“Edward, my dear . . .” I tried again.
“My Lord Protector.” With an impatient gesture Edward cut me off and turned to address Edward Seymour. “Did I give my sister leave to address me by my name?”
“Not within my hearing, Your Majesty,” Edward Seymour deftly replied.
“Then please instruct the Lady Mary to use the proper form of address when she speaks to me, and also remind her that she is not to speak at all unless I give her permission to do so.”
“With pleasure, Your Majesty,” Edward Seymour purred with a deferential bow before he turned to address me. “Lady Mary,” he began in a strict, formal tone, “please conform to the requisite etiquette of this court and address the King as ‘Your Majesty,’ and do not be so free and bold with your words as to speak them without first being given leave to by our gracious sovereign. Do not presume on your close familial ties to take liberties; that would be a grave mistake.”
Stung by this public rebuke, which had been delivered before the eyes of the entire court—I could hear their titters and whispers behind my back—I bowed my head low and humbly tendered my apologies before retreating, bobbing the required five curtsies twice more, before I backed out the door and fled to my apartment, fighting back tears all the time.
When I returned later that afternoon after I had lain for a time with a cold compress on my head and composed myself, I was in time to observe a most startling scene—the Lord Protector and his wife were arriving just ahead of Katherine Parr and her husband, the Lord Admiral, Sir Thomas Seymour. I knew there had been some discord between them about the jewels that had been given Katherine Parr when she was queen and whether they were Crown Property or not, and also regarding matters of precedence. As the Queen Dowager, until Edward married and England had a proper queen-consort, she should have enjoyed precedence over every other lady in the land, but since she had remarried, it was argued that she had forfeited this right. The Lord Admiral and his brother had argued bitterly over this and, apparently, judging by what I witnessed, the matter had not been settled.
Just as the Lord Protector’s wife, the Duchess of Somerset, a dear friend of mine whom I fondly called “my good gossip Nan,” was about to sail majestically across the threshold in her rust-red velvet gown, Tom Seymour sprang forward, caught hold of her train, and yanked it back so hard that I heard stitches pop and she tottered backward, flailing her arms, and most assuredly would have fallen had her husband not caught her in time.
At a nod from the Lord Admiral, and wearing a placid smile to match the serene blue silk of her gown, Kate walked calmly into the royal Presence Chamber.
“Wait, Kate!” Tom cried, causing her to turn back. “Are those not your pearls around that fat sow’s neck?” he demanded, pointing at the Duchess’s necklace.
Kate hesitated, obviously not wanting to quarrel further, especially not in such a public place with so many eyes upon them. “Tom, please . . .”
But the Lord Admiral was not listening; already he was darting forward to snatch the pearls from Nan’s neck and fling the broken strand, with pearls flying every which way, at his brother’s feet.
“See!” he bellowed triumphantly, standing tall and proud with his hands upon his hips. “I have cast these pearls down before a swine!”
“Tom, please . . .” With a worried frown creasing her brow, Kate came and took his arm. “Come, husband, let us go in and wish Edward a happy birthday.”
“We shall see who is liked best here!” Tom tossed back defiantly over his shoulder as he gave in and let Kate lead him into the King’s Presence Chamber.
Ignoring the proper etiquette, Tom bounded up to the dais where Edward sat, pouting and pompous in white velvet, cloth-of-silver, and rubies. “Edward, my boy! How fares my favorite nephew?” He swooped the arrogant little king up, swung him round, high in the air, as if he were a tot still resident in the nursery instead of a young man teetering on the verge of adolescence, and then, to the astonished gasps of all, plopped himself down onto the throne as if it were his favorite fireside chair, with Edward on his lap.
“I have brought you a new pony and a suit of shiny silver armor beautifully enameled with Tudor roses, and a falcon. His name is Hercules; I trained him myself to ensure that he was fit for a king—for you, my fine boy! Ho there! Bring in that pony!” Tom shouted and with a startled, indignant cry I leapt aside as the inquisitive snout of a black-and-white pony nuzzled the back of my skirts. The Lord High Chamberlain ran toward the door, loudly protesting, “You cannot bring a pony into the King’s Presence Chamber!” but the Lord Admiral ignored him. “Bring him in, Barney, and the hawk too!” he commanded as if he were himself king, and another servant followed with a hooded falcon perched on his leather-gauntleted arm.
