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

by Judith Arnopp

  The girl steps forward to stand self-consciously before me. I wrinkle my nose, squinting my eyes.

  They’ve given her a gown of buttermilk yellow that emphasises the blue of her eye, the clarity of her cheek. She is younger than I’d thought, balanced like a promise on the cusp of womanhood.

  She must be the same age I was when my parents’ marriage was torn apart by Boleyn. Exiled at Hatfield, the unhappiest girl in the land, I had little time for fine gowns and sleeves. Lady Shelton did not care or even notice when my bodices grew too tight and my skirts too short, and her mistress cared even less. Resentment and envy snatches at me but I cast it away. I want to be kind in my final days. I smile at the girl.

  “By Heaven, child, we may wed you to a prince yet.”

  She cannot help but giggle and my women laugh too, casting fond glances on Anne, whose existence they’d not noticed a few days before.

  “Come,” I wave her forward. “Join me for breakfast. The rest of you have work to do, no doubt. I will see you all when it is time to prepare for Mass.”

  Momentarily they pause, their smiles frozen, insulted by the strangeness of my order. As they file reluctantly from the room, the girl moves closer, a trifle clumsy in her finery but she will learn. Her skirts rustle as she takes a seat.

  “You know about the atrocities Cromwell inflicted on the monks, I suppose.”

  I blame it all on Cromwell because I cannot bear to criticise my father, an anointed king. Kings can do no wrong, after all.

  She nods and I hand her an orange from the nightstand. Raising it to her nose, she inhales the exotic scent before plunging her fingernail into the thick peel.

  “They were sorry days in England, but I had just returned to court and I had only recently been accepted back into my father’s favour once more … there was little I could do about it.”

  Hampton Court – July 1536

  Now I am back in the king’s good graces, people who formerly shunned me begin to smile again, trying to court my friendship. Outwardly, I return it, but secretly I mark those who did not lift a finger to aid me in my time of need. False friends are worse than open enemies; I have no need of them.

  I accept their homage and kind words but it means nothing. My true supporters, those who worked tirelessly for my reinstatement, are a different matter. I trust them implicitly, especially those who suffered imprisonment or worse. It is a relief to laugh and look about my chambers and see friendly faces. I have missed the pageantry and celebration of court as much as I have missed my father.

  When I dine in the great hall on the first evening after my reinstatement, I cannot help but glance in the king’s direction from time to time to ensure he is really there. He is solid enough but the huge figure of merriment that I remember from childhood has become tarnished.

  At first, I do not notice the change. He is clad head to foot in gold, his laugh is as loud, his voice just as dominating as it ever was yet … he isn’t the same. I frown at the sudden narrowing of his eye; suspicion seems to perch like a devil on his shoulder, his small mouth is compressed into a bitter slash of scarlet. One moment he laughs, louder than any of us, but then, just as suddenly, he lashes out without warning into temper. The court treads carefully, as if walking on glass around him. Once his closest companions, the men of his privy chamber used to tease the king as roundly as they do each other; now they think before they speak. Nobody questions his decisions, and everyone compliments him whether it is deserved or not. Their real opinions are kept close – at least those who disagree.

  In late July comes news that, after ailing for half a year, my half-brother, Henry Fitzroi – that boy as I used to call him – is on the point of death. Since the arrival and the impact of the great whore on my life I have come to look on Fitzroi with rather more tolerance than I once did, so I am sorry to hear a few weeks later that he has lost his fight. He leaves an unloved widow, Norfolk’s daughter. I smirk a little at the blow it will have dealt him.

  Father is morose but, although I pray for Fitzroi’s passing, I am not deeply affected. For as long as I can recall, Fitzroi has been my rival. While I was pushed aside, named a bastard and forced to live in penury, Henry – the real bastard – was raised up and made much of by the king. Even lately there has been speculation that, should Jane not bear a son, my father would name him heir.

  Part of me, the wicked Mary, is glad of his death; the other side, the pious Mary, is sorry for it. It is the latter side of me I allow the public to see. When I offer Father my condolences, he doesn’t notice the quiet triumph in my face but weeps pathetically on my shoulder. I stand coldly in his suffocating embrace and speculate as to whether he’d display such sorrow if it were me.

