The Tudor Princess

Lord Thomas turned to Aunty Anne, offering a gentle smile as he leaned in to press his lips against hers. For a brief moment I was allowed a glimpse into her world; his face emanated love in its form most pure and I was swept up in it. Would Jamie ever look at me that way? He looked upon me with fondness and affection already, but not quite love. Not yet. Soon, I hoped.

Lord Thomas’s expression was fleeting, converting to the stony mask that I had come to associate with him. He offered a bow, kissing my hand as was required, then departed with Surrey.

Though they were soon out of sight, their voices carried on the wind and I heard Surrey mutter, ‘I’ve sent word to the king about his new son-in-law.’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Lord Thomas.

‘Ah, that he’s a little too hungry for a Crusade – thinks he’s a regular King Arthur. Doesn’t see things as they are – a hopeless romantic. But I think he’s trustworthy enough for a Scot.’ He sighed. ‘Well, let’s hope he gets a babe on her soon, before one of his bastards gets any ideas.’

I rose, clutching the pups to my chest, my flat, childish chest. My face was hot, my breathing shallow. Tears burned my eyes.

‘Your Grace—’ Lady Surrey reached for my shoulder.

‘Hush!’ I commanded, straining my ears.

‘At least someone had the good sense to remove the Drummond girl or Scotland very well could have had another Margaret as queen,’ Surrey went on. His voice was growing softer as he grew further out of earshot.

‘A pity the sisters went down with her,’ Lord Thomas said. ‘Three girls poisoned at breakfast.’

‘What’s three girls?’ Lord Surrey retorted with a brief, joyless laugh.

‘Ask their father,’ Lord Thomas returned, his tone bitter.

Surrey’s reply could not be heard. I whirled upon his wife. ‘Make me understand, for love of God!’ I breathed, tears filling my eyes.

Lady Surrey’s face was wistful. ‘It was cruel of my husband to speak of such things when he clearly knew you would hear him.’ She pursed her lips a moment. ‘I suppose in his own strange way he means well – in true Howard manner he is trying to prepare you for the situation before the court leaves.’ She drew in a wavering breath, closing her eyes. ‘Lady Margaret Drummond was King James’s mistress for many years. To remove the possible threat of her usurping your rightful place as queen she was poisoned at her breakfast. Unfortunately, two of her sisters ingested the poison as well and—’

Margaret, sweet Margaret. It was not me he cried for in his sleep but her. Was that why he called me Maggie? Because he could not bear to utter the name of his lost love? Oh, God, my handsome prince … Was there any hope that he would ever love me?

With effort I stilled my quivering lip. ‘Wh-who did it?’

Lady Surrey shook her head. ‘No one knows, Your Grace. Likely, those who had the interests of Scotland at heart. Someone who did not want the Douglases or the Drummonds to rise to power through the girl. Some even suspect—’ She lowered her eyes, biting her lip.

‘Who, Lady Surrey?’ I demanded through gritted teeth.

‘No one, Your Grace,’ she said quickly.

‘I command you to tell me!’ I ordered, so angry I was unable to derive pleasure in the fact that I was commanding someone about.

She averted her head, her voice a whisper so soft it was barely audible. ‘Some suspect your father may have arranged it, Your Grace, to clear your path of obstacles.’

I shook my head. I refused to believe this; I could not bear to have my vision of my father, my stoic, honourable father, altered in any way. In firm tones I said, ‘Careful you do not speak treason against your king. He is not capable of ordering such cruelty. It was not he; do not even suggest it.’

‘I was not going to until you commanded me, Your Grace,’ she replied.

‘You must not think of it, dearest,’ Aunty Anne urged in her soft voice. ‘You are the queen, the only queen, and none can take your place.’

‘What’s more important is I am his wife. His wife.’ My voice was heated with fervency. ‘His Mistress Stewart. And I will never let him forget it.’

But my confidence was forever shaken. Three girls were poisoned, one for daring to love a king and two because they were in the wrong place at the worst of times. If three lives could be extinguished with such ease and lack of conscience then what could become of me should a party among these wild Scots decide I was less than worthy of sitting beside James IV?

I laid a hand upon my flat belly. A baby. I would have a prince and soon. My throne would be secured. Panic gripped me as another thought assaulted me.

Bastards. Plural.

Jamie, my sweet, handsome Jamie, had children.

With supreme effort, I went through the motions for the rest of the day. I played with my new pups, I ate heartily at supper and laughed at the fools, ever in competition with each other. I played my lute and led the courtiers in song. It would have been a most merry sport were my mind not viciously taunting me with the afternoon’s revelation.

When Jamie and I were alone my temper could no longer be controlled. The moment he entered our chambers I burst into tears.

‘Maggie, child, what is it?’ he cried, approaching me to place his hands on my shoulders. His face was stricken at my distress and I was glad of it, reminding myself that this could prove a useful technique in future encounters.

‘How many, Your Grace?’ I seethed, unable to discern his features through my tearful haze.

‘How many …?’ His face was wrought with confusion. ‘Maggie, please, child, calm yourself. Tell me what has happened.’

‘How many children have you sired?’ I sniffled, wiping my cheeks with my palms.

Jamie dropped his hands from my shoulders and backed away. ‘Oh, Maggie … I had hoped to spare you of this until I deemed you more equipped to manage such news. But the court relishes their gossip. I should have known it would not take too long before rumours reached you.’

‘Are they rumours or truths?’ I demanded, my chest still heaving with sobs.

He cocked his head, pursing his lips, his eyes making an appeal for an understanding I could not give. After a moment’s more hesitation he said, ‘It is true. I have children.’

‘How many?’ I persisted.

‘Five.’

‘Five?’ I cried. ‘Five? God’s blood, aren’t you the profligate!’ I balled my hands into fists. ‘Two or three I could perhaps understand – perhaps – but five! And all by the same mother?’

He shook his head.

With wild abandon, I began removing pins from my hair and throwing them at him. They bounced off of him, useless as my tears.

‘Five little threats to your throne!’ I went on, my eyes gone painfully dry with rage. ‘Did you ever think at all before you brought them into this world of the effect they could have on your future? On Scotland’s future? And these women … these, these—’ I searched for a word, a word nasty enough to encompass what these women were to me, a word unfit to spring forth from a queen’s lips, a word I had heard long ago. ‘These whores of yours! Surely they were happy to give you children in the hopes of raising themselves high and the children even higher!’

Jamie remained very quiet during my tirade and when at last I could think of no more insults to hurl forth he approached. I could not read his face. Perhaps I had gone too far … perhaps in my unbridled anger I had sabotaged any growing affection he may have harboured for me.

To my astonishment he swept me up in his arms and carried me across the floor to the window seat, and, holding me across his lap, he sat, cradling me against his chest.

‘Maggie,’ he began, his intoxicating tone low as he stroked my hair. ‘Try and remember, little one, that for the whole of your life I have been a grown man. And ’tis true there are many times when my excessively amorous nature ruled over sound logic. I canna speak for the ladies’ motivations, but I would like to think they were not so sordid as you imply. But then’ – he shrugged – ‘I do not know. I do know that my children, despite whatever favour showered upon them, will never usurp the place of the royal children, neither in my heart nor on the throne of Scotland.’

‘But you do not know what they could do, what they may be capable of when they grow up and begin to lust for a power they may see as their birthright,’ I told him, my voice small with fear.

‘A legitimate concern, and one I have taken into consideration. But the relationship I promote with my children is a loving one and it is my hope they will be too bound to me through their affection to ever conspire against me,’ he reasoned.

‘And their mothers? Or your enemies? Are they so “bound to you through their affection” that they will not use them against you?’