9
Mary
I was so delighted when my little cousin, Lady Jane Grey, accepted an invitation to come stay a week with me in October. She always held herself so stiff and aloof; I was afraid she didn’t like me. When I kissed, embraced, and touched her or reached out to stroke and pet her beautiful hair, she would flinch and stiffen, and pull away from me, but I loved children and was determined to win her.
I had not seen that shy little lady in ever so long, though I remembered well the delicate beauty of her heart-shaped face, milky white with a smattering of freckles, like cinnamon sprinkled on cream, and her wealth of wavy chestnut hair. Elfin was a word that always sprang to my mind when I thought of her; she was so diminutive, small-boned and slender, tiny for her years, like one of those unobtrusive household sprites that are said to help tidy the house if a treat is left out for them at night. She was one of the most striking children I had ever seen, though shy beyond measure, morose and unsmiling, and incapable of meeting anyone’s eyes. She rarely spoke above a whisper except in the presence of like-minded scholars; she was so besotted with learning that in the schoolroom she quite forgot her shyness and spoke up boldly, parading her intelligence like a peacock strutting to show off his tail feathers.
Her dainty, pallid ghost still stalks my dreams; I see her as a forlorn little figure in her stark black, brown, or gray gowns, and equally plain hoods, devoid of ornamentation except for a discreet border of jet or silk braid. I can see her standing there, assuming that stiff stance, with her hands clasped, and her sorrowful brown eyes downcast. There was something always so sad about her.
I remembered being her age and how I had always loved and longed for pretty things. I wanted to banish the blacks and chase the dull grays and mud-dingy browns out of her wardrobe and replace them with rainbows and glitter; I wanted to make her smile, sparkle, and shine. I wanted to change the grays to silver and the browns to copper and the blacks to gold, to coax out the glints of red and gold hiding in that abundant, wavy mass of chestnut hair.
Though envy is a sin, I confess I was guilty of it, for I did envy Jane Grey the glory and abundance of her hair. My own had grown distressingly thin and faded. When gray begins to take a tenacious foothold, encroaching more every year, in some women’s hair, it has a lovely silvery hue, but not so with mine. On me it was dull and made me appear haggard and older. When I was a little girl everyone loved my hair. How sadly I had changed! All is vanity!
But Jane was, alas, misguided in matters of religion. She was a rabidly fervent Protestant, like a mad dog afflicted with the rabies of heresy, and had a distressing tendency to sometimes be rude and obnoxious in expressing her beliefs and mocking those of others, even if they were her elders. It was not a becoming trait in one so pretty.
One night, after a quiet supper, as we walked past the open doors of my chapel I curtsied low and crossed myself. Jane watched me with a puzzled expression and then asked, “To whom do you curtsy? I see no one within.”
“I am curtsying to the Host, my dear,” I gently explained, gesturing to the holy wafers that lay upon a golden plate on the beautifully arrayed altar, draped with embroidered gold-fringed cloth and adorned with a large bejeweled crucifix, all illuminated by a number of tall, perfumed tapers. “The bread is consecrated and represents the body of Our Lord and it becomes thus indeed when it is elevated by the priest during Mass; that is why it is called the Miracle of the Mass. And it is such a wondrous, glorious thing to behold, to gaze up reverently and feel that one is in the presence of the Lord and He is performing a miracle for our benefit, to reward us for our faith!”
“I see.” Little Jane nodded gravely. “Pray tell me, Cousin Mary, do you also do obeisance to the baker who baked the Lord in his oven? And do you think it a fit expression of your love of Our Savior to chomp Him between your teeth?”
I was so outraged I wanted to slap her, but I curtailed my wrath, remembering that violence was a familiar and commonplace fixture in Jane’s sad life. Her parents thought it their bounden duty to beat her raw with a riding crop for the tiniest infraction or imperfection of appearance, conduct, speech, or demeanor. Servants gossiped of Jane’s mother, the robust, rawboned, red-haired Frances, Duchess of Suffolk, beating Jane until she collapsed exhausted, florid-faced and panting, and had not the strength to raise the crop or cane again and had to be helped from the room by her maids, leaving her daughter lying weeping and bleeding on the floor.
