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

by Judith Arnopp

  “You are mistaken, sir. My cousin, the emperor, believes I should be allowed to worship as I see fit in the privacy of my home. He would be sore displeased were I to be arrested for it. He has made that quite plain. Perhaps you would like him to come and tell you so in person.”

  It is like Hatfield all over again. I am a defenceless child, pretending to be strong when inside I am secretly quaking. My words are bluster and I fear he knows it.

  “Lady Mary, you are the king’s beloved sister, the favourite of noblemen and commoner alike. We would be loath to fall out with you in this…”

  “Loath to take my head, you mean.” Rage stirs in my belly. I have never been able to carry out a measured debate, as always my ire rises and obliterates my reason.

  He laughs humourlessly. “It will not come to that … unless, of course, you should persist.”

  I stand up, take three steps away from the table and turn abruptly.

  “Persist in what, my lord? Praying in the manner I have been taught? In the manner of my father and his father before him? Where is the sin in that? If there is sin in it now, why was there none before? I have not changed, God has not altered. It is you, it is the king. I am constant. I am Mary of England and before God I swear my loyalty to the king, my brother, but … I am a good Catholic first and that will ever be the case. Whether you use threats or violence against me, you will never sway me from the true church.”

  While Petre fumbles with a sheaf of papers, Rich regards me narrowly. I can almost hear the words he stifles behind his beard.

  “Very well. I shall convey your message to my Lord Somerset and to the king. No doubt you will soon be hearing from us again.”

  He nods curtly but does not take my hand this time. As their footsteps clatter down the corridor, the company in the chamber sighs with combined relief. Someone giggles nervously. We exchange tense glances, my stomach lurching at their white faces, wide dilated eyes. I have put them all in danger.

  “Oh, my lady!” Susan hurries forward and takes both my hands. “You were magnificent!”

  “Was I, Susan? Magnificent? I didn’t feel it.”

  I manage a dilute smile but my counterfeit courage is rapidly dwindling with my rage, for Rich is right about one thing. They will be back.

  It is as well that I am far from court, for events are happening swiftly, the seat of power shifting and changing. My spies bring me tales of dissention at Edward’s court; resentment of the Duke of Somerset is high and it is not long before he is ousted. The Earl of Warwick, John Dudley, having become too big for his boots after his success in the war with Scotland and putting down the recent rebellion in Norfolk picks up the reins of government.

  I’ve never had any love for Somerset but John Dudley makes my hackles rise all the more. He is an upstart, an ambitious, remorseless bully, and I hate to think of my brother in his hands. While Edward is kept fast within the palace, a ring of protection about him prevents even his closest kin from seeing him. I would wager my favourite horse he has no idea of the peril his councillors have placed me in.

  My life is in the deepest peril. I am in more danger now than I have ever been. My man, Rochester, having met secretly with Dubois, visits me in my chamber; his presence more a worry than a comfort. He tells me the plans laid down by my cousin in Spain are underway, his ships lie off the coast ready to take me to safety.

  “I am loath to escape England,” I tell him. But, what else can I do? It is all in hand. The emperor has sent ships to escort me to Spain. It is what my mother would wish.

  Spain. All I know of that land are stories my mother told; tales of a bright sun, exotic fruits and mosaic halls, blackamoors and olive trees. I picture it now as I did when I was a child, at my mother’s knee – a one dimensional world, painted in primary colours. The thought of leaving England fills me with fear but my enemies are real, and my brother lacks the authority to control them. Perhaps it is better that I leave.

  Rochester screws his cap between his hands and comes closer to speak urgently in my ear.

  “My honest opinion is that you should stay, my lady. It isn’t safe. Watches have been posted on every road. If you decide to flee, then you must be prepared for a fight, but I think you should stay. If you leave England’s shores, you do so for good. I think it would be wiser to remove to your house at St Osyth – that way you will be close enough to escape to the sea should the need arise later.”

  My bags are already packed, my women primed and ready to leave, but my love of England has me tied fast to the bedpost. I grasp the lifeline Rochester offers.

