Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy (24 page)

Read Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy Online

Authors: Brandy Purdy

BOOK: Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy
6.12Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“My sainted mother taught me patience and perseverance and I shall lead
all
my people back to God and the
true
religion!” I declared. And with those words I stood up and swept grandly from the Council chamber.
I began then to see that I was surrounded by enemies, wolves in sheep’s clothing; even those who claimed to be my friends and to serve and support me were in their hearts against me.
And yet, after prayer and careful reflection, I decided to take the cautious course. I had not yet been crowned, and many, I knew, were nervous, so whilst I openly proclaimed my devotion to the Catholic faith—the
true
religion—and set in motion its restoration, letting the priests come out of hiding, repairing the desecrated churches, bringing the beautiful adornments that glorified God and His Saints back to decorate the walls and altars, and, of course, allowing the faithful to again hear the Latin Mass and bask in the miracle of the Elevation of the Host, I let it be known that I would make no sweeping changes until Parliament had met and officially restored the laws of the land to their proper and rightful state. And, as a compromise, I allowed my brother two funerals—a stark Protestant service in English and a grand Requiem Mass in Latin with all the requisite pomp and ceremony.
 
My coronation was a radiant and glorious God-blessed day. I felt important, cherished, loved, and adored. I felt vindicated and victorious—for myself and my sainted mother, and I wished with all my heart she could be riding beside me this day, in the flesh, not just in spirit, though I could still feel her loving presence always right there beside me. It made me feel good to know I had done her proud.
The people lined the streets, crowded the rooftops, hanging like bunches of grapes from the chimneys, and leaned from the windows to shower me with flower petals. There was not a voice amongst them that was not raised to wish me well and bless me as I rode past in a golden chariot, gowned in gold-embroidered deep blue velvet. I had refrained from wearing my hair loose and flowing down my back, as was customary for queens on their coronation day, as I did not want to disappoint those who remembered the famous orange-gold tresses of Princess Marigold by letting them see how thin, dark, and faded it had grown, with a rusty auburn replacing the orange marred by ugly gray streaks. Instead, I wore it caught up in a fringed gold tinsel net studded with precious gems beneath a beautifully crafted wreath of jeweled flowers. As I had stood before my mirror that morning, Susan had brushed out my hair and crowned it with that exquisite jeweled wreath and tried to persuade me to wear it thus, but I was so dismayed to see how the bold beautiful colors of the gems made my tresses seem all the more faded and paltry, that I insisted that she pin it up tightly inside the tinsel-fringed gold net.
Elizabeth, and Father’s only surviving wife, the Lady Anne of Cleves, as the two highest-ranking ladies in the land after me, rode behind me, each in a silver chariot. Elizabeth was all in white again, but the Lady of Cleves, plump and jolly as always despite her years, wore a grand crimson and gold gown. And behind them, to represent the restoration of our nation’s badly debased currency, the noble ladies and gentlemen of my court walked in stately procession all clad in silver and gold. They were followed by my servants in new liveries, trumpeters, archers, guards, and knights in shining silver armor. And lastly, in chariots draped with banners emblematic of their countries, the foreign ambassadors and their retinues.
It was a grand show and the people loved it so! All along the route the fountains and conduits ran with free wine, and there was singing and dancing, and the cheers never ceased. And at intervals, the procession paused, so that my subjects might honor me with poems, pageants, speeches, and songs, many of them performed by little children, which delighted my heart. As I watched those sweet little souls striving so hard to please me, tears filled my eyes. If only I could have a child of my own, then my happiness would be complete!
At Westminster Abbey, my ladies helped me change into an austere, unadorned gown of royal purple velvet, cut purposefully, and I thought, rather immodestly, low at the neck and shoulders, which was necessary for the anointing. But I was comforted by the thought that I would, for most of the ceremony, be covered by regal robes of crimson velvet furred with ermine. And then, as the choir sang the familiar and oh so dear Latin hymns to God’s glory, the bells rang, and priests in embroidered vestments sprinkled me with holy water and swung gilded censers, I walked solemnly up the aisle with Elizabeth behind me bearing my train, wearing a silver surcoat edged with ermine over yet another white gown—I really would have to do something about that, it was absurd the way she went about waving her supposed virginity like a flag!—and a silver coronet crowning her hair that hung glossy and free like a cloak of flames down her back.
When I reached the altar, we withdrew behind a screen and Elizabeth helped me remove my heavy robe and jeweled headdress and smiled reassuringly as I shivered nervously at the idea of showing myself with my shoulders and so much of my bosom bare. Truly, I felt naked, and it was all I could do not to go out with my arms folded across my chest.
“You are Queen, and this is
your
day, Mary,” Elizabeth whispered. “Do not let fear or nervousness trespass upon it!”
I was so grateful for her kind and reassuring words that I embraced her and kissed her cheek. Then, with a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, held my head up high, and boldly stepped out from behind the screen.
As I knelt before the altar and the Archbishop anointed my head, shoulders, and chest with the holy oil, I felt all the fear leave me. Never before had I felt so truly blessed. I was God’s instrument and He had made all this possible so that I might do His work, by divine right, and against all the odds, I had won the crown. God would not have given me this if I had been unworthy. I had nothing to fear; it was meant to be. I was meant to be Queen!
And then I lay prostrate, facedown before the altar, as the Archbishop prayed over me in the solemn, sonorous Latin that was like a comforting and soothing balm to my soul. I felt the blue velvet carpet soft against my face and closed my eyes and breathed deeply of the incense even though it made me feel a little sleepy. And then he raised me to my feet and Elizabeth was there to help me into my crimson and ermine robes again, and the Archbishop led me to the great gilded, velvet-cushioned throne. As I stood before it, gazing out at the crowd, Elizabeth knelt to arrange the folds of my train so I would not stumble over them. The Archbishop took my hand and slid the coronation ring, “the wedding ring of England,” a band of heavy gold and blackest onyx, onto my finger, the one the doctors said had a vein inside that ran directly to the heart. And then he held aloft the heavy golden and bejeweled crown, letting the people see, and, after a long, solemn moment, lowered it and set it gently upon my head, and I sat down upon the throne as the anointed Queen of England, and he placed the scepter and weighty golden orb in my hands. At that moment the people leapt to their feet, cheering wildly, and the choir lifted their voices in song again as white doves were released into the air.
Tears of the purest joy I had ever known flowed down my face. I was Queen, Queen of England; I had triumphed over all the odds and all my enemies. I would thank my loving subjects for their loyalty and devotion to me by giving them the greatest gift any sovereign could give—I would make
everything
all right. I would restore peace and harmony and the true religion and make England a bastion of faith where all were united under God, His Church, and their loving queen—Merciful Mary. My reign would be an era of happiness unsurpassed, an era of smiles instead of tears!
22
 
