Tudor Throne

by Purdy, Brandy

  At the altar, I knelt beside my beloved. And when he slipped the ring, the plain hoop of gold I had requested because that was how maidens were married in olden times, onto my finger, it was the happiest day of my life. I smiled broadly, forgetting that this would expose the bare places on my gums left vacant when the agonies of toothache forced me to submit to the dentist’s forceps until I had only a few teeth left at the very front of my mouth, which I tried very hard to preserve for my appearance’ sake.

  We left the chapel hand in hand, deluged by a shower of rose petals and blessings; even those who deplored my choice of a bridegroom could not resist the good cheer and hope a wedding inspires. I could not tear my eyes from my husband, and I felt as if my whole body and not just my face shone with the rosy glow of love, and there was a lightness to my steps despite the weight of my gown that made me feel as if I were walking on air. We were surrounded by smiling faces and engulfed in blessings for our happiness and fertility, some of which were so brazenly spoken they made me blush and lower my eyes modestly; though I was a married woman now I was certain I would never be able to hear such things spoken of without blushing.

  At the wedding feast that followed, a dozen sailors from Philip’s flagship, dressed in wide-legged trousers made from a patchwork of silver and gold, danced a lively, energetic hornpipe that made me feel breathless and exhausted just to watch. The performance ended with them falling to their knees and each in turn presenting to me an oyster shell which opened to reveal a large, perfect pearl; strung together they would make a beautiful necklace that I would wear often in fond remembrance of my wedding day.

  And to honor the Spaniards I had my confectioner and her helpers, and every helping hand the kitchens could spare, slave day and night to construct from sugar and marzipan a series of subtleties recreating the wedding flotilla in painstakingly authentic detail, led by the magnificent Espíritu Santo, sailing into harbor with her colors flying and the red- and yellow-clad performers, all crafted out of candy, on the deck, and the acrobats high up in the rigging. It gave me great pleasure to see the looks of amazed delight upon their faces as each of the 125 candy ships was carried in upon golden platters by my servants clad in the red and yellow livery of Spain.

  Then in came a procession of Philip’s servants clad in liveries of the Tudor colors, white and green, bearing great wooden casks of English beer on their shoulders and trays of golden cups, which they filled and distributed amongst the guests, English and Spanish alike. And my beloved, my husband, kissed my hand, and stood. “Henceforth, we are all Englishmen!” he declared, raising his cup to the company before he drained it in a single gulp.

  Though it disappointed my court, I had chosen to dismiss with the traditional and lewd and indecorous practice of putting the bride and groom to bed, wherein the ladies undressed the bride, and the gentlemen the groom, and then saw them into bed together, to drink a loving cup, whilst the wedding guests made bawdy jests and comments and drank one last toast to the happy couple before leaving them alone to consummate their marriage. I knew my court delighted in such things, but I just could not bear the thought of it; it was more than my nerves could stand.

  Instead, after the Bishop had blessed the bed with holy water, Philip and I were left alone in my candlelit bedchamber, standing on opposite sides of the bed, facing one another, still fully clad in our wedding clothes. Given the many and complicated fastenings and layers we would have no choice but to help each other disrobe unless we chose to spend the night in our clothes.

  Philip held out his hand to me and in a commanding tone spoke a single word: “Come.”

  Dutifully, I walked round the bed. He put his hands on my shoulders and stared down hard and intently into my face before he turned me round and began to unlace my gown. With brisk fingers that were disturbingly skilled at navigating the manifold intricacies of a woman’s attire, Philip undressed me until I stood blushing before him as naked as a newborn babe. Tears pooled in my eyes and I could not decide where to look, either down at the floor in shame, or at Philip’s face in the hope that I would see some show of emotion there so that I would know if he admired me even a little. Repeatedly, I moved my arms to try to cover myself, to shield my breasts and privy parts, but each time Philip stopped me, making me stand with my arms straight at my sides, “like a soldier,” he insisted, “arms down, back straight, head up!”

  “Now,” he continued, “undress me.”

