The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England

by Judith Arnopp

  Our eyes meet. Anne’s are sorrowful and, irritated by her pity, I scowl at her until she looks away.

  “Perhaps you should sleep now, Your Majesty,” she says at last.

  “I have no need of sleep. Do my tales bore you?”

  “Oh no, Your Majesty, indeed, I am enthralled.”

  “Well, be quiet then and let me think.”

  1530

  Hard years follow. My childhood is all but forgotten. I drift miserably into young womanhood. My parents are torn apart, my security is in tatters, but the world goes on. The players continue to play, the mummers continue to prance, and while Christendom rocks beneath her feet, Anne Boleyn sits in my mother’s chair and applauds.

  I learned young to heed my father’s displeasure. I have felt his ire, his rage has rung furiously in my ears, but I had never expected him to turn his anger so openly against the Pope. As a young man, the king had been proud of his title ‘Defender of the Faith’ for his argument against Luther, Assertio septem sacramentorum adversus Martinum Lutherum. But now, he scorns it. He strikes out at the Pope when he refuses to sever the king’s ties to my mother. He breaks with Rome – for the sake of Anne Boleyn, he cuts England adrift from the mother church, and assumes the title himself.

  Father is now the Supreme Head on Earth of the Church in England. I had never dreamed he would go this far. The people of England, afraid to protest too loudly, mutter among themselves and only the bravest in the land dare speak out against it.

  The church, like the queen, is a victim of Anne’s ambition, yet my mother has no champion. Although a few of the old families – the Staffords, the Nevilles, the Courtenays – are firmly on her side, their own influence is waning as the friends of Anne Boleyn wax.

  My governess, Margaret Pole, stands with us, as do Elizabeth Stafford and Gertrude Courtenay, but they have no power, no real influence over the king. They are soon as far out of favour as my mother and me.

  The gossip reaches me in my sick bed at Alton. As womanhood encroaches, I am afflicted with great monthly suffering. For one week a month it feels as if demons are prodding me with red-hot forks. My belly is bloated, wracked with pain, and my mood is as deep and dark as Hell itself. I look into my glass and see my hair hanging limply either side of a pale face; my pores are enlarged, and a pustule the size of a quail’s egg is lodged in the crease of my nose.

  I might as well be dead.

  My women offer what comfort they can but I burrow beneath the covers and give way to despair, mourning the dainty princess I once was. Everything is ruined. I want my mother, but her company is denied me. From time to time her letters are smuggled in. They are my single source of comfort. And that is fleeting.

  Why does my mother’s cousin, the king of Spain, not come to our aid? He could invade our shores, set his assassins on the Boleyn woman, and force my father to reinstate us! My mother is close kin to them and so am I. Why do they sit by and allow our rights to be stolen from us? There is so little I understand.

  But at last, because I have been so ill, I am permitted to return to court where everyone is talking about the king’s great matter.

  In every parlour across Europe, the details of my parents’ marriage are being discussed. I am being discussed. Did my mother lie with Prince Arthur? Was she a virgin at the time of her marriage to my father? Am I the legitimate heir, or just a bastard? That word again … Bastard.

  It haunts me.

  At court, close to the leading players in this marital farce, the conversation ceases when I enter a room; the silence makes my ears burn with humiliation. People are hesitant, afraid to show kindness toward me for fear it will put them out of favour with the king, or with his whore. As their backs turn slowly away from me, I ache with loneliness.

  Gradually, the pain turns to resentment, resentment to bitterness. I suspect everyone of spying for the great goggle-eyed whore as I have begun to think of her. She makes no secret of her hatred. Because of this, fearful of everyone’s motives, I rebuff those who do run the risk of befriending me. I go about court in fear of my life, terrified that the next person I meet may conceal a dagger, or a phial of poison in their sleeve.

  I have no doubt she is wicked. I have heard how she goes against God’s teaching and embraces the new religion that is creeping across the channel from Europe. She supports Tyndale and his heretical scribblings, and I have no doubt that, in the privacy of his chambers, she dribbles her heresy into my father’s ear.

