The torches flared in the royal chapel, the light shining red on the altar and on the solid silver font, which was guarded by four gentlemen, one of these Sir Francis Bryan, the cousin of Anne Boleyn. These four grand personages wore aprons, and towels were tied around their necks. There were Bryan, Sir John Russel, Sir Nicholas Carew, the master of horse, who was to lose his head in the matter of the Marquis of Exeter, and Sir Anthony Browne. The silver trumpets blew in the very chamber where Jane Seymour lay, and the procession came up between the torches to the silver font. There was the glitter of gold, the flash of jewels, the sheen of satin. Noble lords, great ladies, the peers of England walked in solemn company. The smoke from the many torches floated up to the roof and hung like a veil; below, the blaze of splendor dazzled the eye. Under a glittering canopy came the prince of England, borne in the arms of the Marchioness of Exeter, and behind walked the humble Mother Jack, the prince’s nurse. The Princess Mary and the Duke of Norfolk, Seymour, the queen’s brother, bearing in his arms the little Princess Elizabeth, who held in her hands a chrisom, her gift to her infant brother. The father of Anne Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, came with a towel about his neck and bearing a taper of virgin wax. Behind these, the lords and ladies of the court; a long and goodly procession, sweeping into the chapel and filling it with a gorgeous display of costly silks and jewels. And the music of the silver trumpets filled the air, while on every side beauty and magnificence vied with each other, and the blaze of many torches made the chapel light as day. The solemn service over, his serene highness, Prince Edward, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester, was proclaimed by Garter, and the glittering procession took its way back to the chamber of the queen, where King Henry had remained all the while. It was midnight when, with the music of many trumpets, the throng came in to the great apartment where the pale-faced queen lay on a state bed with a canopy above it, resplendent with cloth of gold. There was the rustle of many sweeping skirts, the jingle of swords and chains, the flare of many lights, and all the room full of faces, looking eagerly toward the royal couch. The Marchioness of Exeter bore the little prince to receive his mother’s blessing; the king stood up, looking on, boisterous in his joy. Behind him were the pale, gentle face of Cranmer, the stalwart form of Norfolk, the sad and cold-looking Princess Mary, the daughter of Catherine of Arragon, and the little golden-haired Elizabeth, the child of such bright hopes, and now stamped with the mark of illegitimacy and shadowed by the fearful death of Anne Boleyn. The little princess, though only four years old, had a train borne by Lady Herbert as she walked into the room. The king had increased in corpulence, and the ulcers on his legs made his movements painful, but he was very merry.