Brandy Purdy

by The Queen's Rivals

  “Whatever can it mean?” Kate wondered as I stood at the foot of our bed in my gold apple–patterned spring green brocade and laced her into a gown of pale rose damask figured with delicate silver roses. “How can it be a ‘sweet celebration’ so soon after Father and Jane are gone?”

  “I cannot even imagine,” I sighed. “Life will never be the same without them. I am so afraid nothing will ever be sweet again, Kate.”

  “Don’t say that, Mary,” Kate pleaded. “We have to be brave; life is for the living, so we must find things to look forward to, things worth going on for. Sweet times must come again! But, now . . . it is too soon.”

  When we arrived at Suffolk House, we were ushered into the downstairs parlor where, in a blaze of what must have been a hundred candles, our lady-mother, thinking perhaps that the candlelight would be kind and flatter her, stood before the great marble fireplace. Her hair, now an alarming cherry red—she had obviously been overzealous in applying the henna—was flowing down her back, girlishly unbound, though she was galloping hard and fast toward forty. Upon it sat a lavish crown of gilded rosemary, lavender, meadowsweet, red and white roses to remind all of her Tudor heritage, deep purple violets, marigolds, and the white star-shaped blossoms known as love-in-a-mist. She was holding a large golden goblet and wearing a loose, flowing gown of creamy white damask beneath which her uncorseted body jiggled like five frightened piglets squirming and writhing in a vain attempt to free themselves from the sack they had been sewn into. When she took a step toward us, I heard the jingle of spurs, and glanced down to glimpse the sharp-pointed toes of black leather riding boots peeking from beneath her gown.

  “Come, my daughters”—she held out a hand to us—“and embrace your stepfather!” With a sweeping gesture, she indicated the bashful, blushing figure of our Master of the Horse, Adrian Stokes, who seemed to be trying to hide himself in the shadows as though he were afraid to face us. “Here, my love”—she pulled at his scarlet satin sleeve—“come and drink a loving cup with me!” She pressed the goblet into his hand.

  “Pinch me, Mary!” Kate whispered, clutching hard at my hand. “Wake me now; I must be dreaming!”

  “Methinks I am having the same nightmare,” I whispered back as we stood and stared at the blushing, bashful black-haired boy standing sheepishly beside our lady-mother in his garishly bright, scarlet satin doublet adorned with golden bugles all down the front and along the sleeves.

  To his credit, Master Stokes seemed overcome with a burning hot shame and found it exceedingly hard to meet our gaze. Instead, he stared at the floor, studying his gold-slashed, scarlet shoes as though he could not quite believe that these were truly his feet.

  “Well?” our lady-mother demanded, hands on hips. “What are you waiting for? Come, now, don’t be shy—embrace him!”

  “I would sooner hurl myself into the Thames!” Kate cried. “Mother, how could you? He’s only twenty!”

  Without daring to meet Kate’s eyes, Master Stokes mumbled that he would be twenty-one on Tuesday.

  “Yes, my love, and we shall have a party, a very grand party!” Our lady-mother smiled indulgently as she patted his arm and smacked a kiss onto his cheek and her hand stole mischievously behind to give a greedy and unsuspected squeeze to his buttocks that made Master Stokes nearly start out of his skin.

  “Mother!” Kate cried, shaking her head incredulously. “Father has not even been dead two weeks! Could you not have waited?” She turned away, her hand rising to try to hide her tears. “You didn’t even wear widow’s weeds for him!”

  “Come, Kate.” I caught hold of my sister’s hand. “You’re wasting your words and your breath! She’s not even sorry Father is dead; she can’t be . . . to do this!” I waved a disgusted hand at Master Stokes. “He’s young enough to be her son!”

  “I—I—” Master Stokes began to stammer, looking first at our lady-mother as though, still accustomed to a role of servitude, he was awaiting her permission to speak. “Perhaps we did marry in haste. I—I—I always liked my lord of Suffolk and was greatly saddened by his death. When I first came to Bradgate, as a lad to work in the stables, he always had a smile and a treat from his comfit box for me. Truly, I mean no disrespect to his memory! If you like, we could drink a toast to him and light some candles ’neath his portrait.”

