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

Were it not for her, there’d have been nodivision of the church, and my mother would have died in the royal bed whereshe belonged. My childhood would have been blessed. I’d never have been sentfrom court and forced to remain unmarried until I was past the age of child-bearing.It is ALL her fault. Everything!”

“Yes, I see, Your Majesty.”She inches away until I raise my hand sharply and order her to stop. I struggleto focus. My eyes are sore, weary of opening and closing – I might as well letthem remain shut. I beckon her closer and at last her face grows a littleclearer. She is very young; her eyes are youthful and vigorous. I sense hope intheir depths, and a sort of triumph.

“You think you’ll never getold, don’t you? You despise me because I am wrinkled and raddled with disease.”

“No, Your Majesty. I don’t. Indeed,I love you. You are my queen.”

I laugh again, without mirth.

“I’m not as old as you think,you know, and I haven’t always been like this. I was young once. As young andfresh as a newly opened daisy…”

Summer 1523

There has been a recent shower;the roses are spotted with shining raindrops, the grass is wet and my toes growdamp inside my slippers as I tiptoe through daisies. Above my head, the voicesof my mother’s women buzz like lazy bees, their conversation irrelevant as longas my hand is held fast in hers.

As we walk,her skirts brush against mine, the scarlet velvet of her gown clashing with myyellow. This is my favourite gown and, according to the women who helped medress this morning, it is the exact shade of gorse blossom. I enjoy the way it swingslike a bell when I walk, just as Mother’s does, and one day I know I shall beas beautiful as she is.

I glance up ather face and notice that her smile is tarnished with sadness today. My heartdips in pity. I know from my gossiping servants that Mother longs for a son, anheir to my father’s throne, but … she has me. Why won’t I suffice?

I squeeze herhand to make her notice me and instantly her melancholic expression is replacedwith love; love that lights up her eyes and stretches her mouth upward into abow. I smile back, and gently swing our clasped hands as we progress throughthe garden.

We turn acorner, pass beneath an arch of yew and come face to face with a party of laughinggentlemen. Mother halts, her women gathering around us, the murmur ofconversation ceasing. The gentlemen break apart and bow elegantly low to mymother, and then to me. One man, taller than the rest, steps forward in aflurry of velvet and fur. He grasps me beneath my arms and swings me high intothe air. I am really too old for such games, but I scream with laughter and grabfor his collar to save myself. I know he would never really let me fall, for Iam his Mary, his sweetheart, his little pearl.

Belatedly, he lowersme to the ground. I reach out, fingers splayed, as my world continues to spin whilehe turns to greet my mother. Instead of swinging her in the air he offers herhis arm and, as we progress along the pathway, he relates his morning prowessat the hunt. Slowly, my world stops spinning and becomes stable again. I walk betweenthem, one hand in Father’s, the other in Mother’s; I am a link in a royalchain.

The courtiersfall behind. “It is a fine day for a walk in the gardens, Madam,” my fathersays, and Mother murmurs in agreement.

“Oh!” Shehalts suddenly to admire the roses that cascade like warm honey over the rubybrick walls. Father plucks one and tucks it into her cap and she smiles up athim … but the sadness in her eyes does not lift.

A butterflydrifts across my path and I hurry in pursuit, the laughter of the courtiersfloating across the garden as they watch me.

“So sweet,” Ihear them murmur. “Such a perfect princess.”

It is alwaysso. I am Princess Mary, and one day, when I am wed to my cousin, I will beQueen of Spain. I will have the finest gowns, the most lavish jewels, as is mydue. Since I am my father’s only heir, if no brother comes along to take myplace I will inherit the throne of England. As the granddaughter of Englishkings and the granddaughter of kings and queens of Spain, I shall embrace thatday when it comes.

I know thesethings, although I have not been taught all of it. The conversation of myelders is informative, and I know that my mother’s sadness is because I have nobrother. It seems she has failed in some way, but I do not understand why I amnot enough. I am certain no boy could ever be better than me.

The butterflyflutters over the high wall and I give up the chase. I stare after it indismay, irritated at being thwarted in the hunt. When Mother catches up with me,she exclaims at the green stain on my skirt, but I know she is not reallyangry. She takes my hand again and I hop and skip at my parents’ side until wereach the sundial where a man is waiting.

The red robesof Cardinal Wolsey put the roses to shame. My heart sinks, for I know from thesheaf of papers beneath his arm that he means to claim the king’s attention andlure him away. After a short consultation, Father kisses my nose and bids thequeen farewell before taking his leave of us. I stand with Mother and watch hisdeparting back, and feel as if the sun has ducked suddenly behind a cloud.

“Come,” thequeen announces. “It grows chilly out here; let us return to the palace.”

She takes myhand again. Although it is not in the least cold and there are many hours ofdaylight left, no one dares complain and the company follows obediently behindus. Once inside, I am passed into the care of my lady governess, Lady MargaretPole, who takes my hand. Mother retires to her state apartment while I am takento my own rooms, which are