Tudor Princess, The

by Bonnette, Darcey

  We made it to Stony Stratford in Buckinghamshire, where I drafted a quick note to my brother conveying my eagerness for our reunion, resting before we pressed on. I was so close! I could barely eat or take rest for excitement, though we did at our last stop of Enfield, where we stayed in the comforts of the Lord Treasurer’s home. This, too, lengthened the journey beyond what I found reasonable, though I exuded nothing but gratitude to all of my hosts.

  Inside I was mad with anticipation. My heart raced, my face tingled in giddy, girlish delight; every facet of my being longed for London, for my family, for home.

  I rode in on a gentle palfrey, a sturdy white echo of others, the ones my father had sent with me to Scotland that were destined to perish in a fire. I willed the vision out of my heart, that and my late husband’s remedy of new white palfreys. Jamie had always been good at making up … I wondered if Angus would ever be compelled to the same chivalry his predecessor had practiced with such ease.

  But my arrival was not about either husband and I forced myself to think of the present. At Tottenham Cross my brother met us at last.

  He was a sight to behold, and far different from the little brother I had battled wills with as children. His hair and beard shone golden red, a beacon of light for this weary traveller, and his smile exuded confident radiance. Henry stood strong and tall, rippling with the muscles of a young warrior and decked in the regalia of his station; he shared my love of fashion and would never appear in public as anything less than a king. Looking at him, I knew he was everything my father hoped he would be. My face ached from smiling as I took him in.

  We were not permitted a personal greeting yet; I was received as his sister the queen in his booming voice, thunderous and thrilling to hear as I realised with a laugh that any time I thought of my brother speaking it was still in his child’s voice. I longed to throw my arms around him and talk of times gone by and times yet to come. But, as the last, sweetest, most tantalising leg of my journey, that had to wait … for now I had to be content with a meeting of monarchs.

  We rode to Baynard’s Castle at the head of a grand welcoming party Henry assembled for my reception. As we rode I could not help but offer my brother the happiest of smiles; the crowds were too boisterous for us to converse, but the joy on our faces rendered words inadequate as it were. I could not take my eyes off Henry; I longed to impress this memory in my mind for as long as I lived; who knew when we would see each other in a time of such bliss again?

  When at last I was shown to my apartments, we were afforded our longed-for moment of privacy. I threw myself into Henry’s arms, taking comfort in his strong, hearty embrace. Being held by a member of my own family once more served only to remind me of who was not present, and the thought of Father and Mother, Grandmother, and old Archbishop Morton coaxed forth an onset of tears. My shoulders quaked with sobs as Henry stroked my back, clucking endearments in my ear as he would to a distraught child.

  Collecting myself somewhat, I pulled away, my arms still entwined through Henry’s as I gazed into his ruddy face. His blue eyes were lit with tears in turn, but his smile was irrepressible; the imp he was as a child was quite alive in the man.

  ‘Forgive my tears,’ I said, my first words to my brother in the privacy of my chambers. ‘It’s just there is so much to take in – and so much that is no longer here.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘I know,’ he returned. ‘But too many wondrous events have transpired these past few months to think on that, my dear sister. We’ve three bonny Tudor babes in our nursery! Think of that! Your precious little Margaret, our little princess, and another Henry in the Brandon boy! Now how is that for good fortune?’

  Listing the babies present drove the thought home again of those who were not, those who never would be, and I fought the urge to cry again. Henry must have perceived this and took me in his arms again.

  ‘Ah, Margaret, I’m so sorry. We’ve lost much,’ he cooed as he rocked from side to side. ‘It does no good that your husband couldn’t even accompany you,’ he added to my chagrin. I could only imagine how disappointed Henry was in Angus. ‘Done like a Scot,’ he uttered again, his now famous phrase for my husband’s betrayal.

  ‘I am just so happy to be with you,’ I said, hoping to avoid the topic for now.

