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

by Judith Arnopp

  Ahead, the plume on Father’s hat flutters; his familiar voice, and every so often the queen’s merry laughter, wafts toward me on the breeze. I wonder if her incessant good humour ever grates upon him. He must miss my mother’s calm intelligence, unless he has completely forgotten her, of course. Perhaps his memories of Mother and me were erased long ago by the concubine’s wicked wit, or Jane’s quiet humanity. But after the fiasco of his marriage to Anne of Cleves, it seems he is happy at last and for that we must be grateful. I try to be glad for him.

  We stop at Enfield, St Albans and Dunstable, and when we draw close to Ampthill I recall the time I spent there with Mother and Father when I was still the Princess of Wales. I had been away from court and missed them so much and, after travelling from Ludlow to be with them, I can still feel the tightness of my mother’s embrace, the approval of my father. My mind roams, tumbling down the years that followed, and I recollect that later, my mother was sent to Ampthill while the king fought for his divorce so that he might marry his strumpet. The rosy memories are pushed aside and the misery of those days intrudes, the humiliation that came afterwards clouding the present. I glance toward the king’s wide shoulders and scowl. He is as far removed from the father of my childhood as the moon is from the sun.

  I sigh unhappily.

  “Are you well, my lady? Is the sun too hot for you?”

  “A little.” I try to smile but the day is spoiled, the memory of my distant past with all its brightness has blotted out any hope of joy in the present. We ride on, ever northward, but the further we get from London, the quieter the waiting crowd grows, the less welcoming the cheers. Their resentment is tangible. I feel unwelcome, but Father doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  By the time we reach Northampton, I am tired and disillusioned. At the end of the day, pleading illness I take to my bed, and when the royal party rides north in the morning, I remain behind, promising to follow on when I am recovered. But I don’t. I can take no joy from the journey.

  It is strange. I spend my life surrounded by people yet I am always lonely, displaced. I yearn for something I cannot name; I want to strike out at the bleakness of my unmarried, unlovely, virgin state. But at least the king seems happy; I should be thankful for that. If Katherine has achieved anything at all, she has managed to make him smile again. For that I owe her my thanks, for when Henry is at peace, the court is too.

  Away from his presence, I forget the man Father has become and remember only the man he used to be; the man that made me laugh, the man who tickled me under the chin and called me his little pearl.

  For the rest of the summer, the real king ceases to exist. In my mind, he is as he used to be; a figment, a dream. So when Father returns to Hampton Court in October, I almost expect to greet the tall virile prince of my imaginings. I am surprised at the fat, cantankerous old man that stands before me.

  Hampton Court – November 1541

  At first, I ignore the whispers. It is just court tittle-tattle, I tell myself, people dearly love to gossip. But there is something in the air; the atmosphere is thick with intrigue. Returning from Mass one morning, I encounter Cranmer and Norfolk in anxious conversation. They stop talking when they see me, break apart, straighten their backs and greet me cheerfully, but I note their white faces, their anxious eyes.

  “Is something amiss?” I ask, looking from one to the other. “Is the king in good health?”

  “His Majesty is very well.” Cranmer tucks a sheaf of papers beneath his elbow and bends over my hand. “The trip north seems to have benefitted him.”

  Silence falls. I search their faces as their eyes drift away, and Norfolk moistens his lips.

  “Was Father much enraged when the king of Scots did not meet him as he requested?”

  “Oh,” Cranmer waves a dismissive hand. “Only for a short while. The king of Scots has nothing the king of England desires. His Majesty has better things to occupy him than troubling himself about a Scotsman.”

  They are hiding something and I am desperate to know what it is.

  “How is the queen? Another son will please him.” I cannot help pushing, I know something is amiss. Perhaps the queen is with child at last. I sense it has something to do with the succession … perhaps a match has been proposed for me.

  “It would indeed, my lady. We look forward to news of it.”

  His words do not ring true. It is as if he is a performer in a mummer’s play, reeling off rehearsed sentences.

  “I hope for an audience with the queen later today,” I continue blithely. “She will enjoy telling me all about the progress. I was sorry to miss it. Did Her Majesty enjoy her first trip north?”

  “It seems she did, my lady. It seems she did. Now, would you excuse us, it will not do to keep the king waiting. I wish you good day.”

  One after the other, they bend over my hand again, and take their leave of me. I watch them walk away, note again their agitation, their sense of nervousness. I frown, pondering the cause of it before turning on my heel and hurrying off to crave an audience with the queen.

  I am conducted to her privy chamber. When I am announced, she looks up from an abundance of fine fabrics. “Mary!” She rises to her feet and hurries to greet me, takes both my hands, her expression warm. “It is so good to see you. Are you recovered from the megrim that beset you on the road?”

  “Oh yes, it was nothing more than my usual complaint.”

  “It is good to see you looking so well now.” She snatches a roll of red velvet and holds it against her cheek. “Do I look well in this shade? I am choosing new gowns for the Christmas festivities. Oh, I do hope you will be joining us this year.”

  I nod, pleased by her thoughtfulness, but I have no need to reply for she continues to chatter as she plucks up different fabrics and holds them against her face. I take a seat near the window and mark her underlying nerves, the brittleness of her joy. She is so full of suppressed excitement it is as if she might break apart.

