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

I look up at him as herests a hand heavily on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. Then, as ifby accident, he tugs the strings of my cap and my hair falls free in a goldenwave across my shoulders, cascading like water down my back. The gatheredcourtiers gasp, and murmurs of appreciation spread across the room as they dohomage to their perfect princess.

With burningcheeks, I beam at the company, aflame with joy. When the applause dies down,the king pushes me in the direction of the queen.

“A fineperformance, Mary,” she says, drawing me into her embrace. “You are so light onyour feet. I am very proud. All England is proud.”

At Mother’s righthand, I lean forward, applauding loudly as more dancers trip lightly onto thefloor. The performance that follows is fierce, the troupe leaping high into theair, setting the atmosphere in the hall alight. The flame from the torchescatches on their spangled clothing, the jewels in their hair. When it is over, Iturn to exclaim in wonder, but my words die in my throat when I see Mother’s expression.

Dislike anddisdain is splashed across her face. Her hands are clasped in her lap, herknuckles white, and her lips are pinched, the lines around them revealing herage. Following her stony gaze, I see that Father has apparently forgotten hisinjured foot and has taken the hand of a woman I’ve not seen before.

She isentrancing, beautiful, yet … not beautiful. Her ebony curtain of hair gleamsin the candlelight and her bold, laughing eyes coupled with her strange, almostforeign mannerisms, somehow mark her from the rest. A newcomer to court.

As I watch hergraceful stance, her delight as the king presses his lips against her wrist andprepares to lead her into the dance, I wonder who she is. When the music beginsand they start to sway, I am captivated by their practised movements, theirshared grace, and mesmerising harmony. Dragging my eyes from the mysteries oftheir dance, I turn to my mother - my ageing, grey-faced mother.

“Mother,” Iwhisper. “Who is that woman?”

They fill mydays with lessons, leaving me no time to think, to ponder on the changes thatare taking place within my life. I am used to living apart from my parents yetthe separation at court is new and highlights how different things are. Thereused to be unity, there used to be respect, and it makes me miserable to watchthe rift grow daily wider between them.

“What is happening?”I ask Margaret Pole. “My mother and father are acting like strangers.” As ifthey are crumbs on her skirt, she brushes my questions aside and hands me athread and needle.

“These sleeveswill never be finished if you don’t apply yourself,” she says with an uneasysmile.

I am supposedto be adorning the cuffs of my father’s nightshirt with flowers and vines, butit is dull stuff and I would far rather be out on the chase.

“I need somefresh air,” I complain. “Why must I keep to my apartments while Fitzroi ridesout at the king’s side? It isn’t fair.”

“No, my lady,life isn’t fair. While we must stay indoors by the warm fireside, our menfolkmust ride out in all weathers. In times of unrest, while we stay here, theyride to war. I am sure they too must envy us our leisurely days.”

Lady Margarethas a way of turning my words around, making wisdom from my infantile petulance.I stab the linen with my needle and insert a few ugly stitches.

“I am sobored.”

“It will soonbe time to go to the great hall. Remember, the master of revels is preparing apageant for the king’s feast. I am sure you will have a part in it.”

Putting mysewing aside, I rise to my feet and begin to practise the steps I learned lastweek.

“I had almostforgotten the pageant practise was today,” I say. “Come, Alice, and the rest ofyou, come dance with me. I want to see if I can remember what we practisedbefore.”

Gladly myladies put away their embroidery and join me in the centre of the room. I joinhands with Alice, the other ladies do likewise and line up behind. Slowly, we beginto move, our chins high, our linked fingers at shoulder level. Every fourthstep we are obliged to hop, but the chamber is far too small for such formaldances and Alice stumbles into a low stool, squealing when she barks her shins.The ladies following behind bump into us, and it ends in chaos. We all collapseinto giggles.

“It will beeasier in the hall,” Lady Margaret laughs from her seat at the hearth and, aswe give up the frolic and re-join her, she sends a girl to fetch the soft shoesthat I wear for dancing lessons.

Once ready, wefollow Lady Margaret, who sets a stately pace, to the great hall. As we comecloser, I feel excitement building up inside me and can barely wait until themusic begins and I can release it.

Nobody paysattention to our entrance when the doors are thrown open. The large assemblyalready gathered buzzes with excitement. Young men and women, eager to show offtheir skills before the king, have formed small groups to practise their steps.When they notice me, the company parts to allow me passage, but as I draw closeto the master of revels, a small knot of people close to the dais continue togossip.

I stop, glancingup at my lady governess with a question on my brow. The sudden blanket ofsilence draws the group’s attention to my arrival and they turn, break apartand make a knee to me … all but one.

One womanstands defiantly. She looks me briefly in the eye before tossing her head andmaking a reluctant and very tardy bob of deference. The dancing master bustlesforward and bows low in greeting as, from the corner of my eye, I see her spinaway. She laughs behind her hand as she is swallowed by her friends.

“I didn’trealise children were going to be involved,” I hear her remark. I turnmy head sharply but she has her back toward me. I open my mouth, ready with areprimand, but Lady Margaret’s fingers grow tighter on my arm and, taking hersilent advice, I decide