Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy (35 page)

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Authors: Brandy Purdy

BOOK: Mary & Elizabeth - Emily Purdy
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“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.
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.”

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