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

by Judith Arnopp

  “You must say nothing, Princess, say nothing that might appear to go against the king.”

  I nod reluctantly, wishing I was made of sterner stuff, but when I hear that my dearest friend and cousin, Margaret Pole, has been taken, I fear my heart will crack in two.

  “He will not harm her,” I whisper to Chapuys who brings me the news. “She is his mother’s cousin, her lifelong friend. Margaret Pole dandled my father on her knee when he was an infant. It is unthinkable that he should…”

  My mind drifts to my childhood, when Mother and I walked with Margaret in the gardens. I can still hear their merry laughter as they related tales of when Mother was married to Prince Arthur … long before she ever dreamed of me. Margaret had been with them at Ludlow – they shared memories of a time that the rest of the court had forgotten.

  And later, after Mother was queen, I recall Margaret soothing my nightmares in the dead of night, helping me with my first crumpled attempts at embroidery, instructing me how to shoot an arrow, how to daintily follow the steps of the dance… Father loves Margaret just as Mother did, just as I do; she is family.

  I frown at Chapuys. “He just means to frighten her,” I whisper with a shudder of fear. He shrugs his shoulders, his sad face crumpling with regret.

  “I think not, my lady. The countess’s son, Geoffrey, has implicated them all quite damningly in his confession, and as long as the exiled Reginald Pole continues to speak out against the king, he puts his entire family in peril.”

  “Then you must urge him to stop. He will listen to you. Tell him I urge him to think what it might mean…”

  He splays his hands, his head sinking into his shoulders. “I have no influence, my lady. The rumour is that he plans to unseat the king and marry you.”

  “But I would never agree to that!”

  Chapuys tilts his head and pulls a wry expression.

  “But the king fears it and, as harsh as it sounds, these old families have plagued your father and his father before him for years. Once they are fallen, his position – the position of the Tudor line – will be more secure…”

  “And the king’s soul will be in peril. Has he thought of that? Perhaps I should speak to him, try to reason…”

  “No!” He forgets himself and places a restraining hand on my arm. “You must never do that, my princess,” he says earnestly. “Promise me, you will never do that.”

  “If only Jane were still alive. She could dissuade him.”

  But Jane isn’t here, and as my friends continue to fall it is as if someone has thrust a dagger between my ribs. Their plight is killing me too. The old families are shamed and ruined, tainted by treason, their property confiscated by the crown. Early in December, Lord Montague, Lord Neville and Henry Courtenay go to the scaffold, while Courtenay’s son is sentenced to a lengthy stay in the Tower. I look out at the cold grey skies above London and see the ravens fly up from Tower Hill. Perhaps it is as well Mother has not lived to see this day.

  I summon Chapuys, beg him to implore Reginald Pole to desist with his treasonous talk but, even with his elderly mother, my beloved Margaret, held fast in the Tower, Pole continues his attempt to rally the Catholic powers of Europe to move against the king. In January, France and Spain agree to cease dealing with England. There will be no further trade. Our kingdom now stands alone, isolated, and while Father sets the country in readiness for war, Cromwell makes overtures of friendship to the Protestant German princes.

  My relief is great when a proposed match between me and the Duke of Cleves comes to nothing. I could never ally myself to a Protestant. Cromwell, never one to be distracted from a goal, manages instead to arrange a match between the king and the duke’s sister.

  With a sigh, I prepare to meet another stepmother. This one is called Anne, which may bode ill, but I reassure myself she will not be like Anne Boleyn. No, this one will be like Jane – a friend, a champion and hopefully a confidant.

  Above all, I pray she has a calming influence over Father. I must befriend her at my earliest convenience and urge her that my friends should be spared. I sit down to write her a letter of welcome, expressing my joy at the coming union, while Anne of Cleves begins her perilous journey to England.

  The winter sun will not be with us long and I write so fast that my words are a hasty scrawl. I am just blotting and sealing it when the door opens and a visitor is announced.

