The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ hoping to convey my dislike for them in one charming grimace, and proceeded toward the grand table. I curtsied low.

      ‘Margaret,’ he muttered in his gruff voice, looking me up and down. ‘So this is what we have to work with.’

      I scowled before I could help myself. ‘Your Grace?’

      ‘Altogether too thin,’ he mumbled, looking down at his papers. ‘You had better be able to bear children else you’ll be no use at all.’

      ‘Your Grace!’ I cried. This was not the happy reunion I had envisaged. But then most of my fantasies fell scathingly short of reality. I heaved a deep sigh. ‘There is no reason to believe I shouldn’t be able to bear a wealth of sons, my lord. I am of good Tudor and Plantagenet stock – I will do you proud.’

      He raised his head at this, offering a rueful smile. ‘I think I rather like you,’ he said, as though he were experiencing an epiphany and the idea of actually liking his children was quite novel indeed.

      ‘You’ll not let anyone get the best of you, will you?’ he mused, rising and rounding the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. ‘You are of particular interest to me this year, Daughter,’ he said, his narrow face creasing into a smile. I must say he looked horrible. His auburn hair grazed his shoulders in a straight and sensible mass that did his long features no good at all. I wished he’d cut it. He looked like an old fox wrapped in his furs, an old fox waiting to leap out and, with the slyness associated with the creature, wreak subtle havoc on those who dared oppose him.

      And yet without those foxy and wily ways Henry VII would not be Henry VII at all, but the obscure Duke of Richmond nobody cared about. Had my father not conspired against (with the help of another fox, my cunning grandmother Margaret Beaufort) and eventually slain the usurper King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth, the crown of England would not be in Tudor hands and the Wars of the Roses would still be fought in vain. But my father the king, for all his bad hair and fashion sense, swept in and won the day, not only claiming the crown but also uniting the houses of York and Lancaster at last by marrying my fair mother, Elizabeth, ending the wars for good. My father filled the treasury, modernised the government through the appointments of councillors (also men with bad hair and worse fashion sense), ousting all pretenders to the throne with the mightiness of his hand. He was a formidable man, this Henry Tudor, cold and calculating, miserly and cautious. This man, this king, was my father and never was the thought far from my mind that his were the hands that would shape my destiny.

      ‘Everyone out – We should have audience with Our daughter alone!’ Father barked, rousing me from my reverie as I watched a room of scrambling servants and councillors all too eager to do his bidding.

      Father rounded the desk once more to look out of the window, past the gardens, past the tower, far past the known horizon. He was squinting. I found myself doing the same, though I had no idea what we were looking for.

      ‘You do realise that as a daughter of this house yours is not an ordinary future We have planned,’ he said. ‘Margaret, the peace of kingdoms depends on you.’

      ‘Oh, if this is about me sinning again I can tell you I have been good for at least a week!’ I cried.

      He silenced me with a hand. ‘Margaret, I’ve news on your suit.’

      I began to tremble. My suit. I braced myself. What prince had my father chosen for me? To what distant land would I be sent?

      ‘We need an end to these frays with Scotland and one of the ways of achieving that is by forming an alliance,’ he explained. ‘D’you understand?’

      I shook my head, though against my will comprehension was settling upon me, clutching my heart in its merciless talons until I became short of breath.

      ‘Don’t swoon on me now, child,’ Father commanded. ‘You’ve never been a fainting girl and now is no time to start.’ He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘Margaret. You are going to be what unites our kingdoms. You are going to bring about a better understanding between us. You are meant for greatness, perhaps a greatness that surpasses even your own brother the Crown Prince Arthur, because yours is a task that is far from easy.’ With this he shook me somewhat, not in cruelty, but to illustrate his passion. Fear coursed through me. ‘Margaret, my child, this is your purpose: You are to become the Queen of the Scots.’

      Had I been a fainting girl, that would have been the time.

      I did not know how to feel, what to think. Queen … But I knew I would be a queen; Princesses of the Blood are primed from birth for this function. From cradle to table I had been told that I would marry a prince, that I must bear him many sons, else be deemed a failure. And so with this in mind I prepared for my role as political breeder.

      The night I learned I was to become Queen of the Scots – Scots, as if he couldn’t find a more glamorous country than where that lot of barbarians reside! – there was none with whom I could find comfort. For a while I climbed into bed with little Princess Mary, my three-year-old sister, cuddling her close. This golden princess would have a charmed life, I was certain. She was so agreeable and adorable; as yet she showed none of my sinful inclinations and everyone fawned over her.

      At once I rose from the bed of the favoured princess, stirred to anger as I thought of the wonderful marriage Father would arrange for her. No doubt she would live in some glorious court where there would be artists and musicians to entertain her all day long – likely she’d get to live in sunny Spain or romantic France while I wasted away in the north, freezing in some drafty castle surrounded by fur-clad courtiers who spoke as though they had something obstructing their throats …! I dared not think on it any more. I crossed the rush-strewn floor on bare feet, wringing my hands and blinking back tears. I, Margaret Tudor, was going to be Queen of the Scots … those frightening, monstrous Scots …

      I retrieved a wrap and sneaked out of the nursery, down the hall. I would see my brother Arthur. Gentle, sweet Arthur, so unlike fiery Henry and docile Mary, would be able to guide me.

      The guards stood aside to admit me into the apartments of the Prince of Wales. He was lying across some furs before his fire, thumbing through The Canterbury Tales. When he saw me, his handsome, scholarly face lit up with a smile.

      ‘Sister,’ he said in his handsome voice. ‘A midnight visit. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit? Take some wine.’ He held the book up for me to see. ‘I know, I shouldn’t be indulging myself in such fancy, but the naughty parts are too delightful to ignore!’

      The tears that had settled in my throat since learning of my impending betrothal were replaced by a smile as I sat beside my brother. There was no one like Arthur the world over, I was convinced. He was the gentlest, sweetest prince in Christendom and would no doubt be a fine king. He was not athletic like Henry, nor did he possess my younger brother’s fleet dancing feet. Arthur was an intellectual; content to study, to ponder, to think. His beauty was delicate and whenever I was with him I could not help but feel the need to protect him, nurture him, just as he had always protected and nurtured me.

      The smile faded at the thought, replaced by fresh tears. ‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began. ‘I hate that I never get to see you. With you living in Ludlow and me here with nobody but Henry to annoy me and Grandmother to torture me … it is a miserable existence!’

      ‘So I suppose it best to dispense with the obligatory “how are you?”’ Arthur teased, his blue eyes sparkling as he reached out to cup my cheek. ‘Now, now, Sister, is it as bad as all that? Far be it for me to disagree with you about Grandmother, but our Henry means well enough. He may be annoying, but his СКАЧАТЬ