The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir Page B

loved each other. That was before the Great Matter had blighted his life. Now Kate had been dead these four years, Anne too, God damn her, then Jane…and he was a fat, aging man who was contemplating marrying a fourth wife to provide more heirs for his kingdom, and hoping to find love just one more time before eternity claimed him.
    “We are two of a kind, Bessy,” he said ruefully. “We do our duty against our greater desires.” Elizabeth thrilled to hear him say that.
    “I try to be like you, sir,” she said eagerly.
    Henry considered her, this fiery little flame-haired child, who had been born of his desperate lust for her mother, and conceived before their marriage.
    “You are like me,” he said. Indeed, she was so like him there could be no disputing that she was his daughter, although there were those who had cast doubts on that, in view of what had been proved against Anne later. But Elizabeth had much of him in her—and much of her mother too, he conceded, or rather, the best of her mother: It was becoming more apparent every time he saw her. She had Anne’s wit, her sense of humor, her strength of character, her inviting eyes…How they had bewitched him! Had she really betrayed him with all those men? He had to believe it. Yet doubts tortured him still. Would he never be free of Anne Boleyn?
    But Anne was no more. It was her daughter who stood before him, a daughter whom he had deprived of a mother. With justification, of course; he had been right to act as he had, entirely right. And now that lack would be rectified.
    “Will you be pleased to welcome your stepmother?” he asked.
    “Oh, yes, sir. I hear she is very beautiful.”
    “That is so, they tell me. Master Cromwell says she excels both the sun and the moon. And Master Holbein has painted her likeness for me.” He took from his bosom a tiny circular box of white ivory, carved like a rose just coming into bloom, and lifted the lid to show the child what lay therein. It was the picture of a lady with delicately lidded eyes, a faint blush on her creamy cheeks, and the hint of a smile on her red lips.
    “She is beautiful!” Elizabeth cried, thinking how gentle and kind the Princess looked.
    Henry gazed at the miniature.
    “Anna,” he breathed. “Anna of Cleves. God speed her coming!”
     
    The next day, the Lady Mary took Elizabeth to see their brother, Prince Edward, a solemn two-year-old whom they found seated on the floor of his opulent nursery, surrounded by building blocks, a miniature wooden dagger and shield, a gold rattle, a spinning top, a hobbyhorse, and a pretty white poodle, which, Elizabeth remembered, had once belonged to his mother, Queen Jane. His nurse, Mistress Penn, a homely woman with a white apron over her dove-gray gown, rose as the King’s daughters entered, and bobbed.
    Elizabeth curtsied low before the Prince, who looked up and fixed his ice-blue gaze on her. Beneath his wide-brimmed feathered hat and bonnet, his straight fringe was very fair, his round cheeks rosy, his mouth cherry red, and his chin tapering to a determined point. Mistress Penn lifted him onto her lap.
    “Say welcome to your sisters, my Lady Mary and my Lady Elizabeth,” she instructed.
    “Welcome, Lady Mary, Lady Lisbeth,” lisped the infant. He did not smile.
    “I have a gift for you, Brother,” said Elizabeth, holding out the finely stitched cambric shirt. Edward stretched out a fat hand to take it from her, studied it for a moment, lost interest, and handed it to his nurse.
    “I am sure he will look very fine in it, my lady,” smiled Mistress Penn.
    “May I hold him?” Elizabeth asked, seating herself beside the nurse and making a lap. The nurse lifted the infant carefully, and he settled contentedly into Elizabeth’s arms.
    “My Lord Prince is heavy,” the child said, relishing the warm closeness of the little body snuggled against her. “Aren’t you, Brother?”
    He raised steely blue eyes to her. Their father looked out of