it seemed that no one was sure what to do. My father had reigned for so long, no one quite remembered the protocol between the death of one king and the accession of another â though there are many far more practised in the procedure now.
The dead king still lay in his chamber, while the door remained barred. No one was permitted to go in and see his body. One day passed and then another. My anxiety grew. Where was my brother? Why had he not sent for me? What were they doing to him? I knew how frightened he would be, surrounded by men who were virtual strangers. King or no, he was but a little boy.
Finally, three days after the death of my father, on the 31st day of January, Hertford brought my brother in state from the Tower. My brother had agreed Hertford should be lord protector until he reached his majority. Once the all-important document was signed, as lord protector Edward Seymour finally issued a proclamation declaring King Henry to be dead and his son, Edward, king in his place, and the strange limbo that had surrounded us began to lift. My fatherâs body in its huge coffin was moved at last into the chapel, where masses could be said for his soul and the people could comeand pay their respects. Unlike his bewildered children, most of the great and the good were more interested in the future than consumed with grief for the past, and so they came in their droves, eager to swear their allegiance to their new liege lord, according to custom.
Even so, the atmosphere in the palace remained strange, discordant. The lines of courtiers and councillors paying their respects were subdued. I knew how they felt; it was as if a pale and feeble moon had risen to take the place of the sun, as if the earth had become liquid and the sea solid. None of us could quite comprehend a world without the colossus of my father astride it.
Edward held his nerve and his dignity, accepting the words of loyalty and sympathy with a solemn nod of his head. Queen Catherine, Mary and I stood at the rear of the great hall. When I could I tried to catch his eye and send to him my love and my encouragement, but I do not know if he saw me at all. He said little and looked tiny, pale and drawn, sitting in my fatherâs large chair. The contrast between the bulk of the old king and the slender proportions of the new one could not have been more pronounced. A footstool saved my brother from the indignity of swinging his feet in the air, but nothing could make him look other than a frightened little boy playing at power. It was clear that all the important conversations were taking place in side rooms, betweenthe lord protector and his newly appointed council. When at last the long dreary day was over, no doubt my poor little brother made his way to his private quarters, then dropped his head and sobbed into his arms as if his heart would break. Was he weeping for the loss of his father, who had loved him? Or for fear of the great responsibility that had just crushed him under its weight? People envy princes, they tell me. They would not, methinks, if they knew the reality of their lives. In only a few short weeks, small imperious Edward disappeared and that which we call king settled itself in his place. I am twenty-five, well versed in the ways of the world and the fearful duplicity of ambitious men, and if I approach my new life in sleepless trepidation, how must it have felt for the nine-year-old boy? Eventually it killed him, I suppose.
At the end of that long and wearisome day, we were finally permitted to see my brother in his private apartments, and my stepmother did not stand on ceremony. She took my brother into her arms and soothed his tears. She held him on her knee, rocking him from side to side, as he gulped and sobbed. But they had only a few minutes together before the lord protector, who appeared to hate my brother being out of his sight for any time at all, came unannounced into the room, puffed up in his newly acquired
The dead king still lay in his chamber, while the door remained barred. No one was permitted to go in and see his body. One day passed and then another. My anxiety grew. Where was my brother? Why had he not sent for me? What were they doing to him? I knew how frightened he would be, surrounded by men who were virtual strangers. King or no, he was but a little boy.
Finally, three days after the death of my father, on the 31st day of January, Hertford brought my brother in state from the Tower. My brother had agreed Hertford should be lord protector until he reached his majority. Once the all-important document was signed, as lord protector Edward Seymour finally issued a proclamation declaring King Henry to be dead and his son, Edward, king in his place, and the strange limbo that had surrounded us began to lift. My fatherâs body in its huge coffin was moved at last into the chapel, where masses could be said for his soul and the people could comeand pay their respects. Unlike his bewildered children, most of the great and the good were more interested in the future than consumed with grief for the past, and so they came in their droves, eager to swear their allegiance to their new liege lord, according to custom.
Even so, the atmosphere in the palace remained strange, discordant. The lines of courtiers and councillors paying their respects were subdued. I knew how they felt; it was as if a pale and feeble moon had risen to take the place of the sun, as if the earth had become liquid and the sea solid. None of us could quite comprehend a world without the colossus of my father astride it.
Edward held his nerve and his dignity, accepting the words of loyalty and sympathy with a solemn nod of his head. Queen Catherine, Mary and I stood at the rear of the great hall. When I could I tried to catch his eye and send to him my love and my encouragement, but I do not know if he saw me at all. He said little and looked tiny, pale and drawn, sitting in my fatherâs large chair. The contrast between the bulk of the old king and the slender proportions of the new one could not have been more pronounced. A footstool saved my brother from the indignity of swinging his feet in the air, but nothing could make him look other than a frightened little boy playing at power. It was clear that all the important conversations were taking place in side rooms, betweenthe lord protector and his newly appointed council. When at last the long dreary day was over, no doubt my poor little brother made his way to his private quarters, then dropped his head and sobbed into his arms as if his heart would break. Was he weeping for the loss of his father, who had loved him? Or for fear of the great responsibility that had just crushed him under its weight? People envy princes, they tell me. They would not, methinks, if they knew the reality of their lives. In only a few short weeks, small imperious Edward disappeared and that which we call king settled itself in his place. I am twenty-five, well versed in the ways of the world and the fearful duplicity of ambitious men, and if I approach my new life in sleepless trepidation, how must it have felt for the nine-year-old boy? Eventually it killed him, I suppose.
At the end of that long and wearisome day, we were finally permitted to see my brother in his private apartments, and my stepmother did not stand on ceremony. She took my brother into her arms and soothed his tears. She held him on her knee, rocking him from side to side, as he gulped and sobbed. But they had only a few minutes together before the lord protector, who appeared to hate my brother being out of his sight for any time at all, came unannounced into the room, puffed up in his newly acquired
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