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

by Judith Arnopp

  “Not very well,” comes Susan’s muted reply. “She was never the same afterward. All the time the Princess Elizabeth was in the Tower, the queen wavered between the conviction that she’d been involved in the plot against her, and the belief that shared blood holds precedence over politics.”

  “What did you think, Lady Susan? Do you believe the princess was part of it?”

  A rustle of silk breaks the short silence.

  “We will never know. Elizabeth has always kept her own council. Nobody ever knows what she is thinking. Some say she has no feelings.”

  “I’ve heard she is clever.”

  “Oh yes. Very clever … and agile too. A quick thinker, with a mind more akin to a man’s than a woman’s.”

  “Will she make a good queen?”

  Another silence, this time broken by a sigh.

  “No. It is a shame she is not a true Catholic. None of us, not even the queen, have really been fooled by her pretence. When she rules, England will become Protestant again and I, and others like me, will be unable to stay. I could never live a lie and so I must see out the last of my days in exile.”

  The rattle of a rosary informs me that Susan is kissing her beads.

  “Where will you go? I can’t imagine ever leaving English shores.”

  “Spain perhaps. I have always wanted to go and there I can worship as my heart dictates, not my monarch.”

  I open my eyes but the darkness remains.

  “Your Majesty, you are awake.”

  I make a sound that falls somewhere between a word and a grunt, and attempt to pull myself up the pillows. I am too weak. I give up and slump down again.

  “Let me help you.”

  Susan leans over me, and my nostrils fill with the fragrance of lavender. She places a hand beneath each armpit and hauls me higher up the bed.

  “Thank you,” I say and hang on to her hand when she would remove it. “Can you light the candles, please?”

  “It is full day, Your Majesty, but I will if…”

  “No matter.” I sink my head into my shoulders, hunching beneath the blanket like a wizened crone. It is frightening to be in the dark with my eyes wide open. “I am quite blind now,” I say and when they do not answer, I realise it is because they are weeping.

  Someone holds a cup to my lips and I freshen my mouth. I will die soon. I have only a short time left. They know it and so do I. But I am too young, despite the lines upon my face. Groping on the coverlet for the girl’s hand, I give it a squeeze.

  “I must finish my story, child, while there is time. I regret it is not a pretty tale from here on; not the fairy tale I hoped it would be.”

  She gulps audibly. “Yes, Your Majesty. Do not worry. I am brave enough to listen.”

  “Where was I?”

  “Your sister was in the Tower and you were just about to marry Philip of Spain.”

  “Oh yes … Philip.”

  Winchester – February 1554

  Months of wrangling pass, and I am exhausted from quarrelling with my ministers over tedious details before my future husband agrees to set foot in my realm. Why must they constantly raise political irrelevances designed to postpone the day of our wedding?

  Perhaps, had they not tried to thwart my wish to marry into Spain, I would not have fought so hard to make it happen. I have always resented instruction and grudge it even more now I am queen. Nobody tells a king how to act; why should a queen be at the beck and call of her advisors?

  Elizabeth has become the thorn in my side I was warned she would be. No matter how hard the council tries to implicate her in the rebellion, she fends them off with ready answers and makes no effort to disguise her contempt for them.

  “She shows no hint of fear, Your Majesty. Not even a touch of guilt or weakness, but I know she was involved....”

  I look up at Gardiner and do not miss the reluctant admiration in his voice as he relates the details of the interviews. Somehow, she has managed to dip and dive around the most agile minds in the kingdom and emerge unscathed. Short of putting her to the rack, I can only surmise her innocent, but I am not yet ready to free her.

  I read through the reports once again, the words on the page evoking her so clearly the scene runs like a mummers’ play through my mind. I imagine her entry into London dressed all in white, the curtains of her litter open so that all might look upon her. She woos the people with her pretty face and youthful innocence, and her sudden descent into fever increases their pity further. I don’t believe a word of it. She claims to be ailing, covered in bumps and pustules, sick unto death, and the physicians I send to determine the truth of it also swear it to be true. But Elizabeth will not die. She is too clever.

