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

by Judith Arnopp

  I fear that in the writing of it, my brain seemed to overtake my fingers and I added: …rather than offend God and my conscience, I offer my body at your will, and death shall be more welcome than life with a troubled conscience.

  Now that the letter has been dispatched, I begin to fear the council might bear upon the king to act upon my offer. The thought of the Tower fills me with dread. It is a drear place, a palace of lost hope, peopled with ghosts and scented with treason.

  To my great chagrin, my messengers are immediately incarcerated in the fleet. No amount of complaining or ranting can persuade the council to free them. Consumed with a mix of fury and remorse, I turn to Susan, who is my only friend.

  “Oh Susan, I should not have instructed them to say such things. My hasty words have stolen their liberty and Rochester is not well…”

  “You were not to know, my lady, and the council should not have taunted you. They’ve no right to treat you so. It is they who sin.”

  “It is me they want to lock up really but they daren’t – not with Spain waiting for an excuse for war. Rochester and the others are being used as my whipping boys; they suffer in my place and the council know that I am impotent against them.”

  The door opens and a servant offers a letter on a tray. I take it, recognising the royal seal. I glance up at Susan and she smiles encouragingly … so I break the wax and unfold it.

  “They are coming to see me, on Tuesday next.”

  “Who is, my lady?”

  I hand her the letter so she can see for herself.

  “The lords Rich, Wingfield and Petre; bringing further instruction from the king.”

  The next few days pass in an agony of the unknown. They might come with chains to take me into custody; they might come with an assassin to put an end to my impertinence. Briefly, I consider the possibility that they come to offer a solution that is suitable to us all … but no, I am certain that they will come with threats and admonishments. I can sense it.

  I keep them waiting while I slowly attend to the final details of my toilette. Then, dressed in deep black velvet and as many pearls as I own, I descend to the hall. The servants throw open the door and I march in, my head high, ready for the fight.

  Three bearded faces turn toward me. Their expressions are hostile, their eyes cold as they regard me. The troublesome princess whom, I’d lay money, they wish had died in the womb like her siblings.

  They do not beat about the bush. Rich draws out a piece of paper and starts to read from it.

  “We have orders from the king; His Majesty does resolutely determine it just, necessary and expedient that you should not any ways use or maintain the private Mass or any other manner of service than such as by the law of the realm is authorised or allowed.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “I am and ever will be His Majesty’s most humble servant but in matters of conscience I must let God be my guide. I cannot hear any service other than that left by my father until such time as King Edward reaches his majority...”

  And is no longer led by fools, I add silently. Rich’s face grows purple, his eyes bulging with suppressed fury. It must be difficult to stand before a princess of the realm, bastard or not, and not take measure of one’s words. It must have occurred to them that I may one day be their queen. They know I will never forget this. Lord Rich takes a deep impatient breath.

  “These are decrees laid down by the king…”

  “Decrees put into his mouth by the likes of you, my lord, and you, Petre. My brother can order the kingdom as he likes but I will not be so ordered. I will lay my head on the block if I have to.”

  My belly flips at my own words and I send up a silent prayer that they take as little notice of this as they have my other offers of martyrdom.

  They bilge and bluster for a while longer; angry one moment, cajoling the next. I remain on my feet, forcing them to stand too, preventing the meeting from becoming too comfortable. We are eye to eye, chin to chin, their stubbornness matching mine, but their dislike cannot compete and neither can their resolve[CP3] .

  “The king does not wish to take your life!” Rich shouts. “He merely seeks your obedience, your loyalty. You must see it is your duty to submit.”

  How I despise these men.

  “You give me fair words, sir, but your deeds are ill toward me. I will never consent to your wishes.”

  It might be easier to give in, as I gave in once before. Once, when my father’s men bullied me to admit my parents’ marriage was no marriage, I thought it would be easier to be a bastard than an unloved princess, spurned by the father I adored. I gave in once before. I will never do so again, even if death is my reward.

  Petre throws down his hat and storms from the room, quickly followed by Rich. Wingfield hesitates, then gives a sketchy bow and a look of helplessness before scurrying after them. As their footsteps dwindle, I remember something I have forgotten to say.

  I hurry to the window, clamber on to the seat and wrestle with the casement catch. It opens so suddenly that I lurch forward, the ground below rushing up to meet me, seemingly close. My head swims and I pull back, catching my breath before looking down again.

  From my vantage point the enemy is foreshortened, like midgets that amuse us at court festivities. I notice the beginnings of a tonsure on Rich’s scalp – and note that a man less like a monk has never walked this earth. As they storm across the bailey, he harangues his companions, furiously wagging a finger and no doubt cursing my very name.

  “Master Rich!” I call and they stop, turning a circle before locating my voice and looking up at my window.

  “I forgot to say.” My veil, caught by a sudden breeze, blows across my face. I push it aside and shout into the wind. “I require the return of my comptroller, Robert Rochester. I am having to take account of how many loaves of bread be made of a bushel of wheat. My father and mother never brought me up with baking and brewing, and to be plain with you, I am weary of the office. Therefore, my lords, send my officer home with all good speed, and my other men too.”

