Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy (34 page)

Read Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy Online

Authors: Brandy Purdy

With a smile of pure delight, Ambassador Renard stepped forward, to stand proxy for Philip, and placed upon that most special finger of my left hand, the one with the vein leading directly to my heart, a rose diamond set in a nest of golden petals from Philip that was especially dear as it had belonged to my beloved’s own mother and had in fact been her own betrothal ring. The moment it slid onto my finger our marriage was considered binding.
Smiling jubilantly, I looked out into the sea of faces and vowed, “I will wholly love and obey His Highness, my husband”—oh how I savored those two words upon my tongue!—“Prince Philip, to whom I have given my heart, and myself, following the divine commandments, and I will do
nothing
against his will.”
I pointedly ignored the stir of unrest these last words caused, for I knew that many needlessly feared that Philip would interfere with the governing of the realm. I wish I could have gone to each and every one of my subjects who felt this fear and taken their hands in mine, looked into their eyes, and assured them that they had nothing to fear, and urge them to smile and be happy for me. But I doubted that even such warm reassurances would dissuade them. They were all determined to believe the worst of my beloved, the prince of my dreams. So I ignored them and held my head up high, walking boldly and confidently toward the fulfillment of all my desires and dreams.
As I left the chapel, a double row of two dozen little girls in angelic white dresses, with shimmering silver lace angel wings on their backs and halos on their innocent fair heads, showered me with red and white rose petals, while a choir of little boys sang. As I walked through that rain of fragrant petals I felt like a young girl again. I felt like dancing. I wanted to swirl and spin and show the whole world my betrothal ring and shout out so everyone could hear me, “I am a married woman! Praise God, I am a spinster no longer!” I felt like doing it, so I did; that is one of the advantages of being a queen, and that day I felt like I was Queen of the World! The only thing lacking was my bridegroom. Had he been there to run through that fragrant shower of rose petals and dance with me, my happiness would have been complete.
34
 
Elizabeth
 
W
hile Mary planned to marry, I spent my days in dreary boredom and a state of constant worry; the anxiety gnawed like a ravenous rat at my mind every hour of the day and night; it never deserted me. I feared the dark circles, like violet bruises, beneath my eyes and the slight nervous tremor of my hands would become permanent parts of me. I thought she was a fool to proceed with her stubborn plan to marry Prince Philip when her people clearly abhorred and feared the thought of Spanish dominion and showed their displeasure with outbursts of violence and riots. Even from my own prison I knew the prisons were full of streetcorner firebrands whose only crime had been to speak out against the Spanish bridegroom.
Mary was throwing away her subjects’ love with both hands, but so in love was she with the prince in the portrait that she was too blind to see that. But even if I had been at court, I knew I would never dare tell her so; mistrust of me had crept into and sickened her brain until she suspected me of being behind each and every act of defiance and conspiracy in the realm. And it hurt my heart that it should be so. I still loved my sister, even though I did not like her, or approve of her policies and actions as Queen, but I would never have tried to pull her from her throne or snatch the crown from her head. If that was to be my destiny it would come to me in time, through the grace of God, and I was content to wait and bide my time, and at present I was in truth more preoccupied with the business of just staying alive.
I was sitting at the window, drumming my fingers irritably on the stone sill, and watching the ravens, when a knock sounded upon my door. Sir John Bridges entered with a bright and cheery smile, saying he was the happy bearer of glad tidings, and gesturing to the fat, gray-haired fellow who followed puffing in his wake, cradling his great protruding belly as if he were a mother-to-be cradling her unborn child. He was the sort of man who should have looked jolly, the sort whose apple-cheeked face was always wreathed with smiles and whose every word burbled with good cheer, but, alas, Sir Henry Bedingfield was a dour-countenanced man who rarely if ever smiled. He was a stickler for the rules and followed them to the very letter, meticulously dotting all the
i’
s and crossing all the
t
’s and never overlooking a punctuation mark. He was precise and exacting even when it came to the tiniest trivialities. He was one of Mary’s most ardent supporters.
Sir John smilingly informed me that my time in his custody had come to an end and I was to be released from the Tower and given over into the care of my newly appointed guardian, Sir Henry Bedingfield, who had come to escort me to my new home at the old palace of Woodstock in Oxfordshire, a former royal hunting lodge with a most romantic history. Henry II’s beloved mistress, the Fair Rosamund, had once lived at Woodstock, losing herself in the twists and turns of the maze her lover had created for her to evade his jealous queen, and a later king, Edward II, had passionately sported with Piers Gaveston in its perfumed bowers while another angry and jealous queen fumed in frustration.
