by Brandy Purdy
As the day wore on, and word spread, people from all walks of life—rich men, poor men, and those in between—began pouring in to pledge their allegiance. Peasant farmers came brandishing their scythes and pitchforks for want of proper weapons, and the gentry came with lines of armed men equipped with the weapons of war. Those who could not come because of age or infirmity sent gifts of money, carts piled high with provisions to feed or weapons to equip my burgeoning army, twenty thousand strong and growing by the hour. They came from Norfolk, Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire, Suffolk, Berkshire, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, and even London. From every nook and cranny of the kingdom, they came to rally beneath my banner, ready to fight for me, “Great Harry’s daughter,” their one true queen. And the air was rife with cries of “God save Queen Mary. Long may she reign!” and “Down with Northumberland and the false queen Jane!” “Death to all traitors!” “Long live Queen Mary!”
Every time I showed myself, at the windows, or walking on the battlements, or when I went out to mingle with the troops and tender my personal and most heartfelt thanks, the cries grew in number and intensity. Men all around me fell to their knees, hands on their hearts, and swore they would give their lives to see me on the throne where I belonged. They kissed the hem of my gown and even the ground I had walked upon. I had never before felt so loved and wanted. I prayed it would always be like this, that my people’s love for me would never die.
A few days later I had a reply to my letter from Northumberland, writing on behalf of the Council.
My Lady Mary,
Madame, we have received your letter declaring your supposed title which you judge yourself to have. Our answer is to advise you forasmuch as our sovereign lady Queen Jane is invested and possessed with the right and just title to the imperial crown of this realm, not only by good order of old ancient laws of this realm, but also by your late sovereign’s Letters Patent signed with his own hand and sealed with the Great Seal of England in the presence of the most part of the nobles and councilors, judgers and diverse other grown and sage persons assenting and subscribing to the same.
We must profess and declare unto you that by divers Acts of Parliament you be made illegitimate and unheritable to the imperial crown of this realm. You will, upon just consideration thereof, cease your pretense to vex and molest any of our sovereign lady Queen Jane’s subjects, drawing them from the true faith and allegiance due unto Her Grace.
Assuring you that, if you will for respect show yourself quiet and obedient as you ought, you shall find us all ready to do you any service, that we with duty may be glad with you to preserve the common state of this realm, wherein you may otherwise be grievous unto us, to yourself, and to them.
And thus we bid you most heartily well to fare, from the Tower of London, Your Ladyship’s loving friends, showing yourself an obedient subject.
It was signed by Northumberland and twenty-one members of the Privy Council, including that heretic in archbishop’s robes, Thomas Cranmer, the man who had as his first official act upon being appointed Archbishop of Canterbury annulled my parents’ marriage and declared my mother a whore and myself a bastard and Anne Boleyn queen.
In a fury, I crumpled it and flung it at the wall, then stormed out to call my people to assemble in the Great Hall. I had decided that it was best that we move to Framlingham Castle in Suffolk, made of solid, impregnable stone with eight sturdy towers. It was larger and better fortified to withstand a siege, and as the loyal and faithful continued to swell the ranks of my makeshift army we would have need of larger quarters. There, at Framlingham, I had decided, I would make my stand.
As Susan and Jane helped me into my riding clothes and fastened a gleaming silver breastplate over my chest, I thought of my mother and grandmother, both of whom had donned armor at one time or another during their valiant lives, and I vowed that I would not shame myself and would prove myself worthy of them. I also wanted to be remembered as a queen who had donned armor, fully prepared to ride out into battle.
After Susan had set the silver helm, plumed in green and white, the royal Tudor colors, upon my head, I nodded approvingly at my reflection in the mirror. “Let us be off then,” I said, “and fear not, my dears.” I kissed each of my dear devoted ladies on the cheek. “God is with us, so none can be against us!” And I went briskly down the stairs and out into the courtyard to mount my horse and lead my people to Framlingham and, God willing, on to victory.
