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

  “Oh dear, Mary. You will have to unpick it and begin again. Try to keep your lines straight – perhaps we should ask one of the women to draw a route for you to follow – would that make it easier?”

  “No, thank you, Mother.” I retrieve my work. “I will learn. I want to get it right.” This is not true, I’d rather be outside, but I want to please her and nothing satisfies my parents more than trying my very best.

  “Good girl.” She beams at me and I bask in her approval. I may lack skill at the needle, but I have inherited her pride and resolve. I am determined to do this.

  “You will be in charge of your own household when you go to Ludlow.”

  Her words clang like a great bell in my head, ringing out doom. I drop my needlework.

  “Ludlow? Where is that? When am I going there? Why am I going there?”

  “Because you are precious, my child, and must do your duty as the king’s daughter … his probable heir.”

  It is the first time I have heard her admit that she is losing hope of bearing further children. The workings of the human body are a mystery to me but I assume it has something to do with the growing gulf between Mother and the king. I frown at the soiled linen in my hand. If I am sent away, the gulf between them will only increase without me to pull them closer.

  “I have no wish to leave … not yet. I think I am too young.”

  She continues to sew, the needle slipping in and out of the fabric, her chin lowered, the light from the window shining on her forehead, glinting on the jewels of her headdress.

  “It won’t be for a year or so yet, you must first be prepared. I think you will like Ludlow; I lived there with my first husband, Arthur, when I was the Princess of Wales.”

  I try to imagine Mother as a little girl but can only manage to shrink her form to a dwarfish, pious figure. I cannot picture her carefree and bright as she must once have been.

  “He died there, didn’t he? My tutor said Ludlow was a place of contagion.”

  She laughs. “No; his death had nothing to do with the castle. It was misfortune; the pestilence came upon us with no warning, just as it did elsewhere. My apartments were large and luxurious. I have ordered them to be refurbished for your comfort. As I said, I am quite certain you will come to love it there, as much as I did.”

  I don’t want to go. The Welsh border is far from court. I will be alone … I will miss my father, miss my mother.

  “Will Lady Margaret accompany me?”

  Margaret Pole is my father’s cousin and has been in charge of my household since I was an infant. Putting aside her sewing for a moment, Mother tilts her head to one side and places a calming hand on mine.

  “Of course, all of your present household will go with you, and more besides. You will have every luxury and a whole wardrobe of new clothes, as well as new plate and goods. I will sew your linen myself, so you can feel close to me when you wear it. If you work hard at neatening your stitches, you can help…”

  My answering smile is tremulous. I lower my head and try as hard as I can to keep my stitches straight but the thought of Ludlow is like a terrible cloud. Tears well up. I try to blink them away but blindly stab the needle into my finger. I squeal, hold my finger aloft and watch as a bead of blood forms, runs down my wrist and drips onto the cloth. Mother drops her work.

  “Mary!”

  Her women come running and the chamber descends into chaos as they vie to tend me. Maria wraps my finger in a strip of fabric and wraps her arm about my shoulders.

  “There, there,” she croons. “It will soon stop smarting.”

  They make as much fuss as if my hand has been severed at the wrist. I retrieve it, bury it in my skirts and scowl at them.

  “I think that is enough sewing for one day,” the queen says, and while they scurry around clearing away the skeins of silk, I droop at my mother’s side, my face against her sleeve as I suck my sore finger and think fearfully of a future without her.

  The dread of leaving court for the strangeness of my own establishment is leavened by the heaps of new garments that arrive daily: gowns and sleeves; shoes; new hoods; fine jewellery; furs and plate.

  For the first time, I am given the luxury of choosing which shade of velvet I prefer, which style of hood is more pleasing. Although I am not yet ten, I am no longer regarded as a child. I am Princess Mary of England, my father’s heir, and one day I will be the wife of the emperor.

  But just as I am becoming accustomed to the idea of Ludlow, I learn that while I am preparing to leave court, Henry Fitzroi is preparing to join it.