As I prepared to take my leave, I fought down the fear rising within me. I could not stop thinking about the two little princes who had disappeared quietly within the Tower, the bright candles of their young lives cruelly snuffed out by an assassin who crept into their chamber as they slept. I kept seeing their radiant, beatific little ghosts as they had appeared to me that night. Would such, I wondered, be my fate when I reached the quiet, secluded environs of Woodstock? Would I myself become an unquiet spirit revealing my phantom shade to others in the night decades or even centuries after I had died? I feared it so much I dared not sleep. Far from London it would be so easy to do away with me—a poisoned cup, a silken noose, a pillow over my face as I slept. A malignant fever could be given out as the cause, and though there might be whispers and rumors of murder, given my history of illness, none could really dispute it.
Dressed for travel, with Kat and Blanche close beside me, I left my cell for the last time, glancing up at the wall-walk to wave farewell to my dear gypsy.
He doffed his plumed cap and fell to his knees, holding it over his heart, and blew me a kiss. “Till we meet again!” he called down to me.
Sir Henry Bedingfield himself came forward to hand me into my litter. As he took my gloved hand, I turned to him, taking him completely unawares, and bluntly asked, “If my murder were committed to your charge, would you see the deed was carried out?”
With an appalled and wounded gasp, Sir Henry let go of my hand. “Certainly not!” he indignantly exclaimed. “My Lady, I swear on my immortal soul that I have been charged with nothing but to protect you and keep you safe from all harm, whether it be from Catholics or Protestants. I would not harm a hair on your head nor allow it to be done by any other!”
I traveled, once again by litter, with Sir Henry astride his horse, riding at the head of the procession, and a number of guards surrounding me, to protect me, or so they said, though I knew it was to prevent any from attempting to rescue me.
As we made the journey a wonderful thing happened that made hope spring to vibrant rosy life again. The good people of England, honest and true, thronged the dusty roads, hailing me with warm words and showering me with blessings. They tossed bouquets of wildflowers and bunches of herbs onto my litter, and country housewives ran up to bob their curtsies and give me gifts of home-baked cakes and bread, tarts, and even rounds of cheese and jars of jam and honey. They shook their fists and railed against Sir Henry and the guards. And in every village through which I passed, the bells began to ring. In strict defiance of the edict that they be rung only for the sovereign, they rang their bells for
me!
Sir Henry was beside himself, sending riders dashing off to protest, shouting for them to silence those bells at once, threatening the villagers with the pillory and stocks, but they ignored him, and the bells continued to chime, and even when we had passed through and were but a speck upon the horizon, still the people cheered, “God save our Princess Elizabeth!”
And when it was time to dine or sup, to Sir Henry’s horror, the local gentry insisted on hosting banquets in my honor, treating me with all the deference and respect as if I were myself a queen.
When we passed through Windsor, the schoolboys at Eton came rushing out in their flapping black scholars’ gowns, shouting,
“Vivat Elizabetha!”
and tossing their caps into the air. Laughing, I conversed with them in Latin, quizzing them about their lessons, and doled out cakes to them, sharing my bounty.
“Tanquam ovis,”
I said to the throng of young scholars, “I am taken like a sheep to the slaughter!” and the word quickly spread of the grave injustice being committed in their midst; the Queen was sending her own sister away, perhaps even to die, in obscurity, and yet more abuse was hurled at the flustered and irate Sir Henry and his men. To calm the crowd, some of the guards even declared that they were for me, and meant me no harm, only to safeguard me, swearing that they would lay down their lives in my defense.
Sir Henry continued to protest, swatting at the boys with his round feathered cap and riding crop, pulling at their black scholars’ gowns when they clustered round me, trying to shoo them away, but they, like the rest of the villagers, ignored him, nor would the bell-ringers obey his demands for “Silence!” either, and so we continued all the way through Windsor in a shower of blessings, flowers, cakes, love, and good cheer, all to the tune of church bells.
Nearly weeping with despair, again and again I heard Sir Henry bewail, “I was to take the Lady Elizabeth as a prisoner into private confinement, not upon a triumphal progress! What will Her Majesty say when she hears of this? She will think me remiss in my duty!”