  The death of a bastard does not usually create much upheaval but Fitzroi, wed to Norfolk’s daughter, owned riches that Father needs to reclaim. Since the marriage was never consummated, Mary Howard is left with nothing. There are matters to be sorted out in Ireland too since Fitzroi was Lord Lieutenant there. While Father is occupied with this business, my supporters begin to whisper of hopes of the reinstatement of my legitimacy, a possible return of my status as heir to the throne.

  I dare not hope this will be so. If fortune ever smiles on me and makes me Queen of England, I will repair our relations with Rome, reopen the monasteries and champion the monks and abbots who have been so sorely used.

  Since the closure of the monasteries, the north has been up in arms. They call for a return to the old ways, for my reinstatement, for justice in England. When some 40,000 men and women, many of them monks, take to the roads and begin a perilous march south, Father is furious. I should be outraged too at such treasonous actions, but secretly I agree with their demands, and so does the queen.

  I visit Jane privately from time to time. We spend pleasant afternoons working our needles, discussing the latest fashions and sometimes, when we are alone, we talk of other things. Keeping our voices low so no spies can overhear, we discover we are kindred, the queen and I. She is of the old faith, unshakeable in her devotion, and there is nothing Jane desires more than the reinstatement of the church … unless it be a son.

  She would have to be a fool not to be aware of the fate of Father’s wives who’ve failed to give him an heir. It is little wonder she prays for a son. I am torn. I want her to be happy. I want the marriage to be a success, for my father’s sake as well as my own. But the birth of a prince will see me ousted from my father’s favour again. My chance to inherit will be lessened but I also know that if Jane gives the king his longed-for boy, he will be like butter in her hands. As the mother of his son, the king would deny Jane nothing. It would be a simple task to persuade him to allow the true church to rise again.

  The question of my unborn brother prompts me to examine myself closely. There is just one question I find difficult to answer: What is of more import to me, the crown of England or the reinstatement of my beloved church?

  With the preparations for Christmas underway, winter falls hard. The country is rimed with heavy frost and at Westminster it is so thick upon the window panes that I can scarcely see out. Even inside, when I sit as close to the hearty fire as I can bear, my nose and the tips of my fingers feel cold. I request an extra layer and my women lay out a fur-lined gown and sleeves, but others are not so fortunate.

  Reports reach me of common folk freezing in their homes, without a stick for the fire. Yet they are the lucky ones, with a roof to shelter them. It is always colder in the north and when I think of the pilgrims, still determinedly marching for the reinstatement of the church, I cannot imagine their misery.

  Three days before Christmas, I ride with Father and Jane to Greenwich for the celebrations. Usually the journey would be taken by barge but today the river is frozen, so we travel on horseback instead. The city is gaily decorated and despite the cold people come out to line the streets. They call down blessings upon us; I hear Jane’s name coupled with my father’s, and it warms my heart to see him glad again.


  Jane Seymour is a worthy woman, a good Catholic who will make him happy, unite our family and lead the king gently back to his former grace. On this frigid day I am warmed when the people call my name. “God bless you!” they cry and I raise my hand in acknowledgement, blinking away tears. I have missed them sorely and it seems they have missed me too. I wave and smile at their cold, pinched faces. The people have always loved me, even in my absence. If only I’d realised it then, my trials would have been so much easier to bear.

  The service at St Paul’s marks the beginning of the festivities and Father dispenses with solemnity as soon as we leave the church. While the crowd roar appreciation in our ears, we ride toward the Thames that has become a wide white serpent of ice so thick that we are able to ride across to the opposite shore. Clinging to the saddle, I laugh aloud as my horse’s hooves slip and slide. We struggle up the sloping bank, and my cheeks are stung by the biting wind as I follow Father’s broad back to Greenwich Palace.

  Darkness is falling as we arrive, the lighted windows blaze in the winter gloom, promising gaiety and mulled wine. Grooms come running and we climb stiffly from the saddle in the frozen yard.

