Книга - The Tudor Princess

The Tudor Princess
Darcey Bonnette


Love, treachery and betrayal at court… The perfect read for fans of Philippa Gregory and Susannah Dunn.From her earliest days, Margaret Tudor knows she will not have the luxury of choosing a husband. As daughter of Henry VII, her duty is to gain alliances for England. Barely out of girlhood, Margaret is married by proxy to James IV and travels to Edinburgh to become Queen of Scotland.Despite her doubts, Margaret falls under the spell of her adopted home. But she has rivals. While Jamie is an affectionate husband, he is not a faithful one. And providing an heir cannot guarantee Margaret's safety when Jamie leads an invading army against her own brother, Henry VIII.In the wake of tragic loss she falls prey to the attentions of the ambitious Earl of Angus – a move that brings Scotland to the brink of anarchy. Beset by betrayal, secret alliances, and the vagaries of her own heart, Margaret has one overriding ambition – to preserve the crown of Scotland for her son, no matter what the cost.Exquisitely detailed and poignant, The Tudor Princess vividly depicts the life and loves of an extraordinary woman who helped shape the fate of two kingdoms – and in time, became the means of uniting them.









DARCEY BONNETTE

The Tudor Princess










Copyright (#ulink_1e1fead0-5fd7-5239-b3b5-fbda9486c43b)


Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published by Kensington Publishing, New York, 2013

This edition published by HarperCollins Publishers, Great Britain, 2014

Copyright © Darcey Bonnette 2013

Cover photograph © Richard Jenkins

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2014

Darcey Bonnette asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007497782

Ebook Edition © April 2014 ISBN: 9780007497799

Version: 2016-02-19




Dedication (#ulink_9624a221-48b2-5f45-94d6-2bc26c608162)


Dedicated in loving memory of another sassy redhead: my mother-in-law, Karen Ann Barton


Contents

Cover (#uff349841-b039-5ff4-b082-8de45b86f554)

Title Page (#ue4d02103-5e08-56a6-8531-bff767e99385)

Copyright (#uaf3013e4-96bb-52b9-81ad-6d502413dada)

Dedication (#ua15a70a8-9302-5048-9ae7-be94d9d7dc47)

Book 1: Margaret (#u762ac4e5-d741-5e2a-aada-9ddec176e3e2)

Prologue: The Flames of Sheen (#ub2d7648b-07b7-55bd-a1c6-f35f90d29a03)

1. The Wilted Rose (#ua81d1a1e-355b-515f-af6f-b44f2daa5cd4)

2. The Song of Loss (#ua7b92aab-8e95-57af-a83a-8f5008923587)

3. The Progress (#u956a92d0-7e10-52d3-88ed-d25fc39f330d)

Book 2: Jamie (#uea53efd1-dd5c-583f-87d6-91b419a81849)

4. Scotland! (#uaf0a8bab-26b4-59a9-ad1d-131bf7a74040)

5. Mistress Stewart (#u4f82360e-b40e-5b4c-8e90-152565db2a57)

6. Margaret the Queen (#u56cc38c2-0b3a-5601-9ccb-589d83664129)

7. The Stewart Curse (#litres_trial_promo)

8. Queens and Warriors (#litres_trial_promo)

9. Ten Thousand Widows (#litres_trial_promo)

Book 3: The Douglas (#litres_trial_promo)

10. The Ally (#litres_trial_promo)

11. Mistress Douglas (#litres_trial_promo)

Book 4: Jehan (#litres_trial_promo)

12. The Regent (#litres_trial_promo)

13. The Flight (#litres_trial_promo)

14. The Reunion (#litres_trial_promo)

15. His Sister’s Keeper (#litres_trial_promo)

16. The Return (#litres_trial_promo)

17. A Woman of Scandal (#litres_trial_promo)

18. The Crown of Flames (#litres_trial_promo)

19. The Mothers of Kings (#litres_trial_promo)

Book 5: Harry (#litres_trial_promo)

20. The Captive King (#litres_trial_promo)

21. The Princesses of Scotland (#litres_trial_promo)

Book 6: Margaret R (#litres_trial_promo)

22. Distractions (#litres_trial_promo)

23. The Distant Drums (#litres_trial_promo)

24. King Jamie (#litres_trial_promo)

25. The Stewart Legacy (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Further Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Discussion Questions (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)






BOOK 1 (#ulink_4be42851-b9bc-508f-86c3-1f997ca191e7)







PROLOGUE (#ulink_c7b0a326-22ba-51ad-a5fc-1ee84ed4e23c)

The Flames of Sheen (#ulink_c7b0a326-22ba-51ad-a5fc-1ee84ed4e23c)


It began with smoke. His Grace King Henry VII said everything began with smoke, from the fall of the old kings to the rise of the new, when the smoke curled about the mouths of the great cannon as they spewed forth their vengeance on the battlefield, to the love born of a man and a woman, where the smoke rose from the smallest flame in the bedchamber, quite unable to rival that which burns in the human heart, the flames he coveted for his own wife, my mother, Queen Elizabeth of York.

But the night I lost my Sheen, the flames arose from a cause unknown, an errant taper, likely. Sliding across the floor, deft and sleek as a snake were the flames. They licked up the side of the wall, taking in with great satisfaction the new tapestries Her Grace my mother had taken such care in embroidering to cheer the king’s chambers that fateful Christmas.

And so, watching in awe, I was held fast with helplessness. A cacophony of voices swirled about me, but I was unable to identify their owners.

‘The prince!’ someone cried. ‘Remove His Highness, the Prince of Wales!’

Of course it made sense to rescue the treasured heir first. And no one treasured him more than I, his sister. However, I must say a thorn of jealousy twisted in my breast as I watched the guards usher my brother Arthur forth from the chambers, amidst a clam-our of frightened dignitaries and courtiers. My mother gathered the other children around her, impetuous Henry and sweet baby Mary, taking flight.

I stood, captivated by the scene. At once my face began to prickle and tingle with the strange sensation that I was being watched. I turned to see him, the man to be feared above all, the man second only to God above. Henry VII, my father, my king. Flames lost their heat in his cool, calm eyes. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as his gaze held mine.

‘Margaret,’ he said, his voice low, knowing he as king had no need to raise it. Even the flames stilled to listen.

Only my tears could answer for me.

‘We will build another,’ he assured me.

And then I was in the arms of a guard. I closed my eyes to the flames now devouring my world, insatiable, and my ears to the crackling, creaking timbers that once made up my Sheen, palace of my childhood.

Things were about to change. Somehow I knew then more than ever that I was not ordinary.







1 (#ulink_1ce0181e-42e6-5f3d-8a9d-04ef7d6fc38d)




The Wilted Rose (#ulink_1ce0181e-42e6-5f3d-8a9d-04ef7d6fc38d)


There was no one high enough to intervene on behalf of my immortal soul, my grandmother had cried. I was a shameful creature, she went on, a wilted petal on the Tudor rose. It was time I was made to examine my wicked ways and repent. Grandmother was through with humble chaplains and confessors. I was a Princess of the Blood; the fate of kingdoms may rest in my finding salvation. Thus I was removed to my godfather, the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, where I must come up with an impressive confession. I was certain it wouldn’t take much; I had a wealth of sins to choose from.

Lord Chancellor John Morton sat before me in his grand white robes, drumming his slim fingers on his knee, waiting for the recitation of my various sins.

I wrung my hands. Oh, where to begin?

‘I hit my brother Henry on the head with a stick,’ I told him, swallowing my fear as I approached him to lay a hand on his lap. I refused to sit in the confessional. I did not like walls between me and anyone, see-through or not. The archbishop’s robe was very soft under my fingertips and I found myself scrunching the material beneath my nails in nervousness.

He offered a grave nod, urging me to continue. ‘Why would you do such a thing, Princess Margaret?’

‘Because Henry is stupid,’ I explained with impatience. ‘If you knew him you would surely hit him as well, my lord.’

The archbishop’s lips twitched. ‘Pray continue, Highness.’

I twisted the material of his gown in my fist, edging closer to him. My tone was conspiratorial. ‘And then I stuck my tongue out at my tutor because he called me saucy. I am not saucy, Your Grace!’

‘Indeed?’ The smallest smile curved his lips. ‘Go on.’

I swallowed several times, shifting from foot to foot. ‘And then … then I put a frog in my grandmother’s slipper—’

‘Gracious, Your Highness, that was creative,’ he observed. ‘Why should you grieve your gentle grandmother so?’

‘Do you know my grandmother, Your Grace?’ I asked, incredulous that anyone should describe the severe Margaret Beaufort as gentle.

‘She is a great lady,’ said the archbishop. ‘It would serve you better to respect her.’ He paused, arching a brow. ‘Now. Anything else?’

‘Well, I also hid Grandmother’s hair shirt,’ I confessed. ‘I wasn’t trying to be bad that time. Honest. I just thought to give her skin a rest—’

‘How old are you, Princess Margaret?’

‘I am ten,’ I told him, offering a bright smile to display the pearly row of grown-up teeth that were my pride.

‘Do you think a girl of ten should meddle in the affairs of a woman more than thrice her age?’ he asked me in patient tones. ‘I should say not. The Lord commands us to honour our mother and father; this applies to all elders. Your grandmother is a very spiritual lady and needs none of your … intervention. She is an example of faithfulness. Remember, through her loving discipline you are brought to a better understanding of God.’

I bowed my head. I hated talking about the Venerable Margaret Beaufort with anyone. I hated even thinking about her. Spiritual! How I had suffered for Margaret Beaufort’s ‘spirituality’! If her cane across my back was made to bring about a better understanding of God I could have been an abbess!

‘Anything else?’

Summoned to mind was the most grievous sin of all. I sighed. ‘I asked the king what a whore is.’

The priest’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth with one large hand. ‘Did you find out?’

‘No! Grandmother slapped me!’ I cried, hoping to solicit his sympathy. ‘I can’t begin to imagine why! I only asked because I heard one of the ladies say there were an awful lot of whores about and I feared it was some kind of insect, so I thought it best to find out! I do not want anything crawling on me, after all!’

Archbishop Morton tilted his head back, closing his eyes a long moment. He drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. ‘Anything else, my lady?’

I bit my lip. ‘I … I’m not sure.’

‘You’re not sure?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s just that I sin with such terrible frequency – I can’t seem to keep track. I suppose I should make a list …’

‘Highness, has it ever occurred to you that the best way to, er, “keep track” of your sins is to reduce the list or perhaps, to the best of your ability, cease sinning altogether?’ he asked.

‘Oh, but that would be impossible!’ I cried.

‘Indeed, we’re all human and it is in our nature to sin, but I do not believe reducing the regularity of the habit to be an impossibility—’

‘How on God’s earth do you expect me to have any fun that way?’ I cried.

‘Charity shall be your penance,’ said the archbishop in decisive tones as he rose. ‘I should like you to accompany your grandmother on her charitable exploits. ’Twill teach you humility as well and do your soul much good.’

‘Yes, Your Grace.’ I bowed my head in an attempt at humility, though I was much aggrieved at the thought of accompanying Grandmother anywhere. I raised my head, hoping there was some way to endear myself to him. ‘Thank you ever so!’ I cried then, throwing my arms about his waist and resting my chin against his chest, casting adoring eyes to his stern countenance. How I wished he would scoop me up in his arms and carry me off to Lambeth. Then I could be his little girl most loved. Of course, archbishops couldn’t have little girls, so I supposed it would do to place this fantasy with yet another gentleman. Unfortunately, I seemed to be running out.

‘Now, now, Highness, that is quite enough!’ cried the archbishop as he disengaged himself from me.

Blinking back a sudden onset of tears, I fell to my knees and, in an unusual display of reverence, kissed his grand ring.

‘I will pray fervently for your soul, Your Highness,’ he told me.

I rose. ‘Your Grace … no one ever did tell me … what is a whore?’

‘Your Highness …’ The archbishop removed his cap to run a hand through his thinning white hair. ‘You’ll … find out when you’re older.’

I refrained from stamping my foot.

I’d find out when I was older. Everyone’s favourite answer when they couldn’t tell me a thing. Likely they didn’t even know!

Oh, confession was a bore!

I resolved to think of a hundred other fun sins to indulge in, just to spite them all.

If anything, it would make the dread chore more interesting. It was rather fun shocking the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I liked shocking everyone.

Christmastide distracted me from my mischievous missions and was all the incentive I needed to remain good. Grandmother said this in itself is a sin; I should be good because I wanted to be good, not because it involved some kind of reward.

‘But aren’t you being good just so you can get into heaven?’ I countered, recalling my grandmother’s famous displays of piety. ‘That is a reward.’

This rewarded me with a clout on the mouth and no satisfactory answer.

We removed from Greenwich to Westminster, where all the family would be together for the first time in many months. Excitement surged through me as I peeked out of the curtains of my litter to wave to the throng gathered at the palace gates, who shouted blessings at me.

‘Bless the princess!’ they called.

‘Throw them some coin; that’s what they’re waiting for,’ my grandmother urged in stern tones. ‘Goodness knows they’re not really here to see you.’

‘They are, too!’ I returned. ‘They adore me!’

Just to ensure this, however, I reached into her purse to fish out a handful of sovereigns, tossing them to the awaiting crowd, who scrambled and scuffled over them in the street. My heart lurched as the truth of my grandmother’s words rang in my ears.

When at last I was permitted to quit the litter and my grandmother’s deplorable company, I ran through the Long Gallery to search out my family. I offered warm greetings to the courtiers and dignitaries who surrounded Father like butterflies around flowers. All rewarded me with smiles and bows.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was there. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Well, Princess Margaret. You have come to grace us with your presence for the holiday season. Let us pray the palace doesn’t take fire this year.’

My eyes misted as I recalled my precious Sheen, now being rebuilt as my father had promised into a grand palace he had decided to call Richmond, for our family’s seat.

‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ I assured him, in case that had been his implication.

The archbishop, in a moment of rare tenderness, ruffled my hair as he chuckled. ‘Of course not, Your Highness. Now. Come with me. You’ll be anxious to see your father, no doubt.’

‘Oh, yes!’ I cried, sliding my hand in his and leaning my head on his arm. He disengaged and my arm fell to my side as we progressed through the gallery toward my father’s apartments.

We entered King Henry VII’s privy chamber to find him hunched over his writing table, scouring documents. He did not put them aside when my presence was announced and I stood among members of the council, who rolled their eyes at each other as if to say, Here she is again.

Yes, here I am again and you’ll never forget me! I longed to cry. I was not some common street urchin; I was Princess Margaret Tudor and a finer lass they’d never lay eyes upon!

But I said nothing. I sighed and fiddled with the pearls sewn into the neckline of my blue velvet gown. I plaited and unplaited my coppery tresses over my shoulder to busy my fidgety hands, until at last the King of England raised his taciturn face toward me. With one slim hand, he gestured for me to come forth.

