At one of the windows two children—a boy and a girl—stood looking down toward the tiltyard where a group slowly sauntered, led by the King who was leaning on the arm of a tall, golden-haired young man.
The boy was about thirteen although he looked older and the expression on his handsome face was very serious. The girl, who was some two years younger than her brother, slipped her arm through his.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, “do not let it disturb you. If it were not this one, it would be someone else.”
Prince Henry turned to his sister, frowning. “But a King should set an example to his people.”
“The people like our father well enough.”
“Well enough is not good enough.”
“It will be different when you are King, Henry.”
“Do not say that!” retorted her brother sharply. “For how could I be King unless our father died?”
Elizabeth lifted her shoulders. Although but eleven, she already showed signs of great charm; she adored her brother Henry, but she was much happier when he was less serious. There were so many pleasures to be enjoyed at Court, so why concern themselves with the odd behavior of their parents? At least they themselves were indulged and had little to complain of. Their father might be disappointed because they did not show signs of being as learned as he was, but on the whole he was a tolerant parent.
Henry however had a strong sense of the fitness of things; that was why everyone admired and respected him. He was constantly learning how to be a good king when his time came. He was wonderful in the saddle but did not care for hunting, believing it to be wrong to kill for the sake of killing. Many thought this a strange notion, but it was natural that the son of King James should have odd ideas now and then.
If he had not excelled at all games and disliked study he would have been too perfect to be popular, but his small faults endeared him to everyone.
Elizabeth put her head on one side and regarded him with affection.
“What are you thinking of?” he demanded.
“You,” she told him.
“You might find a more worthy subject.”
She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. “Never,” she told him. Then she laughed. “I heard two of your servants grumbling together today. They complained that you had caught them swearing and insisted on their paying a fine into your poor box.”
“And they liked that not?”
“They liked it not. But methinks they liked you for enforcing the rule. Now Henry, tell me this: are you pleased when your servants swear?”
“What a question! It is to prevent their swearing that I fine them.”
“Yes, but the more fines they pay, the more money for the poor. So perhaps the poor would wish your apartment to be filled with profanity.”
“You are becoming as serious-minded as you say I am.”
“Oh no!” Elizabeth laughed. She changed the subject. “Our father does not like you to visit your friend in the Tower.”
“He has not forbidden me to go.”
“No, he would not. Our father is a strange man, Henry. He hopes that you won’t, but he understands that you must; and therefore he does not interfere.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“It is like the fines in the poor box all over again. So much that is good; so much that is not good. It is hard to weigh good against evil. There is much our father does which you do not like; but he is a good father to us.”
“My dear sister,” said Henry with a smile, “I sense you reproach.”
“Why do we concern ourselves with matters beyond us? Are you practicing vaulting now, and shall I come to watch you?”
“I am going to the Tower.”
At that moment the door opened and a woman entered holding a little boy by the hand; the child was about seven and walked with great difficulty.
“My lord, my lady,” she said, “I did not know you were here.”
“Come in, Lady Carey,” invited Henry. “And how is my brother today?”
The woman’s face was illumined by a loving smile.
“Tell your brother, sweeting,” she said. “Tell him how you walked all alone this morning.”
The pale-faced little boy nodded his head and his eyes sought those of his elder brother with adulation.
“I w … walked,” he said, “alone.”
An impediment in his speech made the words sound muffled.
“That is good news, Lady Carey,” Henry told her.
“Good news, of a surety, my lord. And when I think of this little one … not so long ago!”
“You have been good to him,” put in Elizabeth.
“He is my precious boy,” declared Lady Carey. “Are you not, Charles?”
Charles nodded and thickly confirmed this.
Elizabeth came and knelt down by the side of her younger brother. She touched his ankles. “They don’t hurt anymore, do they, Charles?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Lady Carey picked him up in her arms and kissed him. “My boy will be taller and stronger than any of you before long; you see!”
