Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy (14 page)

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Authors: Brandy Purdy

BOOK: Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy
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I was in the house and halfway up the stairs when Tom thrust the cakes and ale into the arms of a startled maidservant and bolted up after me.
On the landing, he caught up with me, and roughly grabbed my wrists and whirled me around to face him. There we stood, awash in the scarlet and gold light pouring in through the stained-glass windows. Recklessly, not caring who might see, Tom wrestled me into an embrace. Even as I fought to free myself, Tom clutched me close to his chest and pressed his lips hard against mine in a bruising kiss, such as a man gives to prove himself the master and the woman his chattel or slave, bound to serve and obey.
My fists pummeled him, and I struggled to break free, but he only held me tighter and kissed me harder, determined to conquer me, to prove his supremacy, his masculine might and power over me.
It was thus that Kate came upon us in a stealthy whisper of sky blue and creamy satin with her clasped hands folded benignly over her big round belly. All she saw was the kiss, not my struggle to resist and pounding, pummeling fists and the hellcat fingernails that tried to claw and rake his face. She said not one word. She didn’t have to; the pain of our betrayal was in her eyes, and writ plain across her parchment-pale face, and in that instant I saw her heart break. But she, an erstwhile queen, was too proud to shriek and strike out and scream at me like a tavern wench bawling and brawling over a man. She merely drew her spine up straight, summoned forth all her dignity, and turned her back on us and walked away, back upstairs.
“Kate, wait! You don’t understand!” Tom let go of me as if I were a flame that burned him, and ran after her. “It’s not what you think! I can explain! The conniving little minx is sick with love for me! Have you not seen her mooning about, flaunting herself and making eyes at me? What else can you expect from Anne Boleyn’s daughter? She was born with harlotry coursing through her veins! She threw herself at me! She took me unawares upon the stairs! It was not my fault! Kate! Wait! Look! I have brought you cakes and ale! You down there!” He leaned over the banister and bellowed at the maid, who all this time had been standing with her mouth agape, dumbly clutching the ale and honey cakes. “Bring up that basket of honey cakes and that flagon of ale. They are a gift for my lady-wife! Kate! Wait!” He continued on up the stairs after her, protesting his innocence all the while.
I waited until their bedchamber door had closed behind them, then went slowly up the rest of the stairs to my own room. I sat upon the window seat, staring out without seeing, as the twilight fell, then full darkness, and the stars came out. To save himself, Tom had lied and branded me a harlot and thrown me into the lion’s den. What a fool I had been, as is, in that moment I realized, any woman who puts her trust in a man. Love is just a lie men tell that women want to believe, and sincerity is the liar’s dressing gown.
Later, Kat came in, her shoulders hunched in shame, and, without a word to me, began to pack my things. Kate wanted no open scandal, but we were being sent away; she wanted me out of her house. We were to go to stay with Kat’s sister, Joan, and her husband, Sir Anthony Denny, at their country manor, Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire. There were to be no good-byes. Kate would not see me.
I slept not at all that night. My shame was as sharp as a dagger embedded to the hilt in my breast, and gave me no respite or rest, yet I could not weep; there was a strange numbness that enshrouded me.
As dawn broke Kat mutely helped me into a traveling gown of moss-green velvet. Tom crept softly to my locked door as I was dressing and entreated entry, but I spoke not a word to him, and when Kat, compassion written plainly across her face, started toward the door, I shook my head sharply to stay her. I was done with Tom and all his lies and games. He had played with my heart, body, and head as if they were tokens on a gameboard, and there was no forgetting or forgiving that. Trust is a fragile thing and once broken can never be seamlessly put back together again; the cracks will always show and be ever vulnerable to fresh fractures and doubt. And I had no desire to glue what Tom and I had shared back together again. It was finished.
With his lips against the door, Tom began to recite another of Wyatt’s poems, this one also, it was said, written for my mother.
Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant
My great travail so gladly spent
Forget not yet.
 
Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye knew, since when
The suit, the service, none tell can,
Forget not yet.
 
Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrongs, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in denays
Forget not yet.
 
Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never means amiss;
Forget not yet.
 
