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

  The

  Heretic

  Wind

  A story of Mary Tudor, Queen of England.

  Judith Arnopp

  Published in 2020

  Copyright © JudithArnopp.

  The author or authors assert their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author or authors of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  St James’ Palace – October 1558

  I hate autumn; I always have. It heralds the onset of megrims, endless days of gloom, nights of frozen misery. It is so dark. Why haven’t they come to light the torches or stoke the fires? Where on God’s earth are they?

  I move my arm, dislodging a pile of books, and a tankard of ale crashes to the floor. A dark stain spreads like blood. The noise alerts my women, who should be attending me. The door opens and a face peers tentatively around the edge. Expecting it to be Susan, I frown vaguely at the child who creeps forward.

  “Who are you? Where are my women?”

  “You sent everyone away, Your Majesty, on pain of death.”

  I grunt acknowledgement; I had forgotten. My damned women are always fussing and fiddling, whispering and watching. Waiting for me to die. I get tired of it. I squint at the blur of her white face that seems to float in the darkness. I wave my arm again.

  “Get someone to light the torches and then do something about that fire.”

  She bobs a curtsey. I hear the door open and close, and know I am alone again. A scattering of raindrops peppers the windows, a draught eddies around my ankles. It is only October. The thought of the long winter months ahead fill me with gloom. Perhaps I will not live to see the spring. I let my chin drop to my chest and close my eyes. Sleep will help me forget; it is a refuge, my only friend.

  The present blurs, music plays in the recesses of my mind – music and laughter … I am slipping into oblivion when the pain bites deep in my gut. I cry out and clutch my belly.

  “Your Majesty, should I call the physician?” Susan Clarencius, who is braver than the rest, bursts into the chamber and bends over me. I feel the anxious hush of her breath against my cheek. I push her away.

  “I told you I wanted to be alone.”

  She stands over me just as my lady governess used to do. Folding her hands across her stomach, she sniffs dismissively. “But if you are sick, Your Majesty…”

  “I said I wanted to be alone. Get that girl to stoke the fire. I will tolerate nobody else near me tonight, do you understand?”

  The effort of anger makes me cough and she takes a step forward, but I point toward the door. “Out. Now.”

  She hesitates for just a moment before curtseying low and leaving me in peace. I close my eyes.

  When I open them again, I become aware of stealthy movements. My neck is stiff from sleeping in my chair and there is drool on my chin. I turn toward the hearth where someone is kneeling, trying to silently rouse the flames.

  “Is that you, girl? Are you still here?”

  She rises.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” By her voice, she can be no more than twelve. My eyesight is so dim I have to imagine how she looks; a child in grubby skirts, the beginnings of a hole on her left shoe. What must it be like to be such a person, so lowly? I doubt it can be as hard as it is to be queen.

  Maybe she would make a better job of ruling than I have. When I came to the throne I had such good intentions. I meant to put everything right but … I can’t even pinpoint when the trouble began…

  “Do you think it is easy being queen?”

  I speak suddenly. The girl gasps and drops her poker, rolls to her feet in a flurry of petticoats.

  “I – I beg pardon, Your Majesty?”

  “Being queen…” I poke my head forward, trying to bring her features into focus. “I suppose you think it’s as simple a task as lighting fires or fetching buckets. Well, you’re wrong. It is hard. Hard, do you see? I – I thought the people would love me … they loved my father, didn’t they, despite everything he did? They always loved him.”

  I glare at her. She thinks I am crazed, and she is not alone. It is a question I have sensed frequently in the voices of my women and the quizzical brows of my physicians of late. It is their pity I hate the most. I narrow my eyes.

  “What is your name?”

  She clears her throat before replying. “A–Anne, Your Majesty.” She has the grace to sound apologetic.

  Surprising even myself, I let out a bark of laughter and find it difficult to stop. She waits while I rock back and forth, showing my gums, tears dampening my cheek.

  “My least favourite name,” I explain as soon as I have adequate breath to speak. I mop my watering eyes on my sleeve. “Was your mother an admirer of the Boleyn woman? You were named in her honour, I suppose?”

  She steps forward determinedly. “No, no, Your Majesty; not at all. My mother was a good Catholic soul. I was named in memory of my granddam.”

  Hmmm. Choosing to believe her, I indicate that she should pass me a cup of ale. It is the only thing that soothes my raging thirst.

  “Should I not fetch your women – Lady Susan or…?”

  I shake my head. “No. There should be a cup on the tray. Pass it to me.”

  She hesitates, wiping her hand on her apron before doing as I ask. I sip the liquid and let it flow wet and warm down my parched throat.

  “She started it all, you know. The Boleyn woman. The misfortunes I have suffered are all due to her. I was happy, we all were. My parents were contented before she danced like the devil and stole my father’s eye. We were all content. She bewitched him, changed him, and forced him to follow where she led. Were it not for her, there’d have been no division of the church, and my mother would have died in the royal bed where she belonged. My childhood would have been blessed. I’d never have been sent from court and forced to remain unmarried until I was past the age of child-bearing. It is ALL her fault. Everything!”