As it passed me, the hawk screeched and nervously flapped its wings, causing the bells on its jesses to jangle. I gasped and clasped a hand to my heart, which was beating far too fast from the various assaults and indignities I had been subjected to throughout the course of the day.
“Susan!” I called, looking round for my chief lady-in-waiting. “Have you my smelling salts? I am not well!”
As I clutched the little crystal vial to my nose and inhaled sharply I saw my little brother whisper something into the Lord Admiral’s ear and Tom Seymour produced from the folds of his doublet a blue velvet purse bulging no doubt with coins of silver and gold, which Edward, his eyes agleam with joyful avarice, hastily concealed beneath the folds of his ermine-edged surcoat.
Elizabeth was the next to arrive, making quite an entrance, cheered by the common folk and servants alike who thronged the gates and courtyard just to catch a glimpse of her. She wore amber velvet delicately embroidered with swirls of golden thread and furred at the sleeves with tawny, with a necklace of amber hearts and gold filigree about her slender white neck, as long and swan-like as The Great Whore’s had been. And with a haughty spirit instead of humility she made the requisite series of curtsies, then knelt to present Edward with her birthday offering. It was a book she had made and bound herself. The covers were beautifully embroidered, and the inside filled with “certain passages from Your Majesty’s Book of Common Prayer that particularly touched my heart and made a great impression upon me, so that my soul finds solace and my mind turns to them again and again to ponder both their wisdom and their beauty,” Elizabeth explained. All were elegantly inscribed in her bold and elaborate Italianate script, all curlicues and flourishes, as if she had actually embroidered each word upon the paper, like black silk on white linen, reminiscent of the Spanish blackwork embroidery my mother had taught me. She had, like the monks and nuns of the good but sadly gone days, illuminated the borders of each page with gilt and colored inks, drawing various fruits, flowers, designs, and symbols.
Overjoyed with this gift, Edward ordered a cushioned stool brought so that Elizabeth might sit beside him as he perused its pages, nodding over it sagely and enthusiastically, excitedly reading aloud certain passages that he particularly favored. The courtiers nodded approvingly and proffered compliments on how well the King read and understood scripture, praising God for blessing them with so devout and erudite a king who had been born free of the shackles of Rome and papist superstition. And Elizabeth was invited to sit again on the dais with him for that evening’s entertainment.
Before she kissed his hand and took leave of him, Edward declared her his “favorite sister” and remarked on how she “glowed with the inner radiance of one who has embraced the Reformed Faith.”
Having failed so dismally with Edward, I again sought out my little cousin Jane. I knew it would both delight and soothe me to dress her in the gown I had given her. Dressing that pretty child would be just like being a little girl again and dressing up my dolls.
Modestly, she tried to put me off, blushing and stammering, unable to get the words out, at times almost verging on tears, but I insisted, and in the end, she let me have my way. As I undressed her, we both averted our eyes and pointedl
y said nothing about the ugly bruises marring her pale flesh and the silver-white scars up and down her back, buttocks, and the backs of her thighs. And soon she stood before the looking glass sumptuously arrayed in silver and gold, as I drew the brush through those luxuriant chestnut waves, then set the French hood in place.
“See, Jane, we shall be dressed in reverse!” I smiled, spinning around before her to show off my gold tinsel gown trimmed with silver lace, pearls, and diamonds that was an almost exact mirror image of Jane’s gown. I even had a silver lace veil down my back to contrast with her gold one. “But wait, I have one more surprise for you!” And I took from a concealed pocket in my overskirt a velvet box and opened it to reveal a dainty necklace of pearls set in gold rosebuds. “Let me put it on you, my dear!”
