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

by Judith Arnopp

  “It isn’t the worst room in the house,” I say, as much to convince myself as anyone else. “At least there is a window and … and a brazier.”

  But it isn’t lit. I crane my neck to peer across the rooftops and discover my room looks down upon the barnyard where pigs no doubt root all day in the manure pile, and the cockerels shriek in the dawn from the stable roof.

  “It is not fit for you though, my lady. It is an outrage you should be housed here. You should write to the king.”

  I sit down on the bed and find the ropes loose beneath my weight.

  “He will not care, Jane, it would be a waste of ink and paper.”

  “Come, let me help you out of these wet clothes.”

  As I submit to her gentle persuasion, I am overwhelmed with a sense of isolation. I am no better than a servant, and there is no one who can help me now. A tear trickles from my eye, drips onto my bodice.

  “Ahh, my lady, come here, come here…”

  She stands on tiptoe, puts her arms about my neck, and I give way to the tears I have been stifling for so long. While my body heaves, her hands are gentle on my hair, and she rocks me to and fro as if I were an infant. At length, I pull away, wiping my wet cheeks with my fingers. She hands me a kerchief and smiles ruefully, tempting me to smile in return.

  My mouth wobbles and goes out of shape as I try not to cry again.

  “Really, Jane, you must not be so kind, it will be my undoing.”

  “Tears are necessary sometimes, my lady. My mother says they are healing, a gift from God to help us cope with sorrow.”

  I sniff inelegantly and firm my mouth, clenching my weak chin and pushing the raw pain deep, deep inside.

  “I suppose I should put in an appearance downstairs in the hall.”

  “Anne Shelton is not so bad, my lady, and you must agree her job is not an easy one. She has nothing against you, I’m sure, but probably feels obliged to not disobey the k … her orders.”

  I look at her from the side of my eyes as we return to the hall. At the top of the stairs, I hesitate, unsure of the way we took before.

  “I think it is this way…”

  I stride ahead and she follows in my wake, and on entering the hall I find Lady Shelton and my lord of Norfolk in deep conversation. No doubt they are concocting further methods of torment.

  “Lady Mary.” Anne Shelton’s smile is like a serpent’s. “Would you like me to convey you to the Princess Elizabeth so you may pay your respects?”

  Norfolk smirks, stroking his malicious beard. I cannot restrain myself any longer. I have been stripped of my title, my assets, my status, and I will not be further humiliated by these people. I raise my chin, looking down my Tudor nose.

  “I know of no other princess in England other than myself but … I will greet Elizabeth and treat her as a sister, just as I treat my father’s other bastard, Henry Fitzroi, as my brother. Please, Lady Shelton, take me to her.”

  Norfolk snorts, his face purpling in fury, while Lady Shelton opens one arm and ushers me from the room. We pass through fine corridors, sumptuously appointed with tapestries and plate. At the far end of the passage men are standing guard; at our approach they throw open the heavy doors and I am escorted inside. The murmur of conversation hushes, mouths drop open, but no one bows as they once would have done. Lady Shelton touches my elbow.

  “Come, Lady Mary, you must meet the Princess Elizabeth of England.”

  I hesitate. I want to run away, to quit this palace for the solace of my mother’s arms, but I cannot. I am a prisoner. Held as fast here as the meanest traitor in the Tower. I take a reluctant step toward the cradle, halting when I hear a gurgle of infant glee.

  “Come, Mary, the nurse has loosened the princess’ bands to let her limbs free for a while.”

  I peer into the nest of satin and lace and a pair of wide blue eyes meets mine. Something stabs me, like grit in the eye. I blink rapidly and grip the edge of the cradle before reaching inside. She stops kicking, bubbles of spittle at her lips, and grabs my finger, clings to it and tries to bite it. Despite myself, I smile, and she smiles back, her pink gums gaping. I waggle my hand, making her arm dance, and she emits a crow of laughter that pierces my heart like a lover’s dart.

  St James’ Palace – October 1558

  “I’ve not been free of her since…” My voice echoes around the empty chamber. I look up from the pillow, remember where I am, who I am.

