Tudor Princess, The

by Bonnette, Darcey

  Once we reached the castle, I sought the refuge of the lying-in chamber, developing a ‘sudden illness’ that made for good enough theatre on my part to inspire Albany to allow Angus a visit, just as I had intended.

  When Angus appeared in my chambers, I found myself smiling. Gone was my anger from our last encounter. He was working toward the goal of regaining custody of the children; he was doing what he promised he would do. I could see that now and could not bear to harbour resentment against the father of the little one stirring in my womb.

  ‘Are you well, Margaret?’ he asked. He looked older. He had always looked older than his years to me, but there was something different about him now. He was becoming seasoned, learning to accommodate himself to disappointment and opposition and the rigours of warfare. He was becoming a man.

  I offered a weary nod. ‘Well enough to make for the Border,’ I told him.

  He leaned over my bed, offering a light kiss on my forehead before drawing back. He stroked my forehead, offering a faint smile. ‘You are a brave one, Margaret. Keep being brave.’

  I nodded, reaching up to take his hand in mine, too overcome to speak. It was so rare to share a moment of tenderness with my husband I found myself treasuring the words.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, tilting a thick black brow.

  ‘Aye,’ I said in firm tones.

  There was no time for tenderness now. Now was the time for action.

  Night had fallen. I was not allowed a coach; it could not negotiate the wilds of the Scottish countryside with its many steep hills and winding paths as well as the sturdy reiver’s Galloway horses. There was but a handful of armed servants to accompany us until we were just beyond the town of Linlithgow, where Lord Home, my unlikely new champion, met us with his own small force.

  We were to ride for our very lives.

  I had been an able equestrienne when not with child, but it was another matter altogether riding in my heavy gown with the burden of my belly. As we rode, I could not help but be in a terror of losing my balance and falling, then losing the baby as a bitter consequence. I held on as if the ground were covered in writhing demons waiting to take the baby and me to the depths of hell with them, willing myself to remain atop my horse and keep up with my lord husband.

  We arrived at the Douglas stronghold of Tantallon, where I collapsed into bed, clutching my aching belly. My ankles were swollen, my hands calloused from their death grip on the reins of my horse, and nausea clutched my throat. Despite being allowed to lie down, I could not rest. I thought of the children, as always, hoping they were safe, wondering if Little Jamie had said anything amusing or if the baby had done anything new. Would I miss it all? His first steps, his first words … I could not bear such reflection.

  I thought of my ladies, Ellen in particular. She could not come with me; she could not even be made aware of my escape. Though I trusted her like no other, I could not trust her with this. I could not put her in the position of having to lie to the duke or his men. Nor could I put her in the position of having to tell them the truth.

  Angus joined me in my bedchamber, rousing me from my reverie with more news.

  ‘Albany is in pursuit,’ he announced, his tone thick with frustration. ‘We must flee to Lord Home’s castle of Blackadder immediately.’

  Even as I sat up and allowed Angus to assist me with my boots, I trembled and moaned with pain. ‘Oh, Angus, I feel so sick and tired. The baby is going to come soon, I know it,’ I told him, voicing for the first time my fears, that this child would come and hamper all plans of escape.

  Angus shook his head with vehemence as he helped me to my feet. ‘You must not say it, Margaret. You must not even think it. The child can wait till we get to England. Hold on for me, eh? Hold on just a bit more.’

  I sighed and nodded, as if I could somehow control the advent of my labour, and we set to ride again. In our haste, my jewels and gowns were left behind. Yet they made a far easier sacrifice than the children.

  As we made for Blackadder we were met by a messenger.

  ‘The duke has amassed a force of forty thousand,’ he informed us, breathless. ‘He intends to take Blackadder.’

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ Angus cried, flicking his reins with a wild shake of his head. He inclined his head toward me. ‘We have to get to Berwick Castle, Margaret, d’you hear? Can you make it?’

  Through tears the night kept concealed from my husband, I offered a strong ‘Aye!’