So I suppressed my rage, and instead said quietly, “You have much still to learn, little Cousin Jane. For one so wise in book-learning you are surprisingly bereft of tact and human sympathy and understanding. But now is not the time to discuss it; come with me”—I determinedly took her hand—“I have a surprise for you. . . .”
Though I still harbored grave reservations about Chelsea and those who lived there, and particularly disliked the idea of impressionable young people such as my sister and Jane being brought up in an environ of moral laxity by a widow who had failed to properly honor her late husband’s memory and leapt lustily and straightaway into another man’s bed before the requisite mourning period had passed, I was, for the sake of Jane’s physical well-being, grateful that Katherine Parr had taken her under her wing. Vowing that he would make a grand marriage for her, the Lord Admiral had purchased her wardship from her parents, who were no doubt glad to have more time to devote to their shared great passion for hunting instead of having to beat their eldest daughter bloody black and blue.
So instead of chastising Jane for her blasphemous impudence as she sorely deserved, I took her hand and led her into her bedroom where, spread out upon her bed, lay an opulent silver tinsel gown festooned with heavy gold parchment lace, little twinkling diamonds, and delicate seed pearls. And there was a matching French hood, sparkling with an intricate braided edging of gold, pearls, and diamonds, with a waist-length gold lace veil in back.
“There!” I said, beaming down at it. “Now what do you think of that, Cousin Jane?”
The poor, pale little thing was overcome, struck speechless at the sight of that sumptuous gown, the likes of which I am sure she had never seen. And, in truth, I could not blame her. It was magnificent .
“It is . . . it is . . .” She gulped, then blurted out quickly, “It is very grand, Madame!”
“Oh sweeting!” I smiled down at her and stroked her cheek. “Not Madame. Call me what I am—your Cousin Mary! And yes, it is indeed very grand! I had it made just for you, to wear when we go to court to celebrate the King’s birthday. I remember how when I was a little girl I always loved pretty things; and it is time we got you out of those drab and boring clothes. And I long to see my plain little Jane transformed into a beautiful butterfly! Oh but I can see you are overwhelmed!” I hugged the poor little thing, standing there gaping and, I could tell, on the verge of tears. “And the hour grows late, so I will leave you to your rest,” I said as I withdrew, admittedly feeling a little hurt that she had not expressed her gratitude more enthusiastically; she had not even hugged me back, and I had taken such time and lavished so much care upon the creation of that beautiful gown. She had not, it occurred to me afterward, as I settled myself into bed, even said “thank you.”
The next day, Jane and I left for Hampton Court, to be with Edward on his tenth birthday. I had a special gift for him and could not wait to see the smile that would light up his face when I gave it to him. I had worked my fingers to the bone, stabbing, blistering, and scraping them, all out of love for my little brother, to create a gift born of my own heart and hands, so that I had to resort to slathering them in creams and ointments and sleeping in white linen gloves so that they would be soft, ladylike, and presentable when I knelt before my brother to wish him a happy birthday.
I did not know it then, but it would be the last time we would all be together—Edward, Elizabeth, Jane, and I.
My brother’s court was far different from Father’s. It was marked by a frowning severity interspersed with occasional bursts of gaiety, like loud fireworks lighting up the night sky and quickly fading in a shower of sparks that sank into the dingy dark water of the Thames. Edward’s face habitually wore a frown, despite his youth; he personified the words priggish and pompous. He dressed in clothes greatly puffed and padded that mimicked the garments Father had worn in his later years, and pronounced oaths and struck poses also in imitation of him, but it was more a pathetic caricature than a true likeness. Though none would dare admit it, everyone could see it, even those who encouraged him. Though sired by a king, Edward simply was not meant to be one, though his handlers treated him like liquid candy and saw themselves as the confectioners who poured him into a mold shaped like the late, great Henry. Something was wrong in the mixture, recipe, or technique, and it would never turn out right.
Edward was a stickler for ceremony and had changed the rules regarding entering and exiting the King’s presence from what they had been in Father’s day. I was now required to curtsy not thrice but a full five times upon entering his presence, and five times again when I reached the foot of the dais where he sat upon his gilded throne, and then I must kneel, and stay thus, until he either bade me rise or withdraw, and upon leaving I must walk backward and again twice repeat the five requisite curtsies. I thought it overmuch, especially for a sister of the King, but, since it was his birthday, I chose not to speak up.
