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

by Judith Arnopp

  I clench my fists as blood surges beneath my skin, fury gathering in my heart. One day I will have the pleasure of taking Northumberland’s head, but for now that must wait. I spin on my heel, walk the length of the floor and back again.

  “Give the order,” I say. “We must hope our unexpected arrival does not scare our host out of his wits.”

  Rochester clears his throat. “We will not be entirely unexpected, my lady. A few days ago, I took the liberty of laying down some contingency plans.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “You knew this was coming? Why did you not warn me?”

  “It might not have happened, my lady. I did not want you to worry over something that might never come to pass.”

  I nod slowly, my eyes pricking.

  “Tell me the arrangements you have put in place.”

  He draws a paper from inside his doublet and moves closer to the fire, where we lean over the itinerary together. He flicks it with his forefinger.

  “As I said, first we should stop at Sawston Hall. Sir John Huddlestone is expecting us.”

  “He is on my side?”

  I am unused to people championing my cause; all my life I have been shunned. Even those who love me have ever lacked the courage to speak out against the king. A warm feeling is unfurling in my belly, an unfamiliar sensation, as if I have just supped strong spirits.

  “He assures me so, my lady. Then it is but a short journey to Bury St Edmunds and Hengrove Hall, where the Earl of Bath…”

  “But he is on the king’s council…”

  “He was, my lady. I am informed he has declined to support Northumberland and retired to his estates on the grounds of ill health.”

  “I am surprised Dudley didn’t have him thrown in the Tower.”

  “Lady Burgh is ready to receive you at Euston Hall…”

  “And from there to Kenninghall, I presume?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  I look toward the unshuttered window where night presses like velvet against the glass. Until today, I had felt safe here, sheltered by thick stone walls, cared for by my vast loyal household, but now, suddenly, I feel vulnerable and cold. I wrap my arms about my torso and shudder.

  “Put the arrangements in place, Robert. I shall be ready to leave when you send word.”

  He bows, flashing a brief encouraging smile before leaving me alone with my rampaging imagination.

  I watch the horizon turn from a faint pink into a bright sun-drenched morning. It is full light before we leave although the hour is just after five. Rochester assures me Sawston is merely thirty miles or so and I have easily travelled that far in a day before.

  Today however, we seem to cover the miles very slowly. Leaving the bulk of our household behind, I ride ahead, keeping only Rochester, Susan and Jane, and a small guard with me. We travel hard, my mount tossing her head as if it is a lark but soon, the relentless pace begins to tire her and green froth flies from the bridle to spatter my clothes. I am fearful, afraid of a future I cannot see, yet I am alive, my heart is pounding, and my mind more alert than it has ever been.

  “We should stop so the horses can rest,” I shout over my shoulder, but Rochester shakes his head.

  “We can slacken our pace to let them get their breath but we cannot afford to stop.”

  If my horse dies beneath me I will be in worse peril than if we take a short break, but … I do not argue. This kind of adventure is foreign to me. The pounding of my heart, the terror in my belly is something new and terrifying, yet somehow I am eager for what is to come.

  Susan smiles encouragingly from her saddle but Jane crouches low over her horse’s head, her face grim, her brow scored with a deep frown. Jane’s determination to reach safety is as keen as mine.

  Rochester allows us only a brief stop at midday and another a few hours later. It is late afternoon when he points out the top of Sawston church above the trees.

  “Nearly there, my lady.”

  I am so tired I could fall from the saddle. My thighs are raw, my lower back at breaking point and my fingers seem to be fused to the reins.

  “Oh Robert,” I say, my voice husky with thirst. “I hope there is a chamber ready for me … and a bath. I’d give anything for a warm bath.”

  The horses clatter into the yard and John Huddlestone hurries out to greet us.

  “My lady.” He offers me assistance from the saddle and when my feet touch the floor I find the strength has gone from my knees. I clutch at his arm, almost falling, but his strong hands keep me upright until Rochester pushes forward.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he says and, sweeping me into his arms, proceeds to carry me up the steps to the hall.