  I have no love for Wriothesley, who is Cromwell’s man. My spirits drop when he enters my presence, snatches off his cap at the last minute and makes a sketchy bow. I do not get up but I lift my chin to look down my nose at him, although he stands a deal taller than I.

  “Ah, Lady Mary,” he says, as if he is surprised to find me ensconced in my own apartments. “I have news.”

  He leaves a rather wet kiss upon my knuckle, which I surreptitiously wipe on my gown. I smile but do not speak, preferring to let him do the talking. He remarks first upon the weather, as if his errand is a social one. Suspicion erupts from somewhere deep within, foreboding creeping up the back of my neck.

  I signal to Susan for wine and indicate that Wriothesley should sit. He sweeps his cloak from beneath his buttocks and takes the nearest chair, knees akimbo, feet spread far apart. I wait for him to speak.

  “Lady Mary,” he says again, although I have it on good authority that in the many marriage negotiations recently undertaken on my behalf, they have officially allowed me the title of ‘princess.’

  “In spite of the misfortune of your previous alliance with the Duke of Cleves coming to nothing, we have news that will surely bring a smile to those wan cheeks.”

  He is a condescending fool but I do not show my contempt. I also keep a tight rein on my alarm.

  “Indeed.”

  I cannot like this man. He is a Lutheran and a traitor to my mother, and he was a supporter of Boleyn before he and his butcher-son master turned on her. “I am all ears.”

  He smiles a quick, tight smile that does not reach his eyes, and I realise our dislike is mutual.

  “You should prepare yourself for a proposal of marriage, my lady. A proposal that your father the king expects you to welcome without argument.”

  My heart sinks deeper. I force a smile.

  “Indeed,” I say again. “Who is it this time?”

  “Philip of Bavaria. He is in England to make preparation for his niece, Anne’s, arrival, and will be presented to you within a few days.”

  Another Lutheran. How will I bear it? How can I swear duty and obedience to a heretic? How can I lie with one in nakedness? But I say nothing. I maintain my position, clutch my fingers together a little tighter and try to look mildly interested. I imagine Philip will be a foppish, insolent fellow and wonder if he will hide his horns beneath his cap.

  “I will meet with him, sir, but … you must take this message to my father.”

  I close my eyes, picturing his rage, his disappointment, the return of his distrust of me, but I cannot deny my beliefs. I cannot be seen to go gladly into a union with a friend of the devil.

  “You must remind my kind and benevolent father that, although I know it to be a matter of great importance, I can never wish or desire to enter that kind of religion. I would sooner remain a maid all my life.”

  Wriothesley’s neck turns red, the colour creeping up to his cheeks, his eyes disappearing in a ferocious squint. He stands up, searches for his gloves and blesses me with a second sketchy bow.

  “I will, of course, convey your message to the king, my lady, but … you must be aware that it will undoubtedly bring disfavour upon you again. The duke will expect to meet you in the gardens at Westminster Abbey on the twenty-second day of this month. I suggest that you be there, unless you are otherwise instructed by the king.”

  He quits my chamber and I am left alone. I close my eyes and a tear drips onto my cheek. Why will they not just leave me alone? Try as I might, it seems I can never remain in Father’s favour for long, but God must come first. It is better to die
from Father’s displeasure than to burn forever in the flames of God’s wrath.

  I have to go, of course. I dress in my best gown, drape myself in my favourite jewels and, with only Susan and Margery in accompaniment, I take the barge to Westminster.

  It is an inauspicious day for the meeting. The clouds hang low and heavy, no sun manages to find a way through and the air is cold and dank. The duke is waiting near a muddy border, the gravel path is puddled with yesterday’s rain and dead, sodden plants sprawl inelegantly across the yellowing grass. It is a ruin of the summer splendour of July. The duke appears comically forlorn until, on hearing my footstep, he looks up, and his former melancholy melts away.

  “My lady.”

  He rushes to meet me and, as he bends over my hand, I prepare myself for the burn of a heretic’s kiss. I look down upon his bare head, noting the way his hair curls about the back of his ears, and then he stands and I find myself blinking into wide friendly eyes. He has a generous smile that I cannot help but replicate.

