Tudor Throne

by Brandy Purdy

  Already I knew the value of dissembling for self-preservation. Once my father had favored women with sharp, clever minds and the gift of intelligent conversation, but after my mother he put docility and beauty first and foremost, so that his last wife, Katherine Parr, must need stifle her intellect and bridle her tongue and play perpetual pupil to my father’s teacher. I don’t know how she stood it, but it only matters that she survived it.

  Six wives . . . four dead and two living. Their history clearly showed me that marriage is the road to doom and destruction for all womankind and affirmed my conviction that never would I walk it; I would go a virgin to my grave. But I also knew, and feared, that there would be times in the years to come when God would test me.

  3

  Mary

  “The King is dead. Long live the King!” Edward Seymour, the Duke of Somerset, pronounced in a voice both loud and somber. Even as Father’s minion, that heretical serpent Cranmer, leaned down to close Father’s eyes, all other eyes were turning toward the future—pale and weeping little Edward, aged only nine.

  He sat there mute and quaking between my sister and me. And then he turned away from me and flung himself into Elizabeth’s arms, weeping more, I think, at the enormity of what lay ahead of him than for the loss of our father.

  Though Edward had been his greatest treasure, the son he had spent most of his life longing for, Father had never truly taken him under his wing, never forged a bond of friendly father-and-son camaraderie with him; instead, like a priceless jewel, he had locked Edward away, safe under guard with every possible precaution, trying to protect him from any enemy or illness that might threaten the safety of his person and lessen his chance of surviving to adulthood and inheriting the throne. But in doing so, I fear, he made my brother unsympathetic and cold, immune to and unmoved by human suffering.

  It hurt me, I confess, to have Edward turn from me instead of to me, and to hide my pain, I went to kneel by Father’s bed, to pray for his soul and say a private farewell.

  Though I tried hard to hide it, I gagged at the stench, and tears pricked my eyes, but I did my duty and knelt at his side with the ivory rosary beads my sainted mother had given me twined around my hands. Poor Father, he would have much to answer for and, I feared, would linger long in Purgatory.

  Tentatively, I reached out and touched the mottled pink-and-gray flesh of his hand. I bowed my head and kissed it and let my tears cleanse it. How often I had prayed for his anger to end, and for his love for me to bloom anew, like the perfect rose it had once been, not the blighted blossom that had struggled along for years after sweet Jane Seymour broke The Great Whore’s spell that had held Father captive like Merlin in the cave of crystal.

  And now that he was gone, selfishly, I wondered what would become of me. Anne Boleyn’s ambition had paved the way for heresy to take root in England. And those roots had grown into tenacious vines that already held those dearest to me—Edward, Elizabeth, and the Dowager Queen Katherine—in their deadly, soul-destroying grasp.

  I knew I would be pressured to conform. Most of the men on the Regency Council had profited well by the dissolution of the monasteries. They would be loathe to relinquish their ill-gotten gains, and return to Rome all that they had stolen; thus they would encourage this heresy to flourish whilst they stamped and rooted out the true religion.

  But I would confound them; I would rather give up my life than my religion. And I knew then, with complete and utter certainty, as I knelt beside the corpse of my father, that it was my duty to save the soul of England and, like a good shepherdess, lead these poor lost sheep back to the Pope’s flock. I prayed to God to give me, one lone weak and fragile woman, the strength to prevail against the virulent Protestant heresy that had come like a plague to blacken and imperil the souls of the English people, born of ambition and greed, not out of a true but misguided faith. And I knew then, as surely as if a holy beacon of pure white light from Heaven had just shone down upon me, that I had been chosen to guide my country back into the light. I felt a divine presence enfold and embrace me, as if angels knelt on either side of me, enveloping me in their snowy wings, and whispered in my ear that this was my purpose, my divine mission in life, the reason I had been born and survived all the perils and pitfalls that had marked and marred my life, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than fail our Heavenly Father!

