The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (portable ebook reader TXT) 📖

Tom turned an inquiring look toward Hertford, who whispered—

“Your Majesty will signify consent.  They come to testify their royal masters’ sense of the heavy calamity which hath visited your Grace and the realm of England.”

Tom did as he was bidden.  Another secretary began to read a preamble concerning the expenses of the late King’s household, which had amounted to 28,000 pounds during the preceding six months—a sum so vast that it made Tom Canty gasp; he gasped again when the fact appeared that 20,000 pounds of this money was still owing and unpaid; {4} and once more when it appeared that the King’s coffers were about empty, and his twelve hundred servants much embarrassed for lack of the wages due them.  Tom spoke out, with lively apprehension—

“We be going to the dogs, ’tis plain.  ’Tis meet and necessary that we take a smaller house and set the servants at large, sith they be of no value but to make delay, and trouble one with offices that harass the spirit and shame the soul, they misbecoming any but a doll, that hath nor brains nor hands to help itself withal.  I remember me of a small house that standeth over against the fish-market, by Billingsgate—”

A sharp pressure upon Tom’s arm stopped his foolish tongue and sent a blush to his face; but no countenance there betrayed any sign that this strange speech had been remarked or given concern.

A secretary made report that forasmuch as the late King had provided in his will for conferring the ducal degree upon the Earl of Hertford and raising his brother, Sir Thomas Seymour, to the peerage, and likewise Hertford’s son to an earldom, together with similar aggrandisements to other great servants of the Crown, the Council had resolved to hold a sitting on the 16th of February for the delivering and confirming of these honours, and that meantime, the late King not having granted, in writing, estates suitable to the support of these dignities, the Council, knowing his private wishes in that regard, had thought proper to grant to Seymour ‘500 pound lands,’ and to Hertford’s son ‘800 pound lands, and 300 pound of the next bishop’s lands which should fall vacant,’—his present Majesty being willing. {5}

Tom was about to blurt out something about the propriety of paying the late King’s debts first, before squandering all this money, but a timely touch upon his arm, from the thoughtful Hertford, saved him this indiscretion; wherefore he gave the royal assent, without spoken comment, but with much inward discomfort.  While he sat reflecting a moment over the ease with which he was doing strange and glittering miracles, a happy thought shot into his mind:  why not make his mother Duchess of Offal Court, and give her an estate?  But a sorrowful thought swept it instantly away: he was only a king in name, these grave veterans and great nobles were his masters; to them his mother was only the creature of a diseased mind; they would simply listen to his project with unbelieving ears, then send for the doctor.

The dull work went tediously on.  Petitions were read, and proclamations, patents, and all manner of wordy, repetitious, and wearisome papers relating to the public business; and at last Tom sighed pathetically and murmured to himself, “In what have I offended, that the good God should take me away from the fields and the free air and the sunshine, to shut me up here and make me a king and afflict me so?”  Then his poor muddled head nodded a while and presently drooped to his shoulder; and the business of the empire came to a standstill for want of that august factor, the ratifying power.  Silence ensued around the slumbering child, and the sages of the realm ceased from their deliberations.

During the forenoon, Tom had an enjoyable hour, by permission of his keepers, Hertford and St. John, with the Lady Elizabeth and the little Lady Jane Grey; though the spirits of the princesses were rather subdued by the mighty stroke that had fallen upon the royal house; and at the end of the visit his ‘elder sister’—afterwards the ‘Bloody Mary’ of history—chilled him with a solemn interview which had but one merit in his eyes, its brevity.  He had a few moments to himself, and then a slim lad of about twelve years of age was admitted to his presence, whose clothing, except his snowy ruff and the laces about his wrists, was of black,—doublet, hose, and all.  He bore no badge of mourning but a knot of purple ribbon on his shoulder.  He advanced hesitatingly, with head bowed and bare, and dropped upon one knee in front of Tom. Tom sat still and contemplated him soberly a moment.  Then he said—

“Rise, lad.  Who art thou.  What wouldst have?”

The boy rose, and stood at graceful ease, but with an aspect of concern in his face.  He said—