The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ that he would become betrothed to Catherine, which would at least enable her to remain my sister-in-law. Though the thought comforted me, I found it strange to think that Henry would have all of Arthur’s leavings, right down to his own wife.

      Mother’s way of combating the grief was by proving her fertility. She was with child. Thus far she had been pregnant seven times, suffering stillbirths and miscarriages in addition to the loss of our beloved Arthur. Perhaps she hoped to ensure the succession by giving England another healthy prince in case Henry should meet with the same fate … Oh, I could not bear to think of that.

      Father was delighted, and though he was not a demonstrative man, he showered her with gifts.

      ‘What can bring us more comfort than the hope new life brings?’ he asked me, his stern countenance yielding to a rare smile that revealed more wistfulness than cheer.

      The baby arrived but was short-lived. Our little Prince Edward was born a month premature and died within his first weeks of life. I did not cry this time. The state of my fear was too great, and as I regarded my gentle, fair-haired mother, her head bent in prayer, I pondered my fate. Was this what it meant to be a queen? To give and give and give of oneself and only lose in return? Your girls were sent abroad, your boys were set apart for their glorious educations, and God claimed the rest … Surging through me was a fear cold as ice. I trembled. I was so gripped by nausea I could not abide the sight of food and became even tinier.

      It seemed despite everything, kings enjoyed the glory while queens bore the pain.

      It was a heady thing.

      Mother wasted no time grieving and in the winter of 1502 her belly swelled yet again. This time I could not contain my anxiety. Nerves caused me to take to my bed with dreadful headaches. The nurse brought this to Mother’s attention and she alighted to my side one evening over Christmastide.

      ‘Margaret, darling, what is happening to you?’ she asked in her soft voice. Ah, her voice. There was none like it; it was akin to a gentle wind, warm and sweet, never raised. There existed in the world no gentler a mother and tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought of causing her distress of any kind.

      I sat up in my bed and wrapped my arms about her neck, burying my head in her shoulder. She began to sway, stroking my hair.

      ‘Margaret,’ she murmured. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

      ‘Oh, my lady, I am so afraid!’ I confided. ‘What if you lose this baby, too? How will your poor body bear it? You’re so delicate and pale.’ I reached up to stroke a flaxen curl away from her alabaster cheek.

      Mother pulled away, cupping my face in her hands. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, darling. This is what I was made for. God’s will be done.’

      ‘I am afraid of God’s will,’ I confessed.

      ‘You must not be afraid, for He intends only the very best,’ she told me. ‘Now enough fretting. You do not want to spoil your beauty for the Scottish Embassy; we can’t have them telling King James his bride’s face is tearstained, that she is beside herself with nerves. You must be strong. Arthur would want you to be strong,’ she added, her eyes knowing as she confronted my deepest grief.

      ‘Arthur …’ I covered my eyes to ward off a vision of my gentle brother, a vision that taunted me by being forever unattainable. ‘Then the baby. Oh, Mother, I am so sorry about the baby.’ I drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I watch you endure and you’re so gracious and strong. I want to be like you, but I am so afraid I will never live up to your queenly example. I am afflicted with such fear – all I can think of is childbearing and what it’d be like if I were in your place. How would I bear losing my Crown Prince and all those babies? How would I go on?’

      ‘You go on because it is your duty,’ she said. ‘I will not pretend that it doesn’t break my heart; sometimes I think I lose a little more of myself with each passing.’ Her tone became thoughtful. ‘But we cannot bury ourselves with our loved ones. As queens we have a duty to our countries. We must provide heirs as long as we are able.’

      ‘What a business!’ I sniffed, anger replacing my tears. ‘We are good for nothing else!’

      ‘We are good for a great many things,’ she told me. ‘A subtle queen can advise her husband and be involved with the politics of the land if she is clever enough to make him think he does not know how much he relies upon her.’

      I smiled. ‘Do you think I will be such a queen?’

      ‘I hope so,’ she said with her gentle smile. ‘Now you must try and stop grieving, lamb. In a few days the Scots will arrive and you shall be married by proxy in a grand ceremony. The king is sending you all kinds of marvellous gifts.’

      ‘Gifts? Oh, gifts!’ I exclaimed. At once my head felt much better. ‘What do you suppose a Scot gives his bride?’

      ‘With any luck, a Scottish bairn!’ cried Mother, taking me in her arms. We dissolved into laughter as I anticipated my impending nuptials.

      The proxy ceremony was held on 15 January in my mother’s presence chamber. My northern groom was most generous, sending me a magnificent trousseau from Paris and a gown worth 160 pounds. I almost swooned with delight – what a splendid prince he must be!

      How grand everyone looked, even Father, so solemn and stern in his black velvet, and Mother a serene picture of fertility and grace, her golden hair piled beneath her hood in an array of glossy curls.

      I was bedecked in grand state robes of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, my throat encircled in jewels, and almost every slim finger ornamented with rings. My copper tresses tumbled to my waist in thick waves and I walked in slow, measured steps, my back straight, my head erect, proud as a Tudor should be.

      The Scots did not look as odd as I imagined. There was something alluring about these men; there was an energy in their presence. They were alive. A thrill coursed through me as I pondered my future husband, wondering if he was as handsome and lusty as they said.

      Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, served as proxy, looking most fierce and proud as he took my trembling hand before the Archbishop of Glasgow.

      The archbishop regarded my parents on the dais and asked them if they knew of any impediment other than what had been dispensed. They said they did not. When I was asked I responded in a clear, strong voice that I, too, knew of nothing to impede my marriage to King James.

      Lord Bothwell’s hand was warm in mine and I found myself squeezing it. He squeezed it in turn, glancing at me sideways and offering a quick smile as if to reassure me. The archbishop asked if it was in the King of Scots’ will and mind that he marry me in his name, to which the earl answered with a confident yes.

      The archbishop turned his eyes to me. ‘And you, Princess. Are you content, without compulsion, and of your own free will?’

      No! I wanted to scream. Who in their right mind was content with the idea of being exiled to Scotland of all places? But I remained calm and composed. I was a Princess of the Blood.

      ‘If it pleases my lord and father the king and lady mother the queen,’ I said, making certain my voice resonated throughout the chambers. I would show these Scots that their queen would be strong and able.

      ‘It is my will and pleasure,’ my father rumbled, his expression wistful as he beheld me.

      Lord СКАЧАТЬ