  ‘And I you,’ Henry said as he pulled away once more. Now he took the time to assess me, and heat flushed my cheeks as his gaze travelled from my hood to my slippers. ‘Well, at least they fed you well in Scotland,’ he offered, which I chose to take as a compliment. I was not nearly so stout as I was months ago and was too proud of my newfound figure, curvaceous as it was, to take it as anything less.

  ‘That they did,’ I said. ‘But it was your Lord Dacre who restored my health best after the birth of baby Margaret,’ I told him, to appeal to his pride.

  ‘I am glad of it,’ Henry assured me, squeezing my hand. ‘And now we are to be all together again for a time!’ he exclaimed with a joy so contagious I could not help but smile in turn. ‘We shall keep you merry here in England, Sister. We have ordered feasts and entertainments to celebrate your arrival; we shall dance together as we did when we were children!’

  ‘I will cherish every moment,’ I told him in truth. Unlike when I was a child, I knew now that such moments were to be treasured beyond the most coveted jewels.

  They were stolen all too often as we grew.

  My sister, Mary, came to see me in the company of my sister-in-law Queen Catherine. I was not prepared for my reaction to either. Mary was slim and fair as ever, even for just having borne a child, and it was easy to see why she had maintained her position of favourite despite any scandal. She had a special talent for being the mildest, most agreeable person to one’s face no matter how she followed her own convictions behind one’s back. With her ethereal features, fair hair, and light eyes, she was every bit the opposite of her sturdy older sister, and seeing her caused my bones to ache with my own inadequacies. Her carriage and manner were fluid as a dancer’s, her speech soft and sweet as honey. I moved about in a brash, heavy way no matter how big or small I was at the time and my speech had become foreign in my own ears next to those of the English around me; I rolled my Rs and had assumed many of the phrases of my adopted homeland, sounding grating, guttural, and northern.

  I had become a Scot.

  Catherine, conversely, was not the beauty my sister was, and this lifted my spirits somewhat. She had also grown a bit stouter and her expression revealed the all-pervasive exhaustion afforded by continual loss. I offered her a cool smile and stiff embrace. Never far from my mind was her triumph over my late husband’s slaying. Seeing her confirmed I would never be able to think of her with the fondness of our childhood connection again.

  But together we sat and spoke of lighthearted things. No one spoke of Mary’s outrageous debt to Henry or of the rumours of Henry’s philandering on Catherine. Nor did they mention Angus and his scandalous desertion or the loss of my little Alexander.

  The visit was steeped in formality and falsehood.

  It was as if we had never met, had never shared any common bond, and were now forced together out of necessity; we danced the dance of diplomats and courtiers – ever superficial, ever polite.

  Ever strangers.

  15

  His Sister’s Keeper

  I was distracted from the disillusionment of my reunion with Mary and Catherine by the extraordinary sport my brother had arranged for my pleasure. He alighted to the tiltyard with my new brother-in-law, Charles Brandon, and Nicholas Carew to challenge the best jousters at court, who included the Earl of Surrey, our former uncle Thomas Howard, who had since lost my dear aunty Anne and all of their children and wed the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham. My heart lurched at the sight of him; his extensive losses once more reminded me of my own, of Henry’s, and even to a lesser degree Mary’s.

  It was no wonder we had become a cold lot.

  I refused to dwell on such dark matters that day, however, an
d watched my brother and his knights in their revels. They had donned rich black velvet covered in golden honeysuckle branches that caught the sunlight, shining so bright that I found myself flinching against it now and again. Their opponents wore gold-fringed blue velvet, looking worthy of their noble company indeed. They were a spectacle of strength and handsomeness and my heart swelled at the sight.

  Of course my brother won the day. It would be no other way.

  The next afternoon was another feast for the eyes. Henry and his men were outfitted in purple velvet trimmed with ornate golden roses, while his other knights and lords were dressed in stunning yellow with cloth of gold borders. The challengers shone brilliant in white and gold. It was as if I were watching the sun tilt with the stars. My heart leapt as each blow was delivered, and the crashing of lance against armour, hoof against earth, along with the cries of the men and the spectators set me to shivering with delight. As I watched I was reminded of my first tourney, when as a little girl I had passed out the tokens to the winners. How distant did those days seem now!

