The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

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      I bowed my head. I hated talking about the Venerable Margaret Beaufort with anyone. I hated even thinking about her. Spiritual! How I had suffered for Margaret Beaufort’s ‘spirituality’! If her cane across my back was made to bring about a better understanding of God I could have been an abbess!

      ‘Anything else?’

      Summoned to mind was the most grievous sin of all. I sighed. ‘I asked the king what a whore is.’

      The priest’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth with one large hand. ‘Did you find out?’

      ‘No! Grandmother slapped me!’ I cried, hoping to solicit his sympathy. ‘I can’t begin to imagine why! I only asked because I heard one of the ladies say there were an awful lot of whores about and I feared it was some kind of insect, so I thought it best to find out! I do not want anything crawling on me, after all!’

      Archbishop Morton tilted his head back, closing his eyes a long moment. He drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. ‘Anything else, my lady?’

      I bit my lip. ‘I … I’m not sure.’

      ‘You’re not sure?’

      I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s just that I sin with such terrible frequency – I can’t seem to keep track. I suppose I should make a list …’

      ‘Highness, has it ever occurred to you that the best way to, er, “keep track” of your sins is to reduce the list or perhaps, to the best of your ability, cease sinning altogether?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh, but that would be impossible!’ I cried.

      ‘Indeed, we’re all human and it is in our nature to sin, but I do not believe reducing the regularity of the habit to be an impossibility—’

      ‘How on God’s earth do you expect me to have any fun that way?’ I cried.

      ‘Charity shall be your penance,’ said the archbishop in decisive tones as he rose. ‘I should like you to accompany your grandmother on her charitable exploits. ’Twill teach you humility as well and do your soul much good.’

      ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ I bowed my head in an attempt at humility, though I was much aggrieved at the thought of accompanying Grandmother anywhere. I raised my head, hoping there was some way to endear myself to him. ‘Thank you ever so!’ I cried then, throwing my arms about his waist and resting my chin against his chest, casting adoring eyes to his stern countenance. How I wished he would scoop me up in his arms and carry me off to Lambeth. Then I could be his little girl most loved. Of course, archbishops couldn’t have little girls, so I supposed it would do to place this fantasy with yet another gentleman. Unfortunately, I seemed to be running out.

      ‘Now, now, Highness, that is quite enough!’ cried the archbishop as he disengaged himself from me.

      Blinking back a sudden onset of tears, I fell to my knees and, in an unusual display of reverence, kissed his grand ring.

      ‘I will pray fervently for your soul, Your Highness,’ he told me.

      I rose. ‘Your Grace … no one ever did tell me … what is a whore?’

      ‘Your Highness …’ The archbishop removed his cap to run a hand through his thinning white hair. ‘You’ll … find out when you’re older.’

      I refrained from stamping my foot.

      I’d find out when I was older. Everyone’s favourite answer when they couldn’t tell me a thing. Likely they didn’t even know!

      Oh, confession was a bore!

      I resolved to think of a hundred other fun sins to indulge in, just to spite them all.

      If anything, it would make the dread chore more interesting. It was rather fun shocking the Archbishop of Canterbury.

      I liked shocking everyone.

      Christmastide distracted me from my mischievous missions and was all the incentive I needed to remain good. Grandmother said this in itself is a sin; I should be good because I wanted to be good, not because it involved some kind of reward.

      ‘But aren’t you being good just so you can get into heaven?’ I countered, recalling my grandmother’s famous displays of piety. ‘That is a reward.’

      This rewarded me with a clout on the mouth and no satisfactory answer.

      We removed from Greenwich to Westminster, where all the family would be together for the first time in many months. Excitement surged through me as I peeked out of the curtains of my litter to wave to the throng gathered at the palace gates, who shouted blessings at me.

      ‘Bless the princess!’ they called.

      ‘Throw them some coin; that’s what they’re waiting for,’ my grandmother urged in stern tones. ‘Goodness knows they’re not really here to see you.’

      ‘They are, too!’ I returned. ‘They adore me!’

      Just to ensure this, however, I reached into her purse to fish out a handful of sovereigns, tossing them to the awaiting crowd, who scrambled and scuffled over them in the street. My heart lurched as the truth of my grandmother’s words rang in my ears.

      When at last I was permitted to quit the litter and my grandmother’s deplorable company, I ran through the Long Gallery to search out my family. I offered warm greetings to the courtiers and dignitaries who surrounded Father like butterflies around flowers. All rewarded me with smiles and bows.

      The Archbishop of Canterbury was there. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Well, Princess Margaret. You have come to grace us with your presence for the holiday season. Let us pray the palace doesn’t take fire this year.’

      My eyes misted as I recalled my precious Sheen, now being rebuilt as my father had promised into a grand palace he had decided to call Richmond, for our family’s seat.

      ‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ I assured him, in case that had been his implication.

      The archbishop, in a moment of rare tenderness, ruffled my hair as he chuckled. ‘Of course not, Your Highness. Now. Come with me. You’ll be anxious to see your father, no doubt.’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ I cried, sliding my hand in his and leaning my head on his arm. He disengaged and my arm fell to my side as we progressed through the gallery toward my father’s apartments.

      We entered King Henry VII’s privy chamber to find him hunched over his writing table, scouring documents. He did not put them aside when my presence was announced and I stood among members of the council, who rolled their eyes at each other as if to say, Here she is again.

      Yes, here I am again and you’ll never forget me! I longed to cry. I was not some common street urchin; I was Princess Margaret Tudor and a finer lass they’d never lay eyes upon!

      But I said nothing. I sighed and fiddled with the pearls sewn into the neckline of my blue velvet gown. I plaited and unplaited my coppery tresses over my shoulder to busy my fidgety hands, until at last the King of England raised his taciturn face toward me. СКАЧАТЬ