Young Bess by Margaret Irwin

given us a drink,’ grumbled the young ones as they turned away in disappointment: ‘Young Hal gave us a drink,’ mumbled the old ones, remembering that golden youth riding in triumph to the Tower, and added, ‘God rest his soul!’ with more feeling than Bishop Gardiner, whose sonorous voice was saying daily masses for his dead master, while his indignant mind absorbed the discovery that he had been cut out of his Will.
    Seven other bishops assisted him in his thankless office, and Archbishop Cranmer was present though he would not celebrate High Mass, which showed the way the wind blew and that the new Government would now go all out for the new austerity in worship. But until the old King was buried, his masses had to be said, and they went on for a fortnight in Whitehall Chapel, where the King’s body lay in state, and all day the nobles and gentry filed past it, and the ladies of the Court sat up in a separate gallery to pray.
    The King’s widow, the Dowager Queen Catherine, came up to Whitehall from Chelsea, and at first she brought the Princess Elizabeth with her to the Chapel, in her purple mourning, holding her new pomander firmly to her nose. It contained a dried orange stuck with cloves and impregnated with other perfumes; the watch set in the filigree case also served its purpose since she could watch the time without seeming to do so.
    But she quickly discovered that she had a cold, and did not come again before the coffin was moved in the middle of February to its burial at Windsor. She made up for herremissness by a very stilted letter in condolence in beautiful handwriting to her young brother, which tied itself up in such tortuous expressions that she herself could not quite make out what she had meant to say; but they greatly impressed Edward, who wrote back compliments on the elegance of his ‘most dear sister’s’ style. He added that there was evidently ‘very little need of my consoling you’ and ‘I perceive you think of our father’s death with a calm mind,’ which made his most dear sister give a rather lary eye at the paper. Such common paper too! Was Edward Seymour going to be a skinflint guardian?
    Bess liked being at Chelsea better than anywhere else. The house was a pleasant, fair-sized mansion, with no pretensions to a palace, built in the modern fashion of red brick with chimneys and turrets clustering together, and plenty of tall windows so that the rooms were filled with light and one could watch the endless busy movement of the boats sailing up and down the river and hear the cries of the watermen. She felt safe and snug as a kitten being looked after by two motherly cats: her stepmother, Pussy-Cat Purr, and her governess, or rather her lady-nurse, Cat Ashley, whom her royal charge regrettably called Ash-Cat, a nickname which it must be admitted suited Mrs Ashley, a thin sallow woman with a casual strolling air and a roving eye always ready to twinkle with entertainment over any scraps of news she might pick up, and they were many.
    She told her charge, sitting in the window-seat looking out on the river, something of what she had heard at Whitehall of King Henry’s last hours, how he had stared into the shadowy corners of the room and muttered ‘Monks! Monks!’ But noneknew whether in remorse at having turned them out of their monasteries, or because at the eleventh hour he had wished in vain for their ministrations. And at the end, when he had lost consciousness and none had thought to see him move even a finger nor hear him speak ever again, he had started up in bed so that all were amazed at his strength, and cried out in a clear voice, ‘Nan Bullen’ – ‘Nan Bullen’ – ‘Nan Bullen.’
    ‘Yes, three times he called her, and his eyes wide open, staring as if he saw her there, standing before him, and that’s the only time he’s ever said her name since – since—’ and Cat Ashley’s eager voice broke on a sob.
    Mr Ashley was related to the Bullens, and his