‘I had mine,’ Catherine returned. ‘But I do recognise how it could have been perceived by you; I did then and do now. And I am sorry for it.’
‘For what good it does, I accept your apology,’ I said. ‘But it changes nothing. My husband is still dead, by the hands of your countrymen.’
‘Because he invaded and we were defending our homeland,’ Catherine reminded me, and though I knew she was right in her line of logic, I hated her for it nonetheless.
‘Still, he was your brother-in-law,’ I told her, turning to face her once more. ‘For whatever wrong he did, and however the consequences played out, he was your family. To triumph over his death, to gloat, and to even entertain the idea of sending Henry his body was barbaric. That was unforgivable.’
‘So you cannot forgive me, then.’ Catherine’s voice was soft. She lowered her eyes to her folded hands. ‘Even though in the end, I did not do it. And still you cannot forgive me for the error of my thoughts, which I now confess to you? Was not James a Christian king?’
‘Don’t let’s make this a matter of faith,’ I snapped, irritated she would enter that vein. ‘What does faith have to do with it? Did it stop my husband from committing adultery? Did it stop the armies from slaying each other, forgetting “thou shalt not kill” so easily? Or are you insinuating that I lack faith? I know exactly where I stand with God. I am more faithful than all of you who declare yourselves His devout children as loudly as you sin.’
Catherine flinched. ‘So you insinuate in turn that I am a hypocrite?’ The furrow of her brow and light in her dull blue eyes revealed genuine hurt. I could not bring myself to regret my words.
‘We all are,’ I admitted. ‘But I do not like being told that someone is more faithful than I. My husband used to visit his shrines with all the enthusiasm of a monk and none of the discipline. He had a lover waiting for him at almost every one.
‘I may not demonstrate faith the way he did, but I do believe in God. I believe He will always be there to take everything I love most from me; in that I have the utmost faith.’ My voice caught on the last word.
Catherine shook her head. ‘Then I pity you. That is the wrong thing to have faith in. You must hold faith that God hears your prayers and cries two tears for every one you shed, and that tragedies arise from us being born into a sinful world, not from God’s desire to inflict them upon us. God is faithful; it is He who gets us through those tragedies. He rewards long-suffering. He rewards steadfastness.’
‘Then I look forward to it, for surely I shall be duly rewarded,’ I said in flat tones. I hated these types of discussions; they bored me and were often used to obscure or manipulate a more relevant point. ‘But I do not need your pity, Catherine,’ I went on. ‘I do not need anything from you.’
‘Yet you seek refuge in my kingdom.’ Her tone became as cool as mine.
‘Not your kingdom,’ I reminded her. ‘Your husband’s. My brother’s.’
Catherine averted her head, as if the thought of her power being more limited than she imagined struck her, perhaps even frightened her.
‘And you can be assured that I would never revel in the glory of a victory over England, especially one that resulted in the death of my family,’ I promised her. ‘In that I am capable of deporting myself as a queen and a sister, not one or the other.’
Catherine pursed her lips. ‘Yet clearly you cannot as easily reconcile being a queen and a mother,’ she said, her tone low.
My jaw fell agape. The audacity! ‘How can you say that?’ I breathed.
‘I only mean to say, were I in your position, nothing would tear me away from my child.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though it were that easy.
‘Do not speak so soon, my dear sister,’ I warned. ‘You never know when you will be in my position. For your sake and the princess’s, I hope you never are. But,’ I added in hard tones, ‘if so, you will remember what you said to me.’
Catherine sighed, shaking her head. ‘There is no use explaining or defending myself. You will see it your way; I, mine.’ Her voice softened. ‘I did not mean to insult you; I do not know your heart, so should not question it.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Nothing has gone as planned. I came hoping to make peace with you, not renew bitterness. I hoped you would forgive me.’ Her voice caught. ‘Margaret,’ she said my name for the first time since I arrived, ‘can you appreciate that I seek your forgiveness as I know I must, and that I do with a sincere and contrite heart? … Can you forgive me?’
