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

Throughout theafternoon, I keep an unobtrusive eye on the woman. She is graceful, elegant, makingme feel clumsy in comparison. I find myself envying the tilt of her head, theway she places her feet just so … beside her, I am like a performing bear.

Her laughrings out across the hall; her voice is light, intelligent and touched with thefaintest of accents. I know from Alice that her name is Anne, and she is theyoungest of the Boleyn sisters, recently returned from the French court. I cansee from her clothes and her exotic manner that this is true.

Her presencespoils the afternoon for me; somehow she undermines my position although Idon’t know why. When I complain of it to Margaret, she dismisses her as a fool torisk offending the king’s daughter. But she doesn’t look like a fool. I make anote to ask my aunt Mary about her when I see her next.

Turning myattention to the last few turns about the floor, I try to forget the Boleyn girlwith the mocking eyes, but as the steps of the dance lead me past her, I prayfervently I will not stumble. I cannot bear the thought of her laughter turnedagainst me.

In truth,although I’d admit it to no one, I’d like to be part of her elegant group. I’dlike to enquire who sewed her gowns, how she manages to achieve such a sheenupon her hair, how she moves as though she is walking on air. But I know withoutbeing told that there is no place in her circle of friends for a gauche, dumpy child… princess or not.

On the morningof the masque, I wake full of anticipation for the coming evening. Is thegown I selected clean? I ask. Have my new slippers been brushed andperfumed?

I am allsmiles as my lengthy toilette is carried out and the day stretches like aspotless carpet before me. But on our way to Mass, one of my attendants tugs atmy sleeve.

“Did you hear,my lady? The king has cancelled the entertainments.”

I stop dead inmy tracks and turn frowning upon her.

“No; you aremistaken, Margery. Surely, I would have been informed…”

But I can seefrom her face and the gloomy expressions of those gathered about me that it istrue. My heart plummets. Disappointment washes over me. I have practised sohard, waited so long, and my steps are now perfect.

“Are you sure?Why? Perhaps I can beg an audience with the king and persuade him to change hismind…”

She leansforward, her hand on my arm, to whisper in my ear. “They say it was at therequest of Anne Boleyn.”

I frown. “Butwhy … what does she gain from cancelling the pageant? She is as involved asanyone!”

As I speak,the chapel begins to fill with people and the rustle of anticipation, themurmur of deference informs me that the king has arrived to hear Mass. Turningto greet him, I prepare to make a deep curtsey but … my jaw slackens for, as ifshe is the queen herself, the Lady Anne follows closely in the wake of myfather.

As they pass me,my eyes clash with Anne’s. Hers are full of triumph and I know beyond a shadowof doubt that her intention is to injure me.

I recognise myenemy and I know that she is not only behind the cancellation of the pageant, butalso the cause of the breach between my parents.

Anne Boleyn intendsto steal my father, and undermine my position as his heir. Loathing unfurlsdeep within my belly; hatred that is bitter and cold, and futile.

I beg leave tospend an hour with my mother who is closeted with Chapuys in her privy chamber.Her women, who dote on me, greet me cordially and I am forced to linger withthem while they praise the colour of my gown, the shade of my eyes and the hueof my cheeks. It is Lucy Talbot who eventually remembers to make my requestknown to the queen. As she opens the door, Mother’s voice floats from within,her accents strained and upset.

“They tell menothing …nothing…”

Ignoringetiquette, I glide through the portal, spread my skirts and sink into a curtsey.She halts mid-sentence, pastes a smile on her face and holds out a hand.

“Mary,” shesays and relief floods through me when I hear the affection in her tone. Motherwill always love me, no matter what. There is no one and nothing that can comebetween us, but it is very evident that something is wrong.

She pats thewindow seat and I hurry to sit beside her. I listen as the ambassador takes hisleave and we are alone.

She quizzes meon my progress in the schoolroom, passes me her lute that I might show her thelatest tunes I have learned. As my fingers stumble across the strings, she tapsher foot, pretending gaiety, and when I reach the end of my repertoire, I letthe lute drop to the ground.

Her happinessis feigned. I wish she would speak to me of her troubles, ease her burden, butI recognise her pride and understand her refusal to reveal her concerns, evento me. She smiles brightly.

“And how isyour needlework coming along?” she asks. “Are your stitches smaller, are youmanaging to keep the lines straight?”

She smiles asshe speaks so I know she is not displeased with me. I just wish I could erasethe two deep lines above her nose and hear her merry laughter once again.Reaching out, she takes my fingers in her palm. Her hand is cold and I noticeher thumbnail has been bitten almost to the quick.

I want to hangon to that hand. I close my eyes and pray hard for God to bring back the daysof my infancy when everything was sunny, and I felt safe. Oh God, I praysilently, make the king send that woman back to France.

“What is it,Mary? Are you not well?” Her voice breaks through my prayer. I blink and lookup at her.

“I am well inbody, Madam, but I am … troubled.”

“Troubled? Isit the marriage with France? I have told your father I do not approve of it.You should have been joined with Spain. Spain is in your blood, part of yourhistory – a union