by D. L. Bogdan
“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 favorite, 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 good-byes,” 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 recognized 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 my 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.
“I had mine,” Catherine returned. “But I do recognize 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 in 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 favorite, 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 itemized 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 honor, 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 time, 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 realized 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 honor, 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 th
e 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!
