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

by Judith Arnopp

  He pushes past me so violently that I almost lose my footing. The chamber door crashes closed behind him, the sound of it reverberating through the floor, through my body, to lodge deep in the darkest places of my mind. I clench my trembling hands. He will pay for this, one day. As God is my witness, he will pay.

  When the sound of their footsteps has faded, I pick up my skirts and run from the chamber. Skimming swiftly through the dark corridors to the upper floor, I tumble out onto the terrace where I sometimes like to take the air. They might refuse to convey to the king my entreaty for a meeting but he shall see me. I shall make sure of it.

  This terrace overlooks the front of the house. If I stand on my toes I can just about see the steps to the main hall. I need only linger here until it is time for him to leave, and then…

  Hours pass and I am quite cold before the doors finally open and the household spills down the steps to wave the king on his way. His horse is brought round and it sidesteps, tossing its head and chomping on the bit. Idleness in the stable has made it eager for the road and the groom struggles to keep it steady. Father will enjoy a heady gallop back to court.

  A babble of fawning conversation floats up to me, high-pitched women’s voices mingling with the deeper chorus of male laughter. I lean as far as I dare over the edge, but all I can see is the fluttering feather on the king’s cap. And then I hear his voice, louder than the rest. I close my eyes and glory in the sound of it.

  Clinging to the balustrade, I stand on tiptoe to gain an even better view. He seems smaller from my vantage point, shrunken somehow, yet his hair is as bright, his shoulders just as wide as I remember. The big golden laughing man of my childhood. Despite everything, the sight of him makes me smile.

  He has one arm thrown around Cromwell’s shoulders, listening as the obnoxious toad spits poison into his ear. Father nods and smiles again, then he turns his attention to Lady Shelton, who falls into a deep curtsey of farewell, her black skirts pooling like oil. My heart leaps as he moves away, seizes the pommel and takes a last look round. He is leaving! He cannot leave!

  I lean further forward, call out and frantically wave both my arms. “Father! Father!”

  At the last second, either my voice or the movement catches his eye and he hesitates, letting go of the saddle. For a few moments, as if frozen to the spot, he looks at me.

  Our eyes lock and his face droops into a thousand sorrows. As my heart breaks, my mouth turns upside down and my grief and longing for him emerge in a wail of misery. I blink to clear my eyes and, lifting my fingers, I trap a kiss within them and let it fly toward him. It is an old game we used to play and, unable to help himself, he reaches out … and catches it.

  March 1534

  After he has left, everything is so much worse. I had hoped that having seen me, he would reconsider. I imagined he would write and welcome me back to court, and force his concubine treat me with due courtesy. But days pass and there is no word from him and, as my monthly megrim approaches, I fall again into deep despair.

  “For Heaven’s sake, girl, will you cease your weeping!” Lady Shelton complains when she bothers to notice me. What does she expect? If her sole purpose in this household is to subject me to humiliation and misery, does she not expect me to weep? Am I supposed to welcome it?

  I cannot rouse myself and, as my misery deepens, so my fears grow. I have spent most of the morning crying in my chamber, avoiding the other members of the household. And then the serving girl creeps in whispering my name, and I sit up, knuckling away my tears.

  “What is it?”

  She steps forward, holding out her hand.

  “A letter, but please, your, your … my lady. You must tell no one or I will be punished.”

  I look down at the salutation, scrawled and unreadable. I tear it open and discover a letter inside. It is a letter from the queen.

  What stealth my mother must have gone to in order for this letter to reach me. I read aloud, drinking in her words, words that speak of a misery that matches mine. She exhorts me to be brave, to be vigilant for those who wish for my death. I long to see her. I miss her wisdom, her strength of purpose. Her Spanish blood may run thickly through my veins but I lack her resolve. I would give what little I own for an hour in her company. If I could only see her, she would boost my spirits and help me to be strong.