  “Yes, I see, Your Majesty.” She inches away until I raise my hand sharply and order her to stop. I struggle to focus. My eyes are sore, weary of opening and closing – I might as well let them remain shut. I beckon her closer and at last her face grows a little clearer. She is very young; her eyes are youthful and vigorous. I sense hope in their depths, and a sort of triumph.

  “You think you’ll never get old, don’t you? You despise me because I am wrinkled and raddled with disease.”

  “No, Your Majesty. I don’t. Indeed, I love you. You are my queen.”

  I laugh again, without mirth.

  “I’m not as old as you think, you know, and I haven’t always been like this. I was young once. As young and fresh as a newly opened daisy…”

  Summer 1523

  There has been a recent shower; the roses are spotted with shining raindrops, the grass is wet and my toes grow damp inside my slippers as I tiptoe through daisies. Above my head, the voices of my mother’s women buzz like lazy bees, their conversation irrelevant as long as my hand is held fast in hers.

  As we walk, her skirts brush against mine, the scarlet velvet of her gown clashing with my yellow. This is my favourite gown and, according to the women who helped me dress t
his morning, it is the exact shade of gorse blossom. I enjoy the way it swings like a bell when I walk, just as Mother’s does, and one day I know I shall be as beautiful as she is.

  I glance up at her face and notice that her smile is tarnished with sadness today. My heart dips in pity. I know from my gossiping servants that Mother longs for a son, an heir to my father’s throne, but … she has me. Why won’t I suffice?

  I squeeze her hand to make her notice me and instantly her melancholic expression is replaced with love; love that lights up her eyes and stretches her mouth upward into a bow. I smile back, and gently swing our clasped hands as we progress through the garden.

  We turn a corner, pass beneath an arch of yew and come face to face with a party of laughing gentlemen. Mother halts, her women gathering around us, the murmur of conversation ceasing. The gentlemen break apart and bow elegantly low to my mother, and then to me. One man, taller than the rest, steps forward in a flurry of velvet and fur. He grasps me beneath my arms and swings me high into the air. I am really too old for such games, but I scream with laughter and grab for his collar to save myself. I know he would never really let me fall, for I am his Mary, his sweetheart, his little pearl.

  Belatedly, he lowers me to the ground. I reach out, fingers splayed, as my world continues to spin while he turns to greet my mother. Instead of swinging her in the air he offers her his arm and, as we progress along the pathway, he relates his morning prowess at the hunt. Slowly, my world stops spinning and becomes stable again. I walk between them, one hand in Father’s, the other in Mother’s; I am a link in a royal chain.

  The courtiers fall behind. “It is a fine day for a walk in the gardens, Madam,” my father says, and Mother murmurs in agreement.

  “Oh!” She halts suddenly to admire the roses that cascade like warm honey over the ruby brick walls. Father plucks one and tucks it into her cap and she smiles up at him … but the sadness in her eyes does not lift.

  A butterfly drifts across my path and I hurry in pursuit, the laughter of the courtiers floating across the garden as they watch me.

  “So sweet,” I hear them murmur. “Such a perfect princess.”

  It is always so. I am Princess Mary, and one day, when I am wed to my cousin, I will be Queen of Spain. I will have the finest gowns, the most lavish jewels, as is my due. Since I am my father’s only heir, if no brother comes along to take my place I will inherit the throne of England. As the granddaughter of English kings and the granddaughter of kings and queens of Spain, I shall embrace that day when it comes.

  I know these things, although I have not been taught all of it. The conversation of my elders is informative, and I know that my mother’s sadness is because I have no brother. It seems she has failed in some way, but I do not understand why I am not enough. I am certain no boy could ever be better than me.

  The butterfly flutters over the high wall and I give up the chase. I stare after it in dismay, irritated at being thwarted in the hunt. When Mother catches up with me, she exclaims at the green stain on my skirt, but I know she is not really angry. She takes my hand again and I hop and skip at my parents’ side until we reach the sundial where a man is waiting.

  The red robes of Cardinal Wolsey put the roses to shame. My heart sinks, for I know from the sheaf of papers beneath his arm that he means to claim the king’s attention and lure him away. After a short consultation, Father kisses my nose and bids the queen farewell before taking his leave of us. I stand with Mother and watch his departing back, and feel as if the sun has ducked suddenly behind a cloud.

  “Come,” the queen announces. “It grows chilly out here; let us return to the palace.”

  She takes my hand again. Although it is not in the least cold and there are many hours of daylight left, no one dares complain and the company follows obediently behind us. Once inside, I am passed into the care of my lady governess, Lady Margaret Pole, who takes my hand. Mother retires to her state apartment while I am taken to my own rooms, which are situated alongside hers.

  My clothes must be changed. My hair must be brushed, and I must take a nap before supper. Lady Margaret removes some of my pillows, bids me lie flat and close my eyes. I do as I am told but my mind still leaps and dances with a will of its own. I stare at the bed canopy while my fingers trace the outline of the embroidered leopards and lilies on my counterpane.