  He too is to be given a vast household but he will be installed at Bridwell Palace, just a short trip along the Thames from Greenwich. He will be closer to the king while I am sent away. The news lodges in the base of my throat like an unshed tear.

  St James’ Palace – October 1558

  The blazing light of my infant days fades and is replaced by the dimness of age. The figure of the girl is a dark shadow against the blazing fire.

  “You can imagine how that felt. I was being replaced. My position usurped by some bastard boy.”

  The child gapes at me, shakes her head and picks up her bucket, dipping a curtsey before turning toward the door. As she goes, I notice her wipe her cheek as if she has been weeping and, to my surprise, I notice moisture on my own. I dash it away with the back of my hand and call after her. “Of course, had I known what was to come, and how much worse things would get, I would have saved my tears.”

  She turns slowly. I sense her discomfort, her lack of ease in my presence, and I despise her for wanting to leave me.

  “But I was a child, do you see? I had no notion of the cruelties of this world and I had been brought up to believe I was special. Irreplaceable. Favoured by God. I thought it didn’t matter that I was a girl because the king loved me … and he did love me, you know, better than the others - despite everything that came after … I do know that. I haven’t ever forgotten.”

  She makes a nervous sound. I try to win her over with a soft laugh, gain her friendship, but the sound that emerges is more like a cough. I fumble for my kerchief and spit blood into the fine Flemish lace. When I look up, I sense that all I have gained is her pity.

  She steps forward, offers me a cup that I take from her with trembling hands. The wine is welcome. It fills my mouth with flavour before flowing down my throat and warming my belly. When I give her the empty vessel, I sense she is holding back comment.

  Narrowing my eyes, I peer at her grubby face. “What is it? What do you want to say? You can speak freely.”

  “I – I was going to say … perhaps it would help you to remember that at least you had a father … at least you know how it feels to be loved. My father died while I was still in the womb…”

  “And you think it is better to know what you’re missing, do you? Better to suffer a lifetime of wondering what it was you did wrong? Sometimes I wish I’d died in the womb like my siblings … then I’d have avoided the agony of watching the father I loved destroy the mother I adored.”

  My throat closes painfully. Self-pity swamps me. I bite my lower lip to prevent myself from weeping, so this lowly person will not witness my pain. It is better that she sees only my anger, but … I should explain the injustice, the suffering, and perhaps she will understand the battles I have faced.

  She clutches the handle of her bucket so hard her knuckles turn white, and I feel a glimmer of admiration for her courage. She is, after all, a nobody debating with a queen. She thinks for a while and when she finally speaks, her words gush like water from a breached dam.

  “Perhaps he loved the queen too, but perhaps he put his obedience to God first. It was all long before I was born but … didn’t King Henry claim to believe the marriage to be a - a sin against God?”

  I glare at her.

  “A sin against God? Are you a fool? Of course there was no sin, or do you believe his lies like the rest of them, and think me a bastard too?”

  “O
h no, Your Majesty!”

  She wags her head in denial, falling to her knees. “I did not mean to offend. I merely tried to offer you comfort.” Her voice is a whisper. I turn away and stare moodily into an empty corner.

  “There is no comfort. Not on this earth. I wait impatiently for God to take me and put an end to this misery … although…”

  She looks up, her eyes dark, but the fear in them is no match for the bleakness in mine.

  “What do you think will happen to my realm when I am gone? I have worked so hard to undo the damage my brother Edward inflicted on the church. When I am gone, Elizabeth will have it all. She will take apart all I have done to reverse Edward’s heresies, and the bastard daughter of a whore will hold the reins of England.”

  She swallows, wagging her head from side to side as she searches for and fails to find an answer.

  “I suppose you know very little of the real Elizabeth, do you? Yet her day will come. She will be queen and there is nothing I can do to prevent it now. If only I had birthed a child, a fat healthy boy. That would have taken the wind from my sister’s sails.