  Loneliness. I sink to the floor and wipe my dripping nose on the sleeve of my shift. The girl steps forward, hovering a few feet away. I, who was once courted by kings and emperors, am driven to keeping company with serving maids. I look up at her and she casts a glance at the door, fearful of discovery.

  “What is your name?”

  She shakes off surprise at my question and smiles fleetingly.

  “Nellie. My mother calls me Eleanor but to everyone else I am Nellie, or Nell.”

  I reach out my hand.

  “Thank you, Nell. I am in your debt.”

  Her palm touches mine and my fingers wrap around hers.

  “You should let me destroy the letter, my lady. If they discover it, the punishment will not be mine alone.”

  I clutch the parchment to my chest and feel that my heart will break to part with it.

  “Read it once more,” she says, “and then let me destroy it.”

  It is my last link with my mother. She has touched it; the words are stained from the tears she shed as she penned them. I shake my head, my mouth agape. Nell steps closer, her face dark with fear.

  “You cannot keep it. Doesn’t the queen beseech you to have care? Isn’t she warning you that your enemies are gathering? She would want you to burn it.”

  She is right. I nod miserably.

  “Let me read it just one more time…”

  As Nell closes the door and stealthily takes her leave of me, I commit Mother’s warning words to memory. She warns me to be vigilant of assassins and, in the days that follow, I come to suspect every morsel I am offered. I walk in fear, starting each time the arras stirs in the draughty corridor, barely able to partake of a hearty meal for fear of poison.

  At my request, Nell now prepares my breakfast, and I take to eating it alone in my chamber. She piles my plate high and I eat every morsel to fill my belly so completely that I can plead no appetite and escape dinner later on in the hall.

  But fear and worry take their toll and I grow wan and weak, constantly ailing, a shadow of the girl I was before. We are moving to Hertford while the apartments at Hatfield are thoroughly cleaned. On the morning of our departure, I wake to the now familiar cramps in my belly. I cannot bear the thought of the jolting nightmare of travelling by litter and bury my head beneath the pillow. When they come to rouse me, I groan, barely lifting my head from the mattress.

  “I am too sick to travel. I will follow on after, when I am recovered.”

  Footsteps patter away and I sink gratefully back into the feather-stuffed mattress. A short while later, the chamber door is thrown open and Lady Shelton’s voice cuts through my slumber.

  “You will get up now, Lady Mary, and prepare for the journey. It is the king’s desire that you accompany us. If you do not wish to offend him, you would be better to do as I say.”

  Father’s face floats before my mind’s eye. I see his beaming smile, a look of love, a kindling humour, but … it melts again. His lips tighten, his button mouth disappearing in fury, his eyes narrowing into contempt. I cannot bring myself to displease him. Throwing the pillow across the room, I thrust my legs from beneath the covers and, cradling my griping stomach with both hands, I stagger to the close stool.

  The screen that offers privacy from the bedchamber is faded now but once it was a rich tapestry of colour. While I attend myself as best I can, the grey faces of ancient huntsmen and washed out maidens of yore stare back at me. The hind they have slaughtered pours dark brown blood onto a bleached sward. I pull down my shift and creep, weak-limbed, back into the chamber. Lady Shelton watches me intently, unsure if I am shamming, but one look at my face and she sof
tens, just a little.

  “I will send someone to help you dress,” she says, “but do not tarry. We leave at noon.”

  I am tugging at my tangled hair when Nell arrives. She is carrying a large covered ewer that she sets on the nightstand. “The water is still warm,” she says. “I brought it from the princess’ chamber.”

  I smile widely, grateful for her small kindness. Softly and tentatively, for it is far outside the requirements of her usual duties, she wipes my face with a soft cloth, dabs my fingers and the back of my neck.

  “At least the sun is with us today, my lady. Your journey will not be so dour in this weather.”

  Although it is barred, I look instinctively toward the shuttered window. I cannot see out and even if I could, the chamber is north facing and subject to the coldest winds. It will be pleasant to see the sun.

  “I hate it here,” I whisper, “but I am loath to leave.”

