by D. L. Bogdan
“I wish you didn’t have to go to Ludlow,” I pined. “It’s so cold and far away.”
“Be brave, Margaret,” Arthur said, his blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Always remember what I’ve told you. Remember who you are.”
In turn I offered my bravest smile. It was my last private moment with Arthur.
Upon his removal to the border of Wales my Arthur perished four months after his wedding, a victim of the terrible sweat.... Oh, Arthur, you were supposed to be reveling in your princess. You were supposed to be giving me a godson and a namesake to follow. You were going to be happy.... We were going to usher in a New Age.... Oh, Arthur, who would ever love me like you?
The bells that had exclaimed my brother’s joy rang out a song of mourning that resonated deep within me; my heart pounded in time with each heavy toll, its own mourning anthem a constant, aching reminder of hope lost. I kept my own counsel during that time, crying soft tears when afforded the privacy to do so. The kind archbishop tried to coax from me confessions of my anger and hurt over my brother’s death, but I could not talk to him. There were no words that would bring my Arthur back.
The Crown Prince was dead, his beautiful bride widowed, and I was not the only one to feel the void of his loss. Mother took to her bed, inconsolable. Henry and little Mary clung to each other, but I noted a grim flicker in Henry’s blue eyes. Was it satisfaction? Surely not. And yet I could not doubt he was relishing the fact that he was now the Crown Prince; Arthur’s demise afforded him with the once unforeseen destiny of becoming King of England. Oh, Henry, there is something missing in you, I wanted to scream, but had no strength. He was but ten and I supposed everything was all a little unreal to a ten-year-old boy, who was so very behind a twelve-year-old girl in everything.
Father was devastated by the loss. Arthur was his pride. He loved him. Now his love was showered upon Henry; he became overprotective and strict, determined to prepare the boy for a life never anticipated for him. I almost pitied Henry as he adopted his new role. There was talk he would become betrothed to Catherine, which would at least enable her to remain my sister-in-law. Though the thought comforted me, I found it strange to think that Henry would have all of Arthur’s leavings, right down to his own wife.
Mother’s way of combating the grief was by proving her fertility. She was with child. Thus far she had been pregnant seven times, suffering stillbirths and miscarriages in addition to the loss of our beloved Arthur. Perhaps she hoped to ensure the succession by giving England another healthy prince in case Henry should meet with the same fate.... Oh, I could not bear to think of that.
Father was delighted, and though he was not a demonstrative man, he showered her with gifts.
“What can bring us more comfort than the hope new life brings?” he asked me, his stern countenance yielding to a rare smile that revealed more wistfulness than cheer.
The baby arrived but was short-lived. Our little Prince Edward was born a month premature and died within his first weeks of life. I did not cry this time. The state of my fear was too great, and as I regarded my gentle, fair-haired mother, her head bent in prayer, I pondered my fate. Was this what it meant to be a queen? To give and give and give of oneself and only lose in return? Your girls were sent abroad, your boys were set apart for their glorious educations, and God claimed the rest.... Surging through me was a fear cold as ice. I trembled. I was so gripped by nausea I could not abide the sight of food and became even tinier.
It seemed despite everything, kings enjoyed the glory while queens bore the pain.
It was a heady thing.
Mother wasted no time grieving and in the winter of 1502 her belly swelled yet again. This time I could not contain my anxiety. Nerves caused me to take to my bed with dreadful headaches. The nurse brought this to Mother’s attention and she alighted to my side one evening over Christmastide.
“Margaret, darling, what is happening to you?” she asked in her soft voice. Ah, her voice. There was none like it; it was akin to a gentle wind, warm and sweet, never raised. There existed in the world no gentler a mother and tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought of causing her distress of any kind.
I sat up in my bed and wrapped my arms about her neck, burying my head in her shoulder. She began to sway, stroking my hair.
“Margaret,” she murmured. “What is it? Tell me.”
“Oh, my lady, I am so afraid!” I confided. “What if you lose this baby, too? How will your poor body bear it? You’re so delicate and pale.” I reached up to stroke a flaxen curl away from her alabaster cheek.
Mother pulled away, cupping my face in her hands. “You mustn’t worry about me, darling. This is what I was made for. God’s will be done.”
“I am afraid of God’s will,” I confessed.
“You must not be afraid, for He intends only the very best,” she told me. “Now enough fretting. You do not want to spoil your beauty for the Scottish Embassy; we can’t have them telling King James his bride’s face is tearstained, that she is beside herself with nerves. You must be strong. Arthur would want you to be strong,” she added, her eyes knowing as she confronted my deepest grief.
“Arthur . . .” I covered my eyes to ward off a vision of my gentle brother, a vision that taunted me by being forever unattainable. “Then the baby. Oh, Mother, I am so sorry about the baby.” I drew in a shuddering breath. “I watch you endure and you’re so gracious and strong. I want to be like you, but I am so afraid I will never live up to your queenly example. I am afflicted with such fear—all I can think of is childbearing and what it’d be like if I were in your place. How would I bear losing my Crown Prince and all those babies? How would I go on?”