Instead, dressed in a splendid new black gown lavishly embroidered in red silk, with full puffed under-sleeves and a kirtle of red embroidered in black, with a large, ruby-studded crucifix pinned boldly and proudly at my breast, I knelt humbly before him, staring down at his square-toed red-silk-slashed white velvet slippers resting on a velvet cushion, and holding out my carefully prepared gift, wrapped in cloth-of-gold and tied at each end with silver cord, and waited for Edward to acknowledge me.
“Sister,” Edward intoned grandly, giving me his hand to kiss, “you have brought us a present for our birthday, I see.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I answered, feeling the bite of the step’s edge through my skirts and wishing he would give me leave to rise, but I kept smiling and offered up my gift to him.
With childish delight that revealed his true age, Edward cast aside his grown-up pretensions as he eagerly undid the wrappings and lifted out the most beautiful hobbyhorse the world has ever seen. His head was cloth of gold dappled with regal purple embroidered silk spots, and his mane made of long bright red silk fringe. His black eyes were fashioned of glittering jet, and his silver bridle sparkled with jewels—I had dismantled a necklace and a pair of earrings to provide them—a procession of which continued down the silver stick, upon which was affixed a small quilted purple velvet saddle so that Edward could ride in comfort.
“Do you like him, Edward?” I asked eagerly, with an earnest, childlike smile. “You can ride him in the gallery when the weather is foul and outdoors in the garden when the weather is fine. Though it was bold of me, I know, to name him, I call him Golden Gallant. I made him with my own two loving hands!” I held up my hands for Edward to see, half wishing now that I had not gone to such pains to heal my blisters and restore my skin to its usual ladylike softness so that he could see proof of how hard I had labored out of love for him.
“A hobbyhorse, Mary?” Edward frowned down at me and queried in pompous disbelief. “You have given the King of England a toy meant for babies, Mary?”
Edward arrogantly thrust my gift aside, and the Lord Protector, Edward Seymour, took it and, with a malicious smile lurking about his lips, broke my beautiful hobbyhorse over his knee and tossed the two pieces contemptuously over his shoulder, then brushed his hands together and resumed his vigilant pose beside Edward’s throne.
“Go!” Edward leaned his cheek sulkily on his hand and slouched down in his throne as he waved me away. “The very sight of your sniveling face vexes me!”
“But, Edward, my dear brother, I . . .” Tears pricked my eyes as I vainly tried to find the right words to explain that I had meant no harm or offense, I just wanted my brother to have the luxury of being a child while he was still a child, and playing like one, instead of always being burdened with the weighty duties and pomp and ceremony that came with a crown.
“By this gesture you have shown me exactly what you think of me, Mary,” Edward informed me coldly. “And my Councilors have told me that you have often expressed your opinion that I lack the maturity and years to make important decisions. You see me as a child, not a king!”
“Edward, my dear . . .” I tried again.
“My Lord Protector.” With an impatient gesture Edward cut me off and turned to address Edward Seymour. “Did I give my sister leave to address me by my name?”
“Not within my hearing, Your Majesty,” Edward Seymour deftly replied.
“Then please instruct the Lady Mary to use the proper form of address when she speaks to me, and also remind her that she is not to speak at all unless I give her permission to do so.”
“With pleasure, Your Majesty,” Edward Seymour purred with a deferential bow before he turned to address me. “Lady Mary,” he began in a strict, formal tone, “please conform to the requisite etiquette of this court and address the King as ‘Your Majesty,’ and do not be so free and bold with your words as to speak them without first being given leave to by our gracious sovereign. Do not presume on your close familial ties to take liberties; that would be a grave mistake.”
Stung by this public rebuke, which had been delivered before the eyes of the entire court—I could hear their titters and whispers behind my back—I bowed my head low and humbly tendered my apologies before retreating, bobbing the required five curtsies twice more, before I backed out the door and fled to my apartment, fighting back tears all the time.