  “I can walk, Robert,” I protest, embarrassed by my hitched skirts that are revealing my knees.

  “No need to walk if you don’t have to, I always say.”

  Robert carries me up the steps and into the welcome darkness of Sawston Hall. I see almost nothing of the interior on our way through the house, but I am grateful for the welcome fire in my chamber, and the large wooden bath that stands before it.

  Susan, dusty and tired as she is from the road, steps forward to help me disrobe, but I hold up a hand.

  “No, Susan, you and Jane must be as tired as I. You look to your own needs. Sir John will find a maid who can assist me.”

  Sir John’s servants are, of course, not as sensible of my particular preferences as my own women, but I make no complaint when they help me into a robe before my skin is quite dry. When one of them snags my hair as she combs it, I do not remonstrate with her. My mind is focussed on the large bed, the promise of a soft mattress and pillows.

  “Pass me my rosary,” I say, and one of the girls takes it up and carries it gingerly toward me. I remember that my brother ordered rosaries to be banned. She is probably fearful that the king’s men will suddenly appear and place us all under arrest.

  My bones shriek as I rise from the chair at the fireside to kneel at the prie-dieu in the corner. Although I am thankful to have survived the journey so far, I do not pray for long. My knees are full of knots and my back aches keenly. The thought of climbing into the saddle again in the morning is not a welcome one.

  The next day, and the day after, I am faced with a similar ride. It is as if I am caught in some recurring nightmare. On the seventh day of July, we set out in drear drizzling rain, the clouds low in the sky.

  “It will be brighter by mid-morning,” Susan assures me but I cannot find it in me to make reply. I am so tired, I put my head down and focus on the ground, watching the miles pass and wishing my horse could move faster.

  Euston Hall lies close to Thetford, and when I spot it through the trees, I have never known a more welcome sight. Although it is only a little past noon, after greeting and thanking Lady Burgh, I am conducted straight to a chamber where I manage to snatch a few hours sleep. When I awake, I call for my women to help me rise. I am just slipping from the bed when someone knocks upon the chamber door.

  “Who is it? Go and see,” I say.

  Susan opens the door, and I hear her whispering.

  “Lady Mary is not yet risen from her bed,” she hisses, and I hear the rumbling tones of Rochester. I’d have thought he’d be resting too, given the ride we’ve shared, but perhaps he is made of sterner stuff.

  “Rochester?” I call. “What is it? Have you news?”

  With an appalled expression, Susan opens the door wider and allows Robert into the sanctum of my chamber. His face flushes at the sight of my bed gown, the braided hair across my shoulder. I draw a shawl across my chest.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but … Robert Reyns has arrived and he brings grave news from court.”

  He doesn’t need to tell me, I can read the news in his face.

  “My brother is dead, isn’t he?”

  His face is calm, deeply cut with lines, worry lines engraved by his years of service to me.

  “He is, my la … Your Majesty.”

  He drops
to his knees, and somehow my hand is in his and he is kissing my fingers. From somewhere deep within me a bubble of laughter emerges at the ridiculous picture we must make. Here I am, barefoot and exhausted, stripped of every vestige of royalty, and a man kneels at my feet, swearing fealty.

  I push my amusement aside and concentrate on the severity of the moment.

  “And Dudley, what is he doing?”

  “By all accounts, he has installed Jane in the Tower.”

  “So they control London, the armoury, the munitions and gunpowder … and the great seal of England.”

  He inclines his head in agreement.

  “They do, Your Majesty, but I swear before God they shall not hold it for long. I offer you my lifelong allegiance and pledge to assist you to your throne.”

  “Get up, Robert,” I say, aware of my women’s scandalised faces. “Our journey is not yet done.”

