The Princess of Scotland (Six Tudor Queens #5.5)

by Alison Weir

  Father was still involved with his mistress – talk about the pot and kettle – but he hated Harry Stewart and was outraged that I was being exposed to such an undesirable and immoral influence. More to the point, he wanted the regency. He stormed into Edinburgh, intending to force his way into Parliament – and take me away – but Mother ordered her soldiers to open fire on him, so he fled to his stronghold of Tantallon on the east coast and proceeded to rally many lords to his side.

  I was torn. I was aware that Mother and Henry Stewart were doing their best to poison my mind against Father. Half of me was glad when Father staged a coup, occupying Edinburgh, summoning Parliament and seizing control of King James, who, having been under Mother’s influence, regarded Father as something akin to the Antichrist. But, now that Father was in power, Mother was forced to establish a fragile accord with him – if only for James’s sake. In private, however, she was still badgering him for a divorce.

  Worn down, he agreed, and Mother petitioned the Pope on the grounds that, before their marriage, Father had entered into a precontract with his mistress.

  ‘I have urged his Holiness to consider that I was ignorant of that and that neither you nor I should suffer any loss or damage,’ she told me, greatly agitated.

  ‘What loss or damage?’ I asked, bewildered.

  She put an arm around me, a rare gesture of affection. ‘Often, when a marriage is annulled, the children are declared bastards; but if it was made in good faith, its issue can be deemed legitimate. Margaret, I entered into this marriage in good faith. You are trueborn, never doubt it!’

  I only hoped that the Pope would agree. I knew how shameful it was to be a bastard, and how the word could be used abusively.

  I was eleven when the Pope granted Mother’s petition for an annulment. Heeding her wishes, he added a special declaration that I was legitimate and ought not to be disinherited. But still I became aware of gossip that told me I was openly reputed a bastard in Scotland; it was even said that King James spoke of me as his base sister, which I found, to my hurt, was the truth. As I never saw him, I could not take the insufferable little prig to task for it. So I held my head up. Such things were said covertly, never to my face. No one would have dared, for Father now enjoyed great power in Scotland; he even made himself Lord High Chancellor. Mother was lying low, muttering about how he was keeping my brother James a virtual prisoner, diverting him with women and dice from learning his kingly duties. But the Douglases were now supreme, and no one would say a word against them.

  Then Mother revealed that she had secretly married Harry Stewart. No one was more furious than my uncle, King Henry, although I felt he was being somewhat hypocritical, given that he was then trying to divorce Queen Katherine so that he could marry Anne Boleyn. Yet I could not think too harshly of him since, at base, he was trying to protect my interests. I was, after all, still third in line to the English throne – second, if you counted the fact that no one in England would have wanted my tempestuous mother as queen. To my uncle, I was an innocent victim. He urged Mother to reconcile herself to Father, if she wanted to avoid eternal damnation as an adulterer. She should do this for my sake, he thundered, out of the natural love, tender pity and motherly kindness she should feel towards me. There was more in his letter about my beauty and my virtues mollifying a heart of steel, still less a maternal one, the implication being that Mother’s heart was forged in that fashion and was anything but maternal.

  Even the gentle Queen Katherine wrote and sorrowfully reminded my mother that she had committed the great sin of disparaging my legitimacy. Mother wrote back tersely that she had married Father in good faith, so that could not be in question.

  But Father had no time for legal niceties. I was nearly twelve when he came to our house in Edinburgh one day and demanded that I leave with him immediately.

  ‘Your mother is not fit to have custody of you,’ he grimaced.

  Mother flew at him. ‘And you are, rutting with your mistress as you do?’

  He would not deign to answer that. He waited while my nurse packed my gear and put on my warm cloak. Mother was shrieking and swearing, but he heeded her not, and I shrank into a corner, just wanting it to end. I was not averse to going to live with Father. I was tired of Mother’s tirades and her complaints about us being poor. I knew I would have a better life with Father. He, at least, was cheerful company.

