Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

‘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?’

Jamie flinched. ‘There is no way of knowing.’ He bowed his head. ‘I was used in such a way …’ His eyes clouded over as he shook his head, as though ridding himself of dark and terrible thoughts. ‘I was prevented from knowing my father … and his enemies used me against him in the worst way imaginable.’

‘How?’ I asked, my jealousy yielding to concern as I noted the profound sadness etched upon my husband’s features.

‘We must not discuss such things, dearest. Only know that I am raising my children in the hopes that our closeness will cultivate a loyalty that the cleverest of my enemies canna permeate. I – I love them, Maggie,’ he told me. ‘Can you understand?’ Tears welled bright in his green eyes. They sparkled like emeralds. ‘It is my hope that someday you can meet them and perhaps … perhaps grow to care for them. I would never expect you to love them as your own but perhaps … Do not think on it; it is a lot to ask now, but … someday.’

Indeed I could not bear to think of it, but to prevent any discord I said nothing, bowing my head and pursing my lips should they decide to betray me by blurting out something even more unbecoming than had already been spoken.

‘What are their names?’ I asked at last, unsure if I wanted to know but feigning sincerity to remain in his good graces.

‘There is James, Alexander and Catherine, Margaret.’ This he said with a flinch and I assumed she was by that other Margaret. ‘And Janet.’

I was silent a long time. ‘Quite the family,’ I remarked before I could help myself. ‘Well, someday we’ll have our own babies and you will have to love them most,’ I added with a scowl.

Jamie sighed, said nothing, and began to sway.

My mind raced; my heart pounded. He is my husband! I wanted to shout to his mistresses, present and former. Mine and not yours! And someday I would have the only children who could mean anything to Scotland.

My English court, my English friends and family, left me. I was alone in this country, an English princess made a Scots queen. I watched the procession depart with all their pomp and fanfare, tears grown cold upon my wind-chapped cheeks. Jamie’s arm was about my waist; he squeezed me to him, holding me upright. I was glad of it. I was weighed down by the finery.

‘You will make new friends,’ he reassured me.

I was too numb with sorrow to nod. The procession grew smaller and smaller till it became a distant snake, slithering down the Scottish countryside and out of Edinburgh, out of my life. They returned to my home, to my father, to the places and the people I would not see, not ever again.

I had my adopted country to acquaint myself with. I was given Scottish ladies and as time passed I not only found myself understanding their harsh dialect but also heard myself slipping into it.

I was becoming a Scot.

My husband came to me now and again to repeat the obligatory act we were avowed to perform for the good of our country. But as yet there was no pleasure to be found in it. It did not happen often enough and when it did it was always in the dark. We had been married nigh on two years and I had yet to see my husband as God made him and he had yet to see me.

Yet he was as attentive as he could be. Gifts were showered upon me; we hawked and hunted together and he praised my skill with the bow. As promised we frolicked in the loch; Jamie held me and taught me the forbidden art of the swim, but I found the most pleasure hanging on to his neck while he cut through the water like an eel.

Music was another of our favourite pastimes and we played together. I strummed my lute while his slim fingers danced upon his favourite organ. I adored hearing him sing; at times he talked through the songs as much as sang them and bubbles of laughter collected at the base of my throat as I took him in, enchanted. I sang out in a voice strong and clear and Jamie smiled in genuine appreciation. He was nothing if not genuine.

And ever generous, allowing me to have as many new gowns as I desired. I loved to order costumes for masques. Anything I wanted was brought to me; I lacked nothing. I needed nothing. And yet there was this loneliness, profound and persistent even through the lavish entertainments I hosted for my new friends and family. Scotland was littered with Stewarts and I tried to learn every name. They fussed over me, calling me a pretty thing, but no one demonstrated a genuine love of me yet. Jamie said that was nonsense, everyone loved me. It would be impossible not to. Though I believed this should be the way of it, it remained untrue nonetheless. I felt it. I was tolerated because I was securing peace with their long-time enemy.

There were some I had grown fond of, however, though I could not say they were close to me. The poet William Dunbar, who composed many a verse praising my beauty or simply to entertain, served as a worthy companion and courtier and was always quick to bring a smile to my face. Another was the privateer Sir Robert Barton, a straightforward man with a rather captivating gift for storytelling, and I was always thrilled to be regaled with his adventures on the high seas, and, even better, by the many exotic gifts bestowed upon me as tribute.

None of the women impressed me much, however. Though I conversed and danced with my ladies, I could call none of them friend, not really. My dearest friend was my husband and I spent as much time enjoying him as I did being jealous of him, jealous of his experience, of his age, of those who admired him with as much conviction as I.

I had even grown jealous of God, for Jamie spent a great deal of time with Him, going on pilgrimages to the shrines of Saint Niniane and Saint Duthlac. I hated when Jamie left me and was not shy about making him aware of my displeasure.

‘Going to have another conversation with God?’ I snapped one morning as he readied himself for his departure in our chambers at my least favourite castle of Edinburgh.

Jamie strode toward me to cup my cheek. ‘I regret you canna understand my … need to be near Him at times.’

‘Oh, I understand,’ I said. ‘Tell me – the technicalities confuse me – do your mistresses accompany you to the shrine or do you visit them after? Or do you all sort of worship together at the altar – or on the altar as the case may be?’

‘Maggie!’

‘Dinna let me keep you! Go off to your Saint Niniane and leave me here, here in this cold, solitary place and me so lonely I could scream! And you dinna even care about me at all!’ I cried.