Mary & Elizabeth. Emily Purdy

The comfort of the Latin litanies, the adoring hymns writ to praise Him, the Miracle of the Mass, the Elevation of the Host, the comforting clickety-clack of rosary beads moving smooth and cool beneath devout fingers, the swinging censers filling the chapel with fragrant incense, the sprinkling of holy water, the flickering candles that reminded us that God is the light of the world, the crucifixes and statues, the tapestries and jewel-hued stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the Bible, the embroidered altar cloths, the golden chalices, the embroidered vestments the priests wore, the beautiful things offered up to worship, glorify, and adore God and His saints and the Blessed Virgin, and the relics and shrines and the miracles they wrought: the blind made to see, and the lame to walk. I wanted my siblings to behold, marvel, and adore all these sacred things. And the knowledge, and the comfort it gave, that all who believed and followed the true faith walked with God, and walked in love, and never walked alone. More than anything, I wanted to give this special and most precious gift, this beautiful and blissful serene sense of well-being and peace, to my siblings and every other man, woman, and child who lived and breathed, to restore it to the people of England from whom it had been violently and most cruelly taken away. And as I sat keeping vigil at Father’s deathbed, I knew then that this was my divinely appointed mission. I was ready and God would not find me wanting; I would dedicate my life to it.

      

2

      Elizabeth

      Nothing lasts forever, and everyone says “goodbye”, even if they don’t actually say it because they don’t have the chance or choose not to out of cruelty, cowardice, or spite; it is not a question of “if”, it is only a matter of “when”. L’amaro e il dolce – the bitter and the sweet. Life is not a banquet; we cannot always pick and choose of which dishes we wish to partake; we have to take the bitter and the sweet, the bland and the savoury, the delicious and the detestable.

      Sage? Philosophical? Poetic? Lofty? Call them what you will. These thoughts have often run like a raging river through my life. As my father lay dying they crashed violently against the rocks of my mind until I thought the pain would knock me to the floor, gasping and clutching my head in the throes of a violent megrim. He had, like a river himself, mighty and majestic, beautiful and horrible, tranquil or terrifying, the power to destroy any who dared cross him, sweeping them aside or pulling them down to drown. When I was a little girl I thought he was invincible, but by thirteen I was old enough to understand that Time and Death conquer all that live; kings are no exception to the rule, merely mortals God infuses with a little of His divinity and power. A crown is a God-given gift, and the one to whom it is given wields the power that comes with it for the good of all, not just for personal wealth and glory.

      I could still remember a time before the very mention of my name, let alone a glimpse of me, was enough to make my father roar and lash out like a wounded lion. For the first three years of my life I was adored, a true princess, in title, and in the way others treated me, with bows and flattery and words spoken in soft, deferential tones.

      I vividly remember a day when all the court was dressed in sunny yellow, all was jubilation and celebration, but I couldn’t under stand why. When I asked her, my lady-governess said, “No, My Lady Princess, today is not a holiday,” but would not say more and sternly forbade me to ask my parents. I too was dressed in a gown of gaudy yellow, sewn all over with golden threads and spark ling yellow gems like miniature suns themselves that seemed to wink mischievously at me whenever the light struck them. I loved watching the big round yellow jewels set in golden suns on the toes of my shoes peep out and flash and wink at me with every step I took so that my lady-governess had to scold me to walk properly like a princess and hold myself erect instead of stooped over like a hunchback as she escorted me to the Great Hall where my great golden giant of a father, as big and bright as the sun itself he seemed to me then, swept me up onto his shoulder and paraded me about, showing me off to all his court.

      My mother was there too, her belly bulging round like a ball beneath the sunshine-yellow brocade of her gown. My father smiled and patted her stomach and said this, at long last, would be the Tudor sun the soothsayers had predicted would come to shine over England.

      “It was supposed to be you, Bess,” he smilingly chided me. “My son has certainly taken his time in coming, but he is well worth waiting for.”

      He patted my mother’s stomach again. “Herein sleeps your brother, Bess, England’s next king. Guard him well, Madame, guard him well,” he told my mother, and though the words were said in a laughing, jocular tone there was no laughter in his eyes; they were as hard as blue marble. And there was fear in hers when she heard them, racing like a frightened animal trapped in a room it yearns to flee, running frantically from end to end, across and back, up and down, even though it knows there is no escape. Though she tried to hide it behind her smile I saw the fear full plain even though I did not understand it at the time.

      Then we were off again, parading round the room. My father tore the little yellow cap from my head and tossed it high into the air.

      “Take off that cap and show the world that Tudor-red hair, Bess, my red-haired brat!”

      And I shook my head hard, shaking out my curls to show them all that I was Great Harry’s red-haired brat and proud of it.

      Even the marzipan was gilded that day and he let me eat all I wanted. Then a big yellow dragon came prancing in, all trimmed with red, gold, and green, with the players’ dancing legs in motley-coloured hose with bells on their toes peeking out from beneath the swaying yellow silk and gilded and painted body. But it was no ordinary dragon like I had seen at other revels. Instead of a fearsome, toothy gaping mouth and menacing red eyes, its painted papier-mâché face was a woman’s, sadly serene like the face of Our Lord’s mother, the face of a woman who would feel deeply the sorrows of the world and feel its weight profoundly perched upon her shoulders. I heard someone say her name was Katherine. I didn’t know it then, I was too little to understand, that it was my sister Mary’s mother, Catherine of Aragon, the proud princess from Spain who had died vowing that her eyes desired my father above all things. Instead of mourning a strong and valiant woman, who had been despite her petite stature a tower of strength and conviction, we were celebrating her demise by eating gilded marzipan, laughing, dancing, and cutting capers, while dressed in the brightest gaudy yellow imaginable. Years later when I discovered the truth about that day I felt sick; every time I thought of it after that I wanted to vomit up all the marzipan I had eaten that day even though it had all happened years ago.

      My father swept me up and bounded over to the dragon. He drew his sword and gave me the jewelled dagger from his belt.

      “Come on, Bess, let’s slay this dragon!” he cried, and laughing, we both struck out at the dancing, capering beast until it fell with a great groan onto the floor, sprawling conquered at our feet.

      “That’s my girl!” He hugged me close and kissed my cheek, and buried his face in my bright red curls. “My Bess is as brave as any boy!” he declared. Then he threw me up into the air and caught me when I came down, my yellow skirts billowing like a buttercup about me. “Praise be to God,” he cried as he spun us round and round. “The old harridan is dead and we are free from all threat of war! The Emperor Charles can kiss my arse!” he shouted, causing all the court to roar and rock with laughter. And I laughed too even though I did not understand.

      But I wasn’t just Great Harry’s red-haired brat; I was Anne Boleyn’s daughter too. I have seen her portrait hidden away in musty palace attics, and when I look at myself in the mirror, only my flame-red hair, and the milk-pale skin that goes with it, are Tudor. All the rest of me is Anne Boleyn – the shape of my face, my dark eyes and their shape, my nose, my lips, my long-fingered musician’s hands, even my long, slender neck. That is why, I think, for so many years my father could not stand the sight of me, and even after I was welcomed, albeit reluctantly at first, back to court, I would catch him watching me, and there would be something in his eyes, as if he were a man who had just seen a ghost. I was the living, breathing shade of someone he had loved enough to change the world to