  I slam the window with satisfaction and plump suddenly onto the seat.

  “Good lord, Susan,” I say. “After that, they will either leave me alone or hang me. Only time will tell.”

  February 1553

  The council allows me no respite until its attention is taken up by renewed hostilities between France and Spain. Worried that England will join with France against them, the Hapsburgs consider invading us and placing me on the throne. I know of this only through the small gossip that filters through the ever increasing security measures imposed by the council. I know of it when it would be safer not to. It will not take Edward’s council long to see the benefits of implicating me in the plot.

  I am enjoying a rare day of sunshine when a messenger arrives from court. I break the seal and scan the contents.

  “Blast.”

  “What is it now, my lady?” Jane and Susan stroll toward me and join me on the arbour seat, one to either side.

  “The king requests my presence at court, to help entertain Mary of Guise. No doubt they wish to prove that I am no threat and all is well between me and the king.”

  “Shall you go, my lady? You could wear the new velvet gown with the high collar. It becomes you so well…”

  “No. I won’t be attending. You must tell my secretary to inform the king that I am unwell. I shall retire to my bed now in case anyone is sent to test the truth of it.”

  I remain in bed for the duration of Mary of Guise’s residence in the capital. The weather turns nasty so I am missing little. In fact, it is quite comforting to prop myself on pillows and leaf through books, write letters or strum my lute. It is like a holiday that requires none of the discomforts of travel.

  When at last Edward and his council cease to bombard me with demands for compliance, I sigh with relief. It is many weeks later when the reason for their silence becomes clear.

  Edward, after a bout of measles in April, has taken sic
k again and this time his physicians fear it may be the consumption. With the king’s health deteriorating, the council dares not risk offending me. I am, after all, the heir to the throne. They are well aware that my vengeance would be harsh should I suddenly become sovereign.

  Their efforts for church reform do not cease during the king’s malady; instead they grow apace, and the royal council does all it can to push through the changes in law. They work desperately. As the king’s health continues to deteriorate, they know that, should Edward die, my accession to the throne will mean the reversal of their heresy, and the end to their reformation.

  A return to Rome.

  But, although the idea of the crown is thrilling, the thought of losing my brother is not. I order my household to make ready for a journey and leave for London, determined to gain admittance to the king.

  With two hundred lords and ladies in attendance, I ride along Fleet Street toward the city, where I am met by John Dudley and a cavalcade of knights and gentlemen. He makes a great show of friendship but I am not deceived. I know he conceals some nefarious scheme. I take comfort from the crowd that gathers to greet me, their roars a delight to my lonely heart. I lean from my saddle and make a great show of calling down a blessing on those nearest to me. Dudley pushes back his cap and scratches his head, clearly disconcerted by their devotion.

  ‘Mary! Mary!’ I hear them call and I twist and turn in my saddle, my hand raised in acknowledgement. How I have missed this feeling; I relish the honour done to me and, as the city gate grows near, I sit taller, more confident of my future than ever before. These are Edward’s people, but they love me. They will allow nothing to injure their princess. They love me!

  I repeat those words silently, the truth of their affection soft and warm about my chilly heart. But the next morning, when I request an audience with the king, I am told he is too sickly. Not one of the council members can look me in the eye; instead, they exchange glances, stare at the floor, anywhere rather than at me. What are they hiding?

  “I will not tire him. I will just stay a moment, just to wish him well.”

  The greybeards shake their heads, looking to all corners of the room instead of into my eyes. Once more, I force my irritation down and try to accept defeat cheerfully.

  “Then I shall write to him instead,” I say. “You can convey my letter to him, my lord. It will cheer my brother as he recovers.”

  There is little they can do other than reluctantly agree. I write Edward a loving letter, hand it to Dudley and return to Copped Hall, promising to visit the king again when he has recovered his health. But, although I cannot pinpoint the reason, in the weeks that follow, I am unsettled and wake every morning to a sense of doom; as if someone has unleashed the hounds of Hell.

  St James’ Palace – October 1558

  “Hounds of Hell? What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if I thought Dudley was evil before, in the months that followed he turned into the devil himself.”

  The aroma of citrus fills the chamber and I realise Anne is peeling an orange. She presses a segment into my hand and I pop it in my mouth, the sharp flavour bursting on my tongue and making me cough. I wipe my watering eye on my sleeve and when I am calm again she urges me to continue with my tale.

  “Dudley was pure evil; that I know for sure. It was a sharp lesson to me when I heard how they’d been working against me for months, seeking to put me down before I’d even risen. I should have been more wary when I learned he’d secretly wed his spindly-legged son to my cousin, Jane – the clever one, the reformer that I spoke of before. His intention all along was to put her on the throne in my place. I never found out what he intended to do with me. He probably would have taken my head if he could have got close enough.”

  She gasps, puts a hand across her mouth and turns at Susan’s approach.

  “Did you know of this, Lady Susan?”

  “Know it? I was there. I’ve always been there, at Her Majesty’s side.”

  She places a hand on my arm and I pat it.

