Kneeling down before him, the earl and Sir Anthony saluted him as king, and tendered him their homage. Edward was too much afflicted to make any suitable reply. He turned away, and flinging himself into the arms of his sister, who was standing beside him, and equally grieved with himself, he mingled his tears with hers. “Never,” says Sir John Hayward, describing the occurrence, “was sorrow more sweetly set forth, their faces seeming rather to beautify their sorrow, than their sorrow to cloud their faces. Their young years, their excellent beauties, their lovely and lively interchange of complaints in such sort graced their grief, as the most iron eyes at that time present were drawn thereby into society of their tears.”
Deeming it best to let his royal nephew’s grief have free course, Hertford did not offer him any consolation at first, but arising from his kneeling posture, he withdrew to a little distance with Sir Anthony.
“We have lost the best of fathers, Elizabeth,” said Edward, at last, looking up at her face through his tears. “But he is in Heaven, and therefore we need not mourn for him. Yet I cannot help it.” And he wept afresh.
“Be comforted, gentle brother,” said the princess, tenderly. “Our father is happily released from suffering. I did not think we should ever see him again on earth. You must be a man now, since you are king.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Edward, sobbing. “My heart sinks at the thought of it.”
“And mine swells at the bare idea,” rejoined the princess. “Cheer up, dear brother—or I ought rather to say, my gracious lord and master, for you are so now. How strange that sounds, Edward! Marry! it must be mighty fine to be king—to wear the diadem, and sit in state, to swear great oaths, and have all tremble at your frown—as they used to do at our father’s.”
“Elizabeth!” said Edward, with something of reproach. “Is this a season for jesting?”
“Nay, I do not jest,” she replied, seriously. “I but gave utterance to thoughts that arose unbidden in my breast. I have ever spoken without restraint to you, dearest brother.”
“And I trust you ever will do so,” he rejoined, affectionately. “I love you, sweet Bess. You shall be my chief counsellor. I will confide all my secrets to you.”
“Your uncle Hertford will not let you,” she returned. “He is watching us narrowly now—trying to make out what you are saying to me. Have a care of him, Edward.”
“I would my uncle Sir Thomas Seymour were here,” said the young king; “but I am told he has been denied access to me.”
“By whom?—by my lord of Hertford?” demanded Elizabeth.
“Very likely,” returned Edward. “But I will see him now I am king. Sir Thomas is a great favorite of yours, Bess?—ha!”
“Sir Thomas discourses pleasantly, dances well, and hath an excellent ear for music,” she replied.
“And is very handsome withal—own you think so, Bess?”
“Nay, I have never bestowed enough consideration upon him to declare if he be handsome or otherwise,” she replied, blushing slightly.
“Out on my unruly tongue for leading me thus astray!” exclaimed Edward, suddenly checking himself. “A moment ago I chided you for unseasonable levity, dear Bess, and I now am indulging in it myself. Come with me to my uncle Hertford.”
With this he took her hand, and the young pair slowly, and with much dignity, directed their steps towards the earl, who instantly advanced with Sir Anthony to meet them.
“I am glad to see your grace look somewhat lighter of heart,” said Hertford, bowing profoundly; “for though grief at so great a loss is natural, and indeed commendable, you have many necessary duties to fulfil which cannot be delayed, and the discharge whereof will serve to distract you from the thoughts of your bereavement. I am come, with Sir Anthony Brown, your master of the horse, to escort your Majesty to Enfield, where you will sleep to-night. To-morrow you will be conducted to the Tower, there to meet all the lords, spiritual and temporal, who will assemble to tender their allegiance. Have you much preparation to make ere setting out?”
“Not much, my lord—not any, indeed,” replied Edward. “I am ready to attend you now. But I would fain bid farewell to my preceptors—unless they are to go with me, which I should much prefer.”
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