Boy King Read online

  For Michael and Harry

  Contents

  Part One: 1548

  1 The King is Dead

  2 Long Live the King

  3 Tightrope

  4 Whipping Boy

  5 The Admiral Wants A Wife

  6 Pocket Money

  7 Trouble

  8 The Queen and the Princess

  9 A Dead Dog

  10 Traitors

  11 Night Flight

  12 John Dudley

  13 King at Last

  Part Two: 1553

  14 Royal Progress

  15 Succession

  16 The King’s Device

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements and Further Reading

  Glossary

  Part One: 1548

  1 The King is Dead

  ‘It must be bad news, Edward,’ my sister said. ‘Why else would they have brought you all this way?’

  We were talking in whispers while waiting for my uncle to join us.

  ‘When did you last see the King?’ I asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Weeks ago.’

  ‘Me too,’ I admitted. I wasn’t allowed to visit the King because London was so disease-ridden. Half the children there die before they’re sixteen. I was the King’s only male child, the heir to the throne. My life must never be put at risk.

  ‘He looked awful last time he came to Hampton Court,’ I said.

  ‘The end must be close,’ Elizabeth replied, squeezing my hand. ‘That’s why you’ve been getting all those extra lessons.’

  When I last saw him, my father could hardly get on a horse, he weighed so much. He’d had a bad leg for two years and his sight was going. He bought pairs of glasses ten at a time and left them all over every one of his palaces. Some days, I’d heard, he didn’t even get dressed. He had to be carried around in a fancy chair on wooden poles. They called it The King’s Machine.

  ‘If he’s dead…’ Elizabeth began to speak, but I interrupted.

  ‘He’s not dead. He might be dying but he won’t be dead for ages.’

  ‘If he’s dead, you don’t have to do what anybody says. You’ll be the king.’

  We were standing in the Presence Chamber, which was cold and draughty, but that wasn’t why I shivered.

  ‘I’ll do whatever the King tells me to do,’ I told my sister.

  ‘You’ll be the king,’ Elizabeth repeated, as if I hadn’t got the point. ‘You won’t have to do what anybody else tells you to.’

  Then Uncle Edward joined us. He knelt before me and I knew what was coming next. I was nine years old. Elizabeth was just thirteen.

  Afterwards, Elizabeth and I hugged each other and we both cried, but only for a while. The news was not expected, but hardly a surprise. A new feeling came over me. It wasn’t grief, but something bigger, something I had not felt before.

  Uncle Edward knelt and pledged his loyalty to me as his king. Then – slowly, clearly, because it was so important – he explained who was next in line to the throne. Our older sister Mary (daughter of my father’s first wife) would become queen should I die without an heir. After her, Elizabeth. My sisters shouldn’t get their hopes up, I thought. Women only rule if there is no male directly in line to the throne. There hasn’t been a queen without a king since Boudicca in the first century.

  Next morning, Uncle Edward and I set off on horseback for London. Once we were under way, he explained that my father’s death had not yet been announced.

  ‘There are those who oppose you coming to the throne,’ he said. ‘We won’t give them the chance to do anything about it…’

  He was talking about the Catholics. Despite setting up the Church of England, my father stayed a kind of Catholic – it was the faith of his childhood, after all. Most people in England still wanted to be Catholics. The reformers – or Protestants – were mainly to be found in London, especially at court. My stepmother, Queen Catherine, was a Protestant. So were both of my uncles. Me, too. But the Catholics were almost as strong.

  The ride took four hours and there was no trouble on the way. When we got to Whitehall, trumpets sounded.

  ‘Are they for me?’ I asked Uncle Edward.

  ‘No, for your father. It’s dinner time.’

  The trumpets sounded three times a day, announcing meals being taken to the King. My father had not been moved since his death. As far as people knew, Henry VIII was alive and well and waiting for his dinner.

  ‘I want to see him,’ I begged.

  ‘No. You must go straight to the Tower. It’s the tradition.’

  I started to feel the chill of the cold January day. For there was another tradition at the Tower of London. It was where Elizabeth’s mother, Ann Boleyn, was beheaded. Her, and a thousand others.