  “Brrrr!” Father claps his hands together and stamps his feet, his breath floating like a dragon’s around his head.

  “Come, ladies,” he cries, holding out his elbows. Jane takes his right and I his left arm, and together we mount the steps to the great hall.

  A blast of welcoming trumpets, a blaze of torches that makes me squint my eyes after the darkness. The warmth of the hall is smothering after the bitter chill outside. An excited company greets us. Someone removes my cloak and I turn to thank them, but as I do I notice the queen accepting a letter from a messenger. She frowns and excuses herself from the company, slipping from the hall. After a few moments, in which I notice that Father has not seen the exchange, I follow her. I find her in an antechamber; she is seated at a table, weeping quietly. She starts when she hears my footstep, visibly relieved that it is only me. She tucks the letter into her pocket and dabs at her eyes with her kerchief.

  Surely she does not have a sweetheart. I frown, turn my head questioningly, and raise my eyebrows.

  “What ails you, dear Jane?”

  “Oh, Mary.” She dries her eyes again but the tears quickly return. Her attempt at a brave smile fails.

  “You can confide in me, Jane. Anything … I can keep a secret.”

  “It isn’t a secret. It is a letter from home; my father…” She clears her throat and forces her voice not to quaver. “It seems he was taken from us … yesterday. I – I – they hadn’t even informed me he was ill.”

  I cannot imagine losing my father. With a smothered whine of sympathy, I slide to the floor at her knee and take her hands in mine.

  “Oh, Jane! Shall I fetch the king? The celebrations must be cancelled. I will go and find him now…”

  I attempt to rise but she detains me.

  “No. Please, Mary. Let there be no fuss. My father was not a figure of the court. I would not spoil the king’s enjoyment. He has been looking forward to the festivities and has had such trouble of late. I will inform him later, when we are alone. His pleasure in the season must not be marred.”

  She wipes her eyes, tucks her kerchief back inside her sleeve and smiles determinedly. “There, how do I look?” She smiles gaily and it is only by looking carefully that I can detect she is concealing something.

  Jane knows how to dissemble. Throughout the days that follow there is no sign of the unhappiness she must be feeling. I wonder what other emotions she hides from us all.

  But in April there comes a joy she cannot disguise. She is pregnant and the king is certain that God smiles upon him at last and will bless him with an heir. While Father struts about the court, talking of the son that will soon be born, Jane tries her best not to be sick and I, torn between delight and despair, battle to hide my disappointment that the king has once more declined to reinstate my legitimacy.

  I try not to blame the unborn prince but Father was on the cusp of agreeing to my request. My supporters have long been searching for a way to persuade the king that my nebulous status is detrimental both to him and to me. If our position at court were made clearer, both Elizabeth and I would have more political value. No prince in Christendom will consider either of us as potential brides while we are tainted with bastardy.

  But, as usual, I bury my disappointment and begin to sew small garments for the forthcoming prince; I show off my efforts to all and sundry, eager not to be seen as resentful of this new usurper of my father’s affections.

  Hampton Court – October 1537

  My struggle to be recognised as the king’s heir is finally at an end. It is all over. There is no point to it now. I look down at the child cradled in my arms and despite the fact that he stands between me and my greatest ambition, love creeps into my heart. Another sibling. Another rival for my father’s affection yet … he is so tiny. As he sleeps, he makes sucking motions with his lips, his blue-veined eyelids moving rapidly. I wonder what he dreams of. What can a child of a few days old be dreaming of when he knows nothing yet, beyond the nourishment of his nurse’s teat?

  What sort of man will he make?

  Unaware of the trials in store, the Tudor prince sleeps peacefully. I lift him, close my eyes as I inhale the fragrance of his fine, red hair, and gently kiss his forehead. Jane stirs in the bed, blinking up at me.

  “Mary…” She tries to pull herself up on the pillows but lacks the strength. One of her ladies steps forward to assist her. “Are the preparations for the christening all in place?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I pass the child back to his nurse. “You must not worry about anything. He is beautiful, Jane. I am so glad you have birthed a son at last; Father is quite beside himself with joy.”

