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

by Judith Arnopp

  To my surprise, Anne of Cleves looks nothing like his previous wives. She is tall and quite plain but kindly looking, perfectly suited to the role of motherhood, if not perhaps as wife to a man like the king. In the past, he has always been drawn to women with striking looks; only Jane was different, but she made up for her lack of beauty with the kindness of her heart. I have not yet discovered whether Anne is kind or otherwise but she looks friendly. Understanding little of our speech or customs, she beams on everyone, keen to be accepted, to make a good impression.

  Even from behind, it is clear that Father is furious. His shoulders are set in uncompromising lines, his head held stiffly, the feather on his hat trembling as he battles to suppress his rage. The rumours are true. The king is not happy.

  Beside him, Anne smiles uncomprehendingly on the company. I watch her. How strange we must seem to her. How disconcerting it must be to find oneself in the midst of strangers, unable to speak their language or understand their customs. How must it feel to be wed to a man like Father? I try to imagine how he must seem to Anne, view him from her eyes.

  He is no longer the golden prince of his youth. He is quite jaded. His face is lined, his hair greying, and his belly is becoming gross. During the marriage negotiation he had portraits painted to send to Anne. I saw them. They were not true to life at all. She will have left her homeland imagining she was to marry the man in Holbein’s paintings; a glorious, godlike figure – how disappointing the reality must be. Poor Anne, forced to bed the angry, ageing Henry. Perhaps it is fortunate, after all, that I am to remain a maid.

  Hampton Court – 1540

  Now that Queen Anne is in residence, I return to court, taking apartments close to Edward’s so I can spend as much time with him as my duties allow. My brother has just turned two and is a bonny bundle of mischief; as fat and healthy a boy as the king could wish for. I take him on my knee and kiss his damp cheeks while he tugs at my veil and refuses to sit still.

  “He is like an eel!” I laugh.

  “You’ll make a good mother one day, my lady,” Lady Bryan says as she watches us together. I look up and meet her eyes and, finding sincerity there, I relax and smile in return. She cannot know she has pierced my armour, she cannot imagine my despair of ever knowing the joy of motherhood.

  “The queen came by to see him yesterday,” she continues, picking up Edward’s toy that he has thrown to the floor. “She was much taken with the prince. Hopefully, she will add to the nursery soon. Edward will enjoy having some brothers. My hands will be full then, my lady.”

  She rattles the child’s toy.

  “Yes,” I say, kissing my brother behind the ear, making him giggle. “That would make the king happy again.”

  “A king can’t have too many princes.”

  “Indeed.”

  I dare not speak it aloud but rumour says my father is already seeking an annulment to the marriage. Anne does not please him at all. He says she is nothing like as fair as she was painted, and her stomach and bosom are so slack he fears she is no maid. Poor Anne, I hope she hasn’t heard of this. I sigh as I straighten Edward’s skirts. I know only too well the fate of others who have displeased my father, but even he must see that Anne is blameless. The king leaves the whole thing at the door of his secretary, the soon to be Earl of Essex, Thomas Cromwell.

  As Thomas goes about the court, he wears a very anxious frown, and who can blame him. The Cleves marriage was by his arrangement, his praise of Anne before the wedding encouraged the king to enter into the treaty. My father, now finding himself bound to a woman he abhors, is looking for someone to blame; a scapegoat.

  As Cromwell’s enemies prick up their ears, he desperately concocts a solution. Seizing on a pre-contract of Anne’s with the son of the Duke of Lorraine, he declares there is an impediment to the marriage. This, together with Father’s failure to consummate the union, serves as a way out, for the king, if not for Cromwell.

  Everyone tries not to notice the relief with which Anne agrees to the annulment. From now on, she is to be known as the king’s sister. She tucks a very handsome settlement and a long list of properties into her coffers, and takes up residence at Richmond; my favourite palace.

