The Princess of Scotland (Six Tudor Queens #5.5)

by Alison Weir

  My lodgings overlooked a walled garden in which I was permitted to take the air. One winter’s day, I was padding around, my hands in my muffler, when the door in the wall was unlocked and a porter came in with a wheelbarrow. He doffed his hat to me.

  ‘Morning, my lady. Thomas Shelton at your service,’ he said.

  Shelton? I stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Are you acquainted with Mistress Mary Shelton?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m her brother,’ he said, grinning.

  I stared at him. ‘What are you doing working here?’

  ‘I need to eat! I am my father’s youngest son and have no estate to look forward to. There is no dishonour in earning your living.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Mary asked me to tell you that Lord Thomas Howard asked that a book of poems be brought to him in the Tower. I was able to help. And I am willing to act as a go-between, if you want to pass a message to him. No one notices me. I come and go at will.’

  ‘You would do that for me?’ My heart was thumping. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr Shelton!’

  As I ran upstairs, I thought quickly. I would send Tom some verses, anonymously, so that, if he was caught with them, he could say he had written them himself. In poetry, I could express myself with more feeling than in a letter.

  I sat down, trying to calm myself, and took up my pen, while Mr Shelton waited below, tidying the garden. The words flowed from me.

  Now may I mourn as one of late

  Driven by force from my delight,

  And cannot see my lonely mate

  To whom forever my heart is plight.

  Alas! That ever prison strong

  Should such two lovers separate,

  Yet though our bodies suffereth wrong,

  Our hearts should be of one estate.

  I will not swerve, I you assure,

  For gold nor yet for worldly fear,

  But like as iron I will endure,

  Such faithful love to you I bear.

  On wings, I sped downstairs and gave the folded paper to Mr Shelton. Only when he had gone did I wonder he had sprung a trap on me. But why would anyone want to do that? I decided I would trust him.

  By evening, I had a reply from Tom. I unfolded it with shaking hands and devoured his words. He had written in like vein.

  With sorrowful sighs and wounds smart

  My heart is pierced suddenly.

  To mourn of right it is my part.

  To weep, to fail full grievously.

  The bitter tears doth me constrain,

  Although that I would it eschew,

  To wit, the reproach of them that doth disdain

  Faithful lovers that be so true.

  The one of us from the other they do absent,

  Which unto us is a deadly wound,

  Seeing we love in this intent:

  In God’s laws for to be bound.

  He still loved me – and he still regarded us as bound to each other! His love had survived all the obstacles placed in its way. Not even imprisonment in the Tower, or the threat of death, had shaken it. My heart was on wings.

  Thus began our correspondence. Never did poets write verses so passionately. It was a joy to me to know that Tom was missing me as much as I was missing him, although I was sometimes unnerved by the bitterness in him. He did not hesitate to criticise our imprisonment and those who had separated us. If the poems had been discovered and brought to my uncle’s notice, Tom would have been in serious trouble. It was never a wise idea to question or criticise the decisions of the King. But Tom was clearly an angry man. His vehemence was the measure of his love.

  We both were still hoping that we had a future together, although Tom was at times despondent. Then I would encourage him, praising him for his devotion and constancy. Of course, I was the one with more cause for hope. The King loved me and had at times shown himself an indulgent uncle. He had stayed his hand at sending us to the block, and his displeasure could not last forever. Yes, we did have a future, and I told Tom in my verses that we must hold to that. One day soon, we would be freed.

  But summer came, and still we were prisoners. With it came a change in Tom’s poems. He dwelt too morosely on the hopelessness of his situation and became morbidly preoccupied with death. It made me wonder if he was keeping something from me. Had he been warned that he would never see me again? When he spoke of lovers being parted, I feared they had told him that I alone was to be sent away from the Tower. Whatever it was, he clearly felt there was nothing left for him in life but a speedy decline to the grave. I wept when I read his verses, longing to comfort and hearten him.

