Tag Archives: 16th century


The painter is unknown, but it is probable that the tiny subject is the Dauphine Louise-Louise, oldest daughter of Francis I.  In a time heavy with symbolism, little sense can be made of the work.  It is a portrait of a young girl, a child not yet grown out of her childish fat; the laces of her bodice strained across her chest.  The ribbon of her kerchief disappears beneath her chin – laces and ribbons trying to force a child into a woman’s shape.

Possibly this is a posthumous work, for the little girl died at the age of two, convulsing uncontrollably in front of her dismayed parents and doctors.  This would explain the background of funereal black, so unlike other children’s portraits from the 16th century:  no furniture, no books, no toys.  No memento mori symbols of a brief and risky life unfettered by hygiene; no baskets of fruit presenting the child as the fruit of a sacred union; no cat to symbolize lust or dog to imply loyalty.  There is nothing to soothe a little girl’s loneliness.

The only other object in the painting is in the girl’s hands.  It is a dead sparrow.  Death has loosened its muscles:  the beak gapes open, the neck extended, the wings limp.  This might be a thought for the vanity of life – all must die, including small birds – but the girl’s expression is not accepting, or knowledgeable, or serene as would be expected.  Instead, she is startled:  her blue eyes seem to pale with amazement.  The diminutive corners of her mouth twist downward.  Whomever this painter was, he or she has made a subtle and intuitive study of a child on the verge of tears.

She will cry out of grief and confusion.  She will cry because she does not understand why her beloved pet is so quiet and acquiescent, why its throat does not flutter with sound.  Its eyes are dull; the opaque lids have turned them away from her, far from her girlish affection.

The girl holds the sparrow in the gentle bowl of her hands, her fingers searching for the quick heartbeat, the thin, complex pulse of her little pet.  She holds the creature as gently as a hunting dog – retrieving its prey with its soft mouth; careful not to press with tooth or tongue the still surface of its broken prize.  Both are careful not to harm it, though it be dead.

Louise of France. Oldest daughter of Frances I and Claude of France. Died aged two, of convulsions. Engaged to Infante Charles of Castile from birth to death.


The Bower

The pavilion was born in 1572.  Its walls were made of canvas.  And like sails they were held up by a platoon of 40 ships’ masts – seasoned with mists, salt and the voices of fishes.

It was Elizabeth’s pavilion.  A queen for fourteen years, she had grown tired of her palaces:  Whitehall, a pale leviathan; rosy-colored Hampton Court; St. James, which still bore her mother’s initials carved into its guilty stone; Greenwich – where her father was born and Richmond, where she would die.  These buildings were built on history, enmeshed in circumstance and ceremony.  She needed something that reflected her wit, femininity and power – the unexpected whim of England’s unequaled queen.

So when the French envoys were to visit in 1572, with marriage proposals, land and trade agreements in their pockets, Elizabeth decided to entertain them outside.   She hired 500 carpenters and artists to decorate and disguise the canvas walls.  They would create a gallery suitable for those visitors most likely to return home with stories of the handiwork that was raised with a single wave of the Virgin Queen’s arsenic scented hand.

Above tables weakened by plates of spiced meats and sugar paste sculptures of cathedrals and chessboards, boughs of birch and ivy wept from the ceiling.  Roses and honeysuckle were braided in a living fabric that pressed against the walls painted with trompe l’oeil stonework.  The air of the artificial bower bloomed, growing fragrant and green.  It mixed bravely with the sickly rancid scent that rose from the pomanders held close to the visitors’ noses.

The ceiling was painted with the curling vines of an exotic harvest:  pomegranates, melons, cucumbers, grapes, carrots – reminders of the foreign lands within England’s grasp.  Finally, rising out of the greenery, at the very top of the unlikely construction was a sweep of twilight, “spangled with gold and most richly hanged”, marked with constellations and sparks of stars marked with “lights of glass”.  Gilt ornaments and lanterns decorated the deceptive evening, their fey light varnishing the crawling garden.

Elizabeth’s pavilion, the rippling façade of brick and botany, was meant to be used only once.  But it was to remain standing for another ten years.  And in that time the vines had rotted and the flowers had become gangrenous.  Showers of dust, gilt and paint stood hypnotized in the shafts of sunlight piercing the ragged walls.

However, the scent of decay – the sweet repellent aroma from a diabolical boudoir – could somehow still beckon.  Birds hatched through the dilapidated canvas, attracted by the death throes of the suffering forest.

