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

Life has always treated meharshly but leaving it is harsher. There are matters I have failed to dealwith. I lower my chin. The weight of my head puts pressure on the nape of myneck but I ignore it. I probably deserve it. Why should my end be any morecomfortable than my life has been? I close my eyes. I will sleep now; perhaps Iwill not wake again.

Whispering voices aresometimes more disturbing than normal tones. Instantly, I am on the alert. Arethey plotting? Are they speaking gossip behind my back? It istreason to speak ill of the queen. I jerk my head, squinting into the gloom.Why have they not lit the torches?

“Who’s there?” A flurry ofskirts, a pattering of feet, and Susan is standing before me.

“Good morning, Your Majesty. Ihope we didn’t wake you.”

“Of course you did. All thatfoolish muttering and giggling. What’s to do?”

“I did as you asked, YourMajesty, and bathed young Anne and furnished her with a new gown. Unfortunately,her feet are quite … large, and we can find no slippers to fit her.”

My laughter sounds like awheeze. I cough and splutter. My own feet are small and dainty, something I amproud of. When I was a girl, I excelled at the dance, and Mother always said itwas because I had such dainty feet. A memory stirs of Father bending low overmy hand before leading me in a reel, his benign smile, his sparkling blue eyes.A happy day, when he was godly and kind, and all men loved him.

I loved him.

My humour diminishes.

I crook a finger.

“Bring her forward, I wouldsee how she looks now you’ve given her a scrub.”

The ring of women parts. Ipeer through the gloom, blinking at the blurred figure before me. I wave a handin irritation. “Light the damn lights!” and one by one the torches are lit, acandle is brought forward, and Susan throws open the shutters.

The girl steps forward to standself-consciously before me. I wrinkle my nose, squinting my eyes.

They’ve given her a gown ofbuttermilk yellow that emphasises the blue of her eye, the clarity of hercheek. She is younger than I’d thought, balanced like a promise on the cusp ofwomanhood.

She must be the same age I waswhen my parents’ marriage was torn apart by Boleyn. Exiled at Hatfield, the unhappiestgirl in the land, I had little time for fine gowns and sleeves. Lady Sheltondid not care or even notice when my bodices grew too tight and my skirts tooshort, and her mistress cared even less. Resentment and envy snatches at me butI cast it away. I want to be kind in my final days. I smile at the girl.

“By Heaven, child, we may wedyou to a prince yet.”

She cannot help but giggle andmy women laugh too, casting fond glances on Anne, whose existence they’d notnoticed a few days before.

“Come,” I wave her forward.“Join me for breakfast. The rest of you have work to do, no doubt. I will seeyou all when it is time to prepare for Mass.”

Momentarily they pause, theirsmiles frozen, insulted by the strangeness of my order. As they filereluctantly from the room, the girl moves closer, a trifle clumsy in her finerybut she will learn. Her skirts rustle as she takes a seat.

“You know about the atrocitiesCromwell inflicted on the monks, I suppose.”

I blame it all on Cromwellbecause I cannot bear to criticise my father, an anointed king. Kings can do nowrong, after all.

She nods and I hand her anorange from the nightstand. Raising it to her nose, she inhales the exoticscent before plunging her fingernail into the thick peel.

“They were sorry days inEngland, but I had just returned to court and I had only recently been acceptedback into my father’s favour once more … there was little I could do about it.”

Hampton Court – July 1536

Now I am back in the king’s goodgraces, people who formerly shunned me begin to smile again, trying to court myfriendship. Outwardly, I return it, but secretly I mark those who did not lifta finger to aid me in my time of need. False friends are worse than openenemies; I have no need of them.

I accept theirhomage and kind words but it means nothing. My true supporters, those whoworked tirelessly for my reinstatement, are a different matter. I trust themimplicitly, especially those who suffered imprisonment or worse. It is a reliefto laugh and look about my chambers and see friendly faces. I have missed thepageantry and celebration of court as much as I have missed my father.

When I dine inthe great hall on the first evening after my reinstatement, I cannot help but glancein the king’s direction from time to time to ensure he is really there. He issolid enough but the huge figure of merriment that I remember from childhood hasbecome tarnished.

At first, I donot notice the change. He is clad head to foot in gold, his laugh is as loud,his voice just as dominating as it ever was yet … he isn’t the same. I frown atthe sudden narrowing of his eye; suspicion seems to perch like a devil on hisshoulder, his small mouth is compressed into a bitter slash of scarlet. Onemoment he laughs, louder than any of us, but then, just as suddenly, he lashesout without warning into temper. The court treads carefully, as if walking onglass around him. Once his closest companions, the men of his privy chamber usedto tease the king as roundly as they do each other; now they think before theyspeak. Nobody questions his decisions, and everyone compliments him whether itis deserved or not. Their real opinions are kept close – at least those who disagree.

In late Julycomes news that, after ailing for half a year, my half-brother, Henry Fitzroi –that boy as I used to call him – is on the point of death. Since thearrival and the impact of the great whore on my life I have come to look onFitzroi with rather more tolerance than I once did, so I am sorry to hear a fewweeks