The year is young yet, they told him, your majesty is a most charitable sovereign but the people shall provide for themselves. The lands will yield. Your grace must not concern yourself.
Their words were conciliatory, they deferred to him and yet he could see it on their faces, what do you know of your kingdom beyond these walls? They seemed to say. You are a boy and you know naught of governing.
Subtly, imperceptibly, their words held the inflections of their mockery. So far, they had gently rebuffed him and his attempts at asserting power.
Edward was under no illusions. The lords that had benefitted from his minority, holding sway in his stead would not give up their powers without a fight. They had grown fat on his largess. They had given themselves lands, titles and monies. They had ruled in his stead, stealing his powers and calling them their own.
But Edward had his own plans. He saw and understood. More and more he was playing the factions against each other to achieve his ends, to create a balance more suitable to his palate. There was Northumberland and his posse but there was also Arundel and Southampton who clung to the old ways. The men kept to their factions and as Edward was coming to learn, there was a great many things that he could do to manipulate the council to his satisfaction.
I will be king here, he pledged, I mean to be and I shall be.
Often, his thoughts would turn upon his father. What is the measure of a Great King? he would ask, what makes a sovereign worthy of remembrance? They said my father was great. Great King Hal, they call him. What manner of king was he? Did he have to fight his ministers? Or did he simply rule, like a true king?
The ghost of his father haunted him. Edward thought about him constantly and what he could do to be more like him. He thought too about what he could do to surpass him. He wanted to be the greatest king this realm had ever seen. He wanted the people of this kingdom to remember him forever. He wanted to be more warlike than William the Conqueror, greater than Edward I and mightier than Richard the Lion Heart.
I mean to be, he told himself, and I will be.
Gradually, Edward meant to set his plans in motion, starting with his stratagems to seize power and return the rule of England back to the crown.
Slowly but steadily, he cultivated the young men at his court. He was bringing them up to be his men and in time he would replace the old unruly lords with these new men who would call no one but him their master. Bit by bit, he would control the council and he would change everything to suit his liking. He just needed to bide his time. He could not afford to startle the men of his council. He had to exercise every care, act with stealth and behave as if nothing was the matter. Quietly, Edward kept to his studies, enjoying them and living by them, using them as the mask with which to obscure his ambitions. All the while, he kept a watchful eye on his realm, waiting and observing.
He thought he had time. He would wait, patiently, and slowly he would will his changes into being, one step at a time. But that day in council, on the matters regarding the welfare of his people, Edward refused to be gainsaid. On this matter alone, he refused to give ground.
Provisions must be made for my people, he pronounced quietly but with authority and the lords had, to humor him, allowed him victory regarding this one small matter. Charity was easy enough for them to approve of.
It was a small test, one of many, but Edward had savored his brief moment of triumph.
So far, he had been careful about setting his course. There was no refuting the fact that the lords held the real reins of power, placing command and overseeing the matters pertaining to troops, religion and parliament. On those matters they remained firm, their hands clenched tight over the reins of the realm.
But I will make them yield, he promised himself. I am king and I mean to be one in more than name.
Soon, the lords will be made to learn it, that the power lays in I, Edward, the king. I am their sovereign and they must bow to me. I am my father’s son and I will not be challenged, and these lords who have bowed to my father would soon be made to bow to me. I will force them to return to their places as my servants. For far too long now they have overstepped their bounds, taking advantage of my youth.
He would rule and he would teach them to obey, slowly and with stealth. He thought he had time, years, decades, in which to enforce his will.
But it was all of it too late.
He was too ill now to even lift his head.
His end was nigh.
When the cough first returned, he thought nothing of it. Then it struck him down. He could not take food. His stomach was as hard as stone. Whatever he partook of he would later bring up. The acrid taste of acid burned his throat, making any fluid or foods he tried to ingest feel like claws digging at his windpipe. Again and again, he pushed away his food.
His sister Mary learning of his state had applied to the council, beseeching them to allow her to tend him. She wished to see him and Edward had granted her request. He wanted her to come. He wanted someone who shared his blood to tend him. He was tired of his councilors and ministers, they hovered and they stood, waiting by his bedside like vultures.
Leeches, Edward thought whenever he looked upon them. They circled him, eager for the latest news, their eyes flickering with fear as well as ambition. The thought of his death terrified them. Everything they had managed to steal and secure would be lost if Edward died. His impending death would be a threat to their comforts, their coffers and their powers.
Northumberland and Cranmer had tried hard to dissuade him from seeing his sister. Your majesty must place all your trust in God and your goodly physicians. You will soon be well. There is no need to summon the Lady Mary. She is not needed.
With his throat swollen and his chest constricted by yet another foul smelling poultice, Edward turned away from his ministers, giving them his back. He had issued his order for his sister to come and he would not retract it.
After receiving his summons, the Lady Mary rode to him with all speed from Hunsden. Abed, his friend Sydney had whispered the news of his sister’s arrival to him.