When I kissed her cheek and left her she was still standing before the mirror in a state of speechlessness, pale-faced and wide-eyed with amazement. Poor dear, with all her plain dresses and cruel parents, I am sure she never expected to see herself dressed so fine. I am sure that until then she never realized just how pretty she was. And such a dress was indeed the stuff of dreams; indeed, I had told my dressmaker to make a dress that would make those dreams come true, and she had excelled beyond my wildest expectations. With my gift I had pulled Jane out of her cocoon and I could not wait for the court to see the beautiful butterfly that had emerged, so with a glad heart I hastened to the Great Hall so I could be present to see the reaction when Jane arrived. I just knew she would take everyone’s breath away!
An hour later Jane walked in wearing a plain black cloth gown, its square neckline filled in with a partlet of plain white lawn without even a stitch of embroidery or a brooch. Her beautiful hair was drawn severely back and pinned up tight, out of sight, beneath the plain black veil of her equally plain black hood. Her only adornment, if it could be accounted such, was a little black velvet-bound prayer book that hung from a black braided cord about her waist. I was so hurt that she had rejected my gift that at first I failed to notice that she was walking very stiffly and her eyes were red as if she had been crying.
I would later hear from my good Susan—who heard the tale direct from Mrs. Ellen, Jane’s much harried and vexed nurse—what had happened after I left Jane’s room. Jane had burst into tears and begun to claw at the dress, calling it “tawdry and vainglorious,” and declaring that she “would rather go naked as God made me than offend His eyes with such a decadent and wanton waste of skilled hands that would have been better occupied in sewing simple garments to clothe the poor than in creating such Papist fripperies!” Ripping the gown from her body as if it burned her, Jane flung it into the cold fireplace, onto the ashes. Then, overcome by the enormity of what she had just done, she was assailed by a sudden nervous loosening of the bowels that sent her running for her chamberpot, which Jane afterward recklessly emptied onto the dress, to render it completely unfit to ever wear again. When her mother came in and saw what she had done, she sent for her riding crop and provided a series of raw ruby-red stripes to adorn Jane’s back, bottom, and thighs, which accounted for her slow, stiff gait.
I watched as Thomas Seymour left Kate’s side and crossed the room to sweep Jane up high in the air and spin her around, just as he had done earlier with Edward. Smiling broadly, he loudly declared, “I see big things in store for you, little Jane! Bigger than you can even begin to imagine!”
When he put her down, he took her hand and led her to the banquet table. I watched Jane hesitate and try to pull away when he showed her where she should sit, but Tom Seymour bent low and whispered something in her ear, and when Edward came in and we all sat down, Jane gingerly lowered herself into the seat of honor at Edward’s side.
A great cake had been prepared to celebrate my brother’s birthday, a towering confection of currant cake slathered in waves of pink-tinged whipped cream, with a profusion of red and black berries riding the crest of the waves. It was crowned by a marzipan subtlety depicting his late mother’s device—a woman with a crown atop her long flowing yellow tresses emerging from a red and white Tudor rose, whilst behind her a gilded phoenix rose proudly into the sky.
Like a village matchmaker, Tom Seymour leapt up from his chair and went to lean and whisper into Edward’s ear when the cake was being served. Edward nodded and bade one of the servers bring Lady Jane, along with her slice of cake, the little head-and-shoulders figure of his late mother. Edward presented it to our blushing, diminutive little cousin himself, saying that since she was named after his late mother it was only fitting that she should have this, her likeness, while the court smiled and, led by a broadly beaming Tom Seymour, applauded the gesture and declared it charmingly romantic.
As the evening wore on, I became more certain of Tom Seymour’s intentions. When, at his direction, Jane was again seated at Edward’s side, this time upon the dais to watch the entertainments, the pieces began to fall into place—Edward and Jane were the same age, born in the same month and year and, as Edward himself had stated, Jane had indeed been named in honor of his mother, and they were both misguided children wrongly reared up to walk the road of heresy. Tom Seymour was obviously grooming Jane to be England’s next queen, a homegrown Protestant queen in lieu of a more dynastically and financially beneficial foreign bride. And when Elizabeth, who had been invited to sit with our brother, started to join them, the Lord Admiral caught her arm, whispered something in her ear, and drew her away, no doubt urging her to leave the young couple alone so that romance might blossom unchecked. This only confirmed my suspicions.