  With nervous, fumbling fingers, I played the servant, and unlaced, unpinned, and unbuckled. I lifted garments over his head, pushed them from his shoulders, pulled them over his arms, and eased them down over his hips and legs, and struggled to tug the tight-fitting high leather boots from his feet, until he also was naked. But Philip felt no shame. He stood straight and proud before me with his hands on his slender hips and his head held high, his blue eyes commanding me to admire him.

  There was another part of him that stood straight and proud, and to behold it made me blush all the more, if that were possible, for my cheeks were already flaming, and want at the same time to look my fill and run away. I had seen nude male babies and classical works of art that showed undraped male figures, but never before this moment a living, breathing, full-grown adult male with his virility so evidently displayed.

  A quick twist of amusement contorted his lips but was there and gone so fast I was not entirely certain I had truly seen it. His eyes never left my face as his hand descended to languorously stroke and caress the long, thick shaft of his male organ. He did this repeatedly, like one stroking a favored pet. And I, with my mouth hanging open, and my eyes so wide I feared they would tumble from their sockets, watched entranced, unable to look away even though I knew I should.

  He chuckled softly, and I frowned, uncertain of whether he was mocking me.

  Like a general issuing orders to a mere footsoldier, Philip pointed at the floor. “Down,” he said, and when I hesitated, he added, “kneel.”

  Trembling, I sank to my knees and gazed up at him questioningly, though his image was blurred by the tears that filled my eyes.

  “Before she was a Queen of England, your mother was a Princess of Spain,” my husband said to me. “I want you to tell me what she taught you about wifely obedience.”

  “I was raised to regard a husband as his wife’s lord and master, as Christ’s earthly representative, and she is to honor and obey him as such.” I recited the long-ago but well-learned lessons of my childhood. “A woman is clay in first her father’s and then, upon marriage, her husband’s hands; and he is the sculptor who will mold and shape her and make her his creation, whatever he wants her to be. A woman without a husband is incomplete. When she is blessed with the gift of a husband she should give him her complete devotion and do whatever he asks or commands of her. His every wish and whim is law to her.”

  “And will you honor the teachings of your childhood?” Philip asked.

  “Yes,” I nodded, swallowing down my tears, “yes, I will.”

  “Then I think we shall do well together,” Philip announced as he walked past me to stand before the mirror that had been his gift to me.

  It was such a beautiful mirror, the most beautiful one I had ever seen, oval and set in a heavy silver frame engraved with the most wonderful inscription, “Cuando miras en este espejo estas viendo a mi persona preferida,” which when translated into English read, “When you look into this mirror you are seeing my favorite person.” The day before our wedding, Philip had sent it to me with the request that I hang it on my bedchamber wall with a table and candles beneath.

  “Bring more candles,” Philip said. “I want to see myself better.”

  I did as he asked and took a branched candelabrum with four lit candles from a nearby table and brought it to him and stood back as, by the light of six candles, Philip admired himself from head to waist. Reflected in the glass, he could see Titian’s portrait of him hanging behind him on the opposite wall. “A magnificent likeness,” he observed. “It
almost does me justice.”

  “It is a very fine portrait,” I agreed.

  “Fine enough to make you fall in love with me?” Philip asked.

  “Yes,” I admitted in a soft voice scarcely above a whisper.

  “That is to be expected.” Philip nodded. “When the portrait was first completed and hung in my father’s palace for all to admire, a servant girl stabbed herself in despair before it because she loved me but could not have me. She was quite right to do so; she was an ugly little thing.”

  “Oh the poor child! That is so sad!” I cried.

  “You are too softhearted, Mary,” Philip rebuked me, “too sentimental. These things happen; it is the way of the world. It is a good thing that I have come to you; you need a firm hand to guide you.”

  “Yes, I am too soft,” I readily admitted. “I have always dreamed of having a husband who would be a strong, firm, and commanding presence at my side, to walk through life with me, to help, teach, and guide me. Too often, I let my heart rule me, though I try not to. I cannot seem to stop, and that is not a good policy for a monarch, to be so swayed by sentimentality.”