Every step of the way, I knew I was not alone; I felt as if my mother and grandmother, the strong Spanish warrior queens, were riding right alongside me, in spirit, in proud armor and conviction, once again. And I felt the benevolent and serene presence of the Blessed Virgin infusing my soul with comfort and courage. And God, God was always with us. Every step of the way I felt His presence and He freed me of even the slightest twinge of fear. I knew then that, though the days to come would be difficult, in the end, I would prevail.
And then, a few anxious days later, the miracle happened—I won the battle without a drop of blood being shed. It was over just like that, in the time it takes to snap one’s fingers.
Young Robert Dudley’s men began to desert him and come to me, as did the men manning the warships anchored off Yarmouth to keep me from fleeing the country to seek foreign aid. They threatened to throw their captains into the sea if they did not declare for me, and they did, and to a man, they came marching out to me. And the furious Northumberland, fuming no doubt that if he wanted something done right he must do it himself, assembled his army and rode out himself, leaving the unhappy, unwilling, and unwanted Queen Jane at the mercy of her cruel parents, mother-in-law, bridegroom, and the remaining members of the Council. Then the Treasurer absconded with the money, hurrying hotfoot to me, followed fast by the rest of the Council. And soon they were kneeling, to a man—with the notable exception of Northumberland, of course—with their hands over their hearts, vowing that they were loyal to me, England’s one true queen, and all they had done had been unwillingly at the behest of Northumberland, whose vengeful and violent nature they feared.
Then Northumberland, despised and deserted by all his men, muddy and bedraggled, tried to save himself by ripping down the proclamations declaring Jane queen and flinging his cap and all the gold coins he was carrying into the air as he ran through Cambridge crying, “Long live Queen Mary!” Thus he was captured. The people pelted him with excrement, rotten eggs, and abuse as he was marched back to London. He would later try to save himself by converting to Catholicism in the Tower, but I knew it was just another of his tricks, and he was not to be trusted. He was the one person I could not afford to be merciful to; he was the one traitor who absolutely had to die.
And on July 19, standing before the Eleanor Cross, which Edward I, the venerable and mighty “Hammer of the Scots,” had erected out of love for his deceased wife, the Lord Mayor of London officially proclaimed me queen, and the whole city went mad and merry with rejoicing. Wine flowed in the city fountains, banquet tables with free meat, bread, and cheese were set up throughout the city, bonfires were lit, church bells rang nonstop, and the people cheered and danced, sang, and threw their caps in the air, and strangers embraced strangers in the streets. “God has worked a miracle!” over and over they declared, heaping blessings upon my name, and wishing me a long and prosperous life and reign.
Then I, God’s chosen instrument, the happy recipient of this miracle, this victory without bloodshed, was riding triumphantly toward London along roads lined with cheering, smiling people, weeping with joy, and shouting out their love and blessings to me. Children even climbed trees to get a better look, and called out and waved at me. “God save Queen Mary, long may she reign!” Over and over again they shouted, and all the way to London there was not one moment of silence. That day it was all love and blessings.
Midway to London, Elizabeth rode out to me, riding at the head of a splendid mounted entourage of five hundred ladies, gentlemen, knights, and servants all clad in the g
reen and white Tudor colors. She dismounted and I saw her through a haze of sizzling, shimmering heat, kneeling there in the dusty road in a white gown so blindingly bright a white that I had to shield my eyes. Flaunting her supposed virginity like a banner! I thought, clucking my tongue at the sight of her; I found such emphatic, overzealous display most suspicious, the way she kept pressing and underlining the point, and I could not help but wonder how far Tom Seymour had truly gone with her. Had his fleshly lance indeed shattered the Shield of Hymen? Bareheaded, with her head humbly bowed, with her long red hair shining like scarlet silk in the sun, and the ends trailing in the dust, she spread her hands in a gesture of supplication.
