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

She dashes hercheek, shakes herself as if to dispel a surge of unhappiness.

“It isn’t mymarriage, Madam. It is…” I drop my voice to a whisper, “… it is that woman…”

Our eyes meetand this time she makes no attempt to disguise her pain. She doesn’t pretendnot to know to whom I refer. She squeezes my fingers gently.

“Do not worry.As soon as his eyes fall upon a prettier face, she will be gone. It was thesame with her sister, and Bessie Blount, and countless others I cannot name.”

Mother hasnever spoken to me so openly before. I feel adult, the few  years I’ve spent onthis earth inflated to nineteen or even twenty. I lift my chin and tighten mylips, her face blurring slightly when I narrow my eyes.

“I don’t thinkshe is at all like Bessie and Mary. I don’t think she has any intention ofletting the king go. She made him cancel the entertainments just to spite me.Next time one is arranged, I know she will ensure I am left out, and Fatherwill do nothing to prevent it. I have seen the way she goes about court, herband of followers treating her as if she were the queen and not you! She meansto…”

“Mary!”

Mother’s sharpvoice cuts my tirade short but her displeasure is tempered by the light touchof her hand. “I understand how you feel but we must never, never let ourdisquiet show. We must conceal our feelings behind a mask of dignity. It isbeneath us to be troubled by a woman of such low birth – her grandfather was amercer, did you know that?”

I shake myhead, uncertain what difference that makes. I lower my head, frowning withconfusion at our entwined fingers. Mother is queen, I am heir to the throne –nothing but death can change that. Why then are we so unhappy?

But, as theweeks pass and my household staff behave more and more strangely, I know theyare keeping something from me. As soon as I enter the room, they draw apart andpaint rigid smiles upon their faces. When they address me, their voices arelight and high, as if they are humouring a small child. Like a thief, uneasecreeps upon me and steals my peace of mind. My security is shattered and I liveeach day with uncertainty until, toward the end of August, I hear the word forthe first time.

Annulment.

And when Ihear that word, although its meaning is unclear, I know for certain the end isvery near.

 St James’ Palace – October 1558

Iopen my eyes to find they have put me to bed. I have no memory of it. Did Isay my prayers? I grope for my rosary and mumble a few lines before thecough rips at my lungs again. As I struggle to sit, hands appear from nowhereto assist me. A pillow is tucked at my back, a cup pressed into my palms. Iblink at the white face floating in the darkness. I do not recognise it. It isfeatureless; terrifying.

The past looms back again,more powerful than the present. The past in which I was lusty with youth, notbroken by the years.

“I didn’t believe it at first.It was unthinkable, do you see? Unthinkable that the king should put mymother aside for the sake of some lowborn concubine. I was sure they must bemistaken. Gossips take things, don’t they, and blow them up, inflate thesmallest details into outrageous lies and present them as truth. I don’t knowwhy. I don’t know what satisfaction that gives them.”

When nobody answers me, I fallsilent. The crackle of the flames in the hearth is loud but my thoughts arelouder. They scream at me, the turmoil of that far away world as raw as if itwere yesterday.

“I dismissed it all as liesbut when I eventually questioned Margaret Pole, she wouldn’t answer at first. Itwasn’t until I saw the tears swimming in her eyes that I knew it was more than that.Father was losing his mind.”

Sensing someone close besideme, I grab the woman’s wrist, draw her close and peer into her face again.

“Margery. Why are you here?Where’s that girl I was talking to just now? Who said she could leave? I didn’tdismiss her.”

“Your Majesty, that was yesterday.The physician says you must rest today. You must not excite yourself.”

“Why not? Scared I will die onyour watch? Go now and fetch that girl … I forget her name but she listens. Shedoesn’t fuss and order me about as if I were the servant and she the mistress.Go and get her now.”

“It is two in the morning. Everyoneis abed, Your Majesty.”

“I don’t care. Fetch her.”

Darkness encroaches again and,despite the fire in the hearth and the warming stone at my feet, I feel aloneand cold. I must speak to her now. I cannot be sure I will be alive comemorning and there are things I need to say. My head lolls on the pillow and as thepast pushes in again, a tear begins a convoluted journey down my cheek.

He loved my mother. I knew he did, I saw it first-hand.He loved her and he loved me too – it was that woman, the Boleyn woman, whopoisoned him against us. She made him no longer see his wife of twenty yearsand his beloved daughter – his ‘Pearl’ – he saw only a barrier preventing himfrom getting a son. He raged at us, called us stubborn, and I suppose we werestubborn … but we were in the right. It was the king and his whore whowere wrong … and he knew it.

The door opens again and a smallfigure creeps in; a taller shadow following just behind melts into a darkcorner. I reach out an arm.

“Come here, girl, sit on thatstool. Where’ve you been? It was wrong of you to sneak off mid-conversation.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. Ithought, when you fell asleep, you had finished with me.”

I sniff. Why do they alwaysaccuse me of falling asleep when all I am doing is closing my eyes for a fewmoments?

“Hmmph, well, where was I? Canyou remember?”

She scrapes her stool on thefloor, clears her throat and