  Katherine shuffles on her knees to another pile of fabric and holds up first the red, then the blue.

  “Oh, I cannot decide,” she says as if her life hangs on the choice. “What do you think, Lady Mary?”

  I lean forward, test the nap.

  “The king prefers blue, I think, but whatever you wear will please him. You can do no wrong in his eyes, least of all in your choice of gown.”

  “No.”

  She sobers and sits back on her heels, her wide eyes settling on mine. “I only regret I have failed to give him the thing he wants the most … another son.”

  She blinks away tears, smiling blithely through her sadness, and I think how pretty she is, and how very, very young to have already despaired of a child. Perhaps Father is too old, perhaps he cannot manage … I thrust the indelicate thought away and point to the blue.

  “The blue will be the best choice, Your Majesty, mark my words.”

  Later, when I am brought the news that she is under house arrest, and being questioned for adultery and treason against the king, I remember her fevered conversation, her sense of failure, and understand it.

  St James’ Palace – October 1558

  “It was an awful time. Worse, far worse than when they took Boleyn. Katherine was just a silly girl, but she was free of malice … free of any common sense too, it seems.”

  Susan and Anne are seated at the side of my bed. When my conversation palls, they sit up and exchange sorry looks. It is Susan who speaks first.

  “I recall it well, Your Majesty. It was a hard time yet … oh, you are right, she was a silly girl.”

  Susan shakes her head, her eyes rueful.

  “… And my father was a fool for thinking a child such as Katherine could ever truly love an old man.”

  “Yes,” Susan nods. “He married her for love when he could have made a diplomatic match. A foreign bride of noble blood would never have acted in such a way…”

  I frown into the past, and find it a dark, chilling place.

&nb
sp; “Yet Katherine was of Howard stock, her pedigree was flawless … we only discovered afterwards that her upbringing was wanting.”

  “It was shocking. I had known she was silly but never thought her unchaste. It shows how deceiving a pretty face can be. Her grandmother, the dowager duchess, should have lost her head for leaving such a young girl to her own devices.”

  They never discovered until afterwards that the household Katherine was raised in was rife with sin and Katherine exposed to it from infancy. It is no wonder she had no idea of how to behave.

  “As for Culpepper, I hope the enjoyment of his queen’s body was worth the price he paid for it.”

  I sniff, and Anne’s surreptitious movements suggest she is wiping away a tear. I grope for her fingers.

  “Let that be a lesson, my girl. Your sins will out.”

  She snatches her hand away.

  “I doubt I will ever marry a king, let alone betray one, Your Majesty.”

  “A woman must be faithful to her marriage whether she be wed to king or commoner, and don’t you forget that.”

  “But, it doesn’t work the other way around.” Susan has risen and is folding linen away into a clothes press. “A man can be as faithless as he wishes, and a wife has no right to even remark on it.”

  I laugh. “You were well rid of your husband, Susan, but for all his infidelity you did well from the match. I am sure you have no regrets.”

  “Well,” she returns slowly to the bed. “Not now, Your Majesty, but it wasn’t easy at the time.” She turns to Anne. “You must pick carefully, child, when the time comes. If you can’t love him, look to his wealth. There are more comforts to be found in a fat purse than in the matrimonial bed.”

  Anne blushes scarlet. I slap at Susan’s hand.

  “Don’t tease her,” I laugh, but the humour turns into a cough. My eyes water, my chest wheezes.

  They haul me upright on the pillows and rub my back until the attack passes. When I am recovered enough to speak, I hang on to Susan’s sleeve.

  “Is there news yet of Jane? Has she returned from Hatfield?”

  “She returned this morning. When she has refreshed herself, she will attend Your Majesty. I can send for her sooner, if you prefer…”

  “No, no. I can wait. Let her rest. It is not long since she recovered from the fever and she will be fatigued from the journey.”

  Not as tired as I am, of course. I am sure there is no one on Earth as exhausted as I. Jane Dormer is young enough to still have hopes of finding romance, and I have stalled more than one of her relationships in the selfish need to keep her at my side. But I encouraged this latest attachment with Philip’s friend, the Duke of Feria, although that marriage too has been delayed. I must remember to give her my blessing when he returns to England, before it is too late for them.

  I hope all of my women will find happiness after I am gone, but it is hard to accept that life will continue after my death. I cannot imagine the world without me being part of it. The people of England will forget me, and some will even sigh with relief when I breathe my last.

  I begin to speak but pain gripes in my belly again and my words become a groan. Susan’s head shoots up.

  “Are you ill, Your Majesty, shall I call the physician?”

  “What would that serve? There is no cure for death.”

  “But he can ease you, help you to sleep…”

  I wave her away.

  “I am tired of sleeping. I have just a short time left on Earth and there are things I should do, stories I must share.”

  Yet, I do feel tired, and when I sleep I feel the people of the past are here with me; people who understood what it was like to live in those dangerous, dark days before I was queen.

  “When Katherine was sent to the Tower, Father sent me to stay with Edward. I never saw her again.”