But I just laughed at him as my heart surged with love, a warmer, deeper love than I had ever felt before. It made the hot passion that had roused me in the arms of Tom Seymour and Robert Dudley seem cold as the grave in comparison. These people, this country, I knew would be the great loves of my life, and I must do all that I could to sustain myself, to preserve my life, so that, someday, God willing, I could serve them.
I saw the hope burning bright in their eager eyes. They were frightened by my sister’s Catholic regime and the Spanish bridegroom who was soon to arrive—they feared greater harshness, another Spanish Inquisition, this one on English soil—and they were looking to
me
to save them. And I made a promise then and there, to the people of England, and myself, that I would never disappoint them.
All the way to Woodstock people lined the roads to see me pass, pelting me with posies, and even thronged outside the rusty sagging gates through which I must pass. And with one last rainbow shower of wildflowers and blessings upon me and a violent volley of hissed and shouted boos and shames and shaken fists directed at Sir Henry and the guards, my litter was carried through the crowd of well-wishers, and the gates of my new prison clanged shut behind me, and, with a sigh of relief, Sir Henry mopped the sweat from his flushed face which I thought, smiling to myself, looked rather like a giant strawberry drenched with dew.
35
 
Mary
 
O
f course I could not go down to the docks of Southampton and welcome him personally—that would not have been fitting—but with a spyglass trained to my eye, to remedy my shortsightedness, and my cloak, skirts, and full, hanging over-sleeves whipping wild and flapping about me, being pulled this way and that most vexingly by the wind, which had already presumed to snatch the hood from my head and the pins from my hair, I stood beneath an alarmingly gray sky dotted with dark roiling clouds, and watched it all from the rooftop of the Bishop’s palace with Susan and Jane beside me, holding fast, as if they feared I too might be blown away.
Never before had I seen anything more magnificent than his flagship, the
Espíritu Santo
. It was an enormous twenty-four-oared galley, painted all in vivid red and sunny yellow, with a beautiful blue-mantled Virgin mounted as a serenely smiling figurehead upon the prow, holding out a candle to light the way. Its hull was painted like the most beautiful flower garden imaginable. It was a true paradise! There were flowers of every kind and color, and heavily laden fruit trees, all accented with gold; there were even bees, birds, and butterflies hovering over the blossoms, even proud strutting peacocks. The forecastle was draped with red cloth sewn with golden blossoms, and from the mainmast fluttered the flag of Spain and the Prince’s coat of arms. Every bit of rigging was adorned with little alternating red and yellow silk pennants that waved gaily in the breeze. This awe-inspiring, gigantic marvel of a ship led a flotilla of 125 smaller ships, carrying an entourage of 9,000 Spaniards—grandees, their ladies, thousands of servants, priests, the Prince’s personal physicians and apothecaries, and fine Spanish mules and horses, of course. The ships were all painted either red or yellow, with their riggings aflutter with thousands of tiny silk pennants of the same two colors.
But upon the deck of the flagship was a sight even more magnificent to behold than the ship itself, a sight which even if I lived for a hundred years I doubt I would ever see equaled, much less surpassed. Upon the wide expanse of the deck—I am sure it was as big or even bigger than the largest palace Great Hall ever built—were musicians in extravagant costumes of striped and slashed red and yellow, sewn along the seams with tiny gold bells, with long ribbon streamers flowing gracefully back from their shoulders as they played their instruments, and parti-colored hose and tasseled boots with long pointy toes reminiscent of those that had been worn in bygone days, and felt caps with red and yellow plumes. As they played, fifty—or maybe even a hundred, or somewhere in between that number—couples danced. Each man wore a costume similar to the musicians, very elaborate and form-fitting to show off his virile, masculine physique, with short jackets that ended at their trim waists, flaring out over their hips, and figure-hugging hose and mammoth codpieces that left nothing to the imagination, and tasseled ankle boots of red or yellow Spanish leather. And each woman wore a gown trimmed with silk roses and ruffles of the same sunny yellow and vibrant red, and mantillas of red or yellow lace, with their feet encased in high-heeled slippers of either yellow or red with roses of the contrasting color on the toes and satin ribbons wrapped about their shapely ankles and tied in bows. As they swirled and shook their ruffled skirts, displaying their shapely limbs, their dancing partners beat beribboned tambourines. On another part of the deck, sailors in uniforms of the same red and yellow, sporting wide-legged breeches, danced a boisterous hornpipe. And there were jugglers expertly displaying their art with red and yellow balls, and there were ugly little dwarves in outlandish red and yellow spotted and striped costumes sewn with bells, who tumbled, capered, and danced, rolled their eyes, stuck out their tongues, and made funny faces. And up high in the rigging, all aflutter with red and yellow silk pennants, acrobats, as agile as monkeys swinging from tree to tree in the jungle, performed feats of daring. The sight was so dazzling and alive with motion and color the eye hardly knew where to look. I wished Father’s master painter, Hans Holbein, were still alive, so that he might capture it on canvas; one could look at it a hundred times and notice something new every time. Each one of the performers had somewhere about their person a perfumed silken rose of either red or yellow, so exquisitely crafted they looked at first glance real, and when the ship docked they tossed these out into the crowd of gaping and dumbstruck onlookers. It was such a dizzying, magnificent sight that it would later be said by many that never before in their life had they seen so much yellow and red at one time and hoped never to again; some even claimed it gave them blinding headaches that lasted three days.
