35
Mary
Of course I could not go down to the docks of Southampton and welcome him personally—that would not have been fitting—but with a spyglass trained to my eye, to remedy my shortsightedness, and my cloak, skirts, and full, hanging over-sleeves whipping wild and flapping about me, being pulled this way and that most vexingly by the wind, which had already presumed to snatch the hood from my head and the pins from my hair, I stood beneath an alarmingly gray sky dotted with dark roiling clouds, and watched it all from the rooftop of the Bishop’s palace with Susan and Jane beside me, holding fast, as if they feared I too might be blown away.
Never before had I seen anything more magnificent than his flagship, the Espíritu Santo. It was an enormous twenty-four-oared galley, painted all in vivid red and sunny yellow, with a beautiful blue-mantled Virgin mounted as a serenely smiling figurehead upon the prow, holding out a candle to light the way. Its hull was painted like the most beautiful flower garden imaginable. It was a true paradise! There were flowers of every kind and color, and heavily laden fruit trees, all accented with gold; there were even bees, birds, and butterflies hovering over the blossoms, even proud strutting peacocks. The forecastle was draped with red cloth sewn with golden blossoms, and from the mainmast fluttered the flag of Spain and the Prince’s coat of arms. Every bit of rigging was adorned with little alternating red and yellow silk pennants that waved gaily in the breeze. This awe-inspiring, gigantic marvel of a ship led a flotilla of 125 smaller ships, carrying an entourage of 9,000 Spaniards—grandees, their ladies, thousands of servants, priests, the Prince’s personal physicians and apothecaries, and fine Spanish mules and horses, of course. The ships were all painted either red or yellow, with their riggings aflutter with thousands of tiny silk pennants of the same two colors.
But upon the deck of the flagship was a sight even more magnificent to behold than the ship itself, a sight which even if I lived for a hundred years I doubt I would ever see equaled, much less surpassed. Upon the wide expanse of the deck—I am sure it was as big or even bigger than the largest palace Great Hall ever built—were musicians in extravagant costumes of striped and slashed red and yellow, sewn along the seams with tiny gold bells, with long ribbon streamers flowing gracefully back from their shoulders as they played their instruments, and parti-colored hose and tasseled boots with long pointy toes reminiscent of those that had been worn in bygone days, and felt caps with red and yellow plumes. As they played, fifty—or maybe even a hundred, or somewhere in between that number—couples danced. Each man wore a costume similar to the musicians, very elaborate and form-fitting to show off his virile, masculine physique, with short jackets that ended at their trim waists, flaring out over their hips, and figure-hugging hose and mammoth codpieces that left nothing to the imagination, and tasseled ankle boots of red or yellow Spanish leather. And each woman wore a gown trimmed with silk roses and ruffles of the same sunny yellow and vibrant red, and mantillas of red or yellow lace, with their feet encased in high-heeled slippers of either yellow or red with roses of the contrasting color on the toes and satin ribbons wrapped about their shapely ankles and tied in bows. As they swirled and shook their ruffled skirts, displaying their shapely limbs, their dancing partners beat beribboned tambourines. On another part of the deck, sailors in uniforms of the same red and yellow, sporting wide-legged breeches, danced a boisterous hornpipe. And there were jugglers expertly displaying their art with red and yellow balls, and there were ugly little dwarves in outlandish red and yellow spotted and striped costumes sewn with bells, who tumbled, capered, and danced, rolled their eyes, stuck out their tongues, and made funny faces. And up high in the rigging, all aflutter with red and yellow silk pennants, acrobats, as agile as monkeys swinging from tree to tree in the jungle, performed feats of daring. The sight was so dazzling and alive with motion and color the eye hardly knew where to look. I wished Father’s master painter, Hans Holbein, were still alive, so that he might capture it on canvas; one could look at it a hundred times and notice something new every time. Each one of the performers had somewhere about their person a perfumed silken rose of either red or yellow, so exquisitely crafted they looked at first glance real, and when the ship docked they tossed these out into the crowd of gaping and dumbstruck onlookers. It was such a dizzying, magnificent sight that it would later be said by many that never before in their life had they seen so much yellow and red at one time and hoped never to again; some even claimed it gave them blinding headaches that lasted three days.