  I stand up and move toward the hearth, staring into the leaping orange flames. I can feel their heat on my face and hold my hand closer, wondering how it feels to die by the flame, a martyr to the one true church.

  Rochester coughs, drawing my attention back to the matter in hand. He tugs the edges of his furred collar together.

  “There is danger in flight, my lady, but there is danger in staying too. I don’t know what else I can say on the subject.”

  For a long moment I stare into his eyes; they are tired, ringed about with lines and care. He has an honest face and I trust he will not lead me with false lights.

  “My brother is young, Rochester, and it is a cruel world. Should, and God forbid it does, should anything befall him, I need to be here in England, to stake my claim on the crown.”

  It is treason even to hint at the death of the king.

  “I agree. If you are overseas, you will have lost the throne before you even have a chance to bid for it.”

  “It is mine by right; I am the heir.”

  His eyes slide away, his optimism diminishes.

  “What? What have you heard?”

  I step forward, tugging his sleeve, drawing him close again.

  “It may be a rumour,” he whispers, his beard tickling my cheek. “But I heard that Northumberland is trying to persuade the king to allow a match between his son, Guildford, and your cousin, Jane Grey…”

  I raise my eyes and see my own suspicions mirrored in his. My brow lowers.

  “Dudley would not dare…”

  “I fear he would, madam. I fear he keeps you occupied with matters of liturgy to distract you from his real plan.”

  My cousin Jane is clever. Too clever surely to fall victim to Dudley’s plots. But … she is also keen for reform and hates the old church as much as I loathe the new. For those who embrace the new religion, Jane will be more favourable an heir to Edward’s throne than I. But they wouldn’t dare … would they?

  I turn suddenly, my skirts sweeping the floor, fanning the flames in the hearth.

  “I will stay, Rochester. I will stay and fight.”

  All thoughts of escape abandoned, I make ready to leave for Beaulieu, sending my chaplain, Mallet, on ahead to prepare for my arrival and the hearing of the Mass.

  The admonishments from court continue, almost daily, and I have messengers night and day, bringing orders that I desist in my method of worship. I take no notice, ignoring their authority and endangering my life.

  In the end, the king writes demanding my presence at court, warning me that I should be more like our beloved sister, Elizabeth, his ‘sweet sister Temperance,’ who has obeyed every edict laid down by king and council.

  Of course she has, I think. Elizabeth will always appear to do what is expected of her. Nobody can ever guess what she is really thinking.

  London – December 1550

  Unable to think of an excuse to refuse another summons to the Christmas court, this time I agree to go. It has been a long while since Edward, Elizabeth and I were together in the same room. On the day of my audience with the king, I dress with care, defiantly adorning myself with as much finery as I can stand up in. Susan arranges my hood and ensures my skirts hang straight at the back.

  “You look very gracious, my lady,” she says, as she hands me my prayer book and forbidden beads.

  The king will take immediate issue with the elaborate s
tyle of the gown I have chosen, but it is not for others to rule how I live my life.

  When my name is called, the company falls silent. I sweep into the great hall with my head high and kneel before the boy who is seated in my father’s chair.

  “Mary,” Edward’s piping voice cries. “We are right glad to see you.”

  I rise from the floor and kiss the knuckles he presents to me.

  “Edward, my dear brother,” I smile, my maternal longing rising to obliterate my detestation for his method of worship. “I am pleased to see you looking so well.”

  In fact, he looks rather pale, as if he should spend more time in the sun, or ride to the chase as often as our father did. He has the face and hands of a scholar and, so his tutors say, the mind of one too. His face is thin, veins visible at his temple, a crease of worry between his brows, and more than a hint of my father’s determination about his mouth. He looks anxious rather than happy.

  “I haven’t been too well, actually,” he says with a pathetic droop to his shoulders. “I am troubled with a persistent cough.” He thumps his chest and gives a few short barks like a dog, to demonstrate.