I sat stiff-backed and still, listening to the rhythm of the rain on the tile roof, while Mrs. Ashley brushed out my hair and tucked it up inside a net of gold then set atop it a round, flat moss-green velvet cap with a jaunty white plume.
“
Please,
Bess, open the door!” Tom begged, but I ignored him. The spell was broken. I stood up and imperiously held out my hand for my gloves.
I waited until he gave up and I heard his footsteps retreating before I left my room. As I descended the stairs I held my body stiff and my head high and proud, ignoring the whispers and speculative glances of the servants.
Kate’s door was, like her heart, closed to me, but at the last moment, much to my surprise, she came out to bid me a formal farewell. The ice in her eyes and the steel in her spine pained me so much to behold that it was all I could do not to break down and cry, to fall in a heap weeping at her feet and beg her to forgive me.
And then, as I stepped into the barge, impulsively, she stepped forward, heedless of the cold rain, and caught my hand in hers, freezing Tom with a glance at once smoldering and frigid when his face broke into a smile and he took a step forward as if he meant to bid me adieu and kiss my hand. But at her look he stopped cold and stepped even farther back.
“Bess”—the old compassion came flooding back—“my heart has been dealt a powerful, great wound, that is true, but I am not sending you away to punish you, but to safeguard you. A woman’s honor is above rubies, and you, my dear, are a princess, and may even be queen someday. And as your stepmother it is my duty to protect you and, to my everlasting shame, I have failed most grievously, and must belatedly take what measures I can now to atone for it.” She leaned in swiftly and kissed my cheek. “Be well, Bess, and be
happy!
” she said, giving my hand a quick, reassuring squeeze, and then she was gone, clasping her belly and waddling back inside, shoving aside the hand Tom proffered to assist her.
I managed to retain my composure until we could no longer see the house. Because of me, Chelsea was now a house of sorrows instead of smiles. Then I could bear it no more; I yanked the velvet curtains closed about me and flung myself down on the velvet cushions and cried my heart out, pushing Kat away when she tried to hold and comfort me. Kate had loved me like a daughter, and I, to my everlasting shame, had betrayed her. I had stolen what she valued most—the husband of her heart, a match she regarded as heaven-sent, made out of love, not duty. And after I had stolen it, I had exposed it for the lie it was, an illusion, not worth the price she placed on it. All that glitters is not gold, and Kate’s marriage was clearly base and false, and I had been the one to flake the gilt off and show her the ugly reality lurking beneath.
11
 
Mary
 
W
hen I heard that Elizabeth had abruptly left Chelsea, suddenly and unexpectedly amidst a swirl of rumors, I wrote and again invited her to come to me. But she rebuffed me.
From Cheshunt, where she was staying with her governess’s kin, she wrote back that she wanted to be alone, she craved quietness and seclusion.
She could have had all the peace and quiet she wanted at Hunsdon, so I knew what she was saying; I could read it between the lines. She did not want to be with me, she did not desire my company.
12
 