  I have little to thank Thomas Cromwell for. He is not only a heretic but was instrumental in progressing my parents’ estrangement. He pushed for the split with Rome and during my estrangement from the king his treatment of me was unnecessarily harsh. In recent years, he has wrought great destruction on the monasteries, inflicting suffering on monks and nuns alike. As far as I am concerned, his downfall is his just deserts. He may have orchestrated the reunion between me and my father but it falls far short of redemption … his end is of his own making. It is no concern of mine.

  Rumours abound at court. His enemies take great pleasure in describing Cromwell’s ignoble end. He does not face death valiantly. What can one expect from the son of a blacksmith? He writes from the Tower, begging Father to spare his life and swearing unswerving allegiance, his unwavering loyalty. The king does not listen. He cannot see beyond the plain, uncultured wife Cromwell has saddled him with, and is deaf to all pleas … whether they bear the ring of truth or not.

  But after Cromwell’s death, life at court does not settle down peacefully. It seems to unleash a great rage in the king and a spate of further deaths follows. Like a lion driven into a corner the king lashes out, and his claws are strong and fatal.

  I weep sorry tears when I learn of the death of my mother’s chaplain, my old tutor, Dr Featherston, and Father’s own confessor, Dr Wilson. I cannot imagine what crimes he uses against them. These are good Catholic people who do not deserve death, and the three Protestants who follow them to the scaffold shortly afterwards do not compensate for it.

  My discomfort is not eased by news of another looming royal wedding, another stepmother. When I am told her name, I wonder if the king has run a little mad for this time, he chooses a bride for himself. He cannot face a diplomatic match this time and instead he marries a child; or so she seems to me.

  I am embarrassed to learn that Katherine Howard is my junior by some five years or so. She is bright, pretty and quite enchanting, but she is not the sort of woman who can successfully rule as consort beside any king, let alone a king such as my father.

  She first came to his attention during her short service in the household of Anne of Cleves. I vaguely recall her exclaiming over the queen’s vast array of gowns, her costly collection of jewels. She was overwhelmed by those around her, by the vast chambers, the rich fare we feasted on. No doubt most of Anne’s possessions now belong to Katherine.

  Anne, however, shows no malice toward the new queen, and the two have become great friends. I wince from the gossip that somehow reaches my ears but Father seems oblivious to the fact that the English court has become a laughing stock in Europe.

  Foreign heads of state even go as far as to place wagers as to how long this marriage will last. The king is besotted. I blush to witness how he fawns upon her like a doting and extremely foolish old man. As for me? Well, I am eaten up with jealousy.

  I can excuse her stupidity. I can overlook her impulsive childishness and her greed, but the thing I cannot forgive is that she is a Howard, and first cousin to Anne Boleyn.

  At first, I am not invited to attend court. It is not until I implore Father to bring his queen to visit Edward at Waltham that I begin to accept her. She is harmless enough and while Father joggles my brother up and down on his knee, Katherine takes me to one side. She casts a look over her shoulder to ensure the king cannot overhear.

  “Lady Mary,” she says. “I hope we can be friends, and you will come to court soon. I will have the best rooms made ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” I murmur, wondering at this show of friendship. Surely she doesn’t imagine we might have anything in common. She places a hand on my sleeve and leans in close, wafting the fragrance of sandalwood and sage. I draw back a little, observing the flawlessness of her skin,
the strand of light red hair that has escaped the confines of her hood. She dimples, and lowers her voice to a whisper.

  “I wanted to let you know that I’ve sent clothes, a furred gown and slippers to Lady Pole. I hate to think of that poor old lady in that awful place. I – I know she was your friend…” She shudders, her expressive eyes rolling in her head. I raise my brows, surprised and touched.

  “That was kind of you. Does … does the king know?”

  Putting her hand to her mouth, she stifles a giggle. “He hasn’t asked, and it isn’t a lie not to mention it, is it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  I look at her, and a quick companionable smile darts between us. Perhaps there is more to her than the latest fashions and dance steps. It is comforting to think so. I have never dared send Margaret anything other than my fervent prayers for her release, but she is condemned to die … one day it will happen. One day, when Father awakes in the wrong frame of mind, he will order it done. I dread that day.

