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

The doctor steps forward fromthe shadows, clutching his robes. He clears his throat.

“Your Majesty, your womantells me you are having trouble passing…”

“I have no wish to discussthat.”

“Your Majesty, if I mightjust…” He rubs his hands together to warm them and Susan, like a traitor,snatches back the sheet. My bedgown is bunched about my knees and my lower legsare swollen and pale like those of an invalid. I remember when they were shapely,and muscled from dancing and long days in the saddle. Not that anyone ever sawthem.

“Come, Your Majesty, let meremove the pillow that you might lie flat.”

There is no use complaining soI do as I am bid and submit to the indignity of examination. My bedgown istugged higher and I raise my knees. As cool air wafts around my quaint, anaroma of piss and sickness rises, but nobody dares remark upon it.

 The doctor’s hands are warmand dry. He presses my flaccid belly, making me wince.

“You feel pain, Your Majesty?”

“Of course I do, man. You’dfeel pain too were you so ill-treated.”

“There has been no return of…”

Susan shakes her head and coversmy nethers, her face pink with embarrassment on my behalf.

“Her Majesty eats very littleand says she isn’t hungry, but she drinks copious amounts. Yet … well, shedoesn’t pass much water.”

“That will account for theswelling in her ankles and the pain in her stomach.”

He scratches his chin, frowningat me, and I wonder if he thinks my body is like a bucket and my ankles arefull of piss.

 It is not so long since thisfool of a doctor concluded that I was pregnant, and set all England rejoicing. Thefool.

For a short time, I was sohappy. Preparation was made for the birth of a prince – the hope of the realm.The royal cradle was brought out and dusted down again, my women made garments,and swaddling bands were prepared.

The lying-in chamber, when Ientered it, was dark and warm, the shutters sealed, the bed hangings showingonly images of peace and fertility. For months I waited, Philip waited, my womenwaited, the realm waited and, as their hopes receded, my mortification grew. Ofthe myriad humiliations I have suffered in my life, that was surely thegreatest.

“I will have a powder prepared,”the doctor says. After a perfunctory bow, Susan follows him from the chamber,murmuring secrets as to my diet, and my bowel movements.

I hate sickness. It is weak. Amonarch should never be weak. I am not a child as my brother was. I should notbe at the mercy of fools such as these. I should be strong as I was in thebeginning.

Kenninghall – 1548-49

When I refuse to attend theChristmas court, I am not as sick as I pretend. The truth of the matter is thatI am loath to rub shoulders with reformers or be refused the right to hear Mass.Sometimes, it seems as though all the demons of Hell have been unleashed inEngland and now gather to cavort in a lewd heretical dance at my brother’scourt. It is wiser not to visit him if I cannot obey his laws.

When the Massis forbidden in June of 1549, I continue as before; the aroma of incense isthick in my chapel, the bells ring loudly and the forbidden candles burn justas brightly as they ever have. Some faithless jade, and I know not who, carriesword of this to the privy council who send word, demanding that I stop my practicesimmediately or find myself in defiance of Edward’s authority. In other words, guiltyof treason.

How doesone make a heretic understand?

They are blindand deaf to my defence. They are ignorant of the sin they themselves are committingagainst God and I cannot make them see it. There is no question of the path Imust take. I can choose to defy my king or my God, and if death is thepunishment for making the right choice then, so be it.

My Lord, Iperceive by the letters with which I like received from you, and all of theKing’s Majesty's council, that you be all sorry to find so little conformity inme touching the observation of His Majesty's laws; who are well assured that Ihave offended no law, unless it be a late law of your own making, for the alteringof matters in religion in which my conscience is not worthy to have the name ofa law, both for the King’s honour’s sake, the wealth of the realm … and (as myconscience is very well persuaded) the offending of God, which passes all therest.

Before I canchange my mind, I dispatch a servant with the letter and await the consequences.I do not have long to wait.

I am up andbreakfasted, my women just completing the last of my toilette, when I hear a partyof horse arriving. One of my women, Margery, I think, cranes her neck at thewindow to see who calls so early. She turns, white-faced.

“I believe byhis badge it is Lord Rich, my lady, and some other gentleman. Oh, my lady, doyou think they will arrest us all? I only ever did as you instructed!”

She screws herskirt into a crumpled ball, her features turning upside down with fear.

“Don’t befoolish. They cannot arrest my entire household. I doubt very much if they caneven take me; not unless they want my cousin to send his armada. Pull yourselvestogether. These men are bullies; rogues and bullies. We have God on our side.”

My brave wordsdo not prevent my knees from quivering. I clasp my hands tightly together,stiffen my spine and await their coming with my head high.

They enter ina flurry of cloaks, with a gust of fresh air at their heels, and I suddenlyhave the urge to be outside, on the chase, in pursuit of a hind. Here, inside,I am the quarry instead of the huntsman.

“Lady Mary.”

Lord Rich bowsover my hand but he does not allow his lips to touch my skin. His fellow, whomI recognise as Sir William Petre, does likewise. They are warm from the rideand I note a sheen of sweat on Rich’s brow, and the way Petre’s hair isplastered to his scalp.