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

later that he has lost his fight. He leaves an unloved widow, Norfolk’sdaughter. I smirk a little at the blow it will have dealt him.

Father is morosebut, although I pray for Fitzroi’s passing, I am not deeply affected. For aslong as I can recall, Fitzroi has been my rival. While I was pushed aside, nameda bastard and forced to live in penury, Henry – the real bastard – wasraised up and made much of by the king. Even lately there has been speculationthat, should Jane not bear a son, my father would name him heir.

Part of me,the wicked Mary, is glad of his death; the other side, the pious Mary, is sorryfor it. It is the latter side of me I allow the public to see. When I offer Fathermy condolences, he doesn’t notice the quiet triumph in my face but weeps patheticallyon my shoulder. I stand coldly in his suffocating embrace and speculate as towhether he’d display such sorrow if it were me.

The death of abastard does not usually create much upheaval but Fitzroi, wed to Norfolk’sdaughter, owned riches that Father needs to reclaim. Since the marriage wasnever consummated, Mary Howard is left with nothing. There are matters to besorted out in Ireland too since Fitzroi was Lord Lieutenant there. While Fatheris occupied with this business, my supporters begin to whisper of hopes of thereinstatement of my legitimacy, a possible return of my status as heir to thethrone.

I dare nothope this will be so. If fortune ever smiles on me and makes me Queen ofEngland, I will repair our relations with Rome, reopen the monasteries andchampion the monks and abbots who have been so sorely used.

Since theclosure of the monasteries, the north has been up in arms. They call for areturn to the old ways, for my reinstatement, for justice in England. When some40,000 men and women, many of them monks, take to the roads and begin aperilous march south, Father is furious. I should be outraged too at suchtreasonous actions, but secretly I agree with their demands, and so does thequeen.

I visit Jane privatelyfrom time to time. We spend pleasant afternoons working our needles, discussingthe latest fashions and sometimes, when we are alone, we talk of other things.Keeping our voices low so no spies can overhear, we discover we are kindred,the queen and I. She is of the old faith, unshakeable in her devotion, and thereis nothing Jane desires more than the reinstatement of the church … unless it bea son.

She would haveto be a fool not to be aware of the fate of Father’s wives who’ve failed togive him an heir. It is little wonder she prays for a son. I am torn. I wanther to be happy. I want the marriage to be a success, for my father’s sake aswell as my own. But the birth of a prince will see me ousted from my father’sfavour again. My chance to inherit will be lessened but I also know that if Janegives the king his longed-for boy, he will be like butter in her hands. As themother of his son, the king would deny Jane nothing. It would be a simple taskto persuade him to allow the true church to rise again.

The questionof my unborn brother prompts me to examine myself closely. There is just onequestion I find difficult to answer: What is of more import to me, the crown ofEngland or the reinstatement of my beloved church?

With thepreparations for Christmas underway, winter falls hard. The country is rimedwith heavy frost and at Westminster it is so thick upon the window panes that Ican scarcely see out. Even inside, when I sit as close to the hearty fire as Ican bear, my nose and the tips of my fingers feel cold. I request an extralayer and my women lay out a fur-lined gown and sleeves, but others are not sofortunate.

Reports reachme of common folk freezing in their homes, without a stick for the fire. Yet theyare the lucky ones, with a roof to shelter them. It is always colder in thenorth and when I think of the pilgrims, still determinedly marching for the reinstatementof the church, I cannot imagine their misery.

Three daysbefore Christmas, I ride with Father and Jane to Greenwich for the celebrations.Usually the journey would be taken by barge but today the river is frozen, sowe travel on horseback instead. The city is gaily decorated and despite thecold people come out to line the streets. They call down blessings upon us; Ihear Jane’s name coupled with my father’s, and it warms my heart to see himglad again.

Jane Seymouris a worthy woman, a good Catholic who will make him happy, unite our familyand lead the king gently back to his former grace. On this frigid day I amwarmed when the people call my name. “God bless you!” they cry and I raise myhand in acknowledgement, blinking away tears. I have missed them sorely and itseems they have missed me too. I wave and smile at their cold, pinched faces. Thepeople have always loved me, even in my absence. If only I’d realised it then,my trials would have been so much easier to bear.

The service atSt Paul’s marks the beginning of the festivities and Father dispenses withsolemnity as soon as we leave the church. While the crowd roar appreciation inour ears, we ride toward the Thames that has become a wide white serpent of iceso thick that we are able to ride across to the opposite shore. Clinging to thesaddle, I laugh aloud as my horse’s hooves slip and slide. We struggle up thesloping bank, and my cheeks are stung by the biting wind as I follow Father’sbroad back to Greenwich Palace.

Darkness isfalling as we arrive, the lighted windows blaze in the winter gloom, promisinggaiety and mulled wine. Grooms come running and we climb stiffly from thesaddle in the frozen yard.

“Brrrr!” Fatherclaps his hands together and stamps his feet, his breath floating like adragon’s around his head.

“Come,ladies,” he cries, holding out his elbows. Jane takes his right