Prisoner of the Queen (Tales From the Tudor Court) by Eliza Knight, E. Knight Page B

companion disappeared somewhere.
    Something crunched beneath my ribs. I reached to grab the package delivered just this night. In my hands was Jane ’s parting gift to me.
    I stro ked a hand over the solid front, finding strength in the bold lines of her script.
    I could not open it.
    How could I? To open it would have been accepting her fate, and I was not sure I could. I was nearly choking on my heartache.
    I curled up in my bed, pillows fluffed behind me, and slowly unwound the twine. The paper fell open , and Jane’s favorite tan leather-bound Greek Testament fell into my hands. A breeze came through my bed, ruffling the counterpane and bed curtains. I looked up sharply, expecting to see the ghost of my sister standing at the foot of my bed, but there was nothing there. Not even the shadows formed by the light of my candle danced. It was as if everything in this room waited on bated breath for me to open Jane’s Testament. To see if she wrote something for me inside its glorious pages.
    There in Jane ’s perfectly neat calligraphy was a letter on the blank pages.
     
    I have sent you, good sister Katherine, a book, which though it be not outwardly trimmed with gold, yet inwardly it is more worthy than precious stones.
    Trust not that the tenderness of your age shall lengthen your life, for as soon as God will, goeth the you ng as the old.
    My good sister, let me entreat you once again, to learn to die. Deny the world, defy the devil and despise the flesh. Delight only in the Lord. Be penitent for your sins, but despair not. Be like the good servant and even in midnight be waking, lest when death cometh he steal upon you like a thief in the night and you be with the evil servant, found sleeping and, lest for lack of oil, ye be found like the first foolish wench and like him that had not the wedding garment, ye be out from the marriage.
     
    A smile crept over my lips. Jane’s reference to the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins was not just a reference to morals and corruption, but a tender moment in our childhood. A moment before she’d been whisked away to court, and any semblance of a carefree child could no longer be seen—the once-joyous smile and singing child was a stoic future queen.
    We ’d sat one night upon the floor in front of the hearth, and Grandfather Charles Brandon, the great Duke of Suffolk and favored friend of the king, had come to visit. The snow had fallen hard and deep, covering the ground up to one’s knees, and so our guests had been bade to stay. His Grace had called all the children—me, my sisters and our two cousins Henry and Charles—to the hearth, where he’d begun to spin a tale.
    We ’d laughed at his interpretation, as it had been a story told to us before by the priest one morning during the sermon, but his telling of it had been so fierce, and His Grace had made the tale more fun. He’d even knelt on his knees in a moment of drama and begged the fabled wise virgins for oil, then nimbly jumped to shout his reply of “Nay!”
    I laughed , and for a moment the bitterness of life’s circumstances were gone and I relished what time Jane and I had had. In my mind, I embraced her and sent a prayer up to God that he would embrace her, too.
     
    As touching my death, rejoice as I do and believe that I shall be delivered from corruption and put-on incorruption, for as I am assured that I shall for losing of a mortal life find an immortal felicity. Pray God grant that you live in His fear and die—
     
    I could not make out the next few words, as the ink was smudged, and when I ran my finger over the distorted letters, I thought for a moment I might still be able to feel her tears as they fell on the parchment in her book. Tears sprang from my eyes, and as I batted my lashes to make them go away, a tear of my own mixed with Jane’s smudged letters all the more. And then I had to set the letter aside as fear and anguish overtook me, for I would never be able to ask Jane what