The Tudor Princess

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.’

‘Great God in heaven, are We not the Queen of Scots! Has not one sovereign the right to see another? You will obey Us,’ I ordered, squaring my shoulders. ‘Or face the displeasure of Our country! We doubt you want to be responsible for a national incident!’

Startled, the men exchanged glances, then after a moment’s more hesitation stood aside to permit me entrance. The instant I strode into my father’s chambers I lost all confidence. My strong, measured steps became tiny and soft. I approached my father, who sat at his writing table, his head buried in his hands. I had never seen him thus; this was a man who never allowed for vulnerability. There was no time for it. He had a throne to secure, a treasury to fill, a country’s confidence to win. There was no time to be faint of heart.

Now he sat before me broken, his long face drawn. He had been crying; tears stained his weathered cheeks. At once my breath caught. I had never seen him cry before.

‘Your Grace …’ I said, bowing my head and curtsying. ‘I am sorry … I did not mean to burst in.’

‘I must say it was well done,’ he commented, offering a sad half smile.

We gazed at each other a moment, immobilised by sorrow. I could not lament to him as I did to Mother; there was no railing against the fates or questioning God. We faced each other, two monarchs, and would address our grief with dignity, not drama.

‘I came to comfort you,’ I said in soft tones.

‘My comfort will be in this alliance,’ he told me, extending his hand. I took it. It was so large that mine was made invisible when enfolded within it. ‘Be a good queen, Margaret, as your mother was. Beget many sons. And remember: You are a daughter of England before you are a wife to Scotland. Do whatever it takes to ensure peace between our kingdoms.’

‘I shall,’ I promised, forcing strength into my voice as I swallowed my tears. I was determined to face him with stateliness. ‘I shall honour my mother’s memory and do you proud.’

Father rose. He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘You have.’ He leaned forward and very gently kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, revelling in the newfound bond between monarchs, vowing to be every inch the queen my mother was while encompassing the strength of my father, the founder of this Tudor dynasty.

3 (#ulink_cfbaa4d4-2e47-5c6e-a417-56f94cbebd15)

The Progress (#ulink_cfbaa4d4-2e47-5c6e-a417-56f94cbebd15)

Father whiled away his hours in the White Tower, absorbed in the decorating of the new chapel off Westminster Abbey in which Mother was entombed. It was a magnificent structure, its spires stretching toward heaven, its elaborate stained-glass windows depicting scenes of Christ’s life in vivid detail. Despite its splendour, never was the thought far from my mind that it was a tomb. This was where my father planned to lay himself down, and as he worked, so diligent in his attention to every facet of the imposing building, I feared he planned to yield to his eternal rest sooner than later. Mother’s death had aged him; every act of state became an effort. It was enough for him to get through the daily task of living.

Henry was given his own household resplendent with every luxury. He had companions by the score, the best tutors and priests. Father would prepare him the way of a king. But Father did not offer his own hand that he might lead him. Henry, who was ever a candle to Arthur’s flaming torch, remained as alienated from Father as before. Father could not seem to give of himself any more. He was not cold; he was not cruel. He was silent, isolated, and immobile, save for what must get done. He would keep England as peaceful and powerful as possible while remaining true to his cautious and frugal nature by filling the treasury in the hopes that his son and his country would never be left wanting.

One way of maintaining peace was through the Anglo-Scots alliance. Father determined it was then prudent for me to be sent to my husband in the north.

I panicked. I was not yet fourteen; the treaty expressly stated that I was not to leave England until I was fourteen! But travelling to Scotland after November was a fool’s journey. No one wanted to battle the cold and it was this point that convinced me of the necessity of an earlier arrival. As it was I would reach Edinburgh by August.

Everything was arranged. I would be accompanied by a glittering entourage of liveried guards, attendants, courtiers, and servants. Carts of gowns and plate completed the baggage train and I smiled through my rising sense of despair.

‘You leave England a princess to enter Scotland a queen,’ said my little sister, Mary, squeezing my hands as I bid farewell at Richmond.

I blinked back tears as I took the little girl in my arms, wondering when I would see her again. I drew back, stroking her golden hair from her face. What was her fate, then? What kingdom would she be sent to? Would any of us who shared the nursery together see each other again?

I left her with a kiss, that I might promenade in the gardens alone with Henry arm in arm in an effort to extend my farewell as long as I could.

‘Are you afraid, Henry?’ I asked him in soft tones.

Henry laughed. ‘Afraid of what, Sister?’

‘Of being king,’ I finished with a sigh.

He stopped walking. ‘I suppose I am.’ ‘I want people to respect me and fear me,’ he said, then in softer tones added, ‘but I want them to like me, too. Are you afraid, Margaret?’

I nodded. ‘I know it isn’t the same as it is for you; I am the consort and not the ruler of the people. But I will be so far away from you and from everyone I love. I will feel so left out. Mayhap I will not get to attend your wedding or Mary’s … Sometimes letters do not seem as though they will be enough.’

‘They will have to be,’ Henry told me. He turned toward me, taking my hands in his. He was truly a promising lad, I realised then, putting aside previous rivalry and prejudices. Perhaps he hadn’t been as cold as I’d thought. His blue eyes shone with nothing but sincerity now.

‘Just remember I am your brother,’ he told me. ‘I will always protect you. And when you are afraid, remember this moment. Come to this very spot in your mind and I will be here to hold your hands. Kings never rest, nor do their queens, yet even God had a seventh day.’ He laughed, squeezing my hands in his. ‘So let this be our seventh day,’ he said. ‘Whenever you are afraid or it is all too much to bear, take your seventh day in your mind, and we will all be together again. It will give you strength.’

I reached out, stroking his cheek. It was a lovely thought to hold on to. ‘I am sorry if I was ever mean to you, Henry,’ I was compelled to say.

Henry laughed. ‘I can take it,’ he said. ‘What kind of prince would I be were I not able to handle the women in my life!’

I laughed in turn as he took me in his arms before we made our way back to the rest of the party.

‘Farewell, Sister,’ Henry said when we reached the assemblage. ‘Hold your own against those barbarians!’

Princess Catherine of Aragon laughed at this. ‘Now, Your Highness, you must not scare her,’ she admonished in her gentle tone as we embraced. ‘May God bless and keep Your Grace.’

I was still unused to the title almost two years later and it caused me to start. I offered a swift smile, turning quickly so the ensemble did not see my tears as I was assisted into my splendid litter, trying to focus on the pageantry of the affair rather than the poignancy.

Farewell, dear siblings …

My ladies surrounded me once in the litter, a gaggle of laughing, gossiping girls, and I was rejuvenated at the prospect of making such a grand progress throughout the country.

‘We are all with you, Your Grace,’ said my aunty Anne Howard. Her whimsical nature was so reminiscent of her sister – my mother – that my heart surged with tenderness for the soft-spoken gentlewoman. ‘We will carry you all the way to Scotland; our love will carry you further still.’

I pressed her hand. ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I told her. I pursed my lips, swallowing the painful lump in my throat. ‘Oh, Aunty,’ I added, breaking protocol. ‘Do you think that love is as the poets say?’

‘In what regard?’ asked Aunty Anne.