Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her Read Online Free PDF Page A

strangely altered world, a world
    which seemed reluctant to acknowledge her existence. Her skirts grew
    so short that she could see her ankles, the seams of her bodices split, the
    pretty little coifs sat so absurdly on the top of her head that she refused
    to wear them.
    One hot August day she climbed into the window-seat in the Long
    Gallery, a puzzled but not unhappy little girl who thought it would be
    fun to hide from her attendants. For a long time no one missed her and a
    group of ladies gathered around the empty hearth with their embroidery
    and their wagging tongues.
    “At least it was quick,” someone said morbidly, and in a moment the
    thing, which had never been openly discussed, was being chewed over
    with that restrained, ghoulish relish with which women discuss a tragedy
    that does not directly affect them.
    “It’s always clean and quick with a sword—should be, too, for what it
    cost to bring that executioner from France. £23.6s.8d.—that’s fair pay for
    two minutes’ work. He gave her the best of everything, even in death.”
    Somebody sniffed and said sharply, “Pity he didn’t see fit to give her
    a coffin. Imagine her lying there all day in a pool of blood till one of her
    women found an arrowchest.”
    “Yes—all those flies, it was such a hot day! I wonder where she
    was buried?”
    There was a decent pause as they bent their heads and applied their
    19
    Susan Kay
    needles diligently. Soon they turned their attention to the new Queen,
    Jane Seymour.
    “What does he see in her?—such a plain, whey-faced little sheep.”
    “At least she’ll be faithful to him.”
    “She’d better be! Christ’s soul, I wouldn’t share a bed with him to be
    Empress of the World.”
    “Well, in my opinion, if the Lady Elizabeth had been a boy it would
    never have happened. A son for England is all he cares about now, and
    he’ll get one sooner or later, if he has to murder a dozen wives in the
    process—”
    Elizabeth sat very still, staring out of the window. An hour later, Lady
    Bryan, searching angrily, pulled back the hanging and found her there,
    quietly arranging the black satin skirts of her favourite doll. She looked
    like any normal three-year-old, absorbed in play, and the doll too was like
    any other, save for one small detail.
    It was headless.
    The painted, black-haired bauble lay at the foot of the window-seat in
    an attitude which suggested that it had been thrown there. Bryan picked
    it up and turned to look uncertainly at her charge.
    “It broke,” said Elizabeth flatly.
    “Never mind.” Bryan was brisk, wrestling with a curious feeling of
    unease. “Give it to me and we’ll see if Mr. Shelton can mend it for you.”
    Elizabeth put the doll behind her back.
    “I don’t want Mr. Shelton to mend it.”
    She got down from the window and ran out of the gallery, and some
    inner instinct warned Bryan not to make an issue of the incident. Clearly,
    in spite of her strict instructions, tongues had been wagging carelessly.
    She made a mental note to dispose of the wretched doll as soon as the
    child was safely in bed, but when she came to look for it later that night,
    it was nowhere to be seen.
    She considered questioning the maids, then thought better of it; it
    would only start a lot of morbidly exaggerated rumours. It was better
    to assume that Elizabeth, having lost interest, had dropped the miserable
    object and that one of the servants had quietly disposed of it. And if, by
    some chance, it should continue to hang about the house in a forgotten
    corner, what did it matter anyway? It was only a doll, after all.
    20
    Chapter 2
    T he summer of 1537 seemed endless to Jane seymour, dragging
    through the sultry days, heavy with the King’s child, and heavier
    still with guilt. A shrinking presentiment of death was upon her; Anne’s
    death and Anne’s neglected child were like twin millstones round her
    thin neck, pulling her down into an abyss of languid despair.
    “For Christ’s