When I returned later that afternoon after I had lain for a time with a cold compress on my head and composed myself, I was in time to observe a most startling scene—the Lord Protector and his wife were arriving just ahead of Katherine Parr and her husband, the Lord Admiral, Sir Thomas Seymour. I knew there had been some discord between them about the jewels that had been given Katherine Parr when she was queen and whether they were Crown Property or not, and also regarding matters of precedence. As the Queen Dowager, until Edward married and England had a proper queen-consort, she should have enjoyed precedence over every other lady in the land, but since she had remarried, it was argued that she had forfeited this right. The Lord Admiral and his brother had argued bitterly over this and, apparently, judging by what I witnessed, the matter had not been settled.
Just as the Lord Protector’s wife, the Duchess of Somerset, a dear friend of mine whom I fondly called “my good gossip Nan,” was about to sail majestically across the threshold in her rust-red velvet gown, Tom Seymour sprang forward, caught hold of her train, and yanked it back so hard that I heard stitches pop and she tottered backward, flailing her arms, and most assuredly would have fallen had her husband not caught her in time.
At a nod from the Lord Admiral, and wearing a placid smile to match the serene blue silk of her gown, Kate walked calmly into the royal Presence Chamber.
“Wait, Kate!” Tom cried, causing her to turn back. “Are those not your pearls around that fat sow’s neck?” he demanded, pointing at the Duchess’s necklace.
Kate hesitated, obviously not wanting to quarrel further, especially not in such a public place with so many eyes upon them. “Tom, please . . .”
But the Lord Admiral was not listening; already he was darting forward to snatch the pearls from Nan’s neck and fling the broken strand, with pearls flying every which way, at his brother’s feet.
“See!” he bellowed triumphantly, standing tall and proud with his hands upon his hips. “I have cast these pearls down before a swine!”
“Tom, please . . .” With a worried frown creasing her brow, Kate came and took his arm. “Come, husband, let us go in and wish Edward a happy birthday.”
“We shall see who is liked best here!” Tom tossed back defiantly over his shoulder as he gave in and let Kate lead him into the King’s Presence Chamber.
Ignoring the proper etiquette, Tom bounded up to the dais where Edward sat, pouting and pompous in white velvet, cloth-of-silver, and rubies. “Edward, my boy! How fares my favorite nephew?” He swooped the arrogant little king up, swung him round, high in the air, as if he were a tot still resident in the nursery instead of a young man teetering on the verge of adolescence, and then, to the astonished gasps of all, plopped himself down onto the throne as if it were his favorite fireside chair, with Edward on his lap.
“I have brought you a new pony and a suit of shiny silver armor beautifully enameled with Tudor roses, and a falcon. His name is Hercules; I trained him myself to ensure that he was fit for a king—for you, my fine boy! Ho there! Bring in that pony!” Tom shouted and with a startled, indignant cry I leapt aside as the inquisitive snout of a black-and-white pony nuzzled the back of my skirts. The Lord High Chamberlain ran toward the door, loudly protesting, “You cannot bring a pony into the King’s Presence Chamber!” but the Lord Admiral ignored him. “Bring him in, Barney, and the hawk too!” he commanded as if he were himself king, and another servant followed with a hooded falcon perched on his leather-gauntleted arm.
As it passed me, the hawk screeched and nervously flapped its wings, causing the bells on its jesses to jangle. I gasped and clasped a hand to my heart, which was beating far too fast from the various assaults and indignities I had been subjected to throughout the course of the day.
“Susan!” I called, looking round for my chief lady-in-waiting. “Have you my smelling salts? I am not well!”
As I clutched the little crystal vial to my nose and inhaled sharply I saw my little brother whisper something into the Lord Admiral’s ear and Tom Seymour produced from the folds of his doublet a blue velvet purse bulging no doubt with coins of silver and gold, which Edward, his eyes agleam with joyful avarice, hastily concealed beneath the folds of his ermine-edged surcoat.