  And so we rode. My legs ached, my back was stiff, and the baby kicked up a fury. Despite the rough terrain, the bumps, and the rollicking gallop of my horse, I managed to maintain my seat and my grip, keeping my eyes forward, ever forward, till at last I saw Berwick. We had made it! We were all but in England!

  I tipped my head back, smiling with a sigh of relief. Soon I would be in a nice, warm bed. Soon I would have food in my belly along with the baby. Soon I could retreat into the only sanctuary I knew – sleep. Oh, how heavenly it all sounded now, far more grand than gowns and entertainments!

  But even as I dared to relinquish myself to such sweet fancy, our messenger met us again with more unwelcome news.

  ‘The Governor of Berwick will not admit you without safe-conduct from King Henry,’ he told us. His blue eyes were wide, as if fearing a reproach.

  ‘Even to his own sister, man?’ Angus cried, incredulous. He bit his lip, his eyes scanning the horizon. The first ruddy strains of dawn lit the hills, colouring them a deep amber. Morning was in pursuit, as unwelcome as Albany and his army.

  ‘Even so,’ the messenger replied.

  Angus bowed his head. Lord Home, always a rough old man, cursed.

  ‘We best get to the priory at Coldstream,’ Lord Home decided after he had exhausted his string of expletives he felt described the situation best. There was nothing to do but agree; I needed to rest. We could not very well camp about in the wild like reivers.

  We turned our horses about and rode to the priory, where at last I could take my longed-for rest before the ordeal began again.

  At the priory I fell into a fitful slumber. I had hoped that after the difficult ride and my constant fretting sleep would overcome me in that dark, quiet completeness I cherished, but it eluded me. Lord Home’s mother arrived to comfort me and I was grateful for the presence of an older woman. And yet it served to remind me of the loss of my own mother. I ached for her with a longing as acute as that for my children yet was grateful that at least I stood the chance of seeing them again. As for my mother and so many loved ones who went before me, I would have to wait.

  Meantime the best way to serve the memory of the dead was to live.

  Lord Dacre had arrived, and in him I saw the hope to do just that.

  I had not seen him since I was a child entering my kingdom, when he had thrown the entertainments with the god-awful bearbaiting. It seemed like another lifetime, as if it were someone else’s memories I was stealing a glimpse of. Casting my gaze upon his kind countenance reduced me to stilling my quivering lip and blinking back tears. It was happening; safety and support were within my reach at last. But to achieve that safety, Lord Home, my husband, and our party had to remain behind just now.

  It was an agonising farewell. I had come to like the colourful Lord Home, who would have razed his own castle rather than give it over to Albany. I found Lord Home to be a noble, loyal man, a hero. And my husband, for him to leave now …

  ‘We will get to you soon, Margaret,’ Angus promised, squeezing my hands. ‘Be well,’ he whispered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I longed for something deeper, but I supposed he was clinging to propriety.

  ‘Be safe,’ I said in turn.

  No other words of love were exchanged.

  We rode to Lord Dacre’s castle of Harbottle, in England now. I was beyond exhausted. My belly was taut, stretched to its limit, and felt lower than before. My legs quivered and at times my right leg plagued me such that I cried out at the pains, sharp as hot daggers shooting from hip to a
nkle. My head ached; my swollen hands and feet throbbed. I was grateful that the first destination upon my arrival was a warm, soft bed, where I remained for days, with Lord Dacre making frequent visits in the hopes I would regain my strength for the rest of the journey.

  ‘You will be delighted to know,’ Lord Dacre told me, ‘that the king and queen have sent you many beautiful presents to my home at Morpeth with Sir Christopher Garnyshe.’

  I brightened at this. I could in all honesty never resist the thought of gifts. Gifts meant love and I needed to be loved.

  ‘Oh, Lord Dacre, do tell me of them!’ I begged, delighted as a child.

  Lord Dacre smiled. ‘You will soon see for yourself, Your Grace, once we reach Morpeth,’ he assured me.

  The words no sooner fled his lips when I crumpled over as a sharp, searing pain seized my abdomen. My hand shot out, reaching for something, anything, and finding Lord Dacre’s strong hand in response, his hazel eyes wide with fright. I clung to his arm as if it were the only thing that would keep me in this world. The next one was calling; I was sure of it.

