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

This terraceoverlooks the front of the house. If I stand on my toes I can just about seethe steps to the main hall. I need only linger here until it is time for him toleave, and then…

Hours pass andI am quite cold before the doors finally open and the household spills down thesteps to wave the king on his way. His horse is brought round and it sidesteps,tossing its head and chomping on the bit. Idleness in the stable has made iteager for the road and the groom struggles to keep it steady. Father will enjoya heady gallop back to court.

 A babble offawning conversation floats up to me, high-pitched women’s voices mingling withthe deeper chorus of male laughter. I lean as far as I dare over the edge, butall I can see is the fluttering feather on the king’s cap. And then I hear hisvoice, louder than the rest. I close my eyes and glory in the sound of it.

Clinging tothe balustrade, I stand on tiptoe to gain an even better view. He seems smallerfrom my vantage point, shrunken somehow, yet his hair is as bright, hisshoulders just as wide as I remember. The big golden laughing man of mychildhood. Despite everything, the sight of him makes me smile.

He has one armthrown around Cromwell’s shoulders, listening as the obnoxious toad spitspoison into his ear. Father nods and smiles again, then he turns his attentionto Lady Shelton, who falls into a deep curtsey of farewell, her black skirtspooling like oil. My heart leaps as he moves away, seizes the pommel and takesa last look round. He is leaving! He cannot leave!

I lean furtherforward, call out and frantically wave both my arms. “Father! Father!”

At the last second,either my voice or the movement catches his eye and he hesitates, letting go ofthe saddle. For a few moments, as if frozen to the spot, he looks at me.

Our eyes lock andhis face droops into a thousand sorrows. As my heart breaks, my mouth turnsupside down and my grief and longing for him emerge in a wail of misery. Iblink to clear my eyes and, lifting my fingers, I trap a kiss within them andlet it fly toward him. It is an old game we used to play and, unable to helphimself, he reaches out … and catches it.

March 1534

After he has left, everything isso much worse. I had hoped that having seen me, he would reconsider. I imaginedhe would write and welcome me back to court, and force his concubine treat mewith due courtesy. But days pass and there is no word from him and, as mymonthly megrim approaches, I fall again into deep despair.

“For Heaven’ssake, girl, will you cease your weeping!” Lady Shelton complains when she bothersto notice me. What does she expect? If her sole purpose in this household is tosubject me to humiliation and misery, does she not expect me to weep? Am I supposedto welcome it?

 I cannotrouse myself and, as my misery deepens, so my fears grow. I have spent most ofthe morning crying in my chamber, avoiding the other members of the household.And then the serving girl creeps in whispering my name, and I sit up, knucklingaway my tears.

“What is it?”

She stepsforward, holding out her hand.

“A letter, butplease, your, your … my lady. You must tell no one or I will be punished.”

I look down atthe salutation, scrawled and unreadable. I tear it open and discover a letterinside. It is a letter from the queen.

What stealthmy mother must have gone to in order for this letter to reach me. I read aloud,drinking in her words, words that speak of a misery that matches mine. She exhortsme to be brave, to be vigilant for those who wish for my death. I long to see her.I miss her wisdom, her strength of purpose. Her Spanish blood may run thicklythrough my veins but I lack her resolve. I would give what little I own for anhour in her company. If I could only see her, she would boost my spirits andhelp me to be strong.

 Loneliness. Isink to the floor and wipe my dripping nose on the sleeve of my shift. The girlsteps forward, hovering a few feet away. I, who was once courted by kings andemperors, am driven to keeping company with serving maids. I look up at her andshe casts a glance at the door, fearful of discovery.

“What is yourname?”

She shakes offsurprise at my question and smiles fleetingly.

“Nellie. Mymother calls me Eleanor but to everyone else I am Nellie, or Nell.”

I reach out myhand.

“Thank you,Nell. I am in your debt.”

Her palmtouches mine and my fingers wrap around hers.

“You shouldlet me destroy the letter, my lady. If they discover it, the punishment willnot be mine alone.”

I clutch the parchmentto my chest and feel that my heart will break to part with it.

“Read it oncemore,” she says, “and then let me destroy it.”

It is my lastlink with my mother. She has touched it; the words are stained from the tearsshe shed as she penned them. I shake my head, my mouth agape. Nell stepscloser, her face dark with fear.

“You cannotkeep it. Doesn’t the queen beseech you to have care? Isn’t she warning you thatyour enemies are gathering? She would want you to burn it.”

She is right.I nod miserably.

“Let me readit just one more time…”

As Nell closesthe door and stealthily takes her leave of me, I commit Mother’s warning words tomemory. She warns me to be vigilant of assassins and, in the days that follow,I come to suspect every morsel I am offered. I walk in fear, starting each timethe arras stirs in the draughty corridor, barely able to partake of a heartymeal for fear of poison.

At my request,Nell now prepares my breakfast, and I take to eating it alone in my chamber.She piles my plate high and I eat every morsel to fill my belly so completelythat I can plead no appetite and escape dinner later on in the hall.

But fear andworry take