Tudor Throne

by Purdy, Brandy

  “I am tired and wish to retire. Leave me,” Mary said, pulling away from me and, turning her back to me, going to her bed and sitting upon it while Susan Clarencieux knelt to remove her slippers, then helped raise her legs and tucked her into bed.

  “Philip!” Like a beggarmaid, Mary entreatingly cried and stretched out her hand to him.

  Begrudgingly, Philip went to her and bent and pressed a passionless kiss onto her brow as he stoically endured her clutching hands and the arms that reached up to twine like a strangling vine around his neck.

  “Good night, sister,” I whispered as I drew the door shut behind me, “and may the scales fall from your eyes and remedy your blindness before it is too late.”

  39

  Mary

  I lay patiently, in my hot, dark-shrouded lying-in chamber, with my hands folded across my belly, resting quietly, and waiting for my son to be born. The silver cradle prepared for him glimmered in the candlelight. Though I could not from my bed, or in this dim light, make out the inscription, I knew it by heart.

  THE CHILD WHICH THOU TO MARY,

  O LORD OF MIGHT HAST SENT,

  TO ENGLAND’S JOY IN HEALTH PRESERVE—

  KEEP, AND DEFEND!

  The ermine coverlet was already turned back in readiness for the joyful moment when he would be laid down upon the ivory satin sheets and his delicate head would rest upon the plump little satin pillow stuffed with the softest goosedown.

  Sometimes I passed the time sitting propped up in bed with my lap-desk writing letters to foreign rulers to announce the birth of my child, leaving the name, gender, and date blank for a secretary to fill in after the blessed event. Whilst all about me my ladies sat with their hands busy over dainty little garments and layettes, and preparing the swaddling bands. They read the lives and teachings of the saints aloud and perfumed the air with rosewater for, with the fires roaring and the windows nailed shut and covered over with tapestries, as tradition decreed, it was ripe and roasting, like being trapped inside a kitchen without the clatter of pots and pans, and the smell of sweating bodies rather than food. And, with the chief midwife standing by to guide me, I interviewed wet-nurses and cradle rockers. And to allay my fears, for I was at nine years past thirty, very old to be having my first child, a woman of forty, of petite and slender build just like I, who had successfully given birth to a set of thriving rosy-cheeked triplets, was brought in with her little angels to visit me and bank my courage up. We sat on my bed and cooed over and caressed those darling tots, and she quite candidly told me what I could expect the birthing to be like. “It’s like shitting a pumpkin out of your cunny instead of your arse, Your Majesty,” she most crudely described, before the chief midwife, fearing that she would unduly alarm me, hustled her and her beautiful little brood out.

  But even in the seclusion of my birthing chamber, those who wished me ill would not leave me be. They slipped anonymous notes and broadsheets printed with crude woodcuts and drawings under my door. They all, in one way or another, some more coarse and crude than others, implied that Philip had betrayed our marriage vows and was unfaithful.

  The most popular was a rhyme about my beloved and a baker’s daughter.

  The baker’s daughter in her russet gown,

  Better than Queen Mary without her crown.

  A series of drawings depicted Philip copulating with the baker’s daughter on a stack of flour sacks and being caught and chased off by her outraged father, who irately brandished a rolling pin as Philip fled while trying to pull up his breeches to cover his buttocks at the same time. They claimed that Philip himself had composed that scurrilous little rhyme when, having outrun the irate baker whose daughter he had just despoiled, he stopped at an ale house to refresh himself. The last picture showed him holding a tankard of ale, as if making a toast, and declaring:

  The baker’s daughter in her russet gown,

  Better than Queen Mary without her crown.

  There were so many rumors of his affairs that I could not keep count of them. They said he coupled with common women, both respectable and whores, as well as grand ladies both from the English court and of his Spanish entourage. There were tales of spy holes he had drilled into walls so that he might watch certain ladies he fancied in the act of dressing or undressing, relieving themselves at their chamberpots, or even coupling with their husbands. But the most persistent, and cruelest, rumor of all was that he was courting Elizabeth, and that she was encouraging him, and that, should I lose my life in childbed, they had already made a pact to marry. Philip would, I knew, master her, break her like a wild horse, and preserve the true faith in England, but I could not bear the thought of him in Elizabeth’s arms and in her bed. It made me even more determined to be rid of her. And I prayed to God that she make one careless slip that would result in the evidence I needed to condemn her, or, if He did not desire her death, that He would show me some other way to be well and truly rid of her.