Then he was there. My handsome, golden-haired and golden-bearded bridegroom clad all in white velvet delicately embroidered with pearl and diamond flowers springing from golden foliage swirling across his chest. His fine legs were encased in white silk hose and tall white leather boots with tops that flared about his thighs. As he disembarked he removed his white plumed cap and held it humbly in his hands.
As he started to falteringly speak the unfamiliar English words of a speech he had learned, to thank the good people for turning out to welcome him, the storm broke with a vengeance. Thunder boomed loud enough to rattle every glass windowpane in town, and blinding white lightning streaked across the sky, as a dense torrent of needlelike rain poured from the black clouds overhead.
Shrieking, the Spaniards ran for cover as the red and yellow dyes on their costumes began to run off in rivulets of rainwater. Sir Anthony Browne quickly brought forward the white horse that was my special gift to my beloved and boosted the poor startled Prince into the saddle without first apprising him of his intentions. And as he bent his head and hunched his shoulders and determinedly led him toward the Church of the Holy Rood, where they could take shelter against the raging rain and celebrate Mass, I noticed with dismay that the crimson velvet that adorned that beautiful white horse had bled onto my beloved’s beautiful white hose and boots. Oh what a dreadful welcome for my bridegroom! I had wanted everything to be perfect, and now it was ruined! And it had all been so beautifully planned, right down to the tiniest, most minuscule detail! All the lovely ceremonies and gifts and presentations had been drowned out. Oh the indignity inflicted upon my darling! Soaked to the skin and his beautiful clothing all ruined and stained the moment he set foot on English soil! Even the weather conspired against me!
I flung aside the spyglass, letting it roll off the roof and smash onto the street below and, ignoring the pleas of Susan and Jane urging me to go inside lest I catch my death, stood bareheaded being pelted by the relentless rain that felt hard enough to bruise me down to my heart, letting it plaster my clothing to my skin, as I wept to rival the downpour.
The storm raged and howled and wept all through the night, but by dawn it had cleared. Bundled in a warm cloak, with only a small entourage, I stole quietly away at first light, returning to Winchester and the Bishop’s Palace, where I was lodged, to officially meet my beloved face to face for the very first time.
When my beloved set out later that day, in a suit of black velvet embroidered with silver, diamonds, and pearls, again astride the white horse that was my gift to him, at the head of his enormous entourage, their number further swelled by the 350 Englishmen I had appointed to serve him, the storm erupted again with renewed vengeance. The entire party were again soaked to their skin and their fine clothing, made new for the journey, was ruined once more, and they were left floundering in the muddy quagmire of the road. Oh how I wept when I heard and then, when Susan and Jane cautioned me that my face would be all red and swollen and I wouldn’t look a bit pretty when my darling came to meet me, I instantly ceased and rushed to lie in a darkened room to have my ladies apply cold compresses and soothing creams to my face while I fingered my rosary and prayed that my prince would find me pleasing.
I arranged for us to meet at twilight in the Bishop’s torchlit garden. Still feeling anxious about my appearance, and the eleven years between us, I hoped the gloaming would be kind and flatter me.
In a high-collared black velvet gown with a kirtle and plum
p padded under-sleeves of rich sapphire and silver brocade, with icy diamonds and sapphires dark as midnight adorning the crucifix at my breast and bordering my hood, I awaited my beloved surrounded by flowering jasmine, seated on the rim of a plashing fountain in which silver fish darted like lightning against the blue marble bottom. I know it was rather vain of me, but I arranged to be attended by my four oldest and plainest ladies, all clad in severe, unadorned black gowns, standing back as unobtrusive chaperones, melting into the darkness, with their backs straight like sentinels, and their hands folded modestly at their waists.