  Night has fallen, the fire slumbers in the grate, and a woman is sleeping at the hearth. Susan … I was rude to her earlier. That was cruel of me; she has been with me for so long, served me faithfully, through thick and thin.

  When she wakes, I will try to rouse myself from this megrim and tell her I’m sorry. Her attendance on me this night is out of love, not duty. As my mistress of robes, it is far beneath her station to watch me sleep. The quietest of my women, her services often go unnoticed and unrewarded. I make a note to remedy that when day breaks. I watch the flames’ shadows dance about her face, deepening the lines and pouches that time has painted there. We were both young women when we met. What must it be like to spend one’s whole life in the service of another? It was hard when I served Elizabeth but … that was forced upon me. Susan serves me from love … devotion. I had her support when all others were turned against me – while I fought for my throne, while I struggled with my marriage and … the babies.

  Susan believed in my babies as much as I did.

  My hand delves beneath the coverlet, coming to rest on my flaccid stomach – my empty, barren womb. I close my eyes against a sudden griping pain. I had wanted a child so much. A brave boy with flame-red hair and the determination of … of a Tudor, to rule in my stead when I am gone.

  Elizabeth is a Tudor, she is strong and staunch, but how can I name her my heir when, despite her pretensions, I know where her heart truly lies? If she inherits my throne, it will condemn my loyal subjects to her heresy, the realm will once more be thrown into religious turmoil. Yet … who else is there? Who else can I trust? There are no Catholic Tudors to follow when I am gone.

  Susan stirs, wipes a trickle of drool from her chin and blinks about the room.

  “Your Majesty.” She runs her hands across her face, rises and moves toward me, the knee that always causes trouble making her hobble. She looks into my eyes and I remember my resolution to let her see her worth.

  “Susan, you must be so tired, you should have gone to your bed.”

  “Oh, Your Majesty, you are feeling better! Do you know me now?” She clasps my hand, holding it to her bosom.

  “Was I rambling before?”

  “A little,” she confesses with the suggestion of a laugh. “You had us worried.”

  “I was thinking of my father … it was as if he were right here with me. And I was with my mother and my sister too, when she was little. I tried so hard to hate her, you know, but she is kin, do you see?”

  “She is, Your Majesty. You could not hate her.”

  She smoothes the coverlet and tucks it so firmly beneath the mattress that my arms are trapped. I struggle against the restraint and throw the coverlet back. As she turns from the bed, I grab her sleeve, and she sinks back onto the mattress beside me, lowering her face close to mine.

  “Oh Susan, I fear I have no choice but to name her my heir.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Her expression is unreadable.

  “But she is a heretic, I know she is. How can I be responsible for the hell she will unleash upon the realm?”

  Her hands cover mine.

  “It is your duty to name an heir. If you fail to do so, there will be unrest, if you name Elizabeth there will be unrest also. You wouldn’t want her to have to go through what you did when King Edward died. Perhaps you could send word to her, instil in her the importance of maintaining the true religion, both for the sake of her soul and the welfare of the people.”

  A vision of my sister’s face rises before me. Inscrutable, intelligent and, I suspect, intrac
table. If I implore her for the sake of England, she will ostensibly comply but inwardly she will be laughing at me, knowing that she has the victory at last.

  Oh, Elizabeth has always won. One toss of her head and all men do her bidding; it has always been so, since she was knee-high. She usurped my place in my father’s heart and stole the love of the people from me and now … now she thinks to take my throne. I will not have it! The crown of England will never sit on her head, not while I breathe!

  I struggle to sit up; Susan’s hands are on my shoulders. “Hush, Your Majesty, hush; lie down, please. You must be calm.”

  I clutch her wrists. “What shall I do, Susan? What can I do?”

  “Send her word, Your Majesty. Send Jane with a loving letter, entreating her to stay true to the Roman Church. It is all you can do, and then, when it is done, we will pray. God will instruct us. It is one last trial he places in your path; you must not fail now.”

