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

by Judith Arnopp

  My instinct is to strike hard and fast, but Gardiner urges a soft approach.

  “We need not hurry, Your Majesty; I think it wise to let them all implicate themselves so we have something to use against them. Let them make the first move. We know everything and will be ready to strike as soon as they act.”

  “I will not be governed by my subjects.”

  “No, madam.”

  I peer at him, scrutinising his face. He has no love for Spain and has championed an English marriage often enough. Perhaps even he is against me. Can I truly place my trust in him?

  “I will give notice of my forthcoming nuptial, let there be no mistake. Perhaps an announcement will prompt them to act sooner – force them into action.”

  He closes his eyes, inclining his head in agreement.

  While my women gather muttering in the opposite corner, I sit and compose a statement to be sent out across the realm.

  ‘Certain ill-disposed persons, under the pretence of misliking this marriage, mean to rebel against the Catholic religion and divine service within this our realm, and to take from us that liberty which is not denied to the meanest woman in the choice of husband, spread false reports of our cousin stirring up our subjects by those and other devilish ways to rebel.’

  Within days, we learn that Carew has fled to France, and Suffolk, for the intention of raising a rebellion in Leicestershire, is arrested and thrown into the Tower. Wyatt, however, continues to elude us and remains at large with the men of Kent behind him.

  “I need Elizabeth under lock and key,” I rage at the council, “she is a loose cannon, a rallying call for my enemies.”

  I sit down and write her a letter, demanding her attendance at court, leaving her in no doubt that I expect to be obeyed.

  ‘Tendering the surety of your person, which might be in some peril if any sudden tumult should arise, either where you be now or at Donnington, whither, as we understand, you are bound shortly to remove, do therefore think it expedient you should put yourself in good readiness with all convenient speed to make your repair hither to us, which we pray you, fail not to do.’

  As soon as the message is on its way, I begin to bite my nails, worrying she will disobey me and ride out to lead the rebel army herself. I can imagine her, pale and valiant upon a white palfrey, winning the hearts of the people as she rides against me. I shake my head, dispelling the image.

  She will, of course, have been expecting my summons and has already ignored one polite request to come to court. It is clear to me that someone, some spy, is keeping her abreast of events. I have no doubt she is as deeply involved in this treachery as it is possible to be.

  A few days later, she sends word that she is ailing and cannot face the difficulties of travel when the roads are so heavy with winter mud.

  I remember how as a child she used imagined headaches and belly upsets to get her own way. I remember how she’d wilt on her bed, feigning sickness while her women rushed to fetch warming possets and extra blankets, and then she’d catch my eye and wink at me.

  Elizabeth has not changed at all. She is lying. I know she is.

  Westminster Palace – February 1554

  As my courtiers dissolve into hysteria and the Imperial commissioners flee in fear of their lives to the Netherlands, Wyatt’s army draws closer to the capital. The news on every hand is not good. To his fury, a section of Norfolk’s men have deserted and joined the rebels. While my army depletes, Wyatt’s force increases. With thunderous brows, my ministers stalk the palace corridors, arguing and shouting while clusters of women snivel and gossip in the corners of my privy apartments.

  They are driving me mad!

  I leave them to their tears and go in search of my advisors and, while the citizens of London go in peril of their lives, I discover my council chambers a riot of conflicting advice, and portents of doom.

  “You must leave the capital, Your Majesty, take refuge at Windsor; preserve yourself that you might fight another day.”

  “No, Your Majesty!” cries Paget, leaping to his feet. “That is the worst thing you can do!”

  I watch the anxious faces ringed about my table and don’t know who I should heed. Paget was part of Northumberland’s coup attempt; he preferred Jane to me then. Can I trust him? Even Gardiner is wary of my proposed marriage to Spain. Can I trust any of them?

  I look upon their grey faces. Most of them haven’t washed this morning, they’ve been up all night, their beards bedraggled, their eyes ringed with shadows. I rub my chin, as my father used to, and squeeze my bottom lip as I struggle to reach a decision. Affecting a calm I do not really feel, I place both hands palm down on the table and speak quietly.