  Even in the Tower there was rejoicing when Queen Jane bore a prince. I heard the church bells ringing and Sir William permitted me to share a toast with him. I think he had grown quite fond of me by then. I never gave him any trouble and did everything I was bid. I’m sure he never knew about the messages Mr Shelton conveyed for me.

  The Prince’s birth meant that I was no longer in the perilous position of being heir presumptive to the crown, or so important politically. Immediately, in the joyous flush of new fatherhood, my uncle pardoned me and set me at liberty.

  My bondage was past, my hope of freedom won! I prayed that Tom would be released too.

  But I rejoiced too soon. Just as I was preparing to leave the Tower, I fell ill with a fever and lay tossing in my bed, not knowing if it was night or day. My uncle sent his own physician to attend me. It was he who told me that Tom was ill too, and that he would be visiting him next. By then, I was slowly coming to myself again, although I was weak as a kitten. However, the lust for liberty was strong in me, and I began to make a steady, if slow, recovery.

  Then Sir William came to me. His face was grave. In words that seemed incomprehensible, he told me that Tom had died.

  It had been an ague, but I was convinced that my beloved had suffered a broken heart, and that he had died because of me. How I wept and stormed at Fate, at those who had parted us and left him to decline in prison. With bitter tears I lamented his loss. It was as if I was frozen inside. I would never love again. I knew it in my bones. I was twenty-two.

  My uncle gave orders for me to be moved to the healthy air of Syon Abbey, where the Abbess would look after me, and I could rest and recuperate. As my litter was borne away, I heard the bells of London tolling for the Queen, who had died in childbed. The King would be in mourning as I was, but at least he had been vouchsafed the freedom to love his chosen lady.

  Tom’s death had dealt me a body blow and sickened my soul. I was still ill when Easter came, although I was able to take walks through the cloisters and the abbey’s orchards, or sit in the shade of its ancient mulberry trees. Thanks to the Abbess’s care of me, I grew stronger daily, even if I was still deep in grief. I spent time in the famous library, seeking for books that could offer me spiritual solace. My life was ruled by the bells of the great church calling the community to the divine offices seven times a day. Often, I would pray with them, sending up fervent intercessions for Tom’s soul.

  I left Syon in April, still quite weak. There was no queen now, so I could not return to court. I was sent to stay with my old friend, the Lady Mary, who had been restored to favour at court, thanks to Queen Jane’s good offices. Mary warmly welcomed me. To my relief, she assured me she had never resented my having served the Boleyn; she knew I had had no choice in the matter. And so we resumed our friendship.

  My uncle bought me another new wardrobe and defrayed the expenses of my servants. By that, I knew that I was truly forgiven. Yet I could take little pleasure in his gifts. I was too listless even to try on the gowns.

  One day, a package arrived for me. It contained the book of poems that Tom had had with him in the Tower and all our passionate poems to each other. There was no note. I suspected that Thomas Shelton had sent it. Reading over my beloved’s verses, I wept
all over again.

  That summer, Mary Shelton wrote to me, saying there was gossip at court that the Earl of Wiltshire – the Boleyn’s father, of all people! – was seeking my hand in marriage. No! I cried, in the solitude of my chamber. I would never agree to it! He was an old man, but that was the least of it. I would never marry one of that tribe. Fortunately, I heard no more of the matter, for which I was devoutly thankful.

  But there was no doubt that my uncle was seeking to negotiate a marriage for me. He wrote to me himself, informing me that he was considering Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence. For a time, I envisaged myself restored to health and living in Italy, revelling in its art and culture – and its warm, reviving weather. But of Duke Cosimo, I could not think. I was not ready, or well enough, to marry any man. My heart was still Tom’s. I would rather have died and been reunited with him than go to Florence. My health was broken and I fully expected to go to an early grave. I welcomed the prospect, indeed, I had resolved to die. I felt so ill that year that I even summoned my father and my friends so that I could bid them farewell.

