Authors: Emily Purdy
He snatched up the box and offered it around to us. “Here’s something more suitable for your ears and years that will help you understand, especially you, little Mary, what a grand match this courageous man is! Why, if I were a woman I would leap at the chance to wed Lord Wilton! But don’t tell him I said that; William
deplores
anything he even thinks hints at sodomy, so he would not take my words as the sincere compliment I meant them to be, for I hold him in the
highest
esteem! But forget I said that too, the bit about sodomy I mean—you girls shouldn’t even know that word or what it means! You don’t, do you?
Please
say you don’t and spare my hide your mother’s riding crop!”
He gave a great sigh of relief and mopped the sweat from his brow with his velvet sleeve when we all nodded obediently. Then he proceeded to climb up onto the long polished table that spanned nearly the entire length of the library and, enthusiastic as a little boy, began a vigorous one-man reenactment of “the wounding of Lord Wilton at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh,” spiritedly wielding pantomime pikes and swords and playing all the various roles, the enemy Scots and the brave Englishmen, falling back, gurgling blood, clasping his throat, and gasping for air as my affianced husband was stricken, then rolling over on his side to quickly inform us how John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland himself, or “the Earl of Warwick as he was then,” had himself thrust his fingers down Lord Wilton’s throat and brought up a handful of broken teeth to clear his airway so he could breathe, “thus saving his life.”
Then the wounded warrior valiantly mounted his horse again—Father swung his leg over a pretend steed and began to mime a brisk canter, neighing as his boots went clip-clop over the varnished table—explaining in an aside how, with Northumberland at his side, Lord Wilton had ridden hard through the swarming bodies of armoured Englishmen and kilted Scots, wielding clanging swords, swinging spiked maces, and thrusting and clashing pikes. “When suddenly Lord Wilton began to droop, overcome by the heat, dust, buzzing flies, pain, and loss of blood, and seemed poised to faint. ’Twas then that Northumberland grabbed a firkin of ale, tilted the swooning man’s head back, and poured it over his head, and as much as he could down his throat, to revive him, thus saving his life yet again. And our brave kinsman finished the charge, a hero, though a trifle drunken with his face a torn and bloody ruin, he was a hero nonetheless, and for it by the Crown rewarded with a knighthood and the governorship of Berwick, and he was also made warden of the east marches and general of several of the northern!”
Our lady-mother walked in just as Father was reenacting the shower of ale, having first called to Kate to bring him the flagon from his desk. She stood, arms folded across her ample breasts, tapping the toe of her boot upon the polished oaken floor, and watched with us as, standing on the table, Father threw his head back and raised the flagon up high and poured a shower of ale down his throat and all over his chest, so caught up in the drama he was reenacting that he displayed a reckless disregard for his elegant new clothes.
“Hal, whatever are you doing?” our lady-mother demanded. “Get down off that table, you’re making a perfect spectacle of yourself!”
“Well, at least he is doing it perfectly,” Jane murmured tartly, making a not so veiled reference to our lady-mother’s insistence on perfection.
Without even glancing at Jane, our lady-mother raised her hand and with the back of it dealt Jane’s face a slap. “Sarcasm is not a becoming quality in a young lady, Jane, especially not a young lady about to be married. Or hasn’t your father told you about that yet?”
Father dropped the flagon, and it fell onto the table with a loud clatter as he quickly clambered down, explaining that he had just been telling us the happy news.
“This required you standing on the table my mother left me, scratching it with your boots, pouring ale all over yourself, and ruining your new doublet?” she asked, arching one finely plucked brow in disbelief.
“I—I was just showing the girls how Lord Wilton was wounded at the Battle of Pinkie Cleugh,” Father sheepishly explained as a blush flamed like a wildfire across his cheeks above his bushy auburn beard.
Poor Father! Mother always made him act like a mouse cornered by a cat. In her presence, he was forever fidgeting, stammering, and gnawing his nails, and tugging and twisting his hair, as a sweat broke out on his brow. Even when she was not there he was always starting at unexpected sounds and darting swift, nervous, and guilty glances around even when he was not partaking of the contents of his “sweet drawer.”
“What in heaven’s name for?” our lady-mother asked.
