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

by Judith Arnopp

  Courtiers stroll among the flowers, and on the mead, minstrels are tuning their instruments. Katherine slips her arm through mine and calls to her small dog, Rig. He comes running, his curly ears flapping behind. Our women follow at a discreet distance, ready to attend us should we need them.

  “Is there something troubling you?” she asks as we turn a corner and duck beneath the leafy arch. I look at the sky, screwing up my eyes against the brilliance of the sun while I think of how to phrase what is on my mind. In the end, I realise, the only way to say it is to be frank and more open than is my usual habit. I look away.

  “I've been a lonely girl, Katherine. I expect you know that. I was very young when it all began; I was kept apart from my mother because we refused to acknowledge my father’s whore.”

  She flinches at the angry word and attempts to smile.

  “I know something of it, of course, but I was far away in the North at the time.”

  “Mother and I were kept apart for years. I was so young and it was hard. I was lonely; especially once I was forced to attend Elizabeth as if I was of no account. I was never tempted to give in but I’ve never once uttered a kind word about the Boleyn woman, and I never will.”

  My voice breaks as I swallow tears. “It wasn’t until she was gone and Father married Jane that I was welcomed back at court. Jane was pleasant, quiet and timid, but she wasn’t like a mother. Anne of Cleves is pleasant enough and I hope will always be my friend but … well, she’s different. Foreign – and doesn't fully understand me. As for Katherine, well, she was just a silly girl … but … it hurt nonetheless to lose her, and see Father sink deeper[CP1] into gloom.”

  The queen looks along the path, her brow furrowed as if she doesn’t know what to say or where to look. I reach out, tug her arm until she turns toward me

  “What I want to say is that I am glad you have married my father. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing when I heard you were to marry, but you are my friend now. I have decided you are all I could wish for in a stepmother. We are a strange, fragmented family but you do us all good. I want to thank you for that.”

  Her cheeks are as scarlet as my own and great tears are balanced on her lashes. I blink my own away. I am not given to outward shows of sentiment and it is the longest, unguarded speech I can ever recall making.

  Katherine takes my trembling hand.

  “Oh, Mary. I’m so glad you think so. I’ve not been blessed with children of my own and have little cause to believe I will ever become a mother, but I have you and Elizabeth and little Edward now, as well as my other stepchildren. The five of you make up my own little family, and I love you all as if you were my own.”

  We embrace clumsily, laughter breaking through the tears. When she pulls away, she offers me her kerchief and, as I am dabbing my cheeks, she rests her hand on my arm.

  “Look,” she says. “Is that not Chapuys? I was hoping to speak to him before he returns to Spain.”

  Chapuys is being carried aloft in a chair rather like the king’s own. He looks old and worn out and I guess he is on his way to take his leave of my father. The queen and I hurry along the path with our women panting in our wake. The palace dogs, thinking it a game, come barking beside us, snatching at our skirts as we run.

  When he notices our approach, the ambassador signals his servants to halt. They lower his chair to the ground and he struggles to rise.

  “Oh, no, please do not get up,” the queen says. “Lady Mary and I merely wanted to bid you farewell. You will be missed at court.”

  He sinks gratefully back into his cushions and mops his brow with a large kerchief.

  “I am sorry to be leaving, Your Majesty, but age prevents me from staying. I have been so long in England, it has become almost like home.” His gaze switches to me, his face softening into smiles. “And I have known the Lady Mary since she was so big.”

  He pats the air at knee height, and I step forward.

  “I will miss you, dear Chapuys. You served my mother and I loyally, and I will never forget that.”

  Katherine moves away a few paces to allow us the privacy to make the farewell our long relationship deserves.

  “Promise me you will take care, my lady. Be vigilant and should you ever feel yourself to be in danger, get word to me. I will send someone you can trust. Spain remembers its own and will always be on your side.”

  Fear shivers up my spine. I hope the day will never come when I am in so much peril I need to turn to Spain. My days of danger are over, I hope. Chapuys has stood so long between me and the wrath of the king that he can imagine no other world. I hope those sorry dangerous days have passed.

  “Thank you.” My throat closes. “You must not keep the king waiting. Farewell, my friend.”

  Katherine re-joins us and assures him of England’s gratitude for his lifetime of service.

  He struggles to rise to make his obeisance but the queen forbids it, and reluctantly he gives an awkward sitting down bow before signalling to his men to resume their progress.

  “Farewell, Your Majesty. Farewell, Your Royal Highness!” he calls, as they bear him off. I gasp at his illicit use of the royal title and turn to Katherine, ready to protest his innocence. But she is smiling, and pretends she has not heard his salutation.

  “Look at Rig,” she laughs, slipping her arm back through mine again and pointing to where her dog is splashing with the other dogs in the shallow water of the fountain.

  It seems my brother is in possession of the keenest mind in Christendom. Father and Katherine extol his virtues at every opportunity. I could, with good reason, be envious but instead I find myself as besotted as the rest of the court.

  Even Elizabeth, who is remarkably choosy about where she places her affection, treats Edward fondly. He is now under the tutorage of Dr John Cheke, and Father cannot disguise his delight when Cheke praises the prince’s open mind, and his ease of learning.

