Mary & Elizabeth. Emily Purdy

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СКАЧАТЬ the souls of the English people, born of ambition and greed, not out of a true but misguided faith. And I knew then, as surely as if a holy beacon of pure white light from Heaven had just shone down upon me, that I had been chosen to guide my country back into the light. I felt a divine presence enfold and embrace me, as if angels knelt on either side of me, enveloping me in their snowy wings, and whispering in my ear that this was my purpose, my divine mission in life, the reason I had been born and survived all the perils and pitfalls that had marked and marred my life, and I would rather die a thousand deaths than fail our Heavenly Father!

      I kissed Father’s forehead and stood up. I promised him that I would make right his wrongs, that the sins he had committed out of Satan-sent carnal lust and the wiles of that witch-whore would all be undone. England would again become a nation of altars blazing with candles as a reminder to all that God is the light of the world. I would be His instrument, His light-bearer, and lead my people out of the dark night of heresy!

      

4

      Elizabeth

      Poor little poppet, I thought as Edward wept in my arms. They will dress you up, put words in your mouth, and make you dance to their tune. And there, intently watching his prey with the same greedy, carrion-hungry jet eyes of a raven, is the puppetmaster – Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, the Lord Protector of the Realm, who will head the Regency Council, presiding over fifteen equally ambitious, power-hungry men, all of whom would not hesitate to pull him from his lofty pedestal and take his place. Poor little poppet indeed – I patted Edward’s back and murmured soothing words – you will have nine years to contend with this before you come into your own and can tell them all to go to the Devil and leave you be to rule your kingdom as you please.

      From the shadowy, candlelit gloom of the deathbed they began to step forward, slowly surrounding us, first Seymour, then the other members of the Council, like sharks closing in around a lone sailor clinging to some bit of flotsam as they circle around, hungry for his blood. And I wondered then if my little brother, who was not so robust as he and our late father liked to pretend, had the stamina and spirit to survive until he reached his majority.

      Boldly, I stared back at Edward Seymour, meeting those beady, black bird-of-prey eyes, and hugged my brother tighter, wishing I had the power to protect him.

      “Edward,” I said firmly, pulling away from him. “Look at me,” I commanded as I stood up.

      “The King is dead,” I said, calmly and straightforwardly. “Long live the King.” With those words I sank in a deep curtsy before my brother and kissed his trembling hand.

      “I am too young to rule!” Edward sobbed.

      “But not too young to reign,” I corrected.

      With a gentle pressure of my hand, I urged him to stand beside me.

      “You were born for this, Edward,” I said, my mind harking back to the three lives, three wives, that had been lost to bring this pale, frail boy into the world. “Your Majesty, it is time for you to greet your Council. These” – I waved a hand to encompass the solemn and stern-faced men who belatedly knelt before the pale, sobbing boy – “are the men who will assist you to govern 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.

      

5

      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 СКАЧАТЬ