Elizabeth nodded. “A member of the dead person’s family must pay for disturbing a grave … pay with a life.”
Henry laughed. “My dear sister, what has come over you? It is a wedding we’re going to have in our family. Not a funeral.”
It was easy to make her laugh. She was about to become a bride; she believed that she was going to fall in love with her bridegroom and that she would not after all have to say an immediate farewell to her beloved brother.
Others were noticing a change in the Prince of Wales. He looked more ethereal than ever, and his face had lost a certain amount of flesh so that his Grecian profile looked more clearly defined. But there was a fresh color in his cheeks which gave an impression of health although he was beginning to cough so frequently that it was difficult to disguise this. He tried, it was true; and it was some time before anyone discovered that his kerchiefs were flecked with blood.
He did wonder why he could not shake off his cough. He tried to harden himself; he played tennis regularly and swam in the Thames after supper, which seemed invigorating; but at night he would sweat a great deal—and the cough persisted.
He was anxious that his sister Elizabeth and his mother should not know of this change in his condition, and he was particularly bright in their company; but often there would come into his mind Elizabeth’s fear when they had talked of the removal of Mary Queen of Scots from Peterborough to Westminster.
A life of a member of the family was the price that must be paid for tampering with the dead. It was quite ridiculous.
Everything seemed more colorful to Henry that summer. The sun seemed to shine more brightly; the flowers in the gardens were more brilliant; he often thought of Frances Howard whom he had loved and who had deceived him; and their relationship now seemed a wonderful experience. He wished that Frances would come back to Court. He was sorry for her, a prisoner in Chartley, for he knew that she had deeply resented being carried there by her husband. But perhaps she was in love with him by now. She was a fickle creature. It was well that she was in the country. If she were back he might be tempted to sin once more. He did not want that. He wanted to live these days with a zest and verve that was new to him. He wanted to enjoy each minute; not one of them should be wasted. He had that feeling.
He did not visit Sir Walter as often as he used to. Sometimes he would sail down the river and look toward the Bloody Tower. He did not want those keen sailor’s eyes to discover something which he would rather keep secret.
He did not wish to cast a backward look at what was rapidly overtaking him. He knew that one day it would be level with him; it would stretch out its cold arms and embrace him. There was no eluding that embrace. When it came he would be ready.
The Queen was unaware of her son’s condition because he made such an effort to conceal it that he had succeeded.
When she said, “And how is my beloved son this day?” he always answered: “In excellent health, as I trust to find my dear mother.”
She saw him flushed from riding and mistook the flush for health. He was a little thin, and she scolded him for this. He must eat more. It was a command from his mother.
He would sit and talk to her, tell her how he had scored in the tiltyard; and she would listen delightedly. He made a great effort to restrain his cough in her presence and often succeeded.
When he could not she would say: “I should have thought that friend of yours, Walter Raleigh, would have given you some draught to cure that cough. He is supposed to be so clever.”
“I must ask him when I see him next.”
“Do so. I like not to hear it.”
If Anne had not been so concerned with the coming wedding she might have been more aware of Henry’s state. The match with the Elector Palatine, who was known as the Palsgrave in England, did not please her, for she thought the man not good enough for her daughter.
“I’d set my heart on her being Queen of Spain,” she grumbled. “Who is this Palsgrave?”
“I think it is an excellent match, dear Mother,” Henry told her. “It delights me.”
She smiled at him indulgently, and for his sake tried to hide her disappointment; but she could not manage this completely. When Elizabeth came to them she said: “So Goody Palsgrave comes calling on a Prince and Queen.”
“She looks very happy,” commented the Prince.
“Mayhap she has forgotten she was once a Princess. Come along, Goody; you must make a deeper curtsy now.”
But Elizabeth threw her arms about her mother and said: “Forgive me, dearest mother, but I think that good wife Mistress Palsgrave is going to be very happy.”
Queen Anne snorted; but Henry was laughing. And it made her very happy to have these beloved children with her.
It was October when Frederick V, the Elector Palatine, arrived in England. The streets of the capital were decorated to welcome him, and the people turned out in their hundreds to greet him.
He was immediately popular, being good-looking and eager to please; and Protestants throughout the country welcomed the union.
When Elizabeth met him she found him all that she had hoped he would be; and there was no doubt that he was as enchanted with her.
For once two people who had been elected to marry for political reasons had fallen in love on sight. It was a very happy state of affairs.
Even the Queen could not help being pleased, although she continued to mourn the loss of the Spanish crown.
Henry had been feeling steadily more ill, and was finding it increasingly difficult to hide this. But during the celebrations he determined to conceal his condition and he plunged into the celebrations with great zeal.
Elizabeth was in love and happy. He wanted her wedding to be something she would remember with pleasure for as long as she lived.
At the tennis tournament he was one of the champions, and everyone marveled at his skill. Being October the weather was cold, but he played in a silk shirt so as not to be hampered by too many clothes.
When the game was over he was very hot, but almost immediately began to shiver.
The next morning a fever had overtaken him and he was unable to rise from his bed.
The Prince was ill; the news spread through the City. His illness has culminated in a virulent fever which, his doctors were sure, was highly infectious.
The Prince being aware of this implored his doctors not to let his mother, father, his sister, Elizabeth, or his brother, Charles, come near him.
He lay on his bed, not being quite sure where he was.
There were times when he believed he was dancing with Frances Howard, and others when he was sailing the high seas with Sir Walter.
The Queen walked up and down her apartment clasping and unclasping her hands while the tears streamed down her cheeks.
“This is not possible,” she cried. “My Henry! He was always such a bonny boy. This cannot be true. He will recover.”
Nobody answered her. No one believed the Prince could recover, but no one dared tell her this.
“When he was a baby,” she said, “he was taken away from me. I, his mother, was not allowed to nurse my own son. It was the same with them all. And now … this!”
But for all her grief she made no attempt to go to him. It would upset him, she assured herself; and she was terrified of contagion. Yet within her a battle was raging. She wanted so much to go to him; it was meet and fitting that his mother should be at his bedside. But if she should catch this fever … if it should run through the Palace … She must not be foolish; she must stay away from her beloved son. This was yet another sorrow to be borne.