  ‘As your father and a peer of the realm, I have every right to have custody of you, child,’ he said, as we rode up to Edinburgh Castle. ‘Regrettably, your mother is a bad moral influence.’

  I was too young to have to confront moral issues. It was hard for me to have to choose between my parents. I did miss Mother, more than I had expected, but I was even more upset that she made little effort to get me back. But, after witnessing one too many scenes between her and Father, I was grateful to be able to lead a more stable life – for a time, at least.

  Father sent me to live at Tantallon Castle, his magnificent and forbidding fortress of red stone, spectacularly situated high on a rocky headland overlooking the sea. It was a Douglas stronghold, of course, built to withstand attacks by armies. Father placed me there to prevent Mother and her supporters spiriting me away. The sea was on one side, the ramparts and a huge ditch on the other. It was impregnable.

  My rooms were in the Douglas Tower, which was seven storeys high. I loved to stand on the battlements and look far into the distance, imagining that I could see mermaids and sea monsters. Father saw to it that I had every comfort and was honourably housed and looked after, whatever my brother James said later about his not treating me as my birth merited. I did not see much of Father at first because he was often in Edinburgh, much occupied with ruling Scotland, but his influence was everywhere. He wanted me to grow up a true Douglas, rather than an English Tudor. Later, when we were thrown together more, an enduring bond was forged between us. Hurt by my mother’s indifference, I turned to him. He was protective towards me and affectionate. He often told me I was the woman he loved most in all the world.

  I had been at Tantallon for just a few months when, soon after his sixteenth birthday, James declared himself of age and asserted his royal authority as king. The first thing he did was throw off the constraints imposed on him by Father, which he found hateful, and escape to our mother at Stirling Castle. Before long, he had toppled Father from the regency and forbidden him and the Douglases, whom he loathed and feared, to come within seven miles of his royal person. Then he began ruling by the advice of Mother and Harry Stewart, whom he created Lord Methven.

  Father came to Tantallon, seething yet willing to retire peacefully from politics, but James tried to force him and all the Douglases into exile. When they stayed firmly put, he threatened them with imprisonment. Father retaliated by refortifying Tantallon against attack by the royal forces. It was a tense time, but we both felt safe in the castle. It has long been said that to ‘ding doon’ Tantallon Castle is to achieve the impossible. Even so, the storm clouds gathered over our heads. James had Father attainted as a traitor, sentenced to lose his life and forfeit his property to the Crown. The same sentence was passed on my uncle, George Douglas, and Father’s cousin, Archibald Douglas of Kilspindie. They both fled into exile. Father stayed where he was, but he was a marked man and so feared capture or assassination that he had his loyal lords keep watch, in full armour, at his chamber door each night.

  Kilspindie’s wife, Isobel Hoppar, sought refuge at Tantallon. Father appointed her my lady-in-waiting, for I was now thirteen and quite the great lady. She also served me as governess. Isobel was a strong, outspoken lady who had once enjoyed influence in high places. Cousin Archibald must have been in awe of her, as was Father. She was not a woman to be trifled with. Some thought her proud and haughty, but I liked her. She did a lot for me, ensuring that I was well educated. She encouraged me in my letters and inspired in me a love of verse. One day, I told myself, I would be a
strong-minded, fearless lady in her mould.

  As well as my lessons, I was learning what it meant to be in opposition to the King. When James besieged Tantallon in the summer of 1528, Father held it effortlessly. We heard that heralds had been galloping through the Scottish Borders, proclaiming that the King was offering a reward to anyone who could return his base sister – me! – to our mother, who could provide me with an establishment suitable to my rank. By then, I had no wish to return to her. I had girlish hopes of marrying one of the lords who had visited Father at Tantallon in his glory days, the Earl of Bothwell, who was sixteen, fair-haired and handsome but Father’s agents had warned that Mother meant to wed me to Harry Stewart’s younger brother. I had no intention of letting that happen, and Father was incensed, especially when he found out that Mother meant to secure for her brother-in-law the confiscated estates of the earldom of Angus.

