flushed with wine, shouted their approval of the latter plan, and soon Elizabeth was standing at the front of the throng gathered in the palace courtyard to wave good-bye to the King and the eight gentlemen who were to accompany him.
    “The furs, Sir Anthony! My gift to the Princess! Did you remember them?” Henry cried as, swathed in sables, he hauled himself into the saddle.
    “I have them here, Sire,” smiled Sir Anthony Browne.
    The King grinned, clapped his bonnet down firmly on his head, and waved to his watching courtiers.
    “We will see you, one and all, very soon, then we will repair to Greenwich for the wedding.