  “No, Your Majesty, but we have begun. Already, men are flocking to your cause. In the morning we will continue our journey to Kenninghall.”

  My face falls at the thought of more hours in the saddle.

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. It is a mere ten miles or so. We will be there in a matter of hours.”

  I am bone weary. Lady Burgh will be hoping for us to stay and enjoy a light supper at least.

  “I feel we should not wait. We should leave right away.”

  “My – Your Majesty, we cannot. At least … not until you have eaten…”

  “I will hear Mass, partake of supper, and then we will ride through the night. Order preparations to be made for a further journey.”

  “As you will, Your Majesty.” He bows low again and leaves me.

  “Susan,” I say, “you must dress my hair, it feels like a bird’s nest at the back…” but when I turn, I find she is on her knees, her head lowered, her hands raised so I might bless them.

  “I pledge my allegiance, Your Majesty, the great honour that you do me…”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Susan! Get up, you fool, and see to my hair.”

  The rhythmic motion of the comb lulls and soothes me, and my thoughts float like white feathers in a breeze. My little brother is dead but I am still one step away from the throne. All I need do now is deprive Dudley of his power and snatch back my crown from my cousin.

  The feather, suddenly tarnished, drops like a stone and doubt intrudes, begins to dominate. I am accustomed to failure, why should this be any different?

  “Dudley will capture me, I know he will,” I whisper, suddenly glad of Susan’s comforting arm that creeps about my shoulder.

  “It will soon be time to leave, Your Majesty. You will be safer at Kenninghall.”

  “Framlingham will be safer still,” I reply, allowing her to push me onto a stool and pin on my hood. “Northumberland’s men will not be far behind us.”

  We pass through unfamiliar corridors, descend the stairs to the hall where a hasty supper has been laid out. When I enter, the babble of conversation ceases, servants dissolve from sight, and Lady Burgh steps forward.

  “Your Majesty,” she says and, to my astonishment, the entire company drops to their knees. I had forgotten for a moment that I am queen. It feels so strange.

  “Up, up,” I say and, pushing my shoulders back, I hold my head high like my father used to, and move forward. I hold out my hand.

  “Lady Burgh, what a lovely welcome. You have conjured an appetising supper for us, I see.”

  “It is my pleasure, Your Majesty. I am honoured to be of service.”

  She ushers me toward the top table and I take my seat, picking up a napkin.

  “We must eat and leave, I am afraid, Lady Burgh. Important matters await our attention.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, so I have been informed. I – I will join the party, if you will allow. I have no wish to confront Northumberland’s men when they arrive. You have heard he is in pursuit … and of what happened at Sawston after your departure?”

  “No. What happened?” Suddenly alert, I seek out my comptroller. “Rochester? What happened?”

  Robert rises to his feet, places his cup on the table.

  “I would have informed you of it later, Your Majesty. It seems Dudley took offence at the support they offered you and … he ordered Sawston Hall be put to the torch, Your Majesty.”

  “They burned it?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  I do not answer at once. In my mind’s eye I see the noble building, the elegant interior, the mullions twinkling in the sunshine. Now it has been engulfed by flames. Hate grumbles in my heart.

  “We will rebuild it, in gratitude for Huddlestone’s assistance.”

  A murmur of appreciation eddies around the room but, looking down at the plate before me, I find I have lost my appetite. Dudley’s men are not far behind me, and they are burning and murdering in my wake. How dare he? How dare he injure and punish my subjects for assisting me? He will suffer for this. If I am ever in the position to wreak justice upon him, he will suffer greatly.

  My growing company takes to the road again just after supper. It is a warm night, the gathering dark hampering the speed at which we travel. Rochester has set men at the head and the rear of the party, and my women and I are ringed by a small guard. Despite the precautions, I still feel vulnerable, exposed to the elements, sure there are assassins hidden in the trees. Susan waves her hand to gain my attention.

  “We will soon be there, Your Majesty. Safe in your own bed chamber.”

