by Brandy Purdy
But against Tom Seymour’s fatal charm we were all powerless. Kat found herself in the same quandary as I did myself—her heart saying one thing and her head another. She made an effort to arise earlier to rush me out of bed and into my clothes before Tom came sauntering in for his early morning visits.
“Must I sleep fully clothed to thwart him?” I groused at having to rise before the dawn.
“Nay, lovey,” Kat said, her words contradicting her actions as she laced me into my gown, “you are even more comely in only your hair and bare skin. The Lord Admiral his naughty self told me that when you blush you are like a statue of pink ivory sprung to life!”
And on mornings when she was loathe to drag herself out of her warm bed, Kat did manage to come in before matters went too far, to shoo “that naughty man” out and to scold him for coming bare-legged in his nightshirt and slippers into a maiden’s bedchamber. “It is a most improper way to come calling, My Lord!” she chided as sternly as she could against that dagger-sharp deathly charm.
I had yet to grant him the ultimate favor, and Kat was determined that my virginity, a woman’s most precious commodity, and vital to a princess in the royal marriage game, should be preserved until my wedding night whether my bridegroom be the Lord Admiral or someone else—a fine prince perhaps?—as yet unknown to me.
But Tom had a way of getting the better of her, and if he was inclined to tarry, there was nothing Mrs. Ashley could do about it. I remember him once dropping to his knees and scampering about the room on all fours, barking like a dog, as he gave chase to my flustered governess, running her round and round the room, before he pounced and sunk his teeth into her “great buttocks” through her voluminous billowing white bedgown. Kat yelped and clutched her bottom. “Oh you wicked, wicked man!” she cried as she fled back into her bedchamber and bolted and barricaded the door behind her. And muffled by its thickness we heard her repeat again that Tom was a “wicked, wicked man” and never had she seen the likes of him, whilst I fell back on my bed, convulsed with glee, and he, still playing the fool, bounded up onto the bed and began to kiss and lick me from head to toe, like a great big, playful puppy.
Another time, when she walked in just as he was lifting the hem of his nightshirt, to mischievously show me what I had done to him, Kat gave a squeal of horror and Tom turned smilingly to her and lifted his nightshirt still higher and began to walk toward her, holding his cock like a weapon. “Lift up that skirt, woman,” he smilingly commanded. “I want to see if those great buttocks of yours are truly the stuff of dreams and then, perhaps, I shall indeed stuff this between them!” With a terrified shriek, Kat fled, again to lock and barricade herself in her room, leaving me, her charge, to fend for myself, as Tom shucked off his nightshirt and leapt laughing onto my bed and into my arms.
The fear that she would bear the full brunt of the blame should the whole sordid story come out still needling at her, Kat went to speak with Kate. Time had revealed that pregnancy was the cause of my stepmother’s strange lethargy, and, though it was obvious she was troubled by suspicions herself, she rounded on my Mrs. Ashley, scolding her soundly for troubling her with such wicked accusations, staunchly defending her husband as a great overgrown boy, always playing and making merry, a great one for jests, sometimes of the bawdy sort, but never meaning any harm, and to insinuate such things against him was an insult she took personally to heart. And to prove her loyalty and belief in her husband’s innocence, and to try to silence the servants’ gossip, she began, for a time, to accompany Tom on his morning visits to me.
With his wife at his side, cloaking her concern with a strained smile, Tom curtailed his attentions to me, restricting himself to playful smacks and ticklings, and chasing me and Mrs. Ashley around the room, and kisses and hugs of the kind that none could call unsuitable, the sort that any fond stepfather or uncle might give to a young girl. Sometimes he still played at lady’s maid, but only as a jester would, swapping silliness for sensuality, until, satisfied that nothing was amiss, Kate resumed lying abed late and left her husband to play whatever games he pleased.
“It’s all perfectly innocent, child’s play, boisterousness and high spirits, and I will hear no more about it,” she said firmly and turned her back on my governess’s wringing hands and worried eyes.
