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

My clothesmust be changed. My hair must be brushed, and I must take a nap before supper.Lady Margaret removes some of my pillows, bids me lie flat and close my eyes. Ido as I am told but my mind still leaps and dances with a will of its own. Istare at the bed canopy while my fingers trace the outline of the embroideredleopards and lilies on my counterpane.

The shuttersare closed, extinguishing the sunshine, and two of my women settle at thehearth to watch over me as I sleep. After a while, their lulling voices soothe meand I relax. My eyes grow heavy and my breathing slows. I cannot prevent mylids from closing.

 “Her Majesty seemsdistraught today…”

Immediately, Iam alert at the mention of my mother, their whispered words scrawled large acrossmy mind. Wide awake now, I squint my eyes and cock my ear the clearer to hear.I had sensed Mother’s sadness in the garden today; perhaps my women know moreabout the cause of it.

Hetty shiftsin her chair.

“And littlewonder, poor lady…”

“It is no morethan other, lesser women suffer…”

“Yes, but itis one thing to acknowledge him, but to bring him to court? The king is rubbingthe queen’s nose in his indiscretion…”

Their voicesdip lower. I want to scream at them to speak up, to stop mumbling, but I knowthat if they suspect I am not asleep, their conversation will lapse intotrivia.

“I’ve heard theboy is to be made Duke of Richmond and Somerset – that makes him equal in rankto…”

What boy?I wonder. Who are they talking about?

“He might evengo so far as to name him heir … if the queen should fail...”

One of them, Ican’t see which, leans forward to poke the fire and smoke wafts into the room. Hettycoughs.

“Oh, we both knowthe queen is no longer fertile. She will never bear another child. The king caneither let his legitimate daughter inherit … or his bastard son.”

It is as if Ihave been struck. My eyes open wide again, and a sharp frantic ringing beginsin my ears. A son? My father has no son. What do they mean? How can myfather have a son when my mother does not?

Since I am notsupposed to know of his existence, there is no one I can ask about this so-calledson of my father’s but I keep my ears open, my mind attuned to learning more.For the first time I realise I am not the centre of the universe and my parentshave secrets that they do not share with me. Sometimes I think everyone iskeeping secrets.

Whenever I can,I listen at doors, pretending indifference to adult conversations and concerns,but all the while I am alert, desperate to learn the identity of thismysterious boy – the rival for my father’s affection.

A year passes.I grow up fast. I am no longer allowed to soil my clothes or waste my leisuretime in trivial things. I must not sit on the floor. I must learn Latin; I mustpractise my lute. Mother insists I must learn to dance and to carry myself likea future queen.

It is from thelips of my dancing master that I finally discover the boy’s name. HenryFitzroi is the son of Bessie Blount, a former lady in my mother’shousehold. I frown, thinking back, and can just recall Bessie’s plump prettyface, her merry laughter.

The king’scourt has always been dominated by pageants, feasts and tournaments. I cannotpinpoint when Bessie ceased to be part of it, but I am sure I was quite young.It seems that her son is now four years old, three years my junior.

After Mass, Icrawl beneath a table, pull the cloth down to hide me and pretend I am ananchorite bricked up behind a church wall. I close my eyes, place my handstogether and think saintly thoughts.

Someone entersthe chamber. I can tell by her voice that it is Mother’s friend, Maria deSalinas and my aunt Mary, Father’s sister who used to be queen of France.

“He will notinherit, of course,” she says. “Fitzroi is of bastard stock.”

 Thatword again. Bastard. I am not sure but I think it means he was born to awoman who was not my father’s wife: a strumpet according to Aunt Mary, butI’m not sure what that word means either.

With eachpassing day the world grows more complex, more confusing and uncertain. Whilemy mother spends increasing time at prayer and I spend more in the company of mytutors, I see Father less and less. But when he does visit me in private, Ipush aside my books and run into his arms, a thing I am not permitted to dowhen we meet formally before the court.

He pulls me ontohis knee and I feel like an infant again, playing with the jewels on his doublet,trying to prise the rings from his great fingers, tugging at his beard.Sometimes I ask him to sing me the old songs he sang when I was in my cradle,and he strokes my cheek before indulging me, his clear tones filling thechamber. Tentatively, I begin to sing along, and without pausing he smiles encouragingly,and our voices entwine like two butterflies dancing in a garden.

At times likethese, it is as though there are just the two of us in the world. The rest donot exist. There is no court, no kingdom, no bastard sibling to steal him away– there is just me and my father; Henry Tudor and me.

While Fatherseems to grow in vigour every day, Mother shrivels. She tries not to let meknow of it. Her chin is high, her bearing as proud as it has always been, and agentle smile plays upon her lips, but I sense her misery. It is eating her up. Sheseems to be shrinking; her face grows sallow and her step lacks its formerenergy. There is little I can offer her but love.

Often, when Icome upon her unawares, I notice the trace of tears on her cheeks, but Ipretend I haven’t seen them. She is proud and it would hurt her to know that Isee through the shield she erects around herself.

We are sewingtogether in her chamber. Her exquisite black stitches increase rapidly