  “Sit down and shut up!” Our lady-mother shoved Master Stokes toward a chair and aimed a kick at the same buttocks she had just been squeezing. “I didn’t marry you for your conversation!” Then she swung around, her gown billowing out like a great white sail behind her, and grabbed Kate’s wrist, twisting it roughly. “You stupid girl!” she hissed. “I thought you had more sense! I didn’t have time to mourn, and your father is as dead as he’ll ever be, so what’s the difference when by my actions I could still save something? Or did you want to see it all lost because of your foolish father—Bradgate and Suffolk House and what lands and monies we have left, that he didn’t gamble away? I had to save something, and by marrying beneath me, and forsaking my rank as Duchess of Suffolk, to show the Queen this family has no more royal pretensions, I have accomplished that! I did what I had to do, and you two ungrateful little girls should fall on your knees and thank me for it! Think you I liked giving up my title to become plain Mistress Stokes, even if it did land me a lusty young lad in my bed? Aye, I’ve saved the homes and money, but I’ve sacrificed my title, and now wherever I go people will snicker behind my back, because I’ve married a boy young enough to be my son, as Mary so rightly says! But I have two daughters and their futures to think of!”

  “And yourself!” Kate shouted.

  “Yes, myself!” our lady-mother acquiesced. “I’ve done my duty all my life, and now I deserve a husband who will make me happy! I’ve more than earned it! Forget about your worthless father, that spineless lout with a brain as soft and doughy as his body! I am the daughter of a queen, and the niece of a king, and I deserved far better than Hal Grey!”

  She paused to draw breath and fan her flushed face, then, with a defiant toss of her head, went to sit on the gilded arm of Master Stokes’s chair, ignoring its ominous groan, and arranged herself as though she were posing for a portrait of a doting wife. She stroked his hair and bent to nibble on his ear, while he blushed and glanced away as her hand dipped down to rove inside his shirt and playfully tweak a nipple, hard enough to make him squirm, wince, and squeal.

  “Jane and Guildford too,” she continued as she snatched the golden cup from Master Stokes’s hand and drank greedily from it. “They’re all dead and nothing can bring them back! Though I do regret poor Guildford; the dear boy wanted me to run away to Italy with him to manage his singing career. He paid me a great compliment when he said that even though I am a woman I was still the most formidable person he had ever known, and he felt confident that none of the theater managers would ever dare to cheat or shortchange him if I were there minding such matters. He was right, of course. Poor Guildford!” She sighed. “God rest him!”

  She daintily selected a sugarplum from the golden tray beside Master Stokes’s chair and popped it into her mouth, washing it down with a great gulp of wine. I watched disgustedly as a red rivulet dripped from the corner of her rouged mouth and trickled slowly down to stain the bodice of her white gown. It made me think of blood, and I had to close my eyes as my belly churned sickly inside.

  “Come on, Mary!” Kate, swatting the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, seized my hand and dragged me toward the door. “We can’t stay here!”

  “I . . . I think it’s going to rain!” Master Stokes called after us.

  “Then don’t go outside and stare up at the sky with your mouth open else you might drown!” Kate shouted back at him as she slammed the door and pulled me out into the London night, forgetting our fur cloaks in her haste.

  “You should be happy for me!” Our lady-mother thrust her head out the parlor window and shouted after us as the rain began to lightly fall. “Your father is as dead now as he will be
in a year, and instead of hiding it and living secretly in sin, I am legally wedded and well and rightfully enjoying the black-haired boy God has sent me as a reward to console me and share my bed! By heaven, I deserve him! At least I had the decency, the honesty, not to pretend!”

  “Oh go boil your head, Mother!” Kate shouted back at her and kept on walking, pulling me along after her, as the first bolt of lightning stabbed the darkened sky, and the boom of thunder drowned out our lady-mother’s angry reply.

  “Kate!” I tugged at her hand. “Surely we should get a coach or a barge? It’s dark, and it’s not safe for us to be abroad, alone, defenseless, and dressed as we are. The city is full of danger, and we are walking straight into it!”