Elizabeth was the next to arrive, making quite an entrance, cheered by the common folk and servants alike who thronged the gates and courtyard just to catch a glimpse of her. She wore amber velvet delicately embroidered with swirls of golden thread and furred at the sleeves with tawny, with a necklace of amber hearts and gold filigree about her slender white neck, as long and swan-like as The Great Whore’s had been. And with a haughty spirit instead of humility she made the requisite series of curtsies, then knelt to present Edward with her birthday offering. It was a book she had made and bound herself. The covers were beautifully embroidered, and the inside filled with “certain passages from Your Majesty’s Book of Common Prayer that particularly touched my heart and made a great impression upon me, so that my soul finds solace and my mind turns to them again and again to ponder both their wisdom and their beauty,” Elizabeth explained. All were elegantly inscribed in her bold and elaborate Italianate script, all curlicues and flourishes, as if she had actually embroidered each word upon the paper, like black silk on white linen, reminiscent of the Spanish blackwork embroidery my mother had taught me. She had, like the monks and nuns of the good but sadly gone days, illuminated the borders of each page with gilt and colored inks, drawing various fruits, flowers, designs, and symbols.
Overjoyed with this gift, Edward ordered a cushioned stool brought so that Elizabeth might sit beside him as he perused its pages, nodding over it sagely and enthusiastically, excitedly reading aloud certain passages that he particularly favored. The courtiers nodded approvingly and proffered compliments on how well the King read and understood scripture, praising God for blessing them with so devout and erudite a king who had been born free of the shackles of Rome and papist superstition. And Elizabeth was invited to sit again on the dais with him for that evening’s entertainment.
Before she kissed his hand and took leave of him, Edward declared her his “favorite sister” and remarked on how she “glowed with the inner radiance of one who has embraced the Reformed Faith.”
Having failed so dismally with Edward, I again sought out my little cousin Jane. I knew it would both delight and soothe me to dress her in the gown I had given her. Dressing that pretty child would be just like being a little girl again and dressing up my dolls.
Modestly, she tried to put me off, blushing and stammering, unable to get the words out, at times almost verging on tears, but I insisted, and in the end, she let me have my way. As I undressed her, we both averted our eyes and pointedly said nothing about the ugly bruises marring her pale flesh and the silver-white scars up and down her back, buttocks, and the backs of her thighs. And soon she stood before the looking glass sumptuously arrayed in silver and gold, as I drew the brush through those luxuriant chestnut waves, then set the French hood in place.
“See, Jane, we shall be dressed in reverse!” I smiled, spinning around before her to show off my gold tinsel gown trimmed with silver lace, pearls, and diamonds that was an almost exact mirror image of Jane’s gown. I even had a silver lace veil down my back to contrast with her gold one. “But wait, I have one more surprise for you!” And I took from a concealed pocket in my overskirt a velvet box and opened it to reveal a dainty necklace of pearls set in gold rosebuds. “Let me put it on you, my dear!”
When I kissed her cheek and left her she was still standing before the mirror in a state of speechlessness, pale-faced and wide-eyed with amazement. Poor dear, with all her plain dresses and cruel parents, I am sure she never expected to see herself dressed so fine. I am sure that until then she never realized just how pretty she was. And such a dress was indeed the stuff of dreams; indeed, I had told my dressmaker to make a dress that would make those dreams come true, and she had excelled beyond my wildest expectations. With my gift I had pulled Jane out of her cocoon and I could not wait for the court to see the beautiful butterfly that had emerged, so with a glad heart I hastened to the Great Hall so I could be present to see the reaction when Jane arrived. I just knew she would take everyone’s breath away!
An hour later Jane walked in wearing a plain black cloth gown, its square neckline filled in with a partlet of plain white lawn without even a stitch of embroidery or a brooch. Her beautiful hair was drawn severely back and pinned up tight, out of sight, beneath the plain black veil of her equally plain black hood. Her only adornment, if it could be accounted such, was a little black velvet-bound prayer book that hung from a black braided cord about her waist. I was so hurt that she had rejected my gift that at first I failed to notice that she was walking very stiffly and her eyes were red as if she had been crying.
