Emily Purdy - Mary & Elizabeth

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!

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.

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 saved me for, and Edward’s soul would be just one of the many that would be lost.

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.”