  To my amazement there is no bitterness in my voice. It is gratifying to see the king restored to his old self. It is what I have always wanted and if I am envious of the delight he displays in his son, well, I am a woman grown and should know better. I refuse to submit to such a vile emotion as envy, and vow to say a few extra beads on the rosary this evening.

  Mother instilled in me the importance of always striving to be a better human being, a kinder, sweeter girl. She never once, even at the end, rebuked my father for his treatment and I must endeavour to be as forgiving as she. Edward and Elizabeth have taken no active part in the misfortunes that have befallen me, and now that I am restored to court and in Father’s favour again, there is no need for rancour. I must forget the past and move into the future with a kinder, warmer heart. I will be the richer for it.

  As midnight approaches on the fifteenth day of October, my women help me into a richly embroidered kirtle of cloth of silver. Lady Kingston bears my train as, with some three hundred other courtiers and envoys, we process from Jane’s bedchamber to the chapel royal for the prince’s christening ceremony.

  A huge structure has been built to allow all those attending the best possible view. Brandon, Norfolk and Cranmer have been given the honour of standing as God-fathers while I am given the blessing of being named God-mother. Proudly, I take my position at the font and watch as Archbishop Cranmer anoints the head of the heir to the throne. The child squirms, opens his mouth in a silent mew of protest before falling asleep again. After the confirmation, the heralds announce the new prince, his name echoing out across the chapel.

  “Edward, son and heir to the King of England, Duke of Cornwall, Earl of Chester.”

  The sudden boom of the announcer’s voice wakes the child and he opens his mouth and screams for the duration of the ceremony.

  “We can be certain there is nothing amiss with his lungs,” I remark to nobody in particular, and those closest to me titter. When the prayers are at an end, taking Elizabeth’s hand, I lead her back to the queen’s chamber to offer up our baptismal gifts.

  As I urge her along the corridor, Elizabeth yawns widely, and I jerk her wrist to gently re
mind her of her manners. She smirks unapologetically. “I’m tired,” she explains. “Why am I up so late?”

  I am unsure if it is late or early but, stifling a yawn of my own, I swing our joined hands.

  “It will be over soon. You did well carrying the chrisom-cloth; Father will be very pleased with you. Once we have given the queen our gifts for the prince, you can return to your bed. You can lie like a slugabed all day if you wish.”

  “Slugabed,” she repeats. “I like that word,” and to demonstrate her love of it she repeats it like a mantra all the way to the queen’s chamber. I wish I’d chosen a word less appealing.

  I have commissioned a gold cup for the christening gift and, as a gesture of appreciation, I offer Edward’s nurse and rockers each a gift of £30. While we gather in the queen’s chamber, outside the palace the city celebrates with great bonfires on every corner, and the night comes alive with the sound of church bells celebrating the birth of the boy who will continue the Tudor line.

  Everyone in the kingdom is joyful.

  Father’s voice rises above the clamour, hailing his son as a miracle incarnate. He has the bluest eyes, the sweetest nature and the heartiest lungs in all England. I concur with Father’s last claim, as the child can still be heard adding to the din.

  Amid this hubbub, the queen wilts on her pillow and tries to look as if she is enjoying herself. But I notice a sheen of perspiration on her forehead, and the deep shadows beneath her eyes. She should be allowed to rest but … it is the obligation of queens to suffer such things. Personal comfort must always be put aside for the sake of duty.

  Elizabeth begins to tug at my hand and I see her attention has been drawn by Thomas Seymour, the queen’s brother. Since the king deigned to wed his sister, Seymour seems to see himself as an uncle to all the king’s children. He is a handsome man with a playful manner that I find overbearing. I never know how to respond to his jests but Elizabeth adores him. She delights in his teasing while I am never sure how to react. I try to ignore him while he loudly discovers a few coins hidden in Elizabeth’s ear, but when he goes so far as to draw a silver sixpence from mine, I step back sharply and scowl at him.