I would later hear from my good Susan—who heard the tale direct from Mrs. Ellen, Jane’s much harried and vexed nurse—what had happened after I left Jane’s room. Jane had burst into tears and begun to claw at the dress, calling it “tawdry and vainglorious,” and declaring that she “would rather go naked as God made me than offend His eyes with such a decadent and wanton waste of skilled hands that would have been better occupied in sewing simple garments to clothe the poor than in creating such Papist fripperies!” Ripping the gown from her body as if it burned her, Jane flung it into the cold fireplace, onto the ashes. Then, overcome by the enormity of what she had just done, she was assailed by a sudden nervous loosening of the bowels that sent her running for her chamberpot, which Jane afterward recklessly emptied onto the dress, to render it completely unfit to ever wear again. When her mother came in and saw what she had done, she sent for her riding crop and provided a series of raw ruby-red stripes to adorn Jane’s back, bottom, and thighs, which accounted for her slow, stiff gait.
I watched as Thomas Seymour left Kate’s side and crossed the room to sweep Jane up high in the air and spin her around, just as he had done earlier with Edward. Smiling broadly, he loudly declared, “I see big things in store for you, little Jane! Bigger than you can even begin to imagine!”
When he put her down, he took her hand and led her to the banquet table. I watched Jane hesitate and try to pull away when he showed her where she should sit, but Tom Seymour bent low and whispered something in her ear, and when Edward came in and we all sat down, Jane gingerly lowered herself into the seat of honor at Edward’s side.
A great cake had been prepared to celebrate my brother’s birthday, a towering confection of currant cake slathered in waves of pink-tinged whipped cream, with a profusion of red and black berries riding the crest of the waves. It was crowned by a marzipan subtlety depicting his late mother’s device—a woman with a crown atop her long flowing yellow tresses emerging from a red and white Tudor rose, whilst behind her a gilded phoenix rose proudly into the sky.
Like a village matchmaker, Tom Seymour leapt up from his chair and went to lean and whisper into Edward’s ear when the cake was being served. Edward nodded and bade one of the servers bring Lady Jane, along with her slice of cake, the little head-and-shoulders figure of his late mother. Edward presented it to our blushing, diminutive little cousin himself, saying that since she was named after his late mother it was only fitting that she should have this, her likeness, while the court smiled and, led by a broadly beaming Tom Seymour, applauded the gesture and declared it charmingly romantic.
As the evening wore on, I became more certain of Tom Seymour’s intentions. When, at his direction, Jane was again seated at Edward’s side, this time upon the dais to watch the entertainments, the pieces began to fall into place—Edward and Jane were the same age, born in the same month and year and, as Edward himself had stated, Jane had indeed been named in honor of his mother, and they were both misguided children wrongly reared up to walk the road of heresy. Tom Seymour was obviously grooming Jane to be England’s next queen, a homegrown Protestant queen in lieu of a more dynastically and financially beneficial foreign bride. And when Elizabeth, who had been invited to sit with our brother, started to join them, the Lord Admiral caught her arm, whispered something in her ear, and drew her away, no doubt urging her to leave the young couple alone so that romance might blossom unchecked. This only confirmed my suspicions.
When the evening’s entertainment began I was so horrified I found myself stricken with a stunned and sickened paralysis; I could not stir, only sit there staring in horror and outrage at what was happening right before my eyes.
A troupe of tiny chattering monkeys was led in by their handler. Each little figure was garbed as a Roman cleric; there were monks, bishops, cardinals, priests, and the female monkeys were dressed as nuns. The largest monkey, a great shaggy orange-haired beast, wore the white robes and miter of His Holiness, the Pope, and carried a staff topped by a jeweled crucifix. At the sight of them the whole court erupted in gales of delighted laughter. And Edward so forgot his dignity that he roared with laughter, rocking back and forth upon his throne, until tears ran down his face, and he clutched his sides, as the monkeys capered and danced before him.
“What could be more apt?” he asked Lady Jane beside him, who, in her mirth, had forgotten the pain of her latest beating and also rocked with laughter.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Jane replied, “the papists are a lot of posturing apes, so this is very apt indeed!”
And then the monkeys began to misbehave. One of the little nuns pulled the skirt of her habit up over her head and began to dance round in circles, exposing her privy parts to the males until one of the monks leapt on her and the two began to copulate quite shamelessly at the foot of the throne.
