Free The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir

Faith.”
    Elizabeth forbore to say that Father Parker had said something rather different: She guessed that Mary would be cross if she did. She was more concerned about drinking wine that was really blood, and eating bread that was supposed to be flesh. It didn’t sound very nice, nor did it make sense to her. But then a lot of things didn’t make sense, like wicked witches weaving magic spells, King Perceforest being turned into a bear, and his Princess Zellandine sleeping for a hundred years. Elizabeth was beginning to suspect that such stories might be made up. But with the Mass it was different, for if Mary and nearly everyone else she knew—people who were quite old enough to know—said that a miracle took place during the Mass, they must be right, and she, Elizabeth, must believe it.
     
    Mary went straight to Kat Champernowne.
    “I am horrified that the child is so ignorant,” she reproved. “Were you not aware? As for Father Parker, he appears to have failed signally in his duty. Pray assure me that Elizabeth at least knows her catechism and the Lord’s Prayer.”
    “She does, madam,” Kat said. “And I am sorry if I have been remiss, truly sorry. I genuinely believed the chaplain had instructed her fully.”
    “Not fully enough, I fear,” Mary rejoined. “You must speak to him urgently upon your return. In the meantime, my own chaplain will school her rigorously in what she should know. She has no mother, and I feel responsible. I am determined to see that she is guided in the right way. For now, I suggest you keep her at her prayers awhile, for the good of her soul.”
    “Yes, madam,” said Kat meekly, dipping a curtsy.
    But when Mary had left Elizabeth’s chamber, Kat, believing that there were more ways than one to God, and having something very important in mind that morning, kept Elizabeth at her devotions for only a short time, summoning her restless charge from her prayer desk after just a quarter hour.
    “I think we will have a story,” she said, “a story about a saint, as it is Sunday. I will tell you the one about Saint Ursula, because it is a special one for you. You see, you were born in the Virgins’ Chamber at Greenwich, which is hung with tapestries telling the story of Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins.”
    Elizabeth settled at Kat’s feet. She loved stories.
    Kat had chosen this one for a purpose.
    “Saint Ursula was a British princess, and her father arranged a marriage for her,” she began, “but she wished to remain a virgin, so he and her betrothed agreed to allow her three years of grace in which to enjoy her virgin state.”
    “What’s a virgin?” Elizabeth asked.
    “A lady who is unmarried, pure, and virtuous,” Kat told her. “So Saint Ursula spent that time sailing the seven seas with ten other noble virgins, and each of them had with them a thousand maidens.”
    “It must have been a very crowded ship!” observed Elizabeth.
    Kat smiled. “Indeed it must. But after making a pilgrimage to Rome and having lots of adventures, their vessel was blown by strong winds up the Rhine River to Cologne in Germany, where in those days the people were wicked pagans and did not believe in God. Seeing that Saint Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins with her were Christians, they tried to make them give up their faith, and when they did not, they put them all to death.”
    Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, recalling that she had heard those words before.
    “All of them?” she asked, after a few moments when her thoughts had been elsewhere.
    “All.” Kat paused. “Hundreds of years later, their bones were found, and all were made saints by Holy Church.”
    “How…,” faltered Elizabeth, “how were they put to death?”
    Kat had been building up to this moment. It was better, she had reasoned, that Elizabeth learn this from her than from someone who believed in Anne Boleyn’s guilt.
    “Their heads were cut off with a sword as, one by one, they were