  I kissed Father’s forehead and stood up. I promised him that I would make right his wrongs, that the sins he had committed out of Satan-sent carnal lust and the wiles of that witch-whore would all be undone. England would again become a nation of altars blazing with candles as a reminder to all that God is the light of the world. I would be His instrument, His light-bearer, and lead my people out of the dark night of heresy!

  4

  Elizabeth

  Poor little poppet, I thought as Edward wept in my arms. They will dress you up, put words in your mouth, and make you dance to their tune. And there, intently watching his prey with the same greedy, carrion-hungry jet eyes of a raven, is the puppet-master—Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector of the Realm, who will head the Regency Council, presiding over fifteen equally ambitious, power-hungry men, all of whom would not hesitate to pull him from his lofty pedestal and take his place. Poor little poppet indeed—I patted Edward’s back and murmured soothing words—you will have nine years to contend with this before you come into your own and can tell them all to go to the Devil and leave you be to rule your kingdom as you please.

  From the shadowy, candlelit gloom of the deathbed they began to step forward, slowly surrounding us, first Seymour, then the other members of the Council, like sharks closing in around a lone sailor clinging to some bit of flotsam as they circle around, hungry for his blood. And I wondered then if my little brother, who was not so robust as he and our late father liked to pretend, had the stamina and spirit to survive until he reached his majority.

  Boldly, I stared back at Edward Seymour, meeting those beady, black bird-of-prey eyes, and hugged my brother tighter, wishing I had the power to protect him.

  “Edward,” I said firmly, pulling away from him. “Look at me,” I commanded as I stood up.

  “The King is dead,” I said, calmly and straightforwardly. “Long live the King.” With those words I sank in a deep curtsy before my brother and kissed his trembling hand.

  “I am too young to rule!” Edward sobbed.

  “But not too young to reign,” I corrected.

  With a gentle pressure of my hand, I urged him to stand beside me.

  “You were born for this, Edward,” I said, my mind harking back to the three lives, three wives, that had been lost to bring this pale, frail boy into the world. “Your Majesty, it is time for you to greet your Council. These”—I waved a hand to encompass the solemn and stern-faced men who belatedly knelt before the pale, sobbing boy—“are the men who will assist you to govern in your minority and help you acquire the wisdom and skill to rule alone when you are of age.”

  Edward Seymour came forth then and knelt before my brother, and I knew then that he was doomed. This ruthless man would never let go of the reins of power unless they were snatched from him by force. And my brother, God help him, had not that strength; he would never be more than a puppet king. A shiver snaked up my spine then and told me that Edward would never make old bones; either malaise or malice would send him early to the grave. And then the tears that I had fought so hard to hold back began to flow and, though I tried to stifle it, a sob broke from me.

  “God’s teeth, stop that blubbering, Bess!” Edward snapped, endeavoring to make his voice sound gruff and deeper as he struck a pompous pose in imitation of our father’s favorite stance, hands on hips, legs apart. “I never could abide weeping women! Stop it, I say, I am the King and you must obey me; is that not so, My Lord?” he asked, turning to Edward Seymour for approval.

  “Quite right, Your Majesty, quite right.” Seymour smiled as the rest of the Council began to praise my brothe
r’s resemblance to his sire.

  “My brother,” I whispered, “though you do not know it, you have just stepped upon a snake in the grass.”

  “Do not vex me with riddles, Bess, I have not the time for them!” Edward glowered impatiently at me. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his Council and then strode, with them scurrying and smiling after him, in a pompous parody of majesty, from the room where our father lay dead.

  Poor Edward, he thought playacting was enough to make him worthy to fill our father’s shoes, and those about him would do nothing but encourage him to ape the king they had called “Great Harry.” After all, playing and perfecting the part would consume much of Edward’s attention, leaving them free to rule the realm as they pleased. It was as if they had taken a portrait of our father down from the wall, cut out the face, and bade Edward stand behind it, with his face poked through, parroting the lines they whispered, like a prompter in a theater helping the actors to remember their lines. Edward would never be encouraged or allowed to be himself. He would grow up always pretending to be somebody else and in doing so would lose himself before he even knew who he truly was; that was the real tragedy of his life and reign.