The whole court roared with laughter, cheered them on, and called out encouragement and crude and bawdy remarks, and began to pelt the monkeys with little jewel-colored candied fruits, nuts, dates, grapes, and raisins as one by one, the monkey nuns flipped up their skirts and presented their private parts to the monks, priests, bishops, and cardinals, until only a few were left without a mate. And the hideous little beasts not preoccupied with carnal congress greedily fell on the sweets, and some even snatched them up and threw them back at the guests. I heard a woman shriek and turned to see my friend Nan in a state of great distress. Apparently some of the sweetmeats thrown by the monkeys had gone down the front of her gown and one of the horrid little monsters had gone bounding greedily after them and was now reaching his tiny furry black paw down between her creamy ample breasts to grope for them. Nan shrieked and tried to beat him off with her fan. Her husband abandoned his post beside the King and ran to assist her, slapping at and cursing the shrieking monkey, which snapped at and tried to bite him whilst those around looked on and laughed uproariously instead of coming to their aid.
There were monkeys everywhere now; some of them were swarming over the great cake prepared for my brother’s birthday, gobbling up handfuls of the moist cake and creamy frosting or else slinging globs of it at the courtiers. Others raced along the banquet table sampling wine and food from the gold and silver plates or flinging it about. One little fellow, entranced by a jiggling fat jelly-woman in green and yellow skirts with a jolly, smiling apple-cheeked face sculpted from colored marzipan, sought to embrace and carnally unite with her, but instead fell from the table with the jelly lady plopping down on top of him with a loud splat.
Their harried handler, not knowing which of his charges to try to curtail first, ran back and forth and round in circles, starting off first in one direction and then turning and going in another, rather like a dog running round in circles after his own tail.
The court was torn between mirth and panic now; some screamed with laughter and others screamed in fear, racing toward the doors or else climbing up onto the tables and chairs, trying to evade the monkeys run amok. Upon his great gilded throne my brother watched it all, and slapped his thigh and rocked and roared with laughter, as the now frightened Lady Jane Grey cowered against him, now unable to share his amusement; the joke had gotten out of hand and was no longer quite as funny.
As the big ugly orange ape playing the Pope lifted his white robes and began to enthusiastically fondle himself, my limbs at last recovered their ability to move and I bolted from my chair and fled the Great Hall as a wave of nausea fanned up in my stomach. As I went, I passed Elizabeth, leaning against the wall, calmly watching it all, nonchalantly sipping from a golden goblet, as cool as the cucumber-colored silk of her gown.
With my hand clasped over my mouth, I hurried along the torchlit corridor until I found a secluded spot and vomited into the rushes. As I was still bent over, gasping, and bracing myself against the wall, I felt someone brush against me and a hand reach round to cup my breast.
With a gasp, I bolted upright, but before I could turn around to confront my molester, a second arm stole round my waist and I felt through my full, layered skirts the hard physique of a man pressed close against me as a voice sang softly in my ear:
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!
A warm, wet tongue flicked out to lick the nape of my neck and a hot voice that made my skin crawl as if someone had just walked over my grave whispered, “Just think, Lady Mary, you could have had me!” And with a mocking, somewhat sinister, little laugh, Tom Seymour released me and returned to the brightly lit Great Hall.
I left court the very next morning without even saying good-bye to my brother or sister, leaving Jane to travel back to Chelsea with Elizabeth, Kate, and that rogue Tom Seymour. It didn’t really matter; I knew I would not be missed. But I could no longer bear to witness such sacrilegious atrocities, and it only confirmed that I was correct—young people, such as my brother, sister, and little cousin Jane, lack the wisdom to make decisions in such important matters as religion and are easily led astray. But they are not without hope; with kind and proper guidance, they could just as easily find their way back to the true faith and become good and devout Catholics. Why could they not see that just as that big ugly orange ape had put on white robes and pretended to be the Pope when they attended their stark, unadorned Protestant services and listened to the preacher’s sermons, delivered in English, not priestly, sanctified Latin, they were listening to Satan showing off how skillfully he could quote Scriptures? Why could they not see that as clearly as I could? As I rode back to Hunsdon, weeping in my litter, I prayed that God would cure their blindness and let them see the truth before it was too late and their souls were damned and lost forever.