The Sixth Wife: The Story of Katherine Parr by Jean Plaidy Read Free Book Online

that she knew in what manner Queen Catharine had died.
    None of the children ever mentioned the way in which the Queen had died. The beheading of Queens was a sore subject with Elizabeth. If any lightly mentioned her own mother, her face would grow dark with anger. Edward knew that it was because Mistress Ashley had married a kinsman of Queen Anne Boleyn that Elizabeth kept the woman with her, loved her dearly, and would suffer none other to command and scold her as Mistress Ashley did.
    “Who…is the new one?” asked Edward.
    “Can you not guess?” demanded Elizabeth. “You know her. She has paid you many a visit. You will love her as much as you loved Queen Catharine Howard.”
    “Please tell me quickly who it is,” said the small boy imperiously, for he could be imperious when kept in suspense.
    “Lady Latimer.”
    “Oh!” The two younger children exchanged smiles. They knew her well. She was a delightful lady. A short while ago when Edward had been recovering from a sickness, and there had been one of those dreaded scenes at his bedside, with the King cajoling and threatening all those in attendance, Lady Latimer had come to see him. He had thought her sweet and gentle, as a mother ought to be.
    “You are not then displeased by this news?” said Elizabeth.
    “Nay. It delights me. She will be Queen Katharine and our stepmother.”
    “I too am pleased,” said the Princess. “I love her well.”
    Mistress Ashley came into the apartment to tell them that the Lady Mary was on her way and would be with them in a few moments.
    “She has heard the news, I’ll warrant,” said Elizabeth. “It will please her also.”
    “She will be always at court,” said Edward, “when she is our stepmother.”
    Elizabeth looked momentarily serious. She was old enough to remember a good deal more than Jane and Edward could. She remembered a dark-eyed, very beautiful woman who laughed and cried, who embraced her warmly and called her “Daughter,” and who loved her more than anyone in the world had ever loved her. Then quite suddenly Elizabeth had understood that she no longer had a mother; but it was not until some years after her loss that she knew the reason.
    Cruel things had been said about her mother; and what was said about her mother must reflect on Elizabeth. Some had said she was not the King’s daughter at all, but the daughter of a man named Norris, who was supposed to have been the Queen’s lover and had died with her. Some said a thing even more horrible: that she was the daughter of Anne Boleyn’s own brother, Lord Rochford. But the King did not believe this. Indeed, how could he? He had but to look at her to know that she was his own daughter. And although there were times when he seemed to care not whether she had a rag to her back or a crust to eat—while if aught befell the precious body of young Edward all the great doctors of the realm must congregate at his bedside—still Elizabeth felt that the King had as warm a feeling for her as for any of his children.
    The Lady Mary came into the room and Elizabeth at once went to her, knelt and kissed her hand.
    How sick she looks! thought Elizabeth. She is old—old. The idea of being twenty-six—nearer twenty-seven—and without a husband!
    So many great men had been promised to Mary and yet not one of them had married her. No wonder she was sick and sad and bore resentment against the world.
    How healthy she is! thought Mary. How full of vitality! She cares nothing that they call her “bastard.” If I had been the daughter of Anne Boleyn, I would have died of shame ere this.
    Mary paid homage to the little boy. She never forgot the relative positions of them all. Edward was the prospective King and the most important member of the family. She and her sister had both been called bastards; they had both been made much of by the King and both scorned by him when he had decided to discard their mothers.
    Mary would have envied Elizabeth if she had not