  “I am pleased to meet you,” I say and find, to my surprise, that it is not entirely untrue. He takes my elbow and guides me along the path.

  “Oh, mind the piddle,” he says and behind me, Susan and Margery titter quietly. I smother my own laughter, thank him for his gallantry, and allow him to lead me daintily through the puddles. Although he has little English, he waves the interpreter away and we move off together through the decaying garden.

  “Your English weather is…” He hugs his own shoulders and pulls a frozen face, and I cannot help but laugh with him. I had not expected to like him. I had expected horns and a tail, yet he is expansive, and very funny!

  “Not always,” I say, fervently hoping he will understand. “Our summers are warm and sunny.” I sweep my arms in an arc, playing the part of the sun, and he smiles widely, nodding his head. I notice one of his eye teeth is broken but it is attractive, and the creases bracketing his mouth suggest he laughs often and loudly.

  Despite the chilly day I am suddenly warm inside, more hopeful of the future than I have been for a long while. Marriage to a man who laughs and is gentle would be a fine and unexpected thing.

  “Do you hunt?” I ask, and he frowns at me.

  “’Unt?”

  “Hunt,” I repeat, emphasising the H and aping the action of riding a horse and jumping a fence. He laughs aloud, nods frantically and pretends to blow a horn. Despite only understanding half a dozen words of each sentence, I find myself warming to him. For an hour or more we stroll about the ruined garden, oblivious to the damp, the cold, and the fine drizzle that soaks my skirts to the knee. He is telling me a story of his childhood, a tale that I only half comprehend, when a gust of wind showers him with freezing raindrops.

  Covering my mouth with my hand, I try to stem my laughter, but he reaches out and pulls it away.

  “Do not ’ide your face,” he says. “Too pretty.”

  I cannot move. I stare at him entranced, my eyes roving his wet face, absorbing his thick-lashed eyes, his firm chin, his fine long nose.

  Other than my father, no man has ever told me I am pretty. In fact, I know it is untrue but I don’t care. This man’s lies are like honey, sweetening my day, my sour difficult life. I wish I could listen to them for the rest of my life.

  He retains my hand in his and without any sense of embarrassment, I place my other over them, as a priest does at a wedding.

  “I am very ’appy to ’ave meet you, my lady…” he whispers.

  “Mary,” I say. “My name is Mary.”

  Somehow our eyes are locked. It is impossible to drag my gaze away; even when his face grows closer to mine, his eyes looming and merging into one, I cannot draw back. I have no wish to. As if governed by some external force, I tilt back my head, part my lips and allow him to kiss me.

  I have had many suitors, many disappointments, but this is the first time I have ever been courted, the first time I’ve known the touch of a lover’s hand on my cheek, his lips against mine. Delight surges beneath my skin, his name echoing in my head.

  In the weeks that follow, I cannot stop thinking about him. His name finds a way into my conversations, he is the last thing I think of at night, my first thought in the morning.

  Don’t set your heart on it, I tell myself, but the other Mary, the one I keep hidden away, refuses to obey. I no longer care about his Lutheran leanings, he has unleashed something within me, something that is wild and quite ungovernable. It almost puts my passion for God in the shade.

  A treaty is drawn up; I am to be given a dowry of forty thousand florins providing I waive all rights to the English throne. I do not care, my heart leaps and bounds quite frantically every time I think of his mouth and the soft kindness in his eyes. I cannot wait to see him again.

  Rumours fly; it seems everyone knows of our meeting and the kiss we shared, and when I pass by, the courtiers put their heads together and I know they gossip about me. Still, I do not care.

  Although we are not permitted to meet again in private, he is present at the Christmas feast. I wear my best clothes, pile as many jewels as I can upon my person so that he might be impressed at my wealth and status. Our eyes meet often across the crowd, he lifts his wine and silently drinks my health, and each time he does so, something shifts deep in my belly. Whenever his lips kiss the rim of his cup, I envy it.

