Authors: Emily Purdy
The Fallen Queen (38 page)
Kate flung the book to the floor and threw herself into my arms.
We clung together and wept, both of us surprised to discover that we had any tears left.
“I would rather my brains rattled around in my head like seeds in a gourd than live a scholar and die a martyr!” Kate cried. “I want to
live,
Mary, to
love
and
be
loved!
I must embrace the flesh; I
cannot
despise it, no more than I could ever follow in Jane’s footsteps!”
As I retrieved the book, I noticed the ribbon tucked inside that Jane had used to mark her place. It was a broad glossy bloodred satin ribbon. I drew it out and beheld the words
For my sister Mary
embroidered across the top, and beneath it, also in neatly stitched gilt letters that seemed to shimmer and dance in the firelight, these five verses:
Death will give pain to the body for its sins, but the soul will be justified before God.
There is a time to be born and a time to die; and the day of our death is better than the day of our birth.
Live to die, that by death you may gain eternal life.
If my faults deserve punishment, my youth at least and my imprudence were worthy of excuse. God and posterity will show me greater favour.
Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.
She had not forgotten me after all. Every time I read a book and needed to mark my place, Jane would be right there with me.
Then, long before we were done weeping, while our eyes and faces were yet red and tear-swollen, it was Father’s turn to lay his head upon the block and die. We could not be there for him. Though our royal cousin, to our surprise, never said a word about our disobedience the day Jane died, the night before Father’s execution we were summoned to sleep upon a pallet at the foot of her bed, as two of her ladies-in-waiting always did, and she kept us close all the morrow, reading aloud to her and embroidering until the deed was done. But afterward we were allowed to go into his cell and claim his personal possessions.
Upon his desk, amidst drawings of cakes, candies, pies, pyramids of fruit, and great, fantastical marzipan and spun sugar subtleties with copious notes below mouthwateringly describing them all, we found a crumpled, tear-stained letter. It was from Jane, written the last night of her life.
Father,
Although it hath pleased God to hasten my death by you, by whom my life should rather have been lengthened; yet I can so patiently take it, as I yield God more hearty thanks for shortening my woeful days, than if all the world had been given into my possession, with life lengthened at my own will. Albeit I am well assured of your impatient dolours, redoubled manifold ways, both in bewailing your own woe, and especially, as I am informed, my unfortunate state. Yet, my dear father, if I may without offence rejoice in my own mishaps, herein I may account myself blessed, that washing my hands with the innocency of my fact, my guiltless blood may cry out before the Lord, “Mercy, to the innocent!”
And yet, though I must needs acknowledge, that being constrained, and, as you know well enough, continually assayed; yet, in taking the Crown upon me, I seemed to consent, and therein grievously offended the Queen and her laws; yet do I assuredly trust, that this my offence toward God is so much the less, in that being in so royal estate as I was, my enforced honour never blended with mine innocent heart.
Thus, good father, I have opened unto you the state in which I presently stand, my death at hand, although to you it may seem woeful, yet to me there is nothing more welcome than from this vale of misery to aspire to that heavenly throne of all joy and pleasure, with Christ our Saviour, in whose steadfast faith (if it be lawful for the daughter so to write to the father) the Lord that hitherto hath strengthened you, so continue to keep you, that at last we may meet in Heaven with the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen. I am,
Your Obedient Daughter Until Death,
Jane
I thought it was rather harsh—even if it was true. And Father was such a sensitive man, a great overgrown boy really, no wonder it had made him weep. Yea, it was true that he should not have sought the Crown again on Jane’s behalf, in a rebellion she knew nothing about, and would have wanted no part in if she had, and by doing so he had sealed her doom and his own. Yet seeing her letter, stained with Father’s tears, made me cry.
Oh, Jane, how could you?
Father must have felt she was pouring salt into his wounds!
Yet, perhaps her thoughts had travelled the same lines. Perhaps Jane had regretted her harshness. After she sent him this letter, Father asked his gaoler to take her the pretty prayer book bound in gilt-embellished yellow leather Guildford had inscribed and given him, before the tragic power play that had turned our world upside down, and ask his daughter to please write some words of comfort inside it and send it back to him with all speed.
As Kate and I stood peering down at the book as it lay open in my hands, I could not help but wonder what Jane had thought when she opened it and read Guildford’s own elegantly writ inscription.
Your loving and obedient son wisheth unto Your Grace long life in this world, with as much joy and comfort as I wish myself, and in the world to come, joy everlasting.
Your most humble son to his death,
Guildford Dudley
But did it
really
matter anymore what Guildford and Father had been to each other, and who was to blame, and for what? The time for cattiness, cruel reminders, blame, and malice had passed. Like the obedient daughter she had been brought up to be, Jane dipped her quill and wrote beneath her husband’s words:
The Lord comfort Your Grace and that in His word wherein all creatures only are to be comforted. And though it hath pleased God to take two of your children, yet think not, I most humbly beseech Your Grace, that you have lost them. But trust that we, by leaving this mortal life, have won an immortal life. And I, as for my part, as I have honoured Your Grace in this life, will pray for you in another life.
Your Grace’s humble daughter,
Jane Dudley
Was the
Dudley,
I wondered, her subtle way of reminding him that, despite what mad, foolish folly they might have shared, whether carnal or innocent infatuation, Guildford was really hers?