  I look at the queen afresh and wonder if she might be useful after all. Perhaps Katherine can be induced to work her persuasion on the king. Perhaps this child stepmother of mine will be the key to Margaret’s freedom. Everyone knows that when Father is happy, the executioner gets to put his feet up.

  I take the queen’s arm and invite her to walk with me on the terrace.

  “When I was growing up, Margaret Pole was like a mother to me,” I say casually. “She is a God-fearing woman, a friend of the true church.”

  “Yes.” The queen frowns at the ground. “It is sad that she is imprisoned. I remember my cousin…” She stops, belatedly remembering who I am, and her cheeks grow pinker as she continues. “That is to say, it is horrid for anyone to be shut up in there. Imagine living and waiting, in dread of the executioner’s blade that has turned toward you. Every morning you’d wonder if it was your last … I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “I’d wish it on the guilty,” I say as lightly as I can manage. “Those who oppose the king have committed treason and so do deserve to die, but Margaret is innocent. I am sure of it.”

  “I think we are all guilty of something.” Her face falls, her eye losing its customary brightness. “The king says she wrote letters to her son, and when her house was searched, they found incriminating items that prove she is opposed to his rule.”

  Poor Margaret; as if she would be stupid enough to risk working against the king. She has long been accustomed to us and has never forgotten the fate of her father and brother. The queen and I continue our walk along the terrace.

  “I suspect those incriminating items were placed there by Cranmer or one of his men, and where is the crime in writing to one’s son?”

  I dare not mention that I share Margaret’s sympathies with the 40,000 men who marched on the pilgrimage of grace. It is not safe to admit to anyone that you harbour a desire for the reinstatement of the true church, least of all to the Queen of England.

  “Perhaps, when you give the king a son, you can ask a boon of him and request her release. He is generous when he is happy.”

  She frowns, biting her lip.

  “Yes,” she says. “A son would be lovely but … the king…” She stops, shakes her head and gives a shaky laugh. “Oh, Lady Mary, rest assured that I shall do all I can to get with child, and then I will indeed beg for Lady Margaret’s life as soon as it is meet for me to do so.”

  Hampton Court – May - June 1541

  When the king is happy, the court is happy. For the first time in many years, merriment is the order of the day. Although I am present, I am shown little favour and I keep myself apart from the rest. While the court dances, the dying monks are forgotten, as are the churches that are falling and the heresy that continues to put out strong, evil roots. Nobody else seems to care.

  I feel so alone; as if separated from them all by some invisible screen. I hear but do not share in their laughter. I watch their desperate, feigned delight and notice how like Bacchus Father has become; he has turned into an obese, overindulged god, showering merriment on his congregation. It cannot last. I wonder what will happen to spoil it all.

  I do not have to wait long. In May, I wake from a restless night to the sound of weeping. I sit up in bed, fumble for my wrap and hurry into the antechamber.

  “Oh, my lady. We didn’t mean to wake you…”

  My women stand ringed in the centre of the room; several of them have red-rimmed eyes and wet, starred lashes.

  “What has happened?” I draw my shawl tighter about my chest as if it can shield me.

  “It is … Lady Salisbury. My lady, she was executed … early this morning.”

  It is as if I’ve been struck. At first, I am numb with the shock, but slowly the pain spreads from the very core of me until it encompasses my whole being. It is the news I’ve been dreading. Lady Salisbury, my dearest friend.

  “There has been no trial, she had no chance to plead her case.”

  Mary Baynton shakes her head, wiping her wet face on the edge of her sleeve. I turn from them to stand at the shuttered window.

  Father has acted on a whim, as I feared he would. He has vented his spleen against an elderly woman who has shown the Tudors nothing but loyalty. She has done nothing wrong; he killed her because he is angry with her son.

  I don’t think I can bear it. My heart twists. She lived through so much. The years of civil war, a childhood disgraced by her father’s attainder. Her innocent young brother incarcerated for years in the Tower, never to emerge until it was time for him to die. Yet still, she loyally served and somehow managed to love us. Out of all the people who claim to love me, she was one of the few I trusted, and loved in return. I feel so alone.

