Mary & Elizabeth. Emily Purdy

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      Mary & Elizabeth

      Emily Purdy

      Contents

      Prologue

      The End of an Era

      1

      Mary

      2

      Elizabeth

      3

      Mary

      4

      Elizabeth

      5

      Mary

      6

      Elizabeth

      7

      Mary

      8

      Elizabeth

      9

      Mary

      10

      Elizabeth

      11

      Mary

      12

      Elizabeth

      13

      Mary

      14

      Elizabeth

      15

      Mary

      16

      Elizabeth

      17

      Mary

      18

      Elizabeth

      19

      Mary

      20

      Elizabeth

      21

      Mary

      22

      Elizabeth

      23

      Mary

      24

      Elizabeth

      25

      Mary

      26

      Elizabeth

      27

      Mary

      28

      Elizabeth

      29

      Mary

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      Elizabeth

      31

      Mary

      32

      Elizabeth

      33

      Mary

      34

      Elizabeth

      35

      Mary

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      Elizabeth

      37

      Mary

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      Elizabeth

      39

      Mary

      40

      Elizabeth

      41

      Mary

      42

      Elizabeth

      43

      Mary

      44

      Elizabeth

      45

      Mary

      46

      Elizabeth

      47

      Mary

      48

      Elizabeth

      49

      Mary

      50

      Elizabeth

      51

      Mary

      52

      Elizabeth

      Postscript

      A Reading Group Guide

      Discussion Questions

      About the Author

      Other Books by the Same Author

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      PROLOGUE

      The End of an Era

      January 28, 1547

       Whitehall Palace

      

      Wonderful, dangerous, cruel, and wise, after thirty-eight years of ruling England, King Henry VIII lay dying. It was the end of an era. Many of his subjects had known no other king and feared the uncertainty that lay ahead when his nine-year-old son inherited the throne.

      A cantankerous mountain of rotting flesh, already stinking of the grave, and looking far older than his fifty-five years, it was hard to believe the portrait on the wall, always praised as one of Master Holbein’s finest and a magnificent, vivid and vibrant likeness, that this reeking wreck had once been the handsomest prince in Christendom, standing with hands on hips and legs apart as if he meant to straddle the world.

      The great gold-embroidered bed, reinforced to support his weight, creaked like a ship being tossed on angry waves, as if the royal bed itself would also protest the coming of Death and God’s divine judgment.

      The faded blue eyes started in a panic from amidst the fat pink folds of bloodshot flesh. As his head tossed upon the embroidered silken pillows a stream of muted, incoherent gibberish flowed along with a silvery ribbon of drool into his ginger-white beard, and a shaking hand rose and made a feeble attempt to point, jabbing adamantly, insistently, here and there at the empty spaces around the carved and gilded posts, as thick and sturdy as sentries standing at attention, supporting the gold-fringed crimson canopy.

      There was a rustle of clothing and muted whispers as those who watched discreetly from the shadows – the courtiers, servants, statesmen, and clergy – shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, knowing they could do nothing but watch and wonder if it were angels or demons that tormented their dying sovereign.

      The Grim Reaper’s approach had rendered Henry mute, so he could tell no one about the phantoms that clustered around his bed, which only he, on the threshold of death, could see.

      Six wronged women, four dead and two living: a saintly Spaniard, a dark-eyed witch – or “bitch” as some would think it more apt to call her – a shy plain Jane, a plump rosy-cheeked German hausfrau absently munching marzipan, and a wanton jade-eyed auburn-haired nymph seeping sex from every pore. And, kneeling at the foot of the massive bed, in an attitude of prayer, the current queen, Catherine Parr, kind, capable Kate who always made everything all right, murmuring soothing words and reaching out a ruby-ringed white hand, like a snowy angel’s wing, to rub his ruined rotting legs, scarred by leeches and lancets, and putrid with a seeping stink that stained the bandages and bedclothes an ugly urine-yellow.

      Against the far wall, opposite the bed, on a velvet-padded bench positioned beneath