“Poor Father.” I turned to see Kate standing beside the bed cradling his dear old blue and rose comfit box against her breast. Tenderly, she lifted the lid.
“Look, Mary!” She held it out for me to see. “He left it for us.”
Kate sat down and patted the bed beside her. I joined her there, the two of us gazing down at the pretty auburn-haired marzipan mermaid that was all that remained inside it.
Gently, Kate lifted it out and let the bare-breasted sea siren lie upon her palm as reverently as though it were a consecrated wafer.
“Shall we?” she asked tentatively.
“For Father.” I nodded.
Kate hesitated for a moment, and then she quickly lifted the mermaid and snapped her in half at the waist.
I took the green scaled tail from her and quickly popped it in my mouth, while Kate did the same with the remaining half.
Then I put my arm around her waist, and she did the same, and we leaned against each other. “Poor Father!” we sighed and savoured his memory along with the last sweetmeat he would ever give to us.
11F
ather’s foolish head was stuck on London Bridge as a warning to other would-be traitors, but bits of his beard still billowed in the breeze, and the ravens had yet to pick it clean when we received a most curious summons from our lady-mother bidding us to put on something pastel and pretty, “to bring a burst of spring to these dreary winter days,” and come at once to Suffolk House for a “celebration of sweet delight.”
“Whatever can it mean?” Kate wondered as I stood at the foot of our bed in my gold apple–patterned spring green brocade and laced her into a gown of pale rose damask figured with delicate silver roses. “How can it be a ‘sweet celebration’ so soon after Father and Jane are gone?”
“I cannot even imagine,” I sighed. “Life will never be the same without them. I am so afraid nothing will ever be sweet again, Kate.”
“Don’t say that, Mary,” Kate pleaded. “We have to be brave; life is for the living, so we
must
find things to look forward to, things worth going on for. Sweet times
must
come again! But, now … it is
too
soon.”
When we arrived at Suffolk House, we were ushered into the downstairs parlour where, in a blaze of what must have been a hundred candles, our lady-mother, thinking perhaps that the candlelight would be kind and flatter her, stood before the great marble fireplace. Her hair, now an alarming cherry red—she had obviously been overzealous in applying the henna—was flowing down her back, girlishly unbound, though she was galloping hard and fast toward forty. Upon it sat a lavish crown of gilded rosemary, lavender, meadowsweet, red and white roses to remind all of her Tudor heritage, deep purple violets, marigolds, and the white star-shaped blossoms known as love-in-a-mist. She was holding a large golden goblet and wearing a loose, flowing gown of creamy white damask beneath which her uncorseted body jiggled like five frightened piglets squirming and writhing in a vain attempt to free themselves from the sack they had been sewn into. When she took a step toward us, I heard the jingle of spurs, and glanced down to glimpse the sharp-pointed toes of black leather riding boots peeking from beneath her gown.
“Come, my daughters”—she held out a hand to us—“and embrace your stepfather!” With a sweeping gesture, she indicated the bashful, blushing figure of our Master of the Horse, Adrian Stokes, who seemed to be trying to hide himself in the shadows as though he were afraid to face us. “Here, my love”—she pulled at his scarlet satin sleeve—“come and drink a loving cup with me!” She pressed the goblet into his hand.
“Pinch me, Mary!” Kate whispered, clutching hard at my hand. “Wake me
now;
I
must
be dreaming!”
“Methinks I am having the same nightmare,” I whispered back as we stood and stared at the blushing, bashful black-haired boy standing sheepishly beside our lady-mother in his garishly bright, scarlet satin doublet adorned with golden bugles all down the front and along the sleeves.
To his credit, Master Stokes seemed overcome with a burning hot shame and found it exceedingly hard to meet our gaze. Instead, he stared at the floor, studying his gold-slashed, scarlet shoes as though he could not quite believe that these were truly his feet.
“Well?” our lady-mother demanded, hands on hips. “What are you waiting for? Come, now, don’t be shy—embrace him!”
“I would sooner hurl myself into the Thames!” Kate cried. “Mother,
how could you?
He’s only
twenty!
”
Without daring to meet Kate’s eyes, Master Stokes mumbled that he would be twenty-one on Tuesday.
“Yes, my love, and we shall have a party, a very grand party!” Our lady-mother smiled indulgently as she patted his arm and smacked a kiss onto his cheek and her hand stole mischievously behind to give a greedy and unsuspected squeeze to his buttocks that made Master Stokes nearly start out of his skin.
“Mother!”
Kate cried, shaking her head incredulously. “Father has not even been dead two weeks!
Could you not have waited?
” She turned away, her hand rising to try to hide her tears. “You didn’t even wear widow’s weeds for him!”
“Come, Kate.” I caught hold of my sister’s hand. “You’re wasting your words and your breath! She’s not even sorry Father is dead; she
can’t
be … to do
this!
” I waved a disgusted hand at Master Stokes. “He’s young enough to be her son!”
“I—I—” Master Stokes began to stammer, looking first at our lady-mother as though, still accustomed to a role of servitude, he was awaiting her permission to speak. “Perhaps we did marry in haste. I—I—I always liked my lord of Suffolk and was greatly saddened by his death. When I first came to Bradgate, as a lad to work in the stables, he always had a smile and a treat from his comfit box for me. Truly, I mean no disrespect to his memory! If you like, we could drink a toast to him and light some candles ’neath his portrait.”
