Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy (37 page)

Read Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy Online

Authors: Brandy Purdy

37
 
Mary
 
A
nd then God choose to vouchsafe me another miracle, the greatest a woman can receive regardless of whether she be commoner or queen. My monthly bleeding had always been painful and erratic. It was not unusual for me to go one, or even two, months without bleeding whilst I suffered the bloated agony of the pent-up blood that refused to flow. “Strangulation of the womb,” the doctors called it, and often had to resort to bleeding me from the bottom of my foot to bring on my courses. But
three
whole months without that agony or even a cramp or the tight pressure and ache in the small of my back? I sent for my doctors; they quizzed me about my symptoms. Was there any tenderness or swelling about my breasts? Had I been sick of the mornings upon rising? They felt my pulse and stood huddled by the window with their heads together over the urine in my chamberpot to scrutinize and sniff. And then they confirmed it—I was with child, and they expected me to be delivered in May.
God had given me the most precious miracle of all and the means to vanquish all my enemies. I wished I could see Elizabeth’s face when she found out that she was to be supplanted, that now she would
never
be queen. Thus far, I had managed to put off bringing her to court. The truth was, I did not want Philip to see her. I did not want him to look first at her and then at me and make comparisons that were not in my favor, to gaze at her smooth, flawless white face and then at my lined and yellowed countenance, and her thick and glossy mane of brazen harlot red hair as bright as the flames of Hell and then compare it with my own limp and thin rusty-gray tresses. Already he had a hurtful habit of reminding me that I was old enough to be Elizabeth’s mother and I didn’t want to make it worse. Every time he said that it was like a stab through my heart that kept on bleeding and aching without killing me, condemning me to live in perpetual pain. Anne Boleyn’s daughter had inherited her mother’s witchlike wiles, and I was afraid that he too would fall under her spell; Elizabeth had a way of harnessing men’s hearts. But now, in my womb, I had the means to break her!
She was making quite a nuisance of herself at Woodstock, and it was time to put a stop to it. Nearly every day brought some new request submitted to the Council by Sir Henry Bedingfield, as plodding and diligent in his duty as a plow horse, and I myself must rule whether to accede to her request or deny it. Every day it was Elizabeth wants this, Elizabeth wants that! And Sir Henry, a careful and capable gaoler he might be, but I swear the man was utterly incapable of making even the smallest, slightest decision, no matter how trivial, on his own. He must instead defer all to me. I was a new wife, and now, by the manifold blessings of God, a mother-to-be, and I should not have been bothered with such things. But none of them cared, none of them wanted me to be happy, they were all against me, they
all
wanted to spoil it for me, to slap my hands as if I were a naughty child and wrest all my joy away from me, and many wanted to take my crown too, and Elizabeth was the mastermind behind it all, even though my Council protested there was no evidence, not a shred of clear and certain proof. But I didn’t need evidence, I
knew.
Elizabeth was like a great spider sitting at the heart of her web, spinning her schemes, concocting ways to rob me of my happiness and steal my crown away from me. She thought she was clever, but I could see through her as if she were made of glass!
But first, before I dealt with Elizabeth, there was something even more important I must do. I took up my pen and wrote to my old friend Cardinal Pole, beseeching him to return to England as Papal Legate and officially mend the break with Rome that The Great Whore had brought about. Now that I was with child, it was more important than ever that England be reconciled with Rome. And I begged him to come quick and help me bring my greatest work to fruition; I wanted my son to be born in a land that knew no other religion than the true one.
I wanted the people to share my joy, so I donned my royal robes of crimson and ermine, and put on my crown and, with heralds to announce my good fortune, I rode through the streets of London, carried gently upon a well-cushioned golden litter, at a pace no faster than a walk in deference to my condition. I reclined against the velvet cushions, my hands protectively clasping the gentle swell of my stomach, with my robe open to let the people see that within my body I was carrying their savior. Philip rode beside me on the fine white horse I had given him, and from time to time I reached out to take his hand in mine and a smile of triumph would pass between us. Together we had made a son who would be heir to the greatest empire in the world. In fact, he would rule half the world, and I expected before his hour came to leave it he would have conquered the whole of it.
Many of the people cheered us; there seemed this time to be less opposition to Philip, and I heard many comment on what a handsome man he was. But there were some heretics in the crowd who cried out to God “to either turn the heart of Queen Mary from Papist idolatry or else shorten her days.” I gave orders for my guards to arrest them, but in the dense crowd that had assembled to watch us pass, it was impossible to ascertain who the offenders were and none were willing to betray them.
Philip and I had our portrait painted together, clad in black and gold, reminiscent of the portrait I had commissioned of my parents sitting lovingly together, though ours was less sentimental and Philip insisted on standing. He thought it would appear weak and unmanly for him to sit and hold hands with me, like a pair of lovers. If he stood while I was seated, Philip explained, he would appear as a pillar of strength beside me. And I agreed, for he truly was my pillar of strength. He helped me atone for my womanly weaknesses and made me seem and feel stronger. He also decreed that the painter should disregard the signs of my condition, my undone laces and the extra panels of material inserted into my skirts, and paint me as though I were not with child. This was an official portrait about power and appearances, Philip said, and it would be inappropriate to portray something so intimate. Such things were better left to allegorical or mythical paintings, if they must be painted at all, but were certainly not appropriate for formal, dignified portraits of kings and queens. But he agreed with me that space should be left in the foreground where our child, or, God willing, children, could be painted in later as family portraits bespoke power and we, God willing, were laying the foundation for a dynasty.
Philip still persisted in asking to meet Elizabeth. “Bring her to court. I want to meet this brazen red-haired heretic,” he would say. But I continued to delay sending for her. Every time I stood before my mirror I thought of Katherine Parr and wondered if she too had stood thus and compared her age and appearance to that of vibrant, young Bess, the stepdaughter whom she had trusted and lavished so much fond attention upon, who would nonetheless scheme to steal her husband and hard-won happiness from her. With Elizabeth it was “All or Nothing,” just as it had been with her mother. Would Anne Boleyn’s bastard brat do the same to me? I could not help but wonder.
 