So Tom and I continued on the same as always. We would wave a lighthearted good-bye to Kate and off to picnic beneath the trees we would go, mocking her constant craving for cheese tarts. Even though they bent her double in a bloated agony that resulted in loud, stinking farts that greatly undermined her dignity, still she could not resist them. They called to her like a siren’s song, and the cook was kept busy baking batches of them almost daily. Giggling like naughty children, Tom and I would roll on the grass in each other’s arms, laughing and making up silly rhymes about tarts and farts.
But it was all about to end. Tom himself would cure me of all my dreams and delusions about love and passion. He would douse the flame even as he sought to bank it up into a soul- and sense-consuming inferno that would destroy the last vestiges of reason and restraint and leave me lying shattered at his feet, a weak and foolish woman enslaved and entirely in his power.
9
Mary
I was so delighted when my little cousin, Lady Jane Grey, accepted an invitation to come stay a week with me in October. She always held herself so stiff and aloof; I was afraid she didn’t like me. When I kissed, embraced, and touched her or reached out to stroke and pet her beautiful hair, she would flinch and stiffen, and pull away from me, but I loved children and was determined to win her.
I had not seen that shy little lady in ever so long, though I remembered well the delicate beauty of her heart-shaped face, milky white with a smattering of freckles, like cinnamon sprinkled on cream, and her wealth of wavy chestnut hair. Elfin was a word that always sprang to my mind when I thought of her; she was so diminutive, small-boned and slender, tiny for her years, like one of those unobtrusive household sprites that are said to help tidy the house if a treat is left out for them at night. She was one of the most striking children I had ever seen, though shy beyond measure, morose and unsmiling, and incapable of meeting anyone’s eyes. She rarely spoke above a whisper except in the presence of like-minded scholars; she was so besotted with learning that in the schoolroom she quite forgot her shyness and spoke up boldly, parading her intelligence like a peacock strutting to show off his tail feathers.
Her dainty, pallid ghost still stalks my dreams; I see her as a forlorn little figure in her stark black, brown, or gray gowns, and equally plain hoods, devoid of ornamentation except for a discreet border of jet or silk braid. I can see her standing there, assuming that stiff stance, with her hands clasped, and her sorrowful brown eyes downcast. There was something always so sad about her.
I remembered being her age and how I had always loved and longed for pretty things. I wanted to banish the blacks and chase the dull grays and mud-dingy browns out of her wardrobe and replace them with rainbows and glitter; I wanted to make her smile, sparkle, and shine. I wanted to change the grays to silver and the browns to copper and the blacks to gold, to coax out the glints of red and gold hiding in that abundant, wavy mass of chestnut hair.
Though envy is a sin, I confess I was guilty of it, for I did envy Jane Grey the glory and abundance of her hair. My own had grown distressingly thin and faded. When gray begins to take a tenacious foothold, encroaching more every year, in some women’s hair, it has a lovely silvery hue, but not so with mine. On me it was dull and made me appear haggard and older. When I was a little girl everyone loved my hair. How sadly I had changed! All is vanity!
But Jane was, alas, misguided in matters of religion. She was a rabidly fervent Protestant, like a mad dog afflicted with the rabies of heresy, and had a distressing tendency to sometimes be rude and obnoxious in expressing her beliefs and mocking those of others, even if they were her elders. It was not a becoming trait in one so pretty.
One night,
after a quiet supper, as we walked past the open doors of my chapel I curtsied low and crossed myself. Jane watched me with a puzzled expression and then asked, “To whom do you curtsy? I see no one within.”
“I am curtsying to the Host, my dear,” I gently explained, gesturing to the holy wafers that lay upon a golden plate on the beautifully arrayed altar, draped with embroidered gold-fringed cloth and adorned with a large bejeweled crucifix, all illuminated by a number of tall, perfumed tapers. “The bread is consecrated and represents the body of Our Lord and it becomes thus indeed when it is elevated by the priest during Mass; that is why it is called the Miracle of the Mass. And it is such a wondrous, glorious thing to behold, to gaze up reverently and feel that one is in the presence of the Lord and He is performing a miracle for our benefit, to reward us for our faith!”
