Member-only story
Mary I
Layers of rich red fabric enveloped her weathered face,
An ironic icon of the title history chose to bestow upon her.
A name filled with death, burnings, persecution, and intolerance.
A symbol of a country torn apart — obliterated if not for the cunning of her bastard sister.
A label reflecting poor decisions and emotional outbursts.
A trope of an unfeeling old maid with a barren womb.
Yes, what an image history chose to remember —
Instead of the delicate princess — the one with the soft blonde curls and steadfast heart —
Her father’s “pearl of the World”
Her mother’s only child.
A child filled with music and intellect,
bursting with a warmth of nurturing love.
History seems to have forgotten such a child.
He did not remember
her undying devotion to her mother,
the cross she clung to,
the desperation for a tyrant’s fatherly love.
He forgot the part when she showed mercy to the young Jane, the usurper.
He overlooked the phantoms, the unanswered longing for motherhood.
He looked away from her unfeeling husband, his utter indifference to her death.
He refused to see the pain of betrayal — duplicitous courts, treacherous friends — her own body.
No, such memories are “too much” for history —
Yet, all the while “too little” for him to remember.
He chose to instead stick to his own version of the story, the one with that “Bloody” queen.