I sighed, sitting once more. I did not know if I could forgive her, because I still hadn’t forgiven Jamie for dying. I hadn’t forgiven myself for marrying again. I could not yet forgive Angus for betraying me. Nor could I forgive Catherine now for judging me. With all that weighing on my conscience, how could I with a sincere heart forgive her for her past transgression?
‘I want to,’ I said in truth. A painful knot of tears swelled my throat. ‘But I do not know if I can. I am sorry.’
Catherine rose. ‘I appreciate your honesty,’ she remarked. ‘I suppose it does no good for me to remain then.’ She offered a smile; I could not say it was unkind. ‘I had hoped to be at peace.’
Peace. I had searched for that since Jamie’s passing. I resented her need for it, as if her declaring it somehow eclipsed my own.
I nodded. ‘It is my wish as well,’ I said softly as she quit the room.
Soon after our conversation, I was relocated from the castle of my childhood to Scotland Yard, as fitting a Scottish monarch.
I was no longer a sister in need. I was yet another dignitary in Henry’s court and would be treated as such.
Henry did petition the council in Scotland to reject Albany’s regency and exile him once more. Of course this was as offensive to them as any plot could be, and they deemed Henry’s proposition treasonous. Thus incited and insulted, he ordered Lord Dacre to renew warfare on the Border, which meant more raids, more bloody skirmishes, more property stolen, and more lives lost. I hated to see it done but could not fathom a better way to pressure the lairds to just action on behalf of Little Jamie and me.
Henry’s attention to my cause was wearing on him, however, and my presence was another grating manifestation of those tedious efforts. I irritated him and, to be frank, he did me. His arrogance, his showiness, all of it was as if to flaunt his good fortune in my face and remind me that I was at his mercy. He was no longer toasting my presence. Long since ended were the receptions and entertainments welcoming me to his court. I wasn’t the favourite, as I was well aware, but now it showed.
As I was not receiving income from Scotland, I had hoped Henry would supplement me to support my household. I wrote to Henry’s most influential adviser, Cardinal Wolsey, in the hopes that I could appeal for the means I needed to survive with the dignity of my station, to no avail.
One ray of light shone in that the jewels and wardrobe left behind during my flight from Tantallon were itemised and returned to me. Not one pearl, gem, or garment was tampered with or stolen. Which meant that the Scots still retained some kind of respect for me. My fine jewel-encrusted hoods and cloth of gold sleeves, my gem-studded collars and hats, my rosaries and pendant pearls, were preserved with the utmost care. If these articles had been treated with such delicacy and honour, then so must my Little Jamie. I could only pray.
The Scottish council had promised to send my dower rents as well, and this lifted my spirits. The less I had to depend on Henry the better. But autumn wasted into winter, with no money ever sent. I was in as desperate a state as I ever was. It would all have been much easier to manage had I never fled Scotland. Time had dulled the urgency of why I had left, clouding the danger I had been in with homesickness. I found myself regretting the decision to come to England. If I had only stayed, perhaps I could have been reunited with my son by now …
I found more and more that I was beginning to think of Scotland as home. I had spent as much time there as I had in England, but being that I was grown for much of that ti
me, I remembered it all the more. I missed the clear lochs, the rolling hills, the craggy paths and trails, the morning mists. I missed Stirling and even Edinburgh.
I missed Little Jamie.
I had left my home an English princess, returning a Scottish queen. More and more I realised I was a foreigner in my own homeland. I started to resent my accent and manner less, seeing it now as a connection to my son, the King of Scots. I longed for him, oh, how much!
Where he was, there also was my home.
Another Christmas had come, my second without Little Jamie, and my finances were dire. I had no money to even reward my most faithful servants for the holiday season, and I was ashamed of my estate. Though I had all the accoutrements, I was far from a true queen; it was as if I had been consigned to playing make-believe, with my baby, Margaret, little more than a glorified doll. And Henry was tired of hosting such a charade if it were not his to play. Since he was proving to be of little help, I appealed once more to his trusted Cardinal Wolsey, hoping he would at least see the gravity of my case and make the necessary loans, for I would pay him back when my promised rents from Lord Dacre arrived. I was a woman of honour, after all.