Philip and I were there to welcome Cardinal Pole at the top of the grand staircase at Whitehall as all the church bells in London chimed to welcome the first Papal Legate to set foot in England since Cardinal Campeggio had come to try to persuade Father to honor his vows to my mother and cast off The Great Whore.
The moment he set his red-slippered foot upon the first step I felt my child leap for joy within my womb. I felt as if an invisible angel had just whispered in my ear, “Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found favor with God.” I
knew
it to be a sign, certain proof that I was carrying the son who would be England’s, and the true religion’s, savior.
With my face wreathed in smiles, I reached out my hands to my dear old friend, remembering that our mothers had once fondly cherished the hope that we would grow up to marry. Now we would form a different sort of alliance, a union devoted to restoring the Church to its former might and glory here in England and, holding both his hands in mine, I impetuously confided what had just occurred.
“My friend, the moment I laid eyes upon you I felt my child move for the very first time!”
A smile brightened his careworn features. “Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed be the fruit of thy womb. It was the will of God that I should have been so long in coming. God waited until the time, and your womb, was ripe. Now, God willing, you shall have a son to carry on your great work so that none can ever again undo it.”
My head swimming in elation, I sank to my knees and brought the hem of his scarlet cardinal’s robe up to my lips and kissed it to show my humility and respect. He had come here as the Holy Father’s true representative, and I must welcome him as if it were the Pope himself who stood before me.
Cardinal Pole knelt down before me. “As is only fitting before the sovereign lady of the realm,” he explained as I continued to smile and clutch the hem of his red robe to my heart.
With an air of impatience, Philip bent and took each of us by the arm and gently urged us to our feet, saying it was more fitting that we both should stand as equals now that we had paid our respects to one another. Philip
always
knew the right and proper thing to do; he really was my tower of strength, and I knew I would be lost without him. I loved knowing I could always rely on him whenever I was in doubt or my emotions threatened to get the better of me.
Together, the three of us walking side by side, with me between these two great men, we went to hear Mass and then on to Parliament, where Cardinal Pole made a stirring speech about forgiveness and reconciliation.
“I come not to condemn but to reconcile, I come not to destroy but to rebuild,” he said in a firm but warm and reassuring tone like a benign and forgiving father. “Touching all matters past, they shall be as things cast into the sea of forgetfulness.” He went on to assure all those who had profited by the dissolution of the monasteries that they would not be punished or forced to make restitution. The Church would not take back their lands; what was now in private hands would, in the spirit of forgiveness, stay in private hands. We would now move forward, and only faith and the Pope’s authority would be restored, for these were far greater treasures than any lands or riches. And what Henry VIII’s lust had destroyed his daughter’s pure heart and courageous spirit would now rebuild.
The following Sunday in St. Paul’s churchyard Cardinal Pole presided over a public absolution “to welcome the return of the lost sheep,” wherein all who had forsaken the true faith, for whatever reason, were free to come without fear of punishment and kneel before him and be forgiven and received back into the Church. Nearly twenty thousand people came to kneel and receive his blessing.
For the first time since my father’s wicked lust and Anne Boleyn’s witchlike ways had plunged our nation into darkness I felt as if the sun were truly shining down on England in warm, golden, healing rays. And as I watched, tears of joy poured down my face. Never before had I felt such pride in my people. I hugged my unborn child and let the warm balm of happiness fill my heart.
Now, when the time came, I could withdraw from public life into the safe, warm cocoon of my confinement chamber to await the birth of my child, knowing that everything would be all right. God and the Pope were both smiling over England and my people had come running back into the warm and loving embrace of Our Lord and His Church. I could sit back and take my ease and embroider little gowns and caps for my baby knowing that all was right with my world and I had fulfilled my divinely appointed destiny.
38
 