I saw my reflection mirrored in the water’s glassy black surface and frowned. It looked like a death’s head, deathly pale, pinched, and haggard, with my eyes set in deep, dark hollows. My brows were so pale I seemed not to have any. As she helped me with my toilette, Jane Dormer had brought out a pair of false brows made of dark hair and a little vial of a glue of some sort to hold them in place. But when I learned they were made of mouse fur I shuddered in horror and ordered her to take them away; I could not and would not wear them. Lest I cry, I had to look away. I rose and plucked a sprig of jasmine and closed my eyes and endeavored to calm myself as I breathed deeply of its fragrance. But at the sound of approaching footsteps, I started and my heart began to race, and I hurried back to resume my placid but, I fancied, romantic pose seated on the marble rim of the fountain, idly twirling the sprig of jasmine between my diamond and sapphire ringed fingers.
Carrying a torch, Susan Clarencieux led my bridegroom to me. Oh he was exquisite! How he made my heart beat! He was wearing another fine suit of black velvet, this one with a ruff of silvery lace about his throat and smaller ruffles ringing his wrists. And a large crucifix set with diamonds and three large dangling pearls hanging from a heavy silver chain about his neck. His cloak was lined with cloth-of-silver and his high black leather boots flared out above the knee to call attention to his firm, handsome thighs. When I caught myself staring at them I blushed and made myself look away, scolding myself, and hoping he had not noticed and conceived an ill opinion of me.
Please do not let him think me a foolish old maid, harboring secret lustful fancies. Please, God, do not let him think me wanton or ridiculous, I prayed.
Then, in spite of myself, before I even realized what I was doing, I sprang to my feet, forsaking all dignity, dropping the jasmine and crushing it underfoot in my haste, as I ran to him. As I sprinted across the garden, bold and brazen as a harlot, my skirts gathered immodestly high so that my ankles in their black wool stockings and silver slippers showed, I pressed my fingers to my lips and kissed them. I hurled myself onto my knees before him and took his hand in mine and, staring up at him in unabashed adoration, with eyes that proclaimed “I will worship you; I will be your slave!” I brought it to my lips in a kiss of hungry devotion.
“My Lord, Your Highness, my husband.” The words poured out of me in a breathless rush. “I am much beholden and thank God that so noble, worthy, and famous a prince would vouchsafe so to humble himself by uniting with me in marriage. These words are spoken from the depths of my heart. They are not just idle flattery or a pretty speech composed to welcome you.”
“Then they are even more precious to me,” Philip said as he reached down and raised me, then bent his face down to mine and kissed my lips, giving me the first real kiss of my life.
“We are married in the eyes of the Law,” he said, referring to the ceremony by proxy, “so it is permitted.” He spoke to me in slow, careful Spanish that was like a velvet glove caressing my naked spine, making my knees tremble, though I know he intended only to make sure I could understand him clearly as his accent was stronger, and his pronunciation slightly different, than Ambassador Renard’s.
My voice had forsaken me and all I could do was nod eagerly as he took my hand and led me back to sit beside the fountain.
Still speechless, I intently searched his face for some sign that he liked what he saw when he looked at me. But Philip’s face was a cipher that kept his true feelings a mystery.
There was a nervous awkwardness between us; I had lost my composure and wits to such an extent I could only sit and gape at him, while he stared blankly back at me. It seemed we had nothing to say to one another; how unbearably awkward! For is there anything worse than a strained and awkward silence between a pair of lovers?
Finally I blurted out, a trifle too loudly, “I hope you had a pleasant voyage.”
“It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant,” Philip replied.
“Oh.” I nodded, struggling to think of something suitable to say. “M-My m-m-mother . . .” I frowned at my unexpected stammer, the way the words seemed to stick in my throat. “My mother was very seasick when she came from Spain.” I finally managed to get the words out.
“I have never been seasick,” said Philip.
“Oh I am so glad!” I smiled, for the thought of him suffering even a momentary discomfort pained me.
“I am sorry the rain spoiled your arrival, I had such lovely things planned to welcome you,” I said.
“It was God’s will.” Philip said with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
“Yes, it was God’s will”—I nodded—“but I am still sorry.”
“Shall I present you to my gentlemen?” Philip asked, gesturing to the four dark and handsome young noblemen standing in the background just as my own ladies did.
“I would be honored if you would,” I said, and let him take my hand and lead me over to them.