  Like a bear in a trap, chained to a woman he does not love, the king grows more furious by the day. Angered by Wolsey’s failure to win the annulment of the marriage, he turns against his erstwhile friend. When he is taken, I know beyond doubt that the best the Cardinal can hope for is a lengthy stay in the Tower, for once my father turns against a man his fate is sealed.

  I can’t remember a time when the great Thomas Wolsey was not prominent at court. All my life, his red skirts and his soft sandaled feet have licked at the corners of my consciousness. I recall Father slinging an arm around the Cardinal’s shoulders while they laughed together at some secret jest. I remember my resentment of the long hours they spent closeted away from me. Wolsey was always the first man the king turned to, the scholar whose wisdom Father sought, and now he is naught but a felon.

  In truth, although he has great pity for us and has done his best, the Cardinal managed to do very little for the cause of Mother and me yet … what could he do against the will of the king? He is trapped, the king on one side, the Pope on the other, and it is impossible for him to please both masters.

  Deprived of his offices, accused of treason, his goods confiscated, Wolsey is placed under arrest, but dies, broken-hearted some say, on his way to the trial. In his absence, his assistant steps forward to take his place: Thomas Cromwell, a toad of a man whose careful tread and sombre expression makes the blood go cold in my veins.

  Mother is obliged to leave the court and retire to Windsor where, to my great delight, I am granted leave to join her for a few days. She looks older now, her step has slowed and there is little sign of the girl who was once hailed as the fairest princess in Christendom. Her brow is furrowed, her cheeks sallow and deeply cut with lines.

  At first, we speak of innocuous things and she strives to smile but, as the afternoon wanes, her grief seeps through the veneer. It is the most uncomfortable time I have ever spent in her company. Her speech is spotted with snippets of prayer and bouts of outrage. I sit close beside her, my hand in hers and, even when our palms grow slick with sweat, she does not release me. We sit so close our skin seems to act as a conduit for her anger, and we tremble with mutual rage and disappointment.

  While her women sit a short distance away, sewing quietly, a musician plays a sad song. The fire that crackles and dances in the grate is the liveliest thing in the room. Her chamber is a dead place, a place of lost hopes, of unrequited love.

  I brace myself and clench my fingers tightly as I prepare to ask the question. I have to ask it of her because I can bear to speak of it to no other, but the words burn my tongue.

  “Mother … if the annulment is granted, what will become of me? Will I be named a bastard?”

  That hated word issues like a gob of spittle, my mouth turns down at the corners and my chin begins to wobble. It is shame that makes me feel like this. She grips my hand tighter, her Spanish accent thick with emotion.

  “That will never happen,” she says, “not as long as we have strength to fight it. I will write again to the Pope.”

  But Mother is wrong. She is so very wrong.

  The king cares nothing for the cost of separating from his queen and installing a whore in her place. He would not mind were the world to burn. He risks war with Spain, with the whole of Christendom, and the people of England are resentful. They love my mother and detest the woman who means to replace her. They despise her for a commoner, a heretic and an adulterer.

  Stifled by the treachery of court, Mother and I seek an escape and steal an af
ternoon to ride together in the Great Park. It is a bright day with a buffeting breeze tossing small white clouds across a brilliant blue sky. My favourite weather.

  For a few hours we are able to forget our troubles. For a little while we forget we are a besieged queen and a princess of nebulous status – we are mother and daughter and our talk is of nothing but the weather, a clump of primroses beneath the hedge, the shade of the grass that is the exact hue of my skirts.

  My horse is young and full of vigour. She lifts her nose and whinnies to her companions and, after turning to request Mother’s unspoken consent, I dig in my heels and canter on ahead. With my groom at my side, our mounts thunder across the turf; the ground speeds below me, the scenery blurring and the laughter of the queen’s ladies like far-off birdsong. I give the horse her head, crouching low between her ears, my skirts flying, my breath high in my chest. I am still Mary, and I am alive!

