The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

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      ‘I am so happy, my lord,’ I breathed. ‘But I am happiest knowing I have married the handsomest, most wonderful prince in Christendom!’

      He laughed, bringing my hand to his lips.

      We ate the splendid fare before us, served from fifty different platters. I could not contain my ravenous appetite and Jamie laughed as he watched me sample the different meats and puddings. He was quite restrained and ate sparingly.

      ‘You think me unbecoming eating this way,’ I commented, flushing.

      ‘I think you are a growing girl,’ he said in soft tones, fondness lighting his green eyes.

      The evening passed in a whirl. The English and Scots minstrels and musicians battled against each other, each in the hopes of outshining the other, and there was an underlying tension behind the seemingly good-natured competition. We danced till the soles of my feet ached and throbbed. My legs tingled and my face flushed from wine.

      At last the moment that held the court breathless with anticipation arrived. We were escorted to our wedding chamber. Separately, the king and I were dressed in our shifts.

      ‘Your hands are cold, Your Grace,’ my aunty Anne observed as she squeezed my icy fingers in hers. ‘You are afraid?’

      I had not allowed myself to think of this moment. Now that it had arrived my heart thudded against my ribs in a painful rhythm. I offered a small nod.

      ‘Have you been instructed on how best to please a man?’ Lady Surrey asked.

      I shook my head. ‘My grandmother thought it sinful to discuss such things.’

      ‘A wonder King Henry was conceived at all,’ Lady Surrey muttered with a smile. ‘In any case, it does not take much to please them – I daresay a man will infiltrate any hole available.’ I flinched as dozens of scenarios presented themselves before my mind’s eye. ‘Just yield to their fancies, be sweet, and ever ready to serve.’

      ‘Don’t be afraid, Your Grace,’ Aunty Anne instructed. ‘The pain does pass.’

      ‘There’s pain?’ I asked, my throat constricting in panic.

      Aunty Anne’s eyes widened, as though she was fearful at revealing this unpleasant insight. She stroked my hair. ‘There is,’ she informed me. ‘But it is a pain that yields itself to much joy; it is a communion of the souls that cannot be achieved through any other act and becomes a closeness you will never feel with any other being.’ Her face was radiant with conviction. I marvelled that she should feel this way, wondering if I would ever know the like.

      ‘Ah, Lady Anne, you are a romantic,’ observed Lady Surrey.

      ‘It is a pretty thought, Lady Surrey,’ I said. ‘I like it.’

      ‘Then take comfort in it, Your Grace, as you do your duty for Scotland,’ commanded Lady Surrey as she brushed my hair, arranging it over my shoulders.

      I drew in a breath. The moment had come.

      The king and I were led to the massive bed of state by giggling courtiers and ladies. The Archbishops of Glasgow and York stood at its foot, two old men of stony countenance. I flushed under their gazes, fearful that they would stay to observe the entire act as some had been known to do.

      The covers were turned down and Jamie and I were assisted into the bed, where the covers were then drawn over us to the chest. We were blessed by the archbishops. Jamie folded his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, murmuring a prayer to himself. It seemed almost an intrusion that I should bear witness to his private communion with God, a communion I had never experienced during my prayers.

      At the blessing’s conclusion, the archbishops, ladies, and courtiers filed out of the chambers, leaving us alone. Jamie turned down the covers and rose, making toward the buffet, where he poured himself a goblet of wine.

      ‘Would you like some, little one?’ he asked me, his soft tone ever solicitous.

      ‘I fear I shall fall asleep if I have any more,’ I confessed with a nervous giggle. I looked about our suite, my eyes wide with awe. Tapestries depicted the grandeur of the court of King Solomon and the strength of Hercules, certain to be two of my king’s heroes. The glazed windows bore the arms of Scotland and England, and crowns of interweaving thistles and roses adorned the bosses. I drank it all in with delight.

      ‘Thistles and roses,’ I observed with a slight sigh, recalling that long-ago conversation with my beloved Arthur when I likened myself to a thorn.

      ‘Entwined as one,’ Jamie said, but his smile was distracted. He brought his goblet to his lips, downing it. He turned, gazing at me a long moment. I was unable to read his expression; it was distant, wrought with an emotion I could not understand. Pity, confusion perhaps? It did not make sense to me.

      ‘Would you … like to sleep, sweetheart?’ he asked then, looking down into his goblet.

      I shook my head. ‘Of course not, Your Grace!’

      He smiled through pursed lips. Sweat gathered at his brow. He set the goblet on the buffet, making for the window seat, but did not sit. He gazed out and I had the distinct feeling he was viewing nothing of the scenery. He rested his forehead in his hand a moment before letting the hand fall to his side as he drew in a deep breath, expelling it in a sudden whoosh.

      ‘Your Grace …’ I leaned up on one elbow. ‘Jamie … have I done something wrong?’

      He shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not.’ He crossed to the buffet once more, pouring himself another cup of wine, taking a long draught, then sitting beside me on the bed. He sighed. ‘I fear for you,’ he confided. ‘You’re so very small and I’m—’ He bit his lip, his face flushing.

      ‘Your Grace?’ I asked, screwing my face up in confusion.

      He bowed his head. ‘Tomorrow morning they will inspect the sheets,’ he explained. ‘And we must give them the blood proof that our union has been consummated.’

      ‘B-blood?’ I asked, scrambling up toward the pillow. ‘Blood from whom? Nobody told me there would be any blood!’

      Jamie gathered me in his arms. ‘Oh, little one, little one, dinna fret …’ He swayed to and fro and I took comfort in the steady beat of his strong heart. ‘We do not have to do it just yet.’ He paused. ‘Let me tell you of your new home.’ His voice grew very soft and low as it did whenever addressing me. ‘Here in Scotland there is a fog that shrouds the land every morning, very romantic. It softens our hard-edged world. I love to walk in it and look about; it is smoky and a little undefined, like a painting.’ He smiled. ‘And we have lochs so calm and clear that you can see straight to the bottom. I shall take you swimming – yes, I fancy swimming and you shall learn to as well, no matter how “unladylike” they say it is. We will float on our barge, listening to the water lap against its sides, and let the sun warm us as we dip our toes into the water. There are fish to catch and stags to hunt. We will hawk and ride in the Highlands, where it is so green and the air is so clean and crisp.’ He drew in a breath, as if he were there, breathing in the Highland air. I found myself doing the same. ‘And there are castles, beautiful castles where you will play and sing and make many friends. You can decorate as you СКАЧАТЬ