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

and our dignity. The mare snorts and green foam from her bit spattersacross my skirts, her sides vibrate beneath me. I raise my arm and wave to Motherwho is waiting with her companions near a stand of trees. We return slowly andwhen I grow close, Mother leans forward and gives her horse a friendly smack.

“You rode toofast, Mary. My heart was in my mouth…”

“I was safeenough, Mother. The fresh air is invigorating.”

She laughs,reluctant to scold me on such a lovely day, and we continue on together, sideby side. Today we are happy, but who knows what awaits us tomorrow.

 St James’ Palace – October 1558

“Andthat was the last day we spent together. I try to always remember her likethat; laughing in the face of her destruction. Loving me, in spite ofeverything. Had she been childless she would probably have obeyed my father andgone quietly into a nunnery, but she had to fight for me; do you see? For myrights; for my inheritance. The throne was my due and she would settle fornothing less. Some people criticise her for that; some say she should have gonegracefully into a convent as others have before, but my mother was proud. Hadshe bowed to the king’s will she’d have hated herself. Instead, we fought thegreat whore that we hated, and she hated us in return.

“Mother’s very existenceangered Anne Boleyn. Even after Mother was sent away and I’d been exiled fromcourt, she still detested us. They were long aching years. I was lonely andafraid, terrified of what might happen next. For once you’ve suffered an unthinkableevent, anything seems possible, do you see?

“Mother and I both knew it wasonly a matter of time. Without the protection of the Pope we felt naked; wewere bereft and vulnerable.

“But the strange thing is, I neverstopped loving the king. In those years I came to realise that whatever he didto me, I would always love him. I would spend the rest of my days yearning forthe golden man who once played with me in the garden, because he was my father.

“One by one, atrocities were heapedupon us. The break with Rome, exile from Mother, the brash triumph of AnneBoleyn … and then the country began to crumble. Bishop Fisher was taken, andThomas More resigned as Lord Chancellor. I remember my women weeping, mourninghis loss before it even occurred. He was a good man ... a proud and righteousman. If he’d only had the foresight to realise the sort of king my father wouldbecome. He’d known him since he was a child, you see – had a part in hiseducation. He probably came to wish it had been Father who died instead of hisbrother, Arthur. Arthur might have made the better king.”

“Just one more mouthful, YourMajesty…”

I jerk my head. Margery isholding a spoon beneath my chin, urging me to eat. A napkin has been tied aboutmy neck and my mouth tastes of broth. I clench my lips tight and glare at heruntil she lowers the spoon. Warily, she dabs my lips with a napkin.

“You’ve eaten much more thanyou usually do, Your Majesty; I suppose you must be quite full.”

I have no memory of eatinganything. My last recollection is of talking to that child … we were speakingof Father, of those long-ago days that seem much more relevant than the hereand now.

“We must get you up anddressed; the ambassador is coming today.”

“Ambassador?” I sink into mypillows and tug the covers to my chest.

“Yes, Your Majesty, don’t youremember? From your husband; the Duke of Feria will be attending you at noon.”

She speaks loudly, enunciatingthe words as if I am deaf … or stupid. Philip should come himself. I have hadlittle news from him, and no acknowledgement of my last letter when I confidedthat there would be no child this time … no heir.

I sigh gustily, aghast at thewoman’s cheeriness as she helps me from bed. Every bone in my body aches. As myattendants wash me, I stare into a corner, pliant beneath their attentions, sickof the ritual and tedium of the long process of dressing.

Layer after beastly layer:shift, petticoats, a farthingale so heavy I can barely stand. Lastly, they attachthe fore sleeves and hook on my girdle. My knees slump a little beneath theweight. Someone hands me my Bible and I cling to it so hard the jewelled coverdigs into my fingers.

I am so tired I could fall.

“Let me sit,” I gasp, and theyproduce a chair. I sink into it, closing my eyes against the pain that surgesthough my head, my joints that squeal in resentment.

When I next open them again, Iam in my state apartments. The sun casts long shadows across the floor and Irealise it is late afternoon. I wonder where the last few hours went, passed byin an ebbing tide of faces and voices. A door is thrown open.

“I apologise for the latenessof the hour, Your Majesty. I met with an unexpected delay on the road.”

Feria bends over my hand; Ifeel his breath on my knuckles. I stare at him and force my mind to focusthrough the fog. I have forgotten what he is here to discuss.

“How is Philip? Is he well?”

“Hale and hearty, Madam. Hesends regret that he could not accompany me on this occasion, but next time....”

His lies are loud in my ears.I notice with sudden clarity the way the younger women smirk behind theirhands. They think my husband has abandoned me; they think he will never return.

“I deeply regret finding youare still ailing, Your Majesty. I had hoped to find you recovered. Perhaps youwill rally once the fine weather returns in the spring.”

 I will be dead by then and heknows it; they all know it but it must not be spoken aloud. His voice droneson. My mind drifts. Behind the figures and faces of my attendants I see shadows;shades of people I lost long ago – beloved faces of my mother, my father, LadyMargaret. I hear the laughter of long dead courtiers, watch them dance to musicthat withered a lifetime since. The torchlight glints on their jewels, their