Elizabeth
 
A
t last, my hopes and prayers were answered—a summons came from Mary, bidding me come to court; she wished to see me before she withdrew for her confinement, as was the English custom. I danced a jig for joy, spinning round and round the unsmiling rotund form of Sir Henry Bedingfield, singing out, “To court, to court, I am going to court!”
We set out for London on a blustery April day. A mighty gust of wind ripped my hood right off my head. Laughing, carefree as a child, I ran after it, skipping and dancing, my violet velvet skirts fluttering and billowing about me, being tugged every which way by the wind, as I pursued my windblown hood, snatching at it and laughing when I missed and the wind carried it farther beyond my reach, with Sir Henry huffing and puffing after me, red-faced and panting from the exertion. I stopped and laughed, with my hair whipping about my head in a wild sea of flame-red waves, and laughingly called back, “Sir Gaoler, I hereby dub thee Sir Huff and Puff!” before I turned and ran on again in pursuit of my hood. When I had caught it, I took shelter under a roadside hedge to tame the wild riot of my tresses and replace my hood while the ever vigilant Sir Huff and Puff stood by, bent over, bracing his hands upon his thighs, and caught his breath, begging me to have mercy on him, and declaring that he was far too old for antics such as these.
“And fat,” I added helpfully.
“Aye, Princess.” He nodded. “And fat.”
“Nonsense!” I leapt up. “Brisk exercise is
marvelous
for slimming the physique! Come, Sir Huff and Puff, let us run!” And seizing his hand, I began to run again, just for the sheer joy of it, along the road to London, leaving the guards and litter to follow in our wake.
“Princess,
please!
” Sir Huff and Puff cried, “have mercy on me!”
The London I returned to was a very different place from the one I had left. The burnings had begun; to give the condemned heretics a foretaste of Hell in the hopes that they might repent and be saved even as they breathed their last, and to frighten those who bore witness back onto the right path—the Catholic road to salvation. I could smell the singed hair and roasted flesh in the air, and see the ashes wafting down like gray snowflakes. It made me gag and my eyes smart, and I clutched my pomander ball to my nose, inhaling deeply the commingled scents of oranges and cloves.
When the people saw my litter they fell to their knees and reached out to me, and I saw hope leap like flames inside their eyes.
“English to the core that one is,” I heard many a man or woman say as I rode past. “A
true
English rose, not half a Spaniard in body and
all
Spaniard in heart like her sister is!”
It both gladdened my heart and saddened it, knowing they wanted me, but that I was powerless to stop the burnings that made every English man and woman live in terror, fearing that an overzealous priest or heretic hunter or even a vengeful neighbor might denounce them and send them to a fiery death.
Time and again, the ignorant were punished for their lack of knowledge or simple misunderstandings; people who did not even understand what a sacrament was were sent to the stake because they couldn’t name the proper number. Some of them died with their eyes turned to Heaven calling out my name, imploring God to keep me safe and send me soon to reign; they were looking to me as to a light at the end of a tunnel, they were looking to me to save them, to deliver them from this evil. Out of the three children my father had sired, I was the most like him, and they knew that this would never have happened in Great Harry’s time. I, the princess who he always said should have been a prince, was the only one to inherit his power to reach out and touch people’s hearts. With just a look I could inspire loyalty, I could give them courage and hope.
As for my sister, the woman who had once been their beloved “Princess Marigold,” whose rights they had always championed, and who had begun her reign being hailed as “Merciful Mary,” she had forfeited her popularity and thrown away her subjects’ love to have a Spanish prince’s ring on her finger and his body in her bed. Some claimed now that they had been mistaken when she began her reign in believing that she was God’s divine instrument sent to sit upon England’s throne, but in truth the virgin queen named Mary was actually the Antichrist in disguise. How it must have hurt Mary to hear such things said of her, to know that people prayed for her and the child she carried within her to die, but she was queen and as such must take responsibility for the acts and laws of her realm, and it was her signature on the death warrants that sent those people to die in agony amongst the flames.
