Mary & Elizabeth. Emily Purdy
in your minority and help you acquire the wisdom and skill to rule alone when you are of age.”
Edward Seymour came forth then and knelt before my brother, and I knew then that he was doomed. This ruthless man would never let go of the reins of power unless they were snatched from him by force. And my brother, God help him, had not that strength; he would never be more than a puppet king. A shiver snaked up my spine then and told me that Edward would never make old bones; either malaise or malice would send him early to the grave. And then the tears that I had fought so hard to hold back began to flow and, though I tried to stifle it, a sob broke from me.
“God’s teeth, stop that blubbering, Bess!” Edward snapped, endeavouring to make his voice sound gruff and deeper as he struck a pompous pose in imitation of our father’s favourite stance, hands on hips, legs apart. “I never could abide weeping women! Stop it, I say, I am the King and you must obey me; is that not so, My Lord?” he asked, turning to Edward Seymour for approval.
“Quite right, Your Majesty, quite right.” Seymour smiled as the rest of the Council began to praise my brother’s resemblance to his sire.
“My brother,” I whispered, “though you do not know it, you have just stepped upon a snake in the grass.”
“Do not vex me with riddles, Bess, I have not the time for them!” Edward glowered impatiently at me. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his Council and then strode, with them scurrying and smiling after him, in a pompous parody of majesty, from the room where our father lay dead.
Poor Edward, he thought playacting was enough to make him worthy to fill our father’s shoes, and those about him would do nothing but encourage him to ape the king they had called “Great Harry”. After all, playing and perfecting the part would consume much of Edward’s attention, leaving them free to rule the realm as they pleased. It was as if they had taken a portrait of our father down from the wall, cut out the face, and bade Edward stand behind it, with his face poked through, parroting the lines they whispered, like a prompter in a theatre helping the actors to remember their lines. Edward would never be encouraged or allowed to be himself. He would grow up always pretending to be somebody else and in doing so would lose himself before he even knew who he truly was; that was the real tragedy of his life and reign.
Mary
In mourning for Father, I withdrew to the country to live quietly, though always in tense and wary expectation of the storm I expected to break at any moment when my brother and the hell-bound heretics who ruled him would officially outlaw the practise of the true religion in England.
Before he bade me farewell, Edward, with the Lord Protector, Edward Seymour, standing solidly behind him, told me that it was his dearest wish that I would purge my soul of Popish superstitions and cast out of my life all the Papist accoutrements and furbelows that went with it – the rosaries, crucifixes, chalices, candles, plaster saints, holy water, wafers, wine, relics, and censers, and such – and hear the word of God spoken in our own plain, good, wholesome, and unadorned English tongue, rather than the Latin that was the language of priests and scholars and mystified and muddled the minds of the unschooled and ignorant common people, making God more of an aloof stranger and mystery than a real and true presence in their lives. For what good were prayers learned by rote, phonetically, so that those uttering them could not understand? God and His Church did not need to be painted and perfumed and dressed up like a courtesan to be worshipped, Edward stoutly and pompously maintained, striking our father’s favourite pose and standing with his hands on his hips and feet planted wide. Better that it be plain and unvarnished, he continued, and nothing but the pure and naked truth.
I was horrified to hear my brother comparing my Church to harlotry, and I could not put the shame and fear I felt for his soul into words; I was struck dumb with horror. I was so disappointed in him that I was glad to quit his presence, though not prepared to give up the fight to save his soul; it was clear that Edward needed me. But I knew now was not the time to argue, and that I must choose my battles with care, for if I were defeated at the very start I would fail God and the great work He had saved me for, and Edward’s soul would be just one of the many that would be lost.
Though Edward liked to think otherwise, I knew my brother, though he now bore the title of “King” and “Supreme Head of the Church of England” was in reality only a little boy of nine, a child, and as such incapable of making decisions about such monumental matters as religion; he could not even govern himself, much less the consciences of others. I knew these thoughts were being put into his head, and these words, these blasphemies, put into his mouth by greedy, ambitious men who had grown rich off England’s break with Rome and the plundered gold and lands of the monasteries. They taught my brother heresy as they would a parrot a repertoire of pretty phrases. The poor child was merely a fountain spouting their gibberish and, to make himself feel more mature and grown-up, he had persuaded himself that he understood and believed what he was saying. And to bolster his ego, those about him encouraged him to see himself as an authority on such matters, and to weigh and expound upon them like a hardened and seasoned judge whose mind brimmed with many years’ knowledge and experience. They touted him as a theological scholar like Father had been, but a prodigy because of his tender years and “a virtuous marvel of learning and understanding”. He was urged to regard himself as the torchbearer who would lead England into enlightenment and free his people from the shackles of superstition. And it all went to his head and puffed up his pride to bursting so that he became arrogant, overweening, and almost unbearable. He was a pompous little prig, to put it bluntly, who even chastised me, a woman of undisputable virtue, for sometimes dancing after dinner and for my enjoyment of card games. He even took me to task about my clothing, describing my dresses as “overly lavish and ornate as your gaudy, overdecorated Church is.”
He was determined to start his reign like a great broom sweeping away all the Papist dust and rubbish that lingered in the land; out with the old and in with the new, he extolled like a cock crowing. And I began to hear reports of blasphemous and sacrilegious remarks he had made. “Holy water makes a good sauce for mutton if a little onion is added,” he declared in a sage and worldly-wise voice as he presided over a banquet. I heard it direct from the Spanish Ambassador, who had the misfortune to be present.
And it was said that he took immense delight in masques wherein the Pope was portrayed as a villain, a devil in disguise, or even a fool. In one such, dancers costumed as the Pope and a monk were beaten to death with English Bibles and the Book of Common Prayer – that vile, detestable book of collected blasphemies written by that vile, detestable creature Cranmer, who had declared my mother’s marriage legally invalid, an incestuous sin and abomination in the sight of God and man, and myself a bastard, and performed the marriage service for Father and The Great Whore. My poor misguided brother had had that evil, blasphemous book installed in every church in England to corrupt the souls of all who touched it. These wordy weapons were wielded by stern and serious Protestants clad in plain black who monotonously chanted, “The word of the Lord endureth for ever!” as concealed bladders of false blood burst and spurted from the prone, thrashing bodies of the Pope and monk, and my brother rocked on his throne and howled with glee and wished a similarly bloody fate to be visited upon all Catholics. And in another masque a dancing Pope suddenly threw off his bejewelled and embroidered robes and mitre to reveal the scarlet horns and tail of the Devil as he danced a rude jig replete with lewd gestures and loud belches and farts.
Such so-called “entertainments” were not for me, and I was glad not to be a part of my brother’s court. I could not have sat there and watched such a sacrilegious spectacle; I would have been afraid God would strike me blind and deaf for bearing witness to such blasphemy or else send a lightning bolt hurtling down from the heavens to annihilate the entire court.
For a time, they did indeed leave me in peace; they had things of far greater import to occupy themselves with than “a sour old maid who devotes herself to God in the absence of a husband.”
From Hunsdon, my haven in