  Marriage to Katherine seems to have softened the king. He smiles more readily and is eager for court entertainments again. When I am summoned to the royal presence, I attend him with some trepidation, but when I get there I am overwhelmed to learn that the succession has been amended. Now, although Edward will still inherit the throne, should my brother die without issue, the crown will go to me. If I too die childless, then Elizabeth will be queen.

  I don’t expect it will happen, of course. Katherine may yet bear the king a son, and Edward is strong and healthy – and I would never wish ill upon my little brother merely to gain a royal crown. It is just so glorious to be fully acknowledged as the king’s daughter, and a legitimate princess of the realm.

  I find I cannot stop smiling. Katherine’s love of learning encourages the erudite to flock to England and the court fills with the greatest thinkers of the age. I do not welcome all of them because too often they speak of heresy. I will not support those who decry the old religion. I am at a loss to understand how they can turn their backs on a thousand years of tradition and embrace these evil ways. I am disappointed in the queen’s heretic leanings but if Father knows of it, he chooses to ignore the fact. The one thing I am thankful for is that, despite breaking ties with Rome, the king continues to worship in the old way, albeit without the intervention of the Pope.

  And so it goes on. The slow disintegration of the church I love is masked beneath a gauze of familial well-being. Every time Katherine tries to steer me onto her heretic path, I hold her off, not tempted by the vulgar crudity of the new religion, and as much in love as ever with the gentle grace of the old.

  My days and evenings are full, and I discover that, although not entirely happy, I am at least content. I eat, I pray, I dance, I attend court, I visit my siblings, I give alms to the poor, visit the sick and placate my father as best I can. It is a period of peace and in the years that follow I look back upon that time with deep longing.

  But such halcyon days never last and our tranquillity is shattered when Father, seemingly recovered from his recent me
grim, declares war on France. All talk at court now turns to war. Father thinks it will be an easy victory and no one dares to disagree.

  He spreads the map across the table in the chamber where the family have gathered after supper and invites us to examine it.

  “While Spain keeps France occupied on the opposite border, we will regain all our lost territories. Remember Agincourt?”

  “I wasn't born, Your Grace,” the queen replies with a laugh.

  “Well, I remember it, and France remembers it too. How could they ever forget such a sound beating? I tell you, we will have Montreuil and Boulogne under our control within the blink of an eye.”

  He pokes the map and Katherine leans over his shoulder while we all follow his stubby finger around the rugged south coast of England.

  “The south is well-fortified now. The new defensive outposts I’ve raised in the last few years will stand us in good stead. I'm not prepared to wait for France to come to us, so we will invade just here. While Spain keeps them occupied over there, we will split the French forces in two. Norfolk will take Montreuil, and Suffolk and I will besiege Boulogne. The plans are already underway.”

  “Is Norfolk not a little too old?”

  “What, Norfolk? The man is still in his prime.”

  The Duke of Norfolk must be close to seventy but nobody argues. Our duty is to amuse and support the king, not to give him cause for concern, but I cannot help being worried.

  “What about the Scots?” I ask. “What will they do? Won’t they join with France against us?”

  “Hertford will keep them busy. Don't you worry about that; and while I'm gone I will be trusting all else to the Queen. Kate will be regent in my absence.”

  This is clearly news to the queen. She sits down suddenly, her face paling.

  “Regent, Henry? Of all England? Me?”

  “Why not? You’re the queen, aren’t you?”

  The king stands feet akimbo, hands on hips in his old manner. I avert my eye from the stained bandage spoiling the line of his hose and hope he is still as invincible as he imagines.

  “In charge of the whole country? To sit at council and make decisions?”

  She looks at me. I raise my brows and pull a face at the enormity of the expected task. The king takes her wrist and pulls her close, his arms sliding about her waist. She doesn’t pull away.

  “You can do it, Kate. Long ago, when I rode to war, I left another Queen Catherine in charge. I trust you to do just as well.”

  My mother. My mouth falls open in surprise. He is praising my mother who not only stood as regent over England but fought and defeated the Scottish king at Flodden too! My heart swells at the thought. I step forward.

  “I will help you, Katherine,” I say, without thinking what it might entail. “I will be glad to.”

  I am more often in the queen’s company now. We have a shared love of fine clothes, jewels and music. It is only in matters of religion that we differ but I am so starved of affection that I push that to one side. When I see her in animated conversation with followers of the new learning, I try not to mind. With gentle persuasion I try instead to turn her from the path of reform and she, in turn, tries to turn me. It is like a half-hearted tug of war in which there is never a victor.

  I come upon the queen one evening as she is writing, her nose bent close to the parchment in the ill light.

  “Oh,” I say, ready to withdraw. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  She puts down her pen and swivels in her seat.

  “No, please, Mary. Come; I have worked too long. I will develop a squint if I do not stop soon.”

  She summons a servant to pour the wine.

  “What are you working on?” I ask as I watch the liquid swirl into the cup.

  “Oh, just a few thoughts of my own.”

