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

“Oh Susan, youdon’t think? Could I be with child … already?”

Her laughter echoesabout the chamber.

“I ratherthink you might be, Your Majesty! We shall have to wait and see.”

Hampton Court Palace – February -July 1555

I am filled with joy and canbarely contain myself until the day comes to announce my wonderful news to theworld. Etiquette demands the matter is kept secret until the child quickens inmy womb, and daily I cradle my growing stomach in my hands and will the childto move. Just one little kick. But even before the child quickens, Ifeel replete, bursting with life, and know I have done my duty.

I am queen ofEngland, a child of Rome, and now I will have my heir, my son. If he could seeme now, I know my father would be pleased and proud of me.

“We must planthe prince’s household,” I say. “He will need a wet-nurse and rockers, alaunderess, and we must have the royal cradle brought down from the attics … orhave a new one fashioned.” I lie back in my chair, stroke my belly and smilewidely at my women.

Recently, theatmosphere in my chambers has changed, or it seems so to me. My whole world isbrighter. Winter sunshine streams through the windows, the fires dance in thegrate and my women are gay because I insist on calling for musicians anddancing every afternoon. I cannot wait for spring to arrive; this year it willnot just herald warmer days and lent lilies but the birth of my child, a princeof England.

“Do you thinkI should name him after my father? Henry the ninth, he would become intime. Or would Philip be more suitable? England has never had a King Philip. Ithink it would please my husband, and his father too.”

“Perhaps acombination of the two, Your Majesty. Henry Philip, or Philip Henry – both havea very nice ring to them.”

“PhilipHenry…” I try out the sound, repeating it over and over in differentcombinations to see which I prefer.

Months pass, andmy lying-in chamber is arranged. Suitable tapestries are hung, plenty ofcushions and soft fabrics are put in place. When it is time to enter, I bid farewellto Philip, whom I will not see until the time comes to present him with hisson. It is clear from his expression and his chilly kiss that he will not missme. After issuing orders and reminders to my council, I take up refuge in theshuttered chamber. It is dark, and warm, and quite oppressive. Barely a day haspassed before I yearn to peek outside at the brightness of the garden.

A midwife isbrought in, and my youngest maids are chivvied from the chamber with only myclosest, more mature household women permitted access to me.

“Make sure theannouncements are prepared,” I say. “Leave a gap in the script that we mightfill in our prince’s name and the date of his arrival once he is born. It isnot long to wait now.” As she turns to go, I call her back. “And send for mysister. I would like to have Elizabeth attend the birth.”

Then I sitdown … and wait, barely able to contain my patience. I wonder if Philip is asexcited as I. Not for the first time, I regret the lack of love between us. Iremember my father when Jane Seymour retired from court to prepare for Edward’sbirth. He was playful and chirpy, buoyant with hope and never for a momentimagined she would fail in her duty – it certainly never occurred to him thatshe might not survive the birth.

The memory ofJane brings a cloud. I suppress a shiver and thrust the thought firmly from mymind. I am made of stronger stuff than Jane. I might be nearing forty and myfertile years may be numbered but I am the queen and God loves me. He will notfail me.

The womb-likechamber is supposed to soothe me but the warm airless space is dark, and theatmosphere as thick and slow as honey. It is more like a tomb than a womb and sometimesI feel I cannot breathe.

Elizabeth iswith me nearly every afternoon. She lounges on my cushions, eats the daintiesmy ladies have placed beside me, and conceals her boredom, as she concealseverything. She does her best to divert me with gossip about family members, orchildhood memories of her and Edward. One day we even go so far as to indulgein naughty criticisms of our father.

But we do notmention Jane Grey. She is not to be spoken of.

I send Elizabethto fetch things for me, ask her to rub my temples when my head aches, and ifpart of me remembers the days I was forced to serve her, well, I am only human.

I lie back onpillows, my hands resting on my stomach, my eye fastened on the cradle in thecorner and dream of my son.

My prince.

“I think hewill be blond, Elizabeth,” I remark. “I am sure of it, and well-built likePhilip, not spindly-legged like me.”

“He will bebeautiful whatever shade of hair he has, Your Majesty.”

Elizabeth hasa way of making statements that say absolutely nothing. Neutral comments thatflatter until one analyses them. I flick through a few pages of my book.

“He will be anintelligent boy, quick to learn all he requires to be a great prince. I willensure he is able in the saddle, and bright in the schoolroom and nimble offoot on the dancefloor.”

“Yes, I lookforward to it, Your Majesty. I have never had a nephew before. He will call meAunt Bess, I suppose. I hope he will be fond of me.”

I frown,disliking the thought of intimacy between my sister and my son. I’d not wanthim tainted by her hidden heresy.

“Children comeinto the world unformed and it will be up to me, as his mother, to shape himinto the perfect Tudor prince – Prince Philip Henry, heir to the throne.”

She smileswidely with no visible hint of resentment. I wonder what she is hiding from me.Elizabeth is always the enigma – I love her but there is always this dreadfulsense of distrust. I would love to see inside her mind, unravel the mysteriestherein