  “Oh, Your Majesty, I am grieved to hear it. I will send your man a receipt that I have found most beneficial. As you know, I am often ailing myself…”

  I trail off as the doors are thrown open again and the king’s attention drifts away from me. The courtiers turn their eyes from me to a newcomer waiting at the door.

  “The Lady Elizabeth,” the herald announces, and the slight figure of my sister sweeps forward. She pauses to allow the company to acknowledge her unmistakeable presence. Then, keeping her eye on the king, she makes her way to the throne. My spirits plummet and the former confidence I had in my appearance ebbs away.

  I chose my jewel-encrusted velvet gown and headdress to show off my status, make everyone take notice and remember that I am next in line to the throne. Elizabeth, however, has chosen a different way.

  Her gown is plain, almost severely cut, and her only necklace is a single cross hanging on a golden chain. Her fingers are bare of rings, her hair tucked tightly beneath a demure cap. It seems as if she is lit from within. She is young. She needs no jewels, not with eyes that shine brighter than any candle.

  Before she reaches the dais, she sinks low and remains there while the court drinks in the scene.

  “My good sister, Bess! It is too long since we saw you last!”

  Edward leaves his seat, descends the steps and holds out his hand to assist her to rise. They are of similar height. They smile into each other’s eyes and I notice how alike they are. Similar chins, similar smiles – only the eyes are different. They have the eyes of their mothers while I have my father’s. I feel separate. Isolated and irrelevant.

  Elizabeth is economical with her words. Unlike her mother, she says little, but what she does say has immediate impact. She turns belatedly to greet me, sweeps a disparaging eye over my elaborate gown, my pale and unprepossessing face. The fingers that lie in my palm are cool and slender, her smile bewitching.

  “It is good to see you again, Sister,” she says with no hint of irony. She kisses each cheek, her hands firm on my shoulders, swamping me with the scent of citrus and cinnamon. Her fragrance is as exotic as her appearance.

  From looking, one would never know the extent of the scandal that taints her name; there is certainly no hint that she cares. Did she really dally with Thomas Seymour? I wonder. Has she already tasted the mysteries of a man’s body?

  As we take our seats, one either side of the king, I take note of the gracious slope of her shoulder, her long graceful neck and the youthful glow of her cheek. Perhaps it wasn’t just ambition that tempted Seymour to sample her; he certainly never came back for a second try at me.

  “I have a gift for you, Your Majesty,” she says, signalling to her woman to pass her a small package. “I translated it myself, and embroidered the cover too, for your delectation.”

  Edward takes and unwraps a small book, and even from my seat I can see the skill of the needleworked cover. I wish I’d chosen something more personal than the jewelled candlesticks I’d bought for him. Elizabeth has always managed to get everything right, seemingly without effort. I, on the other hand, misjudge everybody and get everything wrong.

  For a few days, all is well. We eat too much, drink too much, and I even take to the floor and dance a few times. Elizabeth dances too and is never short of partners, but the king, declaring it makes him cough, is content to watch from his throne.

  For all the show I make of festivity, I do not enjoy my time at court. I am too aware of the heresy that surrounds me. My cheeks burn when I notice the sideways glances at my clothes, and the raised eyebrows of the courtiers when I take my seat beside the king. Everyone stares, everyone whispers, barely disguising their disapproval. I feel like a foreigner; an interloper, a stranger with stranger habits who is forced to pray in the privacy of her chambers instead of joining the rest of the court at chapel.

  Most of my friends are in disgrace, either in the Tower or uninvited or unwilling to attend Edward’s Protestant court. The Catholics of England keep to their own houses, risking life and liberty to pray in the secrecy of their own chapels.

  But I have managed to avoid offending the king and so I must conclude that the visit has gone well. Soon I will be able to return home, and breathe a little more freely, away from the spies of the king’s council. It is the day before I am due to leave when Edward summons me and tries to gently persuade me as to the error of my ways.