I made a face at the councillors present, hoping to convey my dislike for them in one charming grimace, and proceeded toward the grand table. I curtsied low.

‘Margaret,’ he muttered in his gruff voice, looking me up and down. ‘So this is what we have to work with.’

I scowled before I could help myself. ‘Your Grace?’

‘Altogether too thin,’ he mumbled, looking down at his papers. ‘You had better be able to bear children else you’ll be no use at all.’

‘Your Grace!’ I cried. This was not the happy reunion I had envisaged. But then most of my fantasies fell scathingly short of reality. I heaved a deep sigh. ‘There is no reason to believe I shouldn’t be able to bear a wealth of sons, my lord. I am of good Tudor and Plantagenet stock – I will do you proud.’

He raised his head at this, offering a rueful smile. ‘I think I rather like you,’ he said, as though he were experiencing an epiphany and the idea of actually liking his children was quite novel indeed.

‘You’ll not let anyone get the best of you, will you?’ he mused, rising and rounding the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. ‘You are of particular interest to me this year, Daughter,’ he said, his narrow face creasing into a smile. I must say he looked horrible. His auburn hair grazed his shoulders in a straight and sensible mass that did his long features no good at all. I wished he’d cut it. He looked like an old fox wrapped in his furs, an old fox waiting to leap out and, with the slyness associated with the creature, wreak subtle havoc on those who dared oppose him.

And yet without those foxy and wily ways Henry VII would not be Henry VII at all, but the obscure Duke of Richmond nobody cared about. Had my father not conspired against (with the help of another fox, my cunning grandmother Margaret Beaufort) and eventually slain the usurper King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth, the crown of England would not be in Tudor hands and the Wars of the Roses would still be fought in vain. But my father the king, for all his bad hair and fashion sense, swept in and won the day, not only claiming the crown but also uniting the houses of York and Lancaster at last by marrying my fair mother, Elizabeth, ending the wars for good. My father filled the treasury, modernised the government through the appointments of councillors (also men with bad hair and worse fashion sense), ousting all pretenders to the throne with the mightiness of his hand. He was a formidable man, this Henry Tudor, cold and calculating, miserly and cautious. This man, this king, was my father and never was the thought far from my mind that his were the hands that would shape my destiny.

‘Everyone out – We should have audience with Our daughter alone!’ Father barked, rousing me from my reverie as I watched a room of scrambling servants and councillors all too eager to do his bidding.

Father rounded the desk once more to look out of the window, past the gardens, past the tower, far past the known horizon. He was squinting. I found myself doing the same, though I had no idea what we were looking for.

‘You do realise that as a daughter of this house yours is not an ordinary future We have planned,’ he said. ‘Margaret, the peace of kingdoms depends on you.’

‘Oh, if this is about me sinning again I can tell you I have been good for at least a week!’ I cried.

He silenced me with a hand. ‘Margaret, I’ve news on your suit.’

I began to tremble. My suit. I braced myself. What prince had my father chosen for me? To what distant land would I be sent?

‘We need an end to these frays with Scotland and one of the ways of achieving that is by forming an alliance,’ he explained. ‘D’you understand?’

I shook my head, though against my will comprehension was settling upon me, clutching my heart in its merciless talons until I became short of breath.

‘Don’t swoon on me now, child,’ Father commanded. ‘You’ve never been a fainting girl and now is no time to start.’ He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘Margaret. You are going to be what unites our kingdoms. You are going to bring about a better understanding between us. You are meant for greatness, perhaps a greatness that surpasses even your own brother the Crown Prince Arthur, because yours is a task that is far from easy.’ With this he shook me somewhat, not in cruelty, but to illustrate his passion. Fear coursed through me. ‘Margaret, my child, this is your purpose: You are to become the Queen of the Scots.’

Had I been a fainting girl, that would have been the time.

I did not know how to feel, what to think. Queen … But I knew I would be a queen; Princesses of the Blood are primed from birth for this function. From cradle to table I had been told that I would marry a prince, that I must bear him many sons, else be deemed a failure. And so with this in mind I prepared for my role as political breeder.

The night I learned I was to become Queen of the Scots – Scots, as if he couldn’t find a more glamorous country than where that lot of barbarians reside! – there was none with whom I could find comfort. For a while I climbed into bed with little Princess Mary, my three-year-old sister, cuddling her close. This golden princess would have a charmed life, I was certain. She was so agreeable and adorable; as yet she showed none of my sinful inclinations and everyone fawned over her.

At once I rose from the bed of the favoured princess, stirred to anger as I thought of the wonderful marriage Father would arrange for her. No doubt she would live in some glorious court where there would be artists and musicians to entertain her all day long – likely she’d get to live in sunny Spain or romantic France while I wasted away in the north, freezing in some drafty castle surrounded by fur-clad courtiers who spoke as though they had something obstructing their throats …! I dared not think on it any more. I crossed the rush-strewn floor on bare feet, wringing my hands and blinking back tears. I, Margaret Tudor, was going to be Queen of the Scots … those frightening, monstrous Scots …

I retrieved a wrap and sneaked out of the nursery, down the hall. I would see my brother Arthur. Gentle, sweet Arthur, so unlike fiery Henry and docile Mary, would be able to guide me.

The guards stood aside to admit me into the apartments of the Prince of Wales. He was lying across some furs before his fire, thumbing through The Canterbury Tales. When he saw me, his handsome, scholarly face lit up with a smile.

‘Sister,’ he said in his handsome voice. ‘A midnight visit. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit? Take some wine.’ He held the book up for me to see. ‘I know, I shouldn’t be indulging myself in such fancy, but the naughty parts are too delightful to ignore!’

The tears that had settled in my throat since learning of my impending betrothal were replaced by a smile as I sat beside my brother. There was no one like Arthur the world over, I was convinced. He was the gentlest, sweetest prince in Christendom and would no doubt be a fine king. He was not athletic like Henry, nor did he possess my younger brother’s fleet dancing feet. Arthur was an intellectual; content to study, to ponder, to think. His beauty was delicate and whenever I was with him I could not help but feel the need to protect him, nurture him, just as he had always protected and nurtured me.

The smile faded at the thought, replaced by fresh tears. ‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began. ‘I hate that I never get to see you. With you living in Ludlow and me here with nobody but Henry to annoy me and Grandmother to torture me … it is a miserable existence!’

‘So I suppose it best to dispense with the obligatory “how are you?”’ Arthur teased, his blue eyes sparkling as he reached out to cup my cheek. ‘Now, now, Sister, is it as bad as all that? Far be it for me to disagree with you about Grandmother, but our Henry means well enough. He may be annoying, but his love and devotion are fierce and you do have sweet little Mary—’

‘Henry’s love and devotion are fierce only when you’re in his favour and we’re rarely in each other’s favour … and Mary is favoured by everyone. I pale under the glory of her sun. She is the flawless little Tudor rose and I am the thorn they long to cut out,’ I pouted.

‘So intense!’ Arthur cried, sitting up and putting his book aside.

‘But since it would be unseemly to cut the thorn they shall send her to the land of the thistles – to Scotland!’ I cried, scowling. ‘Can you believe it, Arthur? Scotland? They may as well be sending me to hell!’

Arthur chuckled, but I took no pleasure in the handsome sound. It mocked my misery and my brow ached from furrowing it at him. ‘So that is what this display is about,’ he said. ‘Come here, darling girl.’ He held out his arm and I scooted in next to him. He gathered me close, stroking my hair. ‘We are special people, Margaret,’ he told me. ‘Special people with very special responsibilities. You know well; your whole life has been preparing you for this zenith. It seems unfair; princes are allowed to stay in their native countries for the most part while our sacred princesses must scatter to the four winds, their sacrifice in order to secure sound alliances for the countries to which they are bound. We are God’s chosen, though, my dearest. Chosen to lead His people, chosen to defend them and honour them. You are going to be a queen, Margaret. An anointed queen. No one can ever take that away from you. You have the power to do so much good. I know Scotland is not the land you dreamed of spending your life in. They are very different from us; but Father would not send you if he thought you would come to harm. He longs to bring about a good alliance between our two countries. Think of the role you can play in securing that glorious peace! Think of the legacy you will leave! The mark you will make! Margaret, there has not been peace between our two countries in one hundred and seventy years. You have the opportunity of setting things right.’

‘I don’t want to set anything right! I don’t want to go away! I want to stay with you!’ I cried, burying my head in his chest.

Arthur chuckled again. ‘You must be brave, lass, brave. Take heart and look sharp! A thistle can outlast a thousand roses. Father sends his little thorn to the wilds of Scotland because he knows she is strong enough to bear it.’

I pulled away, looking into his face. ‘It is just so very far, Arthur. When will I see you and Mother? What if they don’t like me there?’

‘Not like you?’ Arthur cried, as though this was impossible to conceive. ‘Why, no one can resist you.’

I brightened at this.

‘The Scots will fall madly in love with you,’ he went on. ‘And, think, pretty one, of all the clothes and jewels you will have as queen. There are going to be songs written about you, poems dedicated to you … there is so much to look forward to!’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!’ I cried, envisioning bolts of velvet and silk, kirtles of cloth of gold, and kid gloves. ‘I suppose I will be able to eat whatever I want all the time, too.’

‘All the time,’ he assured me. ‘Just mind that you don’t become fat. Nobody likes fat queens!’

I laughed. ‘Oh, no, I shall not! I’ll be a beautiful queen and will set a new standard of elegance for the Scots. All the ladies will want to dress like me—’

‘That’s the spirit!’ he cried, slapping me on the back as though I were one of the lads.

I seized my brother’s slim hands. ‘And you’ll write me all the time?’

‘All the time,’ he said, chucking my chin.

‘No one loves me like you do,’ I said in a small voice as I regarded my one true champion.

He waved a dismissive hand, flushing. ‘Nonsense. Everyone loves you.’ He smiled. ‘Now, enough of this fretting. You act as though you’re the only one to have a foreign prince inflicted on you. As yet you’ve expressed no sympathy regarding my suit.’

I cocked my head, puzzled.

‘Have you forgotten my marriage to the infanta, Catalina of Aragon?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘Oh, no. But at least she’s coming to you. And I hear she’s very fine and sweet.’

‘And I hear the King of Scots is lusty and robust!’ he returned. ‘We’ll do fine, Sister, you’ll see. We’ll usher our European brothers into a New Age!’

‘A New Age …’ I repeated, enchanted by the concept of being a luminary. ‘Do you think we can?’

‘I know we can!’ he cried. ‘Now! Enough. Sit with me and I’ll read you a story to divert you. “The Miller’s Tale” …’

I laughed at the thought of hearing the scandalous tale that Grandmother said was a sin to even listen to. Knowing this made me want to hear it all the more.

I covered up with one of the furs and warmed myself by the fire, enveloped in the solace and reassurance I had been seeking, knowing that there was none luckier than I, to have such a sweet brother as Arthur, Prince of Wales.







2 (#ulink_f689b028-4610-5212-bd4f-d4b1a6511c39)




The Song of Loss (#ulink_f689b028-4610-5212-bd4f-d4b1a6511c39)


Oh, it was going to be a wonderful year! I was twelve then and beautiful – everyone told me so. Though I was tiny and lacked the curves of some of my contemporaries, I was assured that my daintiness evoked just as much admiration. The worst part about entering womanhood, however, was the menses – how I hated it!

‘I do not understand its necessity!’ I once confessed to the old archbishop. ‘There is no fairness in it.’

‘Things would be different had Eve not led Adam into sin,’ he explained, bowing his head to conceal his flushing face.

‘So Adam did not have a mind of his own?’ I cried. ‘If he was witless enough to yield to Eve’s temptation then it is his stupidity that warrants the curse!’

‘Madam, you tread on blasphemy!’

‘Oh, you don’t want to hear it,’ I lamented. ‘You are on his side.’

And so there was nothing to do but bear it. Fortunately, there were plenty enough diversions to occupy me. The Princess Catalina had arrived! Oh, but she was lovely, so fair and sweet. How I pitied her when her name had to be anglicised. Now she would be forever known as Catherine of Aragon. How much a princess gave up when leaving her home – her family, her customs, her way of life, even her very name.

I was at least fortunate to be removing to an English-speaking country, for the most part, and would keep possession of my name.

I tried my best to offer friendship to my future sister-in-law. She was all Spanish; it oozed from her, reflected in her piety, her thick accent, and her manner of dress. Father was disappointed.

‘Guide her, Margaret,’ he told me. ‘Show her what it is to be an English princess.’

I was thrilled at this charge and complied with enthusiasm. Catherine was four years my senior but yielded to my instruction, eager to please her new countrymen. Though she demonstrated a strength of character that suggested she would not be manipulated, she agreed to conform to some of the English customs. I enjoyed acquainting myself with her and took to making plans.

‘I shall come visit you in Wales,’ I assured her. ‘And when I live in Scotland I will write you all the time. We will organise meetings between the royal houses that will unite our countries in friendship – it will be so grand! There’ll be masques and entertainments and jousting. England has the best jousters in the world!’

Catherine offered a kind smile. ‘It all sounds so lovely. May it come to pass just as you imagine it.’

Thrilled with the companionship of the princess, I removed to her betrothed that I might tell him of her.

‘She is so lovely, Arthur,’ I reported the night before their wedding. ‘I just know you are going to be happy!’ I clasped my hands to my heart and scrunched up my shoulders in glee.

Arthur was reading abed in his apartments. He offered a lazy smile, then covered his mouth with his handkerchief as his body was seized by a wracking coughing fit. I took to his side, reaching out to feel his forehead.

‘You’re burning up!’ I cried. ‘Oh, Arthur, are you well?’

He nodded. ‘No worries, sweeting. I’m just caught up in all the excitement and am a bit worn out.’

‘You must recover yourself for the wedding night!’ I teased. My brother Henry had just informed me of the goings-on between a man and maid. He had heard it from Charles Brandon, who was told by Neddy Howard. It sounded horrid and naughty and a little delightful.

‘Remember yourself, Princess!’ Arthur commanded, but his tone was good-natured. ‘Now, you’d better hurry off to bed!’

I rose, then paused, curling my hand about the post. ‘Arthur …’

‘What is it, lamb?’ he asked.

‘Will you still love me even when you are married?’

He laughed again. ‘You are a silly creature; of course I will. My first daughter will be named for you, how is that?’

I clapped my hands. ‘Oh, but it would be lovely! And may I stand as godmother to your first son?’

‘You are a demanding little wench,’ he said.

‘I must be; I am going to be a queen, after all!’ I returned.

Arthur nodded. ‘Well, then. I suppose no one would be a better godmother to my first son than you, my dear.’