  “Oh, my lady,” Mary weeps as she describes the scene. “They are saying it was more akin to butchery than an execution. According to the messenger, she called down God’s blessing upon you before she placed her head on the block.”

  I put a hand to my face, tears raining upon my fingers as Mary’s voice continues to paint pictures in my mind that time will never erase. I wish she would stop but Mary goes on and on.

  “She laid down her head and the executioner … oh, my lady, the executioner was young and untried, and he misjudged it. He – it took several strokes of the axe to end it; oh my lady, she died slowly and horribly … oh, I cannot speak of it!”

  But she has spoken of it. Her words are branded deep into my soul. I will never forget, nor forgive this act … as God is my witness, I will not forget. I will not forgive.

  Quite suddenly, Mary ceases speaking. I feel her hand on my arm. “Oh, my lady, you … I am so sorry. Come, come with me. You are ill and must lie down a while.”

  The sheets are smooth and cool, my pillow soft beneath my cheek. I think of Margaret’s face, blooded now and pale, shoved without dignity into some roughly hewn coffin. I think of her sons … some alive, some dead ... and as I close my eyes and bury my face beneath the pillow, Margaret’s whole sorry life runs through my mind. I should have spoken out in her defence. I should have begged mercy of my father. I am a coward. I sit upright, crying her name aloud until my women come running.

  Sweet wine is trickled between my lips. I cough and splutter so it sprays like blood across the snowy linen. I push the hands away, roll onto my belly, clutch the pillow tight and lose my mind in the nightmare of grief.

  I am sick for a long time; my face is pale and listless. When my menses come, I am wracked with pain, and the blood runs thick and dark.

  I am unable to speak, unable to function. Each meal time, I turn away in disgust, leaving the platter untouched. I can find no comfort. Not even in prayer. It is the last straw. Should God choose to take me now, I would be glad of it. But He is not merciful and my heart continues to beat, my lungs continue to draw breath. I continue to live.

  “You must pull yourself together,” my women tell me. “It is your duty. Think what your mother would say. She lived through worse than this. She never gave u
p. It is a sin to deny the life the good Lord offers us.”

  I want to scream at them. There is nothing I can do other than hate myself, so one day I submit and allow them to bathe and dress me. After so long abed, my gown feels like a prison; the jewelled bodice a leaden weight upon my shoulders, as heavy as my heart.

  At first, it is all I can do to walk about the gardens for an hour or so before retreating back to my chamber, but slowly, as I begin to eat again and take the air, I grow stronger. I bury my head in my books, refresh my studies and take up the lute again.

  I am not really strong enough to agree when the king and queen request my presence on their planned progress to the north of the country. After the recent uprisings, Father means to demonstrate his power, and attempt to reignite their love for him. He is blind to the pain he has inflicted, and cannot understand their resentment. The people of the north will never forgive the closure of the great monasteries or the ill-treatment of the monks and nuns. They are not fooled by the king’s accusations of corruption and immorality. As far as the northerners are concerned, the confiscation of the church treasures is theft, bred by greed. The desecration of the places where the people worshipped or turned for help in times of poverty or sickness is unforgiveable.

  The king neither understands nor cares.

  It will be painful to see first-hand the results of his ‘dissolution’ but I feel I must go, if only to test whether the northern people still bear any love for me. I put all my effort into making a full recovery while my women make preparations for the journey.

  It is by far the largest progress I have been part of, and the most lavish I’ve ever heard of. There must be four or five thousand horse, countless carts and wagons; an endless procession of strength.

  As we travel on ahead of the household, our royal party makes a marvellous splash of colour against the greenery of England. At first, I am in fine fettle. I sit high in the saddle and absorb the scenery, the love of the people, the atmosphere. Once more allowed the prominence that my status demands, I almost feel like a princess again, and everyone treats me as such. I soak in the cheers of the crowd, smiling with delight each time I hear my name upon their lips. The people of England have not forgotten me.