When we reached Hampton Court, Sir Henry Bedingfield walked me to the door of my apartments. Hat in hands, he humbly took his leave of me, apologizing for any offense he had given me, and reminding me yet again that he had only been following orders.
Impulsively, I took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, and with a smile I said to him, “If ever a day comes when I am in a position of power and require a prisoner to be most strictly and straitly kept, rest assured, my good Sir Gaoler, I shall send for you.”
“Oh My Lady!” He blushed like a bashful boy and, lowering his eyes, bowed to me and bade me a hasty farewell.
Alone in my apartments with Kat and Blanche Parry to attend me, I donned my finest virgin white gown and brushed out my hair until it rippled and gleamed in bold and brazen scarlet waves down my back. Then Kat crowned me with a white French hood edged with pearls, and Blanche hung ropes of pearls about my neck, and I took a deep breath and steeled myself to face my sister.
There was a sharp imperious tap upon my door and it opened instantly to reveal a short but nonetheless handsome golden-haired man with a little pointy-as-a-dagger beard and cold, dead eyes that sharply contrasted with their warm, oceanic blue color. He had a distinctly regal bearing and was dressed grandly in the fashion of Spain, all bloodred crimson and gold embroidery and lace, all asparkle with bloody rubies and icy diamonds. Here was a man both hot and cold.
Prince Philip of Spain. I had no need to wait for an introduction, I recognized him at once. I knew him for a foe but I would feign to be his friend. I felt as if the Devil himself had walked into my bedchamber, but I knew better than to let him see or sense my fear; he would glut and gloat and feed on it and turn it into a weapon to be used against me.
I dropped at once to my knees, the virgin supplicant begging mercy of the mighty monarch; I knew instinctively that these were the roles and that was the game we would be playing tonight.
“Your Highness,” I said, letting conviction sear every syllable, “no matter what you may have heard said of me, I am entirely loyal to my sister, the rightful queen of this realm, long may she reign.” I saw the scarlet rosettes on the toes of his golden shoes as he came to stand before me, and I could feel the burn of his eyes upon the exposed white flesh of my bosom as he stared down my low, square-cut bodice.
I did not flinch as his hand reached down and caught my arm and pulled me up, his fingers biting hard through the rich stuff of my gown. He stood and stared for a long time, his eyes boring hard into mine. Suddenly, he pulled me close, tight against his chest, and his lips came down over mine, in a bruising and crushing conqueror’s kiss.
Though I wanted to push him away, to spit in his face, kick and slap him, and rake my nails down his face, I forced myself to close my eyes and go limp in a swoon of surrender, letting my head flop and loll back, making my breasts appear all the more prominent above my low pearl-bordered bodice. He shifted me, as limp in his arms as if I were a poor child’s rag-poppet, and I felt the strength of his arms beneath my back and knees as he lifted me and carried me to my bed.
Flushing and fluttering, wringing her hands, Mrs. Ashley hovered indecisively nearby, not daring to intervene yet afraid to go, as he lowered me against the pillows.
He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss onto each of the exposed half moons of my breasts, then turned on his heel and strode purposefully out with all the confidence and supreme arrogance of a man who has come to conquer and succeeded . . . or thinks he has.
When he was gone, I sat up, threw my pillow at the door through which he had gone, and laughed until tears rolled down my face at the overweening vanity and arrogance of the man. He actually thought he had staked his claim to me as Spain had to the New World! Did he
really
think he could conquer me and treat me like a puddle at his feet? Oh yes, he did!
“Oh, Philip, Philip,” I sighed through my convulsive glee, “you don’t know me very well, and you
never
will, you will never see the
real
me until it is too late! You are
