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

“Lady Mary,”she says. “I hope we can be friends, and you will come to court soon. I willhave the best rooms made ready for you.”

“Thank you, YourGrace,” I murmur, wondering at this show of friendship. Surely she doesn’timagine we might have anything in common. She places a hand on my sleeve andleans in close, wafting the fragrance of sandalwood and sage. I draw back alittle, observing the flawlessness of her skin, the strand of light red hairthat has escaped the confines of her hood. She dimples, and lowers her voice toa whisper.

“I wanted tolet you know that I’ve sent clothes, a furred gown and slippers to Lady Pole. Ihate to think of that poor old lady in that awful place. I – I know she wasyour friend…” She shudders, her expressive eyes rolling in her head. I raise mybrows, surprised and touched.

“That was kindof you. Does … does the king know?”

Putting herhand to her mouth, she stifles a giggle. “He hasn’t asked, and it isn’t a lienot to mention it, is it?”

“I supposenot.”

I look at her,and a quick companionable smile darts between us. Perhaps there is more to herthan the latest fashions and dance steps. It is comforting to think so. I havenever dared send Margaret anything other than my fervent prayers for herrelease, but she is condemned to die … one day it will happen. One day, when Fatherawakes in the wrong frame of mind, he will order it done. I dread that day.

I look at thequeen afresh and wonder if she might be useful after all. Perhaps Katherine canbe induced to work her persuasion on the king. Perhaps this child stepmother ofmine will be the key to Margaret’s freedom. Everyone knows that when Father ishappy, the executioner gets to put his feet up.

I take thequeen’s arm and invite her to walk with me on the terrace.

“When I wasgrowing up, Margaret Pole was like a mother to me,” I say casually. “She is aGod-fearing woman, a friend of the true church.”

“Yes.” Thequeen frowns at the ground. “It is sad that she is imprisoned. I remember mycousin…” She stops, belatedly remembering who I am, and her cheeks grow pinkeras she continues. “That is to say, it is horrid for anyone to be shut up inthere. Imagine living and waiting, in dread of the executioner’s blade that hasturned toward you. Every morning you’d wonder if it was your last … I wouldn’twish it on my worst enemy.”

“I’d wish iton the guilty,” I say as lightly as I can manage. “Those who oppose the kinghave committed treason and so do deserve to die, but Margaret is innocent. I amsure of it.”

“I think weare all guilty of something.” Her face falls, her eye losing its customarybrightness. “The king says she wrote letters to her son, and when her house wassearched, they found incriminating items that prove she is opposed to hisrule.”

Poor Margaret;as if she would be stupid enough to risk working against the king. She has longbeen accustomed to us and has never forgotten the fate of her father andbrother. The queen and I continue our walk along the terrace.

“I suspectthose incriminating items were placed there by Cranmer or one of his men, andwhere is the crime in writing to one’s son?”

I dare notmention that I share Margaret’s sympathies with the 40,000 men who marched onthe pilgrimage of grace. It is not safe to admit to anyone that you harbour adesire for the reinstatement of the true church, least of all to the Queen ofEngland.

“Perhaps, whenyou give the king a son, you can ask a boon of him and request her release. Heis generous when he is happy.”

She frowns,biting her lip.

“Yes,” shesays. “A son would be lovely but … the king…” She stops, shakes her head andgives a shaky laugh. “Oh, Lady Mary, rest assured that I shall do all I can toget with child, and then I will indeed beg for Lady Margaret’s life as soon asit is meet for me to do so.”

Hampton Court – May - June 1541

When the king is happy, the courtis happy. For the first time in many years, merriment is the order of the day. AlthoughI am present, I am shown little favour and I keep myself apart from the rest. Whilethe court dances, the dying monks are forgotten, as are the churches that arefalling and the heresy that continues to put out strong, evil roots. Nobodyelse seems to care.

I feel soalone; as if separated from them all by some invisible screen. I hear but donot share in their laughter. I watch their desperate, feigned delight andnotice how like Bacchus Father has become; he has turned into an obese,overindulged god, showering merriment on his congregation. It cannot last. I wonderwhat will happen to spoil it all.

I do not haveto wait long. In May, I wake from a restless night to the sound of weeping. Isit up in bed, fumble for my wrap and hurry into the antechamber.

“Oh, my lady.We didn’t mean to wake you…”

My women standringed in the centre of the room; several of them have red-rimmed eyes and wet,starred lashes.

“What hashappened?” I draw my shawl tighter about my chest as if it can shield me.

“It is … LadySalisbury. My lady, she was executed … early this morning.”

 It is as if I’vebeen struck. At first, I am numb with the shock, but slowly the pain spreadsfrom the very core of me until it encompasses my whole being. It is the newsI’ve been dreading. Lady Salisbury, my dearest friend.

 “There hasbeen no trial, she had no chance to plead her case.”

Mary Bayntonshakes her head, wiping her wet face on the edge of her sleeve. I turn fromthem to stand at the shuttered window.

 Father hasacted on a whim, as I feared he would. He has vented his spleen against anelderly woman who has shown the Tudors nothing but loyalty. She has done nothingwrong; he killed her because he is angry with her son.

I don’t thinkI can bear it. My