  5

  Mary

  In mourning for Father, I withdrew to the country to live quietly, though always in tense and wary expectation of the storm I expected to break at any moment when my brother and the hell-bound heretics who ruled him would officially outlaw the practice of the true religion in England.

  Before he bade me farewell, Edward, with the Lord Protector, Edward Seymour, standing solidly behind him, told me that it was his dearest wish that I would purge my soul of Popish superstitions and cast out of my life all the Papist accoutrements and furbelows that went with it—the rosaries, crucifixes, chalices, candles, plaster saints, holy water, wafers, wine, relics, and censers, and such—and hear the word of God spoken in our own plain, good, wholesome, and unadorned English tongue, rather than the Latin that was the language of priests and scholars and mystified and muddled the minds of the unschooled and ignorant common people, making God more of an aloof stranger and mystery than a real and true presence in their lives. For what good were prayers learned by rote, phonetically, so that those uttering them could not understand? God and His Church did not need to be painted and perfumed and dressed up like a courtesan to be worshiped, Edward stoutly and pompously maintained, striking our father’s favorite pose and standing with his hands on his hips and feet planted wide. Better that it be plain and unvarnished, he continued, and nothing but the pure and naked truth.

  I was horrified to hear my brother comparing my Church to harlotry, and I could not put the shame and fear I felt for his soul into words; I was struck dumb with horror. I was so disappointed in him that I was glad to quit his presence, though not prepared to give up the fight to save his soul; it was clear that Edward needed me. But I knew now was not the time to argue, and that I must choose my battles with care, for if I were defeated at the very start I would fail God and the great work He had saved me for, and Edward’s soul would be just one of the many that would be lost.

  Though Edward liked to think otherwise, I knew my brother, though he now bore the title of “king,” and “Supreme Head of the Church of England,” was in reality only a little boy of nine, a child, and as such incapable of making decisions about such monumental matters as religion; he could not even govern himself, much less the consciences of others. I knew these thoughts were being put into his head, and these words, these blasphemies, put into his mouth by greedy, ambitious men who had grown rich off England’s break with Rome and the plundered gold and lands of the monasteries. They taught my brother heresy as they would a parrot a repertoire of pretty phrases. The poor child was merely a fountain spouting their gibberish and, to make himself feel more mature and grown-up, he had persuaded himself that he understood and believed what he was saying. And to bolster his ego, those about him encouraged him to see himself as an authority on such matters, and to weigh and expound upon them like a hardened and seasoned judge whose mind brimmed with many years’ knowledge and experience. They touted him as a theological scholar like Father had been, but a prodigy because of his tender years and “a virtuous marvel of learning and understanding.” He was urged to regard himself as the torchbearer who would lead England into enlightenment and free his people from the shackles of superstition. And it all went to his head and puffed up his pride to bursting so that he became arrogant, overweening, and almost unbearable. He was a pompous little prig, to put it bluntly, who even chastised me, a woman of undisputable virtue, for sometimes dancing after dinner and for my enjoyment of card games. He even took me to task about my clothing, describing my dresses as “overly lavish and ornate as your gaudy, overdecorated Church is.”

  He was determined to start his reign like a great broom sweeping away all the Papist dust and rubbish that lingered in the land; out with the old and in with the new, he extolled like a cock crowing. And I began to hear reports of blasphemous and sacrilegious remarks he had made. “Holy water makes a good sauce for mutton if a little onion is added,” he declared in a sage and worldly-wise voice as he presided over a banquet. I heard it direct from the Spanish Ambassador, who had the misfortune to be present.