“You go on because it is your duty,” she said. “I will not pretend that it doesn’t break my heart; sometimes I think I lose a little more of myself with each passing.” Her tone became thoughtful. “But we cannot bury ourselves with our loved ones. As queens we have a duty to our countries. We must provide heirs as long as we are able.”
“What a business!” I sniffed, anger replacing my tears. “We are good for nothing else!”
“We are good for a great many things,” she told me. “A subtle queen can advise her husband and be involved with the politics of the land if she is clever enough to make him think he does not know how much he relies upon her.”
I smiled. “Do you think I will be such a queen?”
“I hope so,” she said with her gentle smile. “Now you must try and stop grieving, lamb. In a few days the Scots will arrive and you shall be married by proxy in a grand ceremony. The king is sending you all kinds of marvelous gifts.”
“Gifts? Oh, gifts!” I exclaimed. At once my head felt much better. “What do you suppose a Scot gives his bride?”
“With any luck, a Scottish bairn!” cried Mother, taking me in her arms. We dissolved into laughter as I anticipated my impending nuptials.
The proxy ceremony was held on 15 January in my mother’s presence chamber. My northern groom was most generous, sending me a magnificent trousseau from Paris and a gown worth 160 pounds. I almost swooned with delight—what a splendid prince he must be!
How grand everyone looked, even Father, so solemn and stern in his black velvet, and Mother a serene picture of fertility and grace, her golden hair piled beneath her hood in an array of glossy curls.
I was bedecked in grand state robes of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, my throat encircled in jewels, and almost every slim finger ornamented with rings. My copper tresses tumbled to my waist in thick waves and I walked in slow, measured steps, my back straight, my head erect, proud as a Tudor should be.
The Scots did not look as odd as I imagined. There was something alluring about these men; there was an energy in their presence. They were alive. A thrill coursed through me as I pondered my future husband, wondering if he was as handsome and lusty as they said.
Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, served as proxy, looking most fierce and proud as he took my trem
bling hand before the Archbishop of Glasgow.
The archbishop regarded my parents on the dais and asked them if they knew of any impediment other than what had been dispensed. They said they did not. When I was asked I responded in a clear, strong voice that I, too, knew of nothing to impede my marriage to King James.
Lord Bothwell’s hand was warm in mine and I found myself squeezing it. He squeezed it in turn, glancing at me sideways and offering a quick smile as if to reassure me. The archbishop asked if it was in the King of Scots’ will and mind that he marry me in his name, to which the earl answered with a confident yes.
The archbishop turned his eyes to me. “And you, Princess. Are you content, without compulsion, and of your own free will?”
No! I wanted to scream. Who in their right mind was content with the idea of being exiled to Scotland of all bloody places? But I remained calm and composed. I was a Princess of the Blood.
“If it pleases my lord and father the king and lady mother the queen,” I said, making certain my voice resonated throughout the chambers. I would show these Scots that their queen would be strong and able.
“It is my will and pleasure,” my father rumbled, his expression wistful as he beheld me.
Lord Bothwell repeated his vows after the archbishop, and I strained against his thick Scots brogue, trying to understand the words through the rolling r’s and guttural, throaty tones of speech. To think a whole country talked like that and I had to head them up!
My back ached from standing so straight, but I drew myself even straighter as I repeated after the archbishop, “I, Margaret, first-begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty prince and princess, Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent, right high and mighty prince, James, King of Scotland and therefore I plight and give to him in your person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.”
At once the trumpets sounded and the minstrels burst into song. A bubble of laughter caught in my chest as I turned to the earl.
“Many congratulations, Your Grace,” he told me, dipping into a bow.
Your Grace! I was a Grace! I shot a smug look at my brother, Henry, who was all too eager to sit on the throne. He scrunched his nose up at me but was smiling. I expected both of us were eager to dazzle our guests with our dancing.
Father led the band of Scots to his apartments while Mother approached me, sliding her hand into mine. “Your Grace,” she said, and her tone of reverence humbled me. She curtsied before me. I curtsied in turn.
We were no longer simply mother and daughter but two queens, two great monarchs.
Two Graces!
This was something I could not revel in long, however, for Mother was now leading me to my apartments. I exchanged state robes for a shift and my hair was brushed till it shone. Mother ran her fingers through it and laughed.
“You are all Tudor,” she said. “That lustrous red hair is your pride.”
I smiled at my reflection in the glass. I may not have been as beautiful as my little sister, but I was comely with my round face, full lips, and wide, lively brown eyes. Mother, accompanied by my gentle aunts and ladies, put me to bed, covering me up to my shoulders, fanning my hair about the pillow in a pleasing array. She uncovered my foot to the ankle, and the crisp air caused me to shiver. I began to bounce my foot in nervousness.
“Be still, love,” said Mother. “You must be composed.”
With effort I collected myself. It would not do to see the Queen of Scots fidgeting in her bed.
It was not long before male voices were heard approaching, Scots and Englishmen laughing and jesting. None would think from that night that there was a moment’s unrest between our two kingdoms.