Elizabeth noticed how the little boy gripped Lady Carey’s bodice. Poor little Charles, he was the unfortunate one. But at least he was able to walk now, after a fashion; there had been a time, not very long ago, when they had all thought he would neither walk nor speak; and several of the Court ladies had declined the honor of bringing him up because they feared it was an impossible task.
Lady Carey, however, had taken a look at the poor helpless child and decided to devote herself to his care; it was small wonder that she was proud of what she was doing, even though little Charles was an object of pity to most who beheld him.
Elizabeth took her little brother from Lady Carey and set him on a table.
“Have a care, my lady,” implored Lady Carey; and she was immediately at the side of her little charge to hold his hand and assure him that no harm could come to him.
Henry came to the table. “Why, Charles,” he said, “you’re as big as I am now.”
Charles nodded. He was intelligent enough; it was merely that his legs were so weak, and it was feared that his ankles were dislocated and he would never be able to do anything but stagger about; moreover some deformity of the mouth prevented him from speaking clearly.
Henry, deeply touched by the plight of his young brother, began to talk to him about riding and jousting and all the sports which he would be able to take part in when he grew stronger. Young Charles listened avidly, nodding from time to time while he smiled with delight. He was happy because he was with the people he loved best in the world—his adored foster mother, his wonderful brother, his sweet sister.
Anne, the Queen, chose this time to visit the royal nursery. She came whenever she could, for she loved her children dearly, particularly her first-born who seemed to her all that a Prince should be.
So while Henry and Elizabeth talked to the little boy seated on the table, Anne came in followed by Katrine Skinkell and Anna Kroas.
“My sweet children!” she cried in her guttural voice. “So little Charles is here with his brother and sister.”
Lady Carey made a deep curtsy; Elizabeth did the same while Henry bowed and Charles looked on with earnest eyes.
“Henry, my Prince, how well you look; and you too, daughter. And my little Charles?”
“Making good progress Your Majesty,” Lady Carey told the Queen.
“And can he bow yet to his Mother?” asked the Queen.
Lady Carey lifted the little boy from the table and stood him down where he did his best to make a bow.
Anne signed to Lady Carey to lift him up and bring him to her, when she kissed him.
“My precious baby,” she murmured. “And what a pleasure to have my family at Court all at the same time.” A petulant expression crossed her otherwise placid face. She loved her children and had longed to be able to bring them up herself. She hated the royal custom which ordained that others should have charge of them. She would have been a good mother—even if she had tended to spoil her children—had she been allowed to.
Now here was Charles more devoted to Lady Carey than to her; and Henry—beloved Henry, a son of whom any parent might be proud—while affectionate, depended on her not at all.
She never saw Henry without remembering her joy at the time of his birth, when she had believed herself the most contented woman alive; but what anger and frustration had followed when she had learned that she was not to be allowed to bring up her son. That he should be taken from her and given into the care of the old Earl and Countess of Marr had been more than she could endure. James, always the most affectionate and tolerant of husbands, had commiserated with her, but had insisted that the custom of Scotland was that its kings should be brought up in Stirling Castle under the care of an Earl of Marr, and there was nothing he could do about that.
She had stormed and raged, and perhaps her relationship with James had changed from that moment. She had pointed out that a King should be the one to decide how his son should be brought up and, when his Queen passionately desired to nurture her own son, he should have thrust aside custom.
How she had hated the Marrs! She had never lost an opportunity of showing that hatred; and as there had been many turbulent lairds who were only too pleased to make mischief, James, who could be very clear-sighted, reprimanded her gently.
“I lived through a troublous childhood,” he told her, “and ambitious men used me in their schemes against my mother. I beg you, wife, do not seek to bring discord into this kingdom.”
Anne had been young and heedless, and not prepared to have her wishes set aside. There might easily have been trouble had James been of a different nature; but while he sought to please the Queen by arranging for her to see as much as was possible of her son, he never allowed her to poison his mind against the Marrs.
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