The Heretic Wind: The Life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England Judith Arnopp (best books to read in your 20s .txt) 📖

Peopleare hesitant, afraid to show kindness toward me for fear it will put them outof favour with the king, or with his whore. As their backs turn slowly awayfrom me, I ache with loneliness.

Gradually, thepain turns to resentment, resentment to bitterness. I suspect everyone ofspying 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’smotives, I rebuff those who do run the risk of befriending me. I go about courtin 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 nodoubt she is wicked. I have heard how she goes against God’s teaching andembraces the new religion that is creeping across the channel from Europe. She supportsTyndale and his heretical scribblings, and I have no doubt that, in the privacyof his chambers, she dribbles her heresy into my father’s ear.

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

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

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

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

Mother isobliged to leave the court and retire to Windsor where, to my great delight, Iam granted leave to join her for a few days. She looks older now, her step hasslowed and there is little sign of the girl who was once hailed as the fairestprincess in Christendom. Her brow is furrowed, her cheeks sallow and deeply cutwith lines.

At first, wespeak 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 haveever spent in her company. Her speech is spotted with snippets of prayer andbouts of outrage. I sit close beside her, my hand in hers and, even when ourpalms grow slick with sweat, she does not release me. We sit so close our skinseems to act as a conduit for her anger, and we tremble with mutual rage anddisappointment.

While herwomen sit a short distance away, sewing quietly, a musician plays a sad song. Thefire 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 myselfand clench my fingers tightly as I prepare to ask the question. I have to askit of her because I can bear to speak of it to no other, but the words burn mytongue.

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

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

“That will neverhappen,” she says, “not as long as we have strength to fight it. I willwrite again to the Pope.”

But Mother iswrong. She is so very wrong.

The king caresnothing for the cost of separating from his queen and installing a whore in herplace. He would not mind were the world to burn. He risks war with Spain, withthe whole of Christendom, and the people of England are resentful. They love mymother and detest the woman who means to replace her. They despise her for acommoner, a heretic and an adulterer.

Stifled by thetreachery of court, Mother and I seek an escape and steal an afternoon to ridetogether in the Great Park. It is a bright day with a buffeting breeze tossingsmall white clouds across a brilliant blue sky. My favourite weather.

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

My horse isyoung and full of vigour. She lifts her nose and whinnies to her companionsand, after turning to request Mother’s unspoken consent, I dig in my heels andcanter 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 thequeen’s ladies like far-off birdsong. I give the horse her head, crouching lowbetween her ears, my skirts flying, my breath high in my chest. I am still Mary,and I am alive!

As we approachthe greenwood, I do not enter but haul on the reins and our pace slows. I patthe mare’s neck and ride with a long rein while my palfrey and I recover bothour breath