Elizabeth
 
I
n the weeks that followed I kept my own counsel, I refused to confide in Mrs. Ashley and unburden my heart of the fear that held it fast. I had not bled since that day in the deep green secrecy of the hedge maze when I was jarred so rudely and abruptly out of love with Tom Seymour. I knew that there were herbs that women in such predicaments sometimes made use of, but I did not know what they were or the recipes to brew such concoctions, and I dared not seek the counsel of others. Women are prone to gossip, and I, as a princess, heiress second in line to the throne, faced great peril if what I feared indeed came to pass and my belly quickened with Tom Seymour’s unlawfully, treasonously begotten bastard. Oh the scandal! I shuddered at the thought and prayed God to let this cup pass me by.
Some days I could not get out of bed. I would lie prostrate or else curled upon my side with my knees drawn up tight, viciously assailed by the four demons named Megrim, Stomachache, Nausea, and Fever. Kat would kneel worriedly beside me, applying cold compresses to my head, and saying over and over until I screamed and ordered her from my room: “Oh my darling girl, I don’t know how I shall ever forgive myself! But it was a match made in heaven; I think it was the Devil’s doing that he was married already when the two of you belonged together!” Alone, I would wail in agony and clasp my privy parts and belly; my courses had dried up, leaving my always slender body painfully sore and bloated with the retention of the vile monthly blood I needed so desperately to expel. I could feel it trapped inside me, bursting for release, but unable to flow.
Though Kat implored me to remain inside and keep to my bed, there were days when I was so restless that it drove me from my bed to walk in the garden, pacing back and forth like a sentry. Even though the autumn winds nipped at me and tugged tenaciously at my cloak and hair, I preferred my solitary walks to Kat’s inane prattle and attempts to cheer me or coax the rest of the story—the parts I had not shared with her—out of me.
And then one day, as I walked distractedly in the misting rain, cooling the fever that left a pearly sheen upon my brow, I felt a pain, like a hand clutching tight, as if to wring dry my womanly parts, and a warm trickle trailing down the inside of my thigh. And I knew I was safe.
I saw now full clear that the fear, and the sickness brought on by it, that I had suffered these hellish weeks was a warning, a stern rebuke issued by God, to remember and never again forget my mother’s warning—“
Never surrender!
” I had failed to heed it once, I had dared put myself in a man’s power and let myself fall under his charismatic spell, and it had almost destroyed me. Should I forget or fail again, I would not be so fortunate.
In gratitude, I fell to my knees, heedless of the sharp bite of the gravel through my skirts, and turned my face up to the leaden gray sky, and gave my wholehearted thanks and assurances to God, and my mother, that I had truly learned my lesson, and that from the bottom of my heart to the depths of my soul I was grateful for the second chance that had been given me. Though I had been a very foolish girl, I was wise enough to know that not everyone is given a second chance no matter how much they pray and long for it. Passion had come like an infectious fever and scorched and almost burned away my reason. Next time I might not be so fortunate; therefore, there must not be a next time.
And then a letter came, like a blessing, from Kate, and further strengthened my resolve.
My dearest daughter,
Time, contemplation, and prayer have shown me that I was overly harsh, and I pray that you will forgive me and allow me to speak to you as your own mother would have done had she lived.
Though few of us have the good fortune to marry as our heart dictates, there comes a time in each of our lives, sometimes, as with you, in the first flush of youth, and, to others, like myself, when we have already ripened into maturity, but sooner or later a time
always
comes when we feel the stirrings of passion, and we let our heart overrule our head, and romance take precedence over reason, and sensuality over sense. And, for a young woman without a mother to counsel and guide her, such a time can be most perplexing and even frightening. The uncharted waters of first love are perilous, and I, preoccupied with the precious gift of motherhood God had at last vouchsafed me, was unforgivably remiss, my vigilance fell by the wayside, and I failed to be there for you when you needed me most of all. And for that I most humbly beseech
your
pardon. Forgive me, Bess, for it is I and
not
you, who should kneel and humbly pronounce those two heartfelt words—Forgive
me
!
You see, Bess, I fell under his spell too, though I was already a woman grown, mature, and past my youth, and already two times a widow, so how could I fault or blame you, an innocent young girl, for succumbing to the same blandishments?
After I was, for the second time, a widow, he came calling. He braided wildflowers into my hair, took me riding and sailing, and made me feel young again, though I had never done such things in my youth. I never had a sweetheart when I was young, but went instead straight into wedlock with the husband my mother chose for me, and then, when he died, the process was repeated. But Tom was different. He was like no one I had ever known before. He made life exciting and fun. Everyone always thought I was so serious, so proper and prim. A scholar and physician in petticoats was how they all saw me. Everyone always expected me to do the right thing, but with Tom . . . I could laugh and be free, let down my guard and forget all the world expected of me! I could let down my hair, bunch up my skirts, and run over the grass in my bare feet! He showered upon me a hundred little attentions that I had never known before from either of my husbands and made me feel as if I were the most special and important person in the world. He made me feel alive, and—dare I confess it?—sensual. He awakened a part of me I never knew existed before. So, you see, Bess, I
do
understand!
Tom is a man who wields his charm like an expert swordsman does his weapon, and never have I encountered a woman strong enough to withstand or defeat it. I remember the day he first won me. He bound my eyes with a kerchief and led me out, guiding me with his voice, as he sang a bawdy song better suited to a tavern than courtship. “I gave her cakes, I gave her ale,” the chorus went, but I shall spare you the rest. And he led me out across the meadow to a great oak tree on my late husband’s estate, underneath which a blanket was spread and a picnic laid out of honey cakes and a flagon of ale, and strawberries, which we ate dipped in wine and cream. And that day, for the first time, I submitted to him as I would to a husband, which is what I believed he would soon be to me. Had your father not set his sights upon me, we would have been married shortly after. So you see, Bess, I know well the power and allure of my husband, and I forgive, and fault you not one whit, for succumbing.
Never
think for even a moment that I love you any less, or that I am any less proud of you. Bess, my darling girl, I hold you in my heart as I always have, and in the greatest esteem. Your intelligence and learning are an example to our sex that I hope many young girls will aspire to emulate. And I pray God that a day will come, when I am past my travail, when we can be as mother and daughter
again. Until then, my dear, may God keep you in His care.
 