The men entered my chambers, led in by Father and the Archbishops of Glasgow, York, and Canterbury. I offered a shy smile at the last, feeling peculiar that they should see me in such estate. Patrick Hepburn, my proxy husband, was dressed in naught but his shift and he approached the bed, looking at once imposing and awkward. I resisted the urge to shrink away from him as he exposed his bare leg. I pressed my foot to his thigh, my toes cold against his warm flesh. It was so odd that the act should amount to a legal consummation that I stifled another nervous giggle.
The room erupted into cheers and wine was passed about. The men vacated to take in their share and my aunts surrounded me on the bed laughing and I admitted that I was relieved I was not asked to do anything else but press my foot to Hepburn’s hairy leg that night.
The thought of all that a real consummation entailed filled me with as much dread as delight.
All of London was celebrating me! There were masques and jousts and feasting. My hunger was insatiable, rejuvenated after a year of grieving and poor appetite. Henry and I gobbled everything in sight; we could not get enough of the roast boar, the eels, the mutton, the meat pies and puddings, the creamy cheeses, the wine that flowed so readily. We danced, our cheeks glowing and ruddy from spirits and excitement. Only on the floor did my chest clench with a pang of sadness as I recalled Arthur, how we would have celebrated that day, how he would have favored me with words of gentleness and wisdom. Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. I would not have the Scots thinking I was a reluctant queen. I tossed my hair about and commenced to dance with tireless vigor as Henry and I ushered in the dawn.
At the jousts I sat beside Lord Bothwell, waving to the glittering knights, awarding them with tokens and prizes for their command of the lance. Oh, they were so brave and fine, those English knights, and I could not imagine their like existing in Scotland.
The earl asked me to point out the jousters and tell him about them. I did so, waving my hands with enthusiasm as I bragged about their prowess. As I did so I heard a Scots ambassador lean in to his companion and say, “Poor lass, she’s just a babe.” “Aye,” agreed the friend.
My cheeks flushed in anger. I was not a babe! That day, for all intents and purposes, I was a bride and a queen.
I would show them that this babe was no one to trifle with.
My sister Catherine was born dead on 2 February, just a few short weeks after my wedding. A few weeks prior the town was alive with celebration. Now it mourned once more. Mother was weak, lying in the land of dreams. Nothing and no one could rouse her.
I learned of her death at Richmond Palace. Mother passed on her thirty-eighth birthday. Henry wailed for her; he had always been her pet and only my little sister, Mary, could comfort him. My father shut himself away and would see no one.
Mother was dead. In the space of a year I lost my treasured two brothers, a sister, and now my guide, my light, my mother. What would I do without her? No matter how afraid I had been about the prospect of removing to Scotland, I had always derived a sense of security in the knowledge that she would be in England. She would write to me and advise me. She would counsel me when I became with child and from her I would learn the art of being a true queen. Once again I was cheated; once again another family member was called to God while I remained behind scrambling to figure out why.
We took to Westminster to hear her requiem mass. Grandmother wrapped her arms about Henry’s and Mary’s shoulders, drawing them close to her small, strong frame, her countenance resolute, determined as always. She had seen death before, many times. It had lost its effect.
I sat alone. My beloved Archbishop Morton, one of the few in whom I would have been able to confide my grief, now also waited for Mother in the next world as well. I had not allowed myself to grow fond of the new one, Warham, who locked eyes with me and offered a sad smile I could not return.
Upon the conclusion of the service I proceeded down the Long Gallery of Westminster. At once it was as though I were swallowed up by the vastness of this hall, which in itself was a small place compared to the whole of England and the wilds of
Scotland. And yet I was a queen, which wasn’t small at all, and that must account for something. Would anyone remember me hundreds of years from then?
Would anyone remember my mother, herself so small and fair?
I removed to my father’s apartments. I needed to find some assurance in my remaining parent, the king.
The guards fixed me with stern gazes. “The king will see no one,” one told me.
“I am his daughter,” I responded. “He will see me.”
The guard shook his head, his mouth drawn into a thin, grim line. “His orders are explicit: He will see no one.”
“Great God in Heaven, are We not the Queen of Scots! Has not one sovereign the right to see another? You will obey Us,” I ordered, squaring my shoulders. “Or face the displeasure of Our country! We doubt you want to be responsible for a national incident!”
Startled, the men exchanged glances, then after a moment’s more hesitation stood aside to permit me entrance. The instant I strode into my father’s chambers I lost all confidence. My strong, measured steps became tiny and soft. I approached my father, who sat at his writing table, his head buried in his hands. I had never seen him thus; this was a man who never allowed for vulnerability. There was no time for it. He had a throne to secure, a treasury to fill, a country’s confidence to win. There was no time to be faint of heart.
Now he sat before me broken, his long face drawn. He had been crying; tears stained his weathered cheeks. At once my breath caught. I had never seen him cry before.
“Your Grace . . .” I said, bowing my head and curtsying. “I am sorry . . . I did not mean to burst in.”
“I must say it was well done,” he commented, offering a sad half smile.
We gazed at each other a moment, immobilized by sorrow. I could not lament to him as I did to Mother; there was no railing against the fates or questioning God. We faced each other, two monarchs, and would address our grief with dignity, not drama.
