Lord and Lady Hertford could scarcely wait to take over control. They had the young King in their keeping and they were the rulers now.

There was the little King himself, frightened by the homage which was now done to him. Men now knelt in his presence and called him Majesty, but he was wise enough to know that he was their captive as he had never been before.

And Mary? One life was now between her and the throne. The King was sickly; and so was she; but she prayed that God would take her brother before her so that she might have the glory of leading the English back to Rome.

There were two other important actors in England’s drama at this time—two of the most ambitious people in the kingdom—a Princess of thirteen and a man in his thirties.

Why not? the Lord High Admiral asked himself. I verily believe the King would have given me his daughter, had he lived. But he is dead and Kate is free, and the Council will put obstacles between myself and the Princess.

The Admiral had need of caution, and he was the most reckless man in the kingdom.

And the Princess Elizabeth? She was impatient of her youth, impatient of her inexperience. She longed for the Admiral. She had her mother’s love of gaiety and admiration and she yearned for the man who titillated her senses and roused within her that which was delightful and wholly dangerous. And yet… she must remember. There were two lives between herself and the throne. She was sure that her brother would never have an heir. And Mary with her ills and complaints—how long would she last? And then…! The glory of it was dazzling. She wanted it so eagerly, so urgently. But she also wanted Seymour. She wanted the man and the throne. Yet something told her she could not have them both.

Here was a problem for a girl not yet fourteen years of age to solve. What could she do? She could wait; she could watch; she could remember always to act with caution, the greatest caution she could muster. Those who were very near the throne were in great danger until they reached it. And even then… But not a Tudor. No, once a Tudor was on the throne, he—or she—would know how to stay there.

Such were the dreams of those who had lived near the King, as the funeral procession went its solemn way.

The body was brought to rest for a while in the chapel at Sion House; and while it was there the chest burst open and the King’s blood was spilt on the chapel floor.

Horror ran through the land when this became known. The terrible tortures, which had been inflicted on many during this King’s lifetime, were remembered; and the names of thousands who had died at his orders were recalled.

What has this King to answer for? it was whispered.

And the people shuddered.

A certain William Greville declared that a dog had appeared and licked the King’s blood; and although great efforts had been made to drive the dog away, none had been able to do so.

It was a ghost, said the superstitious—the ghost of one whom he had murdered.

It was then recalled that his fifth wife, Catharine Howard, had rested at Sion House on her way to the Tower, and this was the anniversary of that day when she had laid her head on the block and departed this life.

Had not Friar Peyto, greatly daring, preached against the King when he had put Queen Katharine of Aragon away from him and married Anne Boleyn? Had not the bold man compared Henry with Ahab, and prophesied that the dogs would, in like manner, lick his blood?

In the church of Windsor, Gardiner stood at the head of the vault, surrounded by the chief officers of the King’s household while the corpse was lowered by means of a vice and sixteen of the strongest Yeomen of the Guard. Out of favor with the late King and looking fearfully toward a new reign by a King indoctrinated with the new learning, he turned his eyes to the Princess Mary and prayed God that it might not be long ere she took her place on the throne.

The Lord Chamberlain, the Lord Treasurer and all the company which stood about the grave held their rods and staves in their hands, and when the mold was cast down, each in turn broke his staff upon his head and cast it on to the coffin. De Profundis was then said and when the planks were laid over the pit, Garter, standing among the choir, proclaimed the little King’s titles.

“Edward the Sixth, by Grace of God King of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith and Sovereign of the most noble order of the Garter,” repeated Garter’s officers; and three times they said this while the trumpets rang out.

A new reign had begun. A mighty ruler was laid to rest, and in his place stood a pale-faced boy.

It seemed to many who watched that ceremony that among them were the ghosts of murdered men and women.

CHAPTER