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    Boy King
    Boy King
    Boy King
    Ebook72 pages56 minutes

    Boy King

    By David Belbin

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    About this ebook

    Young Edward VI is crowned king upon the death of his father, Henry VIII - but he is only nine years old. How can he fight his way through the treacherous adult world to claim the sovereignty he is entitled to?

    This thoroughly researched novel features some of best-known and most intriguing characters in English history - including, of course, King Henry VIII and his many wives. This story presents a balanced view of Edward VI, who is often portrayed as an unpleasant, rather sickly child, whose death was inevitable. Above all, it's a page-turning read not to be missed.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBloomsbury Publishing
    Release dateOct 1, 2013
    ISBN9781408163542
    Boy King
    Author

    David Belbin

    David Belbin is the author of forty novels for teenagers and several books for older readers, including 'The Pretender', about literary forgery, and the crime/politics series 'Bone and Cane'. His YA novels include 'Love Lessons', 'The Last Virgin' & 'The Beat' series. He teaches creative writing at Nottingham Trent University. Full biography and bibliography at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Belbin

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      Book preview

      Boy King - David Belbin

      Glossary

      Part One: 1548

      1 The King is Dead

      ‘It must be bad news, Edward,’ my sister said. ‘Why else would they have brought you all this way?’

      We were talking in whispers while waiting for my uncle to join us.

      ‘When did you last see the King?’ I asked Elizabeth.

      ‘Weeks ago.’

      ‘Me too,’ I admitted. I wasn’t allowed to visit the King because London was so disease-ridden. Half the children there die before they’re sixteen. I was the King’s only male child, the heir to the throne. My life must never be put at risk.

      ‘He looked awful last time he came to Hampton Court,’ I said.

      ‘The end must be close,’ Elizabeth replied, squeezing my hand. ‘That’s why you’ve been getting all those extra lessons.’

      When I last saw him, my father could hardly get on a horse, he weighed so much. He’d had a bad leg for two years and his sight was going. He bought pairs of glasses ten at a time and left them all over every one of his palaces. Some days, I’d heard, he didn’t even get dressed. He had to be carried around in a fancy chair on wooden poles. They called it The King’s Machine.

      ‘If he’s dead…’ Elizabeth began to speak, but I interrupted.

      ‘He’s not dead. He might be dying but he won’t be dead for ages.’

      ‘If he’s dead, you don’t have to do what anybody says. You’ll be the king.’

      We were standing in the Presence Chamber, which was cold and draughty, but that wasn’t why I shivered.

      ‘I’ll do whatever the King tells me to do,’ I told my sister.

      ‘You’ll be the king,’ Elizabeth repeated, as if I hadn’t got the point. ‘You won’t have to do what anybody else tells you to.’

      Then Uncle Edward joined us. He knelt before me and I knew what was coming next. I was nine years old. Elizabeth was just thirteen.

      Afterwards, Elizabeth and I hugged each other and we both cried, but only for a while. The news was not expected, but hardly a surprise. A new feeling came over me. It wasn’t grief, but something bigger, something I had not felt before.

      Uncle Edward knelt and pledged his loyalty to me as his king. Then – slowly, clearly, because it was so important – he explained who was next in line to the throne. Our older sister Mary (daughter of my father’s first wife) would become queen should I die without an heir. After her, Elizabeth. My sisters shouldn’t get their hopes up, I thought. Women only rule if there is no male directly in line to the throne. There hasn’t been a queen without a king since Boudicca in the first century.

      Next morning, Uncle Edward and I set off on horseback for London. Once we were under way, he explained that my father’s death had not yet been announced.

      ‘There are those who oppose you coming to the throne,’ he said. ‘We won’t give them the chance to do anything about it…’

      He was talking about the Catholics. Despite setting up the Church of England, my father stayed a kind of Catholic – it was the faith of his childhood, after all. Most people in England still wanted to be Catholics. The reformers – or Protestants – were mainly to be found in London, especially at court. My stepmother, Queen Catherine, was a Protestant. So were both of my uncles. Me, too. But the Catholics were almost as strong.

      The ride took four hours and there was no trouble on the way. When we got to Whitehall, trumpets sounded.

      ‘Are they for me?’ I asked Uncle Edward.

      ‘No, for your father. It’s dinner time.’

      The trumpets sounded three times a day, announcing meals being taken to the King. My father had not been moved since his death. As far as people knew, Henry VIII was alive and well and waiting for his dinner.

      ‘I want to see him,’ I begged.

      ‘No. You must go straight to the Tower. It’s the tradition.’

      I started to feel the chill of the cold January day. For there was another tradition at the Tower of London. It was where Elizabeth’s mother, Ann Boleyn, was beheaded. Her, and a thousand others.

      As we rode on, Uncle Edward explained how things would work from now on. My father had appointed a Council to rule the country until I came of age. I knew this already. Uncle Edward and my other uncle, Thomas Seymour, were both on it. So was John Dudley, the great general. The Council felt that there should be one ‘special man’ in charge, a Lord Protector.

      ‘And who will that be?’ I

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