  “She was ill-gotten, you know, born of sin, to a sinner. I knew it as soon as I saw her just as I knew her mother for my enemy on the day I first laid eyes on her. It took my own mother a little longer to realise that the younger of the Boleyn sisters was a very different kettle of fish to her sister Mary, or to Fitzroi’s mother. Mary Boleyn and Bessie were good sorts, they knew their place, but Anne Boleyn refused to be kept down. She continually bobbed to the surface of my life, like a rotting corpse in a river.”

  The door opens and Susan pokes her head into the room. Quickly, I close my eyes, pretending to sleep. When she sees the girl, Susan bustles forward. “What are you doing?” she hisses. “Why are you taking so long?”

  “Her Majesty was talking to me.”

  “Nonsense. She’s spoken to no one for days. And why are you tending the fires when it isn’t your job to do so?”

  “Her Majesty asked me to. It was cold, the queen was…”

  “Go and see if Her Majesty’s supper is prepared…”

  “Get someone else to do it,” I raise my head and snarl, not bothering to open my eyes. They are all so tiresome, so … infuriating. I prefer the company of this half-grown girl to the forced pleasantries of my women. Susan may be my dearest friend but I cannot speak so plainly to her. She is too close and I would hate to see her disappointment in me. But this child, even if she judges me … her opinion is nothing.

  Unable to hide her disillusionment, Susan withdraws, and I open my eyes, smile conspiratorially at my new friend.

  “Now, where was I? Oh yes … Ludlow…”

  Ludlow – 1527

  My humiliation at being ousted from court is cast into shadow when my cousin breaks our betrothal and marries Isabel of Portugal instead. I am forced to put away the idea of myself as Queen of Spain and instead I bury myself in study, determined to hone my knowledge until I am as learned as any boy, as good as any prince in Europe. Better than Fitzroi.

  My time is not restricted to Ludlow; I travel from palace to palace up and down the border. Sometimes at Thornbury, sometimes at Tewkesbury. I visit shrines and religious houses and, on several occasions, I act as my father’s representative.

  For the first time, I go out among the common people without my parents. Everywhere I go they line the streets, toss their caps in the air and call my name. Their adulation is like a warm wave, an embrace, and I am so far from home, so starved of affection that I fall passionately in love with them in return.

  The long dark hours of winter are spent playing cards and dice with my women and, during this time, I grow closer to Margaret Pole than ever before. When we learn that my marriage to Spain has come to nothing, she assures me that a better husband will soon be found. But there is little comfort in her words for no marriage will be as welcome to me as one with Spain. So, when a proposal is put forward for a union with France instead, I confess to weeping a little in the privacy of my bed.

  Francis is quite old, of an age with my father, and his reputation is so bad it has even reached my tender ears. I heard one of the women whisper that he has bedded half the French court.

  I am growing up and no longer the naïve child I was before. Although I am short on detail, I realise that the conception of a child involves some sort of intimacy between a man and a woman. What I cannot quite decide is why Francis would want children with so many different women; surely a court full of bastards would only cause trouble.

  As I understand it, a king requires sons but not so many as to cause conflict within the family. An heir and one to follow after should the eldest perish is a safe number of royal princes – my grandfather was fortunate to have my father to step into Prince Arthur’s shoes when he died. The country would have fallen into chaos had Father not been born, although my aunt Mary would probably not agree.

  Although the thought of joining with the King of France does not bring me joy, I must accept it with good will while privately hoping that, like my marriage to the emperor, it will come to nothing.

  The only positive thing about the whole affair is that I receive a summons to return to court. As soon as preparations are made, I ride joyfully east to be reunited with my parents.

  I expect everything to be as it was before. I envisage intimate dinners with my mother and father, walks in the privy garden, feasts and pageants in the great hall, but within hours of our reunion, I realise that nothing is the same.

  Mother is pinched and tense, while Father’s suppressed anger rumbles like a subterranean river. He is not skilled at concealing irritation. If all is not well, he makes sure everyone is aware of it; he rages and storms like a boy. But this time he struggles to contain it so it simmers just beneath the surface. Everyone walks on tenterhooks, fearful of igniting the royal rage.

