Also not strange for young Edward to be with Lord Hertford. Still, there was something sinister in the way the banners closed around the small prince on his horse, surrounding him and cutting him off from the world. Elizabeth scowled down at the party then turned cooly away.
Something was terribly wrong. I sensed it, Aunt Kat sensed it, and the gentlewomen who came to assist me in dressing Elizabeth to receive her brother, sensed it as well.
While a servant lit candles, we slid Elizabeth into a kirtle of deep blue and helped her fasten on her bodice and sleeves. I sewed a small tear in the blue satin sleeve, passing the silk thread through my mouth to make it slick. I turned Elizabeth toward the window so I would have more light, and continued stitching. Blossoming candlelight reflected her in the glass, clear as a mirror.
Elizabeth had a long, rather narrow face, a small nose, which was slightly hooked, and pale lips. Her eyes, intelligent and alert, flicked over the men and horses below as she stroked one long finger along her smooth sleeve.
In the reflection, I saw myself and Aunt Kat standing to either side of her, robust contrasts to Elizabeth’s aristocratic slenderness. Aunt Kat was a large woman in a stiffened bodice that pressed her belly into a narrow line, and a skirt that belled from her ample hips.
I took after Aunt Kat, being a bit plump and not much taller than Lady Elizabeth. While I appeared as though I had a healthy appetite, Elizabeth was always thin.
Elizabeth’s hair held the red of her father’s, while mine was a dull, dark brown. Aunt Kat and I had the same eyes, round and blue, both of us gazing at the world with frank interest.
Aunt Kat had much book learning, and the pair of us shared a curiosity that everyone but we two found unusual. Aunt Kat assuaged hers by reading widely and learning languages, and I assuaged mine by poking into things that did not concern me.
I helped the gentlewomen drape on Elizabeth’s overdress, encasing her in folds of velvet, soft as lamb’s wool. Despite Elizabeth’s preoccupation with her brother and his arrival, she scrutinized every inch of the gown and inspected the tear I had mended.
“My thanks, Eloise,” she said, as though I’d done her a great favor.
I did not follow Elizabeth and her train of ladies for the meeting with Edward, but as soon as they had descended, Aunt Kat caught my hand and pulled me along the gallery that encircled the upper floor of the house. Silent as conspirators, we hurried along to another set of stairs and down to the ground floor, where we approached the great hall through a rear door.
On the hall’s dais, where the high table would sit if needed, stood a tall screen. This provided a place to keep food warm before serving, and now Aunt Kat and I used it for the purpose of spying on those in the hall. We peered through the screen’s slats as Elizabeth and her retinue entered.
I had not seen Prince Edward for many months. I’d always thought him a lackluster boy, even at only nine years old, and I did not change my opinion now. Fair-haired and ruddy-faced, Edward had a short chin and a cruel twist to his mouth.
He was quite robust, liking to ride and hunt, easily keeping up with his father and uncles. He wore riding clothes now, and he eyed Elizabeth’s gown, sleek hair, and pearl-studded hood with some aspersion.
Elizabeth gave her brother a deep curtsy that did not lack affection. Edward politely bowed in return before his gaze moved to his uncle.
Tall and bearded, the Earl of Hertford emanated agitation. Even from behind the screen I saw that he held his mouth straight with effort while his fingers twitched.
Elizabeth waited for Hertford to acknowledge her. She was a king’s daughter, he merely the brother to a deceased queen. Hertford bowed to Elizabeth almost as an afterthought, which I could see displeased her.
Before Elizabeth could speak, Hertford dropped to one knee before Edward.
“Your Grace,” he said to the boy. “The king, your father . . .” He faltered.
I pressed my face to the screen’s bars. Hertford kept his mouth turned down, presenting sorrow, but I sensed that he was acting. His shoulders quivered and his dark eyes sparkled when he forgot to shield them.
Hertford took Edward’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “Your Grace … My Lord of England.”
Edward gasped, his eyes widening.
Elizabeth moved to them, skirts swishing on the stone floor. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “What about our father?” Her sharp voice held none of the hysteria of childhood but only a command for information.
“My lady.” Hertford forced his face once more into grim lines. “Your royal father is dead. I am the first to call His Grace king.”
Two thoughts knocked through my head. First, shock that King Henry, who’d seemed stubborn enough to live forever, had gone. It was unbelievable.
Second, Hertford hadn’t told Edward right away. He’d waited until the boy was with his sister, not that traveling across England’s rough roads made serious conversation easy.
Why had he waited? Not out of kindness, I suspected. Hertford’s expression when he regarded his nephew held no compassion. The earl was a man who liked to control all situations and all information. He’d have wanted the pieces in place to secure his own power before he revealed Henry’s death, even to the king’s own children, one of whom had just inherited the throne.
Hertford hid his obvious glee by bowing low over Edward’s hand. “I swear to protect Your Grace, from this moment, with my life,” he announced in a rolling voice. “I will give you my wisdom as though you were my own son.”
Beside me, Aunt Kat gave a loud, decided sniff.
None in the tableau heard. The three of them were frozen in place: Elizabeth upright, her back straight, her face hard as marble. Edward, small, thin, and vulnerable. Hertford crouched between the two, his back a blank plane to Elizabeth, his face squashed against Edward’s hand.