  And it was said that he took immense delight in masques wherein the Pope was portrayed as a villain, a devil in disguise, or even a fool. In one such, dancers costumed as the Pope and a monk were beaten to death with English Bibles and the Book of Common Prayer—that vile, detestable book of collected blasphemies written by that vile, detestable creature Cranmer, who had declared my mother’s marriage legally invalid, an incestuous sin and abomination in the sight of God and man, and myself a bastard, and performed the marriage service for Father and The Great Whore. My poor misguided brother had had that evil, blasphemous book installed in every church in England to corrupt the souls of all who touched it. These wordy weapons were wielded by stern and serious Protestants clad in plain black who monotonously chanted, “The word of the Lord endureth forever!” as concealed bladders of false blood burst and spurted from the prone, thrashing bodies of the Pope and monk, and my brother rocked on his throne and howled with glee and wished a similarly bloody fate to be visited upon all Catholics. And in another masque a dancing Pope suddenly threw off his bejeweled and embroidered robes and miter to reveal the scarlet horns and tail of the Devil as he danced a rude jig replete with lewd gestures and loud belches and farts.

  Such so-called “entertainments” were not for me, and I was glad not to be a part of my brother’s court. I could not have sat there and watched such a sacrilegious spectacle; I would have been afraid God would strike me blind and deaf for bearing witness to such blasphemy or else send a lightning bolt hurtling down from the heavens to annihilate the entire court.

  For a time, they did indeed leave me in peace; they had things of far greater import to occupy themselves with than “a sour old maid who devotes herself to God in the absence of a husband.”

  From Hunsdon, my haven in the Hertfordshire countryside, where I continued to celebrate the Mass with my household and any of the local gentry and common folk who wished to attend, I heard disquieting stories of churches being desecrated in London, denuded of all their ornaments and sacred treasures, and priests being violently attacked and even murdered. The beautiful jewel-toned stained-glass windows, depicting holy saints and stories from the Bible, were smashed, and paintings, tapestries, and statuary of like subjects were also destroyed. Holy books were defiled, often defecated or masturbated upon before they were cast onto the bonfires. And “pissing on the priest” became a favorite sport. Rough and uncouth men would corner some unfortunate man of God, beat him down, often with Bibles and prayer books, then whip out their masculine organs and ease their bladders upon his prone and injured person, laughing as their urine stung his bleeding wounds. I heard the tale of one poor priest who was forced to kneel as a man snatched up a golden chalice from the altar and urinated in it. T
he priest was held up and restrained and forced to drink the watery waste while those about him chanted, “Turn the water into wine!”

  Those loyal to the true faith began to rally around me, like sheep frightened by a wolf running to their shepherd for comfort and protection. Though it was treasonous to speculate about the death of the sovereign, Edward was frail, and if he should die I was next in line for the crown. Some even came stealthily, cloaked and masked by night, to show me secretly and illegally cast horoscopes that affirmed Edward would not make old bones, to give me courage to endure my suffering and persecution as it would only be for a little while. Thus the greedy men on the Regency Council had great cause to fear me. I would make all the wrongs right and undo all the wrongs that had been committed against God and the true religion, and I would also have the power to punish the offenders. I would rid England of every taint and trace of heresy or die trying, and everyone knew it. And when they heard tell of like-minded people rallying around me, it was no wonder they quaked in their shoes and rested uneasily in their beds, but not more uneasily than I did, for I knew that I must with good cause fear for my life when a dagger or a poisoned cup could so easily rid them of these worries. There was even some talk of marrying me off to some foreign prince to rid the realm of the nuisance that was Catholic Mary.

  Around this time a rather strange individual, a tall, shapely-limbed, fine-figured man with a long, auburn beard, dressed in a rainbow of silken fool’s motley, with gaily colored ribbons tied in his bushy beard so that it seemed a nest of bows and silken streamers, intruded—mercifully briefly, but nonetheless disturbingly, upon my life.

  It was my custom to take a daily walk whenever the weather was fine and circumstances permitted. I started this when I first became a woman; I found that it helped ease the cramps and pains of my monthly affliction, and from there it evolved into a habit, which I particularly delighted in whenever I was residing in the country. It was on one of these outings, when I and two of my ladies were on our way to visit a poor family I had taken an interest in, and bring them a basket of foodstuffs, and some blankets and clothing, when this man of mystery first made his presence known.