Elizabeth
 
A
s I rode beside Mary the triumphant day she entered London and witnessed the great outpouring of joy with which the people greeted her ascension, I noticed her watching me with a wary alertness from the corner of her eye as I smiled and waved and returned the people’s greetings. The coldness that had grown between us had never truly thawed. And with this realization came the sharp stab of fear. I knew that nothing would ever be the same again. The days when we were loving sisters were long past; the links in the chain that held us together had grown weaker through the years and I feared they might, at any moment, break. And I was afraid, very afraid, that my own sister was destined to become my enemy.
I loved Mary. I remembered the tender care she had taken of me, how she used to comfort, teach, and play with me when I was a child, and I mourned the loss of closeness that had accompanied the passage of years. I wanted us to be friends; I wanted us to love each other as sisters should. But I knew that there was an inflexible intolerance about Mary that had been building a wall between us that only grew higher as time passed, and I feared I might never be able to surmount it.
It quickly became apparent that Mary thought she could turn back time, to undo what she saw as the damage my mother had done, to erase the advent of the Reformed Faith in England, and bring England and Rome back together again. She was determined to be the good shepherd who brought the Pope’s lost flock back to him, chastened and contrite over the folly of their having strayed. She was hell-bent on saving souls, but it was too late for that. Mary was doomed to willful blindness; she could not and would not see that the new ways had already become established—the Reformed Faith was not just some passing fad or fancy. Though there were many who still remained true to the old Roman ways, the Protestants were not just going to hang their heads like naughty children faced with a scolding and apologize, mend their ways, and become good Catholics. But Mary must have all or nothing—that was the one thing she had in common with my mother, whose motto had been “All or Nothing”—and like a crazed gardener she set about trying to rip the tenacious weeds the Reformation had planted out of her garden, out of her England. She seemed to have forgotten there was such a word as
tolerance
or that she had once been forced to beg for it herself during our brother’s brief reign.
She began her campaign of correction with me. For I, in my virgin-white gowns and elegant, discreet pearl embellishments, was the beacon of hope the Protestants turned to. I was the living spirit of Tolerance who believed there was but one Jesus Christ and Ten Commandments and the rest was just disputes about trifles. I believed that all people should be left in peace to worship their Heavenly Father as they pleased as long as they showed proper respect and reverence to their earthly sovereign. I represented freedom to follow one’s own conscience, I believed God heard us whenever we spoke to Him, whether it be in Latin, English or even Turkish, and the people loved me for it.
She began first with my clothes. She had ordered herself a magnificent new wardrobe, one befitting of a queen, all ornate and overembellished, encrusted with embroidery, pearls, precious gems, with gilded fringe or braid borders, in sumptuous shades of rich reds, regal purples, stately dignified blacks, somber dark, or muted oranges and greens, and the glitter of silver and gold, and she wanted to do the same for me.
“It is unseemly that the sister of the Queen should appear so devoid of ornamentation,” she said. “People will talk.”
She sent for me to come to her when she was in her petticoats and stays surrounded by seamstresses and dressmakers and bade her attendants strip me down to the same state. She then began to drape me in swathes of fabric in shades of amber, garnet, orange, russet, tawny, purple, green, deep crimson, sapphire, and cinnamon as she chattered on about embroideries and trimmings.
I felt like a doll; as if she were playing dress-up with me as she used to do when I was a little girl. I remember she used to save pretty scraps of fabric and snippets of lace and gilt braid, and stray gems and beads, to make dresses for my dolls. Mary had such a passion for clothes; had she not been born a princess I am sure she would have excelled at the dressmaker’s craft and been famed throughout Europe for her creations. She was more interested in my dolls than I ever was. In truth, I felt a little awkward and embarrassed for her, this woman who seemed so old to a child’s eyes, playing with dolls, spending hours dressing and undressing them, making them walk and talk and devising little dramas for them to act out and trying to cajole serious little me to join in while I sat watching her with a stormy face and my arms folded across my chest. She would spend hours fastidiously designing and sewing exquisite little dresses for them, with all the proper accoutrements and accessories, even fashioning stays out of buckram and cord. I remember how crestfallen she was the day I petulantly informed her that I was too old to play with dolls.
Now here we were, playing dress-up again, only I was a real living and breathing person, a grown woman nearing twenty, not a child, and most certainly
not
a doll. But Mary was Queen of England, and to oppose or disappoint her was to dance and dice with danger.
I wanted the people to know that no matter what I wore on my body, and even if I were compelled to kneel beside my sister in the royal chapel as the Host was elevated, that I was true to myself and them, so I ordered the goldsmith to fashion a little book with golden covers that I might wear hanging from a cord or chain about my waist, and inside it, upon the ivory pages, I inscribed my brother’s deathbed prayer, and let it be known that I wore it on my person always.
Lord God, deliver me out of this miserable and wretched life, and take me amongst Thy chosen; howbeit, not my will but Thy will be done. Lord, I commit my spirit to Thee. O, Lord, Thou knowest how happy it were for me to be with Thee; yet, for Thy chosen’s sake, send me life and health, that I may truly serve Thee. O, My Lord God, defend this realm from papistry, and maintain Thy true religion, that I and my people may praise Thy Holy Name, for Thy Son Jesus Christ’s sake, Amen.
 