Your Ever-Loving Stepmother,
Kate
 
A million times I must have read her letter, even after I had committed every word to memory. What good it did my heart, and what comfort and ease it brought my mind, to know that she understood and had forgiven me. And I saw again, full plain, the duplicity and unworthiness of Thomas Seymour, and was glad to be rid of him. He had scorched me, but I had survived the flames, scorched yet wiser for it.
When Tom wrote me, I scanned his letters for news of how Kate fared in her pregnancy, then tore them into shreds and let the winds disperse them. The memory of his touch now left me cold. Reason had at last sucked all the venom of Cupid’s dart from my wounded heart and I was now entirely cured.
But tragic news soon followed fast on the heels of mercy. Kate was dead, after being delivered of a baby girl, burned up from the fever that often follows childbirth. She died on September 7, 1548, my fifteenth birthday, wild and raving, accusing Tom of putting poison in the guise of medicine into her cup to speed her to her grave and leave him free to marry me. “The one whom I loved best is my murderer!” she sobbed, tossing on the sweat-soaked sheets of the bed that had been her marriage bed, where the child she had so longed for had been conceived in connubial joy, and was also fated to be her deathbed. I wondered if it were indeed true. Such a one was Tom that even if he swore with his hand over his heart that it was all a fancy wrought by the fever, still I would never know for certain; a part of me would always wonder. And the fact that Tom had forced her to sign a will dictated by, and leaving all to him, further fueled my, and other’s, suspicions. As she lay burning up with fever, weeping in anguish, and feebly crying out her accusations, Tom had grasped her hand and guided it to sign her name for the final time. It all left me feeling as though a part of my soul were stained with the blood of my stepmother.
I mourned Kate in my own quiet way, but Kat began to build her cloud castles again, for Tom and me to dwell in marital bliss, before my stepmother was even laid in her grave.
“He’s free!”
she jubilantly sang out as if it were a hallelujah the moment she heard the sad news. “You may have him now! It is the Lord’s doing! You see, Bess? It
was
meant to be! All in God’s own good time! Oh He
does
move in mysterious ways, He
does
! We should have had more faith! Now my—I mean your—dream can come true! God has willed it. He has taken the Dowager Queen up to Heaven, and that is clear proof that this marriage was meant to be! Oh, Bess, I am
so happy
for you!”
She was deaf to my entreaties to cease her foolish prattle. “I will not have him,” I told her, but she merely laughed and nodded knowingly and sometimes even winked, convinced that the moment he came calling I would melt.
There was also a maze, though a more modest one, at Cheshunt. The day I heard that Kate had died I walked alone to its center. There wasn’t a bench like at Chelsea, and no statue of Cupid or lover bearing cakes and ale awaited me there. Instead, I sat on the graveled ground, my back against the dense wall of living green, hugged my knees against my heart, feeling my stays bite into my skin like a penance, and howled out my grief until I had no tears left.
Now, even though she had forgiven me in her letter, I would never have the chance to kneel at Kate’s feet and beg her forgiveness as a part of me still needed to do, then sit beside her and talk it all out, listen to her kind, patient, and wise counsel, and make everything all right between us. Knowing that she had died in agony, coupling my name with her husband’s as our bodies had once coupled, and most likely had been murdered to make way for me to wear Tom’s ring, made it all so much harder to bear. In a way, Tom’s passion had burned her up too, for it was in the throes of passion that the seed was planted. Had Kate not conceived a child, childbed fever could not have killed her or provided a likely guise to conceal her murder. And if it truly was murder, though I had no part in planning it, I was still in part responsible for her death. Just as my own mother had died because I had not been the prince she had promised my father, my most beloved stepmother had died because her husband lusted after me! Lust kills, as does the loss of it! After his passion for my mother burned out, it was easy for my father to condemn her, a woman he had no further use for, to make way for another. Desire is the antechamber of Death.
I returned to my childhood home, Hatfield, hoping I would find peace there. My gowns were barely unpacked before he came calling. I knew he would. I was in my bath when he arrived. My hair caught up loosely atop my head lest the pins bring on a headache, and trailing down my neck in damp red tendrils, I sank low in the steaming water, just as hot as I could stand it, drowsily watching the drifting ever-changing patterns of dried rose petals, crushed lavender, and chamomile floating upon the surface, and yawning as clouds of steam caressed and flushed my cheeks bright pink.
He bribed his way into my private sanctum where none should have been allowed to disturb me. Though I had said many times that I would not see him, and had even refused to write him a letter of condolence on the death of his wife, his manly charm still held such sway over my Mrs. Ashley that she could deny him nothing. All it took was a smile from him, a peck on the cheek, and a pinch and a pat to her “great buttocks,” and he was sauntering in, smiling in triumph, like a conquering hero, singing the same old song.

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