  My brother’s display jostled me into the present as once again he took the day, and ended the festivities with him and Brandon besting each other, performing tricks and an improvised form of jousting that displayed their remarkable skill at the sport. I was as impressed as Henry intended me to be and praised him that evening in Catherine’s apartments, where we feasted.

  ‘Ha!’ Henry laughed after receiving my compliments. ‘See if that coward Angus will come and meet me on the field – would he do so well?’

  My cheeks burned. ‘Not so well as my brother, I am sure,’ I said, knowing it was the expected response.

  ‘No, and no other damned Scot with him!’ Henry cried in triumph.

  Henry delighted in insulting my husband and my kingdom, doing so ever since my arrival at any opportunity. Though I was grateful for his support and expected most brothers would regard anyone who mistreated their sister as I had been as cowards and traitors, it smarted just the same. But I vowed to keep my peace for now; I was a guest in his land, after all, and I needed his help. It would not do to indulge in petty quarrels and I took to enjoying the remainder of the evening as best I could, taking in the delicacies, the wine, and the company, reminding myself as always that such time with my family would not last forever.

  As with all good things, the festivities of that beautiful May drew to a close. The party was over. It was time to attend to my queenly business once again.

  One of the lighter pastimes of those days was to attend the nursery with Mary and Catherine, where we would fuss over our bairns as if we were ordinary mothers in an ordinary family. The women prided themselves on their children’s development, but as my daughter entered each new stage my heart throbbed and ached for Alexander and Little Jamie.

  One afternoon when Catherine deigned not to join us, Mary noted my quivering lip as I beheld her son.

  ‘Sister …’ Her tone was gentle, her grey-blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘I am so sorry for what has come to pass, for your poor Alexander and the king … I cannot imagine being separated from little Henry as you are from the king now.’

  ‘You dinna – do not,’ I stammered, attempting ever since my arrival to lose my Scottish accent. ‘You do not want to imagine it. I hope you never have to endure it.’ I turned from the sight of the children and sat in one of the plush velvet-trimmed chairs, taking my sewing in my lap, pretending to examine its stitching, blinking away tears of acute homesickness.

  Mary approached, resting one of her slim-fingered hands on my shoulder, again reminding me of the refinement and delicacy I lacked. I swallowed hard, covering her hand with mine and telling myself she couldn’t help being so dainty.

  ‘Oh, Mary …’ My voice was husky. ‘I want to be happy here with baby Margaret, but all I can think of is Alexander and how he will never reach another milestone. And thinking of that makes me wonder which ones Little Jamie is reaching without me. I feel so guilty fussing over these children not knowing if my son is being cared for and loved properly. I dinna – do not know if he has the same nurse, if she is warm and kind, or if he is embraced and snuggled with and treated not so much as a king but as a little lad.’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I wish I had the answers for you,’ she confessed. ‘It must be unbearable.’

  ‘It is,’ I said, knowing that voicing my thoughts only heightened my longing, knowing that my sister, like most, could do nothing.

  Mary sat beside me. ‘What are you going to do about Angus?’ she asked, and despite the unpleasantness of the topic, it was preferable to discussing the children.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you love him, Margaret?’

  I closed my eyes. Did I? ‘I am no longer sure if I ever did. It’s just that he made me feel so pretty for a time; it is always nice to feel wanted by someone so handsome.’ This was something I knew Mary could not relate to. Everyone had wanted Mary; everyone had found her beautiful. ‘And I believe he loved the boys,’ I went on. ‘Do you love Charles?’

  Mary’s face softened. Part of me hoped that she did not, that it was a move as impulsive and desperate as my own. But her eyes revealed otherwise and I hoped my own gaze did not yield my disappointment. Not that I wanted her unhappy … I just wanted someone to commiserate with, someone who did not see me as pathetic.

