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

Rumour reachesme from court that the king is tiring of the great whore. I hear that his eyehas fallen upon another and Anne Boleyn, unschooled in queenly manners, scoldshim for it. Their relationship that once simmered with desire is now ripe withrancour and recrimination. I am glad of it and keep my ears perked for furthergossip.

Anne Shelton goesabout her day with a worried frown and although her manner toward me remains cool,it lacks its former venom. My life becomes subtly easier. The householdcontinues to shun me but I keep within hearing distance, eavesdropping on theirconversation which is usually very dull.

Something inmy bones tells me that change is imminent and I am eaten up with curiosityabout events at court. If I am not praying for my mother’s soul, I pray for theconcubine’s rapid decline. She belongs in Hell. I long for her to fall completelyfrom Father’s favour and suffer such torment as I have known, exiled from hisheart for so long.

Sensingchange, my supporters creep from the shadows and work against her, and herstatus suffers. At last, God is showing His disfavour of her and all her ilk. Iam sure that soon, all those who flirt with the new learning will face theconsequences. One day soon, things will be as before.

I wish thechanges would come swifter. There are many days when nothing happens, days whenI doubt it will ever come to pass. I am impatient for the end. I act outscenarios in my mind in which the whore is shut away in a house of nuns, shutoff from the world, away from Father, away from Elizabeth, away from me!

At last,Chapuys is allowed to visit me. I greet him warmly and retire with him to anantechamber. He brings assurances of affection from the king. Father loves mestill. His desire for the concubine is waning. Her days are numbered; soon shewill know the ignominy of displacement. She will be exiled from court andforced to live out the remainder of her days in misery … as I have done. Icannot wait to forget her existence and wipe her from the record.

The new appleof Father’s eye, Chapuys informs me, is one Mistress Seymour, a pious, kindlywoman and a lover of the true church. I sigh with relief, a light in theeverlasting darkness winks at me. With the witch out of the way, MistressSeymour will lure the king back to the true faith and the equilibrium will berestored in the realm.

Justice, itseems, is not dead after all.

 St James’ Palace – October 1558

“Theytook the concubine’s head, didn’t they? Do you think she was guilty or was it aplot of Cromwell’s?”

“Eh?”

I turn stiffly. Anne is at my bedside,her arms linked about her raised knees, her eyes enraptured. She has forgottento whom she is speaking but I can’t blame her for that … for a while, I too hadforgotten who I am. For a brief moment, I’d been Princess Mary again, young andvigorous, full of lost hope. I am surprised to find myself back in this wearyold body.

I look down at my age-stainedhands, the veins standing proud, the skin marred by rusty spots and wrinkles. Irub them, trying to erase the damage of years, and the skin moves beneath mytouch, loose and dry.

“What did you say?”

“Oh.” She lowers her eyes. “I– I asked if she was guilty but of course she was. She was found so – and paidfor it justly … with her life.”

“Yes.”

I pause and travel back alongthe years. Most of my old emotions have faded away with the passage of time. SometimesI can scarce recall the deeds that evoked them, but the hatred I felt for AnneBoleyn is unchanging. It rises on the back of my neck like hackles and ragemakes me feel young again. My heart skips and jumps. I cough, clearing mythroat of phlegm.

“Yes, she deserved to die. Shelied. She stole my father, killed my mother and turned me into her daughter’sslave, and all the while she was making my father a laughing stock and sleepingwith half the court. That was the main reason she had to die, of course. No onemocked my father and lived to tell the tale – oh no.”

I laugh as I knuckle away atear. It is not a sign of emotion, just a weakness of age. “I was surprisedthough.”

“Surprised? At her lewdbehaviour? I thought she was a … you know … a w….”

“A whore? Oh, she was, but shewas intelligent too. I’d have thought she’d be wiser than that. To give in tolust was weak and it was foolish, and that was out of character somehow, but Ilost no sleep over it. I was just glad she was gone. Out of my father’s haironce and forever. There’s no coming back from the scaffold.”

That is the greatest lesson Ilearned from my father. If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out. AnneBoleyn dominated his life for many years but when her spell weakened and he wasfinally able to see her for what she truly was, he eliminated her, withouthesitation or regret. Or if he did regret it, he never let it show.

In the years that followed, whensomeone offended me I would remember how my father dealt with Anne. He didn’thesitate. As soon as he realised her duplicity, her evil, he had herdealt with. From their first offence, I always picture my enemies dancing onthe end of a rope. Often as not, that is how they end up, leaving me able to moveforward. The past is the past, move on, assume the new, don’t look back.

“Ha!” My sudden bark oflaughter makes the girl jump. She leaps to her feet.

“What is it, Your Majesty?”

I wave a hand for her to sitagain.

“Nothing, I was laughing atmyself.”

It seems I didn’t learn thatlast lesson too well; all I’ve done these past weeks is look back and regret.She breathes out, smiles at me like an intimate friend, and retakes her seat.

“Were things better afterthat? After the concubine was dead?”

“I expected things to bebetter. For a while I thought I’d never know trouble again, but I was