Wedding in Fiction

…The ancient walls of Durham House have been hung with magnificent new tapestries, its flagstones covered with Turkish carpets, and its mullioned windows and arched doorways swathed in swags of gold and silver tissue.

…As I am borne on my father’s arm into the chapel, the whole privy council of England rises to its feet. Northumberland is there, garbed in his customary black, and Guilford awaits me at the altar rails, a tall, resplendent figure in white satin, his fair hair flopping over his blue eyes.

This should have been a joyful occasion, the fulfilment of my hopes and dreams, but it is not. Not for me, anyway. I make my vows unthinkingly, not daring to reflect on their deeper meaning, and avoid looking at Guilford when he tries to catch my eye.’

…And as I walk in procession, my hand resting on my father’s left arm, with Jane on his other side, through the great chambers of Durham House, I marvel at the magnificent display of King Edward’s great bounty: the exquisitely woven tapestries, some of them shimmering with gold thread, the Turkey carpets on floors and tables, the brand new hangings of crimson taffeta. The vast chapel, smelling of old, hallowed stone, is royally adorned too, and I am overawed by the rich jewel colours of the tall stained-glass windows and the altar furnishings…’

…I am not dressed plainly, as a Protestant should dress, despite my declared wishes. I wear royal purple with an overgown of gold brocade embroidered with diamonds and pearls. They spread my chestnut hair over my shoulders and it hangs down below my waist.

… There is dancing and jousting; two companies of masquers: one of men and one of women; there are players and musicians. The Dudleys invite all of their household to attend, and throw open the gates of their great house so that everyone in London can come and see our magnificence.’

From the instant I walked into Durham House on the Strand, my mind was flooded with memories of the day, six years ago, that I was wed alongside my sister Jane, and Katherine Dudley too, all of us in borrowed dresses, so hastily had it been organized.

…The chapel smells sweet, the incense seems to have got into the very stones, and I have a vision of my sister murmuring out her vows in a cloud of perfumed smoke, Guildford Dudley taking her right hand and she snatching it back, pressing it up against her left in prayer, eyes firmly shut.’