  “So you have, Susan. Through thick and thin…”

  We smile at the memory of it all. The tears, the laughter, the terror, the joy – life is like a pudding; a mix of all those things; without dark times there would be no light – and vice versa. But, sometimes I think the cook neglected to give my pudding a good enough stir, for the mixture was ever uneven – the odd taste of sugar but mostly bitter, bitter rue.

  “Did they send you to the Tower?”

  “Nay, child, but they would have, had fortune not smiled upon me.”

  “Dudley persuaded the king to change the succession,” says Susan, taking a seat at the girl’s side and picking up her needlework. “Weeks before his death, the king disinherited both our queen and the Princess Elizabeth, declaring them illegitimate again. He named the Greys instead; they were the heirs of Henry VIII’s sister, Mary. Jane was Mary’s granddaughter.”

  The child turns from Susan to me. I see her face change as she notices the tears on my cheek. I seek to explain further.

  “I was injured by the treachery of my Grey cousins, more than any others that worked against me. Edward’s last actions were to my detriment. I was still grieving for him when I discovered it. I still remembered the weight of his infant body in my arms. My mind was full of memories. I recalled how I used to kiss his fingers, count his toes, smell the scent of his hair – to think he had been warped so much, and taught to hate me…” My voice breaks. The women make soothing sounds.

  Swallowing my grief, I shake my head, dispelling the grimness of my thoughts, but Susan, noticing my struggle, fills the brief silence.

  “It was politics, Your Majesty. The king loved you well. You know that.”

  “He loved the devil more; his desire to deny Rome outweighed any love he once had for me. He went so far as to reconfirm that my parents’ marriage was invalid, and I was declared a bastard all over again.”

  “He disparaged the Princess Elizabeth too…”

  “Yes. I wonder what she thought about that? He declared that, since Anne Boleyn had been inclined to couple with courtiers and paid the penalty with her head, her daughter was unlikely to be the king’s. Even I could see that was nonsense – Elizabeth is made in our father’s image; a Tudor through and through.”

  “Had it not been for my spies, I’d have known nothing of this. Had those true to me not brought me news, I’d have been thrown into the Tower before Edward could draw his last breath. Imagine that. If I’d been replaced by Jane Grey! Oh, when I realised the truth, and the fight I had on my hands, I could do nothing but step up to the mark. The days that followed were fraught with danger but they were indeed my most glorious days…”

  Norfolk – July 1553

  I am at Hunsdon when Northumberland finally summons me to court. I order the servants to make ready for a journey before retiring to pray for Edward’s gentle passing in my private chapel. It is dark and quiet, the beads of the rosary cool and solid beneath my fingers. I will soon be queen.

  The knowledge intrudes upon my prayers, softening the sharp stab of sorrow I feel for the loss of my brother. I shake my head to dispel the thought. There will be time enough to think of the future when Edward is gone. And I know now that he will not survive.

  As I whisper the familiar words, his face swims in my mind’s eye. I persist in remembering him as a laughing infant, his baby chin damp with dribble. I see his first steps, his first time on a pony. I see him, older now, on my father’s throne; a child too young to resist the pressure put upon him by our enemies. For his council were enemies to both of us. They corrupted him. He could have been so much better than he was. My throat closes and a small groan escapes me. I pray harder, my voice rising…

  “My lady?”

  I raise my head sharply. They know better than to disturb me at prayer. Something must be very wrong. I cling to the altar rail and clamber to my feet.

  “What is the matter?”

  Susan hovers in the
half light, the unshaded side of her face taut and white.

  “Rochester is here and wishes to see you, my lady. He says the matter is most urgent.”

  He is waiting in my privy chamber, examining a portrait of my father that hangs above the fireplace. When I enter, he turns and takes two steps toward me before bowing low.

  “What is it, Robert? No problem with the travel arrangements, I hope.”

  His expression is grave.

  “No, my lady. It is more than that. I have received intelligence from court that you should not travel to London at all.”

  The words are ordinary enough but I sense danger lurking behind them.

  “Not travel? But I must. There will be arrangements to be made once he has g … for the king’s funeral and my coronation.”

  “That is the crux of the matter, Your Majesty. My source, one close to Northumberland and a member of the privy council, informs me of a plot to entrap you, and to … to crown Jane Grey in your place.”

  “Jane Grey … I do not understand. Even Northumberland cannot ignore the will of my late father … and Jane Grey? It is absurd. It is treason!”

  “Yes, my lady. My advice is that instead of travelling to London, you make haste to Norfolk. On the way, we can muster support for your cause. I will send word ahead to John Huddlestone. I am confident he will offer us shelter on our way to Kenninghall.”

  “My cause?”

  “Yes, my lady. Your cause. Good Catholics will flock to your banner. Nobody wants a Protestant, and nobody wants Dudley and his puppet queen.”

  I had suspected skulduggery when Dudley married Jane to his son. Now I understand the full duplicity of his intentions. This is no spontaneous act. He has been working toward this for months. He means to rule England himself through his son’s wife. Jane will be nothing but a figurehead.