Books by Brandy Purdy
THE BOLEYN WIFE
THE TUDOR THRONE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The TUDOR THRONE
BRANDY PURDY
KENSINGTON BOOKS
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Brandy Purdy Title Page PROLOGUE: The End of an Era 1: Mary 2: Elizabeth 3: Mary 4: Elizabeth 5: Mary 6: Elizabeth 7: Mary 8: Elizabeth 9: Mary 10: Elizabeth 11: Mary 12: Elizabeth 13: Mary 14: Elizabeth 15: Mary 16: Elizabeth 17: Mary 18: Elizabeth 19: Mary 20: Elizabeth 21: Mary 22: Elizabeth 23: Mary 24: Elizabeth 25: Mary 26: Elizabeth 27: Mary 28: Elizabeth 29: Mary 30: Elizabeth 31: Mary 32: Elizabeth 33: Mary 34: Elizabeth 35: Mary 36: Elizabeth 37: Mary 38: Elizabeth 39: Mary 40: Elizabeth 41: Mary 42: Elizabeth 43: Mary 44: Elizabeth 45: Mary 46: Elizabeth 47: Mary 48: Elizabeth 49: Mary 50: Elizabeth 51: Mary 52: Elizabeth POSTSCRIPT A READING GROUP GUIDE: THE TUDOR THRONE DISCUSSION QUESTIONS Copyright Page
PROLOGUE
The End of an Era
January 28, 1547
Whitehall Palace
Wonderful, dangerous, cruel, and wise, after thirty-eight years of ruling England, King Henry VIII lay dying. It was the end of an era. Many of his subjects had known no other king and feared the uncertainty that lay ahead when his nine-year-old son inherited the throne.
A cantankerous mountain of rotting flesh, already stinking of the grave, and looking far older than his fifty-five years, it was hard to believe the portrait on the wall, always praised as one of Master Holbein’s finest and a magnificent, vivid and vibrant likeness, that this reeking wreck had once been the handsomest prince in Christendom, standing with hands on hips and legs apart as if he meant to straddle the world.
The great gold-embroidered bed, reinforced to support his weight, creaked like a ship being tossed on angry waves, as if the royal bed itself would also protest the coming of Death and God’s divine judgment.
The faded blue eyes started in a panic from amidst the fat pink folds of bloodshot flesh. As his head tossed upon the embroidered silken pillows a stream of muted, incoherent gibberish flowed along with a silvery ribbon of drool into his ginger-white beard, and a shaking hand rose and made a feeble attempt to point, jabbing adamantly, insistently, here and there at the empty spaces around the carved and gilded posts, as thick and sturdy as sentries standing at attention, supporting the gold-fringed crimson canopy.
There was a rustle of clothing and muted whispers as those who watched discreetly from the shadows—the courtiers, servants, statesmen, and clergy—shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, knowing they could do nothing but watch and wonder if it were angels or demons that tormented their dying sovereign.
The Grim Reaper’s approach had rendered Henry mute, so he could tell no one about the phantoms that clustered around his bed, which only he, on the threshold of death, could see.
Six wronged women, four dead and two living: a saintly Spaniard, a dark-eyed witch—or “bitch” as some would think it more apt to call her—a shy plain Jane, a plump rosy-cheeked