  As we rode on, Uncle Edward explained how things would work from now on. My father had appointed a Council to rule the country until I came of age. I knew this already. Uncle Edward and my other uncle, Thomas Seymour, were both on it. So was John Dudley, the great general. The Council felt that there should be one ‘special man’ in charge, a Lord Protector.

  ‘And who will that be?’ I asked, for I hadn’t expected this.

  Uncle Edward, with his fair hair, long beard and friendly, wise smile, used his most humble voice. ‘Who would you suggest?’

  There was only one answer I could give. Uncle Edward should become the Lord Protector of England, Wales and Ireland.

  ‘Whatever they call me,’ my uncle insisted, ‘you are absolute king. You are as powerful at nine as you will be at nineteen or ninety. I am your servant.’

  There have been many other young kings. I have good reason to know my history. But none was as powerful as I became that afternoon. The thought terrified me.

  2 Long Live the King

  I smelt them before I heard them. There was a dense, earthy smell which I’d been protected from all my life. It was the stench of people squashed together, all of their essences and odours mingling with the smoky air. Then, as we got nearer to the Tower, the low roar of the crowd started to reach my ears. Shouted conversations and laughter rang out above the persistent rumble, the echoing, ominous sound of expectation.

  I saw them at the same time as they saw me. More people than I had ever seen in my life before. The streets were full. Every window and doorway was crammed with watchers. A mighty roar went up as my uncle and I – in all our finery – rode into view. Despite the crush, people made way for us. Uncle Edward turned and said something to me, but I couldn’t make out his words above the endless shouts of affection, of celebration. The news of my father’s death had only just got out. The city was supposed to be in mourning. They should have been wailing, ‘The King is dead!’ Instead they were calling out, ‘Long live the King!’

  As soon as we arrived inside the Tower, Archbishop Cranmer and the lords of the Council knelt before me.

  ‘I was with the King when he died,’ the Archbishop told me. ‘He was at peace.’

  Awkwardly, I motioned the lords to rise. They led me into the Presence Chamber of the Tower. It had been newly hung with cloth made of gold. The lords made short speeches, each pledging loyalty to me. I tried hard to listen, to be as regal as it’s possible for a nine-year-old boy to be, but I was tired and my clothes were dusty from the journey. I was glad to escape to my rooms to change. Outside, cannons blasted away, even though I had yet to be officially proclaimed king. It was three o’clock in the morning before I sat down with the Council. I had hardly slept for two days, yet I was so excited that I was beyond tiredness. Archbishop Cranmer got down to business straight away. He told me that with sixteen members on the Council they felt the need for one man to be their leader.

  ‘Are you willing for your uncle Edward Seymour to be proclaimed Lord Protector of the realm and gover
nor of your person during your minority?’

  I hadn’t discussed that last bit with Uncle Edward, but I told the Archbishop that I was willing anyway. Each Council member then kissed my hand, Uncle Edward going first.

  They all said, ‘God save Your Grace!’

  When it was Uncle Thomas’s turn, he winked at me. After they were all done, Uncle Edward stepped forward and spoke to the Council.

  ‘With your help,’ he said, ‘I will do my duty.’

  The lords of the Council swore allegiance. First to Uncle Edward, the new Lord Protector. Then to me.

  Stories are told about my father’s funeral: how it took sixteen yeomen of the guard to lift his heavy coffin, how his grave clothes burst open, dripping blood. Don’t ask me if they’re true. I wasn’t there. I was busy in the Tower, preparing for my coronation. My tutor, John Cheke, helped me reply to letters of condolence.

  Next day I dressed in a purple velvet robe and a mourning-stole and invested Uncle Thomas as Lord Admiral of the Navy. Then I officially made Uncle Edward (already Lord Protector) the Duke of Somerset. My poor dead mother, Jane Seymour, would have been very proud of her brothers.

  Uncle Thomas looked quite like Uncle Edward, with a big beard and a strong face, but he was more handsome. He came to see me often, those days in the Tower – much more often than my other uncle. Uncle Thomas liked to talk of his big plans for the future. Running the navy was just a start for him. Uncle Edward had given his younger brother a lot of land, but that wasn’t enough for Thomas. He was going to take more, make more.

