Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

Accompanied by eighteen hundred ladies and gentlemen, dressed so fine they looked more like dolls than people, we approached Lamberton Kirk, where we encountered the Scots. They were the most glamorous barbarians I had ever seen! Surely I did not think them capable of dressing so fine, but they wore their damasks and cloth of gold and silver much like we did. It was only that crude accent that separated us.

My hair and gown were threaded with pearls and I was disconcerted by this, for pearls were a symbol of mourning and I had had my fill of that. I banished these dark thoughts from my mind, however, as I lay in my litter gazing at the assemblage of Scots in wonderment. My eyes could not help but be drawn to some of the men’s legs, which their kilts showed to great advantage, and I compared many a well-turned calf. As I admired these rogues I wondered what my husband looked like; I had tried not to think upon him too much during the progress. The thought that I would soon meet him filled me with such fear and excitement that I knew not how to manage it.

After feasting and entertainment, a thousand of these beautiful barbarians joined our entourage and we set to riding again. I was in Scotland now. England was behind me and I knew not if I would ever return. More and more I found myself swallowing tears. This was a wild place, a beautiful land with its rolling hills and emerald fields. But it was not my land and I was frightened of it. What would these people make of me after the novelty of my arrival had worn off? We had been enemies for so long and grudges died hard …

On 3 August I was met at Dalkeith and given the keys to the castle by Lord and Lady Morton. This was my last stop before Edinburgh and I was glad of it. Soon I would be at my new home. I could not wait!

Lady Morton showed my ladies and me to our apartments while the rest of the assemblage sought out their lodgings. Many had to sleep in stables and barns, inns when available, and tents. It was good for me indeed to be queen as I thought of crawling into a comfortable bed with covers and herbs to sweeten my chambers.

Alone with my ladies I kicked off my slippers and twirled about. ‘I cannot wait to sleep and dream of my coronation! I am so very tired!’ I sat on my bed while Agnes Howard, Lady Surrey, brushed my hair. ‘I should like a hot bath before bed,’ I yawned, imagining being enveloped in steaming scented water. Perhaps they would put lavender in it. Yes, that would be pleasing …

At once the door burst open and Lady Morton entered, curtsying. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but the king is approaching!’

‘The king?’ I asked, dazed. I rose. ‘The king! No! He cannot come now! I look – well, I am not ready. He wasn’t supposed to see me till Edinburgh.’

‘He will see you now,’ said Lady Morton, not without a slight note of annoyance in her tone.

I scowled. ‘Help me with my gown, Lady Surrey, and make certain the pearls are still threaded prettily through my hair.’

I stared down my reflection in the metal of the mirror, wishing there were some better way of seeing myself. I held the swells of my breasts. ‘Not much I can do about these, I suppose,’ I lamented.

‘You’ll fill out as you grow, Your Grace,’ Lady Surrey assured me.

‘I wish I’d grow in the next ten minutes,’ I pouted.

‘Come now, you’re beautiful,’ said Lady Guildford in her tiny voice. ‘He will adore you.’

I blinked the hot tears from my eyes, hating the quickness with which they appeared. ‘Do you think?’

She nodded, along with Lady Surrey.

When I was deemed presentable the room began to fill with courtiers both Scottish and English. I stood by the window, shoulders squared, trying to rein in my trembling. The king … my husband. He was coming …

When at last he swept in, I took in the sight of him. Tall and well built, with auburn hair grazing his shoulders in layered waves, his lively eyes a vivid green, his nose aquiline, and the beard that hugged his well-defined jawline framing a sensual mouth, he was the quintessence of regal bearing. He sported his hunting habit of crimson velvet and wore his hawking lure over his shoulder. Upon seeing me he removed his cap. His lips were parted; his eyes were gentle.

I dipped into a deep curtsy as he approached. He bowed and once we were both righted he took my hands. His were strong, with long, tapering fingers. A hunter’s hands. A king’s hands.

‘But you’re beautiful,’ he breathed as he gazed upon me.

Strange warmth coursed through my veins. My cheeks tingled as I looked at him through my lashes.

‘Expecting something else?’ I asked him.

He laughed. ‘One never knows.’ His voice was handsome despite the thick Scots brogue. Somehow when he spoke the accent was far more charming than grating. ‘And so, Margaret, my beautiful little bride, do you resent very much my impatience at wanting to see you?’

‘I should,’ I told him. ‘How unkind coming upon me this way!’ But I was teasing him and he knew it. His green eyes sparkled with merriment. ‘You could have found me in my shift!’

‘All the more delightful!’ he cried, but I noted as he assessed me, his face clouded over. His eyes softened, as though in pity. My heart raced.

‘Have I displeased you, Your Grace?’ I asked in small tones.

He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘No, dear heart, no … but you are so very young and so far from home. Are you terribly frightened?’

My lip quivered. How I longed to throw myself in his arms and cry, Yes, yes, I am frightened! Rock me, hold me, do not let me go till the fear dispels! But I only offered a smile.

‘How can I be frightened, my lord?’ I asked him. ‘You say I am far from home, but I could not be closer. I am in Scotland beside my husband the king. What is there to fear in my true home?’

He tipped back his head, offering a deep belly-shaking laugh. ‘Well said, my lady, well said!’ He cupped my face between his strong hands. ‘Scotland is your true home and I shall always endeavour to make it feel that way to you.’

He leaned forward then and bestowed the gentlest of kisses upon my lips. The courtiers who had been pretending to be absorbed in their own nonsensical chatter grew quiet as the king pulled away, breaking into his boisterous laughter once more as he led me to the assembly.

As I stood next to him I could not stop looking at him. This was my husband and the King of Scotland.

Most important, he was the most wonderful man in the world and he was mine!

That night the bells began to toll and I started. ‘Mother is dead!’ I cried, then, shaking myself to my senses, scrambled out of bed to see what the matter was.

‘’Tis the stables, Your Grace,’ a servant informed me. I looked out of the window into the black pitch of night. The sky glowed with an eerie golden hue. ‘Up in flames.’

‘What of my palfreys?’ I asked, my heart racing in panic. ‘What of the palfreys from my father?’

‘All gone, Your Grace,’ she said softly. ‘I am sorry.’

‘No!’ I cried, throwing myself facedown on the bed and burying my head in my folded arms. All the tears I tried so hard to quell throughout the long progress into Scotland freed themselves; the floodgates of my soul were torn asunder and I sobbed great gulping gasping sobs. I counted my losses … Arthur, the young Prince Edward, baby Catherine, Mother, home, and all that was familiar … Now my loyal horses, the beautiful dear horses Father gave me, were gone. It was as though I were allowed to keep nothing from England. I would be all Scot. I would have Scottish palfreys, Scottish gowns, Scottish maids. I was not to be reminded of home, not even in the smallest sense.

The servant departed and it was not long before I was surrounded by the Ladies Surrey, Guildford, and Morton, who petted me and cooed to me as though I were a wee babe. All meant well, but it was of no use. I could not be consoled.