As he named them to me, each came forward and bowed low over my hand. Then it was my turn to introduce my ladies to Philip. Gallantly, he took from inside his doublet a black velvet bag and from it poured into his palm a number of loose diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, and as the introductions were made he held out his hand so that each lady might choose a jewel for herself to have set however she pleased.
And then he turned to me and in Spanish asked, “What is the English word to say good night?”
“Good night,” I said slowly and clearly, enunciating each syllable with great care.
Philip nodded and bowed to me and my ladies. “G-ood Ni—hiite”—his tongue struggled to coax out the unfamiliar syllables—“lay-dees all.” He finished with a bow, then he turned and strode briskly away, with his gentlemen, bowing and bidding us good night first, falling into step behind him.
I watched until the garden gate closed behind them, then I turned to my ladies and demanded, “Did you ever see such a man?” and without waiting for an answer I began to dance, spinning round and round around the fountain, singing out to the heavens, “I’m in love, I’m in love, I’m in love!”
We were married at Winchester Cathedral on the 25th day of July 1554. It was the feast day of St. James of Compostela, the patron saint of Spain. Crowds thronged the streets to see us arrive in our golden chariots.
Philip was again all in white velvet with a surcoat lined in gold, edged with pearls, and embroidered with golden thistles. I was a little hurt to see that he had chosen not to wear my wedding present. That morning I had sent him a surcoat to wear over his wedding clothes, a magnificent garment made of crimson velvet lined in cloth-of-gold, with eighteen large table diamonds to serve as buttons, the whole thing embroidered with Tudor roses, Spanish pomegranates, lovers’ knots, and our initials entwined like lovers in an embrace, all embellished with pearls and diamond and ruby brilliants and gold and silver bugles and beads. I would later discover that Philip had pronounced it “too ornate and garish.”
The people neither blessed nor booed, cheered nor cursed him; they merely watched, curious and intent, as if he were some strange animal in a menagerie the likes of which they had never before seen. But at least they did not hurl stones or excrement at him, and for that I was most grateful.
When I dismounted from my gilded chariot, oh how they cheered. “God save Queen Mary!” they cried, and threw their caps in the air, showing me by their words and deeds that they still loved me. And the women were
agog at the grandeur of my gown—a high-collared, deep black velvet so thickly encrusted with gold embroidery and precious gems that the black could scarcely be seen beneath it all. When the sun struck it I seemed to be robed all in light. It had a train so long and heavy that Susan and Jane, gowned all in gold, as the first pair of fifty ladies, half clad in silver and the other half in gold, had to ride behind me in a silver chariot and hold it up lest it drag in the dust and filth of the street. It had provoked my dressmaker to insolent exasperation, causing her to forget herself, and that it was the Queen of England whom she served, and cry out in vexation, “God’s teeth, My Lady, if you wanted a gold gown, why did you not just order one of gold brocade instead?” And there were rumors afoot that one of the sewing women who had slaved over the embroidery, working all day then far into the night by candlelight to have it ready in time, had gone blind and, no longer able to ply her trade, was forced to beg alms in the street and sometimes even sell her body for crusts of bread. Others said she slit her throat or threw herself in the river in despair. But I am sure it was just a story invented by my enemies to show me in a bad light, to slander me. They were trying to taint my joy, but I refused to let them spoil it! I knew they were all against me. Elizabeth herself, tucked out of sight and bored out of her mind at Woodstock, might even have started the rumor herself, but God was for me, and Prince Philip, and soon we would make a son, a savior for the true religion, to keep the faith shining bright in England long after I was gone, and that was all that mattered. Elizabeth and the heretics would never win!
Despite the heat, the church was crammed to bursting, and many women in their sumptuous and weighty finery fainted. The walls were hung with long shimmering sheets of cloth-of-gold, just as I had commanded, and thousands of tall white perfumed wax tapers lit the church. As I walked slowly and proudly up the blue-velvet-carpeted aisle, with my head held high despite the painful weight of the heavy jeweled coronet that sparkled and flashed and made me feel as if a rainbow tightly embraced my head, the choir sang and censers swung before me, so that I walked through thick bluish clouds of incense that made me feel giddy and dizzy all at the same time.
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