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

“You must eat,Lady Mary. Light meals will be best, particularly during menses, and ensure youtake some gentle exercise in the park or gardens. No riding, no hunting atthese times though, mark you.”

I want to tellhim I am not permitted access to the garden. I want to explain my fear ofpoison. I know the great whore wishes me harm; if she cannot get what she wantsshe will resort to murder.

I snort rudelyand turn my face away. It will not do to speak of such fears now, so I focus onhis misapprehension that I am allowed the liberty of the park.

Although I hadonce loved to be out on the chase with Mother and Father, I am now forbiddenthe freedom of the hunt. When the household makes up a party, I am left behind.As they ride out, I make sure Lady Shelton notes my wan expression but, as soonas they have gone, I hurry to the nursery. It is the only room in the housewhere I find one small consolation to being left indoors. When the householdrides out, Elizabeth remains behind with me.

 The women leftin charge of my sister are less hostile than Anne Shelton and Lady Clere. WhenI creep into the nursery they smile and bid me welcome, sometimes offer me wineand draw me into conversation. Words do not flow from my tongue as they oncedid. Nowadays I am wary, afraid of condemning myself, afraid of spies.

On thisparticular day, I refuse their offer of refreshment and show them a plate ofsweetmeats that I’ve brought for Elizabeth’s treat. There is nothing she likesbetter.

“Is sheawake?” I ask.

“Yes, she is,my lady. She woke a half hour ago; her linen is being changed. She will be heresoon. Please, sit with us.”

Unaccustomedto kindness, I take the stool beside them. The chamber is warm, gaily decoratedwith tapestries and cushions, and a scattering of toys lies on the floor. It isa far cry from my own apartment. It is the chamber of a princess, an heir tothe English throne.

I smilenervously and the nurse begins to talk of the weather, the litter of kittensthat was found behind the settle. Friendly welcomes seem so strange; surely anymoment someone will disparage me, call me a bastard.

I take so longthinking up a safe reply that the door opens before I have time to speak. Elizabethenters, clutching the finger of her nurse, her tiny steps light and unsteady. Istand up and when she sees me her face lights up, her tiny teeth glinting likea necklet of pearls.

She is like myfather, golden-haired and determined, a fat, merry, lively child. She tottersforward and tries to clamber onto my lap.

“Mary,” shesays, and the way she pronounces the word makes it sound like ‘merry’. I scoffat the irony for I am the least merry person in all England. Even contact withmy infant sister, whom I have come to love, does not fill me with joy. Instead,the battle between my affection and resentment of her steals the pleasure wemight have had.

I love her,but how I wish I didn’t. I begrudge her usurpation of my position but I hopeshe never knows the pain I live with every day. I admire her fine Tudor looksbut also despise the spirit of her mother that sometimes lurks behind her eyes.I hold her close, both loving and hating her as her fine red hair tickles mynose. I pray the future will be kind to her … but not at my expense.

For a momentshe tolerates the embrace, but soon grows tired of it and pulls away. She glaresup at me with eyes that have become exactly like her mother’s. Hastily, I lether slip to the floor. Once more, her whore of a mother has spoiled what shouldhave been a good day. Elizabeth is Tudor and Boleyn in equal parts – I imaginethe love I bear her will always be conflicted.

January 1536

“Lady Mary?”

I am in thegarden when the voice intrudes on my thoughts. I turn and raise a hand to shieldmy eyes from the low-lying winter sun. Anne Shelton is standing at the junctionof the dissecting paths; I cannot properly see her face for she is obscured bythe brightness of the day. I move closer and see she is not scowling for once.When she speaks again, her voice lacks its usual impatience.

Suspicioncreeps upon me and I know beyond doubt that she brings me news that is bad indeed.My heart sets up a low and heavy beat as a feeling of dread spreads in a swatheof goosebumps. I take a hesitant step but stop when she holds out a letter. Istare at it and notice her hand is trembling.

I take theparchment between finger and thumb, as if I fear it is poisoned. I cannot readit. I shake my head and hand it back, scarcely able to find the words to askher to read it.

“Tell me,” Isay, and wait like one condemned for her words to slay me.

Mother hasbeen ailing for weeks, both she and I begged the king to allow me to visit herfor one last time but … it seems it is not to be. Long before Anne beginsreading, I am wincing. I know what she is going to say.

“It is yourmother, the dowager Princess of Wales. I regret to tell you that she haspassed…”

Her words dropaway and the garden spins. The skies above my head, so blue and bright andpromising a few moments before, are now filled with storm clouds. I really amalone now. A great tempest gathers, it builds in my heart and inflates my lungs;my belly churns and I vomit the grief from me.

The worldspins; I lose my mind and fall. The gravel is sharp beneath my cheek. A dozenpairs of hands lift me and bear me back to the house, to the detested solitudeof my chamber. Someone is sobbing.

The mattressis soft, the air musty with damp, and all around me I hear voices, as if in adream. They murmur of her death and the consequences it may bear upon the kingand his.… The concubine’s