  40

  Elizabeth

  I did not see Mary again privately before she withdrew, per English custom, into a world of quiet seclusion, attended only by women, with the exception of her doctors, to await the birth of her child. And while she sat in her quiet, warm tapestried sanctuary, praying and sewing baby clothes, Philip bade me stand proxy for his absent wife, though it was noted he spent far more time with me than he ever had with her. We began to spend nearly every waking hour together. We dined and danced and walked and talked and rode together, he gave me gifts of jewels and furs, and took me to sail upon the Thames by moonlight, and all with eyes could clearly see that he was courting me. Soon bets were being laid as to whether I would inherit my sister’s husband as well as her crown if she died in childbirth. But the common people knew what the nobles did not. They smiled and chuckled behind their hands, “Best that Spaniard; play him, Bessy, play him!” They knew their true English rose, their Tudor rose, Great Harry’s daughter, would have none of Spanish Philip, and if she came to the throne whilst he was still within the realm she would quickly send him packing; a clod of dirt in the face was all he would ever get of England.

  I knew those with gossiping tongues who despised my sister made sure she heard all about it. She sat and stewed in her jealousy for a time, and then, when she could bear no more of it, she sent for me.

  She looked bilious and ghastly in a high-collared gown of gooseturd green that looked unbearably tight, straining at the seams over her bloated belly even with the laces undone and the extra skirt panels. She put aside the little gold lace and scarlet-ribbon-festooned baby gown she was embroidering with the golden pomegranates of Spain and red and white Tudor roses, and bade me sit beside her on the window seat.

  “I have come to realize that I will never know peace of mind as long as you inhabit my realm.” She bluntly came straight to the point. “I have discussed this matter with my husband, and we wish you to marry a good Catholic prince, who will take you to live in his own kingdom and teach you proper wifely obedience, and exert his husbandly rights to make you conform to his will, and his religion, by which, of course, I mean the true religion. You may choose either the Duke of Savoy or Philip’s son, Don Carlos . . .”

  “But Mary, Don Carlos is only ten!” I interjected, shuddering at the very thought of him; a vicious little hunchback who, despite his youth, already had a reputation for heartlessness and cruelty. He once went on a rampage and blinded every horse in the royal stables and was known to take fiendish delight in throwing live hares into the fireplace to be roasted alive.

  “Then you had best take the Duke,” Mary said, undaunted as she fidgeted with the great heavy emerald and gold crucifix at her throat.

  “Sister”—I turned to her entreatingly and tried to take her hand—“please understand that my experiences and observations have been such that I have resolved never to marry. The heat of passion only leads to a cold grave.”

  “Nonsense!” Mary scoffed. “I don’t know who has put these ridiculous ideas into your head! Matrim
ony and motherhood are woman’s natural state. I admit that I too had reservations; I am not a woman of amorous inclinations so I had certain . . . trepidations about this . . .” She hesitated, groping for the right word. “Aspect of wedlock, but my fears were groundless, and I find myself happy and well-contented, as I am sure you will also when you are married to the Duke.”

  “No!” I shook my head adamantly.

  “Yes!” Mary insisted. “You will marry the Duke of Savoy! Now go; I will hear nothing more about it, I will not have you vex and gainsay me in my condition! And this gossip about you and my husband must cease. Do not think I am unaware of it just because I am absent from the court!”

  “Mary . . .” I started to speak again.

  “Out!” she screamed, pointing to the door. “Susan! Show my sister out and do not admit her again. She is not welcome here!”

  Even as Susan tried to usher me out I turned and grasped the doorjamb and shouted back at Mary, “England is the only lover and husband I shall ever have. I will never accept any other!”