  But Kate wasn’t listening. Even as I tugged one sleeve and the wind fiercely grabbed the other, Kate kept walking, fast and furious, and didn’t stop until we stood staring up at London Bridge. The rain-slickened gray stone shone silver in the lightning’s bright white flash, and the traitors’ heads, in various states of decay, leered ghoulishly from the metal pikes their pitch-dipped necks were impaled upon. An eyeball dangled from the socket of one of the freshest, while others looked leathery and weather-beaten, their flesh stripped away to reveal the bones beneath.

  Kate drew me to stand in a nearby doorway, and huddling back in a corner, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth, she slumped down. “Now we wait.”

  “Wait for what?” I asked, yet in my heart I already knew the answer. Kate was waiting for a later hour, for the traffic on the streets and bridge to disperse, for all to be in their beds so none would be abroad to witness the bold act she intended.

  Kate’s eyes were fixed on the bridge, staring at the heads—or one particular head—and she didn’t bother to answer me. I knew it would be futile to tell her she could not have it, not without the Queen’s consent. The heads were left on London Bridge until all the flesh was gone, then the bare skulls were tossed into the Thames to make room for more. It was part of the punishment—that they could never lie in their graves whole. Only if the Queen granted consent could their families take them down for decent burial. Jane and Guildford had fortunately been spared this fate, but not Father. I knew our lady-mother would not be asking for his head; all she wanted to do was forget, and to make the Queen forget too, and she would beat us if she knew we had dared revive memories she wanted to sink, like Father’s clean-picked, wind-buffed, and rain-polished skull, to the muddy bottom of the Thames.

  But she had underestimated Kate. Kate wouldn’t have it. She would save him, and damn the Queen’s permission and our lady-mother, she would do it, daring all for love, just like she always did. All for love—that was my sister Kate; that is the epitaph that should adorn her grave, for there are no truer words to describe her than that motto she lived by all her life.

  I must have fallen into a doze. I started awake as a flash of palest pink and silver flew past me. Kate was up and running; before I could reach out a hand to try and stop her, she was gone, running toward London Bridge as the rain lashed her, and the wind tugged and howled at her as though it were outraged by her audacity and determined to do what I couldn’t—stop her.

  Every time my heart beat I felt as though it would burst out of my chest and that I would look down and see it protruding, pulsing and dripping blood onto the golden apples that figured my beautiful green gown. I was too afraid to even pray as I watched Kate climb tenaciously to the top, fighting the wind all the way, and make her way along the bridge until she reached the grotesque cluster of weather-ravaged, raven-picked, and rotting heads. I wondered if wherever he was Father could see his rash and daring daughter, leaning far out over the rail, being pelted by silver needles of rain as she reached for the spike his head was impaled upon. Poor Father! His dull, dead eyes stared out blindly into the storm, the scarce tufts that were all that was left of his luxuriant auburn beard billowing, as the wind buffeted him like a parody of our lady-mother boxing his ears.

  But she could not reach it, strain and strive as she might.

  “Kate!” I ran out into the rain. “You’ll never reach him! Please, come down before you fall!”

  Kate straightened, wind-whipped and breast wildly heaving, and stared down defiantly at me. “Never say never to me!”

  She hitched up her skirts and swung her leg out, straddling the rain-slickened rail, and shimmied along, as agile as one of her pet monkeys, even as the wind ripped the hood from her head and snatched away the silver net and pearl-tipped pins, unleashing a riot of waist-length copper ringlets to ride the wind like writhing red gold snakes, turning my sister into a beautiful Medusa lit by the blinding white flash of lightning. Was the boom of the thunder the great God Zeus laughing at this bold wench even as he desired her? Was the wind His way of trying to pull her into His embrace? Or would she slip and fall into the Thames, a beautiful sacrifice for His brother-god Neptune? Oh, Kate, Kate, come down, Kate! my heart cried as tears rolled down my face. Cease this folly! Forget the head! Father is dead, and you cannot save him now! No one can! The head is just a head, and not worth risking your life for!

  Grasping the rail with one hand, Kate leaned far out and reached for Father’s head. She started to slip, and I nearly died, sweating and burning despite the cold rain. She righted herself and sat for a long time, watching as her little pink shoe plummeted into the black water below. It sank without a sound, and any splash it made was swallowed up by the lusty, gusty wind. In the blinding flash of lightning that followed, I saw the determination in her face, and I knew she would never stop until she had his head or fell to a watery grave.