“I see.” Little Jane nodded gravely. “Pray tell me, Cousin Mary, do you also do obeisance to the baker who baked the Lord in his oven? And do you think it a fit expression of your love of Our Savior to chomp Him between your teeth?”
I was so outraged I wanted to slap her, but I curtailed my wrath, remembering that violence was a familiar and commonplace fixture in Jane’s sad life. Her parents thought it their bounden duty to beat her raw with a riding crop for the tiniest infraction or imperfection of appearance, conduct, speech, or demeanor. Servants gossiped of Jane’s mother, the robust, rawboned, red-haired Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, beating Jane until she collapsed exhausted, florid-faced and panting, and had not the strength to raise the crop or cane again and had to be helped from the room by her maids, leaving her daughter lying weeping and bleeding on the floor.
So I suppressed my rage, and instead said quietly, “You have much still to learn, little Cousin Jane. For one so wise in book-learning you are surprisingly bereft of tact and human sympathy and understanding. But now is not the time to discuss it; come with me”—I determinedly took her hand—“I have a surprise for you. . . .”
Though I still harbored grave reservations about Chelsea and those who lived there, and particularly disliked the idea of impressionable young people such as my sister and Jane being brought up in an environ of moral laxity by a widow who had failed to properly honor her late husband’s memory and leapt lustily and straightaway into another man’s bed before the requisite mourning period had passed, I was, for the sake of Jane’s physical well-being, grateful that Katherine Parr had taken her under her wing. Vowing that he would make a grand marriage for her, the Lord Admiral had purchased her wardship from her parents, who were no doubt glad to have more time to devote to their shared great passion for hunting instead of having to beat their eldest daughter bloody black and blue.
So instead of chastising Jane for her blasphemous impudence as she sorely deserved, I took her hand and led her into her bedroom where, spread out upon her bed, lay an opulent silver tinsel gown festooned with heavy gold parchment lace, little twinkling diamonds, and delicate seed pearls. And there was a matching French hood, sparkling with an intricate braided edging of gold, pearls, and diamonds, with a waist-length gold lace veil in back.
“There!” I said, beaming down at it. “Now what do you think of that, Cousin Jane?”
The poor, pale little thing was overcome, struck speechless at the sight of that sumptuous gown, the likes of which I am sure she had never seen. And, in truth, I could not blame her. It was magnificent .
“It is . . . it is . . .” She gulped, then blurted out quickly, “It is very grand, Madame!”
“Oh sweeting!” I smiled down at her and stroked her cheek. “Not Madame. Call me what I am—your Cousin Mary! And yes, it is indeed very grand! I had it made just for you, to wear when we go to court to celebrate the King’s birthday. I remember how when I was a little girl I always loved pretty things; and it is time we got you out of those drab and boring clothes. And I long to see my plain little Jane transformed into a beautiful butterfly! Oh but I can see you are overwhelmed!” I hugged the poor little thing, standing there gaping and, I could tell, on the verge of tears. “And the hour grows late, so I will leave you to your rest,” I said as I withdrew, admittedly feeling a little hurt that she had not expressed her gratitude more enthusiastically; she had not even hugged me back, and I had taken such time and lavished so much care upon the creation of that beautiful gown. She had not, it occurred to me afterward, as I settled myself into bed, even said “thank you.”
The next day, Jane and I left for Hampton Court, to be with Edward on his tenth birthday. I had a special gift for him and could not wait to see the smile that would light up his face when I gave it to him. I had worked my fingers to the bone, stabbing, blistering, and scraping them, all out of love for my little brother, to create a gift born of my own heart and hands, so that I had to resort to slathering them in creams and ointments and sleeping in white linen gloves so that they would be soft, ladylike, and presentable when I knelt before my brother to wish him a happy birthday.
I did not know it then, but it would be the last time we would all be together—Edward, Elizabeth, Jane, and I.
