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

how theceremony should be conducted. Some call for a rite similar to the crowning of aqueen consort, but I veto that idea. I am queen in just the same way my fatherwas king. I see no reason why the two should not be treated equal. Thewrangling of my ministers floats over my head as the sense of unrealityincreases.

In the end, Iwill get my way.

 Fearing anoutbreak of violence, both against my gender and the reestablishment of myfaith, some of my council suggest the ceremony should be postponed untilparliament has restated my legitimacy. I grow restless as their droning voicesgo on and on. We have sat here for hours while the same problems circle thetable, resulting in the same dead ends, the same barriers.

“Enough!” I springto my feet and thump the board as my father would have done. All heads turn tome, eyes wide, faces paling as they are reminded whose daughter I am.

I am Mary,and I am the queen.

 “The date,gentlemen, has been set for the first day of October, and the first day of Octoberit shall be. If there are problems then they must be overcome so I suggest, ifyou value your heads, you will stop your quibbling and get on with the job!”

Leaving themto wrangle on without me, I join my women in the privy chamber and turn myattention to the cut of my gowns, the selection of my jewels. Then, just as I ambeginning to relax, someone mentions the arrangements for the processionthrough London on the day before the ceremony.

Who is toaccompany me in the litter, and who shall follow on behind? I bury my head inmy hands. The minutiae of policy and the etiquette of my women is as tediousand tiring as the statesmanship of my council, but when the day comes and thearguing is over, I conclude that it has all been worthwhile.

In the end, Elizabeth,as second person of the realm, accompanies me on the royal barge to the Tower.The river is full of boats, pennants wave and people cry my good health fromthe banks and bridges. It is a bright day of cheer, the river is green and deepand slow, the sky a brittle blue canopy. I sit upright on cushions with the curtainsdrawn back so that everyone can see and glory in my presence. The next morning,on my way from the Tower to Temple Bar, I ride in an open litter drawn by sixwhite horses apparelled in mantles of cloth of gold.

It is anotherbright day; the gold tinsel cloth that covers my hair casts a myriad of tinylights all around the litter. My heart is light, but the coronet is so heavyand ponderous I can scarce hold up my head. My neck is aching before we’vetravelled a mile.

Ahead, I see theDuke of Norfolk, all reservation of my legitimacy forgotten as he leads theway, carrying the royal sword. Behind Norfolk comes the mayor of London who bearsthe golden sceptre. Beside my litter, clad head to toe in scarlet, rides Norfolk’swife, Elizabeth Stafford, and beside her, the marchionesses of Winchester andExeter. Elizabeth Stafford, long estranged from her husband, takes delight inflaunting her prominent place in the royal party. Every so often, their eyes clash,the air between them seeming to hiss with hatred. I wonder what happenedbetween them. They are certainly no great advocate for marriage. I will makesure that when I select my own spouse, I will choose with greater care.

 Following behindme, Elizabeth and Anne of Cleves share a carriage. Once or twice, the crowdcatch sight of my sister and call out her name, but they shout mine the loudestfor I am their queen.

Lines ofpeeresses, and ladies and gentlewomen complete the parade, the younger girlslaughing and waving to the crowd. The royal henchmen all clad in Tudor greenand white follow in their wake.

 The skies ofLondon resound with joy as the procession, which is more than a mile long, windsits way through the streets. We pass through a massed crowd, the city aldermento the fore, the multitude behind, and I wave and smile upon them all. Thesepeople have put aside their everyday lives and travelled from far and wide towelcome me to my throne. Such an array of civic pageantry has not been seen inmany a year. The dark days are done, forgotten, and England’s capital sparkleslike a new minted shilling.

I spy a boydressed as a girl carried on a throne by men and giants. At Cornhill, Florentinespay tribute to my triumphant ascent to the throne with an image of Judithsaving her people from Holofernes. I am touched by their recognition of thestruggles I have suffered. I twist in my seat, turning back and forth so oftenthat my neck grows tired, but I don’t want to miss a single display laid on formy delectation.

“Oh look, anangel!” I cry, and Elizabeth Stafford turns and smiles, snatching at her veil asit is blown across her face by a playful gust of wind. She laughs as shestruggles to free herself, and points to a city conduit that is issuing wine inhonour of the day.

 Thecelebrations will last long into the night and into the next day. England welldeserves this happy time. We pass a group of children, singing sweetly. I smileand blink away tears as their voices fill my heart with sentiment. The peoplelove me; the citizens of my capital and far, far beyond, love and welcome me astheir queen.

This day, the daythe crown of England is lowered on to my head, is the greatest of my life. Ithas all been worthwhile; the loneliness, the shame, the suffering. Miseryhas only made me stronger, and that strength has brought me to this moment.

My firstaction following my coronation is to declare that the marriage between myfather and mother was valid. I am legitimate again, in the eyes of thelaw and of the people, and there is no one living who dares deny it.

At last, Ihave achieved the thing I have fought for since I was a young girl. I haveredeemed my mother who, from now on, will be referred to as the late queen,not