  “We will remain where we are. It is my city. The inhabitants deserve our protection.”

  A wave of voices assaults me. I close my eyes, seek a grip on my patience and hold up my hand until their protests dwindle.

  “The people are afraid for their lives. This morning I shall ride out and offer them comfort, reassure them of our unstinting protection.” I rise to my feet and, with much muttering and shaking of heads, the council does the same.

  I order my women to dress me in sombre hues, and wear a coat cut in the masculine fashion. My palfrey is caparisoned like a warhorse. As we near Guildhall, the crowd increases, the cries of the people making my blood throb. These people are loyal but they are full of fear. Their terror is infectious. My head is pounding, but I cannot relax. I keep my back straight, and my shoulders as tight as a vice.

  Ahead, the guildhall gleams white against a blue sky, black carrion birds circling high above it. I manoeuvre my horse so that all assembled can see me, and I hold my right hand high to silence the crowd. Slowly, the shouting lessens, and the clamouring bodies grow still. Their faces turn up to look at me. I lower my arm.

  “Good people,” I cry and a cheer goes up at the sound of my voice. If only all men could love me as these humble folk do. I smile lovingly on them, my eyes misting, but I blink the tears away. There will be time for weeping later. My horse’s hooves shift and slip on the wet black cobbles, but I hold him firm.

  ‘I am your Queen, and at my coronation, when I was wedded to the realm and laws of the same, you promised your allegiance and obedience to me…. And I say to you, on the word of a Prince, I cannot tell how naturally the mother love the child, for I was never the mother of any; but certainly, if a Prince and Governor may earnestly love her subjects as the mother does love the child, then assure yourselves that I, being your lady and mistress, do as earnestly and tenderly love and favour you. And I, thus loving you, cannot but think that you as heartily and faithfully love me; and then I doubt not but we shall give these rebels a short and speedy overthrow’.

  Cheers shatter the quiet of the street as a sea of hands waves and eddies. Gardiner and Paget, whose horses flank mine, exchange grim nods of satisfaction. Rochester goes as far as to wink at me. Ignoring his impertinence, we push our way back through the crowd, and as we do so, the people surge forward to touch my horse, grasp my heel.

  I reach out to bless those closest, to reassure them with my presence and the touch of a royal hand. But in truth I am the one more comforted; their willingness to fight for a queen who refuses to flee revitalises my resolve.

  When Wyatt attacks our city gate, we will be ready for him and the citizens of London will show him exactly what they think of his intrigue and treason. It will not be long before London Bridge boasts the head of another traitor.

  The bridge is secured, and every city gate is guarded night and day by men in harness. At first light, when Wyatt leads his army toward Southwark, he finds his way forward is barred. My informants tell me he lingers there for three days before riding off.

  “That was easy,” I remark to Rochester, but he shakes his head.

  “Your Majesty, I fear Wyatt has not given up but has merely gone to seek another passage into the city.”

  I wait at the palace, asking every few minutes if there has been an
y word. I am still standing at the window when Rochester at last brings news that Wyatt has now marched his army west, along the south bank, and managed to cross the river there. He is now trekking back north toward the city again, where Lord Clinton’s army, positioned at St James’ Field, lies in wait for them.

  I pray to God he manages to hold them back, for the news from elsewhere is discouraging. Some of my forces are proving craven in the face of action. When Wyatt fires his first shots, Sir John Gage, whose army is almost a thousand strong, turns tail and flees. When this news reaches us, the palace falls into confused panic and I am filled with a greater fury than I have ever felt before.

  At three in the morning, I am roused by the sounds of hurrying footsteps. Men are shouting close by my chamber. A thundering of fists sounds on the door.

  “Your Majesty! The city is under attack!”

