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

when I too have been closeto despair. When my father was killed, and later when my brother was put todeath … when my husband died and left me a widow with children to raise. Thereare times in everyone’s life when we feel we can’t go on, but we do …we can… you can.”

I sniff andwipe a drip from the end of my nose.

“Can I?Without you to care for me, I shall be all alone – vulnerable. Who will lookafter me? Who shall guard me against the hatred of that woman? She means topoison me, you know…”

Somehow, wehave come to be kneeling on the floor. She leans forward and takes me in herarms; my head is tucked beneath her chin and her hands are soft on my hair. Aswe drown in the pool of our spreading skirts, she does not deny my last statementas I had hoped she would. She too has heard the whispers and believes them as Ido. The Boleyn woman sees me as a rival to her daughter’s throne and means toeliminate me from the game.

When nightfalls and my eyes are still sore from weeping, Margaret agrees to share my bed.For a long time, I lie upon her bosom and soon her night rail is damp with thetears that will not stop.

 Miserable nightsare always the longest. While she drifts into uneasy sleep, I stare unseeing atthe canopy while a pageant of pictures floats across my mind. The past isbright, shining like a bauble, while the present is dank and chill – but thefuture is impenetrably bleak. Tomorrow I must ride into hell and feast with thechild of the devil.

Hatred for theinfant lodges in my chest, sickening me, filling my soul with so muchresentment that I can neither see nor taste a single drop of goodness. Iteradicates every ounce of my kindness. I blink blindly and whisper into thenight.

“I swear byHeaven that I will not serve the little bastard. I may be forced totolerate her, to live beneath her roof and call her ‘princess’, but I shall neverlook on her as a sister, or her mother as my father’s wife.”

When I wake inthe morning there is blood on the sheets, and I realise my monthly megrim hasbegun. Usually at such times I would take to my bed, weep into my pillow for afew days until the cramps have eased and I can hold my head high again, buttoday … I must get up or bear the brunt of Norfolk’s fury.

This is thelast morning I shall spend with Margaret, and the rest of the household whohave served me for so long. Sorrow tears at my heart as I wish them goodbye.The women weep and the men avert their eyes, hoping I shall not notice thetears they hold back. It is the last time I shall be treated as a royalprincess – by this evening I shall be nothing but Mary, the king’s illegitimatedaughter.

It is notuntil my dressers are tying on my sleeves that I realise my jewels have beentaken. By order of the king, they tell me. I absorb this with less sorrow than Ibore the removal of my servants, my friends, but I do miss the comfort of mypearls, and my bodice seems bare without them. The only embellishment I amallowed is my rosary. I clutch it tightly beneath my cloak and pray desperatelyfor the strength to bear the trials that lie ahead.

When it istime to leave, the palace yard is deserted. Nobody comes to see me off, thereis no pageantry, no one to call out and wish me a safe journey. I am helpedinto the saddle and jolt as we begin to move. I grab the pommel and slump overthe horse’s neck. My mood is as dejected and as cold as the dreary day, butjust before we clatter beneath the outer gate we pass a small girl driving agaggle of geese to slaughter. She lifts her head and our eyes meet. When sherecognises me, her face lights up and she smiles, curtseying low in the mire.

I manage tosmile in return and then I grit my teeth, tighten the reins and dig in myheels. If I must take this journey, then I shall do so in a manner that wouldmake my mother proud. I must never forget that I share the blood of Spanishqueens.

But mydetermination is soon thwarted. The road is long and the weather is bitter, ahint of snow in the air. Norfolk allows me little rest. By the time we embarkupon the last stage of the journey, my body is screaming with pain. My mensesare always cruel but travelling makes it harder. My lower back aches; my knees,despite the thick layers of skirts and petticoats, throb with cold. I hold onto the reins as desperately as a drowning man to a rope, and long for thejourney to end.

The GreatNorth Road is interminable, the hamlets we pass through are small and mean, yetI’d give all I own for an hour to sup pottage before one of their humble hearths.Norfolk ignores each request I make to rest a while.

“It’s not muchfarther now,” he barks rudely over his shoulder. “Potters Bar is ahead andHatfield lies just beyond.”

Just beyond.The words give me hope. I pull myself up in the saddle and blink into the wind,expecting to see the lights of the town around the next bend.

The dwellingswe pass are sparse and down at heel; a dog leaps barking, straining his chainas we ride by. My eyes linger on his slobbering teeth; I can almost feel the biteof them on my ankle. Nudging my mount sideways, I draw closer to a man-at-armsand he turns his head, smiles encouragingly before looking away again. SomehowI manage to draw a small amount of comfort from his rebuttal, the small quicksmile would have been wider had he not been afraid of drawing his master’s displeasure.

With no friendbeside me I am grateful for his fleeting warmth, but as soon as he turns away,I grow cold again. I shiver and try not to think of roaring fires or