“I … I … The girls were … well I …” Father stammered, his eyes suddenly intent upon his toes. “It’s quite understandable, my dear … you know he … he is not … pleasant … to look upon … and I-I wanted Mary to understand and … be proud that a war hero wants to marry her!”
Our lady-mother rolled her eyes. “Don’t lie to her! Her mirror doesn’t lie to her, and men’s eyes won’t either, only your foolish heart and tongue! You think you’re being kind, but you’re not. He’s marrying her because
I
say she’ll have him, and he’s the only suitable man of rank and means willing to have her, and far better him for a husband than having the little gargoyle remain a spinster under our roof for the rest of her life since we can’t very well send her to a nunnery since England is now Protestant instead of Papist, and she’s too high born to be a fool in a great household. That would only shame and disgrace us! Her face will not make her fortune, like Kate’s will,” she added, her voice softening, growing tender, as she spoke my sister’s name and turned to caress the bright curls and bend to press a kiss onto her cheek.
Her words stung me like a slap, and I could not bear the way she stamped all the fun out of Father, chastised him, and made him behave like a naughty schoolboy. And, I confess, it hurt me to witness the affection she showered on Kate, so I timorously piped out a question, never thinking that it might hurt Jane. “F-Father, who is Jane to marry? You did not say before.”
Father flashed a grateful smile at me.
Anything
to divert our lady-mother. He too feared her sharp tongue that was like a metal-barbed whip, always criticizing and chastising us.
“Guildford Dudley,” he answered promptly and proudly as though the boy whose name he had just pronounced was some great prize that he had won for his firstborn daughter. “The Earl of Northumberland’s youngest son of marriageable age, and the only one of his brood with golden hair. All the others are dark,” he added. “He is his mother’s favourite and was christened with her maiden name—Guildford. It’s rather different, don’t you think?” he babbled on. “I mean when so many boys are named Henry, Edward, Robert, William, John, and Thomas, it stands out as wonderfully unique, don’t you think?”
“Guildford Dudley!”
We three sisters raised an incredulous chorus and clung together for comfort. I saw loathing and contempt in Jane’s eyes, while Kate’s and mine mirrored the pity we each felt for our scholarly sister to be wedded and bedded by such a conceited fool, a gilt-haired youth who made the proud peacocks that strutted across the royal gardens look dowdy and meek as sparrows in comparison. Jane was fluent in Latin, Greek, and French, and was currently studying Hebrew to enhance her understanding of the Scriptures; she devoured the works of Cicero, Ovid, Plutarch, Livy, Juvenal, Demosthenes, Justin the Martyr, Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, and the New Testament written in Greek as other girls her age did chivalric romances and the rollicking, ribald tales of Boccaccio and Chaucer; she had even recently acquired a Latin translation of the Jewish Talmud. And now she was betrothed to a boy who thought books were merely decorative.
Poor Jane!
Everyone knew that Guildford Dudley was vainer than any girl. His own family called him their gilded lily and their golden gillyflower and catered to his every whim, shamelessly pampering and indulging their petulant and decadent darling in every way imaginable. And he was such a fool, though he himself, and his adoring mother, who put him on a pedestal like a gilt idol, thought his brains as brilliant as his beauty. Everyone knew that all the Dudleys’ servants were dark-haired, to make Guildford’s own golden head shine all the brighter; Guildford, who washed his hair twice a week with a mixture of lemon juice and chamomile, was known to throw fierce tantrums if any boy with fair hair dared to stand within twenty paces of him. He was the only boy I ever knew who slept with his head in curl rags every night and insisted his hairdresser, standing ready to attend him, be the first person he saw when he opened his eyes each morning. That was Guildford Dudley—Jane’s betrothed.
Oh
my poor, poor sister!
“I Will Not.”
One moment Jane was speaking, enunciating each word with hard, ironclad clarity, the next her skull was striking the floor and her feet flying up as our lady-mother felled her with one swift blow from her fist.
“You will,” our lady-mother said with icy calmness.
Jane raised her throbbing head from the floor and locked eyes with our lady-mother.
“I will not,”
she repeated. “I will
not
marry Guildford Dudley.”
