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

to Ludlow; I travel from palace to palace up and down theborder. Sometimes at Thornbury, sometimes at Tewkesbury. I visit shrines andreligious houses and, on several occasions, I act as my father’s representative.

For the firsttime, I go out among the common people without my parents. Everywhere I go theyline the streets, toss their caps in the air and call my name. Their adulation islike a warm wave, an embrace, and I am so far from home, so starved ofaffection that I fall passionately in love with them in return.

The long darkhours of winter are spent playing cards and dice with my women and, during thistime, I grow closer to Margaret Pole than ever before. When we learn that mymarriage to Spain has come to nothing, she assures me that a better husbandwill soon be found. But there is little comfort in her words for no marriagewill be as welcome to me as one with Spain. So, when a proposal is put forwardfor a union with France instead, I confess to weeping a little in the privacyof my bed.

Francis isquite old, of an age with my father, and his reputation is so bad it has evenreached my tender ears. I heard one of the women whisper that he has beddedhalf the French court.

I am growingup and no longer the naïve child I was before. Although I am short on detail, Irealise that the conception of a child involves some sort of intimacy between aman and a woman. What I cannot quite decide is why Francis would want childrenwith so many different women; surely a court full of bastards would only causetrouble.

As Iunderstand it, a king requires sons but not so many as to cause conflict withinthe family. An heir and one to follow after should the eldest perish is a safenumber of royal princes – my grandfather was fortunate to have my father tostep into Prince Arthur’s shoes when he died. The country would have falleninto chaos had Father not been born, although my aunt Mary would probably notagree.

Although thethought of joining with the King of France does not bring me joy, I must acceptit with good will while privately hoping that, like my marriage to the emperor,it will come to nothing.

 The onlypositive thing about the whole affair is that I receive a summons to return tocourt. As soon as preparations are made, I ride joyfully east to be reunitedwith my parents.

I expecteverything to be as it was before. I envisage intimate dinners with my motherand father, walks in the privy garden, feasts and pageants in the great hall,but within hours of our reunion, I realise that nothing is the same.

Mother ispinched and tense, while Father’s suppressed anger rumbles like a subterraneanriver. He is not skilled at concealing irritation. If all is not well, he makessure everyone is aware of it; he rages and storms like a boy. But this time hestruggles to contain it so it simmers just beneath the surface. Everyone walkson tenterhooks, fearful of igniting the royal rage.

My aunt Mary, thedowager queen of France, joins us for the St George’s Day celebration, and adozen or so French dignitaries and ambassadors also attend from Venice andMilan. We feast on crane, heron and peacock, and I am delighted by the royalconfectioner’s creation of a huge tower of marzipan and two delightful chessboardswith real gold pieces. When it is laid before us, I clap my hands with glee andturn to my mother to draw her attention toward it. But both my parents have turnedtheir faces away. They are so wrapped up in their joint misery that they cannotshare my joy.

They arepleasant and courteous with the company but their private conversation isclipped and chilly. Where once Father would have reached out for Mother’s handto ensure she was enjoying the entertainments, now he keeps his eyes on hisplate. Like him, I turn to food in times of trouble and we both eat too much. Hewashes his fingers; an usher dries them on a linen towel. I notice the sheen ofperspiration on his forehead, the way he constantly dabs it away with a napkin.Pushing my half-empty plate to one side, I feel deeply unhappy.

Afterwards,when the meal has subsided and my belly is no longer straining against my gown,I am conducted into the revel house where I am to show off my skill at thevirginals. The company take their seats, gossiping and fidgeting as we makeready to begin. This performance has been long in the planning and I should beconfident of my skill, but now that the prospect is upon me, I am filled withnerves. My palms grow moist; my heart leaps and dances with fear.

For the firsttime, I am to lead the masque. I wear a jewel-covered gown that dazzles the eyeand, as we sweep onto the floor, Lady Exeter gives me a bracing smile. I smileback.

At ourentrance, Father stands up, his applause loud, encouraging everyone to followhis lead. I see Mother, her face full of pride at my debut. Lady Exeter takes abow and I do likewise. The dance begins. For a moment, I hesitate. I haveforgotten the steps! But then, just in time, some inner Mary takes over.

 As if I ambeing guided by invisible strings, I weave in and out of the company, the musicsending waves of delight across the back of my neck. My feet are light, myheart is sunny again, and I am sure I could dance all night.

My worries ofthe future float away, the fear that something obscure and horrible awaits me inthe darkness of tomorrow dissipates. My soft slippered feet seem to grow wingsand I float on a cloud of joy until, all too quickly, the strains of music fadeand I find we are taking our final bow. Lady Exeter and I exchange glances; sheembraces me and, with great relief that it is over and I haven’t spoiled it, Iburst out laughing.

Father, whoinjured his foot in a wrestling match the day before, limps toward me and Iseem to grow taller when I note the pride in his eyes.