  But then a rumour starts up that she is not sick at all but pregnant – although whose child she is supposed to be carrying is not certain. Again, I know it is a lie and she is quick to prove it. She parades herself before the people, standing tall and enviably slim to prove to the people she is not and never has been with child.

  Later, when the moment is described to me, Renard is clearly impressed.

  “She was lofty, somewhat scornful but rather magnificent, Your Majesty,” he says and I lose my temper, swipe a tray of cups to the floor and leave the council to it. They must find a way of removing her, she is a barb in my finger and must not be allowed to turn bad.

  Later, the Earl of Sussex brings me a letter, written in haste by my sister.

  If any ever did try this old saying that a king’s word was more than another man’s oath, I most humbly beseech Your Majesty to verify it in me and to remember your last promise and my last demand that I be not condemned without answer and due proof which it seems that now I am for that without cause proved. I am by your counsel from you commanded to go unto the Tower, a place more wanted for a false traitor, than a true subject which though I know I deserve it not, yet in the face of all this realm appears that it is proved. Which I pray God I may die the most shameful death that ever any died afore. If I may mean any such thing; and to this present however I protest before God (Who shall judge my truth, whatsoever malice shall devise) that I neither practiced, concealed nor consented to anything that might be prejudicial to your person any way or dangerous to the state by any means. And therefore I humbly beseech Your Majesty to let me answer before yourself and not suffer me to trust your counsellors yea, and that before I go to the Tower (if it be possible) if not before I be further condemned, howbeit I trust assuredly Your Highness will give me leave to do it before I go, for that thus shamefully I may not be cried out on as now I shall be, yea and without cause. Let conscience move Your Highness to take some better way with me than to make me be condemned in all men’s sight before my desert known. Also, I most humbly beseech Your Highness to pardon this my boldness which innocence procures me to do together with hope of your natural kindness which I trust will not see me cast away without desert, which what it is I would desire no more of God but that you truly knew. Which things I think and believe you shall never by report know unless by yourself you hear. I have heard in my time of many cast away for want of coming to the presence of their prince and in late days I heard my lord of Somerset say that if his brother had him suffered to speak with him he had never suffered, but the persuasions were made to him so great that he was brought in belief that he could not live safely if the admiral lived and that made him give his consent to his death. Though these persons are not to be compared to Your Majesty yet I pray God that evil persuasions persuade not one sister against the other and all for that they have heard false report and not harkened to the truth.

  Therefore once again kneeling with humbleness of my hart, because I am not suffered to bow the knees of my body, I humbly crave to speak with Your Highness which I would not be so bold to desire if I knew not myself most clearly as I know myself most true, and as for the traitor Wyatt he might peradventure writ me a letter but on my faith, I never received any from him and as for the copy of my letter sent to the French king
, I pray God confound me eternally if ever I sent him word, message, token or letter by any means, and to this my truth I will stand in to my death.

  I humbly crave but only one word of answer from yourself.

  Your Highness’s most faithful subject that hath been from the beginning, and will be to my end.

  Elizabeth.

  It is a long and somewhat repetitive letter and Elizabeth has filled the blank areas of the page with thick black lines to prevent her enemies from adding a damning codicil. I squint at the page in the poor light.

  It is untidy and mis-spelled, the script is cramped and blotted, yet my sister’s voice is clear in every line. How can I not remember writing similar letters to my father, to my brother?

  Elizabeth lives in dread of the Tower and who can blame her? The memory of her mother, if indeed she remembers Anne Boleyn at all, must be at the forefront of her mind. She knows too well that those who enter the dark recesses of the Tower of London as prisoners rarely come out alive.

  Yet, my hands are tied. I shake my head.

  “She must go to the Tower, Sussex. I must be seen to be doing what is right. It is what Spain expects.”