  ‘I do,’ she told me. ‘But I do not know if what we did was right,’ she said then as if intuiting my thoughts. ‘We caused a great scandal, and though Henry has been merciful, our debts keep mounting. We owe Henry so much as it is …’ she sighed. ‘It is staggering.’

  ‘I am sure I will be indebted as well,’ I offered as a bit of consolation. ‘I receive next to nothing from Scotland and Henry will have to support me as my station requires. I just hope he can do so without a grudge.’

  Mary smiled at this. ‘I am sure he will; we are his sisters.’

  But I am not his favourite, I hesitated to add.

  ‘We are to be leaving,’ she said then. ‘Charles and I are going to the country. We can no longer afford to be here; the tourney has set us back even more and being here will only remind Henry of his burden.’

  I understood that pressure all too well. I wondered how long it would be before my own welcome wore itself out.

  Despite the awkwardness and inherent rivalry in our relationship, I was reluctant to see Mary go.

  ‘I feel as if I am just getting to know you again,’ I told her. ‘Or perhaps for the first time. I should be used to farewells,’ I added in husky tones.

  Mary pursed her lip and bowed her head. ‘As we all have been,’ she said as she rose. ‘But take heart. We are luckier than most. Many royal families never live to see reunions such as ours.’

  I rose in turn, offering my sister a fast, tight embrace. For all I knew, it could be our last.

  ‘Indeed.’ I forced myself to agree. ‘We are … lucky.’

  Without my sister, Mary, to be the buffer in our conversations, Catherine and I were left to ourselves. Prior visits had been easier to endure; Mary, as if sensing the tension I experienced in our sister-in-law’s presence, steered the topics to the children and court gossip (nothing too scandalous; Catherine’s sensibilities tended toward the pious). Now that Mary had retired to the country, more to my regret than I had anticipated – I had begun to like her; in her I recognised a vulnerability and sweetness that both Henry and I lacked, which I knew endeared us both to her, fostering a sense of protectiveness in me I did not demonstrate for many – visits with Catherine were forced and awkward.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Catherine began one balmy afternoon, having never called me by name. She was alone, which was rare; she almost always had her closest ladies at her side.

  I was too tired and hot to sew and preferred to cool myself on the chaise of my apartments with an ivory-handled little fan my mother had told me long ago was from a Crusader. I was disappointed to see Catherine in my rooms, but as she was m
y hostess, I knew I could not refuse her. I offered a languid smile, hoping to reveal my sleepy state and inspire her to cut her visit short.

  Catherine sat, stiff as she always was. I wondered if she ever allowed herself a moment’s relaxation.

  ‘Your Grace,’ she said again. ‘I feel as if you have been avoiding me.’

  I ceased my fanning, drawing in a breath, expelling it slowly. ‘We have seen each other often, Sister,’ I told her. ‘With Mary in the nursery, at the entertainments, and of course at Mass.’

  Catherine lowered her eyes. ‘I understand we have seen each other. But we have not spoken much, not of anything … true.’

  I clenched my jaw at this, swinging my legs over the side of the chaise to right myself. ‘I do not know what you expect me to say,’ I confessed, my tone guarded.

  ‘About Flodden, about King Ja—’

  ‘Do not say it,’ I cautioned. ‘There is no use going back. What’s done is done.’

  Catherine never lost her composure. ‘I want you to know I am sorry about James.’

  I shook my head. It was not as easy to remain calm. ‘How sorry are you, Catherine?’ I challenged. I did not want to address her by title. We were two women now, and one had been quite wronged. ‘Were you sorry when you wished to send his body to Henry, as if he were a stag, as if it were all a great sport?’

  Catherine had the grace to bow her head at this. ‘I was regent in Henry’s absence. I was trying to show our strength, to keep the confidence of our people boosted. I acted as a queen, not as your family, just as King James acted when he invaded our kingdom. He did not regard us as family then, did he?’

  I rose, turning my back to her and heading to the window, watching the swans glide through the sun-kissed sparkles of the Thames, envying their beautiful simplicity.

  ‘My husband had his reasons,’ was all I could think of to say, though in truth none were good. The reasons for war never were.