They were tiny envoys, bearing tokens of music, color and spirit.  Their whimsical movements, the audacity of their flight were an inspiration.  Once, within that flimsy architecture, art had dared to imitate life.  And within a decade it would be rescued by it.  A mystery play of metaphysics, aesthetics and semantics had been re-enacted within a forest that was – like a sleeping Eden – in the process of being re-born.

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Bedtime Story

There was once a king who, when he was about to be married, summoned all of his carpenters and decorators to gather around him in a single, expectant battalion. He wanted them to use all of their skills and dainty armaments to build a marriage bed. And he wanted it to be decorated exclusively in pearl. He wanted it to be rich and rare, chaste and pure – as pure as his young bride.

The king was Henry VIII, and he was in love. Not politically, physically or intellectually in love – but foolishly and blindly…a doomed emotion, short-lived yet fraught with danger. The year was 1540: he was nearly fifty, and his bride-to-be was eighteen. Her name was Catherine – soft and curved, stupid and immodest, madcap and pathetic.

Catherine - an unconfirmed portrait, however

Catherine – an unconfirmed portrait, however

Her king was fat and clumsy, with suppurating legs which kept him immobile and irritable. He was over a foot taller than Catherine, and at their wedding ceremony stood next to her like a reeking colossus.

Yet court witnesses all attest to his inelegant caresses and embraces: he would crush her to him like a fragile bouquet, pink and white, petals undamaged: and upon releasing her was himself unharmed – she was indeed his ‘blushing rose without a thorn’.

He gave her jewels and enameled beads tipped with gold; gowns of twilight-colored silks and amber brocades. He gave her French hoods which perched saucily on the back of her head, revealing a daring view of forehead and hair. And he gave her a glowing, pelagic bed.

It flourished in the evening, a shining lake as translucent and pale as a saucer of milk. It was so pale that the moon, as curious as a cat, hovered low on the horizon to look at this reflection, this simulated echo. And when the inquisitive moonlight spread across the earth, it embraced the nacreous ornamentation as well, to create a radiance that was depthless and alive.

However, it wasn’t long before the King began to retire alone to his personal chambers – whether drunk, incapacitated with overeating or dulled with pain: he was no fit occupant for the dainty bed. And soon after, courtiers, whose only job was to lurk and listen, would hear the queen’s tiny hands open the door to welcome a new resident.

Eventually Henry found out about his flower’s guilty and treacherous secret. And when he did, Henry VIII – the proud, feared behemoth – broke into tears. He then gathered his wits to order her immediate execution. At one point he picked up his own sword and threatened to exact the punishment himself.

But he allowed the cruel laws of the 16th century to progress. Adultery and treason coiled into a single deadly helix with only one penalty: another queen was to be beheaded. (Catherine’s cousin was Anne Boleyn – they were buried in the same unmarked grave.)

She died early in the morning, in February 1542. She knelt in front of the block, her neck showing white against the wood, dark and scored by the marks of earlier condemnations. Courtiers and advisors had assembled, as well as ambassadors and spies who would write accounts for their masters, scattered across Europe.

Very few of them were sad. But in the distance, the moon, which would not be setting for another hour, watched with pity the little girl who each night had laid like a pearl in her oyster bed.

There is no other record of the pearl bed. It could have been sold, forgotten. It could have been destroyed, so that no memory of the shameless queen and the king’s humiliation would remain. But perhaps there came a night when the moon decided to linger before floating upwards like a ship through the twilight currents. And within that winsome pause she decided to embrace the lonely nacre to her, so that they could journey together – leaving only a pile of abandoned quilts and splintered wood behind.

“Idyll Poesies”

The illuminated manuscripts from the Middle Ages were some of the most precious remnants of that complicated time.  With spines and covers bristling with jewels and costly metals, they were the cherished toys of the aristocracy.

When opened, the pages crackled; jeweled hands smoothed the sheets of vellum and parchment and fingers – barely visible beneath golden rings and lace cuffs –  traced over the stolid, Gothic script. Stars of gold leaf were scattered across skies of ultramarine:  the most valuable of colors, made from crushed lapis lazuli obtained from Afghanistan. Flamboyant initial letters introduced stories of religion:  of blood, wars, kings, whores and hermits – of unspeakable violence and sublime peace.