  I find it difficult to speak, for grief is strangling me. The thought of my pretty, lively sister incarcerated in the terrible darkness of the Tower is unbearable.

  “Give her apartments that befit her status and ... and, don’t take her in through Traitor’s Gate,” I add as they leave the room. One by one, they bow and take leave of me.

  Not one of them can look me in the eye.

  But it isn’t over yet. Her enemies are still not pacified. Spain heaps pressure on me, reminding me that the throne will never be secure while Elizabeth lives. Philip will not leave Spain and the marriage will not take place until justice has been served. I fob them off, promising that great headway is being made and that she is close to a confession. In truth, my ministers report that she continues to defend every accusation laid against her with the deftness and wiliness of a fox.

  “You must remember, Your Majesty, that she is not without power. I wonder what it would take for her supporters to rise against you? She certainly does not lack the wealth to pay for it.”

  My head aches. I wish they’d shut up but they are right. After me, Elizabeth is the richest woman in the land, her coffers are overflowing, her estates are vast, and she is far more skilled at winning men’s loyalty than I.

  She does not lack the wherewithal to rise against me but even if I wanted it, I wonder at the wisdom of sentencing her to death.

  Richmond Palace – April 1554

  On the eleventh day of April, Wyatt faces his death on the scaffold. Trying not to think of the events taking place, I bury myself at Richmond. I know Wyatt of old; he is a few years my junior and formerly a merry member of my father and brother’s court. His father was one of Boleyn’s many lovers who somehow managed to dodge the axe. Despite not wishing to hear of it, they bring me news of his death.

  “He died bravely,” Rochester tells me. “And before he did so, he swore the Princess Elizabeth and the Earl of Devon to be innocent of all involvement.”

  He lied, of course, but I do not let Rochester see that I realise this. If I destroy Courtenay, I have no option but to execute my sister.

  I cannot do that.

  Trying not to dwell on the healthy young body that has been quartered and his innards drawn, I pretend to meet the news of my sister’s innocence with relief. But my council remains divided on the matter. It seems they are never in accord. Gardiner, who once swore love for my sister, now argues against her, while Paget, who was formally her direst enemy, now speaks in her defence.

  I am torn between the two. I feel as if a rope is tied about my middle and each side pulls in an opposite direction. I have become a royal tug of war. I don’t know what to do. The people love her. I love her … albeit reluctantly.

  The whole realm is divided on the issue of Elizabeth. With my mind in chaos, I look about me to gauge the feelings of those I should trust. The people love Elizabeth; they remember Jane Grey and fear my sister is to suffer the same fate. If I let her die, she will be hailed as a martyr, an innocent victim, and I will be viewed as a vengeful queen. If I let her live, the Catholics, particularly Spain, will think me weak.

  Every household, every tavern is alive with speculation as to whether or not I bear enough bitterness to kill my sister.

  Let them wonder.

  But, I must act. She must either be condemned as a traitor or freed. Questioning her is getting us nowhere. She was clearly aware of what Wyatt was planning but there is no proof that she condoned it, or had any part in it. It is not as if she handed over coin to be rid of me. I am relieved yet disappointed that no proof can be found. As always, the love and the hate I bear her are in conflict, and I cannot decide the best course to take.

  In the end, I release her from the Tower but set her under house arrest at Woodstock, where a sharp eye is kept on her. Her every movement, every letter, every word is reported to me, and if she lets slip one tiny inference of treason, it will be her last … I think.

  With Elizabeth safely stowed at Woodstock, I can at last look forward to the arrival of my future consort. My former reluctance toward marriage is forgotten and I can barely contain myself as I wait for our first meeting. The new extravagant gowns are ready and I have ordered equally extravagant gifts for Philip. I select a huge diamond; a poignard studded with jewels; and gowns, the most richly embellished I’ve ever laid eyes upon. On the day of his arrival, I send a white horse trapped in wine velvet and gold to take him to his well-appointed lodging.