  “Oh. Is it a translation? I recently read my great grandmother, Margaret Beaufort’s Mirror of Gold for the Sinful Soul. I should really undertake something similar myself, I began to once but … well, I didn’t finish it.”

  “You should indeed, Mary. I find it so difficult to be idle when I have so much to say.”

  I smile, wondering if she will tell me what she is working on but the conversation moves on, as conversations do, and in no time at all we are talking about Prince Edward’s latest achievements in the schoolroom.

  I should accomplish something too, I think, something that will please Father and make him reconsider his opinion of me. I am so much more than a royal ornament – in fact, I am not even that. The older I become, the harsher my monthly courses affect me, and more often than not I am too pale, my complexion sour.

  That night, I take up Great-Grandmother’s book again. Like me, Margaret Beaufort was small of stature and plain of face, but she was equipped with such intellect that she battled her way through civil war until she and her son won the crown of England. Through her, the Tudor dynasty was born. If only I was more like my great-grandmother; perhaps I should write something in her honour and prove to myself, and everyone else, that I am as capable as she.

  Calling for paper and ink, I pick up my pen and work steadily for a few weeks, hoping to please the queen with the result of my labours.

  In the king’s absence, poor Katherine is beset with the trials of running the country.

  “The council resents me,” she says. “Hertford continually tries to oust me from the proceedings, keeping back matters of import, undermining my decisions. He delights in making me look foolish.”

  “You must not let them,” I tell her. “They think, because you are a woman, you are weak and feeble. You must prove to them you are not.”

  “Oh, I wish you could accompany me to the council meetings,” she says. “They are so rude. They speak across me, interrupt me. It is as if I am not the queen at all. Gardiner is the worst.”

  He would be. Gardiner resents Katherine because she supports reform. He is a conservative and aggrieved at her influence over the king. I think back, remembering how powerless I felt when Cromwell and Norfolk sought to bring me down. I recall the cold, hard armour I hid behind.

  “You must act the part of a man,” I say. “Wear your most masculine gown, the most sombre colours. Do not smile or show any sign of frivolity or weakness. Adjust your posture … stand … like this, like Father does.”

  I put my hands on my hips and splay my feet. Katherine’s merry laughter fills the room.

  “You look just like the king! I am not sure I can stand quite like that, but I can certainly do my best. Your advice is very welcome…”

  “And when you speak, lower your tone. Fix them with your eye and make your words clipped, as if you are instructing in the school room. The council members are nothing more than naughty schoolboys, so treat them as such.”

  The queen evidently takes heed of my counsel, [CP2] for when she emerges from the next meeting she is far less flustered. Her face is flushed with triumph. I wait for her outside the council chamber and when she sees me she clutches my sleeves and puts her hand to her mouth, disguising her laughter.

  “I did just as you suggested. I barely let them speak more than was necessary and to my relief, Cranmer has proved an ally and supports me in all I say.”

  Cranmer will always take the opposite stance to Gardiner, that can be relied on, just as much as Gardiner is sure to speak against Katherine.

  Whispers against the queen begin to float around the court; she is a heretic, they say, a traitor to the realm and, more to the point, she is barren too. It is clear to me that these rumours can be traced back to Stephen Gardiner, who will do all he can to bring her down as he has brought down others before.

  One evening we are invited to see a play, and before it is half done it becomes clear it has been written as a slight against the queen. I glance at Katherine, who is sitting beside me, and notice that her face in the flickering torchlight has turned quite pale. I grope for her hand but as the scene comes to an end and the actors take their bows, she snatch
es it away and claps and laughs blithely as if she is unaware of the cruel intention behind it.

  At first, I think the meaning has passed her by but, as I watch her, I realise that she is perfectly aware. I shouldn’t be, but I am astonished to discover that despite her gentle manner, she is brave; as brave as a royal lioness. So I clap loudly too, as if I do not despise them at all.

  Father promised the war with France would be dealt with swiftly, but it drags on. Katherine eagerly scans each letter that arrives but lets it fall to her lap when she realises the king will not be returning home soon. Does she miss him? I wonder, or is she just looking forward to relinquishing the reins of government?

  She does look tired, as if all the cares of the world are upon her shoulders. I had truly meant to be of more help to her but I have been ailing, my monthly megrim and blinding headaches stretching far beyond the usual week of suffering. The physicians offer no lasting remedy or explanation, and so I suffer on, barely recovering from one month before the next begins.

  It is not until summer’s end that news comes of the fall of Boulogne. The court sighs with relief. The king will be glad now and proud of his second ‘Agincourt’, but before we can celebrate we learn that Charles of Spain has betrayed our agreement and made peace with France.

  The French king now sends reinforcements against us, isolating our forces. In great panic, the queen summons more men to Father’s aid. But, before they can embark, we receive news that the king is returning home.

  To my surprise, the time he has spent away at war seems to have done him good. He looks much better, his step is a little quicker and he speaks with vigour. Instead of the thwarted warrior I had expected to return, he speaks eagerly of taking up hunting again.

  The threat from France is not over. In fact, the danger of war is greater than before. Not only are the forces of France and Scotland united but Spain, the country I always think of as my own, is ranged against us too.