not
my master, or England’s master, and you
never
will be either!”
At ten o’clock that night, “Faithful Susan,” Mary’s favorite and most trusted lady-in-waiting, came with a lighted torch in hand to lead me across the dark garden and up the backstairs to Mary’s private apartments.
The reunion with my sister was a tense and frosty one. She stood straight-backed and harsh-faced before me, with her hand constantly caressing her swollen belly as if it were a talisman or good luck charm. She wore a blinding silver and gold gown with a dizzyingly dense and intense design of silver and gold embroidered pomegranates, the symbol for fertility, which had also been her mother’s personal emblem and thus was doubly dear to Mary, trimmed with copious amounts of gold and silver parchment lace, and accented with a whole treasure chest of diamonds and pearls, with an enormous diamond-encrusted crucifix at her breast and her treasured ivory rosary and a gilded and bejeweled Book of Hours dangling where her waist should have been. She was so weighed down with jewels, upon her headdress, about her neck, wrists, and gown, rings on every finger, and tugging cruelly at her ears, I marveled that she could even walk or stand upright beneath the weight. She looked like a woman who had drenched herself with glue and then jumped and rolled in a jewel merchant’s chest. And yet . . . all the finery could not hide the fact that her face looked gaunt and haggard, with dark shadows around her eyes, almost like a ghastly yellowed skull in the candlelight. And beneath the richly decorated headdress I could clearly see the curve of her skull through her hair.
And there beside her, in his scarlet and gold conqueror’s clothes, was Prince Philip, with thinly veiled irritation lurking just below the surface as he suffered the touch of her hand, with the talonlike nails, possessively grasping his arm. I could see it was all he could do not to slap it away. I watched him watching us, taking careful note of the coldness between us, and I knew I must play this scene for his benefit. I needed him. I could see it in her eyes that Mary wanted me dead, and now I must look to the combined forces of the lust of a Spanish prince and my own wits to save my life.
I could see at a glance that things were not well between Mary and her Spanish bridegroom, and the servants’ gossip that Blanche and Kat had collected confirmed it, though my willfully blind sister was so besotted with Philip that she could not see his genuine contempt and callous indifference. He had not a shred of love for her, or even liking; any scraps of affection he gave her were feigned and false. I could see him grimace every time she spoke to him, fighting not to flinch and pull away each time she touched him, which she did often, forever clinging, begging for his attention and affection like a dog for table scraps. It sickened me! I knew he was here only for one reason—to give Spain a foothold in England, to make our proud little nation another jewel in the Hapsburg crown. You fool—I had to bite my tongue not to laugh in his face and tell him—we English will lay down our lives before we suffer you to rule here; you may be Mary’s consort but you will
never
be king, but the vain and pompous flash of your diamond-brilliant pride will not let you see that. You are as blind in your own way as my sister Mary is in hers!
In my best white gown, I knelt at Mary’s feet, feeling Philip’s lingering and admiring gaze scorch and burn my bosom, as I humbly hung my head and waited for her to address me.
“Well?” she asked, her voice impatient and gruff. “What have you to say for yourself? My Councilors tell me that even after a stay in the Tower and a dreary exile in the country with nothing much to do but think, you
still
refuse to confess your guilt.”
“I cannot confess a crime I have not committed. Mary, you are my sister, and my queen.” I met her eyes boldly as I continued to kneel at her feet. “And I will
not
lie to you. I have had no part in any rebellion or plot against you. Those who have used my name have done so entirely without my sanction or support. I am your
true
and
loyal
subject, as well as your loving sister.”
“Oh you are clever!”
Mary hissed. “You excel in the art of dissembling! You have covered your tracks well and left no evidence against you, knowing that my Council will not allow me to condemn you without it!”

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