Traveling in white, how utterly impractical! I observed as I dismounted and went to her. Whether they be simpleton or scholar, or somewhere in between, everyone knows how white shows the dirt so. I hope for Elizabeth’s sake, and mine as well—for I will not have her disgracing me with a slovenly, unkempt appearance—that her Mrs. Ashley has brought along the clothes brushes and has them close at hand.
“Well met, sister,” I said as I embraced and kissed her once on each cheek. She was rigid in my embrace now, no longer the little girl who used to nestle into me, begging for bedtime stories. Now she was nineteen, and the survivor of a scandal, with a bold question mark hanging over her virtue. “Come, ride beside me. This is the happiest day of my life, and I want you there beside me, to share it.”
Elizabeth sank into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty does me great honor.”
As she mounted her white horse and instructed her people to fall in line behind mine, I could not help noting, seeing her there all in white, with her vibrant flaming tresses, at the head of half a thousand men and women clad in green and white, that she was like the herald of spring. Whilst I, in my somber high-necked plum velvet and deep crimson satin under-sleeves and kirtle, with a veritable rainbow of gems flashing blindingly in the summer sun on the large crucifix at my throat and edging the purple velvet hood atop my gray-streaked auburn hair—to distract the people’s eyes and compensate for my own faded charms and lined face—was, at thirty-seven, well into the autumn of my life.
I shivered, despite the July heat and heavy velvet, feeling for the first time the hard stamp of mortality. Whether I liked it or not, Elizabeth was the future. Unless I married and God blessed me with a son, Elizabeth would follow in my footsteps up the dais to the throne and wear the crown of England on her head. Thus it was all the more vital that I turn her heart from heresy and persuade her to embrace the true religion, else all the good I was going to do would be undone by The Great Whore’s red-haired brat.
After a brief stop to refresh and tidy ourselves—Mrs. Ashley had indeed had the foresight to bring the clothes brushes—we made our triumphal entry into London. When the people saw us riding side by side, their cheers redoubled and hundreds threw their caps in the air.
I glanced over at Elizabeth, with her white skirts flowing like milk as she sat sidesaddle on her horse, straight-backed and holding confidently to the green leather reins with one hand and waving to the people with the other. I thought it was rather common and undignified the way she smiled so broadly and waved so enthusiastically back at them, sometimes even calling out to them, thanking them for their compliments and goodwill. It was as if she saw them not as a great churning mass of humanity but as individual people; she met their eyes and made them feel as if each one were the special recipient of her attention! Father had been like that. “Bluff King Hal” they had called him because of the magical touch he had with the common people. But while it was acceptable in a man, I thought it altogether unseemly for a lady, especially one of royal blood, to behave so. A woman should be virtuous, above rubies, as the Scriptures said; she should hold herself aloof and reserved, not lower and demean herself by coarse and common manners. If a lady behaved as common as the masses, she became as common as they were, and no one would look up to her or respect her. It was not just her title, jewels, and fine clothes, but her dignity and bearing that set a lady apart and above the humble and lowborn people. Had no one ever explained this to Elizabeth? It seemed to me that as a governess Mrs. Ashley had been most remiss.
I myself preserved a queenly dignity, holding my back straight as an iron poker and nodding and smiling graciously, serenely, benignly, as best becomes a queen, giving only the briefest, most cursory glances, lifting my hand in a controlled and placidly regal wave.
I paused and glared pointedly at Elizabeth, hoping she would read my disapproval in my eyes and, chastened, strive to emulate me, but she only smiled back at me and called to me above the great din of rejoicing that surrounded us, “This is indeed a glorious day, Mary!”
“It is indeed!” I said crisply. Then a little girl ran up, eager and bouncing on her toes, to offer my sister a posy of violets, which she smilingly accepted and tucked into her horse’s bridle, then took from her sleeve a white silk ribbon and gave it to the child in exchange as a memento of this happy day. The little girl thanked her profusely and in a rush of prattle promised she would treasure it all the rest of her life, and even when she was an old woman with hair as white as that ribbon she would still cherish it and pass it on to her children or grandchildren when she died.