  I gasp into her face, my heart racing as if I have been running. I nod and gently push her hands away. I must act quickly before the darkness … the madness descends again.

  “Fetch me a pen and parchment. I will write to her now while you rouse Jane from her bed.”

  She runs to do my bidding and I fall backward onto the pillows. It is not an answer for there is none, but it is action and once it is done, the matter will be out of my hands and I can concentrate on dying.

  Hatfield – January 1534

  A cockerel shrieks outside my window, shattering my dreams. I roll over and burrow beneath the blankets, dreading another day. As soon as it grew dark last evening I took to my bed, but no matter how early I retire, the noise from the kitchens drifts up to hinder my slumber. Now, before the day has properly dawned, I am woken again, and now face another day of humiliation and bullying.

  Although Anne Shelton is not physically cruel, her manner and lack of respect toward me is wearing. Yesterday she ordered me to carry a basket of Elizabeth’s soiled linen to the laundry, a task that is far below my station. Every action, every order, is designed to remind me that my status is nothing, that even she is better than I because she was not born a bastard. But neither was I. I am a princess of this realm and I will not forget it.

  One day, one day soon, I will free myself from this; I will rally those loyal to me, call on Spain for help and restore my rightful place. When that day comes, I shall have the Boleyn woman, Anne Shelton, and her uncle, Norfolk, thrown into the Tower and Elizabeth shall be made to wait on me! But that is just a dream and … it isn’t her fault, is it? She is just a babe, as innocent as I in all of this. She might be the barrier between me and all I desire but at the same time, she is the only soul in this place who has any affection for me.

  When nobody is looking, I take her on my knee to let her tug my hair, pull my nose and dribble on my gown. She is as fat and warm as a tabby cat and in my greatest torment, I find my only comfort. Whenever she sees me, she holds up her fat arms to be held. I think Elizabeth is the only person in the house who likes me.

  “Lady Mary!”

  I jump, swing my legs over the mattress.

  “I am up.”

  The serving girl ducks her head in tenuous allegiance and my heart soars. I think I have found a friend. “I am up,” I repeat.

  “Lady Shelton bids you attend her in the parlour.”

  There is no one to help me dress and it takes a long time to wriggle into my kirtle and tie up my own sleeves. There used to be half a dozen women to help me dress but now I must do it myself and, as a result, I am often late, appearing halfway through breakfast with my gown crumpled and my hair snarled at the back of my head. Thank goodness I can hide it beneath my cap.

  Thrusting my feet into threadbare slippers, I hurry along the twisting corridors to the chamber that Lady Shelton has taken as her own.

  When I scratch upon the door, she swivels in her seat and looks up coldly. “Ah, Lady Mary.” I take two steps forward but she holds up her hand and bids me come no closer. “The king will be visiting the Princess Elizabeth today and I have been instructed that you are to remain in your chamber until he has departed.”

  “But … surely my father will not ride so far without wishing to bid me good day. I will wait in my chamber but he will send for me when he is done with…”

  “Those are the orders I have been given, and you will do as you are bid. Good morning, Lady Mary.”

  She turns her back and I long to strike out, tear the hood from her head and rip out a handful of her glossy hair. I shake with rage but there is nothing I can do. I clench my fist; the pain as my nails dig deep into my palms is almost a pleasure. When I do not take my leave at once, she picks up her pen and continues to write – black marks upon the page. “You may go.”

  It is an order not a request and, with a growl of impotence, I turn on my heel and wrench open the door. I slam it so hard behind me that I twist my shoulder; pain shoots through me and tears smart my eyes.

  There is nothing I can do. I am powerless. I am nobody, the least important member of this household. Deprived of breakfast, my belly growling, I walk as fast as I can back to my lonely chamber. I sit on a hard stool and take up a book, staring blankly at it while the sunlight tracks across the room. I do not see the words.

  The muffled sounds of the household drift up from below, setting me apart, segregating me from the rest of the company. I hear running footsteps, a strain of laughter, Elizabeth crying in her nursery demanding her nurse. It is almost noon when a clamour breaks out in the palace yard, hailing the arrival of the royal party. My heart leaps and then quickly sinks again. The royal party – how strange to have no part in it.