My brother’s court was far different from Father’s. It was marked by a frowning severity interspersed with occasional bursts of gaiety, like loud fireworks lighting up the night sky and quickly fading in a shower of sparks that sank into the dingy dark water of the Thames. Edward’s face habitually wore a frown, despite his youth; he personified the words priggish and pompous. He dressed in clothes greatly puffed and padded that mimicked the garments Father had worn in his later years, and pronounced oaths and struck poses also in imitation of him, but it was more a pathetic caricature than a true likeness. Though none would dare admit it, everyone could see it, even those who encouraged him. Though sired by a king, Edward simply was not meant to be one, though his handlers treated him like liquid candy and saw themselves as the confectioners who poured him into a mold shaped like the late, great Henry. Something was wrong in the mixture, recipe, or technique, and it would never turn out right.
Edward was a stickler for ceremony and had changed the rules regarding entering and exiting the King’s presence from what they had been in Father’s day. I was now required to curtsy not thrice but a full five times upon entering his presence, and five times again when I reached the foot of the dais where he sat upon his gilded throne, and then I must kneel, and stay thus, until he either bade me rise or withdraw, and upon leaving I must walk backward and again twice repeat the five requisite curtsies. I thought it overmuch, especially for a sister of the King, but, since it was his birthday, I chose not to speak up.
Instead, dressed in a splendid new black gown lavishly embroidered in red silk, with full puffed under-sleeves and a kirtle of red embroidered in black, with a large, ruby-studded crucifix pinned boldly and proudly at my breast, I knelt humbly before him, staring down at his square-toed red-silk-slashed white velvet slippers resting on a velvet cushion, and holding out my carefully prepared gift, wrapped in cloth-of-gold and tied at each end with silver cord, and waited for Edward to acknowledge me.
“Sister,” Edward intoned grandly, giving me his hand to kiss, “you have brought us a present for our birthday, I see.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I answered, feeling the bite of the step’s edge through my skirts and wishing he would give me leave to rise, but I kept smiling and offered up my gift to him.
With childish delight that revealed his true age, Edward cast aside his grown-up pretensions as he eagerly undid the wrappings and lifted out the most beautiful hobbyhorse the world has ever seen. His head was cloth of gold dappled with regal purple embroidered silk spots, and his mane made of long bright red silk fringe. His black eyes were fashioned of glittering jet, and his silver bridle sparkled with jewels—I had dismantled a necklace and a pair of earrings to provide them—a procession of which continued down the silver stick, upon which was affixed a small quilted purple velvet saddle so that Edward could ride in comfort.
“Do you like him, Edward?” I asked eagerly, with an earn
est, childlike smile. “You can ride him in the gallery when the weather is foul and outdoors in the garden when the weather is fine. Though it was bold of me, I know, to name him, I call him Golden Gallant. I made him with my own two loving hands!” I held up my hands for Edward to see, half wishing now that I had not gone to such pains to heal my blisters and restore my skin to its usual ladylike softness so that he could see proof of how hard I had labored out of love for him.
“A hobbyhorse, Mary?” Edward frowned down at me and queried in pompous disbelief. “You have given the King of England a toy meant for babies, Mary?”
Edward arrogantly thrust my gift aside, and the Lord Protector, Edward Seymour, took it and, with a malicious smile lurking about his lips, broke my beautiful hobbyhorse over his knee and tossed the two pieces contemptuously over his shoulder, then brushed his hands together and resumed his vigilant pose beside Edward’s throne.
“Go!” Edward leaned his cheek sulkily on his hand and slouched down in his throne as he waved me away. “The very sight of your sniveling face vexes me!”
“But, Edward, my dear brother, I . . .” Tears pricked my eyes as I vainly tried to find the right words to explain that I had meant no harm or offense, I just wanted my brother to have the luxury of being a child while he was still a child, and playing like one, instead of always being burdened with the weighty duties and pomp and ceremony that came with a crown.
“By this gesture you have shown me exactly what you think of me, Mary,” Edward informed me coldly. “And my Councilors have told me that you have often expressed your opinion that I lack the maturity and years to make important decisions. You see me as a child, not a king!”