  “Well, I am here now,” Philip said, “and I am strong, so we will have no more of that. Emotion is the enemy. To show it is to show yourself weak; it is a mark of failure.”

  Philip bent and lifted the heavy, fringed brocade cloth that covered the table and tucked it back so that the bare space beneath showed. He glanced over at me, then back again at the dark, shadowy space.

  “Come here and kneel down,” he directed, “here, before me, beneath the table but not so far that you cannot reach me.”

  “But . . . why?” I asked, my brow furrowing with confusion. I did not understand what he wanted of me.

  “Because I am your husband and that is what I have told you to do, and it is your duty to obey, not question,” Philip answered sternly. “I am your husband, yes?” And at my nod, he continued. “And as such I am like Christ on earth to you?” he asked, and again I nodded. “Then come here, kneel down, and worship me, Mary!” he ordered. “Worship me on your knees! Worship me with your mouth!”

  My face blanched and my knees nearly buckled with horror as understanding suddenly dawned on me. He meant for me to put . . . that . . . in my mouth!

  “But surely I cannot beget a child that way? Or . . . can I?” I hesitantly inquired with an uncertain quaver in my voice, for in truth I knew little of such things and was not entirely sure.

  “This”—Philip took his organ in his hand again and stroked it—“what we are to do right now, is not about conception. This is for my pleasure. Later, we will do our duty as King and Queen and attend to the other business.”

  “But conception is the purpose of marital relations!” I exclaimed. “A man’s seed should never be spilled in vain!”

  “It will not be spilled,” Philip impatiently retorted, “unless you fail me. Let us come at once to an understanding. Hear me now. Henceforth, my seed will be to you like mother’s milk is to a baby. I want you to suckle greedily, as hungrily as an infant. And I will look at myself in the mirror and together what my eyes see and what your mouth does will give me great pleasure. Then when I am ready to spend myself I will look down at you. I want to watch you swallow every drop, and then beg for more, grovel, kiss my feet, and beg and plead as if your life depended on it, and, perhaps I will be generous and grant your request.”

  “No, oh no!” I cried as, one by one, all my illusions about love and marriage shattered.

  I ran past him into my private chapel and slammed the door.

  I hugged my arms about me and doubled over, feeling so ashamed to stand before the crucified Christ in all my nakedness, even though it was with great compassion that His dark eyes gazed down on me.

  The door flew open, banging hard against the wall with a sharp retort like a gunshot, and Philip roughly seized hold of me. He thrust me facedown upon the altar and struck me hard across my bare buttocks several times, hard enough to make me cry out, before he roughly pulled me up, put me over his shoulder, and carried me out and threw me onto the bed.

  Everything went black as he snuffed the candles out, and then I felt the warmth of his body upon mine and his fingers probing, questing and inquisitive, between my thighs, provoking such lovely sensations that I instantly lay back, sighing, blissful and content. So enraptured was I by his touch that I quite forgot the shocking peculiarities and violence that had preceded this. Then his hand rose up to cover my mouth, to stifle my scream, as I felt a sharp pain like a lance being driven into my womanly parts. And then . . . Oh! Then the most exquisite sensations, so wonderful they defy words to describe and, out of modesty, I dare not even try. Suffice it to say that in my beloved’s, my husband’s, arms I discovered to my astonishment, and immense delight, that my body, which myself and others had so often thought of as a wizened old maid’s perpetually pure, chaste, and virgin carcass, had been made for love. I arched my hips and sighed and clutched his body close to mine, wrapping my arms and legs tight around him. I could not get enough of his touch, this marvelous expression of his love, this special, sacred union that God had created just for husband and wife to enjoy together as they strove to achieve the miracle of conception. God had given me yet another miracle! Philip’s touch lit a fire in my soul and my flesh harkened to his. I lost myself in his embrace and found a new part of me I never knew existed.

