The Tudor Princess

‘Things would be different had Eve not led Adam into sin,’ he explained, bowing his head to conceal his flushing face.

‘So Adam did not have a mind of his own?’ I cried. ‘If he was witless enough to yield to Eve’s temptation then it is his stupidity that warrants the curse!’

‘Madam, you tread on blasphemy!’

‘Oh, you don’t want to hear it,’ I lamented. ‘You are on his side.’

And so there was nothing to do but bear it. Fortunately, there were plenty enough diversions to occupy me. The Princess Catalina had arrived! Oh, but she was lovely, so fair and sweet. How I pitied her when her name had to be anglicised. Now she would be forever known as Catherine of Aragon. How much a princess gave up when leaving her home – her family, her customs, her way of life, even her very name.

I was at least fortunate to be removing to an English-speaking country, for the most part, and would keep possession of my name.

I tried my best to offer friendship to my future sister-in-law. She was all Spanish; it oozed from her, reflected in her piety, her thick accent, and her manner of dress. Father was disappointed.

‘Guide her, Margaret,’ he told me. ‘Show her what it is to be an English princess.’

I was thrilled at this charge and complied with enthusiasm. Catherine was four years my senior but yielded to my instruction, eager to please her new countrymen. Though she demonstrated a strength of character that suggested she would not be manipulated, she agreed to conform to some of the English customs. I enjoyed acquainting myself with her and took to making plans.

‘I shall come visit you in Wales,’ I assured her. ‘And when I live in Scotland I will write you all the time. We will organise meetings between the royal houses that will unite our countries in friendship – it will be so grand! There’ll be masques and entertainments and jousting. England has the best jousters in the world!’

Catherine offered a kind smile. ‘It all sounds so lovely. May it come to pass just as you imagine it.’

Thrilled with the companionship of the princess, I removed to her betrothed that I might tell him of her.

‘She is so lovely, Arthur,’ I reported the night before their wedding. ‘I just know you are going to be happy!’ I clasped my hands to my heart and scrunched up my shoulders in glee.

Arthur was reading abed in his apartments. He offered a lazy smile, then covered his mouth with his handkerchief as his body was seized by a wracking coughing fit. I took to his side, reaching out to feel his forehead.

‘You’re burning up!’ I cried. ‘Oh, Arthur, are you well?’

He nodded. ‘No worries, sweeting. I’m just caught up in all the excitement and am a bit worn out.’

‘You must recover yourself for the wedding night!’ I teased. My brother Henry had just informed me of the goings-on between a man and maid. He had heard it from Charles Brandon, who was told by Neddy Howard. It sounded horrid and naughty and a little delightful.

‘Remember yourself, Princess!’ Arthur commanded, but his tone was good-natured. ‘Now, you’d better hurry off to bed!’

I rose, then paused, curling my hand about the post. ‘Arthur …’

‘What is it, lamb?’ he asked.

‘Will you still love me even when you are married?’

He laughed again. ‘You are a silly creature; of course I will. My first daughter will be named for you, how is that?’

I clapped my hands. ‘Oh, but it would be lovely! And may I stand as godmother to your first son?’

‘You are a demanding little wench,’ he said.

‘I must be; I am going to be a queen, after all!’ I returned.

Arthur nodded. ‘Well, then. I suppose no one would be a better godmother to my first son than you, my dear.’

‘Ha! I can’t wait to tell Mary!’ I said. ‘She will be so jealous!’

With this I dashed off to the nursery, brimming with excitement as I anticipated the future of the glorious Tudors.

Arthur and Catherine were married on 14 November at St Paul’s Cathedral in London. Oh, what a lovely pair! Broad-shouldered Henry, who at ten could pass for fourteen, escorted the bride to her groom. He strutted like a peacock, did Henry, and to look at him one would think the day was all about him. Of course if it were up to Henry every day would have been about him. He had thrown a fit over the fact that I should take precedence at public ceremonies since I would soon be Queen of the Scots, stamping his foot, making quite a proper fool of himself.

I supposed I could not blame him – I was guilty of basking in whatever attention was given to me and as I was the future queen everyone deferred to me before Henry, who was merely the Duke of York and would be nothing more than a glorified landlord and knight. I did not envy him at all.

Rivalries were dismissed at the wedding of Arthur and Catherine, however, and all eyes were upon them. They were a sweet couple and seemed engulfed in happiness. Catherine emanated a sincere desire to be a good English princess, though at her wedding feast she and her Spanish ladies entertained us with the spirited dances of their homeland.

‘I must learn those dances!’ I told Henry. ‘See how their feet glide – oh, they’re so graceful!’

He laughed, a sound as infused with merriment as any, and reached for my hand. ‘Come, Margaret – we will show them all how the English dance!’ he cried, and before I could protest we were skipping and alighting about the floor. The onlookers clapped and exclaimed over our prowess.

‘At last Father has deemed fit to throw a real party!’ Henry said as we twirled about. ‘They’re so few and far between – he cannot bear to part himself from a few crowns!’

‘Oh, Henry, you do talk scandalous!’ I teased. ‘But too true!’

Father was sitting under his canopy of state with his chin in his hand, the fixed smile upon his narrow face forced. He was not a man for frivolities. But he must dazzle the Spanish ambassadors with displays of our wealth and hospitality. It was our obligation to show the world that we were a power to be reckoned with, and nothing bespoke power like money and nothing bespoke money like an elaborate entertainment.

At last I found Arthur, who was pleased to watch the dancers rather than participate overmuch.

‘Are you happy, Arthur?’ I asked him.

He nodded. ‘I could not have hoped for a more beautiful princess,’ he told me. ‘I wish you the same joy upon your marriage.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to go to Ludlow,’ I pined. ‘It’s so cold and far away.’

‘Be brave, Margaret,’ Arthur said, his blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. ‘Always remember what I’ve told you. Remember who you are.’

In turn I offered my bravest smile. It was my last private moment with Arthur.

Upon his removal to the border of Wales my Arthur perished four months after his wedding, a victim of the terrible sweat … Oh, Arthur, you were supposed to be revelling in your princess. You were supposed to be giving me a godson and a namesake to follow. You were going to be happy … We were going to usher in a New Age … Oh, Arthur, who would ever love me like you?

The bells that had exclaimed my brother’s joy rang out a song of mourning that resonated deep within me; my heart pounded in time with each heavy toll, its own mourning anthem a constant, aching reminder of hope lost. I kept my own counsel during that time, crying soft tears when afforded the privacy to do so. The kind archbishop tried to coax from me confessions of my anger and hurt over my brother’s death, but I could not talk to him. There were no words that would bring my Arthur back.

The Crown Prince was dead, his beautiful bride widowed, and I was not the only one to feel the void of his loss. Mother took to her bed, inconsolable. Henry and little Mary clung to each other, but I noted a grim flicker in Henry’s blue eyes. Was it satisfaction? Surely not. And yet I could not doubt he was relishing the fact that he was now the Crown Prince; Arthur’s demise afforded him with the once unforeseen destiny of becoming King of England. Oh, Henry, there is something missing in you, I wanted to scream, but had no strength. He was but ten and I supposed everything was all a little unreal to a ten-year-old boy, who was so very behind a twelve-year-old girl in everything.

Father was devastated by the loss. Arthur was his pride. He loved him. Now his love was showered upon Henry; he became overprotective and strict, determined to prepare the boy for a life never anticipated for him. I almost pitied Henry as he adopted his new role. There was talk 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.