When the evening’s entertainment began I was so horrified I found myself stricken with a stunned and sickened paralysis; I could not stir, only sit there staring in horror and outrage at what was happening right before my eyes.
A troupe of tiny chattering monkeys was led in by their handler. Each little figure was garbed as a Roman cleric; there were monks, bishops, cardinals, priests, and the female monkeys were dressed as nuns. The largest monkey, a great shaggy orange-haired beast, wore the white robes and miter of His Holiness, the Pope, and carried a staff topped by a jeweled crucifix. At the sight of them the whole court erupted in gales of delighted laughter. And Edward so forgot his dignity that he roared with laughter, rocking back and forth upon his throne, until tears ran down his face, and he clutched his sides, as the monkeys capered and danced before him.
“What could be more apt?” he asked Lady Jane beside him, who, in her mirth, had forgotten the pain of her latest beating and also rocked with laughter.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jane replied, “the papists are a lot of posturing apes, so this is very apt indeed!”
And then the monkeys began to misbehave. One of the little nuns pulled the skirt of her habit up over her head and began to dance round in circles, exposing her privy parts to the males until one of the monks leapt on her and the two began to copulate quite shamelessly at the foot of the throne.
The whole court roared with laughter, cheered them on, and called out encouragement and crude and bawdy remarks, and began to pelt the monkeys with little jewel-colored candied fruits, nuts, dates, grapes, and raisins as one by one, the monkey nuns flipped up their skirts and presented their private parts to the monks, priests, bishops, and cardinals, until only a few were left without a mate. And the hideous little beasts not preoccupied with carnal congress greedily fell on the sweets, and some even snatched them up and threw them back at the guests. I heard a woman shriek and turned to see my friend Nan in a state of great distress. Apparently some of the sweetmeats thrown by the monkeys had gone down the front of her gown and one of the horrid little monsters had gone bounding greedily after them and was now reaching his tiny furry black paw down between her creamy ample breasts to grope for them. Nan shrieked and tried to beat him off with her fan. Her husband abandoned his post beside the King and ran to assist her, slapping at and cursing the shrieking monkey, which snapped at and tried to bite him whilst those around looked on and laughed uproariously instead of coming to
their aid.
There were monkeys everywhere now; some of them were swarming over the great cake prepared for my brother’s birthday, gobbling up handfuls of the moist cake and creamy frosting or else slinging globs of it at the courtiers. Others raced along the banquet table sampling wine and food from the gold and silver plates or flinging it about. One little fellow, entranced by a jiggling fat jelly-woman in green and yellow skirts with a jolly, smiling apple-cheeked face sculpted from colored marzipan, sought to embrace and carnally unite with her, but instead fell from the table with the jelly lady plopping down on top of him with a loud splat.
Their harried handler, not knowing which of his charges to try to curtail first, ran back and forth and round in circles, starting off first in one direction and then turning and going in another, rather like a dog running round in circles after his own tail.
The court was torn between mirth and panic now; some screamed with laughter and others screamed in fear, racing toward the doors or else climbing up onto the tables and chairs, trying to evade the monkeys run amok. Upon his great gilded throne my brother watched it all, and slapped his thigh and rocked and roared with laughter, as the now frightened Lady Jane Grey cowered against him, now unable to share his amusement; the joke had gotten out of hand and was no longer quite as funny.
As the big ugly orange ape playing the Pope lifted his white robes and began to enthusiastically fondle himself, my limbs at last recovered their ability to move and I bolted from my chair and fled the Great Hall as a wave of nausea fanned up in my stomach. As I went, I passed Elizabeth, leaning against the wall, calmly watching it all, nonchalantly sipping from a golden goblet, as cool as the cucumber-colored silk of her gown.
With my hand clasped over my mouth, I hurried along the torchlit corridor until I found a secluded spot and vomited into the rushes. As I was still bent over, gasping, and bracing myself against the wall, I felt someone brush against me and a hand reach round to cup my breast.
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