  ‘Your Grace!’

  Warm liquid rushed down my legs, seeping into my covers and gown. My cheeks burned as I raised my head, looking into the Warden of the Marches’ stricken face. This would set everything back … I shook my head.

  ‘No,’ I breathed as another pain gripped my womb. ‘Oh, Lord Dacre, no …’

  Somewhere I heard the frantic voice of Lord Dacre calling for assistance, but sweet blackness, that longed-for blackness that would sweep me away on a tide of dreams, enveloped me. The voices faded away into nothingness, and then so did I …

  ‘This is far from a suitable place to bring in a bairn,’ Lord Dacre was saying when again my eyes fluttered open. The chambers were humble, drafty, and without décor, something that would not have perplexed me in the least before. We would have been removing to the luxury of Morpeth and I could have stood a few days in this rough and wild place had my pains not started. But everything was halted. I lay overtaken by guilt and pain and despair. I was an obvious inconvenience to my host and I prayed the pains would stop, that my labour would hold off just a bit longer.

  ‘Her waters have already broken,’ an older woman I gathered to be a midwife was informing him. ‘The bairn will arrive regardless of this castle’s suitability.’

  At once my belly quaked with another pain and I cried out. Lord Dacre, thrilled to be out of my reach, I was certain, fled the chambers and I was left to the strange old midwife and less than a handful of servants.

  One lady brought a cool cloth to my burning forehead, dabbing gently. ‘There, there, Your Grace, do not fear,’ she said in soothing tones. ‘All will be well. We will take care of you.’

  My head lolled from side to side as I clenched and unclenched my fists. It could not be an easy birth, of course. That would have been right. No, I was fated to bear this child in a rough border castle and suffer as I had with my earlier births. If only it could have been as it was with baby Alexander. How swift his birth was! The thought of him soothed me somewhat and all I could think of was bringing him a healthy brother or sister.

  Despite the chill of the castle, I was burning up. Even the sweat that glistened off my body did nothing to cool me. I longed to tear at my gown and blankets and let the air hit my naked skin. But that would not be proper.

  My only relief came in the blackness, and when it beckoned I ran to it with the eagerness of a lover.

  She was born 8 October, a sturdy lass with a tuft of hair as red as my own, another Tudor rose whom I would call Margaret at the urgings of Lord Dacre, for ‘she so resembles Your Grace,’ he said. It mattered not what she was called. She had the great misfortune of being born a girl, and my heart sank. She was soon in the care of her nurses. I was too weak and ill to hold her and pay her as much heed as I had my boys. I wondered what Angus would make of her. It wasn’t that I would have minded a daughter, but in these rough times I feared for her. Would she survive? And if she did, what path lay before her as a Princess of Scotland and daughter of one of the most unloved men in the land? Oh, my poor, sweet lamb … I could not bear to think of her fate. I could not bear to think of my own.

  Though I was ten days after her birth able to sit and read letters from Henry and Catherine, I was still too weak to be moved. My leg aggrieved me and my exhaustion never seemed to abate. But in November, when Little Margaret was but a month old, it was decided we must risk the journey southward. I knew there was no choice but to press on, but my pain and weariness were so great that I could not abide even a litter for the progress. I was carried aloft on the shoulders of servants on my day bed. As we travelled we were met by more lords of the land who joined our party. We stopped twice for me to rest, once for five days, when I all but slept straight through, waking only to eat and offer my daughter a feeble smile.

  When at last we made it to Morpeth I was relieved. We were in civilisation now and I was received as a queen should be. Lady Dacre was gracious and kind and informed me she was readying the castle for Christmas. I was eager to be a part of it, though it would be from my bed that I would be so, at least till I gathered more strength.

  Lord Home arrived with Angus and a party of loyal Scots lairds come to see the baby as promised, and my husband at last was able to hold his daughter.

  ‘She’s beautiful, Margaret!’ he exclaimed, clasping the little girl to his breast. His eyes regarded her with a new gentleness, one I had never seen before. True, his dark gaze lit with fondness when admiring my children, but this was different. I imagined he thought of the child he had lost before and in her saw his hopes for the future of a new dynasty realised.