Surrounding these narratives like a garland were living margins, populated with a bestiary of creatures, balanced on filigrees of pen strokes, peering from forests of color and wonder.  They rustled in the leaves as each page was turned.  Many of these border-animals were taken from reality – products of the new explorations and explanations:  the bright reasoning that came as the renaissance warmed the minds of the thinkers of the 14th century.

Some, clearly were not.

Drolleries – mad products of an artist’s fancy – appeared side-by-side with their more earthly relations.  They combined dragons with elephants, chickens with dogs, men with snails – or turned the natural world upside down, with tournaments that included sword-bearing hares, with cats reading to mice…anything that might appeal to the imagination of a bored scribe.





Some writers resorted to words to express their very worldly sentiments: “New parchment, bad ink; I say nothing more.”  “As the harbor is welcome to the sailor, so is the last line to the scribe.”  “Oh, my hand.”

These manuscripts remained popular until the 16th century; they were still in use, but had lost some of the incandescence of their predecessors.  The combination of reality, rarity and eccentricity was gone.  But still, there would be the occasional scribe who would plant a thought in the bower that surrounded the block of dour text.

In the early Tudor court of the 1530’s, Anne Boleyn was the new Queen.  Pregnant at her coronation, she was due to give birth, to disappoint her husband with a daughter.   During these times, it was Henry VIII’s habit to ignore his expectant wives, and instead to eye their ladies-in-waiting, who shone with a new delectability when compared to their temporarily ponderous mistresses.

Within Anne’s copse of ladies was a cousin of hers:  one who quickly gained a reputation for sprightliness and spirit, for youth, audacity…and dimples.  Her name was Mary (or Madge – one of the indicators of Tudor calligraphy was the similarity between ‘g’ and ‘y’.  Most historians consider both names to refer to the same lady) Shelton – here was another “fresh young damsel, that could trip and go.” – as a poet had once written of Anne herself.


Mary became the King’s mistress (there was even a rumor in 1538 that she might be the next Queen), their relationship lasted about six months:  not an overlong stay in the bedchamber, but long enough to infuriate the Queen.

In addition to being light and frivolous, Mary was highly literate and had many like-minded friends at court.  She found an outlet for her irrepressible creativity, writing scraps of poetry in the margins of her prayer books.  Like the beasts of the manuscripts from centuries ago, they loitered in the borderlands, telling stories of their authors more memorable than the original text.

Anne scolded her errant maid for her ‘idyll poesies’.  But Mary had another project in hand.

The Devonshire Manuscript, was a collection of verse of the 1530’s and 1540’s, compiled primarily by Mary, Mary Howard, and Lady Margaret Douglas.  Included were original compositions, transcriptions and fragments – the majority composed by Sir Thomas Wyatt.  But the ladies contributed as well.  Mary wrote a sad little poem that ends hopefully:

“bot wan I hawe got that I hawe mest/I shal regoys among the rest”

(“but when I have got that I have missed/I shall rejoice among the rest”)


Another begins:

“my ywtheffol days ar past  (my youthful days are past)
my plesant erese ar gon  (my pleasant years are gone)
my lyffe yt dothe bot wast  (my life it doth but waste)
my grawe and I hame wan”  (my grave and I are one)


A poem by Thomas Wyatt, “Suffryng in sorow in hope to attain”, has an unsentimental codicil in Mary’s hand:


“ondesyard sarwes  (undesired service)
reqwer no hyar”  (requires no hire)

In the margin of the previous page – very faintly – can be seen Margaret Douglas’ comment, “fforget thys,” to which Mary had countered:  “yt ys worthy”.  The borders were still lively country.

All these writings indicate that here was a lady of education, creativity and even ambition:  to graduate from ‘idyll poesies’ to writings that became part of what has since been called “the richest surviving record of early Tudor poetry and of the literary activities of 16th-century women.”[

Playful Mary was one of the brightest lights of Henry VIII’s court.  There were many such lights – and when they went out, nothing remained – save for a courtier’s infatuated memory of a pretty face or a white neck.  But Mary knew enough not to keep her words and emotions hidden.  Either crouched behind formidable devotions or holding their own in a manuscript her thoughts became a part of history and of a warmth that will be felt forever.


The King’s Noble Stomacke

Youth is an envied commodity, it seems.  Look how jealously it is held on to; how desperately it is pursued…how the grasping fingerprints still show on its soft skin.