When his sister arrived, her skirts had been riddled with dust, her face lined and set with worry. She demanded that she be taken to her brother immediately. She was denied. She and Cranmer, the guardian to his door had exchanged angry words. Edward had heard them. While they argued, Edward had been abed, shivering, taken with fever. He had gestured to his squires, ordering Guildford Dudley who attended him inside his privy chamber to admit his sister but Dudley had refused to obey him.
It would be three days before his sister was allowed through his doors. By then, Edward’s fever had receded somewhat and though he was weak, he was much improved. That night with the roaring fire they kept burning night and day in his rooms warming her face, Mary kneeled by his bedside. She took his hand, her face solemn, the shine of tears shimmering in her eyes.
Brother, she exclaimed, shocked by his fragile his state.
Beside them, Northumberland hovered.
The Lady Mary had wanted to stay by his side but she was denied. Seeing her face though brought Edward some solace. She was his sister; there was a bond of blood between them that could never be broken.
His throat had been too swollen for him to speak but they had not required words. Silently, she held his hand as they regarded each other. He cried and she did too, her tears flooding her face.
Dear brother, she had whispered, pressing her lips to his emaciated hand.
He had fell asleep thusly, his hand in hers. But when he woke, she was gone. He had thought nothing of it, assuming that his sister had gone to take her rest. He had assumed that she would return to his bedside soon. But she did not come, not the day after nor the day after that. On the third day, when he had been well enough to ask, they told him that she left. Northumberland had ordered her to leave.
It was for the best, his protector had said, your majesty requires peace.
Defeated, Edward had poured all of his energy into his recovery and h
e had been well enough to open parliament the following month. But the day after that small triumph he brought up blood.
Back in his bed again, Edward tossed and writhed. His physicians, fearing remonstrance, quietly advised Northumberland that Edward VI was dying. Edward had been awake, his eyes wide as he heard them pronounce his coming doom.
Keep the king alive, Northumberland instructed, he must live or you shall all go to the Tower.
So the doctors used every strategy and remedy they could find. They bled him, they burnt spices and they poured medicines concocted at great expense down his throat.
Feeble but still sound of mind, Edward asked for his sisters to attend him. He asked to be conveyed to Greenwich and he begged for something to relieve him from the pain that stabbed at his throat, chest and sides.
But they denied him his requests, each and every one.
Increasingly angry, Edward made his demands known again and again, but no one, not even his closest friends could penetrate the phalanx of silence Northumberland and Cranmer had erected around him but their hypocrisy did not end there.
While they fought hard to keep him isolated, there were times when they insisted that he rise from his bed. On those occasions, they would dress him in his finest garb and pad his clothes to add some much needed bulk to his form. A large cap would be set over his head to cover his fast thinning hair. He would be padded, coiffed, powdered and dressed until he resembled the king he once was. Then, he would be forced to take a turn in the gardens so that his court and subjects might see him.
Each time, he would be led outside and kept there until another one of his fits came upon him. When it did, they would escort him from the open air and back to his chambers where he would splutter and cough. To silence him, they would press a square of cambric to his mouth and always, the pristine square would come away soaked in blood.
The last attack he suffered though had been too much. Blood had coursed from his mouth, bubbling out of his nose. The amount had been too much for the cloths to contain. They barely managed to get him in doors before he slumped in the arms of his escort. Still, many had seen him, seen it and marked it.
On the next day, Northumberland gave prompt orders for the king to be moved to Greenwich. So it was that Edward was moved from one sick room to another. Still, he found a small measure of solace in being at Greenwich, even though there was no respite for him from the fever.
Edward wheezed, his body heaving.
The malady was winning and he knew beyond any doubt that he would soon join his Maker.
The fever never lifted now, it burned hot and bright beneath his skin be it night or day. The hardness in his belly had now multiplied tenfold, distending his form, making his appearance obscene. Every wrench in his chest and his gut would send him into a paroxysm of agony.
Mercy. He begged of his doctors, mercy.
But the men had their orders. They had to keep the king awake and alive. They refused to give him a sleeping tincture or anything to slow his pains, no matter how he begged, because they didn’t want him to descend into a delirium from which he could not be roused. He had heard them discussing it. He knew what they were about and though he commanded and beseeched them for some blessed relief, they granted him none.
They left him as he was, to suffer and to endure the terror that was ravaging him. When he could, he would scream with his pain. The sound would fill the hallways and he would gasp and cry in desperation. When he was exhausted from the hollering and screaming, he would moan. But these days he was so weak he could barely even manage a groan.
Blessed Father in heaven I beg you to deliver me from my pains! He prayed and prayed and prayed.
God was his only ally now and though he had longed for recovery before, all he wanted now was relief. There was no more dignity left for him in this life.
They said tumors littered his lungs. They were crushing the breath and squeezing the air from his body. They said it would not be long. He hoped it would not be long. Every instant was agony. Every moment he was being forced to breathe through was torment.