  ‘Think of it, nephew,’ he said. ‘Our family, the Seymours, running the land. Why, ten or eleven years ago, nobody could have dreamt it.’

  I loved hearing about Thomas’s hopes and plans. He was such an impressive man, tall enough to stand out in any crowd. Uncle Edward was wise and kind, but Uncle Thomas, with his charm and his wonderful voice, was much more exciting to be with.

  Yet, while I was a Seymour like my uncles, I was also a Tudor, son of the greatest king my country has ever known. Every night I prayed for the strength to become half as good a monarch as my father. Then I begged God not to let me make a fool of myself at the coronation.

  3 Tightrope

  On the day before my coronation, I set out from the Tower to make a ceremonial entry into London. I was dressed in a gown of silver and gold with a belt of rubies, diamonds and pearls, topped by a white velvet cap. When I mounted my horse, under a canopy outside the Tower, six noblemen accompanied me. But because I was small, the crowd couldn’t see me, so I rode a few feet ahead of them. Uncle Edward rode to my left, only a little behind.

  Behind us were all the people who mattered: courtiers, clergy, ambassadors and the like. They were followed by thousands of men at arms. Streets were roped off. Every building we passed was hung with rich tapestries and golden cloth.

  At Fenchurch Street, we paused to listen to a recital of sacred music. Revellers greeted us, their faces red from drinking claret. Children my age performed small plays for the crowds. I tried to watch but their words were drowned out by cries of ‘God Save the King!’

  It took us more than three hours to reach the Cross in Cheapside. All day, I’d been afraid of showing myself, but by now I was starting to relax. The Mayor of the City knelt before me. He presented me with a purse, so large and so heavy that I could scarcely lift it. In panic I turned to Uncle Edward.

  ‘Why do they give me this?’ I asked.

  ‘It is the custom of the City,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t raise my cap to the crowd if I carry it,’ I whispered.

  This flustered my uncle. I looked into the bag, which was full of gold coins (a thousand crowns, I learned later – an incredible sum). Uncle Edward motioned me to pass the bag to the Captain of the Guard. The Mayor looked offended, but what else could I do? The bag was too heavy for me to hold.

  When we got to St. George’s Church, I saw something quite fantastic. A tightrope had been tied to the steeple of the church. It ran to the the Dean’s house, where it was fastened to the gate with a heavy anchor. As I approached, a Spanish-looking man appeared at the top of the church battlements. We watched in amazement as he ran on the rope from the steeple to the churchyard, where he kissed my foot.

  As I gasped, the magical man returned to the tightrope and began to display his amazing abilities – first on one foot then another, balancing on the rope, high in the air. At times he seemed to throw himself off, but never fell. I had never seen anything like it before. Despite Uncle Edward’s impatience (we were running very late), I asked the tightrope walker to perform again and again.

  The state barge took me up the river to the Palace of Whitehall. While the revels continued, I went to bed – the same bed my father died in. But I was very tired, so it did not bother me. Tomorrow I was to be crowned king.

  They woke me at four the next morning. Usually, a coronation would last eleven or twelve hours. Mine, on account of my age, was to be only seven.

  A procession formed as we walked up the aisle of Westminster Abbey. Uncle Edward held the crown. Behind him were my school-fellows, each carrying a small part of my regalia. I was glad to see them, but I had no chance to talk to them. As they sat, Archbishop Cranmer made a short speech. I tried to remember everything I had yet to do. Then Uncle Edward led me to the high altar, where the Archbishop was kneeling. Hesitantly, in all my fine clothes, I lay face down on the stairs. The Archbishop prayed aloud. Behind him the choir sang and the organ played Veni Creator Spiritus. When it was over, I was taken into a side chapel, where I put on a crimson coat and a cap of gold cloth. Then I was crowned.