I turned and stared straight ahead, startled to feel the sharp bitter bite of jealousy, like the first tart taste of a green apple.
Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright or the people’s voices quite so loving anymore. I listened more closely to what they were saying now.
“Look at that red hair!”
“Aye, it’s just like Great ’arry’s was in ’is youth, it is!”
“No Spanish blood there, she’s all Tudor, that one is!”
“A true English rose!”
“English through and through, to the core our Elizabeth is—blood, bone, and gristle, and amen for it!”
“God bless our Princess Elizabeth!”
“Vivat Elizabetha!”
Though there were still cries aplenty of “God save Queen Mary!” they seemed all of a sudden muted, to lack the clarity and enthusiasm of those who sang my sister’s praises. Suddenly I was stricken with the fear that though they accepted and acknowledged me as their rightful queen, they loved Elizabeth more; I was Queen of England, but she was Queen of Hearts.
And then a handsome young man, with the eyes of a poet, ran up to Elizabeth and kissed the hem of her white gown as if she, and not I, were queen. “The fairest of the fair,” he called her, and vowed he would write a sonnet in “The Fair Eliza’s” honor.
My fingers clenched around the reins and I bit my bottom lip and forced myself to breathe deep and count to ten, and then I counted to ten again, as I fought down the urge to lean over and rip that red hair out by its roots and shove my sister from her saddle to be trampled beneath the horses’ hooves as we rode on past. I wanted to shout at the people, “My sister is the bastard of that whore Anne Boleyn!” and remind them that as such she did not deserve their love and adulation. I was the one who deserved, and needed, their love; I was the Queen, not she. The glory and praise should be mine, all mine. They should be writing songs and sonnets about me, not about that baseborn red-haired temptress, who smiled at me even as her mind hatched plots against me. She was going to steal my throne, I knew it. This day had shown her her power; she had it within her to harness the hearts of the people and command all!
It was not a Christian thought, I admit, and I would later confess and do penance for it. It was most unworthy of me, and shamed me before God and the mirror of my soul, but in that moment it was what I felt, and I cannot deny it, for to do so would be a lie, and that would further compound my sin.
And then, just as suddenly as this pall of suspicion and dread had fallen over me, it was whisked away. A choir of angelic blond-haired little boys in white silk robes trimmed with golden lace appeared singing joyously, praising God for sending a virgin called Mary to sit upon England’s throne. When the song was done the youngest and pret
tiest of those exquisite little children came forward and, cupping it in his little hands, shyly presented me with a heart fashioned of solid gold engraved with the words:
THE HEART OF THE PEOPLE
I was overcome, and as I held that golden heart within my hands I almost believed I could feel it beating and pulsing as if it were real and I did indeed hold the very heart of England.
Then a toothless old man, with tufts of white hair sticking up around his bald pate, broke through the crowd and dashed up to me.
“Princess Marigold! Princess Marigold!” he cried as he thrust a scraggly bouquet of marigolds up at me. I almost tumbled off my horse, I was so astonished that anyone remembered. My heart was beating so fast that I had to press my hand over it, but I did not let emotion overwhelm me and, smiling graciously, I leaned down and accepted that poor little bouquet. The words slightly garbled in his toothless mouth, he continued, “I remember when Your Grace was just a wee thing and your da’, Great ’arry, ’e called you Princess Marigold ’cause your hair was just like ’em in color, it was.”
“Yes.” I nodded, flashing a brief, bittersweet smile down at him as I gazed at the orange-yellow blossoms. “That was a long time ago, but I remember it well. Thank you, my good man; God bless and keep you in His care,” I added, as I passed the flowers back to Susan, riding behind me, to put in her saddlebag with the golden heart and all the other keepsakes I meant to save as reminders of this joyous day.
As I nudged my horse onward, I darted a swift glance at Elizabeth as if to say, “See? You are not the only one who can play to the masses!” But she just smiled back at me, a born actress, to look at her anyone would have thought that she was genuinely happy for me, but I knew better!