This wasn’t always the case.  Photographs and portraits provide galleries of children and teenagers dressed as adults – diminutive and unprepared. Frog-like, they have blithely leapt over their childhood; landing instead in a marketplace built out of society’s expectations.

History has long portrayed these defeated children.  Crinolines, hoops and farthingales trying in vain to balance on undeveloped hips.  Greatcoats that are too great, after all.  Tiny silk slippers and tight polished boots.  Corsets that punish soft bones:  their crossed laces creating a pattern of misery on thin backs.  We see the faces of distant youth, impervious and set:   profiles of extinguished rebellion.

What hope was there for the mutinous child?  What prospect was there for the young adult brave enough to be witty – that volatile combination of audacity and intelligence?

In 1538 Christina of Denmark was 17 years old and already a widow – she had been wearing her smothering ‘weeds’ for two years.  The Duke of Milan had proposed marriage to her when she was only eleven – her guardian, Charles V, not only agreed to the match but also to its immediate consummation.  His sister, Mary of Hungary – a strong and moral woman – was able to delay the wedding until Christina was thirteen.

In 1533, a portrait was done of the bride-to-be, no doubt to be rushed to the groom before the paint had completely dried.  Christina is seen in a three-quarter profile, taking advantage of her curving brow, the soft landscape of her neck and mouth.  She is dressed in a gown of quiet midnight; her hair scraped from view beneath her cap – no madcap tresses, no scintillating curls to tickle the skin unbidden.  She is shown reading a book – an obvious symbol of her careful education – yet it seems that at any moment the charming, red mouth will flutter into a smile and the lids rise to reveal eyes full of childish confidences.  She has been carefully posed, yet she has the attitude of a mischievous Madonna.

A Wise Child

Five years later, another portrait of Christina was painted.  Henry VIII had been on a marriage hiatus for almost a year and needed a new wife.  His third wife, Jane Seymour had done the unexpected – given birth to a male heir – but had also done the expected, dying as a result of her three days of labor.

Hans Holbein’s portrait of Christina reveals a face of barely subdued dimples, of restrained amusement.  She is wearing black, standing in a shadowy room:  her white hands bloom against the dark like soft flowers.

The Merry Widow

In her eyes there is a demure twinkle; a cleverness that kept her informed of events happening beyond her realm. And it is with that same spark that she commented to the English ambassador:  “If I had two heads, one should be at the King of England’s disposal.”  The ambassador, Thomas Wriothesley, no doubt thinking the outspoken girl deserved a good beating, commented to the King’s minister that their master should; “fyxe his most noble stomacke in some such other place.”

Christina is an example of the extraordinary child – the spirit that would battle her way into adulthood on her own terms.  In any century, there was hope for the honest child, the strong woman.  But that hope was rare, a prickly star few could hold on to.  But for the majority, there were only vanquished dreams, and a life to be spent staring into the starry sky.

My Lady Carey

The 16th century was full of music, a packet of jewels that sparkled with a metallic radiance, their facets an alchemy of wonder and spliced colors.  Galliards, pavans, madrigals, motets, rondeaus, bergerettes…ethereal rhythms that decorated the foggy skin of history.

The exotic, feminine names say it all.  But there is one that stands outside this musical fairy ring:  dompe…a dour word, it means lament, or dirge.  It possibly comes from the French “tombeau” (lament), or the German “dumpf” (dull or dazed).  But ultimately its source is a mystery:  an etymological curiosity.  

Most of these laments have been forgotten.  But there is one, written in the mid 1520’s, famous enough to be included in the echelon of the very best of Renaissance minstrelsy.  It is called ‘My Lady Carey’s Dompe’.  Its tune is golden and complex – its threads twisting like the helix of a DNA.   Moving with Byzantine grace, it is a filigree that curls through the air.

So – what was Lady Carey’s lament?  In the shadows of the court, amidst perfume and dogs, pearls and plague…why did she grieve? She was bold, pretty and shallow.  She was given to pursuing pleasure using her dark eyes and charming stupidity as her weapons.  Her name was Mary.  And she collected kings.

In 1514, at the age of 15, she arrived at the French court as maid of honor to Mary Tudor – the future, and very unwilling, bride of King Louis XII (Louis was nearly four times her age; he died three months after their wedding).  Even though the Queen Dowager left for England shortly thereafter, Mary stayed in Paris and before 1519 became the mistress of Louis’ son, King Francis I.  Her voluptuous reputation was already established; Francis himself referred to her as an ‘English Mare’ and ‘infamous above all’.

