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

me. The thought of my pretty,lively sister incarcerated in the terrible darkness of the Tower is unbearable.

“Give herapartments that befit her status and ... and, don’t take her in through Traitor’sGate,” I add as they leave the room. One by one, they bow and take leave of me.

Not one ofthem can look me in the eye.

But it isn’tover yet. Her enemies are still not pacified. Spain heaps pressure on me,reminding me that the throne will never be secure while Elizabeth lives. Philipwill not leave Spain and the marriage will not take place until justice hasbeen served. I fob them off, promising that great headway is being made andthat she is close to a confession. In truth, my ministers report that shecontinues to defend every accusation laid against her with the deftness andwiliness of a fox.

“You mustremember, Your Majesty, that she is not without power. I wonder what it wouldtake for her supporters to rise against you? She certainly does not lack thewealth to pay for it.”

My head aches.I wish they’d shut up but they are right. After me, Elizabeth is the richestwoman in the land, her coffers are overflowing, her estates are vast, and sheis far more skilled at winning men’s loyalty than I.

She does notlack the wherewithal to rise against me but even if I wanted it, I wonder atthe wisdom of sentencing her to death.

Richmond Palace – April 1554

On the eleventh day of April,Wyatt faces his death on the scaffold. Trying not to think of the events takingplace, I bury myself at Richmond. I know Wyatt of old; he is a few years myjunior and formerly a merry member of my father and brother’s court. His fatherwas one of Boleyn’s many lovers who somehow managed to dodge the axe. Despitenot wishing to hear of it, they bring me news of his death.

“He diedbravely,” Rochester tells me. “And before he did so, he swore the PrincessElizabeth and the Earl of Devon to be innocent of all involvement.”

He lied, ofcourse, but I do not let Rochester see that I realise this. If I destroyCourtenay, I have no option but to execute my sister.

I cannot dothat.

Trying not todwell on the healthy young body that has been quartered and his innards drawn,I pretend to meet the news of my sister’s innocence with relief. But my councilremains divided on the matter. It seems they are never in accord. Gardiner, whoonce swore love for my sister, now argues against her, while Paget, who was formallyher direst enemy, now speaks in her defence.

I am tornbetween the two. I feel as if a rope is tied about my middle and each sidepulls in an opposite direction. I have become a royal tug of war. I don’t knowwhat to do. The people love her. I love her … albeit reluctantly.

The wholerealm is divided on the issue of Elizabeth. With my mind in chaos, I look aboutme to gauge the feelings of those I should trust. The people love Elizabeth;they remember Jane Grey and fear my sister is to suffer the same fate. If I lether die, she will be hailed as a martyr, an innocent victim, and I will beviewed as a vengeful queen. If I let her live, the Catholics, particularlySpain, will think me weak.

Everyhousehold, every tavern is alive with speculation as to whether or not I bearenough bitterness to kill my sister.

Let themwonder.

But, I mustact. She must either be condemned as a traitor or freed. Questioning her isgetting us nowhere. She was clearly aware of what Wyatt was planning but thereis no proof that she condoned it, or had any part in it. It is not as if shehanded over coin to be rid of me. I am relieved yet disappointed that no proofcan be found. As always, the love and the hate I bear her are in conflict, andI cannot decide the best course to take.

In the end, Irelease her from the Tower but set her under house arrest at Woodstock, where asharp eye is kept on her. Her every movement, every letter, every word isreported to me, and if she lets slip one tiny inference of treason, it will beher last … I think.

With Elizabethsafely stowed at Woodstock, I can at last look forward to the arrival of myfuture consort. My former reluctance toward marriage is forgotten and I canbarely contain myself as I wait for our first meeting. The new extravagantgowns are ready and I have ordered equally extravagant gifts for Philip. Iselect a huge diamond; a poignard studded with jewels; and gowns, the mostrichly embellished I’ve ever laid eyes upon. On the day of his arrival, I senda white horse trapped in wine velvet and gold to take him to his well-appointedlodging.

By ten in theevening, dressed in my finest, I am waiting at the Bishop’s Palace. Flanked bymy ladies and councillors, I listen to the arriving horses, clenching my fistswhen I hear the heavy footsteps as his retinue mounts the stairs. The doors areflung open and I draw in my breath, hearing his name announced and hisunhurried tread across the floor.

I look up.

Does myheart move? No; not as I had expected it would. Instead of joy, I find I ama little disappointed. I see grace, certainly, but sense no warmth behind it. Isuppose I had hoped he would display eagerness, perhaps a flourish ofexcitement, a dash of romance. I kiss my fingers and reach out to take hishand, feeling myself tense as he moves forward, grasps my shoulders and kissesme on the mouth.

I do not closemy eyes. His lips are wet and rather thick, his breath tainted with an odour Ido not recognise. As we draw apart, I note that he is very young. I knew hisage, of course, but somehow hoped it would not be so apparent. I feel like acrone in comparison.

We are of asimilar height, and he is slim with fair hair – our children will be blond,I think, before hurriedly suppressing the indelicate direction my mind hastaken. But, he is well made and we are of the