Carolyn Meyer - Beware, Princess Elizabeth

Beware, Princess Elizabeth is a work of fiction based on historical figures and events. Some details have been altered to enhance the story.

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2003

First published in the USA by Harcourt Brace & Company 1999

© Carolyn Meyer 1999

Carolyn Meyer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Source ISBN: 9780007150304

Ebook Edition © MAY 2010 ISBN: 9780007389445

Version: 2016-08-11

For Elizabeth Van Doren – inspiration, archeditor, and friend

Cover Page

Title Page Beware, Princess Elizabeth Carolyn Meyer

Copyright

The Tudors

Prologue

CHAPTER ONE The Death of My Father

CHAPTER TWO Edward the King

CHAPTER THREE The Lord Admiral

CHAPTER FOUR Suspicion of Treason

CHAPTER FIVE King Edward’s Court

CHAPTER SIX The Dying King

CHAPTER SEVEN Two Queens

CHAPTER EIGHT Queen Mary

CHAPTER NINE The Queen in Love

CHAPTER TEN Rebellion and Treachery

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Tower

CHAPTER TWELVE Elizabeth, Prisoner

CHAPTER THIRTEEN Lady Bess

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Waiting

CHAPTER FIFTEEN King Philip’s Departure

CHAPTER SIXTEEN Hatfield

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN King Philip’s Return

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The Death of the Queen

Historical Note

By the same author

About the Publisher

The Tudors

Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England 17

November 1558

THERE WAS A TIME, long ago, that I loved my sister. There may have been a time that Mary loved me. But that all changed. It had to, given who we were: the daughters of Henry VIII. Our father at times adored us but often shunned us and occasionally nearly forgot us. We were not the sons he desired.

Worse: I am the daughter of the woman Mary hated most in the world. She never forgave me for who my mother was: Anne Boleyn, who took the place of Mary’s mother as queen.

When I was born Mary was forced to be my servant – not an easy thing for a proud young woman of seventeen. How she must have loathed that! But then, before I reached my third birthday, my mother was dead, her execution ordered by my own father – and Mary’s.

Yet, in spite of all, it seemed for a time that Mary was truly fond of me – before she turned bitter, before she recognised that we were enemies.

My path to the throne has been long and fraught with peril. Now I am ready to follow in the footsteps of my father, England’s greatest king. Mary, who hindered me at every turn, will soon be forgotten. But I promise you, history will remember me, Elizabeth, not for who my father was, or my mother or my sister, but for myself.

“The king is dead.”

Those four words, cold as marble and sharp as flint, were uttered by the thin, cruel lips of Edward Seymour, the king’s privy councillor and my brother’s uncle. In this way I learned of my father’s death. The date was the thirty-first of January, anno Domini 1547.

My father, dead! I knew that he had been ill, yet the news still came as a terrible shock. It seemed impossible that the great King Henry would no longer stride like a giant through the kingdom and through my life. I was not close to him, and I had spent little time with him in the years of my growing up. Nevertheless, he had been an enormous presence in my life. Now, suddenly, my father was gone. I would have neither his protection nor his occasional bursts of affection. I was alone, and – I confess it – I was afraid.

But I had no time to dwell on my own tumultuous feelings. My brother burst into tears at the news and threw himself sobbing into my arms. Named Edward in honour of this uncle, he was nine years old, a beautiful boy, delicate as a wren’s egg. I held him, and my own tears fell upon his thick curls. I was thirteen, poised on the brink of womanhood, but at that moment I felt like a child myself. My brother and I were orphans, and now he was king. I can scarcely imagine his terror.

“When did my father die?” I asked Seymour, struggling to still the tremor in my voice.

“On the morning of the twenty-eighth.”

“Three days past?” I asked sharply. “Why am I told only now?”

“There were decisions to be made,” Seymour replied in a cold voice. “For three days no one but members of the privy council was informed of the king’s death.”

I glared at him. I did not trust Seymour, even then. Decisions concerning what? I wanted to ask boldly, but I did not, for I saw that my questions angered him.

Seymour was the brother of young Edward’s mother, Jane Seymour, who had died soon after giving birth to my brother. Seymour had made himself so much part of our family that he’d carried me in Edward’s christening procession. Now he was the most powerful of the privy councillors. Seymour had his own reasons for keeping the death of the king of England a secret. I guessed that it was to make sure of his own power over the new king.

Instead of demanding an explanation, I asked merely, “Has my sister, Mary, been informed?”

“She has,” he snapped. “Madam, your questions could delay our arrival in London. Kindly summon your servants. We must leave at once.”