  The Earl of Bothwell was – I was certain – a far better match. But this was no time for romancing. Father’s priority was to get me away to a place of safety, far beyond my mother’s reach. He resolved to spirit me into England, counting on my uncle Henry welcoming me.

  ‘You are of marriageable age,’ he told me, ‘and a highly desirable bride. You will be an asset to the King. He will find you a good husband.’ Miserably, I thought of the Earl of Bothwell, now irrevocably lost to me. And I wept profusely at the prospect of being parted from Father. Yet I could see the sense in his plan.

  In October, he stole away with me to Norham Castle, on the English side of the River Tweed. The Earl of Northumberland had offered me his protection and agreed that my beloved Isobel might seek refuge with me. Father would be welcome too, if things went badly for him in Scotland.

  Norham was an ancient border stronghold standing on a rocky bluff high above the River Tweed near Berwick. But my lord of Northumberland’s steward was concerned that it was not a suitable residence for the daughter of a queen. He was right. It had not one chamber fit to shelter anyone, and when it rained, water streamed in from the roof right down to the dungeons.

  I did not care. I was miserable to be so far from Father and all that was familiar. Homesickness was my worst privation. Yet I had Isobel with me, and her brisk pragmatism fortified me. I was well guarded and the steward did his best to ensure that I was accommodated in as much comfort as possible.

  Daily, I was expecting a summons to the English court, but none came. I know now that King Henry was preoccupied with his ‘Great Matter’, being determined to divorce Queen Katherine. It would not have been appropriate for me to go to his court at that time. So I rusticated at Norham for eight miserable months.

  Father, meanwhile, had held out against King James’s forces. Tantallon proved unconquerable. Father sued for peace, but the terms my brother offered made it plain that he meant to treat Father as a rebel and a traitor.

  I was spending a bleak Christmas at Norham when King James and King Henry concluded a treaty, whereby James was to take the Douglas lands on condition that Father was permitted to seek asylum in England. In the spring, Father surrendered Tantallon in hope of a pardon that was never forthcoming, and fled into England. I was overjoyed to see him at Norham and hear him say that I was to go with him.

  We rode eastwards along the border to Berwick, where we sought shelter in the castle with its custodian, Sir Thomas Strangeways, who was comptroller of the household of my godfather, Cardinal Wolsey. Berwick Castle proved a safe haven. Father left me there when he travelled south to my uncle’s court. The Cardinal sent orders that I was to be kept securely at Berwick and be well entertained; I was to have as much liberty and recreation as possible. Relieved that Father was safe, I was quite merry and content. I was sad to hear of the death of the Cardinal, who had failed to obtain the divorce the King wanted, fallen from favour and died of sorrow, but I felt glad on hearing that Father had been made welcome at the English court.

  At last, I received a summons from King Henry. Sir Thomas Strangeways himself escorted me south to London. Isobel came with us, but only to see me safely to the south. She did not want to remain among the Heathen English, as she called them. It was spring when I arrived and I was delighted to find that my uncle had provided me with a whole new wardrobe – he had ordered gorgeous gowns of velvet, damask and satin, kirtles and partlets. I had never been so richly or grandly dressed.

  I was much struck by the contrast between Scotland and England. My uncle enjoyed widespread popularity, that was evident everywhere. England was at peace, not riven by strife between the King and the lords; its people were prosperous and law-abiding, its court magnificent, affording numerous pleasures. I was soon caught up in a whirl of pageants, masques, music, dancing and tournaments. In the spacious gardens that surrounded the royal palaces, there were bowling alleys, banqueting houses and tennis-plays. There was money a-plenty, and open-handedness. These delights came as a pleasant surprise after the comparative poverty of Scotland.

  And yet . . . I was homesick. My uncle’s court seemed a world away from the wild, rugged landscapes of Northumberland, the magnificent hills of the Scottish Lowlands and the stark, magnificent fastness of Tantallon.

