The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England by Judith Arnopp (best ereader for students TXT) 📕

“The annulment, Your Majesty.You had just discovered the king believed the marriage to be invalid because ofyour mother’s previous marriage to his brother, Arthur of Wales.”

“Phwah, invalid my foot! Hadmy mother provided him with a stable of sons the king’s conscience would havebeen just fine. It was Boleyn; she persuaded him that only she couldprovide him with a son. He was easy prey.”

“It must have been a hard timefor you, Your Majesty…”

“Hard? It was hell. My tenderyears were stolen. I was in constant torment. Kept away from court, away frommy mother … and Father refused to acknowledge my letters…” My voice breaks. Itake a deep breath and exhale so furiously the candles on the nightstand dip.

“At the time, the future was aclosed book. I couldn’t see beyond the next hour. I expected the worst tohappen at any minute. I knew hardly a moment’s peace at that time. Newsfiltered through to me … oh yes, there were those loyal to us, people who hatedthe Boleyn woman as much as I did – although little good it did them, or us. Mymother refused to retire from court, declaring God never called her to anunnery and she’d be damned if she’d go to one to suit the king.

‘I am the king’s true andlegitimate wife,’ she cried over and over, and refused to budge from that. Foryears she kept Father and his advisors at bay, fending off every attack on us,even in the face of the king’s fury … and I tell you, his fury was something tobehold.

“In the end, he sent to Rome,and still my mother stood firm. There were times I wanted to give in, just forthe sake of a little peace, hold up my hands and admit to being a bastard. I’dhave given anything just to bask in his smile again, but how could I when Motherwas so insistent she went to my father’s bed a maid? She denied her marriagewith Arthur was ever consummated because it was true. She was the king’s honestwife, and had he tied her to the rack and tightened the ropes himself, she’d stillhave sworn she went to his bed a virgin.

My mother was strong andhonest and godly, the wisest woman I have ever known. She would never lie,especially not before God.”

Our eyes meet. Anne’s aresorrowful and, irritated by her pity, I scowl at her until she looks away.

“Perhaps you should sleep now,Your Majesty,” she says at last.

“I have no need of sleep. Domy tales bore you?”

“Oh no, Your Majesty, indeed,I am enthralled.”

“Well, be quiet then and letme think.”

1530

Hard years follow. My childhoodis all but forgotten. I drift miserably into young womanhood. My parents are tornapart, my security is in tatters, but the world goes on. The players continueto play, the mummers continue to prance, and while Christendom rocks beneathher feet, Anne Boleyn sits in my mother’s chair and applauds.

I learnedyoung to heed my father’s displeasure. I have felt his ire, his rage has rungfuriously in my ears, but I had never expected him to turn his anger so openlyagainst the Pope. As a young man, the king had been proud of his title‘Defender of the Faith’ for his argument against Luther, Assertio septemsacramentorum adversus Martinum Lutherum. But now, he scorns it. He strikesout at the Pope when he refuses to sever the king’s ties to my mother. He breakswith Rome – for the sake of Anne Boleyn, he cuts England adrift from the motherchurch, and assumes the title himself.

Father is nowthe Supreme Head on Earth of the Church in England. I had never dreamedhe would go this far. The people of England, afraid to protest too loudly,mutter among themselves and only the bravest in the land dare speak out againstit.

The church,like the queen, is a victim of Anne’s ambition, yet my mother has no champion.Although a few of the old families – the Staffords, the Nevilles, the Courtenays– are firmly on her side, their own influence is waning as the friends of AnneBoleyn wax.

My governess,Margaret Pole, stands with us, as do Elizabeth Stafford and Gertrude Courtenay,but they have no power, no real influence over the king. They are soonas far out of favour as my mother and me.

The gossipreaches me in my sick bed at Alton. As womanhood encroaches, I am afflictedwith great monthly suffering. For one week a month it feels as if demons areprodding me with red-hot forks. My belly is bloated, wracked with pain, and mymood is as deep and dark as Hell itself. I look into my glass and see my hairhanging limply either side of a pale face; my pores are enlarged, and a pustulethe size of a quail’s egg is lodged in the crease of my nose.

I might aswell be dead.

My women offerwhat comfort they can but I burrow beneath the covers and give way to despair,mourning the dainty princess I once was. Everything is ruined. I want my mother,but her company is denied me. From time to time her letters are smuggled in.They are my single source of comfort. And that is fleeting.

Why does mymother’s cousin, the king of Spain, not come to our aid? He could invade ourshores, set his assassins on the Boleyn woman, and force my father to reinstateus! My mother is close kin to them and so am I. Why do they sit by and allow ourrights to be stolen from us? There is so little I understand.

But at last,because I have been so ill, I am permitted to return to court where everyone istalking about the king’s great matter.

In everyparlour across Europe, the details of my parents’ marriage are being discussed.I am being discussed. Did my mother lie with Prince Arthur? Was she avirgin at the time of her marriage to my father? Am I the legitimate heir, orjust a bastard? That word again … Bastard.

It haunts me.

At court,close to the leading players in this marital farce, the conversation ceaseswhen I enter a room; the silence makes my ears burn with humiliation.