  ‘You’re not disappointed, then,’ I said, but watching the pair I knew he was not, and for that my affection toward him was renewed.

  ‘Of course not!’ he assured me, never taking his eyes from Margaret’s face. ‘Though you could have waited a bit longer to arrive,’ he told our daughter in the exaggerated tones of a smitten father. ‘But I think you are as stubborn and impatient as your mother!’ he teased.

  I laughed, relieved for the lightness of the moment. ‘Indeed,’ I agreed. ‘And as ambitious as her father!’

  Angus shot me a glance at this, his brow furrowing. I had offended him. ‘Angus, I didn’t mean it,’ I told him, reaching my hand out.

  He sighed, shifting his eyes to the baby once more. He did not take my hand. It fell to my lap. He was soon cooing at the baby once more and I sighed in relief.

  Perhaps he had let it go.

  The day Lord Home and Angus had arrived was also the day Christopher Garnyshe, the sweet courtier charged with bringing me the tidings from my brother and sister-in-law, bestowed upon me my gifts. I was carried in a plush chair to the great hall, resplendent with festive Christmas décor; pine boughs wrapped about the great beams with beautiful new tapestries that must have been new, so clean and vibrant were their colours. There were gold plate and cups and scrumptious-looking dishes of silver on the table where we would soon celebrate our Christmas feast. But the most wonderful thing of all was that, to my astonishment and delight, my new wardrobe from my brother was on display for me.

  ‘Oh!’ I cried, wishing I had the strength to leap from my chair and run to fondle the pretty things. There were bed hangings, meant I imagine for the confinement chamber I never knew, little clothes for the baby, and my favourite gifts of all – gowns! There was one extraordinary piece of cloth of gold and another in a light silver shimmering material called cloth of tinsel. It was astounding!

  ‘See!’ I cried to Lord Home. ‘My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I certainly shan’t die from lack of clothes!’

  The men laughed, but there was something in their eyes, something sad and guarded, and at times they whispered and nodded to one another as if agreeing upon something. They pity me, I thought. My cheeks flushed with the heat of anger. I should not be pitied! I should be admired! And soon, in these gowns and more I planned to have made, I wou
ld be. I would regain my strength and become the queen I knew was inside, a beautiful, strong queen who would return to Scotland one day with her new bairn and reunite her family and kingdom!

  Twelfth Night came and went. The winter days passed in a windy grey blur. Convalescence was slow. My right leg had become a curse, and I could not bear to stand upon it. I was weak but could not eat to gain strength; I had no appetite. Though I was glad to be losing weight so my husband could at last see how becoming I could be, I knew that I needed to eat enough for clarity of mind and the physical strength to endure the rest of the journey to London.

  Lady Dacre fussed over me, seeking to coax my appetite with comforting foods – almond milk, boiled mutton, and different pottages brimming with vegetables. I could eat none of them to anyone’s satisfaction. I picked at things here and there, but my stomach ached and I grew nauseous when the pain was at its height. Little appealed to me.

  What’s more, I wanted to go home. I wanted my children. They needed to meet their baby sister and I needed them. I needed to see that Little Jamie was as bluff and bonny as ever and that baby Alexander was thriving.

  To pass the time while I struggled to heal, I regaled Lady Dacre with stories of my children and my Ellen. Lady Dacre had never seen a Moor before and was fascinated by the dark beauty. I told her of the matching gowns we used to wear for entertainments and this amused her. I missed having gowns made for my favourite lady, and to remedy this Lady Dacre encouraged me to pay mind to my attire once more. Nothing made a woman feel as well as having new dresses! I was compelled to agree.

  I ordered new gowns in addition to the beautiful wardrobe from my brother. It would do to suit my slimmer figure, I reasoned. And after all I had endured, I certainly deserved some finery to take what joy I could from. I would have more satin kirtles, a beautiful purple velvet confection lined with cloth of gold, and another of a stunning velvet as red as rubies, accentuated with the softest ermine. I would enter London every inch a queen, and in those gowns I would feel beautiful again.