  “It’s only for a short while, my lady, and I will be among the company. Should you feel … uneasy, look for me. I will try not to be too far away.”

  Once, I was served by only the grandest in the land. It was regarded an honour to sit at my side at dinner or walk with me in the gardens. Even to comb my hair and wash my linen was a sought-after appointment, but now I am grateful to this lowly servant for she goes beyond duty and shows me friendship. The first true friendship I have ever known. She gains nothing from it and likely never will. Grateful tears well in my eyes but I do my best to smile. My cheeks are so taut I feel they will crack; my face crumples and I drop my head into my hands.

  “Now, now my lady,” Nell says. “Tears never helped no one.”

  I dash them away with the back of my hand. She is right. Tears won’t help but I am damned if I will be pushed around. I am a Tudor princess and it is I who should be doing the pushing.

  I stand up, momentarily forgetting my indisposition. My head swims. I grab Nell’s shoulder and wait for my equilibrium to return. When the room has righted itself, I pick up my prayer book and look around to see if I have left anything behind. For a moment, I have forgotten that I have few possessions now.

  “Come along, Nell,” I say as if she was the one reluctant to leave. “I’d better not keep them waiting.”

  I make my way downstairs as swiftly as I can manage but, on reaching the door, I find the travelling party almost ready to depart. Elizabeth has been settled in the first litter with the foremost ladies of the household comfortably installed around her. The lesser ladies have mounted the second litter, and I suppose I am expected to take my place with them.

  It is an insult. I should have my own litter, attended by the grandest women at court! The very least I should expect is to travel with Elizabeth. My former resolve to be obedient dwindles away and the old fury raises its head again. I clutch my prayer book and when Lady Shelton leans from her litter and urges me to hurry up, I stick out my chin and stubbornly refuse.

  Her face freezes.

  “Do as I say, Mary. You will make us late.”

  I shake my head, just once, and glare defiantly at her.

  “I will not ride behind. I am a princess of this land and should be given precedence.”

  She sighs and begins to clamber from her seat; a servant rushes forward to assist her. My heart almost fails as she strides toward me, no longer even trying to conceal her contempt. Her face is white, her eyes slit with fury.

  “Get in the litter,” she spits through her teeth, pointing toward the waiting vehicle.

  I shake my head again and our eyes clash – this is a battle of wits that I am determined not to lose, but my courage is flagging.

  I am Mary Tudor, I tell myself. I am Mary Tudor!

  There is nothing she can do to force me to her will. Let her tell the concubine. Let her send for the king. Let him throw me into the Tower if he wishes. They cannot make me submit to their orders.

  Her eye shifts from mine to focus on something to my rear. I turn my head and catch sight of Norfolk, accompanied by a household guard. Before I comprehend what is happening, he grabs me rudely from behind, constricting my arms so I cannot fight. As he lifts me from the ground I feel the warm gush of blood between my thighs, and pain shoots through my body, but the humiliation of his manhandling hurts me far more.

  I kick out and struggle against him but he is broad and strong, and I am just a girl. Letting loose a torrent of abuse, I fling words at him that would destroy my mother if she heard them. With my body held firmly against his, he carries me forward and drops me onto the floor of the litter with my skirts about my knees. I sit up, straining forward, the tight bodice cutting into my ribs.

  “You benighted whoreson!” I scream above the pounding of my heart. “I will have your head for this! Do you hear me? You will burn in hell for what you have done!”

  My curses are not meant for Norfolk alone but for the concubine and all her cohorts, for Cromwell, and even for the king himself.

  1535

  And so it goes on. Year after year of humiliation and misery. I miss my mother, I miss my father, I miss Margaret Pole, I miss my aunt Mary – all who were so dear to me, so vital to my happiness, have been taken away. I have only Nell and, to some degree … Elizabeth who, although the cause of most of my pain, is only a baby and cannot be held responsible. Her mother, on the other hand, is solely to blame.