My Lady

In 1519 she returned to England, as maid of honor to Catherine of Aragon.  In 1520 she married Sir William Carey – handsome, athletic, a distinguished art collector. 


On that happy day they were proud to receive a special guest:  King Henry VIII.  In a year it was only she who was receiving King Henry – ever a victim to the type of girl who would flirt even on her own wedding day.

Their affair lasted five years, a hidden event full of whispered logistics and secret arrangements.  The two children born to her might have been her husband’s, they might have been future princes.  By 1526 she had lost the king’s affections to a darker, sharper girl:  her sister, Anne Boleyn.  Mary’s lazy charms had only created a man yearning for a quick wit.

And in 1526 an anonymous, sympathetic composer wrote ‘My Lady Carey’s Dompe’.  In her sloe-eyed, languid way, Mary accepted the intricate tune – so unsuited to the subject – as she took affection, gifts, her ill fame:  unthinking and willingly.

In 1527 she  became  sister to a Queen.  In 1528 she was a widow – ignored and in debt.

Mary married again in 1534 – to a soldier, William Stafford.  Anne was furious that her sister had chosen to marry without her permission, and beneath her station.  Her place on the throne was a shaky one, and she could not afford to be related to a commoner.  In two years Anne would be dead.

Disowned by her family, Mary’s financial situation became so desperate that she resorted to begging the King’s adviser, Thomas Cromwell, to speak to Henry and Anne on her behalf.  What she told him could have been set to her own lament:  “I had rather beg my bread with him than to be the greatest queen in Christendom.  And I believe verily…he would not forsake me to be a king.”

The Living Line

Fueled by graphite, it follows mountains, spins through valleys and travels along land masses as it creates a haunted map on paper: a shadow of humanity.  It follows a geometry of bone:  the equations buried in the soft marrow.

Sometimes it is hard and narrow, a harsh line dividing upper and lower lip; or it is a living line that breeds jaw and brow, throat and shoulder.  It is a minimalists's cartography of rivers that divides and nourishes the face.

Then it will turn and lay on its side, a recumbent beast burrowing into the threads of the page.  Its extended claws dig into depths and shadow to discover the science of portraiture and archaeology.  It grows into three dimensions, whispering of flesh and muscle, of the very definition of humanity.  It curves against the gentle slopes of a profile rising out of the blank page like a city appearing from a vague dawn. 

The line runs unbridled over outlines and silhouettes, breathing life into expression – the hoof beats of its passion can be read in the shape of the eyes, in the corners of the mouth.  Every feature is a product of its infatuation, a creation of its rampant delight.

Then when its life is spent, the line will leave another life behind:  a portrait defined by linear discovery; an architecture of spirit that will last forever.    

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She was a tiny sprite, with a face made of soft angles – the sum of childish, petulant geometry.  Her skin is white, with life's dim shadow showing in the flatlands of her temples, melting the pallor on her cheeks.  Her lips are colored by blood that is far away – brought to the surface by a quick, perfunctory bite.  Her portrait might have been taken from a death mask – which indeed it was.

Her name was Bia – short, possibly, for Bianca, or for La Bia, which in turn would have been short for Bambina.  These little names, these bits of words, this vocabulary petite enough to be whispered in a giggling child's ear, indicated that she was much loved - although she was only the illegitimate daughter of a teenager.

The identity of her mother was never revealed.  But everyone knew the name of her father:  Cosimo I de Medici, only sixteen, destined to become the Duke of Florence within two years.  He grew to become harsh and devious, controlling a landscape peopled with condottiere, popes, mercenarires and assassins.  But he loved his first-born with unexpected devotion.  Bia possessed the alchemist's cure:  a minute equation of spirit and charm that could bring a bloodless, suspicious court to life.  Her paternal grandmother declared that Bia "was the comfort of our court, being so very affectionate."

They dressed her like an adult.  The tight bodices fought a losing battle with the baby fat that defined her childish silhouette – echoing the cherubs that nestled in the church rafters, laughing at the worshippers below.  The hems of her dresses slid along the floor, hiding her footstetps behind a whisper of silk, a tickle of lace.

In February 1542, one month before her 6th birthday, she became sick with a fever.  Her hair was cut short to ease the perspiration, to encourage her to sleep.  But her temperature was insistent and she lay awake:  waiting for a presence that she did not understand, yet knowing that it was near.  She died on March 1.

