The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ people, who he promised would love me. He told me of all the pets I would keep, the horses and dogs and birds of prey to be used for my pleasure. All the while his voice rose and fell, alternating between passionate enthusiasm and gentle musing. His was an enchanting voice; I grew lost in it. I grew lost in him.

      At last he laid me back against the pillows and stroked my cheek. ‘I shall be quick,’ he reassured me. ‘There will be no need to even uncover yourself. We shall keep our shifts on.’ He rose and blew out the tapers, cloaking us in darkness. My breath caught in my throat. He returned to me, climbing in bed once more. ‘There. Mayhap it will be easier this way.’

      Easier for whom? I wanted to ask. Was it that he could not bear to look upon my underdeveloped form, my nonexistent breasts and narrow hips? Was I so repulsive then? I kept those disturbing thoughts to myself as the king covered my face with gentle kisses but avoided my mouth, even as I sought his. At last I ceased doing so and lay back, praying I had the strength to endure this act that would cement the alliance between England and Scotland.

      As promised he did not attempt to remove either of our shifts; he was as gentle as possible. He did not caress any part of my body save for my hips, which he cradled in his strong hands as he commenced, entering quickly. Tears heated my eyes and I cried out – I told myself I would not, but it was terrifying. This thing inside of me was agonising – a sword bent on ripping me in two. If I could not abide its presence how would I bear a child? Oh, what a disappointment! The king withdrew at once. He was trembling.

      ‘I have hurt you,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my lady, my dear little … little …’ He could not say it.

      My legs quaked. I drew the covers over myself and averted my head from his moonlit silhouette.

      ‘Will it always be like this?’ I asked, my tone tremulous.

      ‘No,’ he told me. ‘As you grow …’ His voice wavered. ‘As you grow …’ He rose and commenced to pour two goblets of wine. ‘I trust you are ready for some wine now.’

      I sat up, nodding.

      He handed me the goblet and I downed it like a sailor. It was soothing, warming my quivering limbs.

      ‘Do you think you got a child on me?’ I asked then.

      ‘Oh, little Maggie …’ There was no mistaking the pity in his tone. It shamed me and I held out my goblet for more wine, hoping to drink my disgrace away. ‘There are other things that have to happen to get a child.’

      ‘Does that hurt, too?’ I asked, my gut lurching in terror.

      He gazed into his goblet. ‘No, it is very pleasurable,’ he said.

      ‘For the man, you mean,’ I remarked, unable to keep the pout from my tone.

      He laughed. ‘Aye. But there is much pleasure to be had for the woman as well. You will see.’

      ‘Have you loved many women?’ I asked him.

      He hesitated. His face clouded over. Moonlight reflected glistening tears standing bright in his eyes. ‘Yes, Maggie. I have loved many women.’

      I scowled, unable to contain my instant jealousy. It surged through me hotter than any wine. ‘I suppose they were buxom and wildly curvaceous and knew just what to do.’

      His lips twitched. ‘Maggie, we must not speak of such things on our wedding night,’ he told me, setting his goblet down once more and climbing into bed beside me. ‘Come lay your head on my chest,’ he invited as he enfolded me against him. He sighed. ‘I do not come to our marriage bed an innocent. I wish that I had. Can you forgive me?’

      I wiped my tears away, frustrated to have betrayed my jealousy. ‘I can forgive you anything,’ I assured him. ‘So long as you remember who is the true Mistress Stewart.’

      He laughed. ‘Mistress Stewart?’

      I nodded. ‘Mistress Stewart – it is a title I relish even more than “Your Grace.”’

      ‘Ah.’ He kissed my nose. ‘Then, may I bid my forever Mistress Stewart good night?’

      Forever. It was a word that rolled nicely off the tongue. I giggled. ‘Indeed. Good night … Master Stewart.’

      But as we lay there lost in our own respective thoughts I wondered what else my husband had experienced while my childhood was spent preparing to be his bride.

      I wondered at my capacity for forgiveness.

      As the night waxed into dawn I lay awake listening to my king cry and twitch in his sleep.

      ‘Margaret,’ he moaned. ‘Oh, sweet Margaret …’

      I was reassured. He must have been greatly bothered by our conversation to let it haunt his dreams so.

      ‘I’m here, my love,’ I assured, reaching out to stroke his bearded cheek. ‘I’ll always be here.’

      And I wrapped my arm about his broad chest, curling up against him, this man who was to be my world.

      The king did not try to repeat our wedding night’s unpleasantness and I was just as glad. The longer I could put off that invasion the better. Meantime he was ever solicitous and attentive. Every day I was treated to glittering entertainments. Jamie’s fool, English John, had such a raunchy sense of humour that I was sent into fits of delight, but the poor fellow was scolded for his bawdy witticisms. I was disappointed in the stricture placed upon him.

      Every day hoped to outdo the one before in gaiety. There was nought to do but play and be merry and I relished every opportunity to sun myself in the gardens with my ladies. We played at cards and bowls or spread our embroidery about the lawn and stitched away the hours against the music of our own gossip.

      One afternoon Jamie descended upon the garden with old Lord Surrey and a group of courtiers. Surrey spent a great deal of time with Jamie and the two seemed to have developed a genuine rapport. I smiled in greeting.

      Aunty Anne and Lord Thomas Howard pushed me in my favourite swing as my king approached with long, confident strides. Oh, what a handsome spectacle he was! In his arms were cradled two squat black terriers with coarse fur and long squared-off snouts.

      ‘They’re called Skye terriers,’ Jamie informed me, his voice infused with his infectious enthusiasm as he placed the wriggling creatures in my arms. ‘Do you know what Skye means?’

      I nodded, proud of myself for remembering. ‘It is Scotland’s true name,’ I said.

      ‘Very good. They are a feisty breed but very affectionate and fiercely loyal.’

      ‘Ah, then they will suit their mistress well.’ I laughed, fingering one pup’s gem-studded collar.

      ‘What will you call them?’ he asked.

      ‘I shall call the girl Skye,’ I said. ‘And the boy will be named …’ I put my finger to my chin in thought. ‘Bruce! After Robert the Bruce!’

      ‘Ah, my little Scottish bride!’ Jamie cried, leaning in to kiss my forehead. ‘Are you quite comfortable and taken care of then?’

      ‘Aye, СКАЧАТЬ