  Father was then resident at the English court. He came galloping down to see me and told me I should rise from my couch and get some air; and he stood by to ensure that I did. Daily, he made me walk in the gardens, then he got me up on a horse again. I truly believe that I am still here today thanks to him.

  I heard no more of the Italian marriage. It seemed I was not destined to have a husband and children. I was not sure whether I was happy or sad at the prospect. Restored in health I might have been, but not in spirits. I was quite happy to remain in the country. But, after a decent interval, my uncle took a fourth wife, the Lady Anna of Cleves, and I was brought back to court to serve as her chief lady of honour. I had not seen my uncle for three-and-a-half years, and I was shocked by the change in him. Then he had been a magnificent figure of a man; now, he was old before his time, massively fat and a virtual invalid. I marked that he was more maudlin, sanctimonious and tyrannical than ever. Everyone was wary of him, but he was affectionate enough to me. Clearly, all my transgressions were forgotten.

  I was to be chief of the six great ladies of the Queen’s household. We were presented to the Lady Anna when she arrived at Dartford after her long journey from Dover. The weather was atrocious, and she spoke almost no English, but she kept smiling all the time. I admired that. I admired her too, for her discretion when, soon after her marriage to the King, it became apparent that he did not love or even like her.

  I was lucky. Unlike most of her other ladies, I had been assigned my own lodging in the palace, near the Lady Mary’s, so I could escape from the tense atmosphere of the Queen’s apartments in those weeks in which it seemed that a cauldron was about to bubble over. The King rarely visited Anna, and it was all over the court that he was impotent with her, but able to perform the marriage act with other ladies. The palaces were alive with rumours and gossip.

  I felt sorry for Anna. I hoped she had not understood what people were saying about her. The poor lady led a retired life, pretending that all was well. I whiled away much of the time gambling with the Lady Mary and my other friends. None of us were surprised when, after six months the royal marriage was annulled and Anna, richer by a very handsome settlement, left court, the best of friends with the King.

  By then, it was notorious that my uncle had fallen for the charms of a pretty maid-of-honour, Katheryn Howard, a cousin of the Boleyn. Less than three weeks after his divorce from Anna, he married her. In August, when the new Queen’s household was formed, I was summoned again to be chief of her ladies.

  I liked Katheryn. She was lively and kind, if a touch naïve. Once more, we ladies could enjoy dancing and making music and all our old pleasures in the Queen’s chamber. Yet always, for me, the ghost of Tom was hovering. This was where we had fallen for each other.

  Late in October, I received news that my mother had passed away after suffering an apoplexy. I had not seen her for thirteen years, and we had not been close or corresponded often. I still resented the fact that she had always preferred my brother to me, although my uncle had told me that, when I was in the Tower, she had been greatly distressed and done her best to save me from my fate. For that alone, I mourned her. And when the King showed me a report that her thoughts were with me at the last and that she had desired King James to be good to me and make sure I received the jewels she had left me, I wept for her.

  I never did receive that bequest. Later, I learned that James had given my jewels to his new wife, Queen Marie.

  I was hoping to take him to task for it in person, when, in the summer of 1541, King Henry departed with the whole court on a great progress to York, to meet with his nephew. But James never came, much to my, and my uncle’s, annoyance. He was furious at James’s perfidy. He would have been even more furious if he had known what was going on almost under his very nose.

  I know now that, during the progress, and possibly before, Queen Katheryn was rashly carrying on a secret love affair with the connivance of Lady Rochford, one of my fellow ladies-in-waiting. I swear I knew nothing of it, nor saw anything that aroused my suspicions. But, if I had known, I would probably secretly have taken a sympathetic view, even though what Katheryn was doing was sheer folly.

  For she was not the only one who was indulging in a clandestine liaison.

  I ought to have learned a lesson from the tragic consequences of my love for Tom, but I didn’t. How quickly the young forget. And how blind, foolish and unheeding love can be.

