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

heart twists. She lived through so much. The years of civilwar, a childhood disgraced by her father’s attainder. Her innocent youngbrother incarcerated for years in the Tower, never to emerge until it was timefor him to die. Yet still, she loyally served and somehow managed to love us. Outof all the people who claim to love me, she was one of the few I trusted, andloved in return. I feel so alone.

“Oh, my lady,”Mary weeps as she describes the scene. “They are saying it was more akin tobutchery than an execution. According to the messenger, she called down God’sblessing upon you before she placed her head on the block.”

I put a handto my face, tears raining upon my fingers as Mary’s voice continues to paintpictures in my mind that time will never erase. I wish she would stop but Marygoes on and on.

“She laid downher head and the executioner … oh, my lady, the executioner was young anduntried, and he misjudged it. He – it took several strokes of the axe to endit; oh my lady, she died slowly and horribly … oh, I cannot speak of it!”

But she hasspoken of it. Her words are branded deep into my soul. I will never forget, norforgive this act … as God is my witness, I will not forget. I will not forgive.

Quite suddenly,Mary ceases speaking. I feel her hand on my arm. “Oh, my lady, you … I am sosorry. Come, come with me. You are ill and must lie down a while.”

The sheets aresmooth and cool, my pillow soft beneath my cheek. I think of Margaret’s face,blooded now and pale, shoved without dignity into some roughly hewn coffin. Ithink of her sons … some alive, some dead ... and as I close my eyes and burymy face beneath the pillow, Margaret’s whole sorry life runs through my mind. Ishould have spoken out in her defence. I should have begged mercy of my father.I am a coward. I sit upright, crying her name aloud until my women comerunning.

Sweet wine istrickled between my lips. I cough and splutter so it sprays like blood acrossthe snowy linen. I push the hands away, roll onto my belly, clutch the pillowtight and lose my mind in the nightmare of grief.

I am sick fora long time; my face is pale and listless. When my menses come, I am wrackedwith pain, and the blood runs thick and dark.

 I am unableto speak, unable to function. Each meal time, I turn away in disgust, leavingthe platter untouched. I can find no comfort. Not even in prayer. It is thelast straw. Should God choose to take me now, I would be glad of it. But He isnot merciful and my heart continues to beat, my lungs continue to draw breath.I continue to live.

“You must pullyourself together,” my women tell me. “It is your duty. Think what your motherwould say. She lived through worse than this. She never gave up. It is a sin todeny the life the good Lord offers us.”

I want toscream at them. There is nothing I can do other than hate myself, so one day Isubmit and allow them to bathe and dress me. After so long abed, my gown feels likea prison; the jewelled bodice a leaden weight upon my shoulders, as heavy as myheart.

At first, itis all I can do to walk about the gardens for an hour or so before retreatingback to my chamber, but slowly, as I begin to eat again and take the air, Igrow stronger. I bury my head in my books, refresh my studies and take up thelute again.

I am notreally strong enough to agree when the king and queen request my presence ontheir planned progress to the north of the country. After the recent uprisings,Father means to demonstrate his power, and attempt to reignite their love forhim. He is blind to the pain he has inflicted, and cannot understand theirresentment. The people of the north will never forgive the closure of the greatmonasteries or the ill-treatment of the monks and nuns. They are not fooled bythe king’s accusations of corruption and immorality. As far as the northernersare concerned, the confiscation of the church treasures is theft, bred bygreed. The desecration of the places where the people worshipped or turned forhelp in times of poverty or sickness is unforgiveable.

The king neitherunderstands nor cares.

It will bepainful to see first-hand the results of his ‘dissolution’ but I feel I mustgo, if only to test whether the northern people still bear any love for me. Iput all my effort into making a full recovery while my women make preparations forthe journey.

It is by farthe largest progress I have been part of, and the most lavish I’ve ever heardof. There must be four or five thousand horse, countless carts and wagons; anendless procession of strength.

As we travelon ahead of the household, our royal party makes a marvellous splash of colouragainst the greenery of England. At first, I am in fine fettle. I sit high inthe saddle and absorb the scenery, the love of the people, the atmosphere. Oncemore allowed the prominence that my status demands, I almost feel like aprincess again, and everyone treats me as such. I soak in the cheers of thecrowd, smiling with delight each time I hear my name upon their lips. Thepeople of England have not forgotten me.

Ahead, the plumeon Father’s hat flutters; his familiar voice, and every so often the queen’smerry laughter, wafts toward me on the breeze. I wonder if her incessant goodhumour ever grates upon him. He must miss my mother’s calm intelligence, unlesshe has completely forgotten her, of course. Perhaps his memories of Mother andme were erased long ago by the concubine’s wicked wit, or Jane’s quiet humanity.But after the fiasco of his marriage to Anne of Cleves, it seems he is happy atlast and for that we must be grateful. I try to be glad for him.

We stop atEnfield, St Albans and Dunstable, and when we draw close to Ampthill I recallthe time I