  The shutters are closed, extinguishing the sunshine, and two of my women settle at the hearth to watch over me as I sleep. After a while, their lulling voices soothe me and I relax. My eyes grow heavy and my breathing slows. I cannot prevent my lids from closing.

  “Her Majesty seems distraught today…”

  Immediately, I am alert at the mention of my mother, their whispered words scrawled large across my mind. Wide awake now, I squint my eyes and cock my ear the clearer to hear. I had sensed Mother’s sadness in the garden today; perhaps my women know more about the cause of it.

  Hetty shifts in her chair.

  “And little wonder, poor lady…”

  “It is no more than other, lesser women suffer…”

  “Yes, but it is one thing to acknowledge him, but to bring him to court? The king is rubbing the queen’s nose in his indiscretion…”

  Their voices dip lower. I want to scream at them to speak up, to stop mumbling, but I know that if they suspect I am not asleep, their conversation will lapse into trivia.

  “I’ve heard the boy is to be made Duke of Richmond and Somerset – that makes him equal in rank to…”

  What boy? I wonder. Who are they talking about?

  “He might even go so far as to name him heir … if the queen should fail...”

  One of them, I can’t see which, leans forward to poke the fire and smoke wafts into the room. Hetty coughs.

  “Oh, we both know the queen is no longer fertile. She will never bear another child. The king can either let his legitimate daughter inherit … or his bastard son.”

  It is as if I have been struck. My eyes open wide again, and a sharp frantic ringing begins in my ears. A son? My father has no son. What do they mean? How can my father have a son when my mother does not?

  Since I am not supposed to know of his existence, there is no one I can ask about this so-called son of my father’s but I keep my ears open, my mind attuned to learning more. For the first time I realise I am not the centre of the universe and my parents have secrets that they do not share with me. Sometimes I think everyone is keeping secrets.

  Whenever I can, I listen at doors, pretending indifference to adult conversations and concerns, but all the while I am alert, desperate to learn the identity of this mysterious boy – the rival for my father’s affection.

  A year passes. I grow up fast. I am no longer allowed to soil my clothes or waste my leisure time in trivial things. I must not sit on the floor. I must learn Latin; I must practise my lute. Mother insists I must learn to dance and to carry myself like a future queen.

  It is from the lips of my dancing master that I finally discover the boy’s name. Henry Fitzroi is the son of Bessie Blount, a former lady in my mother’s household. I frown, thinking back, and can just recall Bessie’s plump pretty face, her merry laughter.

  The king’s court has always been dominated by pageants, feasts and tournaments. I cannot pinpoint when Bessie ceased to be part of it, but I am sure I was quite young. It seems that her son is now four years old, three years my junior.

  After Mass, I crawl beneath a table, pull the cloth down to hide me and pretend I am an anchorite bricked up behind a church wall. I close my eyes, place my hands together and think saintly thoughts.

  Someone enters the chamber. I can tell by her voice that it is Mother’s friend, Maria de Salinas and my aunt Mary, Father’s sister who used to be queen of France.

  “He will not inherit, of course,” she says. “Fitzroi is of bastard stock.”

  That word again. Bastard. I am not sure but I think it means he was born to a woman who was not my father’s wife: a strumpet
according to Aunt Mary, but I’m not sure what that word means either.

  With each passing day the world grows more complex, more confusing and uncertain. While my mother spends increasing time at prayer and I spend more in the company of my tutors, I see Father less and less. But when he does visit me in private, I push aside my books and run into his arms, a thing I am not permitted to do when we meet formally before the court.

  He pulls me onto his knee and I feel like an infant again, playing with the jewels on his doublet, trying to prise the rings from his great fingers, tugging at his beard. Sometimes I ask him to sing me the old songs he sang when I was in my cradle, and he strokes my cheek before indulging me, his clear tones filling the chamber. Tentatively, I begin to sing along, and without pausing he smiles encouragingly, and our voices entwine like two butterflies dancing in a garden.

  At times like these, it is as though there are just the two of us in the world. The rest do not exist. There is no court, no kingdom, no bastard sibling to steal him away – there is just me and my father; Henry Tudor and me.

  While Father seems to grow in vigour every day, Mother shrivels. She tries not to let me know of it. Her chin is high, her bearing as proud as it has always been, and a gentle smile plays upon her lips, but I sense her misery. It is eating her up. She seems to be shrinking; her face grows sallow and her step lacks its former energy. There is little I can offer her but love.

  Often, when I come upon her unawares, I notice the trace of tears on her cheeks, but I pretend I haven’t seen them. She is proud and it would hurt her to know that I see through the shield she erects around herself.

  We are sewing together in her chamber. Her exquisite black stitches increase rapidly while mine are slow to form and resemble the path of a drunken bee … a bee that has fallen into an inkpot and stumbled across my strip of grubby linen.

  She leans across and takes it from me, her brow quirking.