  He was the Queen’s brother and a gentleman of the King’s Privy Chamber. His name was Charles and he was in high favour with my uncle. It began as a flirtation during the progress, but it was not long before I began to have feelings for him, although I never loved Charles as much as I loved Tom. And so it all began again, the snatched, secret meetings, the subterfuge, the coded poems. No wonder I did not notice the Queen’s naughtiness: I was too preoccupied with my own, although I managed to preserve my honour. I should have known better, but I am like my mother, impulsive in affairs of the heart.

  When we returned to Hampton Court, Charles and I continued to contrive trysts. Then, with no warning, came the Queen’s arrest, which shocked him to the core. He too, had had no idea of what had been going on, and he was petrified for his sister, who was now confined to her rooms under guard. I consoled him as best I could, but he would not be comforted.

  A week later, Charles did not come to our meeting place, a deserted banqueting house in the gardens. I waited ages, but in vain. In the end, I walked back to the palace in the November gloom, wondering if his absence had anything to do with the Queen. Had he learned the worst, which was what we were all expecting?

  As I went indoors, I met Sir Anthony Browne, who had always been friendly towards me.

  ‘My Lady Margaret,’ he murmured, looking around to see if anyone was is earshot, ‘I am glad to see you here. Mr Howard has been forbidden to enter the King’s chamber. Be warned, there is trouble afoot.’ He patted my arm and hurried off, leaving my brain whirling. What trouble? Had Charles and I been discovered? Or was this to do with the Queen?

  I ran to Charles’s lodging, but it was in darkness. In vain did I bang on the door. I knew he shared his rooms with his brother Henry, so I went looking for him.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Henry told me, when I found him at the servery, rather drunk.

  ‘Gone? Where?’ I cried. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know for certain,’ Henry said, slurring his words, ‘but he told me before he left that he was banished from the court on account of you.’

  So they knew! I began trembling.

  ‘You mean, he has left me to retrieve my reputation all alone?’ I could not believe it.

  ‘I think he said he was making for France to try his luck at the tournaments there,’ Henry said, looking at me with maudlin pity.

  ‘I hope they kill him!’ I snapped
, and walked away, trying not to cry at my folly in trusting my heart to such a knave. I had sought the best and found the worst. This was where my foolish fancy had led me!

  I lay on my bed, weeping salty tears and filled with remorse and grudges. I knew it was only a matter of time before they came for me. My head was filled with dark memories of the Tower, where I expected to be confined again before long.

  I quaked when Archbishop Cranmer and a deputation of Privy Councillors called upon me. Cranmer looked at me severely.

  ‘Madam, we are here to do the King’s pleasure. His Highness knows how indiscreetly and ungratefully you have behaved yourself towards him, first with Lord Thomas Howard and now with Mr Charles Howard. He wishes me to censure you for your conduct and to warn you to beware the third time, and wholly apply yourself to please him and obey his will and command.’

  I fell to my knees. ‘I am very sorry to have offended his Highness,’ I bleated.

  ‘Think yourself lucky,’ the Archbishop barked. ‘The King is most vexed at having to be bothered with your misconduct at this time.’

  ‘It was but a flirtation,’ I cried.

  ‘His Highness is aware of that, Madam. Nonetheless, you have been foolish. Your marriage is in his Majesty’s gift and you may not dispose of yourself or indulge in illicit flirtations. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ I said weakly. ‘What is to happen to me?’

  ‘The Queen’s household is being broken up,’ he informed me. That sounded ominous, but I was too preoccupied with my own fate to dwell on what might happen to Katheryn. ‘The King’s pleasure is that you be conducted to Kenninghall in Norfolk in the company of my lady of Richmond, if she and my lord her father are agreeable.’

  It took me a moment to realise that this was to be the extent of my punishment. I was to go to the palatial Kenninghall, a house of which Mary Howard had often spoken proudly, and lodge with her, my dear friend and fellow poet. My spirits soared. It was not even banishment, for there was no place now for any lady at court.