Despite my situation, I was invited to Greenwich Palace to celebrate Twelfth Night with Henry, Catherine, and the court. There it was made clear to me that my brother had more than enough money he could have spared for my expenses. Even clearer was the fact that he did not want to waste it upon me when he could instead hold yet another lavish entertainment, for which he had become so renowned.
This display was called The Garden of Esperance. Towered with ornate gilt rails, the garden sported silk flowers and satin greenery, sparkling with golden accents. On a large central pillar were a bush of white and red roses for the house of Tudor and a pomegranate tree for the house of Aragon. Six knights accompanied by six of the fairest ladies in magnificent gowns and apparel that would have fed a family for a month each took to a splendid sequence of dances that I had to admit were choreographed to perfection. No one fell out of step; it was as if I were glimpsing a garden of the fey, where there was nothing to worry about, nothing to ponder but the next step in a never-ending dance of richness and beauty. Oh, if reality could have been so simple …
After the pageant, the garden was wheeled out and we were treated to a banquet as abundant as the garden was exquisite, in which two hundred dishes were served (yes, I counted). It was almost debauched in extravagance, and though I did enjoy it, I could not help but make this point with as much subtlety as I could.
‘It is a spectacle beyond belief as always, Henry,’ I complimented him, knowing the surest way to appeal to him was through his vanity. ‘To be among such grandeur, I admit, makes me long to treat my own household this season. They have served me so well; it is a pity they canna be rewarded more suitably.’
Henry shook his head as he dipped an artichoke leaf into a silver dish of melted butter. ‘I don’t know what you expect from me, Margaret,’ he said in light tones. ‘It isn’t as though you are still wed to James IV.’ He sucked the meaty bit of the leaf noisily before discarding it on the floor. ‘You are the Queen Dowager, not even a regent, yet I cannot help but notice you still wish to live as if you were a queen in full state.’
I glowered at this. ‘Henry, I’m not asking for much,’ I said, matching his light tone, fixing a smile on my face in the hopes no one would observe the strain between us. ‘You are the King of England, after all. No one is more powerful, more formidable! Henry … you can do anything,’ I added sweetly.
Henry smiled at this, reaching over to pat my hand. ‘I can do a lot,’ he admitted. ‘But some things are even beyond my power, Sister.’ He chuckled. ‘My naïve sister,’ he added with a more robust laugh.
My shoulders slumped. Perhaps I was naïve. I was reminded of my own lack of power at every turn. To know the same applied to Henry, my larger-than-life brother who could make a garden in winter, was disheartening.
No matter his lush displays of wealth and power, Henry was not magical; he could not work miracles. It occurred to me his words with the Scots on my behalf had little effect. And the control he did have he guarded jealously. He would spare me no more than what he deemed necessary, and our versions of necessity were wildly disproportionate to each other.
The epiphany made the celebration far less merry.
Henry paid my financial estate little heed after the holiday season, though a treaty he and Cardinal Wolsey made with Albany would allow me my beloved Stirling and unlimited access to Little Jamie. Beyond that, however, Henry busied himself with hawking well into spring, until matters came to a head in London. It seemed English workers were resenting foreigners in the city, feeling as though they were stealing their livings. On May Day riots erupted, most of them against the Spanish and Portuguese. Henry sent his most able warriors, the Howards, against them, hanging, drawing, and quartering the instigators. It was a gory display; scaffolds by the city gates illustrated the fates of those who disturbed my brother’s peace. At the trial, in her own display of pious theatrics, Catherine begged Henry to show clemency on the rioters. The remainder were pardoned and tossed their halters in the air to my brother’s benevolence. Good show, Harry!
It was clear to see that Henry had his own matters to deal with in his realm. The new treaty that promised me a reunion with my son was his greatest achievement in my case and I was grateful. And more than eager to leave.
At last the arrangements had been made; I was to go home. We set out on 16 May, Henry riding with me for four days of the journey. I’ll never be certain if guilt over his lack of financial support during my stay in England compelled him to it or if it was another of his shows, but Henry doled out to me rich gifts in farewell. I received more tapestries, gowns, plate, jewels, cloth of arras, sturdy horses, and even money for the journey. Whatever his reasons, I wasn’t going to refuse.