  She tried to push her hair back, but it came right back, slapping her in the face, plastering itself over her eyes, nose, and mouth like a tangle of orangey red seaweed. Undaunted, Kate reached down and fumbled beneath her skirts and tore off a pink silk garter, leaving her white stocking to fall and droop around her ankle. Squeezing her knees tight around the rail, she gathered her hair back, like a horse’s tail, and tied it tightly with the garter. Then she was ready to try again. I wanted to turn away. I couldn’t bear to look, and yet I had to. She really was fearless, my bold, brave Kate! I could not have done it!

  She really should have been dressed all in black to appear less conspicuous, or even better as a boy for ease of movement, but Kate had not planned this, or if she had, she never told me. Yet, despite the danger and encumbrance her clothes presented, the artist in me would not have altered a single stitch or shade. She was a glorious, terrifying sight to behold, there in the pouring rain, wind-whipped skirts of soft rose and silver and white petticoats flapping like the wings of terrified birds fighting to ride the wild, raging wind, to stay aloft and not be beaten down, illuminated by the silver-white, diamond-bright flash of lightning against the midnight sky. I wish I had been blessed with the talent to paint her, so the world could see her just like that instead of the insipid, pale, lifeless, black-and-white-gowned likenesses that are all that is left to show the world Lady Katherine Grey.

  Then she had him, cradled safe against her breast. It was all over except for her descent, and surely God would not let her slip; if she was going to fail, if she was going to fall, surely it would not be now.

  Carefully, most carefully, she shimmied back down. Wordlessly, she gave me Father’s head to hold while she struggled to raise her heavy, waterlogged skirts and wiggle out of one of her petticoats.

  Poor Father! I caressed his leathery, wind-burned cheeks. Most of his beard was gone, taken by the ravens or other birds to build their nests. I liked to think someday I might look up, at the nests in the trees in the parks and gardens of the Queen’s palaces, and see auburn skeins from Father’s beard woven into their nests.

  Silently, Kate held her petticoat out to me, like a cradle, to lay Father’s head in, but first I kissed his brow, and Kate did the same before she tenderly swaddled him in the sodden white linen.

  I stood for a long moment and eyed my soaked and shivering sister with breathless
wonder. I still couldn’t believe that she had done it. The wind had yanked and stolen away the garter that bound her hair, like a lovesick swain playfully snatching a ribbon from his sweetheart’s hair to wear as a love token upon his hat or sleeve. She was minus one slipper, and I feared the frosty slush that covered the ground would be smitten by her fair toes or pretty little foot and take a token too. Her gown hung limp, hugging every curve, clinging to her limbs, so that she had to fight its waterlogged embrace for every step. The lightning flashed a vivid silvery white, and I saw frozen raindrops clinging to her hair like little diamonds. Her teeth were chattering, and there was a wild gleam in her eyes, a blue gray storm themselves, that spoke both of triumph and disbelief. She looked half drowned, a sorry, sodden sight, yet to my eyes she had never been more beautiful.

  “Come on, Mary!” Clutching Father’s head to her with one arm, she held out her hand to me and I took it.

  Then off we went to the Church of St. Botolph’s-Without-Aldgate, where I still visit Father every Sunday. Once there we gave Father into the care of the minister. He still keeps Father safe, locked inside the cupboard in his study, in a glass casket filled with sawdust that is regularly replenished—Father’s leathery flesh soaks some vital nutrient from the wood shavings that keeps him tanned, as though he still rode to the hounds every day. Dr. Reynolds always receives me kindly, and together we share a cup of wine and drink a toast to Father, whom he remembers warmly as a feckless man he occasionally counseled against his gambling, but always generous and kind.

  As the church bells tolled midnight, Kate took my hand again and we disappeared into the dark and rainy night to sneak back into Greenwich Palace, now that Suffolk House, still celebrating a wedding that to my mind made a mockery of the sacrament of holy matrimony, seemed even less of a home to us than it ever had before. Our lady-mother I realized now was the bedrock, the firm and solid foundation our family was built upon, but Father—fun, silly, wild, reckless Father with all his schemes and dreams and his ever-present comfit box—had been the heart of it.