  But Mary just ignored me and began to sing a Spanish lullaby, a song I remembered her singing to me when she used to rock me on her lap, as she took up her sewing once more. It grieved my heart to remember how close we had once been, and how cold, distant, and far apart we now were, even when sitting right beside each other upon a window seat. We might as well have been in Heaven and Hell, we were so opposite and far apart.

  On the final day of April, saying he would like to procure a wild boar for Mary’s table, that being her favorite meal and knowing how well such a gesture would please her, Philip bade me bring my bow and quiver and ride out into the forest with him.

  We had only been riding a little time before Philip reined in his horse, dismounted, and came to lift me down from my own saddle. I laughed as the spray of speckled green and tawny feathers on my round russet velvet cap tickled his nose. Impatiently, he snatched it from my head and flung it away, his fingers inadvertently catching the golden net that held my hair and causing it to tumble down about my shoulders in a riot of flame-colored waves.

  “Marry me!” he breathed as he clutched my waist and held me close against his fast-beating heart, ardently grinding his loins into mine as he began backing me toward the nearest tree.

  “Perhaps.” I shrugged with a silky noncommittal purr. “But my sister tells me that it is your wish, as well as hers, that I marry the Duke of Savoy.”

  “Hang the Duke!” Philip cried angrily, ripping open the emerald and russet velvet jacket of my riding habit, causing the ornate gold lacings and buttons to tear and pop as he wrenched it from my shoulders.

  “Your son, Don Carlos, though he is but ten, has also been suggested as a suitor for my hand,” I added as he slammed my back against the tree and I felt the rough bark bite painfully through my white linen shirt.

  “Hang that vicious little fiend too!” Philip exclaimed as he tore open my shirt, heedless of the laces, ripping it down to my waist, then tearing and tossing it away.

  “Why so cruel, My Lord?” I asked, gasping as he spun me round to face the tree and, fumbling for his jeweled dagger, slit the laces of my leather stays and flung them aside, into the brambles.

  “I want you all for myself! Before I met you, I would have happily married you off to one of them. It wouldn’t have mattered because if I wanted you I could still have had you; they would have been so grateful to me for arranging the marriage they would have been willing to share. But now that is not enough for me. Now I want you all for myself! I know you like this,” he added, his voice rough with desire as he cut away the top portion of my shift, causing me to shiver at the exquisite agony of my stiff pink nipples grazing the rough tree bark as he ripped it down to hang in jagged white tatters about my narrow waist. With sudden violence, he spun me round again, slammed my back against the tree, and lifted my leg, his fingertips digging into the tender flesh behind my knee, below my black ribbon-gartered stocking and high black leather boot. He pushed up my russet and emerald-green velvet skirts and starched white petticoats and ground his loins hard against mine. “I know all about you and Tom Seymour,” he whispered in my ear, biting the tender lobe so that I gasped and cried out at the unexpectedly fierce pressure of his teeth, “and how he once cut the clothes from your body in the garden, right in front of his own wife! I should like to do that one day, just to see the look on Mary’s face!”

  Despite the warmth of the day, I shivered at the memory, and I thought for a moment that I saw the ghost of Tom Seymour leering at me over Philip’s shoulder and had to close my eyes and give my head a hard little shake to clear it, though this gesture went unnoticed by Philip with his head then bent to bite my breasts.

  “Marry me!” he repeated insistently.

  “My sister is still alive,” I reminded him, gasping as the press of his body increased the bite of the bark and I felt blood begin to trickle down my back.

  “She is as cold as if she were already dead,” Philip told me. “Her womb is like a tomb. And she is old to be carrying a first child; it will be a miracle if she survives it.”

  “Mary would remind you that she is no stranger to miracles,” I said, tightening my arms about his neck and arching my back as he lifted me off the ground and my legs wrapped tight around his hips. “But we must not speak of this now; it is Treason to predict or discuss the sovereign’s death.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Philip murmured, his lips hot against my throat. “Marry me, Elizabeth, when she is dead, and together we will rule the world! Together we will be another Anthony and Cleopatra, only we will not fail. We will have the most passionate marriage the world has ever seen and together we will conquer the world!”