When he left my progress, we embraced. Henry’s arms enveloped me in one of his great bear hugs and all was well between us again. I looked up into his face, at his sparkling blue eyes and impish smile, and reached up to stroke his cheek.
‘Thank you for all you have done, Brother,’ I told him in sincerity. ‘I hope I wasn’t too much trouble,’ I added with a laugh.
‘You’re a Tudor,’ Henry said, his thin lips stretching into a wide grin. ‘And Tudor just may be indistinguishable from “trouble.”’ He squeezed my hands. ‘But be that as it may, it was good to have you and good to see you.’
‘Henry?’ I asked. ‘Do you remember the last time we said farewell, when I first left for Scotland and you told me about the seventh day to take in my mind, where you would always be there to protect me?’
Henry squinted a moment, as if trying to see into the past. He smiled, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, Sister. I do not recall.’
I sighed. Maybe it wasn’t as memorable for him; with all he had been through since, I couldn’t expect it to be. Still, it saddened me that so tender a moment was not remembered by him as it was treasured by me.
Henry reached out, squeezing my shoulder. ‘I wish you well, Margaret. I truly do,’ he said, his tone wistful.
‘The same, Henry,’ I returned, tears caught in my voice. Somewhere deep within I knew, just as when I parted with my father before my marriage, and Jamie before Flodden.
I will never see you again …
16
The Return
At York, to my delight, I learned that Albany had departed for France, taking the brothers and oldest sons of the foremost houses in the land to secure that none would attempt to overthrow him in his absence, an intelligent strategy, I must say. He left Scotland in the care of the Earls of Arran, Huntley, and my Angus. My heart lurched at the thought. Was Angus working for me, hoping to use his new power for my cause, for Little Jamie?
I was plagued by this and other worries as we rode northward. The treasury of Scotland was dwindling; my expenses after Flodden were exhaustive and confronting my financial woes o
nce again was daunting. No one, least of all the Scots, would understand why I had spent as I did, and I drafted a letter to Henry explaining the situation, in the hopes that after our warm farewell he would be sympathetic. I did not want to push him, however; I knew his help was fickle and self-serving when offered.
When we reached the Border, it looked as if Flodden were upon us once more. The land was desolate, burned, and ruined from raiding. Barns and homes stood broken, dilapidated. What new hell was I entering? Was it wise to return to this barren despair?
Only the thought of my son spurred me onward to Berwick Castle, where Angus himself came to meet me.
Despite everything between us, my heart still thrilled at the sight of him; he was as dark and handsome as he had ever been. I was determined to put his abandonment behind me. Perhaps he had been right to return to Scotland, to be a presence there and garner whatever power and sympathy he could in my absence. Perhaps it had all been part of a more intricate strategy.
I offered my brightest smile. ‘Have you seen the baby, Angus?’ I asked him as we made our way into the castle. ‘She’s beautiful, just like her papa,’ I added, hoping to renew whatever affection we had known, though in truth baby Margaret was all Tudor.
‘I canna wait to see her,’ he said, though he did not meet my eyes. We reached the apartments designated for me during my stay. He reached out, taking my hand, our first touch since meeting.
‘How is Little Jamie?’ I asked. ‘Surely you have seen him.’
Angus smiled at this. ‘I have and he is bonny, truly.’
‘Oh, time canna go fast enough!’ I exclaimed. ‘I long to be with him, to hold him, and make known how loved he is.’
Angus nodded, but he seemed half-engaged in the present.
I swallowed. ‘Angus, I forgive you,’ I blurted. And I did. ‘I want to start over. We can be a family again with baby Margaret and Little Jamie. We can put things right now.’
Angus glanced at my face a brief moment before returning his dark eyes to his boots. ‘There have been some changes in the year and a half you’ve been gone,’ he informed me. ‘You know that Lord Home has been executed, his clan outlawed.’
Tudor Princess, The Page 20
