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

through what you didwhen King Edward died. Perhaps you could send word to her, instil in her theimportance of maintaining the true religion, both for the sake of her soul andthe welfare of the people.”

A vision of my sister’s facerises before me. Inscrutable, intelligent and, I suspect, intractable. If Iimplore her for the sake of England, she will ostensibly comply but inwardlyshe will be laughing at me, knowing that she has the victory at last.

Oh, Elizabeth has always won.One toss of her head and all men do her bidding; it has always been so, sinceshe was knee-high. She usurped my place in my father’s heart and stole the loveof the people from me and now … now she thinks to take my throne. I will nothave it! The crown of England will never sit on her head, not while Ibreathe!

I struggle to sit up; Susan’shands are on my shoulders. “Hush, Your Majesty, hush; lie down, please. Youmust be calm.”

I clutch her wrists. “Whatshall I do, Susan? What can I do?”

“Send her word, Your Majesty.Send Jane with a loving letter, entreating her to stay true to the Roman Church.It is all you can do, and then, when it is done, we will pray. God will instructus. It is one last trial he places in your path; you must not fail now.”

I gasp into her face, my heartracing as if I have been running. I nod and gently push her hands away. I mustact quickly before the darkness … the madness descends again.

“Fetch me a pen and parchment.I will write to her now while you rouse Jane from her bed.”

She runs to do my bidding andI fall backward onto the pillows. It is not an answer for there is none, but itis action and once it is done, the matter will be out of my hands and I canconcentrate on dying.

Hatfield – January 1534

A cockerel shrieks outside mywindow, shattering my dreams. I roll over and burrow beneath the blankets,dreading another day. As soon as it grew dark last evening I took to my bed, butno matter how early I retire, the noise from the kitchens drifts up to hindermy slumber. Now, before the day has properly dawned, I am woken again, and nowface another day of humiliation and bullying.

Although AnneShelton is not physically cruel, her manner and lack of respect toward me iswearing. Yesterday she ordered me to carry a basket of Elizabeth’s soiled linento the laundry, a task that is far below my station. Every action, every order,is designed to remind me that my status is nothing, that even she is betterthan I because she was not born a bastard. But neither was I. Iam a princess of this realm and I will not forget it.

 Oneday, one day soon, I will free myself from this; I will rally those loyal tome, call on Spain for help and restore my rightful place. When that day comes,I shall have the Boleyn woman, Anne Shelton, and her uncle, Norfolk, throwninto the Tower and Elizabeth shall be made to wait on me! But that isjust a dream and … it isn’t her fault, is it? She is just a babe, as innocent asI in all of this. She might be the barrier between me and all I desire but atthe same time, she is the only soul in this place who has any affection for me.

When nobody islooking, I take her on my knee to let her tug my hair, pull my nose and dribbleon my gown. She is as fat and warm as a tabby cat and in my greatest torment, Ifind my only comfort. Whenever she sees me, she holds up her fat arms to beheld. I think Elizabeth is the only person in the house who likes me.

“Lady Mary!”

I jump, swingmy legs over the mattress.

“I am up.”

The servinggirl ducks her head in tenuous allegiance and my heart soars. I think I havefound a friend. “I am up,” I repeat.

“Lady Sheltonbids you attend her in the parlour.”

There is noone to help me dress and it takes a long time to wriggle into my kirtle and tieup my own sleeves. There used to be half a dozen women to help me dress but nowI must do it myself and, as a result, I am often late, appearing halfwaythrough breakfast with my gown crumpled and my hair snarled at the back of myhead. Thank goodness I can hide it beneath my cap.

Thrusting myfeet into threadbare slippers, I hurry along the twisting corridors to thechamber that Lady Shelton has taken as her own.

When I scratchupon the door, she swivels in her seat and looks up coldly. “Ah, Lady Mary.” Itake two steps forward but she holds up her hand and bids me come no closer.“The king will be visiting the Princess Elizabeth today and I have beeninstructed that you are to remain in your chamber until he has departed.”

“But … surelymy father will not ride so far without wishing to bid me good day. I will waitin my chamber but he will send for me when he is done with…”

“Those are theorders I have been given, and you will do as you are bid. Good morning,Lady Mary.”

She turns herback and I long to strike out, tear the hood from her head and rip out ahandful of her glossy hair. I shake with rage but there is nothing I can do. Iclench my fist; the pain as my nails dig deep into my palms is almost apleasure. When I do not take my leave at once, she picks up her pen andcontinues to write – black marks upon the page. “You may go.”

It is an ordernot a request and, with a growl of impotence, I turn on my heel and wrench openthe door. I slam it so hard behind me that I twist my shoulder; pain shootsthrough me and tears smart my eyes.

There is nothingI can do. I am powerless. I am nobody, the least important member of thishousehold. Deprived of breakfast, my belly growling, I walk