  By ten in the evening, dressed in my finest, I am waiting at the Bishop’s Palace. Flanked by my ladies and councillors, I listen to the arriving horses, clenching my fists when I hear the heavy footsteps as his retinue mounts the stairs. The doors are flung open and I draw in my breath, hearing his name announced and his unhurried tread across the floor.

  I look up.

  Does my heart move? No; not as I had expected it would. Instead of joy, I find I am a little disappointed. I see grace, certainly, but sense no warmth behind it. I suppose I had hoped he would display eagerness, perhaps a flourish of excitement, a dash of romance. I kiss my fingers and reach out to take his hand, feeling myself tense as he moves forward, grasps my shoulders and kisses me on the mouth.

  I do not close my eyes. His lips are wet and rather thick, his breath tainted with an odour I do not recognise. As we draw apart, I note that he is very young. I knew his age, of course, but somehow hoped it would not be so apparent. I feel like a crone in comparison.

  We are of a similar height, and he is slim with fair hair – our children will be blond, I think, before hurriedly suppressing the indelicate direction my mind has taken. But, he is well made and we are of the same stock, and I am grateful to discover that at least he is not revolting. It will not be too difficult to accept him into my bed.

  He is polite and, over the next few days, he escorts me around the gardens and joins me at supper in the hall where all eyes are upon us, speculating and gossiping.

  I place spies in his apartments and instruct them to report every overheard remark, regardless of whether it will please me or not. So I quickly become aware of the unkind whispers that are bandied about. I learn that his attendants describe me as a saint who dresses badly; they fear my youth has passed and my skin no longer fits me as it should; I am pale and appear older than my years.

  Despite giving the order that he should be spied upon, I am wounded. While I am happy to take this young, fresh prince into my bed, his countrymen pity him the task. I had thought they would be honoured. No inkling of Philip’s own opinion reaches me and I hope with all my heart the cruel views of his household do not reflect his own. There is, of course, nothing I can do about any of this, but I dearly wish I hadn’t demanded to be told.

  As my women disrobe me, I stand before my looking glass and see myself as the Spanish see me. I survey my small breasts;
my flabby stomach; my spindly limbs; my thin, lank hair; my pale, sagging cheeks. No man will ever lust for me and I am filled with bitterness to have been denied marriage for so long. In my youth, I was comely; Philip would have looked forward to my bed then. I indulge in the fleeting memory of another Philip, long ago in the palace garden – my first kiss, my last kiss … until now. I can still vaguely recall the unfurling lust in my belly, the joy the sound of his name instilled in me. It would have been better to have wed him, at least he had the wit to pretend a passion for me … but this is feeble talk. Philip of Spain is kin. It is what my mother wanted. He is a good man and will do his duty.

  I have faced worse trials than this.

  My wedding day passes in a blur. Afterward, people tell me of the extravagant decoration in the cathedral, the superb voices of the choir, the triumphant spectacle of Philip and his grandees. All I can recall is that my new shoes were pinching my toes and that the Earl of Derby, who bore the sword of state before me, had sat in something sticky and carried a stain on his cloak.

  If they weren’t still hanging in my closet, I doubt I would recall the clothes I wore as I swore an oath to be Philip’s true and loving spouse. All I remember is emerging from the cathedral with my arm in Philip’s, the bells crashing overhead, the joyous cries of my people who waited so patiently in the steadily falling rain.

  There is feasting afterwards, of course, and dancing. I sit enthroned while a stream of nobles and dignitaries from home and abroad offer their blessings and gifts. I give stilted thanks and replies, for all I can think of is the enormity of what must come later.

  I have been a virgin for so long that I imagine my fear is far greater than a young woman’s would be. A girl has the armour of confidence and youth to fortify her. All she need do is surrender her body, close her eyes and think of the children she will bear. At my age, I have other worries.

  As I am made ready for bed, my women tease and make crude jokes, nudging and giggling as is tradition, but I cannot stand it.