  I leap from bed, pull on a loose gown and hurry to the council chamber with my feet bare, my braided hair flying out behind. When I crash into the room, not one member of my council bats an eye at my dishabille.

  “What news, gentlemen?” I demand, bending over the table and drawing a candle close so I can read the messages. For my protection, the room is ringed with men at arms; my women, who have followed me, cling together. One of the youngest girls is sobbing hysterically, her high-pitched whimpers like nails in my head. Such behaviour will diminish us all.

  “Shut her up before I slap her myself!” I cry before turning my attention back to the matter in hand. The men of my council flock around me and bleat like sheep.

  “Your Majesty, I really think you should try to get to safety. Shall I order the royal barge? Wyatt is close to breaking through…”

  “Hold your breath, sir, I am not going anywhere. Where is my Lord of Pembroke? I would have a word with him.”

  They stammer and stutter, raise their hands at a loss for words, until Paget steps forward.

  “Your Majesty, Pembroke is on the field, where he should be.”

  I look into Paget’s eyes, noting his underlying fear, his flagging confidence that we can win this day. He is a heretic and a weak one at that. Dismissing his concern, I nod and smile in the face of it. Confidence is required. I have learned that if you believe hard enough that a thing will happen, it usually comes to pass. Good or bad.

  “Then, if that is the case, we are well served. I suggest we calm ourselves and pray, gentlemen. I warrant we shall have better news come morning. Pembroke will not desert us and neither will God, in whom my chief trust lies. Go you to your beds, safe in the knowledge that the palace is secure, as is our city.”

  I speak with a confidence I do not really feel. When we return to my apartments, I turn on my women.

  “Keep her quiet!” I run a disdainful eye over Dorothy, whose face is red and drenched from weeping. “For Heaven’s sake, child, have peace! Turn your attention to God; have some faith in Him.”

  But my anger exacerbates the maid’s fear and, as others give in to their terror, the sound of weeping intensifies.

  I utter a foul word.

  “They are afraid, Your Majesty, but I will do my best to quiet them.”

  My heart softens, just a little.

  “Let them sleep close by, if it will help…” I wave my hand and watch as the mother of maids settles them to sleep on cushions about my chamber. Running my hand across my face, I turn from them towards the window and open the shutter. A ghostly moon is sinking in the west, the sky to the east is striped with pink and grey, proving dawn is not far off. I wonder what the new day will bring.

  I close my eyes and, swaying slightly on my feet, I offer up a silent prayer.

  Do not forsake me, Lord. Send me strength.

  I remain at the window for a long time and when at last I allow my women to persuade me to lie upon my bed, I do not sleep. As the light of day imperceptibly increases, I lie wide-eyed, listening to the night mumblings and snores of my companions. If Wyatt succeeds it will not just be me who falls; my council will be scattered, my women will be forced to flee. If the reformers prevail, all the good Catholics of England will be driven from the land. It must not come to pass.

  I am just leaving Mass the following morning when Paget brings me the news that Wyatt, having come as alarmingly close as Ludgate Bar in the midst of an disintegrating army, has surrendered and is pleading for a pardon.

  Relief steals the strength from my knees. Almost falling, I cling to the rood screen.

  “Then we must thank God for it. I knew we would prevail for our cause is righteous.”

  But as I give my thanks I cannot help but consider my fate had the outcome been different. I must rid this land of my enemies for if I don’t, I myself will be destroyed.

  I am exhausted, I am anxious and I am relieved. This must never happen again. I am queen. How dare men try to deny me? Summoning the council, I spend less than an hour deciding how to deal with the perpetrators. I have been lenient in the past but I will never be so again.

  Carew and his brother have somehow managed to escape to France, but others remain and they shall be given the full force of punishment. Carew, in his exile, will have to learn to live with that.

  “Throw Courtenay back in the Tower. We shall deal with him appropriately later.”

  “Once we have evidence of his…”

  I stab Paget with a glare and he backs down, fumbling with his pile of papers. Crossing my hands over my belly, I lean back in my chair.