All of the contemporary medical reports stated that Bia de Medici died of a 'fast-moving fever':  and so would any guilty thief run, who has stolen something precious - the frail life that was irreplaceable.

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False Daphne

I have a favorite radio station.  It's not local.  It comes from quite a distance, over many miles and many years.  It's called 'Ancient FM' – All Ancient, All The Time.  I'm listening to it now, to something sad and dour, with a vielle maybe, a pipe, a solitary drum – slow and Byzantine; impossibly lovely.

The playlist doesn't go beyond the late 17th century:  the songs are in Italian, French, Spanish, German.  Originally played by minstrels traveling over border and bower, or by professional musicians of the glittering and stinking courts, they tell stories of war, romance, betrayal, loss.


I know no language other than the one I'm using now – so when I hear a song from England, I listen with special care.  But unused to the intonations and rhythms of 500 years ago, I only catch an occasional word or phrase:  woe, summer, silk dress, she stands, spinet, good companye.

Once I caught a very telling phrase:  "false Daphne".  I don't recall any other words, but I can guess at the story.  I know Daphne, namesake of she who fled from Apollo.  I know her delights, her youthful shamelessness.  I know that she was a rude sprite – an urchin dressed in velvet and slashed sleeves; the tips of her prancing shoes just visible beneath her brocades and skirts.

The song seemed to date from the early 16th century – so Daphne, or the memory that inspired her creator, was fair and foolish amongst the many pretty ones that were bold in the court of Henry VIII.  Daphne was not a child beaten into a pastel modesty.  Instead she was bright and wild, wise beyond her inexperience, with a charm that would drive an admirer to such distraction that he would write a song of torment for her.

I was reminded of this song, as I thought about Daphne and her cruelty:

"And I were a maiden
As any one is
For all the gold in England
I would not do amiss

And I were a wanton wench
Of twelve years of age
These courtiers with their amours
They kindled my courage

And when I was come to
The age of fifteen year
In all this land, neither free nor bond
Methought I had no peer"
– Anonymous, 1510

Flirts were younger then.  Trailing their adolescence behind them like a tantalizing ribbon, they wound a complicated dance amongst the hungry gallants, quickly past their outstretched hands.  They stayed only briefly – until the smiles hardened, and the eyes became serious.

Daphne would marry:  against her will; she did not retire happily – but matrimony could very well have saved her.  She would hide her hair under her cap, put away her pins, keep her dangerous eyes lowered.  But she would think of the handful of years when she was peerless; when she had the cleverness to be false, and therefore safe.

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The Wanderer

It was found off the coast of Panama, nacreous and irresistible, glowing with a soft, pale temptation.  It was shaped like a tear, weeping into the ocean, the birthplace of currents, the blueprint of tides.

Gems, like women, will make men sentimental.  They give their treasures nicknames – small proofs of private and affectionate ownership.  At this time, Spain was mistress to the New World, showing her love in unwanted Catholicism and demanding payment in land, in people, in valuables.  By the time this grieving pearl had become part of the Spanish Crown Jewels, it had already acquired the name 'La Peregrina' – 'The Pilgrim', 'The Wanderer'.

In 1554, Philip, future king of Spain, was betrothed to a sad queen.  England's Mary I - thin-lipped, jaws tightly muscled, graceless and  intolerant - had never met Philip.  But she stroked the painted cheek of his portrait and waited with a doomed devotion for her Spanish lover across the Atlantic.

Philip arrived in England with chests of presents for Mary and the ladies-in-waiting who followed her silently on hidden footsteps.  There were bolts of satin – in coiled, simmering colors – yards of silver and gold tissue; black and white lace; linen veils; and gems from the empty veins of the New World.  Amongst these royal baubles was La Peregrina, wrapped in velvet perhaps, to protect its sublime light; the moon that slept within its layers.

Mary loved the pilgrim that had traveled to far to reach her.  She ordered her jewelers to create a setting worthy of her egg-sized pearl.  They brought to her a brooch of diamonds, surrounded by a filigree that swarmed like a golden vine.  And La Peregrina dangled like a planet beneath that glittering sky.

She wore it always.  It lay across her flattened breast, against the wooden corset.  Beneath it Mary's heart beat, an undesired spark kept alive in its lonely chamber.  But La Peregrina was round and nubile – a ripe fruit blooming from a barren tree.

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