Beware, Princess Elizabeth
A matter of life and death – and the Throne of EnglandCompanion volume to Mary, Bloody Mary. Set in the 16th Century, this tells of the danger and conflict Elizabeth Tudor faced after the death of her father, Henry VIII. Once again told from a young girl's point of view, we follow Elizabeth's teenage years through the turbulent reigns of her young brother Edward, and then her half-sister Mary who becomes her mortal enemy.
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Beware, Princess Elizabeth
Carolyn Meyer
Beware, Princess Elizabeth is a work of fiction based on historical figures and events. Some details have been altered to enhance the story.
HarperCollins Children’s Books
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsChildren’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
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE The Death of My Father
CHAPTER THREE The Lord Admiral
CHAPTER FOUR Suspicion of Treason
CHAPTER FIVE King Edward’s Court
CHAPTER NINE The Queen in Love
CHAPTER TEN Rebellion and Treachery
CHAPTER TWELVE Elizabeth, Prisoner
CHAPTER FIFTEEN King Philip’s Departure
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN King Philip’s Return
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.”