  “And evict his mother from my court. I can no longer bear her near me.”

  Gertrude Courtenay, my one time friend, has been a thorn in my side for months, ever urging me to select her son as my husband. I see now that my refusal forced them to seek other avenues to power. Let them suffer the consequence.

  “Guildford Dudley and his father, to whom you will remember, gentlemen, I showed leniency before,will this time die. I will not be made a fool of and can tolerate no more of their disloyalty.”

  I try not to think what death means. I am not committing them to an easy passing but a prolonged and painful punishment, followed by an eternity in Hell.

  “As for Wyatt, question him and do not go lightly. We must know every single traitor involved in this. We must clear England of traitors. They will all be punished.”

  Paget stands up, hesitantly clears his throat.

  “And Jane Grey, Your Majesty?”

  I look up sharply, my narrowed eyes clashing with his. I turn away first, unable to withstand the suggestion I see mirrored there.

  “She has done nothing,” I shrug. “As a prisoner in the Tower, what involvement could she have?”

  “She didn’t need to do anything, Your Majesty. That is exactly my point. The simple fact of her presence is, and always will be, a trigger for Protestant uprising. Her father and husband plotted together with Wyatt to place her on your throne.”

  “That, sir, is not her fault.”

  He puffs his cheeks, rolls his eyes and turns to Gardiner for support. Gardiner clears his throat.

  “Your Majesty, I think we all believe that, for the safety of your good self, Jane Grey cannot be allowed to live. For the security of the true church and of all England.”

  At this moment I hate Paget and all he stands for yet … deep down, I know he is right. I stand up so suddenly my chair topples backward. I kick it aside, yell for the guard to open the doors, and stride from the room.

  I am in the garden at Chelsea. Katherine Parr sits beside me, sewing a long seam. The sun is warm on my cheek and her voice buzzes like a lazy bee in my ear. One of her small dogs is cradled in my lap, its coat silken and soft beneath my fingers. Far off, I can hear Elizabeth and Edward at play; their laughter grows loud as they appear through an arch in the yew hedge, and I look up and wave.

  They wave back at me.

  Their clothing makes a colourful splash against the solid green of the yew. As they come closer, throwing a ball back and forth between them, Elizabeth’s voice is high and happy. Edward opens
his mouth, his infant merriment floating on the breeze toward me. He launches his ball toward our sister but misthrows it, so it lands with a heavy thump in my lap.

  The dog yelps and leaps off. I look down at the ball and time slows. Sounds are distorted, and my scream unfolds slow and loud. When I raise my hands it is as if I am swimming through treacle.

  I strain away, struggling to free myself as blood soaks through the skirts of my gown, hot on my thighs, filling my nostrils with heavy sweet scent. Katherine’s mouth opens wide, her screams piercing, merging with mine, rising upward, as the blood bubbles to our chests, our throats. The whole world is screaming. The ball in my lap grins up at me. I see it is not a ball at all. It is a head, a head I know well. It is the severed head of my cousin … Lady Jane Grey.

  “Your Majesty, Your Majesty, wake up! You are dreaming!”

  “Susan!” I cling to her, still trapped in the grip of the nightmare.

  “You are safe. You are in your bed at Westminster. You are queen. You are queen…”

  “I am queen,” I repeat as I look wildly about the room, ensuring the horror of my sleeping mind has not followed me into the morning.

  There is no severed head here. I am safe.

  The room is shadowed, a warm fire glowing in the hearth, my startled women grouped at the foot of the bed. Nightgowns. Braids and bedcaps. I gasp for breath and try to smile, and make light of my dream. But my mouth will not obey.

  This morning I cannot pray, I cannot eat, I cannot even think, for today is the day my cousin Jane must die.

  St James’ Palace – November 1558

  In the darkness, a hand tightens in mine. I turn my face toward the murmuring voices and tuck my chin down, close my eyes. Let them think I am sleeping.

  “How did the queen bear it?” I hear the child whisper.