  In October 1530, I turned fifteen. My silver mirror showed me that I was blossoming into pretty womanhood; I had good features and the reddish-auburn hair of my mother’s family. People paid tribute to my beauty, and it went to my head a little. The King openly admired my high spirits and laughed at my pert remarks. I think maybe he detected the inner strength and fearlessness in me and approved. I do believe that he dearly loved me. I will never forget his bounty and kindness, for all the harsh lessons he later taught me.

  But his mood was not always sunny. I had escaped the tensions of a life overshadowed by feuding parents, only to arrive at a court riven by the Great Matter. The Pope had revoked the case to Rome and matters had reached a stalemate. Queen Katherine was still in residence in her apartments, Anne Boleyn in hers. I was not surprised to be told that it had been deemed fit for me to go to live with my aunt, Mary Tudor, Dowager of France and Duchess of Suffolk, my mother’s younger sister.

  They called her the French Queen, although she had left France some fifteen years earlier. She had not been to my uncle’s court for three years. Thanks to the financial strain of paying the fine he had exacted as the price of her ill-advised marriage – for love, praise be! – to the Duke of Suffolk, she could rarely afford to go there. She wouldn’t have gone anyway, as she vehemently disapproved of Anne Boleyn, who was now riding high at court, waiting impatiently to be made queen of England. My aunt confided to me that, when told that the Boleyn wanted to befriend me, she had instantly invited me to stay with her!

  When I arrived at her great palace at Westhorpe in Suffolk, I found her listless and ailing. Her famous beauty had faded. She was lonely, for the Duke supported the King and was rarely at home. She was angry with him for favouring the Boleyn, and sad too, for there was now a great rift between them.

  I spent my days wandering around the great house, the cloisters and the French-style gardens. There was a large statue of Hercules seated beside a lion in the courtyard, and I spent many an hour perched on the lion’s back, reading books purloined from the library. But I was not solitary. I had the company of my cousins, Frances Brandon, my junior by twenty-one months, Eleanor, aged nine, and Henry, Earl of Lincoln, aged seven. I grew fond of them, and the Duke’s ward, Katherine Willoughby, who was then eleven. And I grew to love my aunt, who was a warm and gentle lady, popular with all.

  My idyll in the country did not last long. At Christmas, I was summoned to attend the Princess Mary as chief lady of her privy chamber. My role was to be her foremost companion. I was excited at the prospect, yet sad to be leaving my aunt. My sadness dissipated, I regret to say, when a cartload of wonderful gowns and other clothing arrived from Greenwich. The King had decided that, in consideration of my new role in the Princess Mary’s household, I should be provided with a fi
tting wardrobe. How I preened in front of my mirror, trying on gowns of crimson velvet lined with cloth of gold over a kirtle of crimson velvet, a nightgown of satin furred with black coney, a black cloak with black satin vents . . . There were biliments for edging necklines or hoods, night shifts of lawn, kerchiefs, smocks, and two French hoods of black velvet. My uncle must have spent a fortune!

  And so, grandly attired, I went to court for Christmas, weeping as I bade farewell to the French Queen and my cousins. I was soon swept up in the gaiety and revelry of the celebrations, enjoying my exalted status as the King’s niece and basking in the admiration of the young gallants of the court, for I was fifteen now and ripe for wooing.

  The new year saw grave matters afoot. The King demanded that Parliament and the clergy recognise him as supreme head of the Church of England. It was the first step towards breaking forever with the Pope. That summer, he separated from Queen Katherine and sent her away from court. By then, I had become fast friends with my new mistress, the Princess, who was only five months younger than me, and I had to comfort her increasingly often during those difficult months. You could never have hoped to meet a sweeter and kinder girl than Mary, and I grieved to see her so unhappy. We had much in common, for we both knew what it was to have warring parents, and both of us had been taken by our fathers from our mothers. We shared too, a deep faith and prayed constantly that the King would be reconciled to the Pope. But there seemed even less hope of that as time went by.