  “I am concerned, sweet sister,” he says gently, “that you risk everlasting punishment for praying as you do. It is against God’s wishes. You should pray with the rest of us in the chapel, not in your own closet like some leper.”

  I sigh inwardly and force my angry features into a smile. He is little more than a child and cannot really understand.

  “My dear brother, my sweet king, you are not yet old enough to make your own decision as to religion. Pray allow me to make up my own.”

  “And you, sister, are not yet too old to learn that you are mistaken.”

  Not too old? I clamp my lips together as the words echo in my head, the response I long to make is frozen upon my tongue. It is not Edward’s fault. I will not blame him. He is merely repeating lessons he has learned by rote. I know he loves me and has no inkling of the hurt he inflicts.

  I bite my tongue, bow my head and execute a deep curtsey. When I rise, I cannot hide the sorrow or the moistness of my eyes, and on seeing my tears, he leaps to his feet.

  “Mary, sister!” He holds out his hands and hurries toward me, places his palms upon my cheeks, his face close to mine.

  “I would not injure you for all the world,” he says. “You were a mother to me when my own was taken but … I fear you will burn, Mary! There is nothing I can do to…”

  I snatch his hands away from my cheeks.

  “You are the king, Edward,” I hiss. “Of course there is something you can do to stop them. You can stop all of this!”

  I sweep my arm at the gathering and, turning on my heel, I quit his presence without waiting for his permission.

  As I hurry along the corridor, expecting any moment to hear the tramp of the royal guard behind me, I tear the veil from my hair, scattering pearls as I go. On entering my chamber, I cast it aside.

  “Get out!” I shout and my attendants scurry away with white, shocked faces.

  I sit on a low stool at the fireside, my head in my hands until Susan enters, breathless from her hasty pursuit of me from the hall. I look up and let out a scream of frustration.

  “I cannot bear it, Susan! They are like devils. How can they be so blind to their own sin? They have turned my noble brother into a bigot and a bully!”

  I break into sobs, my head heavy in my hands.

  “Oh, my lady, he didn’t mean it…”

  “Start making ready for a journey,” I snarl as I dash my face dry on my sleeve. “We are leaving.”


  Copped Hall, Essex – August 1551

  So I retire to Copped Hall and shroud myself in misery. I know the world cannot be exactly as I would have it. I understand that Edward is the king and I love him dearly, it is the men who rule him that I abhor. They are tainting all England with their evil beliefs and spoiling my brother who, without such influence, could bring England back to Rome.

  If I allow myself to dwell on the absurdities taking place in the realm, I may run mad. I pick up my lute again and fix my mind on more pleasant matters. From now on, I shall try to see only flowers in this beautiful world, and if there is muck in the garden, I will navigate a path carefully around it.

  But they will not leave me in peace. In August, three members of my household, Robert Rochester, Francis Englefield and Edward Waldegrave, are summoned to Hampton Court to appear before the council. They are accused of ‘keeping the princess in the old religion.’ This is nonsense, of course. They are my servants and do as I command them. I need no man to tell me how to think.

  They return from London full of ‘advice’ as to how I should open my mind to the new learning, read heretical works and submit myself to the devil. They have clearly been coached in what to say. I cannot in all conscience allow them anywhere near my household chaplains. Instead, I send them straight back to Hampton Court with a verbal message for the king’s council, and a letter addressed privately to the king. As they ride away, I bite my lip at the things I have said in it and wonder if I might have gone too far.

  Having for my part utterly refused heretofore to talk with them in such matters, trusted that Your Majesty would have suffered me, your poor humble sister … to have used the accustomed Mass, which the King, your father and mine, with all his predecessors did evermore use: wherein also I have been brought up from my youth, and thereunto my conscience doth not only bind me, which by no means will suffer me to think one thing and do another, but also the promise made to the Emperor, by Your Majesty’s Council, was an assurance to me that in so doing I should not offend the laws, although they seem now to qualify and deny the thing… Bear with me as you have done, and not to think that by my doings or example any inconvenience might grow to Your Majesty or your realm