‘Ha! I can’t wait to tell Mary!’ I said. ‘She will be so jealous!’

With this I dashed off to the nursery, brimming with excitement as I anticipated the future of the glorious Tudors.

Arthur and Catherine were married on 14 November at St Paul’s Cathedral in London. Oh, what a lovely pair! Broad-shouldered Henry, who at ten could pass for fourteen, escorted the bride to her groom. He strutted like a peacock, did Henry, and to look at him one would think the day was all about him. Of course if it were up to Henry every day would have been about him. He had thrown a fit over the fact that I should take precedence at public ceremonies since I would soon be Queen of the Scots, stamping his foot, making quite a proper fool of himself.

I supposed I could not blame him – I was guilty of basking in whatever attention was given to me and as I was the future queen everyone deferred to me before Henry, who was merely the Duke of York and would be nothing more than a glorified landlord and knight. I did not envy him at all.

Rivalries were dismissed at the wedding of Arthur and Catherine, however, and all eyes were upon them. They were a sweet couple and seemed engulfed in happiness. Catherine emanated a sincere desire to be a good English princess, though at her wedding feast she and her Spanish ladies entertained us with the spirited dances of their homeland.

‘I must learn those dances!’ I told Henry. ‘See how their feet glide – oh, they’re so graceful!’

He laughed, a sound as infused with merriment as any, and reached for my hand. ‘Come, Margaret – we will show them all how the English dance!’ he cried, and before I could protest we were skipping and alighting about the floor. The onlookers clapped and exclaimed over our prowess.

‘At last Father has deemed fit to throw a real party!’ Henry said as we twirled about. ‘They’re so few and far between – he cannot bear to part himself from a few crowns!’

‘Oh, Henry, you do talk scandalous!’ I teased. ‘But too true!’

Father was sitting under his canopy of state with his chin in his hand, the fixed smile upon his narrow face forced. He was not a man for frivolities. But he must dazzle the Spanish ambassadors with displays of our wealth and hospitality. It was our obligation to show the world that we were a power to be reckoned with, and nothing bespoke power like money and nothing bespoke money like an elaborate entertainment.

At last I found Arthur, who was pleased to watch the dancers rather than participate overmuch.

‘Are you happy, Arthur?’ I asked him.

He nodded. ‘I could not have hoped for a more beautiful princess,’ he told me. ‘I wish you the same joy upon your marriage.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to go to Ludlow,’ I pined. ‘It’s so cold and far away.’

‘Be brave, Margaret,’ Arthur said, his blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. ‘Always remember what I’ve told you. Remember who you are.’

In turn I offered my bravest smile. It was my last private moment with Arthur.

Upon his removal to the border of Wales my Arthur perished four months after his wedding, a victim of the terrible sweat … Oh, Arthur, you were supposed to be revelling in your princess. You were supposed to be giving me a godson and a namesake to follow. You were going to be happy … We were going to usher in a New Age … Oh, Arthur, who would ever love me like you?

The bells that had exclaimed my brother’s joy rang out a song of mourning that resonated deep within me; my heart pounded in time with each heavy toll, its own mourning anthem a constant, aching reminder of hope lost. I kept my own counsel during that time, crying soft tears when afforded the privacy to do so. The kind archbishop tried to coax from me confessions of my anger and hurt over my brother’s death, but I could not talk to him. There were no words that would bring my Arthur back.

The Crown Prince was dead, his beautiful bride widowed, and I was not the only one to feel the void of his loss. Mother took to her bed, inconsolable. Henry and little Mary clung to each other, but I noted a grim flicker in Henry’s blue eyes. Was it satisfaction? Surely not. And yet I could not doubt he was relishing the fact that he was now the Crown Prince; Arthur’s demise afforded him with the once unforeseen destiny of becoming King of England. Oh, Henry, there is something missing in you, I wanted to scream, but had no strength. He was but ten and I supposed everything was all a little unreal to a ten-year-old boy, who was so very behind a twelve-year-old girl in everything.

Father was devastated by the loss. Arthur was his pride. He loved him. Now his love was showered upon Henry; he became overprotective and strict, determined to prepare the boy for a life never anticipated for him. I almost pitied Henry as he adopted his new role. There was talk that he would become betrothed to Catherine, which would at least enable her to remain my sister-in-law. Though the thought comforted me, I found it strange to think that Henry would have all of Arthur’s leavings, right down to his own wife.

Mother’s way of combating the grief was by proving her fertility. She was with child. Thus far she had been pregnant seven times, suffering stillbirths and miscarriages in addition to the loss of our beloved Arthur. Perhaps she hoped to ensure the succession by giving England another healthy prince in case Henry should meet with the same fate … Oh, I could not bear to think of that.

Father was delighted, and though he was not a demonstrative man, he showered her with gifts.

‘What can bring us more comfort than the hope new life brings?’ he asked me, his stern countenance yielding to a rare smile that revealed more wistfulness than cheer.

The baby arrived but was short-lived. Our little Prince Edward was born a month premature and died within his first weeks of life. I did not cry this time. The state of my fear was too great, and as I regarded my gentle, fair-haired mother, her head bent in prayer, I pondered my fate. Was this what it meant to be a queen? To give and give and give of oneself and only lose in return? Your girls were sent abroad, your boys were set apart for their glorious educations, and God claimed the rest … Surging through me was a fear cold as ice. I trembled. I was so gripped by nausea I could not abide the sight of food and became even tinier.

It seemed despite everything, kings enjoyed the glory while queens bore the pain.

It was a heady thing.

Mother wasted no time grieving and in the winter of 1502 her belly swelled yet again. This time I could not contain my anxiety. Nerves caused me to take to my bed with dreadful headaches. The nurse brought this to Mother’s attention and she alighted to my side one evening over Christmastide.

‘Margaret, darling, what is happening to you?’ she asked in her soft voice. Ah, her voice. There was none like it; it was akin to a gentle wind, warm and sweet, never raised. There existed in the world no gentler a mother and tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought of causing her distress of any kind.

I sat up in my bed and wrapped my arms about her neck, burying my head in her shoulder. She began to sway, stroking my hair.

‘Margaret,’ she murmured. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

‘Oh, my lady, I am so afraid!’ I confided. ‘What if you lose this baby, too? How will your poor body bear it? You’re so delicate and pale.’ I reached up to stroke a flaxen curl away from her alabaster cheek.

Mother pulled away, cupping my face in her hands. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, darling. This is what I was made for. God’s will be done.’

‘I am afraid of God’s will,’ I confessed.

‘You must not be afraid, for He intends only the very best,’ she told me. ‘Now enough fretting. You do not want to spoil your beauty for the Scottish Embassy; we can’t have them telling King James his bride’s face is tearstained, that she is beside herself with nerves. You must be strong. Arthur would want you to be strong,’ she added, her eyes knowing as she confronted my deepest grief.

‘Arthur …’ I covered my eyes to ward off a vision of my gentle brother, a vision that taunted me by being forever unattainable. ‘Then the baby. Oh, Mother, I am so sorry about the baby.’ I drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I watch you endure and you’re so gracious and strong. I want to be like you, but I am so afraid I will never live up to your queenly example. I am afflicted with such fear – all I can think of is childbearing and what it’d be like if I were in your place. How would I bear losing my Crown Prince and all those babies? How would I go on?’

‘You go on because it is your duty,’ she said. ‘I will not pretend that it doesn’t break my heart; sometimes I think I lose a little more of myself with each passing.’ Her tone became thoughtful. ‘But we cannot bury ourselves with our loved ones. As queens we have a duty to our countries. We must provide heirs as long as we are able.’

‘What a business!’ I sniffed, anger replacing my tears. ‘We are good for nothing else!’

‘We are good for a great many things,’ she told me. ‘A subtle queen can advise her husband and be involved with the politics of the land if she is clever enough to make him think he does not know how much he relies upon her.’

I smiled. ‘Do you think I will be such a queen?’

‘I hope so,’ she said with her gentle smile. ‘Now you must try and stop grieving, lamb. In a few days the Scots will arrive and you shall be married by proxy in a grand ceremony. The king is sending you all kinds of marvellous gifts.’

‘Gifts? Oh, gifts!’ I exclaimed. At once my head felt much better. ‘What do you suppose a Scot gives his bride?’

‘With any luck, a Scottish bairn!’ cried Mother, taking me in her arms. We dissolved into laughter as I anticipated my impending nuptials.

The proxy ceremony was held on 15 January in my mother’s presence chamber. My northern groom was most generous, sending me a magnificent trousseau from Paris and a gown worth 160 pounds. I almost swooned with delight – what a splendid prince he must be!

How grand everyone looked, even Father, so solemn and stern in his black velvet, and Mother a serene picture of fertility and grace, her golden hair piled beneath her hood in an array of glossy curls.

I was bedecked in grand state robes of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, my throat encircled in jewels, and almost every slim finger ornamented with rings. My copper tresses tumbled to my waist in thick waves and I walked in slow, measured steps, my back straight, my head erect, proud as a Tudor should be.

The Scots did not look as odd as I imagined. There was something alluring about these men; there was an energy in their presence. They were alive. A thrill coursed through me as I pondered my future husband, wondering if he was as handsome and lusty as they said.

Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, served as proxy, looking most fierce and proud as he took my trembling hand before the Archbishop of Glasgow.

The archbishop regarded my parents on the dais and asked them if they knew of any impediment other than what had been dispensed. They said they did not. When I was asked I responded in a clear, strong voice that I, too, knew of nothing to impede my marriage to King James.

Lord Bothwell’s hand was warm in mine and I found myself squeezing it. He squeezed it in turn, glancing at me sideways and offering a quick smile as if to reassure me. The archbishop asked if it was in the King of Scots’ will and mind that he marry me in his name, to which the earl answered with a confident yes.

The archbishop turned his eyes to me. ‘And you, Princess. Are you content, without compulsion, and of your own free will?’

No! I wanted to scream. Who in their right mind was content with the idea of being exiled to Scotland of all places? But I remained calm and composed. I was a Princess of the Blood.

‘If it pleases my lord and father the king and lady mother the queen,’ I said, making certain my voice resonated throughout the chambers. I would show these Scots that their queen would be strong and able.

‘It is my will and pleasure,’ my father rumbled, his expression wistful as he beheld me.

Lord Bothwell repeated his vows after the archbishop, and I strained against his thick Scots brogue, trying to understand the words through the rolling Rs and guttural, throaty tones of speech. To think a whole country talked like that and I had to head them up!

My back ached from standing so straight, but I drew myself even straighter as I repeated after the archbishop, ‘I, Margaret, first-begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty prince and princess, Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent, right high and mighty prince, James, King of Scotland and therefore I plight and give to him in your person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.’

At once the trumpets sounded and the minstrels burst into song. A bubble of laughter caught in my chest as I turned to the earl.

‘Many congratulations, Your Grace,’ he told me, dipping into a bow.

Your Grace! I was a Grace! I shot a smug look at my brother, Henry, who was all too eager to sit on the throne. He scrunched his nose up at me but was smiling. I expected both of us were eager to dazzle our guests with our dancing.

Father led the band of Scots to his apartments while Mother approached me, sliding her hand into mine. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, and her tone of reverence humbled me. She curtsied before me. I curtsied in turn.

We were no longer simply mother and daughter but two queens, two great monarchs.

Two Graces!

This was something I could not revel in for long, however, for Mother was now leading me to my apartments. I exchanged state robes for a shift and my hair was brushed till it shone. Mother ran her fingers through it and laughed.

‘You are all Tudor,’ she said. ‘That lustrous red hair is your pride.’

I smiled at my reflection in the glass. I may not have been as beautiful as my little sister, but I was comely with my round face, full lips, and wide, lively brown eyes. Mother, accompanied by my gentle aunts and ladies, put me to bed, covering me up to my shoulders, fanning my hair about the pillow in a pleasing array. She uncovered my foot to the ankle, and the crisp air caused me to shiver. I began to bounce my foot in nervousness.

‘Be still, love,’ said Mother. ‘You must be composed.’

With effort I collected myself. It would not do to see the Queen of Scots fidgeting in her bed.

It was not long before male voices were heard approaching, Scots and Englishmen laughing and jesting. None would think from that night that there was a moment’s unrest between our two kingdoms.

The men entered my chambers, led in by Father and the Archbishops of Glasgow, York, and Canterbury. I offered a shy smile at the last, feeling peculiar that they should see me in such estate. Patrick Hepburn, my proxy husband, was dressed in nought but his shift and he approached the bed, looking at once imposing and awkward. I resisted the urge to shrink away from him as he exposed his bare leg. I pressed my foot to his thigh, my toes cold against his warm flesh. It was so odd that the act should amount to a legal consummation that I stifled another nervous giggle.

The room erupted into cheers and wine was passed about. The men vacated to take in their share and my aunts surrounded me on the bed laughing and I admitted that I was relieved I was not asked to do anything else but press my foot to Hepburn’s hairy leg that night.

The thought of all that a real consummation entailed filled me with as much dread as delight.

All of London was celebrating me! There were masques and jousts and feasting. My hunger was insatiable, rejuvenated after a year of grieving and poor appetite. Henry and I gobbled everything in sight; we could not get enough of the roast boar, the eels, the mutton, the meat pies and puddings, the creamy cheeses, the wine that flowed so readily. We danced, our cheeks glowing and ruddy from spirits and excitement. Only on the floor did my chest clench with a pang of sadness as I recalled Arthur, how we would have celebrated that day, how he would have favoured me with words of gentleness and wisdom. Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. I would not have the Scots thinking I was a reluctant queen. I tossed my hair about and commenced to dance with tireless vigour as Henry and I ushered in the dawn.

At the jousts I sat beside Lord Bothwell, waving to the glittering knights, awarding them with tokens and prizes for their command of the lance. Oh, they were so brave and fine, those English knights, and I could not imagine their like existing in Scotland.

The earl asked me to point out the jousters and tell him about them. I did so, waving my hands with enthusiasm as I bragged about their prowess. As I did, I heard a Scots ambassador lean in to his companion and say, ‘Poor lass, she’s just a babe.’ ‘Aye,’ agreed the friend.

My cheeks flushed in anger. I was not a babe! That day, for all intents and purposes, I was a bride and a queen.

I would show them that this babe was no one to trifle with.

My sister Catherine was born dead on 2 February, just a few short weeks after my wedding. A few weeks prior the town was alive with celebration. Now it mourned once more. Mother was weak, lying in the land of dreams. Nothing and no one could rouse her.

I learned of her death at Richmond Palace. Mother passed on her thirty-eighth birthday. Henry wailed for her; he had always been her pet and only my little sister, Mary, could comfort him. My father shut himself away and would see no one.

Mother was dead. In the space of a year I had lost my treasured two brothers, a sister, and now my guide, my light, my mother. What would I do without her? No matter how afraid I had been about the prospect of removing to Scotland, I had always derived a sense of security in the knowledge that she would be in England. She would write to me and advise me. She would counsel me when I became with child and from her I would learn the art of being a true queen. Once again I was cheated; once again another family member was called to God while I remained behind scrambling to figure out why.

We took to Westminster to hear her requiem mass. Grandmother wrapped her arms about Henry’s and Mary’s shoulders, drawing them close to her small, strong frame, her countenance resolute, determined as always. She had seen death before, many times. It had lost its effect.

I sat alone. My beloved Archbishop Morton, one of the few in whom I would have been able to confide my grief, now also waited for Mother in the next world as well. I had not allowed myself to grow fond of the new one, Warham, who locked eyes with me and offered a sad smile I could not return.

Upon the conclusion of the service I proceeded down the Long Gallery of Westminster. At once it was as though I were swallowed up by the vastness of this hall, which in itself was a small place compared to the whole of England and the wilds of Scotland. And yet I was a queen, which wasn’t small at all, and that must account for something. Would anyone remember me hundreds of years from then?

Would anyone remember my mother, herself so small and fair?

I removed to my father’s apartments. I needed to find some assurance in my remaining parent, the king.

The guards fixed me with stern gazes. ‘The king will see no one,’ one told me.

‘I am his daughter,’ I responded. ‘He will see me.’

The guard shook his head, his mouth drawn into a thin, grim line. ‘His orders are explicit: He will see no one.’

‘Great God in heaven, are We not the Queen of Scots! Has not one sovereign the right to see another? You will obey Us,’ I ordered, squaring my shoulders. ‘Or face the displeasure of Our country! We doubt you want to be responsible for a national incident!’

Startled, the men exchanged glances, then after a moment’s more hesitation stood aside to permit me entrance. The instant I strode into my father’s chambers I lost all confidence. My strong, measured steps became tiny and soft. I approached my father, who sat at his writing table, his head buried in his hands. I had never seen him thus; this was a man who never allowed for vulnerability. There was no time for it. He had a throne to secure, a treasury to fill, a country’s confidence to win. There was no time to be faint of heart.

Now he sat before me broken, his long face drawn. He had been crying; tears stained his weathered cheeks. At once my breath caught. I had never seen him cry before.

‘Your Grace …’ I said, bowing my head and curtsying. ‘I am sorry … I did not mean to burst in.’

‘I must say it was well done,’ he commented, offering a sad half smile.

We gazed at each other a moment, immobilised by sorrow. I could not lament to him as I did to Mother; there was no railing against the fates or questioning God. We faced each other, two monarchs, and would address our grief with dignity, not drama.

‘I came to comfort you,’ I said in soft tones.

‘My comfort will be in this alliance,’ he told me, extending his hand. I took it. It was so large that mine was made invisible when enfolded within it. ‘Be a good queen, Margaret, as your mother was. Beget many sons. And remember: You are a daughter of England before you are a wife to Scotland. Do whatever it takes to ensure peace between our kingdoms.’

‘I shall,’ I promised, forcing strength into my voice as I swallowed my tears. I was determined to face him with stateliness. ‘I shall honour my mother’s memory and do you proud.’

Father rose. He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘You have.’ He leaned forward and very gently kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, revelling in the newfound bond between monarchs, vowing to be every inch the queen my mother was while encompassing the strength of my father, the founder of this Tudor dynasty.







3 (#ulink_cfbaa4d4-2e47-5c6e-a417-56f94cbebd15)




The Progress (#ulink_cfbaa4d4-2e47-5c6e-a417-56f94cbebd15)


Father whiled away his hours in the White Tower, absorbed in the decorating of the new chapel off Westminster Abbey in which Mother was entombed. It was a magnificent structure, its spires stretching toward heaven, its elaborate stained-glass windows depicting scenes of Christ’s life in vivid detail. Despite its splendour, never was the thought far from my mind that it was a tomb. This was where my father planned to lay himself down, and as he worked, so diligent in his attention to every facet of the imposing building, I feared he planned to yield to his eternal rest sooner than later. Mother’s death had aged him; every act of state became an effort. It was enough for him to get through the daily task of living.

Henry was given his own household resplendent with every luxury. He had companions by the score, the best tutors and priests. Father would prepare him the way of a king. But Father did not offer his own hand that he might lead him. Henry, who was ever a candle to Arthur’s flaming torch, remained as alienated from Father as before. Father could not seem to give of himself any more. He was not cold; he was not cruel. He was silent, isolated, and immobile, save for what must get done. He would keep England as peaceful and powerful as possible while remaining true to his cautious and frugal nature by filling the treasury in the hopes that his son and his country would never be left wanting.

One way of maintaining peace was through the Anglo-Scots alliance. Father determined it was then prudent for me to be sent to my husband in the north.

I panicked. I was not yet fourteen; the treaty expressly stated that I was not to leave England until I was fourteen! But travelling to Scotland after November was a fool’s journey. No one wanted to battle the cold and it was this point that convinced me of the necessity of an earlier arrival. As it was I would reach Edinburgh by August.

Everything was arranged. I would be accompanied by a glittering entourage of liveried guards, attendants, courtiers, and servants. Carts of gowns and plate completed the baggage train and I smiled through my rising sense of despair.

‘You leave England a princess to enter Scotland a queen,’ said my little sister, Mary, squeezing my hands as I bid farewell at Richmond.

I blinked back tears as I took the little girl in my arms, wondering when I would see her again. I drew back, stroking her golden hair from her face. What was her fate, then? What kingdom would she be sent to? Would any of us who shared the nursery together see each other again?

I left her with a kiss, that I might promenade in the gardens alone with Henry arm in arm in an effort to extend my farewell as long as I could.

‘Are you afraid, Henry?’ I asked him in soft tones.

Henry laughed. ‘Afraid of what, Sister?’

‘Of being king,’ I finished with a sigh.

He stopped walking. ‘I suppose I am.’ ‘I want people to respect me and fear me,’ he said, then in softer tones added, ‘but I want them to like me, too. Are you afraid, Margaret?’

I nodded. ‘I know it isn’t the same as it is for you; I am the consort and not the ruler of the people. But I will be so far away from you and from everyone I love. I will feel so left out. Mayhap I will not get to attend your wedding or Mary’s … Sometimes letters do not seem as though they will be enough.’

‘They will have to be,’ Henry told me. He turned toward me, taking my hands in his. He was truly a promising lad, I realised then, putting aside previous rivalry and prejudices. Perhaps he hadn’t been as cold as I’d thought. His blue eyes shone with nothing but sincerity now.

‘Just remember I am your brother,’ he told me. ‘I will always protect you. And when you are afraid, remember this moment. Come to this very spot in your mind and I will be here to hold your hands. Kings never rest, nor do their queens, yet even God had a seventh day.’ He laughed, squeezing my hands in his. ‘So let this be our seventh day,’ he said. ‘Whenever you are afraid or it is all too much to bear, take your seventh day in your mind, and we will all be together again. It will give you strength.’

I reached out, stroking his cheek. It was a lovely thought to hold on to. ‘I am sorry if I was ever mean to you, Henry,’ I was compelled to say.

Henry laughed. ‘I can take it,’ he said. ‘What kind of prince would I be were I not able to handle the women in my life!’

I laughed in turn as he took me in his arms before we made our way back to the rest of the party.

‘Farewell, Sister,’ Henry said when we reached the assemblage. ‘Hold your own against those barbarians!’

Princess Catherine of Aragon laughed at this. ‘Now, Your Highness, you must not scare her,’ she admonished in her gentle tone as we embraced. ‘May God bless and keep Your Grace.’

I was still unused to the title almost two years later and it caused me to start. I offered a swift smile, turning quickly so the ensemble did not see my tears as I was assisted into my splendid litter, trying to focus on the pageantry of the affair rather than the poignancy.

Farewell, dear siblings …

My ladies surrounded me once in the litter, a gaggle of laughing, gossiping girls, and I was rejuvenated at the prospect of making such a grand progress throughout the country.

‘We are all with you, Your Grace,’ said my aunty Anne Howard. Her whimsical nature was so reminiscent of her sister – my mother – that my heart surged with tenderness for the soft-spoken gentlewoman. ‘We will carry you all the way to Scotland; our love will carry you further still.’

I pressed her hand. ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I told her. I pursed my lips, swallowing the painful lump in my throat. ‘Oh, Aunty,’ I added, breaking protocol. ‘Do you think that love is as the poets say?’

‘In what regard?’ asked Aunty Anne.

‘In that it can overcome anything, distance, anger … death,’ I added in soft tones.

Aunty Anne wrapped her arm about my shoulders, drawing me near. ‘I believe it can, Your Grace. All my life I have lost – from my dear little brothers in the tower to my own child, my baby Henry …’ She blinked several times.

‘Oh, Aunty, are we all fated to lose?’ I asked, desperation seizing me as I gripped my empty womb, terrified that its crop would yield as tragic as that of those around me. ‘Sometimes I fear we are all stalked by death, as if it were some ravenous hawk, swooping down on us from above, and we never see it coming …’ Like with Arthur, I thought to myself, sweet, scholarly Arthur who should have been … should have been … I shook the should-have-beens away, trying to draw myself from what might have been to the present dilemma.

Aunty Anne’s nod was grave. ‘Yes. We are human beings and our lot is to lose. The sooner we accept what cannot be changed or controlled the happier we will be. And as compensation for our losses God gives us in turn the ability to love and be loved. It is that which sustains us. It is that which sustains me.’ She offered a gentle smile filled with triumph. ‘And it will sustain you, too.’

‘You speak as my mother would,’ I observed in tremulous tones. For her words she was forever endeared to me. I favoured her with a bright smile, determined to lighten the mood. I turned to seek out her husband, Lord Thomas Howard, who sat his charger looking altogether dark and terrifying. ‘Why, he’s so fierce!’ I cried to my aunt.

She laughed. ‘My fierce knight,’ she said. ‘And yet when we are alone you should see him … there is none gentler.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I loved him from the first time I saw him. I was but a girl just your age.’ She yielded to another of her whimsical smiles. ‘I pray it is so with you and His Grace, King James.’

I lay back among the plush velvet cushions and tried to envision the King of Scots, thirty years old to my thirteen. He was said to be a lover of women … oh, I was terrified! What if he thought my form too childish? Surely he had loved many a beautiful, buxom maid … but I was no mere maid. I was a queen and his rightful wife. He would love me as he loved no other.

And so with those thoughts to keep my restless mind active, I departed for my new home, filled with eagerness, excitement, and something like hope.

The first four days of the progress were not unlike any other progress we had made in years past. The distinct difference was that this was a constant celebration and all in my honour. The country and its people were vibrant, rosy, and infused with summer as they rushed out of their homes to greet my entourage. Children sang my praises, pageants were performed, and I was showered with gifts of fruit, sweet wine and beer, little cakes, and trinkets from children, which I cherished most of all.

It all changed at my grandmother’s home of Collyweston, however. Father’s journey would end there; he was as far from his royal residence as he could go and the rest of the progress would be spent in the keeping of Aunty Anne’s father-in-law, the Earl of Surrey.

‘Can’t he go a little further?’ I asked my grandmother as we prayed in her apartments the evening before I was to leave Collyweston.

Grandmother shook her head. ‘He has his obligations, Your Grace, just as you have yours.’ Despite the sombre words, I found myself revelling in the fact that she must defer to me as ‘Your Grace’ and no longer as ‘that impetuous girl.’

I was certain to make the most of it whenever in her company. But looking at her at that moment I was struck with the same fancy as when beholding my sister and brother at Richmond: When would I see her again? For all her sternness and strict religious observance she was the grandmother who oversaw my upbringing with tireless devotion. I was overcome with a wave of tenderness for her and reached out to take her thin hand in mine.

For the first time in memory, Grandmother softened, stroking my thumb a moment with her cool finger before extracting the hand. ‘Come now, I shall see Your Grace to bed,’ she said, her low voice gentle as she brushed through my coppery hair, then helped me dress. I slid into the large canopied bed, drawing the blankets to my neck despite the warm summer breeze that came in through the window.

Grandmother smiled down upon me. ‘Make us proud, Queen Margaret,’ she ordered as she leaned in to kiss me on the forehead. ‘Good night.’

When she exited, I fixed my eyes on the window, on the full moon that reigned over its court of glimmering stars. Did King James even then behold the same moon as I? Did he wonder after his bride; did he long for her? Or did his gut lurch with dread at the thought of having to marry me for the sake of the alliance? My own stomach churned. The moon became a blur.

At once I heard the creak of my door and sat bolt upright. ‘Who dares enter Our chambers unannounced?’

Soft male chuckling. My heart pounded. A taper was lit to reveal my father standing there in all his majesty, his stern face softened with a smile. ‘Haughty as a Tudor queen, no less,’ he commented as he approached to sit on my bed.

I hugged my knees to my chest. ‘Forgive me—’

He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Nonsense, it was quite the right response.’ He set the taper on my bedside table. ‘Your Grace,’ he began, then lowered his eyes. ‘Margot …’ Tears caught in my throat at the use of the pet name he alone had used. ‘Tomorrow we must say farewell in the formal capacity before the court.’ He reached out, cupping my cheek in his large hand. ‘And so for this night we shall put aside our sceptres and face each other as father and daughter.’

My lip quivered. Tears began their course down my cheeks; it was a slow progress. Father stroked them away with his thumb.

‘I would like to tell you a story,’ he told me, gathering me in his arms. I yielded to the rare display of physical contact; indeed I had always been a loving girl and eager for affection to such an extent that Grandmother had to warn me against the impropriety of sitting on priests’ laps when confessing as a wee girl. Now I flung myself into my father’s arms without restraint, nuzzling my head against his black velvet doublet, taking solace in the embrace for a long moment before he pulled away. He smoothed my hair against my face and offered a sad smile.

‘Come now, enough,’ he cooed in soft tones. ‘Lie back and let me cover you,’ he said as I settled back among my pillows. He drew the covers over my shoulders again, then reached out to stroke my hair. ‘Will you remember everything I, your father the king, tell you this night?’

I offered a grave nod.

He smiled. ‘From the very first day you were born I knew you would be Queen of the Scots. You were born on St Andrew’s Eve. Saint Andrew, as well you know, is the patron saint of Scotland,’ he added for good measure. I closed my eyes, trying to emblazon his low musical tone in my heart as he continued. How I hoped never to forget the timbre of his voice! ‘I had you christened the very next day at the church honouring Scotland’s Saint Margaret. It was fortuitous, I thought even then. Though it was yet to be addressed, I knew someday, somehow there would be a great alliance between the thistle and the rose through you. And thus it has come to be, and not without its critics,’ he added with a soft chuckle. ‘When I was making the treaty there were those who feared that should the fates be cruel and my heirs stolen from me, leaving you to succeed to the throne of England, it would leave Scotland in control. But I was not in the least bit afraid of such a thing. I told them England will never yield to Scotland but Scotland to England and so it shall someday, and through you. Our crowns are destined to become one. I am convinced of it.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked him in a small voice.

His eyes were filled with wonder as he looked beyond me. ‘I have seen it in a dream. I have seen it and I believe it.’ He reached down again to stroke my head. ‘You must be strong, Margot. What we Tudors are given to endure God gives us the strength to endure. Be a queen before you are a woman always. Always remember that you stand alone; monarchs have no true friends and must act with constant caution. No one will ever truly love you, my child, and I say it not to be cruel. It is a lonely business …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do not be ruled by your passions; let your head govern you in all that you do. I fear for your brother in that regard.’ His eyes clouded a moment as he sighed. ‘Oh, but you are so young …’ He shook his head, closing his eyes and biting his lip. ‘You will never know what it costs me to let you go. I can offer you all the jewels and gowns in my realm as parting gifts; I can give you palfreys and coaches and splendid litters, every material thing that could satisfy your desire. But it would not be enough; nothing in this world would ever be enough to show you how much …’ His voice caught. ‘How much I love you.’

I sat up, flinging my arms about his neck once more, feeling his tears wet my cheek. ‘Oh, Father!’ I cried, and at once terror gripped me, terror of leaving all that was familiar, terror of governing a foreign land without any guidance, terror of being alone and unloved …

Father pulled away, seizing my chin between thumb and forefinger. Tears streamed down his high-boned cheeks, unchecked. ‘I will never see you again, Margot,’ he whispered, and for a long moment we sat, memorising each other’s features. ‘Promise me something,’ he said then.

‘Anything,’ I sobbed.

‘Be the queen you were born to be,’ he told me.

‘I shall,’ I promised as he urged me to lie back among the pillows once more. He leaned in and kissed my forehead and thus he left me as a father would his little girl.

Tomorrow we would part as monarchs.

There were no tears for this formal farewell. The court gathered about us, their expressions tender as he bestowed upon me his blessing along with a Book of Hours. Though I was never one to be considered devout, I would treasure it always. I opened the cover, where was inscribed: ‘Remember your kind and loving father in your good prayers.’ On the page opposite the prayers for December he wrote: ‘Pray for your loving father, that gave you this book, and I give you at all times God’s blessing and mine. Henry R.’

I offered a deep curtsy of gratitude. My tears were kept to myself. Today I was composed, dignified.

A queen.

I was surrounded by splendour. The trumpets sounded; the minstrels sang; the banners snapped and fluttered in the breeze; my white palfrey was brushed till she shone like a star. I mounted her and Father passed the reins to the Earl of Surrey. With effort I stilled my quivering lip as I waved to the onlookers and well-wishers. My grandmother stood stoic and thin-lipped, but I was certain the sun caught tears reflecting in those hard eyes.

We began our progress to York and I refrained from turning about on my horse to look back at my father. I could not bear the thought that this was the last time …

I will never see you again, he had said.

I did not want to believe it.

But with heart-sinking certainty I knew it to be true.

I refused to think of my family as we made our progress north. I decided to think of this as an extended holiday. I would see everyone again in time; this was just a little journey. It was the only way I could bear it. But every night in my bed I thought back to my last night with Father, of his low, rumbling voice as he made his tearful farewell. I thought of my gentle mother resting in her crypt. I thought of Arthur, dear sweet Arthur. I thought of little Mary, such a sweet child with a bright life ahead. I even missed fiery Henry.

But I blinked my tears away and the face I presented to the court was filled with joy, for how could it not be? The progress was wonderful and filled with merriment. I was beset with gifts from all those I encountered en route. I was serenaded by my minstrels and by choirs of children who praised my beauty and charm. I was given so many gifts that my chests overflowed. The bells of the towns tolled for me, Queen Margaret Tudor Stewart, and I hummed and resonated with the bell-song.

The only things I hated about entering new towns were the strange relics of saints I was made to kiss as if my kissing them would make some kind of difference. My Scottish emissary and chief escort, the Bishop of Murray, handed them to me with a kind smile and I refrained from grimacing as I kissed some thighbone or finger or vial of blood … it was disgusting!

This was something I did not have to indulge in with frequency, thank God, and as soon as I was able to be discreet Aunty Anne brought me some cool water to wash my lips with.

There were now so many people in my train I was overwhelmed. All of the fine ladies and gentlemen of York rode out to meet me along with Lord Northumberland, a stunning man in red, sporting black velvet boots with gilt spurs. He was quite the sight and I found myself sighing more over his finery than his person.

In my litter my ladies helped me dress for my grand entrance into York. It was cramped and we were all near to tripping over one another as I was dressed in my gown of cloth of gold, made even more resplendent with its cloth of gold sash. My throat was encircled with a collar of gems, and rings were slid up almost every slim finger. I held out my hand in admiration.

‘They look too big to be real!’ I exclaimed over the rubies, sapphires, and emeralds that graced my fingers. ‘It is almost all too big to be real …’ I added, my eyes misting.

The tears were swallowed as I was arranged on my plush cushions, all embroidered with my badges of Tudor roses and coats of arms. The pretty white palfrey from Father was dressed in her best and was led behind me as I was shown into York with great fanfare, my ears ringing with the cheers of the masses.

The first horrid thing I had to do was hear a Mass, and I tried to refrain from wiggling about in restlessness as I listened to the bishop ramble on in Latin. I was not the scholar both Henry and Arthur were and had very little patience or affinity for languages, so the Mass to me was just one endless stream of gibberish. But I remained composed and serene as I imagined a queen should look and complimented the bishop afterwards. His cheeks glowed when I stretched out my hand for him to take and he almost toppled over as he bowed. I stifled a giggle, but my merriment shone through as I lifted him up by the elbow.

Lord and Lady Northumberland were generous in their admiration of me, giving me such feasting and entertainments that I was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Always there was dancing and eating and then more dancing! As much as I loved it, I found myself longing for a nice sleep in a peaceful place. I longed, too, for my mother and the Princesses Mary and Catherine of Aragon.

I longed for home.

I did not have much time to think on it, however, for we quit bustling York on 17 July and I rode my palfrey through the rugged hills of the north. Newcastle greeted me with more choirs of children and I clapped my hands in delight as I listened to the pure, clear voices lifting themselves in my honour.

‘I shall give them all presents!’ I cried, and passed them rings and precious stones that I was certain they would sell for food, but I cared not. I was making them happy; they smiled at me as if I were the prettiest, grandest lady in the world and that was all that mattered.

‘You must not give away your plate, Your Grace!’ Lady Guild-ford admonished gently.

‘It is mine to give, is it not?’ I returned in haughty tones. ‘Besides, they love me for it.’

‘You do not have to reduce yourself to such things to make people love you,’ she said quietly.

I turned toward the brown-haired, plain lady and grimaced in disgust. ‘I know I do not have to buy anyone’s love, if that is what you are so grossly implying. I’ll not hear another word about it.’

‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she said, but I liked not the concern in her eyes as she regarded me.

At Newcastle our party was met by Lord Thomas Dacre, deputy to the Warden of the Marches. From first sight I discerned that he would be a friend to me. He was a broad-shouldered man with a gentle face, if a little weak in the chin. But I liked his eyes, soft hazel eyes that seemed as though they would never dream of imparting unkindness upon another living being.

‘I am to escort you to Berwick Castle, Your Grace,’ he told me. ‘And there we will have a hunt if it pleases Your Grace.’

‘A hunt?’ I cried in delight. ‘Oh, it seems like forever since I have enjoyed a good hunt!’

‘We will have a bearbaiting for the pleasure of Your Grace as well,’ he added, hazel eyes sparkling as though his first and last wish was to delight me.

I clapped my hands. ‘Are they big bears?’

He chuckled. ‘The biggest we could find.’

My heart skipped at the thought of the beasts wrangling with their canine counterparts. Though I feigned excitement at the prospect, in truth bearbaitings frightened me. There was so much blood and death. I hated death …

But I would not offend Lord Dacre, so I exclaimed and carried on as though it were the most anticipated event of my life.

When it came time to witness the event, however, I could not refrain from gasping and averting my head as the bear struck the dog with one large paw, tearing into its flesh with its sharp claws.

‘You are not happy with this display, Your Grace,’ Lord Dacre observed, and at once I realised it was not a question.

I turned toward him, offering an apologetic smile.

‘I do wish you would have told me; I’d have cancelled the whole thing,’ he said.

‘But I couldn’t have done that after you went to so much trouble for me,’ I told him.

‘Moving a mountain would be no trouble, were it to be done for you,’ he said, and my heart stirred in delight. How I adored courtiers!

I hoped the Scottish court was as good to me as Thomas Dacre!






BOOK 2 (#ulink_4de23633-c378-5241-9fb7-6dc8ea35ead3)










4 (#ulink_673b2730-8b5d-5556-9da9-5507a6138042)




Scotland! (#ulink_673b2730-8b5d-5556-9da9-5507a6138042)


The progress was getting too long for me and I was anxious to settle at Edinburgh. What began as a joyous journey was now a chore. I grew tired and sore from riding. I wanted to soak in a warm bath for hours and know that for one day I would not have to go anywhere and do anything, not even dress up. Certainly that meant I was exhausted, for I cherished my finery and most any opportunity to don it.

Accompanied by eighteen hundred ladies and gentlemen, dressed so fine they looked more like dolls than people, we approached Lamberton Kirk, where we encountered the Scots. They were the most glamorous barbarians I had ever seen! Surely I did not think them capable of dressing so fine, but they wore their damasks and cloth of gold and silver much like we did. It was only that crude accent that separated us.

My hair and gown were threaded with pearls and I was disconcerted by this, for pearls were a symbol of mourning and I had had my fill of that. I banished these dark thoughts from my mind, however, as I lay in my litter gazing at the assemblage of Scots in wonderment. My eyes could not help but be drawn to some of the men’s legs, which their kilts showed to great advantage, and I compared many a well-turned calf. As I admired these rogues I wondered what my husband looked like; I had tried not to think upon him too much during the progress. The thought that I would soon meet him filled me with such fear and excitement that I knew not how to manage it.

After feasting and entertainment, a thousand of these beautiful barbarians joined our entourage and we set to riding again. I was in Scotland now. England was behind me and I knew not if I would ever return. More and more I found myself swallowing tears. This was a wild place, a beautiful land with its rolling hills and emerald fields. But it was not my land and I was frightened of it. What would these people make of me after the novelty of my arrival had worn off? We had been enemies for so long and grudges died hard …

On 3 August I was met at Dalkeith and given the keys to the castle by Lord and Lady Morton. This was my last stop before Edinburgh and I was glad of it. Soon I would be at my new home. I could not wait!

Lady Morton showed my ladies and me to our apartments while the rest of the assemblage sought out their lodgings. Many had to sleep in stables and barns, inns when available, and tents. It was good for me indeed to be queen as I thought of crawling into a comfortable bed with covers and herbs to sweeten my chambers.

Alone with my ladies I kicked off my slippers and twirled about. ‘I cannot wait to sleep and dream of my coronation! I am so very tired!’ I sat on my bed while Agnes Howard, Lady Surrey, brushed my hair. ‘I should like a hot bath before bed,’ I yawned, imagining being enveloped in steaming scented water. Perhaps they would put lavender in it. Yes, that would be pleasing …

At once the door burst open and Lady Morton entered, curtsying. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but the king is approaching!’

‘The king?’ I asked, dazed. I rose. ‘The king! No! He cannot come now! I look – well, I am not ready. He wasn’t supposed to see me till Edinburgh.’

‘He will see you now,’ said Lady Morton, not without a slight note of annoyance in her tone.

I scowled. ‘Help me with my gown, Lady Surrey, and make certain the pearls are still threaded prettily through my hair.’

I stared down my reflection in the metal of the mirror, wishing there were some better way of seeing myself. I held the swells of my breasts. ‘Not much I can do about these, I suppose,’ I lamented.

‘You’ll fill out as you grow, Your Grace,’ Lady Surrey assured me.

‘I wish I’d grow in the next ten minutes,’ I pouted.

‘Come now, you’re beautiful,’ said Lady Guildford in her tiny voice. ‘He will adore you.’

I blinked the hot tears from my eyes, hating the quickness with which they appeared. ‘Do you think?’

She nodded, along with Lady Surrey.

When I was deemed presentable the room began to fill with courtiers both Scottish and English. I stood by the window, shoulders squared, trying to rein in my trembling. The king … my husband. He was coming …

When at last he swept in, I took in the sight of him. Tall and well built, with auburn hair grazing his shoulders in layered waves, his lively eyes a vivid green, his nose aquiline, and the beard that hugged his well-defined jawline framing a sensual mouth, he was the quintessence of regal bearing. He sported his hunting habit of crimson velvet and wore his hawking lure over his shoulder. Upon seeing me he removed his cap. His lips were parted; his eyes were gentle.

I dipped into a deep curtsy as he approached. He bowed and once we were both righted he took my hands. His were strong, with long, tapering fingers. A hunter’s hands. A king’s hands.

‘But you’re beautiful,’ he breathed as he gazed upon me.

Strange warmth coursed through my veins. My cheeks tingled as I looked at him through my lashes.

‘Expecting something else?’ I asked him.

He laughed. ‘One never knows.’ His voice was handsome despite the thick Scots brogue. Somehow when he spoke the accent was far more charming than grating. ‘And so, Margaret, my beautiful little bride, do you resent very much my impatience at wanting to see you?’

‘I should,’ I told him. ‘How unkind coming upon me this way!’ But I was teasing him and he knew it. His green eyes sparkled with merriment. ‘You could have found me in my shift!’

‘All the more delightful!’ he cried, but I noted as he assessed me, his face clouded over. His eyes softened, as though in pity. My heart raced.

‘Have I displeased you, Your Grace?’ I asked in small tones.

He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘No, dear heart, no … but you are so very young and so far from home. Are you terribly frightened?’

My lip quivered. How I longed to throw myself in his arms and cry, Yes, yes, I am frightened! Rock me, hold me, do not let me go till the fear dispels! But I only offered a smile.

‘How can I be frightened, my lord?’ I asked him. ‘You say I am far from home, but I could not be closer. I am in Scotland beside my husband the king. What is there to fear in my true home?’

He tipped back his head, offering a deep belly-shaking laugh. ‘Well said, my lady, well said!’ He cupped my face between his strong hands. ‘Scotland is your true home and I shall always endeavour to make it feel that way to you.’

He leaned forward then and bestowed the gentlest of kisses upon my lips. The courtiers who had been pretending to be absorbed in their own nonsensical chatter grew quiet as the king pulled away, breaking into his boisterous laughter once more as he led me to the assembly.

As I stood next to him I could not stop looking at him. This was my husband and the King of Scotland.

Most important, he was the most wonderful man in the world and he was mine!

That night the bells began to toll and I started. ‘Mother is dead!’ I cried, then, shaking myself to my senses, scrambled out of bed to see what the matter was.

‘’Tis the stables, Your Grace,’ a servant informed me. I looked out of the window into the black pitch of night. The sky glowed with an eerie golden hue. ‘Up in flames.’

‘What of my palfreys?’ I asked, my heart racing in panic. ‘What of the palfreys from my father?’

‘All gone, Your Grace,’ she said softly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘No!’ I cried, throwing myself facedown on the bed and burying my head in my folded arms. All the tears I tried so hard to quell throughout the long progress into Scotland freed themselves; the floodgates of my soul were torn asunder and I sobbed great gulping gasping sobs. I counted my losses … Arthur, the young Prince Edward, baby Catherine, Mother, home, and all that was familiar … Now my loyal horses, the beautiful dear horses Father gave me, were gone. It was as though I were allowed to keep nothing from England. I would be all Scot. I would have Scottish palfreys, Scottish gowns, Scottish maids. I was not to be reminded of home, not even in the smallest sense.

The servant departed and it was not long before I was surrounded by the Ladies Surrey, Guildford, and Morton, who petted me and cooed to me as though I were a wee babe. All meant well, but it was of no use. I could not be consoled.

‘I want my mother,’ I sobbed as Lady Surrey collected me in her arms, swaying gently from side to side.

‘Oh, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Oh, Your poor little Grace, how much you have endured!’

My ladies slept beside me all night, comforting me when I awoke crying for Mother and Arthur, my little palfreys, and a childhood long gone.

The king arrived at dawn and admitted himself into my chambers after I had donned a green velvet dressing gown.

He gathered me in his strong arms and I buried my head against his ribs, for I was so small that I did not even reach his breast. He stroked my hair as my tears mingled with the black velvet of his doublet.

‘My precious Maggie,’ he said, and I warmed to the new pet name. ‘Dearest little girl, dinna cry. Please dinna cry. Your Jamie’s going to move you to Newbottle, how would that suit you? Then you will not have to look upon where such tragedy befell you. And I am going to buy you all new palfreys, how about that? White and shining, just as good as your old ones, and they’ll be outfitted in the prettiest you’ve ever seen.’

I nodded, hiccoughing and shuddering with renewed sobs.

‘Now, now, dinna cry, love. Think about all the entertainments! I canna wait to see you dance and hear you play the lute – it is rumoured you are of great talent.’ He kissed the top of my head. ‘We’ll sing together, won’t we? Hmm? You can sing, can you not? Why, I know you can, your speaking voice is such a delight.’

‘Oh, Your Grace—’

‘Jamie,’ he corrected me. ‘Your Jamie.’

I tried to smile, but my lips quivered so much it was a feeble attempt. ‘Jamie, I’m so tired,’ I murmured. ‘Everything has been so wonderful, but I long so much to sleep all day long.’

At this request, Jamie lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bed. When he settled me on the mattress he pulled off one slipper, then the other, then drew the coverlet over my body. ‘And so you shall. Sleep till you can sleep no more and when you awaken I shall have you carried to Newbottle, where I will arrange the most magnificent entertainment in your honour. How does that sound?’

‘Wonderful.’ I yawned.

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. ‘Till then, sweetheart,’ he said as he bowed.

‘Till then, Jamie,’ I echoed, casting adoring eyes at his beautiful face.

Oh, but he made me feel better! He was so handsome and chivalrous! Truly he was the incarnation of Lancelot himself!







5 (#ulink_771ece87-76dc-511a-ad24-0d17f1031f72)




Mistress Stewart (#ulink_771ece87-76dc-511a-ad24-0d17f1031f72)


My honourable knight was as good as his word and made certain my residence was moved to Newbottle, where I danced and feasted and was treated to the finest spectacles he could arrange. He sent me white palfreys almost as fine as those from my father. I cooed in delight at my new pets as I stroked the velvet saddles, fingering the gold harnesses. Oh, the splendour of it all, oh, the sweetness of my king!

The next day I donned a new cloth of gold gown trimmed in ermine. Again my throat was encircled in jewelled collars of gold and my hands were heavy with the weight of rings. I would be removing to Edinburgh, my new home, at last. Composed and serene as a queen should be, I climbed into my litter, and the last leg of the journey began.

English lords and ladies were paired off with Scots and they formed a dazzling train while the thousands of onlookers cheered my procession. I waved and tossed coins, hoping to endear myself to the people who shouted blessings and sang my praises.

We neared the halfway point, where I was invited to have a shot at a doe Jamie sent for my hunting pleasure.

‘I will not hunt without my lord!’ I cried, delighted he should think of me. How I longed to draw back my bowstring and show him my prowess! He would be so pleased with me!

At once Jamie arrived attired in purple, sitting on a horse dressed in gold. My breath caught in my throat as I beheld him. Oh, but he was a true king! He dismounted, approaching my litter, and, without further ado, swept me up in his arms, planting a firm kiss upon my mouth.

My eyes widened in delighted surprise as I wrapped my arms about his neck. ‘Oh, Your Grace!’ I breathed.

His expression was soft, filled with tenderness. No eyes were kinder, I thought to myself as I gazed upon him. I longed to trace his face, to marvel in its every contour and angle. Never had I seen a man in possession of such noble beauty.

For a while he rode beside me, making certain to ask after my comfort every few moments to the point that I began to giggle at his solicitude.

‘I should like very much for you to ride with me into the city,’ he told me.

‘I shall ride one of the new palfreys,’ I said as the procession came to a halt.

‘No. You shall ride with me, holding me about the waist,’ he added with a smile. How I adored the enthusiasm that caused his voice to crescendo with passion. So infectious was it that I giggled as he continued. ‘When the people see you thus they will know how pleased their king is by his precious little queen.’

‘Oh, yes, that would be delightful!’ I exclaimed as I was helped from my litter. After it was decided that Jamie’s horse wasn’t gentle enough for the task, one of the new palfreys was brought forward. I mounted behind Jamie, wrapping my arms about his waist just as he said. My hands encountered something strange then, a heavy belt of iron. I stiffened. ‘What is this, Jamie?’

‘’Tis nothing to worry your pretty head about, little one,’ he assured, moving my hands up to rest above the belt on his belly. ‘Come now, let’s ride!’

We began to gallop toward the city. The wind rippled through my copper hair and I laughed, revelling in the freedom of it all. As we rode we were met by pageants and playacting. Knights mock jousted each other for the love of a maiden and I was thrilled at all the effort put into these displays.

‘It is all for you,’ the king told me. ‘All for my little Queen Maggie.’

I nuzzled up between his shoulder blades and squealed in enchantment. All for me! This was a state of affairs I could well get used to!

When we entered through the gates of Edinburgh at last I was presented with more revolting relics to kiss, including the arm of Saint Giles. Jamie, who seemed most observant and devout, urged me to kiss the disgusting things first, which I did with as much grace as I could summon, and he followed my lead, pressing his lips to the objects with a sincerity I did not feel. To me a bone was a bone.

Next we were greeted with more pageants. I was presented with the keys to the city by an angel with real feathers for wings. Everywhere about me was opulence and excess; the fountains gushed with red wine and my head throbbed and tingled from the ringing of the bells.

Edinburgh was alive with merriment and song.

And all for me!

It was my wedding day. The proxy ceremony, I realised, had nothing on this. Even if it were overcast the city would be lit by the gold in my procession – my eyes were dazzled by the cloth of gold and jewellery worn by people and horses alike.

My gown was black velvet and white damask with red silk sleeves to match Jamie, who met me with his bonnet in hand as he did whenever I was in his presence as a sign of respect. My heart stirred at the sight of him standing before me so noble and proud.

I wore a crown, the crown of a queen. It was heavy on my head and I trembled as I reflected upon its significance. My father had told me that this was my destiny – my fate since birth. He knew it then and I knew it now. I stood straight under the weight of this crown, promising even as I exchanged vows with my king that I would endeavour to be the greatest queen Scotland had ever known.

The Archbishops of Glasgow and York officiated and we shared the Host at the Mass. I started at the trumpets that announced our union and blinked back tears when Jamie handed me the sceptre. Holy oil anointed me then and with this ritual I truly became the Queen of Scots.

Jamie wrapped his arm about my waist as we removed to the banquet at Holyrood House. ‘One of my favourite residences,’ Jamie explained as I gazed at the castle towering before me. ‘I pray you will come to love it as I do.’

‘I love it already,’ I said because it sounded so charming. And I was dazzled. But as I entered the great hall I grew more aware than ever that this was not my home. I will never see you again. My father’s words rang in my ears, as resonating as the church bells celebrating my presence.

Jamie drew me from my wistful reflections by insisting that the gifts be given in my name. He poured my wine with his own hand, attending to my every need as a stream of gifts paraded before us. Goblets and bolts of fabric, jewels and caskets, trinkets and treasures the worth of which was beyond my conception.

‘Are you happy, little one?’ Jamie asked me in his enchanting brogue. He began to fix our plate, making certain I was served first.

‘I am so happy, my lord,’ I breathed. ‘But I am happiest knowing I have married the handsomest, most wonderful prince in Christendom!’

He laughed, bringing my hand to his lips.

We ate the splendid fare before us, served from fifty different platters. I could not contain my ravenous appetite and Jamie laughed as he watched me sample the different meats and puddings. He was quite restrained and ate sparingly.

‘You think me unbecoming eating this way,’ I commented, flushing.

‘I think you are a growing girl,’ he said in soft tones, fondness lighting his green eyes.

The evening passed in a whirl. The English and Scots minstrels and musicians battled against each other, each in the hopes of outshining the other, and there was an underlying tension behind the seemingly good-natured competition. We danced till the soles of my feet ached and throbbed. My legs tingled and my face flushed from wine.

At last the moment that held the court breathless with anticipation arrived. We were escorted to our wedding chamber. Separately, the king and I were dressed in our shifts.

‘Your hands are cold, Your Grace,’ my aunty Anne observed as she squeezed my icy fingers in hers. ‘You are afraid?’

I had not allowed myself to think of this moment. Now that it had arrived my heart thudded against my ribs in a painful rhythm. I offered a small nod.

‘Have you been instructed on how best to please a man?’ Lady Surrey asked.

I shook my head. ‘My grandmother thought it sinful to discuss such things.’

‘A wonder King Henry was conceived at all,’ Lady Surrey muttered with a smile. ‘In any case, it does not take much to please them – I daresay a man will infiltrate any hole available.’ I flinched as dozens of scenarios presented themselves before my mind’s eye. ‘Just yield to their fancies, be sweet, and ever ready to serve.’

‘Don’t be afraid, Your Grace,’ Aunty Anne instructed. ‘The pain does pass.’

‘There’s pain?’ I asked, my throat constricting in panic.

Aunty Anne’s eyes widened, as though she was fearful at revealing this unpleasant insight. She stroked my hair. ‘There is,’ she informed me. ‘But it is a pain that yields itself to much joy; it is a communion of the souls that cannot be achieved through any other act and becomes a closeness you will never feel with any other being.’ Her face was radiant with conviction. I marvelled that she should feel this way, wondering if I would ever know the like.

‘Ah, Lady Anne, you are a romantic,’ observed Lady Surrey.

‘It is a pretty thought, Lady Surrey,’ I said. ‘I like it.’

‘Then take comfort in it, Your Grace, as you do your duty for Scotland,’ commanded Lady Surrey as she brushed my hair, arranging it over my shoulders.

I drew in a breath. The moment had come.

The king and I were led to the massive bed of state by giggling courtiers and ladies. The Archbishops of Glasgow and York stood at its foot, two old men of stony countenance. I flushed under their gazes, fearful that they would stay to observe the entire act as some had been known to do.

The covers were turned down and Jamie and I were assisted into the bed, where the covers were then drawn over us to the chest. We were blessed by the archbishops. Jamie folded his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, murmuring a prayer to himself. It seemed almost an intrusion that I should bear witness to his private communion with God, a communion I had never experienced during my prayers.

At the blessing’s conclusion, the archbishops, ladies, and courtiers filed out of the chambers, leaving us alone. Jamie turned down the covers and rose, making toward the buffet, where he poured himself a goblet of wine.

‘Would you like some, little one?’ he asked me, his soft tone ever solicitous.

‘I fear I shall fall asleep if I have any more,’ I confessed with a nervous giggle. I looked about our suite, my eyes wide with awe. Tapestries depicted the grandeur of the court of King Solomon and the strength of Hercules, certain to be two of my king’s heroes. The glazed windows bore the arms of Scotland and England, and crowns of interweaving thistles and roses adorned the bosses. I drank it all in with delight.

‘Thistles and roses,’ I observed with a slight sigh, recalling that long-ago conversation with my beloved Arthur when I likened myself to a thorn.

‘Entwined as one,’ Jamie said, but his smile was distracted. He brought his goblet to his lips, downing it. He turned, gazing at me a long moment. I was unable to read his expression; it was distant, wrought with an emotion I could not understand. Pity, confusion perhaps? It did not make sense to me.

‘Would you … like to sleep, sweetheart?’ he asked then, looking down into his goblet.

I shook my head. ‘Of course not, Your Grace!’

He smiled through pursed lips. Sweat gathered at his brow. He set the goblet on the buffet, making for the window seat, but did not sit. He gazed out and I had the distinct feeling he was viewing nothing of the scenery. He rested his forehead in his hand a moment before letting the hand fall to his side as he drew in a deep breath, expelling it in a sudden whoosh.

‘Your Grace …’ I leaned up on one elbow. ‘Jamie … have I done something wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not.’ He crossed to the buffet once more, pouring himself another cup of wine, taking a long draught, then sitting beside me on the bed. He sighed. ‘I fear for you,’ he confided. ‘You’re so very small and I’m—’ He bit his lip, his face flushing.

‘Your Grace?’ I asked, screwing my face up in confusion.

He bowed his head. ‘Tomorrow morning they will inspect the sheets,’ he explained. ‘And we must give them the blood proof that our union has been consummated.’

‘B-blood?’ I asked, scrambling up toward the pillow. ‘Blood from whom? Nobody told me there would be any blood!’

Jamie gathered me in his arms. ‘Oh, little one, little one, dinna fret …’ He swayed to and fro and I took comfort in the steady beat of his strong heart. ‘We do not have to do it just yet.’ He paused. ‘Let me tell you of your new home.’ His voice grew very soft and low as it did whenever addressing me. ‘Here in Scotland there is a fog that shrouds the land every morning, very romantic. It softens our hard-edged world. I love to walk in it and look about; it is smoky and a little undefined, like a painting.’ He smiled. ‘And we have lochs so calm and clear that you can see straight to the bottom. I shall take you swimming – yes, I fancy swimming and you shall learn to as well, no matter how “unladylike” they say it is. We will float on our barge, listening to the water lap against its sides, and let the sun warm us as we dip our toes into the water. There are fish to catch and stags to hunt. We will hawk and ride in the Highlands, where it is so green and the air is so clean and crisp.’ He drew in a breath, as if he were there, breathing in the Highland air. I found myself doing the same. ‘And there are castles, beautiful castles where you will play and sing and make many friends. You can decorate as you please and throw as many entertainments as you like.’

I tilted my face toward his, watching his beautiful mouth move as he described his kingdom and its people, who he promised would love me. He told me of all the pets I would keep, the horses and dogs and birds of prey to be used for my pleasure. All the while his voice rose and fell, alternating between passionate enthusiasm and gentle musing. His was an enchanting voice; I grew lost in it. I grew lost in him.

At last he laid me back against the pillows and stroked my cheek. ‘I shall be quick,’ he reassured me. ‘There will be no need to even uncover yourself. We shall keep our shifts on.’ He rose and blew out the tapers, cloaking us in darkness. My breath caught in my throat. He returned to me, climbing in bed once more. ‘There. Mayhap it will be easier this way.’

Easier for whom? I wanted to ask. Was it that he could not bear to look upon my underdeveloped form, my nonexistent breasts and narrow hips? Was I so repulsive then? I kept those disturbing thoughts to myself as the king covered my face with gentle kisses but avoided my mouth, even as I sought his. At last I ceased doing so and lay back, praying I had the strength to endure this act that would cement the alliance between England and Scotland.

As promised he did not attempt to remove either of our shifts; he was as gentle as possible. He did not caress any part of my body save for my hips, which he cradled in his strong hands as he commenced, entering quickly. Tears heated my eyes and I cried out – I told myself I would not, but it was terrifying. This thing inside of me was agonising – a sword bent on ripping me in two. If I could not abide its presence how would I bear a child? Oh, what a disappointment! The king withdrew at once. He was trembling.

‘I have hurt you,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my lady, my dear little … little …’ He could not say it.

My legs quaked. I drew the covers over myself and averted my head from his moonlit silhouette.

‘Will it always be like this?’ I asked, my tone tremulous.

‘No,’ he told me. ‘As you grow …’ His voice wavered. ‘As you grow …’ He rose and commenced to pour two goblets of wine. ‘I trust you are ready for some wine now.’

I sat up, nodding.

He handed me the goblet and I downed it like a sailor. It was soothing, warming my quivering limbs.

‘Do you think you got a child on me?’ I asked then.

‘Oh, little Maggie …’ There was no mistaking the pity in his tone. It shamed me and I held out my goblet for more wine, hoping to drink my disgrace away. ‘There are other things that have to happen to get a child.’

‘Does that hurt, too?’ I asked, my gut lurching in terror.

He gazed into his goblet. ‘No, it is very pleasurable,’ he said.

‘For the man, you mean,’ I remarked, unable to keep the pout from my tone.

He laughed. ‘Aye. But there is much pleasure to be had for the woman as well. You will see.’

‘Have you loved many women?’ I asked him.

He hesitated. His face clouded over. Moonlight reflected glistening tears standing bright in his eyes. ‘Yes, Maggie. I have loved many women.’

I scowled, unable to contain my instant jealousy. It surged through me hotter than any wine. ‘I suppose they were buxom and wildly curvaceous and knew just what to do.’

His lips twitched. ‘Maggie, we must not speak of such things on our wedding night,’ he told me, setting his goblet down once more and climbing into bed beside me. ‘Come lay your head on my chest,’ he invited as he enfolded me against him. He sighed. ‘I do not come to our marriage bed an innocent. I wish that I had. Can you forgive me?’

I wiped my tears away, frustrated to have betrayed my jealousy. ‘I can forgive you anything,’ I assured him. ‘So long as you remember who is the true Mistress Stewart.’

He laughed. ‘Mistress Stewart?’

I nodded. ‘Mistress Stewart – it is a title I relish even more than “Your Grace.”’

‘Ah.’ He kissed my nose. ‘Then, may I bid my forever Mistress Stewart good night?’

Forever. It was a word that rolled nicely off the tongue. I giggled. ‘Indeed. Good night … Master Stewart.’

But as we lay there lost in our own respective thoughts I wondered what else my husband had experienced while my childhood was spent preparing to be his bride.

I wondered at my capacity for forgiveness.

As the night waxed into dawn I lay awake listening to my king cry and twitch in his sleep.

‘Margaret,’ he moaned. ‘Oh, sweet Margaret …’

I was reassured. He must have been greatly bothered by our conversation to let it haunt his dreams so.

‘I’m here, my love,’ I assured, reaching out to stroke his bearded cheek. ‘I’ll always be here.’

And I wrapped my arm about his broad chest, curling up against him, this man who was to be my world.

The king did not try to repeat our wedding night’s unpleasantness and I was just as glad. The longer I could put off that invasion the better. Meantime he was ever solicitous and attentive. Every day I was treated to glittering entertainments. Jamie’s fool, English John, had such a raunchy sense of humour that I was sent into fits of delight, but the poor fellow was scolded for his bawdy witticisms. I was disappointed in the stricture placed upon him.

Every day hoped to outdo the one before in gaiety. There was nought to do but play and be merry and I relished every opportunity to sun myself in the gardens with my ladies. We played at cards and bowls or spread our embroidery about the lawn and stitched away the hours against the music of our own gossip.

One afternoon Jamie descended upon the garden with old Lord Surrey and a group of courtiers. Surrey spent a great deal of time with Jamie and the two seemed to have developed a genuine rapport. I smiled in greeting.

Aunty Anne and Lord Thomas Howard pushed me in my favourite swing as my king approached with long, confident strides. Oh, what a handsome spectacle he was! In his arms were cradled two squat black terriers with coarse fur and long squared-off snouts.

‘They’re called Skye terriers,’ Jamie informed me, his voice infused with his infectious enthusiasm as he placed the wriggling creatures in my arms. ‘Do you know what Skye means?’

I nodded, proud of myself for remembering. ‘It is Scotland’s true name,’ I said.

‘Very good. They are a feisty breed but very affectionate and fiercely loyal.’

‘Ah, then they will suit their mistress well.’ I laughed, fingering one pup’s gem-studded collar.

‘What will you call them?’ he asked.

‘I shall call the girl Skye,’ I said. ‘And the boy will be named …’ I put my finger to my chin in thought. ‘Bruce! After Robert the Bruce!’

‘Ah, my little Scottish bride!’ Jamie cried, leaning in to kiss my forehead. ‘Are you quite comfortable and taken care of then?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ I answered, flushing.

‘Then I shall leave you to get acquainted,’ he said, offering a deep bow and kissing my hand. After a series of bows and curtsies, he departed with some of his courtiers, leaving me to my pups and my play.

‘I suppose we should begin overseeing the details for our return,’ remarked Lord Surrey.

Startled, I raised my eyes to him. Return. Of course my English court must leave. They could not stay forever. I knew that. Why did my heart lurch in surprise? I turned toward Lady Surrey and Aunty Anne. Would I see them again? A lump swelled my throat.

‘Would that you could all stay a little longer,’ I lamented in soft tones.

‘There will be visits,’ Aunty Anne reassured me.

I bowed my head. Though I appreciated her attempt to cheer me, I knew the likelihood of visiting to be very slim. This was a long, arduous journey; few ever took it twice. I would receive English ambassadors, perhaps an occasional border lord. No friends, no family. They were leaving.

‘Come, Thomas,’ Surrey commanded in his gravelly tone. ‘Let us commence.’

Lord Thomas turned to Aunty Anne, offering a gentle smile as he leaned in to press his lips against hers. For a brief moment I was allowed a glimpse into her world; his face emanated love in its form most pure and I was swept up in it. Would Jamie ever look at me that way? He looked upon me with fondness and affection already, but not quite love. Not yet. Soon, I hoped.

Lord Thomas’s expression was fleeting, converting to the stony mask that I had come to associate with him. He offered a bow, kissing my hand as was required, then departed with Surrey.

Though they were soon out of sight, their voices carried on the wind and I heard Surrey mutter, ‘I’ve sent word to the king about his new son-in-law.’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Lord Thomas.

‘Ah, that he’s a little too hungry for a Crusade – thinks he’s a regular King Arthur. Doesn’t see things as they are – a hopeless romantic. But I think he’s trustworthy enough for a Scot.’ He sighed. ‘Well, let’s hope he gets a babe on her soon, before one of his bastards gets any ideas.’

I rose, clutching the pups to my chest, my flat, childish chest. My face was hot, my breathing shallow. Tears burned my eyes.

‘Your Grace—’ Lady Surrey reached for my shoulder.

‘Hush!’ I commanded, straining my ears.

‘At least someone had the good sense to remove the Drummond girl or Scotland very well could have had another Margaret as queen,’ Surrey went on. His voice was growing softer as he grew further out of earshot.

‘A pity the sisters went down with her,’ Lord Thomas said. ‘Three girls poisoned at breakfast.’

‘What’s three girls?’ Lord Surrey retorted with a brief, joyless laugh.

‘Ask their father,’ Lord Thomas returned, his tone bitter.

Surrey’s reply could not be heard. I whirled upon his wife. ‘Make me understand, for love of God!’ I breathed, tears filling my eyes.

Lady Surrey’s face was wistful. ‘It was cruel of my husband to speak of such things when he clearly knew you would hear him.’ She pursed her lips a moment. ‘I suppose in his own strange way he means well – in true Howard manner he is trying to prepare you for the situation before the court leaves.’ She drew in a wavering breath, closing her eyes. ‘Lady Margaret Drummond was King James’s mistress for many years. To remove the possible threat of her usurping your rightful place as queen she was poisoned at her breakfast. Unfortunately, two of her sisters ingested the poison as well and—’

Margaret, sweet Margaret. It was not me he cried for in his sleep but her. Was that why he called me Maggie? Because he could not bear to utter the name of his lost love? Oh, God, my handsome prince … Was there any hope that he would ever love me?

With effort I stilled my quivering lip. ‘Wh-who did it?’

Lady Surrey shook her head. ‘No one knows, Your Grace. Likely, those who had the interests of Scotland at heart. Someone who did not want the Douglases or the Drummonds to rise to power through the girl. Some even suspect—’ She lowered her eyes, biting her lip.

‘Who, Lady Surrey?’ I demanded through gritted teeth.

‘No one, Your Grace,’ she said quickly.

‘I command you to tell me!’ I ordered, so angry I was unable to derive pleasure in the fact that I was commanding someone about.

She averted her head, her voice a whisper so soft it was barely audible. ‘Some suspect your father may have arranged it, Your Grace, to clear your path of obstacles.’

I shook my head. I refused to believe this; I could not bear to have my vision of my father, my stoic, honourable father, altered in any way. In firm tones I said, ‘Careful you do not speak treason against your king. He is not capable of ordering such cruelty. It was not he; do not even suggest it.’

‘I was not going to until you commanded me, Your Grace,’ she replied.

‘You must not think of it, dearest,’ Aunty Anne urged in her soft voice. ‘You are the queen, the only queen, and none can take your place.’

‘What’s more important is I am his wife. His wife.’ My voice was heated with fervency. ‘His Mistress Stewart. And I will never let him forget it.’

But my confidence was forever shaken. Three girls were poisoned, one for daring to love a king and two because they were in the wrong place at the worst of times. If three lives could be extinguished with such ease and lack of conscience then what could become of me should a party among these wild Scots decide I was less than worthy of sitting beside James IV?

I laid a hand upon my flat belly. A baby. I would have a prince and soon. My throne would be secured. Panic gripped me as another thought assaulted me.

Bastards. Plural.

Jamie, my sweet, handsome Jamie, had children.

With supreme effort, I went through the motions for the rest of the day. I played with my new pups, I ate heartily at supper and laughed at the fools, ever in competition with each other. I played my lute and led the courtiers in song. It would have been a most merry sport were my mind not viciously taunting me with the afternoon’s revelation.

When Jamie and I were alone my temper could no longer be controlled. The moment he entered our chambers I burst into tears.

‘Maggie, child, what is it?’ he cried, approaching me to place his hands on my shoulders. His face was stricken at my distress and I was glad of it, reminding myself that this could prove a useful technique in future encounters.

‘How many, Your Grace?’ I seethed, unable to discern his features through my tearful haze.

‘How many …?’ His face was wrought with confusion. ‘Maggie, please, child, calm yourself. Tell me what has happened.’

‘How many children have you sired?’ I sniffled, wiping my cheeks with my palms.

Jamie dropped his hands from my shoulders and backed away. ‘Oh, Maggie … I had hoped to spare you of this until I deemed you more equipped to manage such news. But the court relishes their gossip. I should have known it would not take too long before rumours reached you.’

‘Are they rumours or truths?’ I demanded, my chest still heaving with sobs.

He cocked his head, pursing his lips, his eyes making an appeal for an understanding I could not give. After a moment’s more hesitation he said, ‘It is true. I have children.’

‘How many?’ I persisted.

‘Five.’

‘Five?’ I cried. ‘Five? God’s blood, aren’t you the profligate!’ I balled my hands into fists. ‘Two or three I could perhaps understand – perhaps – but five! And all by the same mother?’

He shook his head.

With wild abandon, I began removing pins from my hair and throwing them at him. They bounced off of him, useless as my tears.

‘Five little threats to your throne!’ I went on, my eyes gone painfully dry with rage. ‘Did you ever think at all before you brought them into this world of the effect they could have on your future? On Scotland’s future? And these women … these, these—’ I searched for a word, a word nasty enough to encompass what these women were to me, a word unfit to spring forth from a queen’s lips, a word I had heard long ago. ‘These whores of yours! Surely they were happy to give you children in the hopes of raising themselves high and the children even higher!’

Jamie remained very quiet during my tirade and when at last I could think of no more insults to hurl forth he approached. I could not read his face. Perhaps I had gone too far … perhaps in my unbridled anger I had sabotaged any growing affection he may have harboured for me.

To my astonishment he swept me up in his arms and carried me across the floor to the window seat, and, holding me across his lap, he sat, cradling me against his chest.

‘Maggie,’ he began, his intoxicating tone low as he stroked my hair. ‘Try and remember, little one, that for the whole of your life I have been a grown man. And ’tis true there are many times when my excessively amorous nature ruled over sound logic. I canna speak for the ladies’ motivations, but I would like to think they were not so sordid as you imply. But then’ – he shrugged – ‘I do not know. I do know that my children, despite whatever favour showered upon them, will never usurp the place of the royal children, neither in my heart nor on the throne of Scotland.’

‘But you do not know what they could do, what they may be capable of when they grow up and begin to lust for a power they may see as their birthright,’ I told him, my voice small with fear.

‘A legitimate concern, and one I have taken into consideration. But the relationship I promote with my children is a loving one and it is my hope they will be too bound to me through their affection to ever conspire against me,’ he reasoned.

‘And their mothers? Or your enemies? Are they so “bound to you through their affection” that they will not use them against you?’

Jamie flinched. ‘There is no way of knowing.’ He bowed his head. ‘I was used in such a way …’ His eyes clouded over as he shook his head, as though ridding himself of dark and terrible thoughts. ‘I was prevented from knowing my father … and his enemies used me against him in the worst way imaginable.’

‘How?’ I asked, my jealousy yielding to concern as I noted the profound sadness etched upon my husband’s features.

‘We must not discuss such things, dearest. Only know that I am raising my children in the hopes that our closeness will cultivate a loyalty that the cleverest of my enemies canna permeate. I – I love them, Maggie,’ he told me. ‘Can you understand?’ Tears welled bright in his green eyes. They sparkled like emeralds. ‘It is my hope that someday you can meet them and perhaps … perhaps grow to care for them. I would never expect you to love them as your own but perhaps … Do not think on it; it is a lot to ask now, but … someday.’

Indeed I could not bear to think of it, but to prevent any discord I said nothing, bowing my head and pursing my lips should they decide to betray me by blurting out something even more unbecoming than had already been spoken.

‘What are their names?’ I asked at last, unsure if I wanted to know but feigning sincerity to remain in his good graces.

‘There is James, Alexander and Catherine, Margaret.’ This he said with a flinch and I assumed she was by that other Margaret. ‘And Janet.’

I was silent a long time. ‘Quite the family,’ I remarked before I could help myself. ‘Well, someday we’ll have our own babies and you will have to love them most,’ I added with a scowl.

Jamie sighed, said nothing, and began to sway.

My mind raced; my heart pounded. He is my husband! I wanted to shout to his mistresses, present and former. Mine and not yours! And someday I would have the only children who could mean anything to Scotland.







6 (#ulink_5b9e971c-ce9a-50bc-b5ed-d8ea50f9853e)




Margaret the Queen (#ulink_5b9e971c-ce9a-50bc-b5ed-d8ea50f9853e)


My English court, my English friends and family, left me. I was alone in this country, an English princess made a Scots queen. I watched the procession depart with all their pomp and fanfare, tears grown cold upon my wind-chapped cheeks. Jamie’s arm was about my waist; he squeezed me to him, holding me upright. I was glad of it. I was weighed down by the finery.

‘You will make new friends,’ he reassured me.

I was too numb with sorrow to nod. The procession grew smaller and smaller till it became a distant snake, slithering down the Scottish countryside and out of Edinburgh, out of my life. They returned to my home, to my father, to the places and the people I would not see, not ever again.

I had my adopted country to acquaint myself with. I was given Scottish ladies and as time passed I not only found myself understanding their harsh dialect but also heard myself slipping into it.

I was becoming a Scot.

My husband came to me now and again to repeat the obligatory act we were avowed to perform for the good of our country. But as yet there was no pleasure to be found in it. It did not happen often enough and when it did it was always in the dark. We had been married nigh on two years and I had yet to see my husband as God made him and he had yet to see me.

Yet he was as attentive as he could be. Gifts were showered upon me; we hawked and hunted together and he praised my skill with the bow. As promised we frolicked in the loch; Jamie held me and taught me the forbidden art of the swim, but I found the most pleasure hanging on to his neck while he cut through the water like an eel.

Music was another of our favourite pastimes and we played together. I strummed my lute while his slim fingers danced upon his favourite organ. I adored hearing him sing; at times he talked through the songs as much as sang them and bubbles of laughter collected at the base of my throat as I took him in, enchanted. I sang out in a voice strong and clear and Jamie smiled in genuine appreciation. He was nothing if not genuine.

And ever generous, allowing me to have as many new gowns as I desired. I loved to order costumes for masques. Anything I wanted was brought to me; I lacked nothing. I needed nothing. And yet there was this loneliness, profound and persistent even through the lavish entertainments I hosted for my new friends and family. Scotland was littered with Stewarts and I tried to learn every name. They fussed over me, calling me a pretty thing, but no one demonstrated a genuine love of me yet. Jamie said that was nonsense, everyone loved me. It would be impossible not to. Though I believed this should be the way of it, it remained untrue nonetheless. I felt it. I was tolerated because I was securing peace with their long-time enemy.

There were some I had grown fond of, however, though I could not say they were close to me. The poet William Dunbar, who composed many a verse praising my beauty or simply to entertain, served as a worthy companion and courtier and was always quick to bring a smile to my face. Another was the privateer Sir Robert Barton, a straightforward man with a rather captivating gift for storytelling, and I was always thrilled to be regaled with his adventures on the high seas, and, even better, by the many exotic gifts bestowed upon me as tribute.

None of the women impressed me much, however. Though I conversed and danced with my ladies, I could call none of them friend, not really. My dearest friend was my husband and I spent as much time enjoying him as I did being jealous of him, jealous of his experience, of his age, of those who admired him with as much conviction as I.

I had even grown jealous of God, for Jamie spent a great deal of time with Him, going on pilgrimages to the shrines of Saint Niniane and Saint Duthlac. I hated when Jamie left me and was not shy about making him aware of my displeasure.

‘Going to have another conversation with God?’ I snapped one morning as he readied himself for his departure in our chambers at my least favourite castle of Edinburgh.

Jamie strode toward me to cup my cheek. ‘I regret you canna understand my … need to be near Him at times.’

‘Oh, I understand,’ I said. ‘Tell me – the technicalities confuse me – do your mistresses accompany you to the shrine or do you visit them after? Or do you all sort of worship together at the altar – or on the altar as the case may be?’

‘Maggie!’

‘Dinna let me keep you! Go off to your Saint Niniane and leave me here, here in this cold, solitary place and me so lonely I could scream! And you dinna even care about me at all!’ I cried.

Jamie took me in his arms, holding me fast. ‘Never say such things, Maggie, you know it is untrue,’ he urged.

‘Not at all – not at all!’ I reiterated, enjoying the effect of my words on my husband and pulling away, folding my arms across my blossoming breasts. At least something was happening there. I wished the process could be sped along so I would be too irresistible to abandon for a shrine and whatever else he might be devoting himself to.

‘Please do not go,’ I pleaded in soft tones, my anger fading to misery as my arms dropped to my sides.

‘I must, little one, but only for a short time,’ he told me, taking me in his arms and kissing the top of my head. ‘When I get back we shall go on progress, how about that? To Falkland Palace, our favourite. Would you like that?’

I nodded at the thought of the vast, sprawling deer park and lush forest.

‘And we’ll hunt together,’ he went on. ‘We shall make quite a merry sport of it, a contest. I trust you will practice your archery while I am gone so that you might hit all your marks. Perhaps you shall kill more stags than I!’

He disarmed me. Already I was thinking of the gowns and jewels I would pack for the journey.

‘We shall pass a merry spring there,’ he said. ‘You must plan a grand banquet – would you like to attend to all the special details, to make certain you have everything just as you wish it?’

I offered a nod of eagerness. ‘Oh, yes! English John and Scotch Dog shall help me. And Dunbar shall amuse us with witty verse!’ I cried with delight, enthused about my task.

‘My sweet little girl,’ Jamie said, kissing my cheeks and touching the tip of my nose with his forefinger. ‘Plan a wonderful entertainment then and I will come home to you soon.’

‘Yes, you always come home to me,’ I remarked with a confident smile.

‘Always.’ And with this Jamie departed. I sat on my bed, bowing my head.

No doubt he visited his children as well on these trips.

I rose, squaring my shoulders. It was no matter. I remained above bastards and would not reduce myself to thinking of them. When our child was born they would be forgotten.

‘Scotch, I want your best dressmakers to fashion me a gown,’ I informed my wardrobe keeper, James Doig, utilising his pet name.

He was all smiles at the prospect. ‘What kind of gown would Your Grace be needing?’ he asked in his thick burr.

I clasped my hands together as I stood before the mirror in my privy chamber at Edinburgh. ‘A riding habit – but not an ordinary riding habit. This particular habit must be as enchanting as a ball gown but as seductive as a shift.’ To my delight his eyes widened at this shocking revelation.

He stood behind me. In the mirror I noted his eyes slowly travelling from my slippers to my hood. There was no lechery in them. He was assessing his project. ‘I think I know just the thing,’ he said in decisive tones. ‘Might I be permitted to surprise Your Grace?’

I broke into a smile. ‘Of course,’ I agreed, turning about to take his hands in mine. ‘Make it a good one, Scotch – the Stewart line is depending on it!’

Scotch’s lips twitched a moment before he yielded to a burst of laughter. It rang in my ears like the tinkling of chimes. His blue eyes sparkled bright with mirth against his rosy complexion as he squeezed my hands. ‘Be assured, Your Grace, that this will be the finest habit you will ever lay eyes upon!’

He bowed over our joined hands, then made his retreat.

I smiled to myself. My first step in seducing my husband the king had been put into action.

There were to be no entertainments at Falkland Palace. I had not planned one, not a single one, for while we were there I wanted no distractions. Jamie would be shared with no one, not even his own courtiers.

The castle was sweetened and scrubbed. I made certain Jamie’s favourite organ was brought so that he might play at his leisure. Twenty-three carts of gowns, jewels, and other supplies necessary for diversion were brought on our progress and when everything was unpacked I waited for Jamie to come to me.

I planned a hunt. Together we would ride through the thick forest that surrounded the palace; the sweet spring air would fill our lungs until we were rendered breathless. The clomping of the horses’ hooves would pound against the forest floor, mirroring the blood pounding in our ears. Our bodies would thrill with the stretch of the bowstrings as we drew them back to hit our mark, the regal stag. Oh, the hunt!

Jamie arrived to find me and a handful of courtiers waiting. As usual he removed his cap and played the chivalrous knight, ever solicitous, ever caring. I did not offer any challenges about his previous whereabouts but celebrated his presence, reminding myself that he may love a hundred common women but only one queen.

The morning of the hunt a smiling Scotch Dog visited my apartments. Two servants followed with a chest that was set before me.

‘Your habit, Your Grace,’ he announced with a dramatic hand gesture before stooping down to open the chest. He commenced to reveal the most beautiful riding habit I had ever beheld. The low-cut velvet gown was deep claret, with an orange kirtle the colour of autumn leaves and fitted sleeves to match. Resplendent velvet oversleeves were claret to match the gown, and the boyish velvet cap with a claret ribbon sported a black feather that Scotch advised me to wear at a jaunty angle.

‘Oh, Scotch!’ I breathed, clutching the soft velvet of the over-sleeve and rubbing it against my cheek. ‘It’s perfect! Tell me it is easy to remove.’

Scotch laughed. ‘Very,’ he informed me as he showed me where it laced up.

‘Excellent work, Scotch!’ I commended.

‘Happy hunting, Your Grace,’ he retorted with a wink of his twinkling blue eye.

I giggled. ‘This is one prey I’m not letting get away from me!’

Scotch departed with another bow and I was assisted into my gown, shocking my ladies with the knowledge that I wore nothing beneath it.

‘Your Grace, it simply isn’t done!’ they cried.

‘Then I am setting a precedent,’ I replied. ‘Soon everyone will be doing it and think me quite a visionary.’

They clicked their tongues and shook their heads but obeyed and I admitted to a certain freedom as I slipped into the gown without the bother of all those petticoats.

My hair was left flowing over my shoulders, streaming to my waist in a rippling copper mane. The cap was set upon my head at an angle, the claret ribbon tied beneath my chin. I smiled at my reflection, pleased. The gown accentuated my developing curves, and even my ladies gasped in appreciation.

Satisfied with my appearance, I removed to the stables, choosing my favourite palfrey and riding her to where Jamie awaited at the edge of the forest. I rode at a deliberate speed, with purpose.

When Jamie beheld me his eyes widened, his lips parting. ‘Maggie …’ he breathed.

‘Your Grace,’ I replied, flashing him a bright smile. ‘Shall we make for the forest?’

He nodded. To my delight he was unable to remove his eyes from me. I pretended not to notice but thrilled with pleasure.

We commenced into the forest. Anticipation made me alert to every noise. It was not long before we were on the tracks of a stag, discovering him grazing in a clearing. He raised his majestic head, heavy with its crown of antlers. His brown gaze fell upon us, cautious, questioning. He was still, his muscles tense. At last he flicked his tail and leapt into the forest. The chase began in earnest and I readied my bow as I followed him, my husband in tow.

The stag turned once more and I drew back, my shoulder aching with the tension in the string. I let it snap. The arrow swished through the air, piercing through the chest of the animal. Brilliant crimson stained his fur as he dropped. A lump swelled in my throat as it did with every kill – as exhilarating as the hunt was for me, I could not help but be moved by the creature’s sacrifice.

‘Wonderful, Maggie!’ Jamie cried as he dismounted. He instructed his courtiers to remove the stag to the palace for our evening’s supper. With this executed we stood alone. Our breathing was heavy, the thrill of the kill still surging through our veins. I quivered, trembling with excitement.

Jamie approached me, taking my hands in his. They were hot, slick with sweat. He shook his head as though in disbelief. ‘My God, Maggie … You’re so beautiful.’

I smiled, drawing him nearer to me. ‘Jamie …’

He wrapped his arms about me, his lips descending upon mine in our first true kiss. His lips were hungry, inflamed with a passion I did not know he possessed as he devoured mine. I returned the kiss, matching his passion with my own. His hands roamed my body and I found myself boldly unlacing his breeches and removing his doublet. Freed of our bonds, we stood before each other as God made us, shining with sweat, our chests heaving. I took in Jamie’s body, drinking in its beauty – all angles, all muscles, taut and fine. But he was scarred. His hips were chafed from the iron belt he insisted on wearing, his back a patchwork of white and pink wounds that snaked across his flesh, jagged rivers of pain.

‘Jamie, who dared whip you?’ I asked him.

He shook his head, tears lighting his green eyes. ‘It is a burden I bear gladly – please let us not think of it or anything unpleasant at this moment. Let me look at you … oh, Maggie …’ He drew me to him and I revelled in the silkiness of his skin against mine. We pressed against each other with urgency, kissing once more. His lips travelled down my neck, to my breasts, my belly, my legs. My body was aflame with sensation; I was primal, pagan as a priestess at a Beltane fire. Infused with passion, we fell to the ground and with tender urgency claimed what was our right, writhing with love there in the middle of the forest, on a bed of thick, sweet grass surrounded by thistles and wild roses.





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