  “Algún día, Philip, algún día; someday, Philip, someday!” I cried as I arched my neck and breathlessly gasped as I clung to him, reaching down to grasp his manhood in my hand before he could push into me and learn my most closely guarded secret—that I was no longer a virgin. There were many rumors about Tom Seymour and me, but no one knew for certain, and I meant to keep it that way. “But not now . . . Now you must wait. . . .”

  “Soon,” Philip whispered hotly against my neck. “Our someday will come soon!” he promised.

  “Sí, Philip.” I caressed his cheek and nuzzled my breasts against his chest. “And then you will know the real me!”

  “Oh the passion and the power!” Philip groaned as his seed spurted onto the ground between my feet and he leaned hard against me, pinning my back painfully against the tree, as he lay his head upon my naked shoulder and breathed heavily.

  Suddenly there was a great clanging din and we nearly jumped out of our skins as the sound of church bells assailed us from all sides. It could mean only one thing—Mary had been delivered of her child.

  Philip froze. Our eyes met, and his whole body stiffened. Abruptly, he let go of me and ran to his horse and bolted into the saddle and dug in his spurs.

  As he galloped away, I was left alone. I felt as if my life had ended. If Mary had given birth to a son, and I was not to be England’s queen, that left me stripped of my destiny and without it I was nothing, naked to my enemies. What was to become of me?

  Alone in the forest with no one there to see, I let myself grieve. I let my tears flow, free and unchecked, and sank to the ground, and lay curled on my side, like a child in its mother’s womb. I stuffed my skirt into my mouth and bit it to stifle my noisy, wracking sobs and cried until I had no tears left. Then I stood and went to collect my scattered and torn garments and make myself as presentable as possible so I could ride back to Hampton Court, alone amidst the sounds of rejoicing, hoping that, caught up in the celebration of the heir’s birth, none would take notice of my disarray. If anyone did I would claim I had been thrown, as indeed I had in a way, thrown down from the proud heights of the destiny I thought would be mine.

  But it was a false alarm. All was not lost after all and my tears and grieving had been in vain. Somehow a rumor had got
ten started and rapidly spread that Mary had been delivered of a son, when in truth she still lay in quiet seclusion, embroidering baby clothes, signing death warrants to send yet more heretics to the stake, and praying to be delivered soon.

  That night, supplementing my white gown with deep cherry-red velvet sleeves and a matching kirtle worked in swirls of gold embroidery as a conciliatory nod to Mary’s continued complaints about the plainness of my clothing, I waited for Philip to come and escort me into the Great Hall to dine. He slipped a necklace of weighty gold all spangled with rich bloodred ruby drops about my neck. He covered my shoulders with kisses as he fastened it, and apologized for abandoning me in the forest so precipitously.

  “When you are mine, I will never leave your side,” he promised.

  “Someday, Philip, someday!” I smiled, as I threw back my head and laughed and laughed, before he pulled me close, into his arms, again.

  41

  Mary

  When my child didn’t come in May, the doctors patted my hands and said I had muddled my dates, as women often did, especially with a first baby, and said I should most likely be delivered near the end of June. When that month also passed I began to despair that something was well and truly wrong. I knew then that I must put myself wholly in God’s hands.

  “A miracle will come to pass!” I insisted as I put on one of my fine pleated Holland cloth birthing smocks with the wrists, neck, and hem edged with gold braid, and tucked my hair up in a matching cap. Then I wound my precious ivory rosary around my hand and fastened round my neck the cross my mother had given me containing a splinter from the True Cross. Having these dear, precious things made me feel like my mother and grandmother were right there in the birthing chamber with me. I clasped an ivory and gold inlaid crucifix to my breast and lay back on my bed with my legs wide and my knees bent and waited for my pains to begin. I had the midwives bring their instruments and stand poised in readiness at the foot of my bed, and issued orders for the swaddling bands to be brought out of the chest where they were kept, and for the wet-nurse and cradle rockers to be ready to assume their duties; I was about to give birth. At my command, all my ladies and a number of nuns from an abbey I had recently restored arranged themselves in neat rows and knelt in prayer around my bed. Whilst outside in the courtyard I could hear a procession of monks in rough dung-brown robes walking round and round in circles, the soles of their leather sandals slapping against the flagstones, as, with their tonsured heads bowed, they chanted: