The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

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СКАЧАТЬ after the archbishop, and I strained against his thick Scots brogue, trying to understand the words through the rolling Rs and guttural, throaty tones of speech. To think a whole country talked like that and I had to head them up!

      My back ached from standing so straight, but I drew myself even straighter as I repeated after the archbishop, ‘I, Margaret, first-begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty prince and princess, Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent, right high and mighty prince, James, King of Scotland and therefore I plight and give to him in your person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.’

      At once the trumpets sounded and the minstrels burst into song. A bubble of laughter caught in my chest as I turned to the earl.

      ‘Many congratulations, Your Grace,’ he told me, dipping into a bow.

      Your Grace! I was a Grace! I shot a smug look at my brother, Henry, who was all too eager to sit on the throne. He scrunched his nose up at me but was smiling. I expected both of us were eager to dazzle our guests with our dancing.

      Father led the band of Scots to his apartments while Mother approached me, sliding her hand into mine. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, and her tone of reverence humbled me. She curtsied before me. I curtsied in turn.

      We were no longer simply mother and daughter but two queens, two great monarchs.

      Two Graces!

      This was something I could not revel in for long, however, for Mother was now leading me to my apartments. I exchanged state robes for a shift and my hair was brushed till it shone. Mother ran her fingers through it and laughed.

      ‘You are all Tudor,’ she said. ‘That lustrous red hair is your pride.’

      I smiled at my reflection in the glass. I may not have been as beautiful as my little sister, but I was comely with my round face, full lips, and wide, lively brown eyes. Mother, accompanied by my gentle aunts and ladies, put me to bed, covering me up to my shoulders, fanning my hair about the pillow in a pleasing array. She uncovered my foot to the ankle, and the crisp air caused me to shiver. I began to bounce my foot in nervousness.

      ‘Be still, love,’ said Mother. ‘You must be composed.’

      With effort I collected myself. It would not do to see the Queen of Scots fidgeting in her bed.

      It was not long before male voices were heard approaching, Scots and Englishmen laughing and jesting. None would think from that night that there was a moment’s unrest between our two kingdoms.

      The men entered my chambers, led in by Father and the Archbishops of Glasgow, York, and Canterbury. I offered a shy smile at the last, feeling peculiar that they should see me in such estate. Patrick Hepburn, my proxy husband, was dressed in nought but his shift and he approached the bed, looking at once imposing and awkward. I resisted the urge to shrink away from him as he exposed his bare leg. I pressed my foot to his thigh, my toes cold against his warm flesh. It was so odd that the act should amount to a legal consummation that I stifled another nervous giggle.

      The room erupted into cheers and wine was passed about. The men vacated to take in their share and my aunts surrounded me on the bed laughing and I admitted that I was relieved I was not asked to do anything else but press my foot to Hepburn’s hairy leg that night.

      The thought of all that a real consummation entailed filled me with as much dread as delight.

      All of London was celebrating me! There were masques and jousts and feasting. My hunger was insatiable, rejuvenated after a year of grieving and poor appetite. Henry and I gobbled everything in sight; we could not get enough of the roast boar, the eels, the mutton, the meat pies and puddings, the creamy cheeses, the wine that flowed so readily. We danced, our cheeks glowing and ruddy from spirits and excitement. Only on the floor did my chest clench with a pang of sadness as I recalled Arthur, how we would have celebrated that day, how he would have favoured me with words of gentleness and wisdom. Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. I would not have the Scots thinking I was a reluctant queen. I tossed my hair about and commenced to dance with tireless vigour as Henry and I ushered in the dawn.

      At the jousts I sat beside Lord Bothwell, waving to the glittering knights, awarding them with tokens and prizes for their command of the lance. Oh, they were so brave and fine, those English knights, and I could not imagine their like existing in Scotland.

      The earl asked me to point out the jousters and tell him about them. I did so, waving my hands with enthusiasm as I bragged about their prowess. As I did, I heard a Scots ambassador lean in to his companion and say, ‘Poor lass, she’s just a babe.’ ‘Aye,’ agreed the friend.

      My cheeks flushed in anger. I was not a babe! That day, for all intents and purposes, I was a bride and a queen.

      I would show them that this babe was no one to trifle with.

      My sister Catherine was born dead on 2 February, just a few short weeks after my wedding. A few weeks prior the town was alive with celebration. Now it mourned once more. Mother was weak, lying in the land of dreams. Nothing and no one could rouse her.

      I learned of her death at Richmond Palace. Mother passed on her thirty-eighth birthday. Henry wailed for her; he had always been her pet and only my little sister, Mary, could comfort him. My father shut himself away and would see no one.

      Mother was dead. In the space of a year I had lost my treasured two brothers, a sister, and now my guide, my light, my mother. What would I do without her? No matter how afraid I had been about the prospect of removing to Scotland, I had always derived a sense of security in the knowledge that she would be in England. She would write to me and advise me. She would counsel me when I became with child and from her I would learn the art of being a true queen. Once again I was cheated; once again another family member was called to God while I remained behind scrambling to figure out why.

      We took to Westminster to hear her requiem mass. Grandmother wrapped her arms about Henry’s and Mary’s shoulders, drawing them close to her small, strong frame, her countenance resolute, determined as always. She had seen death before, many times. It had lost its effect.

      I sat alone. My beloved Archbishop Morton, one of the few in whom I would have been able to confide my grief, now also waited for Mother in the next world as well. I had not allowed myself to grow fond of the new one, Warham, who locked eyes with me and offered a sad smile I could not return.

      Upon the conclusion of the service I proceeded down the Long Gallery of Westminster. At once it was as though I were swallowed up by the vastness of this hall, which in itself was a small place compared to the whole of England and the wilds of Scotland. And yet I was a queen, which wasn’t small at all, and that must account for something. Would anyone remember me hundreds of years from then?

      Would anyone remember my mother, herself so small and fair?

      I removed to my father’s apartments. I needed to find some assurance in my remaining parent, the king.

      The guards fixed me with stern gazes. ‘The king will see no one,’ one told me.

      ‘I am his daughter,’ I responded. ‘He will see me.’

      The guard shook his head, his mouth drawn into a thin, grim line. ‘His orders are explicit: He will see no one.’

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