  Far too frequently, the concubine visits Hatfield to spend an afternoon with her daughter. I keep to my chambers; I have even less desire of her company than she has of mine. When the coast is clear, I go quietly to the nursery and take my sister onto my lap. I recall the way she sat so happily on her mother’s knee and tugged at her jewelled bodice, dislodged her splendid cap. I realise I’ve been imagining some bond between us, a fantasy in which Elizabeth loved me. I’d played a game where she was mine alone, and witnessing her affection for the woman I hate taints our time together. Ignoring her playfulness, I pass her back to the nurse and quit the chamber to seek the solace of the gardens.

  The years I have spent here have been long and irksome. Sometimes I wonder how I have withstood it all. Nobody cares how miserable I am, or how ill I become for a few days each month. Sometimes, it takes me a week to recover from the megrim and then, as soon as I am recovered, it is almost time for the next month’s bleed. In the privacy of my chamber I give way to tears, but in the company of the household or when Norfolk comes to bully me into agreeing my parents’ marriage was no marriage, I maintain a grim and steely demeanour.

  They think me hard and intractable but since the day I was thrust bodily into the litter, I have concealed every hint of personal pain. My misery is tucked away, out of sight, but inside I am broken, my heart as tangled and torn as a bunch of discarded ribbons.

  They try every trick they can think of to break my resolve. They make false promises; they make false threats. The concubine wheedles, pretending friendship and preference at court if I agree to her demands, but I see straight through to her vile black heart. I refuse to look at her and will never acknowledge her as my queen.

  In the end, the king sends Cromwell to deal with me, but still I refuse to concede. He doesn’t shout and storm like Norfolk but speaks in whispers. He is too wise to bawl at me; he employs the stealth and duplicity of a snake.

  “I have tried to intercede with the king, Lady Mary, but since you refuse to do his bidding, I must support my king. I cannot stand against him, not even for you.”

  His sneering words appear to wash over me as water washes from a duck’s back but, in truth, they hit every mark. I am terrified he will carry out his threat to throw me in the Tower. When it is over, and I am safely back in my chambers, my body starts to shake. I can do nothing to control it. As the tears come, I fall to my knees. Dear God, provide me with the strength to endure this.

  The noose around me has drawn so tight that there is no way even for Chapuys to find a way to get Mother’s letters through. Nell brings me news but it is second or third hand and I cannot rely on it. The
re really is very little for me to live for. Nothing but endless misery. I wonder if the world has forgotten me; if perhaps, sometimes, one of my old friends remembers me and asks: Whatever happened to Mary?

  Afraid to eat and denied the liberty of the park where I might take exercise, I soon become so sick that Shelton is alarmed enough to inform the king. He does not come himself, of course; Father is fearful of any contagion. Instead, he sends Dr Butts, the royal physician, straight from court. I am abed when he arrives. He enters my chamber, a ghost from the days of my childhood, and places his cool fingers on my brow. His smile is so kind it almost breaks my steely reserve.

  I grasp his wrist.

  “Have you seen my lady mother, sir?” I whisper, to avoid the keen ear of Lady Shelton, who waits a little way off by the window. His eyes meet mine and he shakes his head.

  “Stick out your tongue, Lady Mary,” he says loudly, and I do as he bids. He frowns at it and asks about my diet. I open my mouth to answer but Lady Shelton breaks through my words, afraid I will damn her.

  “She is stubborn and refuses proper food. It is no wonder she is frail. She has brought this on herself. I do my best, but she is defiant and stubborn.”

  “Hmm.”

  He presses my stomach, making me wince, and we both stare at the tight bloated belly protruding like a huge boil beneath my shift. My torso is thin, my arms and legs like sticks, but at this time of the month when the curse is upon me, my belly swells and every part of me is scourged by growling pain.

  “You must eat, Lady Mary. Light meals will be best, particularly during menses, and ensure you take some gentle exercise in the park or gardens. No riding, no hunting at these times though, mark you.”

  I want to tell him I am not permitted access to the garden. I want to explain my fear of poison. I know the great whore wishes me harm; if she cannot get what she wants she will resort to murder.