  ‘Most dread and royal Sovereign…’ Archbishop Cranmer spoke to me alone, but his voice was so loud that the whole Abbey could hear. He repeated my promise to renounce the devil and all his works. He spoke of my father’s break with the Roman Catholic Pope. He reminded me that the church was responsible to me, not the other way round. My father had had to swear loyalty to the Pope. I did not. As King of England, I – not the Pope – was God’s representative on Earth. When Archbishop Cranmer spoke of the living god, I wasn’t sure if he meant Almighty God in heaven, or me, a little boy on a throne that was too big for him.

  ‘You are to reward virtue, to revenge sin, to justify the innocent, to relieve the poor, to procure peace, to repress violence, and to execute justice throughout your realms…’ Though I was not yet ten years old, the Archbishop crowned me Supreme Head of the Church.

  At the banquet, I sat between Uncle Edward and Archbishop Cranmer. After the second course, the king’s champion, Sir Robert Dymoke, entered the hall on a horse decked in gold. He rode up to the table, saluted me, then turned to the diners. ‘I challenge anyone here present to deny that Edward the Sixth is the rightful heir to throne of England, Ireland and Wales!’ With that, he threw down his heavy gauntlet. Nobody picked it up.

  That night, no allowances were made for my age, nor did I expect there to be. By the time I left the table, I was exhausted. Still wearing my heavy crown and robes, I had to receive the Ministers of State and foreign ambassadors. The ambassadors were disappointed in me – I was too tired by then to hold a proper conversation in any language.

  The rest of the week was taken up by masques and tournaments. Uncle Thomas, the new Lord Admiral, won many jousts. I made sure he saw me clapping loudly. But Uncle Edward, sitting beside me, did not applaud his brother once.

  4 Whipping Boy

  All my life I have been used to special treatment, but that was nothing compared with the treatment I received as soon as I became king. At night, for instance, it took ten people to escort me to bed. In near silence. Can you imagine a more boring end to the day? When I wanted my spaniel, Jester, to sleep with me, nobody liked it. But they didn’t dare refuse the King, so Jester slept in a basket by the door. At six in the morning, the ritual began all over again, in reverse, with the addition of three chaplains to say prayers with me.

  Uncle Thomas visited often. I sa
w him much more than I saw Uncle Edward. One night he ate with me. It was a simple meal: cold duck, stewed sparrow, larded pheasants, gull and some salad made up the starter. Then we had stork, heron, venison and baked chicken with fritters for the main course. As we ate our dessert of jelly, blancmange and quince pie, I complained of boredom. Uncle Thomas suggested that he find me a friendly servant to make my evenings more entertaining. ‘I know just the man,’ he said. ‘Fowler. Leave it with me.’

  The person I trusted most was my tutor. John Cheke, a great scholar. We studied history, geometry and Latin. Most of my reading in English was taken up with the Bible. I worked hard, but when I became bored, John would read poetry, and then we’d talk about it. He was the only one (apart from my uncles) allowed to treat me as an equal. I could be easy with him as I could no longer be with my sisters. Now Elizabeth and Mary were always kneeling and bowing, and sat a long way from me at the dinner table – never really talking with me. Soon Mary moved to her own house.

  I had friends, of sorts. They were all older than me. The Council didn’t want their boy king playing dangerous sports, but nobody stopped me from running, hunting, shooting at the mark, wrestling, or playing tennis. I was the smallest, though, so I often lost.

  One day, I was playing throw and catch with some friends in the library. I missed the ball and it landed on a shelf just out of my reach. Barnaby Fitzpatrick threw down a large book for me to stand on. It was my father’s Great Bible. When I refused to stand on it, they all teased me.

  ‘Christ’s Passion!’ said Barnaby. ‘It’s only a book.’

  ‘Don’t swear at me,’ I told him.

  ‘Kings always swear,’ Barnaby said. ‘Your father was famous for it.’

  ‘Then, by God’s Blood, you can get the ball for me!’ I swore at him.

  They all laughed loudly, not used to hearing me utter an oath. Barnaby reached for the ball. Somebody else put away the Bible.

  After that, I swore quite often. It amused me to say God’s Blood! or Christ’s Passion! or worse, whenever I felt like it. My new Gentleman Usher, Fowler, laughed quietly when I cursed.