  As we approach the greenwood, I do not enter but haul on the reins and our pace slows. I pat the mare’s neck and ride with a long rein while my palfrey and I recover both our breath and our dignity. The mare snorts and green foam from her bit spatters across my skirts, her sides vibrate beneath me. I raise my arm and wave to Mother who is waiting with her companions near a stand of trees. We return slowly and when I grow close, Mother leans forward and gives her horse a friendly smack.

  “You rode too fast, Mary. My heart was in my mouth…”

  “I was safe enough, Mother. The fresh air is invigorating.”

  She laughs, reluctant to scold me on such a lovely day, and we continue on together, side by side. Today we are happy, but who knows what awaits us tomorrow.

  St James’ Palace – October 1558

  “And that was the last day we spent together. I try to always remember her like that; laughing in the face of her destruction. Loving me, in spite of everything. Had she been childless she would probably have obeyed my father and gone quietly into a nunnery, but she had to fight for me; do you see? For my rights; for my inheritance. The throne was my due and she would settle for nothing less. Some people criticise her for that; some say she should have gone gracefully into a convent as others have before, but my mother was proud. Had she bowed to the king’s will she’d have hated herself. Instead, we fought the great whore that we hated, and she hated us in return.

  “Mother’s very existence angered Anne Boleyn. Even after Mother was sent away and I’d been exiled from court, she still detested us. They were long aching years. I was lonely and afraid, terrified of what might happen next. For once you’ve suffered an unthinkable event, anything seems possible, do you see?

  “Mother and I both knew it was only a matter of time. Without the protection of the Pope we felt naked; we were bereft and vulnerable.

  “But the strange thing is, I never stopped loving the king. In those years I came to realise that whatever he did to me, I would always love him. I would spend the rest of my days yearning for the golden man who once played with me in the garden, because he was my father.

  “One by one, atrocities were heaped upon us. The break with Rome, exile from Mother, the brash triumph of Anne Boleyn … and then the country began to crumble. Bishop Fisher was taken, and Thomas More resigned as Lord Chancellor. I remember my women weeping, mourning his loss before it even occurred. He was a good man ... a proud and righteous man. If he’d only had the foresight to realise the sort of king my father would become. He’d known him since he was a child, you see – had a part in his education. He probably came to wish it had been Father who died instead of his brother, Arthur. Arthur might have made the better king.”

  “Just one more mouthful, Your Majesty…”

  I jerk my head. Margery is holding a spoon beneath my chin, urging me to eat. A napkin has been tied about my neck and my mouth tastes of broth. I clench my lips tight and glare at her until she lowers the spoon. Warily, she dabs my lips with a napkin.

  “You’ve eaten much more than you usually do, Your Majesty; I suppose you must be quite full.”

  I have no memory of eating anything. My last recollection is of talking to that child … we were speaking of Father, of those long-ago days that seem much more relevant than the here and now.

  “We must get you up and dressed; the ambassador is coming today.”

  “Ambassador?” I sink into my pillows and tug the covers to my chest.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, don’t you remember? From your husband; the Duke of Feria will be attending you at noon.”

  She speaks loudly, enunciating the words as if I am deaf … or stupid. Philip should come himself. I have had little news from him, and no acknowledgement of my last letter when I confided that there would be no child this time … no heir.

  I sigh gustily, aghast at the woman’s cheeriness as she helps me from bed. Every bone in my body aches. As my attendants wash me, I stare into a corner, pliant beneath their attentions, sick of the ritual and tedium of the long process of dressing.

  Layer after beastly layer: shift, petticoats, a farthingale so heavy I can barely stand. Lastly, they attach the fore sleeves and hook on my girdle. My knees slump a little beneath the weight. Someone hands me my Bible and I cling to it so hard the jewelled cover digs into my fingers.

  I am so tired I could fall.

  “Let me sit,” I gasp, and they produce a chair. I sink into it, closing my eyes against the pain that surges though my head, my joints that squeal in resentment.