  Putting my book down, I crane from the window, hearing the jingle of fine harness as the groom leads my father’s horse to the stable. I daresay even the horse will receive better care than I; he will get the best stall, the sweetest hay, the fattest oats and, when it is time to leave, he will be given the honour of a royal scratch behind the ears.

  My throat closes and tears gather as I imagine the king sweeping into the royal nursery, picking up my sister, making much of her, kissing her fingers and remarking on the wonder of her development. I expect he has brought her a gift, but he will have none for me. I doubt if he will even think of me, or even remember that I am here. I must remain hidden from his sight, a blot on his happiness, a blemish on his perfect life.

  A knock comes on the chamber door and hurriedly I knuckle the tears from my cheek. It is the girl again.

  “Does the king wish to see me?” I blurt, but her expression answers clearer than any words.

  “Madam.” She bobs a sort of curtsey. I must tell her not to do that; if anyone sees it will only bring her trouble. I smile as winningly as I can.

  “Lady Shelton and Lord Cromwell wish to speak to you.”

  “Indeed.” I raise my brows in surprise. I had thought I was to remain here in my chamber but I do not contradict her. Hastily, I straighten my hood and arrange my tired gown as best I can. The girl leads me downstairs to a dark antechamber in a little used part of the house. They are so determined that my father shall not see me that they keep me hidden. I feel like a dirty secret.

  The chamber is chilly and ill lit. Cromwell and another man wait at the hearth where a sulky fire has been lit. Neither man bows when I enter. I firm my chin, lift my head and look down my nose at them. I am Mary Tudor. I am not some lowborn girl to be so rudely used.

  “I hope you are in good health, Lady Mary.”

  How extraordinarily easily the lies trip from this man’s tongue. I can scarcely prevent my lip from curling into a snarl when I make reply.

  “I am not, sir. I am most rudely treated and grieving for the company of my mother, as well you know. My chamber does not befit my station and my gowns are too small; some are threadbare and need replacing. The servants here are rude. Anne Shelton treats me as an underling.”

  Cromwell’s face creases into furrows. He clasps his hands as if he is about to pray �
�� to the devil, I presume.

  “Lady Mary, you are disobedient to the king’s wishes. If you wish your circumstances to improve then you must denounce your title and acknowledge that the king’s union with your mother was illegal. Then and only then will you be taken again into your father’s favour…”

  “As his bastard.”

  He inclines his head.

  “The marriage was no marriage, your birth no different to that of your brother Fitzroi, yet look at the benefits he receives. Your father honours him as his son, as he would honour you as his daughter if you would only cease to be so stubborn.”

  “I was born within wedlock, sir, I am no bastard! My mother is a God-fearing woman; she would never stoop to immorality. She is a princess of Spain and the rightful Queen of England and she never lies!”

  He throws open his hands, revealing red work-worn palms, and I remember he is the son of a blacksmith. What times are we living in when the son of a farrier can grind a princess of the realm into the dust?

  I stand a little straighter.

  “You waste your time, sir, with your bullying and bombast. You do not frighten me. You can mistreat me all you like; you can send me to the Tower and threaten me with death, but I will never renounce my title or my position as the true born princess of the realm and my father’s legitimate heir.”

  His face pales, his lips a slash of bitterness, and I know he silently curses me. I curse him in return. As he opens his mouth to speak again, I forestall him, stepping forward and looking directly into his shifty eye.

  “I wish to greet my father, the king, sir. Pray inform him that the Princess Mary awaits his convenience.”

  He smirks and thrusts his face closer, his tainted breath blasting directly into mine.

  “Oh no, Lady Mary. You shall not see the king. You will remain here at Hatfield and see nobody until you decide to be obedient. You will serve the infant princess and I shall instruct Lady Shelton to heap any humiliation she pleases onto your head. Until you realise that you have no claim on your father, you will be kept away from him. I am confident that he will neither miss you nor even enquire as to your health. He has a new daughter now and every expectation that a male heir will follow.”