  My aunt Mary, the dowager queen of France, joins us for the St George’s Day celebration, and a dozen or so French dignitaries and ambassadors also attend from Venice and Milan. We feast on crane, heron and peacock, and I am delighted by the royal confectioner’s creation of a huge tower of marzipan and two delightful chessboards with real gold pieces. When it is laid before us, I clap my hands with glee and turn to my mother to draw her attention toward it. But both my parents have turned their faces away. They are so wrapped up in their joint misery that they cannot share my joy.

  They are pleasant and courteous with the company but their private conversation is clipped and chilly. Where once Father would have reached out for Mother’s hand to ensure she was enjoying the entertainments, now he keeps his eyes on his plate. Like him, I turn to food in times of trouble and we both eat too much. He washes his fingers; an usher dries them on a linen towel. I notice the sheen of perspiration on his forehead, the way he constantly dabs it away with a napkin. Pushing my half-empty plate to one side, I feel deeply unhappy.

  Afterwards, when the meal has subsided and my belly is no longer straining against my gown, I am conducted into the revel house where I am to show off my skill at the virginals. The company take their seats, gossiping and fidgeting as we make ready to begin. This performance has been long in the planning and I should be confident of my skill, but now that the prospect is upon me, I am filled with nerves. My palms grow moist; my heart leaps and dances with fear.

  For the first time, I am to lead the masque. I wear a jewel-covered gown that dazzles the eye and, as we sweep onto the floor, Lady Exeter gives me a bracing smile. I smile back.

  At our entrance, Father stands up, his applause loud, encouraging everyone to follow his lead. I see Mother, her face full of pride at my debut. Lady Exeter takes a bow and I do likewise. The dance begins. For a moment, I hesitate. I have forgotten the steps! But then, just in time, some inner Mary takes over.

  As if I am being guided by invisible strings, I weave in and out of the company, the music sending waves of delight across the back of my neck. My feet are light, my heart is sunny again, and I am sur
e I could dance all night.

  My worries of the future float away, the fear that something obscure and horrible awaits me in the darkness of tomorrow dissipates. My soft slippered feet seem to grow wings and I float on a cloud of joy until, all too quickly, the strains of music fade and I find we are taking our final bow. Lady Exeter and I exchange glances; she embraces me and, with great relief that it is over and I haven’t spoiled it, I burst out laughing.

  Father, who injured his foot in a wrestling match the day before, limps toward me and I seem to grow taller when I note the pride in his eyes. I look up at him as he rests a hand heavily on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. Then, as if by accident, he tugs the strings of my cap and my hair falls free in a golden wave across my shoulders, cascading like water down my back. The gathered courtiers gasp, and murmurs of appreciation spread across the room as they do homage to their perfect princess.

  With burning cheeks, I beam at the company, aflame with joy. When the applause dies down, the king pushes me in the direction of the queen.

  “A fine performance, Mary,” she says, drawing me into her embrace. “You are so light on your feet. I am very proud. All England is proud.”

  At Mother’s right hand, I lean forward, applauding loudly as more dancers trip lightly onto the floor. The performance that follows is fierce, the troupe leaping high into the air, setting the atmosphere in the hall alight. The flame from the torches catches on their spangled clothing, the jewels in their hair. When it is over, I turn to exclaim in wonder, but my words die in my throat when I see Mother’s expression.

  Dislike and disdain is splashed across her face. Her hands are clasped in her lap, her knuckles white, and her lips are pinched, the lines around them revealing her age. Following her stony gaze, I see that Father has apparently forgotten his injured foot and has taken the hand of a woman I’ve not seen before.

  She is entrancing, beautiful, yet … not beautiful. Her ebony curtain of hair gleams in the candlelight and her bold, laughing eyes coupled with her strange, almost foreign mannerisms, somehow mark her from the rest. A newcomer to court.