Though it was rather strongly worded and placed one faith above the other rather than embodying the tolerance that was my personal creed, still I wore it to convey a silent message. Thus, even on those occasions when gold-embroidered butterflies swarmed across my bodice or bands of ermine snaked up the front of my gown and over my shoulders and down my back, the people would see that little gold book swinging from a chain or cord against my skirts, bouncing and flashing with every step I took, and know where my loyalties truly lay, and that the spirit of Tolerance would remain alive and well in England as long as Elizabeth Tudor drew breath.
After my wardrobe, it was my soul’s turn. Mary summoned me to her private apartments again. Squinting her shortsighted eyes at me, she set aside her sewing, the beautiful Spanish black-work embroidery she had learned from her mother, and bade me sit beside her.
She began with gentle persuasions and the gift of an ivory rosary to try to coax me to attend Mass. Nothing could make her happier, she declared, than to have her dear sister kneeling beside her there as the priest held the Host aloft.
I played for time. I asked for instruction, for learned men and books to teach me and guide me, and then . . . if my conscience were so moved . . . then I
might
embrace it. I could promise only to do as my conscience dictated.
“I was brought up another way,” I explained. “I do not believe.”
“But attend Mass with me and the belief
will
come!” Mary cried, clasping my hands so hard it hurt. “Just come, sit beside me, open your mind and heart, and God
will
fill it with belief!”
“I want to believe,” I assured her.
In the end, for my own safety, I felt I must concede a little or else lose all. But I let the people see that I went unwillingly, as a move meant only to mollify Mary. In a white gown—saving the new finery Mary had gifted me with for court occasions—with Edward’s deathbed prayer dangling from my waist, I began to accompany Mary to Mass. Sometimes I feigned illness, complaining loudly of pains in my stomach or the violent pangs of a megrim assailing my poor head as I went unwillingly into chapel. Sometimes I even fell faint in the corridor so that I must be picked up, revived, and carried back to my rooms. Sometimes, when I did attend, I had to leave hurriedly before the Elevation of the Host, rushing out with my hand clapped over my mouth, else I disgrace myself, and my sister, the Queen, by being sick right there in the chapel.
Mary grew even colder toward me. When she looked at me there was the glint of suspicion in her eyes and an icy chill in her rare embrace. She was alert and vigilant, watching and waiting for me to make a grave mistake, like a serpent watching and waiting to corner and strike down its prey. And I knew in both my head and heart, though it hurt so much to acknowledge it, that my sister was now my enemy.
Religion, that eternal bone of contention, had pitted sister against sister, and made us rivals, and only one of us could emerge the victor. And therein Mary made a fatal mistake that would cost her dear; Catholicism was her religion, and she would fight for it to her last breath even if it cost her everything, whereas I, whilst I called myself a Protestant, my
true
religion was England and its people.

Other books

The Way of Women by Lauraine Snelling
Brewer's Tale, The by Brooks, Karen
The Battle for Gotham by Roberta Brandes Gratz
Outcast by Gary D. Svee
The Papers of Tony Veitch by William McIlvanney
Una ciudad flotante by Julio Verne
The Divided Child by Nikas, Ekaterine
One Southern Night by Marissa Carmel