The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir

Elizabeth,” Kat said. “You are a Virgo. Clever but modest, and virtuous of course.”
    “Virgo,” repeated Elizabeth. “Does that mean I’m a virgin, like Saint Ursula?”
    “Bless you, child, it does for now, until you marry,” Kat replied, smiling.
    “You mean I can’t be a Virgo after I marry?” The child was puzzled.
    “You will always be a Virgo, because you were born under that sign. But a girl ceases to be a virgin when she marries.”
    “Why?” Elizabeth persisted.
    “Because her virginity is something she must surrender to her husband,” answered Kat, not wishing to be too specific.
    Elizabeth, recalling that dreadful tale of Patient Grizelda, didn’t like the idea of surrendering anything to a husband. She had already decided that, when she grew up, she was going to do whatever she pleased and not let anyone order her about.
     
    Elizabeth was at her happiest in her dancing lessons. She had learned with ease the courtly steps of the ronde, the salterello, the allemagne, and the basse dance, could move slowly and with dignity in the stately pavane, and threw all her energy into rumbustious brawls and jigs, executing competent kick steps, leaps, and whirling turns.
    “Bravo!” the dancing master would cry, and Kat would clap, admiring Elizabeth’s gracefulness while reminding herself to curb the child’s vanity, for Elizabeth loved nothing more than to show off her skills. But Kat never quite succeeded, because already she was in thrall to the little girl’s vibrant charm, and anyway—she told herself as Elizabeth ignored yet another weak admonition to stop admiring herself in the mirror—a king’s daughter should have a certain air of confidence about her, especially one who bore the disadvantage of having been declared a bastard.
    Riding was another skill at which Elizabeth excelled. She quickly mastered her first pony and progressed to a docile palfrey. With grooms following and Kat at her side, she rode out every day, around the parks at Hunsdon, Hatfield, Hertford, Enfield, Elsynge, and Ashridge, the nursery palaces in which she spent her spacious childhood, lodging at each in turn, and vacating a house when it needed cleansing. She also liked to accompany Kat on long early-morning walks in the fresh air, whatever the weather, trying to match her stride to the governess’s when it was cold and they had to maintain a brisk pace to keep warm.
    The afternoons were usually given up to the learning of tongues.
    “It is important for a king’s daughter to know different languages so that she can converse with foreign princes and ambassadors,” Kat said. She blessed her own progressively minded father for having tutored her in French, Italian, Spanish, and Dutch, so that she was able to impart the rudiments of these to her very able pupil. Elizabeth learned fast—she had the gift—and soon they were able to hold simple conversations in those tongues.
    One day, Elizabeth came upon one of her nursery attendants singing a song in a strange and lilting speech as she tidied the schoolroom.
    “What’s that you’re singing?” she asked the singer, a woman with fair, straw-like hair and cornflower-blue eyes, who was hastily dipping a curtsy.
    “It is an old Welsh ballad, my lady,” she answered in a beguiling, musical voice. “It is called ‘Carol Llygoden yn y Felin’—the mouse in the mill.”
    “It’s a merry song,” Elizabeth said. “Will you teach it to me?”
    “Oh, I don’t know, my lady,” the woman faltered. “I have my work to do.”
    “You must obey me,” said Elizabeth imperiously. “I am the King’s daughter.”
    “Yes, my lady, of course, my lady,” mumbled the other. “I’m sure it’s all right.”
    “Of course it is!” said Elizabeth. “It’s Blanche, isn’t it?”
    “Blanche Parry, if you please, my lady.”
    “Let us sit here.” Elizabeth drew Blanche to a window seat, and, hesitantly at first, then with mounting confidence, Blanche taught