  When I next open them again, I am in my state apartments. The sun casts long shadows across the floor and I realise it is late afternoon. I wonder where the last few hours went, passed by in an ebbing tide of faces and voices. A door is thrown open.

  “I apologise for the lateness of the hour, Your Majesty. I met with an unexpected delay on the road.”

  Feria bends over my hand; I feel his breath on my knuckles. I stare at him and force my mind to focus through the fog. I have forgotten what he is here to discuss.

  “How is Philip? Is he well?”

  “Hale and hearty, Madam. He sends regret that he could not accompany me on this occasion, but next time....”

  His lies are loud in my ears. I notice with sudden clarity the way the younger women smirk behind their hands. They think my husband has abandoned me; they think he will never return.

  “I deeply regret finding you are still ailing, Your Majesty. I had hoped to find you recovered. Perhaps you will rally once the fine weather returns in the spring.”

  I will be dead by then and he knows it; they all know it but it must not be spoken aloud. His voice drones on. My mind drifts. Behind the figures and faces of my attendants I see shadows; shades of people I lost long ago – beloved faces of my mother, my father, Lady Margaret. I hear the laughter of long dead courtiers, watch them dance to music that withered a lifetime since. The torchlight glints on their jewels, their perspiring faces. I hear the chink of coin and smothered laughter; inhale the aroma of deceit. I catch the bellow of my father’s laughter, an amused gentle response from my mother – the scent of happiness. But then, a face looms forward, a curtain of dark hair, a glint of wickedness and the strain of cruel laughter.

  “BOLEYN!”

  A sudden silence pulls me back to the present and I realise I have spoken the name aloud. Feria smiles uncertainly, showing his yellow teeth.

  “Your Majesty, my master feels it may be prudent to ... to…”

  I peer at him, watching as he scrabbles for courage. He takes a deep breath and speaks the words quickly before he can change his mind, “… to name the Lady Elizabeth as heir, Your Majesty … in the event of … should the worst happen…”

  He has spoken aloud of my death. Nobody breathes; nobody utters a word in the screaming silence as they wait for my reaction. I stare at him, reluctant to break the tension. Let them suffer. I gaze over his shoulder, far beyond him as the past drifts closer. A hand falls upon my arm and I look up to find Jane Dormer; her face is blurred. I blink at it, trying to clear my vision.

&nb
sp; “Are you feeling quite well, Your Majesty? Would you like to withdraw?”

  I cover her fingers with my own and nod; my voice, when I find it, is hoarse.

  “Yes, yes. Take me back to my quarters please, Jane.”

  As she assists me from the room, I glance over my shoulder to scowl at Feria, who sweeps a deep apologetic bow.

  They walk me slowly along the corridor to my privy apartments. It takes so much effort. My heart leaps and dances beneath my bodice; a loud ringing has begun in my ears and I am finding it hard to breathe.

  “Where is Lady Pole? I want Margaret.”

  Jane squeezes my fingers. Why don’t they fetch Margaret?

  “Calm yourself, Your Majesty. Don’t let him upset you…”

  “Name an heir indeed…” I gasp as the guards throw open the doors and we pass into my chamber. My favourite chair opens its arms and I fall into it, someone thrusts a footstool beneath my heels. One of the maids vigorously flaps her fan beside my head, creating a hurricane. Perspiration erupts on my brow. I put up a hand to massage my temple.

  “Elizabeth … she …”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. Don’t think of it now. You are tired, close your eyes while I fetch you a posset.”

  A flick of skirts and she is gone, leaving me to the mercies of my other women. The buzz of their concern fades; like wasps, my worries bump and blunder against the window of my thoughts where Elizabeth has taken up residence. My sister is clever and beautiful and above all young … everything I am not.

  I close my eyes against the memory of our last meeting, the image dissolving before reforming into a picture of her in my place, sitting on my throne, ruling over my people, desecrating my church.

  I refuse to let her have it.

  September 1533

  I am at Beaulieu, watching from the window as the heath turns pink beneath the setting sun. I hear the door open but do not move straight away. It is only when Margaret Douglas clears her throat to attract my attention that I turn.