  And then he gave a great groan and a shudder and he lay heavily upon me, with his head resting upon my shoulder, whilst the warmth of his seed flooded my womb. I stroked his hair and back tenderly.

  “I never knew it could be like this!” I whispered into the dark.

  “Pray that your womb will be fruitful,” Philip said, perfunctory now that his passion was spent. He rolled off me and, obediently, I got up and knelt, heedless of my nakedness, beside the bed and fervently prayed to God that it would indeed be so, that his seed would anchor in the safe harbor of my womb and bring forth God’s most precious miracle of all—a child.

  Philip was gone when I awoke the next morning. Soon afterward, a group of Spanish gentlemen and their ladies came to my door, singing and bearing gifts of fruit and wine and pretty baubles.

  Horrified, Susan and Jane shooed them away, explaining, as best they could as they knew little Spanish and the Spaniards knew little English, that in England it was customary for the bride to remain in seclusion, and not show herself in public or receive visitors, until the second morning after her wedding. The Spanish lords and ladies were greatly perplexed—in their country it was the tradition to greet the bride when she awoke with music and gifts—but they respected my wishes and retreated.

  Secure in the knowledge that no one would be allowed to disturb me, I ignored the babble outside my bedchamber, and drew on my nightgown, blushing at the memory of Philip’s passion. Rather than ring for a servant, I went myself to fetch my lap-desk, and settled myself comfortably with my back propped against a mound of pillows to write a letter to my cousin, now my father-in-law, the Emperor, thanking him “for allying me with a prince so full of virtues that the realm’s honor and tranquility will certainly be thereby increased. This marriage renders me happier than I can say, as I hourly discover in my husband so many virtues and perfections that I constantly pray God to grant me grace to please him, and behave in all things as befits one who is so deeply beholden to him.”

  The next morning I emerged from my bedchamber and went in search of Philip. I was wearing one of my favorite gowns and I wanted Philip to see me in it. It was made of quilted gooseturd green velvet latticed with seed pearls with a kirtle of green and gold stripes, profuse amounts of gold parchment lace, and a high gold lace collar that hugged my throat like a second skin. I knew I looked my best in it and I hoped Philip would like it as much as I did.

  I was surprised to find him in the gallery, standing in a state of absorbed contemplation before the portrait of Elizabeth, the very portrait that I had ordered taken down and consigned to the a
ttic with its face to the wall. It must have only just been restored; even then two servants were fussing over it with dust cloths, straightening the frame and polishing the gilt until it gleamed. Philip was staring most intently at Elizabeth and stroking the gold silk of his beard with a movement of his fingers that was rather sensuous and reminded me of the way I had seen him caress another part of himself in the privacy of my bedchamber.

  “Good morning, my dear husband,” I said, reaching out to gently touch his arm and turn his attention to me.

  But Philip did not look away from Elizabeth’s portrait, nor did he return my greeting.

  “Why was your sister not invited to the wedding?” he demanded. “Appearances are very important, and her absence did not look right. Ambassadors and gossips alike take note of such things; it will be remarked upon. You must invite her to court at once.”

  “I will not!” I cried, stamping my foot as anger filled me and my head felt like to explode. “And she is not my sister! She is the bastard of that whore Anne Boleyn and the lute player Mark Smeaton, and I would not dishonor you by having you meet a woman whose soul is as dark and foul as . . . a . . . an overused privy! She is a traitor, always scheming against me, spinning plots against me like a spider spins its web, hatching them like eggs, and I cannot bear to have her near me!”

  Philip turned and regarded me with eyes so cold they froze my heart. “Curtail your emotions, Madame. You speak with the frenzy of a madwoman, and Philip of Spain does not converse with deranged persons.”

  Wounded to the core, and instantly contrite, I fell to my knees and caught desperately at his hands. “I am sorry! I will do better! I promise! Please, forgive me!” I implored, saying these same words over and over again as I wrapped my arms round his waist and clung to him as if I were drowning and only he could save me. “It is her fault! She always brings out the worst in me!”