  But my joy is spoiled when the emperor threatens war upon the German provinces and Philip is summoned home. To my sorrow, when he takes leave of England early in January, he does not make the time to bid farewell to me. I sink into sadness again, longing for the day of his return.

  Rumours of our courtship fly about the court, about Europe, and eventually reach the ear of the king. When he sends for me, I hurry to his privy chambers, sink to my knees and lower my head. He does not bid me rise and when I finally pluck the courage to look up, I find his narrowed eyes upon me.

  I duck my head again and stay where I am, wracking my brains as to how I may have displeased him.

  “So, Daughter,” he says at last, “you welcome this match with Philip of Bavaria?”

  “If it pleases you, Sire,” I reply, keeping my eyes lowered, my chin dipped toward my chest as I have been taught.

  “Rumour has it you frolicked together in the privy garden.”

  I look up, startled, and shake my head determinedly.

  “Frolicked? No, Father. That is not so. We walked and talked, and he left a chaste kiss upon my cheek when we parted, that is all.”

  There was nothing chaste about his kiss.

  “Hmm.”

  Father ponders the matter, drumming his jewelled fingers on the arm of his chair. “I know how the gossips like to elaborate royal matters. I will believe you but you would do well not to hold hopes in that quarter. I’ve changed my mind and do not mean to approve the match. You can do better than Bavaria; I allowed him to pay court to you in order to strengthen our hand against the emperor.”

  My mouth falls open. I stare at the king but he is gazing into space, his thoughts already on other matters. He is unaware of my shattered hope that I might be free of him, free of England, free of spinsterhood. I try to sink lower into the floor before edging backwards from the room to the discomfort of my empty chambers.

  There is a curious pain in my breast. I drop into a chair and stare down at my short stubby fingers. I will never marry, I realise that now. I will live and die a virgin, always envying the women around me who have husbands … and children. I would have dearly loved to bear Philip many, many children. I am fated, it seems, to be the unhappiest woman in Christendom.

  Greenwich – January 1540

  Elizabeth, dressed for Father’s wedding to Anne of Cleves, has dropped something sticky on her skirt. I summon one of the women to attend it. She kneels at the child’s feet.

  “Keep still, my lady, please. Let me see if I can sponge it off.”

  Elizabeth pouts and frowns. If I was not watching, I am sure she would poke out her tongue. She
abhors to be still and is full of mischief. She is always being scolded for skipping about the chamber, hiding behind curtains to leap out at the maids and make them shriek. I sigh and send her a warning look.

  “Just do your best; we must not be late for the ceremony, stained skirts or not. Really, Elizabeth, what were you thinking to eat sweetmeats when we are almost ready to leave? What will your new stepmother think?”

  Elizabeth ceases to dance to some music only she can hear and looks at me, her face suddenly intense.

  “Her name is Anne, isn’t it? Do you think Father will cut off her head too?”

  My heart skips a beat and then thumps fast and loud, making my head light. What is she thinking of to speak of such a thing as if it were an everyday event? I fumble for a suitable answer.

  “Of course not,” I reply, far more sharply than I intended. “Anne of Cleves has done nothing wrong.”

  She narrows one eye and tilts her head to one side.

  “I overheard my nurse say that Father is displeased with her already, so perhaps she has done something wrong that we don’t know about yet.”

  “You are a silly child,” I announce brightly, making a nonsense of her words but, as I straighten my hood, I frown at my reflection in the looking glass. There is something in what she says. The whole court knows of Father’s reluctance to go through with the marriage. He desperately seeks an escape from it but is constrained by the treaty and dare not risk falling out with the German princes as well as the emperor.

  “Come along, Elizabeth, that will have to do. If the king or – or the queen speaks to you, ensure you keep the stained parts out of their sight.”

  She takes my hand. “They won’t even look at me, at least Father won’t. I make him uncomfortable.”

  As we progress along the corridors and make our way to the chapel royal, I ponder her words. Do we, the daughters of his wronged wives, make the king uncomfortable? I doubt it. If our presence offended him he would just send us away and deny us the right to come to court. I know that better than anyone.