Then he was there. My handsome, golden-haired and golden-bearded bridegroom clad all in white velvet delicately embroidered with pearl and diamond flowers springing from golden foliage swirling across his chest. His fine legs were encased in white silk hose and tall white leather boots with tops that flared about his thighs. As he disembarked he removed his white plumed cap and held it humbly in his hands.
As he started to falteringly speak the unfamiliar English words of a speech he had learned, to thank the good people for turning out to welcome him, the storm broke with a vengeance. Thunder boomed loud enough to rattle every glass windowpane in town, and blinding white lightning streaked across the sky, as a dense torrent of needlelike rain poured from the black clouds overhead.
Shrieking, the Spaniards ran for cover as the red and yellow dyes on their costumes began to run off in rivulets of rainwater. Sir Anthony Browne quickly brought forward the white horse that was my special gift to my beloved and boosted the poor startled Prince into the saddle without first apprising him of his intentions. And as he bent his head and hunched his shoulders and determinedly led him toward the Church of the Holy Rood, where they could take shelter against the raging rain and celebrate Mass, I noticed with dismay that the crimson velvet that adorned that beautiful white horse had bled onto my beloved’s beautiful white hose and boots. Oh what a
dreadful
welcome for my bridegroom! I had wanted everything to be perfect, and now it was ruined! And it had all been so beautifully planned, right down to the tiniest, most minuscule detail! All the lovely ceremonies and gifts and presentations had been drowned out. Oh the indignity inflicted upon my darling! Soaked to the skin and his beautiful clothing all ruined and stained the moment he set foot on English soil! Even the weather conspired against me!
I flung aside the spyglass, letting it roll off the roof and smash onto the street below and, ignoring the pleas of Susan and Jane urging me to go inside lest I catch my death, stood bareheaded being pelted by the relentless rain that felt hard enough to bruise me down to my heart, letting it plaster my clothing to my skin, as I wept to rival the downpour.
The storm raged and howled and wept all through the night, but by dawn it had cleared. Bundled in a warm cloak, with only a small entourage, I stole quietly away at first light, returning to Winchester and the Bishop’s Palace, where I was lodged, to officially meet my beloved face to face for the very first time.
When my beloved set out later that day, in a suit of black velvet embroidered with silver, diamonds, and pearls, again astride the white horse that was my gift to him, at the head of his enormous entourage, their number further swelled by the 350 Englishmen I had appointed to serve him, the storm erupted again with renewed vengeance. The entire party were again soaked to their skin and their fine clothing, made new for the journey, was ruined once more, and they were left floundering in the muddy quagmire of the road. Oh how I wept when I heard and then, when Susan and Jane cautioned me that my face would be all red and swollen and I wouldn’t look a bit pretty when my darling came to meet me, I instantly ceased and rushed to lie in a darkened room to have my ladies apply cold compresses and soothing creams to my face while I fingered my rosary and prayed that my prince would find me pleasing.
I arranged for us to meet at twilight in the Bishop’s torchlit garden. Still feeling anxious about my appearance, and the eleven years between us, I hoped the gloaming would be kind and flatter me.
