Mary & Elizabeth. Emily Purdy

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      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 the Hertfordshire countryside, where I continued to celebrate the Mass with my household and any of the local gentry and common folk who wished to attend, I heard disquieting stories of churches being desecrated in London, denuded of all their ornaments and sacred treasures, and priests being violently attacked and even murdered. The beautiful jewel-toned stained-glass windows, depicting holy saints and stories from the Bible, were smashed, and paintings, tapestries, and statuary of like subjects were also destroyed. Holy books were defiled, often defecated or masturbated upon before they were cast onto the bonfires. And “pissing on the priest” became a favourite sport. Rough and uncouth men would corner some unfortunate man of God, beat him down, often with Bibles and prayer books, then whip out their masculine organs and ease their bladders upon his prone and injured person, laughing as their urine stung his bleeding wounds. I heard the tale of one poor priest who was forced to kneel as a man snatched up a golden chalice from the altar and urinated in it. The priest was held up and restrained and forced to drink the watery waste while those about him chanted, “Turn the water into wine!”

      Those loyal to the true faith began to rally around me, like sheep frightened by a wolf running to their shepherd for comfort and protection. Though it was treasonous to speculate about the death of the sovereign, Edward was frail, and if he should die I was next in line for the crown. Some even came stealthily, cloaked and masked by night, to show me secretly and illegally cast horoscopes that affirmed Edward would not make old bones, to give me courage to endure my suffering and persecution as it would only be for a little while. Thus the greedy men on the Regency Council had great cause to fear me. I would make all the wrongs right and undo all the wrongs that had been committed against God and the true religion, and I would also have the power to punish the offenders. I would rid England of every taint and trace of heresy or die trying, and everyone knew it. And when they heard tell of like-minded people rallying around me, it was no wonder they quaked in their shoes and rested uneasily in their beds, but not more uneasily than I did, for I knew that I must with good cause fear for my life when a dagger or a poisoned cup could so easily rid them of these worries. There was even some talk of marrying me off to some foreign prince to rid the realm of the nuisance that was Catholic Mary.

      Around this time a rather strange individual, a tall, shapely-limbed, fine-figured man with a long, auburn beard, dressed in a rainbow of silken fool’s motley, with gaily coloured ribbons tied in his bushy beard so that it seemed a nest of bows and silken streamers, intruded – mercifully briefly, but nonetheless disturbingly, upon my life.

      It was my custom to take a daily walk whenever the weather was fine and circumstances permitted. I started this when I first became a woman; I found that it helped ease the cramps and pains of my monthly affliction, and from there it evolved into a habit, which I particularly delighted in whenever I was residing in the country. It was on one of these outings, when I and two of my ladies were on our way to visit a poor family I had taken an interest in, and bring them a basket of foodstuffs, and some blankets and clothing, when this man of mystery first made his presence known.

      Suddenly a boisterous, but I must admit very fine, baritone voice boomed out of nowhere, shattering the quietude of the countryside, startling the birds, and nearly causing me to jump out of my skin and drop my basket. My heart beat at an alarming rate, and I pressed my hand over it as the mysterious voice belted out with great gusto:

      I gave her Cakes and I gave her Ale,

      I gave her Sack and Sherry;

      I kist her once and I kist her twice,

      And we were wondrous merry!

      I gave her Beads and Bracelets fine,

      I gave her Gold down derry.

      I thought she was afear’d till she stroked my Beard

      And we were wondrous merry!

      Merry my Heart, merry my Cock,

      Merry my Spright.

      Merry СКАЧАТЬ