  But there is little hope of sleep, and somehow I no longer crave it. Although I am weary to the bone, my mind is sharp and my blood surging, ready for the fight of my life.

  As soon as we reach the security of Kenninghall, while the men loyal to me hone their swords and prepare for battle if needs be, I will take up my pen. I will write to the loyal Catholics of England, the former friends of my mother, and beg their allegiance.

  It is almost morning when we ride into the bailey. As I hurry through the hall, tearing off my gloves and casting my cloak to the floor, my women scurry behind, picking up after me.

  “Gather the household, I want to address them,” I order as I march into my privy chamber. The servants scurry round, a girl throws logs on the fire while another closes the shutters and brings a tray of wine.

  It is comforting to be back in my own house where things are governed to my own will. Without stopping to refresh myself, I sit down and draw up a list of men in whose loyalty I trust. Then I descend to the hall. At the turn of the staircase, I pause and look down at the upturned faces of my household. As one they fall to their knees.

  Most of them have been with me through the darkest days of my brother’s reign. They are good honest Catholics and I must do my best to defend their liberty, their church. I descend further and make my way to the dais where I clasp my hands, lift my chin and begin to speak.

  “You will have heard that my brother, King Edward, has departed this life. The right to the crown of England has, by divine and human law, descended to me.”

  A great cheer arises, caps are tossed high in the air. Their joy is so great that in spite of everything, I find myself smiling. I wipe away a tear and hold up my hands.

  “Good people!” I cry over their jubilation. “Our job is not yet done. Our country is in the hands of the Duke of Northumberland. He has named Jane Grey queen; Jane, who is a Protestant and his son’s wife too! This is treason and as yet we lack the numbers to stand against him, but every day our number is growing. I am not yet defeated, not so long as I have your stout Catholic hearts behind me!”

  Their cries are deafening. I smile, my cheeks stretching, my jaw aching. “I implore those of you who can to ride out and muster men and ammunition, while I send word to those loyal to me who live farther afield. We will build a great army and muster at Framlingham.”

  Men mill about the hall, kissing their wives and sweethearts, and calling for horses that they might galvanise this thing … this war … into action. For war it sh
all be.

  “Come to bed, Your Majesty,” Susan yawns. “You can write in the morning.”

  The candle at my side is smoking. I light a fresh one and extinguish the old, picking up my quill again.

  “Not yet. This needs to be done now. The letters must be ready for dispatch by dawn. There will be time to rest once this battle is won.”

  She goes to the window and opens the shutters a crack, I glance up and notice a bright stripe on the horizon. Morning is not long away. She turns and, picking up a jug, carries it toward me.

  “At least pause for sustenance,” she says. I watch the wine slowly fill the cup, and she hands me a wafer filled with honey. “You need your strength.”

  Reluctantly, I take a bite and honey runs down my chin, dripping onto my bodice. I blot it with my finger.

  “Now look, Susan,” I say. “I will be a target for the wasps now.”

  ***

  “When they proclaimed Jane Grey queen, nobody cheered, Your Majesty. The crowds in London were silent.”

  “Silent?”

  “Yes, although they say a few called out her name; those wise enough to pay lip service to Northumberland’s game. For the most part, the announcement achieved a chilly reception. One poor soul who called out your name in defiance was taken and his ears nailed to the pillory.”

  “For calling my name?” I ponder on this nameless fellow for a while, his futile bravado in the face of treason is … comforting. “Remind me, Robert, to see the fellow is well rewarded.”

  I am strangely calm.

  “What does Spain have to say of all of this?” I ask. Rochester glances at Waldegrave, who clears his throat.

  “I believe they think the deed is done and your cause is lost, Your Majesty. Their advice is to wait and see what happens but … they do not understand the mood of the people.” He clenches his fist, a rock of victory. “The people don’t want Jane or Northumberland. They want you!”

  I stand up, my throat tight with emotion.