In a high-collared black velvet gown with a kirtle and plump padded under-sleeves of rich sapphire and silver brocade, with icy diamonds and sapphires dark as midnight adorning the crucifix at my breast and bordering my hood, I awaited my beloved surrounded by flowering jasmine, seated on the rim of a plashing fountain in which silver fish darted like lightning against the blue marble bottom. I know it was rather vain of me, but I arranged to be attended by my four oldest and plainest ladies, all clad in severe, unadorned black gowns, standing back as unobtrusive chaperones, melting into the darkness, with their backs straight like sentinels, and their hands folded modestly at their waists.
I saw my reflection mirrored in the water’s glassy black surface and frowned. It looked like a death’s head, deathly pale, pinched, and haggard, with my eyes set in deep, dark hollows. My brows were so pale I seemed not to have any. As she helped me with my toilette, Jane Dormer had brought out a pair of false brows made of dark hair and a little vial of a glue of some sort to hold them in place. But when I learned they were made of mouse fur I shuddered in horror and ordered her to take them away; I could not and would not wear them. Lest I cry, I had to look away. I rose and plucked a sprig of jasmine and closed my eyes and endeavored to calm myself as I breathed deeply of its fragrance. But at the sound of approaching footsteps, I started and my heart began to race, and I hurried back to resume my placid but, I fancied, romantic pose seated on the marble rim of the fountain, idly twirling the sprig of jasmine between my diamond and sapphire ringed fingers.
Carrying a torch, Susan Clarencieux led my bridegroom to me.
Oh he was exquisite!
How he made my heart beat! He was wearing another fine suit of black velvet, this one with a ruff of silvery lace about his throat and smaller ruffles ringing his wrists. And a large crucifix set with diamonds and three large dangling pearls hanging from a heavy silver chain about his neck. His cloak was lined with cloth-of-silver and his high black leather boots flared out above the knee to call attention to his firm, handsome thighs. When I caught myself staring at them I blushed and made myself look away, scolding myself, and hoping he had not noticed and conceived an ill opinion of me.
Please do not let him think me a foolish old maid, harboring secret lustful fancies.
Please,
God, do not let him think me wanton or ridiculous, I prayed.
Then, in spite of myself, before I even realized what I was doing, I sprang to my feet, forsaking all dignity, dropping the jasmine and crushing it underfoot in my haste, as I ran to him. As I sprinted across the garden, bold and brazen as a harlot, my skirts gathered immodestly high so that my ankles in their black wool stockings and silver slippers showed, I pressed my fingers to my lips and kissed them. I hurled myself onto my knees before him and took his hand in mine and, staring up at him in unabashed adoration, with eyes that proclaimed “I will worship you; I will be your slave!” I brought it to my lips in a kiss of hungry devotion.
“My Lord, Your Highness, my husband.” The words poured out of me in a breathless rush. “I am much beholden and thank God that so noble, worthy, and famous a prince would vouchsafe so to humble himself by uniting with me in marriage. These words are spoken from the depths of my heart. They are not just idle flattery or a pretty speech composed to welcome you.”
“Then they are even more precious to me,” Philip said as he reached down and raised me, then bent his face down to mine and kissed my lips, giving me the first
real
kiss of my life.
“We are married in the eyes of the Law,” he said, referring to the ceremony by proxy, “so it is permitted.” He spoke to me in slow, careful Spanish that was like a velvet glove caressing my naked spine, making my knees tremble, though I know he intended only to make sure I could understand him clearly as his accent was stronger, and his pronunciation slightly different, than Ambassador Renard’s.
My voice had forsaken me and all I could do was nod eagerly as he took my hand and led me back to sit beside the fountain.
Still speechless, I intently searched his face for some sign that he liked what he saw when he looked at me. But Philip’s face was a cipher that kept his true feelings a mystery.
There was a nervous awkwardness between us; I had lost my composure and wits to such an extent I could only sit and gape at him, while he stared blankly back at me. It seemed we had nothing to say to one another; how unbearably awkward! For is there anything worse than a strained and awkward silence between a pair of lovers?
Finally I blurted out, a trifle too loudly, “I hope you had a pleasant voyage.”
“It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant,” Philip replied.
“Oh.” I nodded, struggling to think of something suitable to say. “M-My m-m-mother . . .” I frowned at my unexpected stammer, the way the words seemed to stick in my throat. “My mother was very seasick when she came from Spain.” I finally managed to get the words out.
“I have never been seasick,” said Philip.
“Oh I am so glad!” I smiled, for the thought of him suffering even a momentary discomfort pained me.

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