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

perspiringfaces. I hear the chink of coin and smothered laughter; inhale the aroma ofdeceit. I catch the bellow of my father’s laughter, an amused gentle response frommy mother – the scent of happiness. But then, a face looms forward, a curtainof dark hair, a glint of wickedness and the strain of cruel laughter.

“BOLEYN!”

A sudden silence pulls me backto the present and I realise I have spoken the name aloud. Feria smilesuncertainly, showing his yellow teeth.

“Your Majesty, my master feelsit may be prudent to ... to…”

I peer at him, watching as hescrabbles for courage. He takes a deep breath and speaks the words quicklybefore he can change his mind, “… to name the Lady Elizabeth as heir, YourMajesty … in the event of … should the worst happen…”

He has spoken aloud of mydeath. Nobody breathes; nobody utters a word in the screaming silence as theywait for my reaction. I stare at him, reluctant to break the tension. Letthem suffer. I gaze over his shoulder, far beyond him as the past driftscloser. A hand falls upon my arm and I look up to find Jane Dormer; her face isblurred. I blink at it, trying to clear my vision.

“Are you feeling quite well, YourMajesty? Would you like to withdraw?”

I cover her fingers with myown and nod; my voice, when I find it, is hoarse.

“Yes, yes. Take me back to myquarters please, Jane.”

As she assists me from the room,I glance over my shoulder to scowl at Feria, who sweeps a deep apologetic bow.

They walk me slowly along thecorridor to my privy apartments. It takes so much effort. My heart leaps anddances beneath my bodice; a loud ringing has begun in my ears and I am findingit hard to breathe.

“Where is Lady Pole? I wantMargaret.”

Jane squeezes my fingers. Whydon’t they fetch Margaret?

“Calm yourself, Your Majesty.Don’t let him upset you…”

 “Name an heir indeed…” I gaspas the guards throw open the doors and we pass into my chamber. My favouritechair opens its arms and I fall into it, someone thrusts a footstool beneath myheels. One of the maids vigorously flaps her fan beside my head, creating ahurricane. Perspiration erupts on my brow. I put up a hand to massage mytemple.

“Elizabeth … she …”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Don’tthink of it now. You are tired, close your eyes while I fetch you a posset.”

A flick of skirts and she isgone, leaving me to the mercies of my other women. The buzz of their concernfades; like wasps, my worries bump and blunder against the window of mythoughts where Elizabeth has taken up residence. My sister is clever andbeautiful and above all young … everything I am not.

I close my eyes against thememory of our last meeting, the image dissolving before reforming into apicture of her in my place, sitting on my throne, ruling over my people, desecratingmy church.

I refuse to let her have it.

September 1533

I am at Beaulieu, watching fromthe window as the heath turns pink beneath the setting sun. I hear the dooropen but do not move straight away. It is only when Margaret Douglas clears herthroat to attract my attention that I turn.

“I waswatching the sun set…” I pause when I see her face and realise she has somenews.

“What is it?”I beckon her forward and she moves toward me across the floor, then hesitates,her cheeks as rosy as the evening sky.

“News fromGreenwich, my lady.”

I know what newsshe speaks of. The whole country has been on edge, waiting for the birth of theconcubine’s son. I lift my chin, bracing myself for evil tidings.

“And…?”

She wets herlips, visibly swallows before answering.

“A girl, Madam.The queen has given birth to a girl.”

I had expectedto feel despair. I had expected grief. I had expected a boy – a prince toreplace me in my father’s affection. But a girl! I had not expected that.

Delight floodsthrough me. I put my hand across my mouth to smother my laughter. A stupid,useless girl! How sharp Boleyn’s disappointment must be. How ungoverned myfather’s rage. Triumph is a heady thing. I click my fingers at a servant.

“Bring me apen and parchment, I must write to my mother.”

This isforbidden, of course, but Mother and I still manage to exchange secret letters,to share our sorrow, our love and our fears. It is the one thing that keeps megoing. She must hear this news from no one but myself. It will gladden hersorrow.

The nib of thepen scratches across the parchment. I know that for once she will excuse myuntidy scrawl. She will understand the upheaval of my emotions at such a time.But slowly, as I write, the fierce joy is replaced by nudging regret – and I amsurprised to feel some pity for my father who has given up all his worldly joysin the hopes of a son.

God has deniedhim again.

But my pitydoes not last. As I seal the letter, I see in my mind’s eye my father pluckinghis newborn daughter from her cradle and holding her high. I see her clasp hisgreat finger in her tiny fist and squint up at him with a blue-hued eye. Shewill steal him from me.

I know beyonddoubt that even though she is not the son he longs for, he will love her anywaywhile I will remain forgotten, tucked away like an old plaything – tainted andsoiled, and undeserving of his affection. She, Elizabeth, will take myplace as Princess of Wales, as Father’s heir … until a boy is begotten.

Sorrow drownsmy brief joy at Boleyn’s failure. I drop my pen and bury my face in my hands asthe carcass of my former status is cast up and broken.

I think I amin the deepest pit of sorrow but further miseries soon fall upon me, thick andfast. As soon as Elizabeth is proclaimed the High and Mighty Princess ofEngland, my own titles are stripped away. I am no longer to be named ‘princess’and must immediately cease to use the title. My own household’s badge is cutfrom my servants’ clothes and replaced with the king’s arms. I am now merelythe Lady Mary, the king’s daughter – a bastard and a servant.