He grasped his side as yet another wave of pain washed over him.
But they were still not done with him. He would have no mercy from them.
The day before, under his Protector and Cranmer’s instructions, the servants propped him up, bedecked him with due ceremony and stood him in the window. They stood him there so his people who had waited outside Greenwich day after day could catch a glimpse of their king.
But Edward had been too weak to stand.
His legs had buckled under him and though he had appeared at the window alone, behind him there had been two men, each taking an arm, supporting him and holding him up. They needed Edward to show his face so that everyone could see he was still alive. They needed to display him to the people, to quell their outcry and anger at being denied the sight of their sovereign. The crowd outside refused to leave until their wish was satisfied. Some had been openly denouncing Northumberland, hurling abuse, accusing the Lord Protector of foul deeds and even fouler dealings.
Some say I am already dead, shivered Edward, some say I died days ago, and that the news was being hidden so that Northumberland might play his games.
The mood around Greenwich and beyond was ugly. The ministers knew they didn’t have long, they needed to secure England and they needed do it now. But Northumberland and his games, Edward wheezed, have only just begun.
This morning, they brought Edward a new Act of Succession, which they bade him sign, thrusting the papers into his hands.
The document was dated May. Edward had passed his eyes over the words, his eyes wide, his mind cognizant.
They would have the kingship go his cousin, Lady Jane Grey.
May. Jane Grey had wed Northumberland’s son, Guildford, in May.
May.
His eyes went wild, darting all over the page. It appeared to be writ in his hand. Edward noted the words through his swollen eyes. He had not written them.
Guildford Dudley. He was Northumberland’s second youngest son, well loved and well favored by the Duke. He had been Edward’s personal attendant ever since the day Northumberland became Protector. He was Jane Grey’s husband. Images of Guildford’s face flashed before Edward’s eyes. Of him bowing in subservience, of him smiling and dancing attendance, of him riding on the great bay that Edward had given him, of Guildford tending him day and night while he was ill.
Edward spluttered.
So it was, while I commanded him, bidding him to perform this duty and that, Guildford Dudley had been playing me for a fool. All the while, he had been winking and biding his time, eyeing my throne, my crown and forecasting that very day in which I might oblige him by dying so that he, he might be king in my stead…
Edward turned his wild eyes upon his ministers, his throat convulsing with the anger he could not voice. He glared at his ministers with all the authority he could muster.
Measures need to be undertaken to secure the succession. Your majesty must put your name to the tract, Cranmer pressed on, thrusting a pen into the young king’s limp hands, for the good of your people, your grace. You must sign. You must sign to safeguard your kingdom from those who wish to undo all the good work that you have advanced.
Edward refused.
They wanted him to bar his sisters from the succession. They wanted him to disobey and circumvent his father’s third and final Act of Succession. They would have him deny his sisters the throne.
They would have war in England, they would have me bring calamity upon my kin! Edward seethed. They wanted him to piss on his father’s will. They wanted to wrench the crown of England from Tudor hands. Tudor blood is Tudor blood and my father’s blood runs pure. How much Tudor blood runs in Jane Grey’s veins? Hardly a jot! She is more Suffolk than Tudor and she is now a Dudley to boot!
Edward gritted his teeth. He refused to sign. He would not give in. Dudley’s scheme was clear. The man would use his son to breed the Dudleys o
nto the throne of England. Edward knew that the people would not be able to stomach a Grey ruling in the stead of a Tudor, not while his sisters were still alive.
Chaos shall descend! Chaos will descend! Edward wanted to scream with warning.
Heaving and thrashing, he threw them off, pushing the papers away, dropping the pen. But Northumberland picked up both and pressed it back into his hands. Edward dropped the pen again, slow and deliberate, his eyes burning with rage. He understood it now. Their machinations had begun long before this day. For months now, his ministers and the men of his council had been scrambling to secure themselves.
Did they descend upon my father thusly too? Edward wondered. Did they dare to press my father? Make him put his name to deeds contrary to his will?
Yet no matter how he resisted, they came at him, again and again.
Your majesty is not yourself, Northumberland urged, but you must sign, your grace. Sign. You must sign. Sign!
Time and time again, Edward turned his face away from them until at last he closed his eyes and willed himself to die.
It is God’s will, Cranmer had repeated, over and over, his words and tone conciliatory, but the refrain was the same, your majesty must sign.
At Edward’s continual stubbornness, they took their leave but not without issuing a directive of their own. We must make the king see sense, Northumberland instructed his physicians, placing the document into their hands. Urge him. Tell him that he would be given a tincture to ease his pains if he capitulates. He was terse. Have him sign it.
They left him then to plot their coming path. When it suited them they came back in the afternoon to again threaten and cajole. But Edward never gave in, not when Northumberland demanded and commanded, not when he forced the pen into his hand and bullied him, shouting and cursing.
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