There was an ominous quietness, wrapping us all like a shroud. We all knew what was about to happen; it had happened so many times before it would have been accounted a miracle if it hadn’t. Jane would be taken upstairs to the Long Gallery outside our rooms, where we had always gathered by the fire and played on cold or rainy days. She would be stripped to her shift and made to wait, kneeling like a penitent, before a hard wooden bench. Then we would hear the determined tread of our lady-mother’s leather-booted footsteps, the jingle-jangle of her spurs, and the slap of her riding crop against her palm as she approached. A few words would be exchanged, though to no profit, as Jane would not apologize for whatever offence she had committed. Then our lady-mother would point her whip at the bench and Jane would lift off her shift and position herself over it with her bare back and buttocks fully exposed to the merciless cascade of blows that were about to descend. She would bite her lips until they bled and silent tears would drip down onto the floor as she choked back her sobs and refused to cry out. She would not give our lady-mother the satisfaction of hearing her plead for mercy.
“To the Long Gallery,” our lady-mother said, and briskly strode out without a backward glance.
“Oh, Jane!” we cried, huddling close around our sister, as if our love alone could protect her, but she brushed away our arms and walked stoically out after our lady-mother with her head held high and proud, just like a Christian martyr about to be thrown to the lions. There were times when I thought Jane actually relished the role, the sympathy her suffering stirred, and how it made her brilliance shine all the brighter, like a perfect diamond in a dull setting.
Father returned to munching his marzipan with a nervous vengeance, crying out once when he accidentally bit his own finger, and Kate and I stood helplessly holding hands staring worriedly after Jane, wincing inwardly at each imagined lash of the whip upon her vulnerable flesh.
In one day we had gone from being three little girls, a trio of sisters playing in the snow, growing drunk and giddy on syllabub, to three maids about to be married.
Later, when Jane lay upon her stomach, Kate and I knelt on the bed beside her, frowning over the blood-crusted slashes and livid red welts blooming like a riot of red roses all over her back, bottom, and thighs already crisscrossed with several silvery white scars from previous beatings. We cleansed them gently with a cloth dipped in a mixture of yarrow and comfrey followed by a comforting balm of lavender, which Kate also dabbed onto Jane’s temples after she kissed them.
Finally I asked, “Why did you resist? You knew what would happen if you did, that you would be beaten, and in the end it would change nothing, nothing at all except you would be lying here like this.” I brandished an angry hand over her wounded back, buttocks, and thighs. “None of us has the right to choose whom we will marry. We can only accept and try to make the best of it.”
Jane didn’t answer me. She lay there silent as a stone. Perhaps she was mulling it over in her mind, searching for an answer, or mayhap she was contemplating a day when the sorrowful tale of how Lady Jane Grey was beaten into submission and forced to marry a fool would be spread far and wide amongst Europe’s most distinguished scholars. The laments that would be expressed when it became known that their bright star, the Reformed Faith’s brightest candle, had been forced to douse her light and put away her books and accept a woman’s lot of marriage and, eventually, motherhood. “What a waste that such a mind should be trapped in a woman’s body!” they would say.
Though I never dared broach the subject with Jane, and perhaps my thinking is coloured by what came after, I often suspected that though she despised the stories of the Catholic saints, and the suffering that made them martyrs, she secretly used them as her own personal embroidery pattern, envisioning a similar fate for herself. She never bit her tongue and humbly bowed her head and suffered in silence like most chastised and punished children did, nor did she ever school herself to adopt meek ways and avoid further beatings; instead she seemed to provoke and invite them. There were so many times when Jane could have saved herself, but she didn’t. And afterward she
always
found a way—a sympathetic ear with a gossipy tongue—to tell the world. Jane felt her story
must
be told; she craved sympathy the way a drunkard does wine and praise as a glutton dreams of devouring a royal banquet.
“And at least Guildford Dudley is handsome, even if he is a fool,” Kate added, “so it might not be so bad. Perhaps he will be kind? And failing that, he is always good for a laugh.” She giggled. “I once saw him in a shop in London; he bought a grey velvet cloak lined in pale blue silk and fringed and embroidered with silver flowers—it was a
very
beautiful cloak—because he had just the cat to wear it with. See, Jane?” She prodded her gently when the ghost of a smile twitched at Jane’s lips. “You will always have a husband who will make you smile! And it could be far worse; poor Mary is stuck with Lord Wilton, and he has a face that gives little children nightmares.” Kate made a sour face and shuddered.