  I speak through my teeth, chasing the present hurt away with memories of a more painful time. “After that, the king was never the same. He sank into a deep woe and even after he married my final stepmother, another Katherine – Lady Latimer – he was never the man, or the king, he had been before.

  “He knew that Christendom was laughing at him, do you see? No man can hold his head high while the world mocks him, my father least of all. But Katherine Parr … she changed things. She tried to pick up the pieces of our broken, tainted family and put us all back together. It worked … for a while, we thought we were whole again…”

  Hampton Court – July 1543-45

  The king is looking old. He can no longer walk far without the arm of his servants to aid him, and sometimes he is forced to resort to a portable chair. His face is pouched and lined, the whites of his eye jaundiced, and the stench of his festering thigh is sometimes overwhelming. Yet Katherine Parr shows no sign of distaste when she is with him. She is the perfect, willing wife and if at times she appears sad, well, she keeps the reason to herself. The role of queen suits her well and she embraces me and my siblings as if we are her own lost children. For the first time, we come close to being a family again. I look about the cosy chamber.

  Katherine is feeding Father grapes, popping them one by one into his mouth and reminding him not to swallow the pips. Elizabeth is reading by the light of the fire, slowly turning the thick pages with a look of wonder in her eye. She is clever, increasingly curious and quick to learn – were she a boy, Father would be proud, but since she is a girl, he merely pats her head from time to time and looks at her askance.

  “It is because I look like my mother,” she says, with wisdom beyond her years. “He doesn’t like that but I can do nothing about it.”

  She shrugs as if she is indifferent to his approval, but I know how much it really means. I have seen the tightening of her lips when Edward receives royal praise. He can do no wrong. Even when he rages and storms like a miniature version of the king, Father just laughs and does not reprimand him. As princesses, me and Elizabeth are expected to act like ladies at all times, and royal ladies at that, even though our titles are somewhat … intermittent.

  “Lady Mary.”

  The queen’s gentle voice draws me from my musings. I look up and smile at her open pleasant face.

  “Please, you must call me simply, Mary.”

  “I wonder if you would help me select fabric for my new wardrobe. The king informs me my clothes are too plain for my … now I am queen.”

  She lowers her head, blushes as if she can scarce believe she is the queen of England, and little wonder for she was merely Lady Latimer before, the widowed wife of John Neville, the third Baron Latimer. She has risen so high so suddenly she must surely feel quite dizzy, yet rumour suggests she had not looked to be queen.

  Susan told me that Katherine had set her heart on Tom Seymour, brother to the late queen, Jane. I cannot imagine they’d be suited, for Tom is a braggart who is far too full of himself. His ambition knows no bounds, and he has even gone so far in the past as to flirt with me.

  “I would love to help,” I say, pulling my thoughts from Tom. “My own seamstress is very gifted. I will ask her to wait on us tomorrow. I could do with some new clothes myself.”

  I can ill-afford them but now I am to be at court more often, I will need new attire. People will gossip if I wear the same gown on too many occasions. As well as new gowns, I plan to have two or three of my older kirtles refurbished and perhaps new sleeves and some hoods in the latest style.

  Elizabeth looks up from the pages of her book. “What about me? Am I to have new clothes too?”

  Katherine laughs and holds out her arm. Elizabeth leaps to her feet and slides onto the settle at the queen’s side.

  “Of course, Elizabeth. You grow so quickly you will be bursting out of yours again soon.”

  “Kat Ashley says I am like a weed,” she giggles. The queen kisses the top of her head and Elizabeth snuggles against her. I feel a pang of envy for my sister hasn’t shown such affection to me since she was an infant. It is a long while since I have been cradled in anyon
e’s arms.

  Katherine is so delighted with the samples my seamstress shows her that she not only orders gowns for herself but also gifts for Elizabeth and me, and for her stepdaughter, Margaret.

  The queen’s apartments have become my haven from care. It is always crowded, always lively. Her ladies are known to me; Lady Suffolk, Lady Hertford and Lady Lisle are there on my recommendation. The new queen summons minstrels to fill the rooms with music, and we practise the latest dances, discuss the latest fashions. For the first time, I feel accepted and believe I can begin to enjoy life again.

  For as long as I can remember I have walked in shadow, and now the sunshine that Katherine brings to Hampton Court warms not only Father and my siblings, but me too. But the queen is not all lightness and good cheer, she has other more serious interests too. Some of which do not please me.

  I am grieved by her keenness for the new learning. She is misled, and believes the Roman church to be corrupt and archaic. As much as I love her, I cannot agree, and even had I done so my own mother would turn in her grave if I was to support such heresy. But it is the only thing Katherine and I cannot agree upon, and I pray it will not come between us. When her friends begin to discuss religion, I slip away to the chapel and pray that the old ways endure.

  She is always careful not to speak of such things in the presence of the king, and I wonder she does not show such sensitivity to my own views, but … she knows that if she displeases, I would not take her head, even had I that power.

  The gardens are lovely in May. Once the dew has dried, the queen and her ladies escape outside. I join them to walk in the fresh air, where the call of the birds and the droning of the bees evoke memories of the gardens at Greenwich when I was young.