Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

‘Margaret, darling, what is happening to you?’ she asked in her soft voice. Ah, her voice. There was none like it; it was akin to a gentle wind, warm and sweet, never raised. There existed in the world no gentler a mother and tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought of causing her distress of any kind.

I sat up in my bed and wrapped my arms about her neck, burying my head in her shoulder. She began to sway, stroking my hair.

‘Margaret,’ she murmured. ‘What is it? Tell me.’

‘Oh, my lady, I am so afraid!’ I confided. ‘What if you lose this baby, too? How will your poor body bear it? You’re so delicate and pale.’ I reached up to stroke a flaxen curl away from her alabaster cheek.

Mother pulled away, cupping my face in her hands. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, darling. This is what I was made for. God’s will be done.’

‘I am afraid of God’s will,’ I confessed.

‘You must not be afraid, for He intends only the very best,’ she told me. ‘Now enough fretting. You do not want to spoil your beauty for the Scottish Embassy; we can’t have them telling King James his bride’s face is tearstained, that she is beside herself with nerves. You must be strong. Arthur would want you to be strong,’ she added, her eyes knowing as she confronted my deepest grief.

‘Arthur …’ I covered my eyes to ward off a vision of my gentle brother, a vision that taunted me by being forever unattainable. ‘Then the baby. Oh, Mother, I am so sorry about the baby.’ I drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I watch you endure and you’re so gracious and strong. I want to be like you, but I am so afraid I will never live up to your queenly example. I am afflicted with such fear – all I can think of is childbearing and what it’d be like if I were in your place. How would I bear losing my Crown Prince and all those babies? How would I go on?’

‘You go on because it is your duty,’ she said. ‘I will not pretend that it doesn’t break my heart; sometimes I think I lose a little more of myself with each passing.’ Her tone became thoughtful. ‘But we cannot bury ourselves with our loved ones. As queens we have a duty to our countries. We must provide heirs as long as we are able.’

‘What a business!’ I sniffed, anger replacing my tears. ‘We are good for nothing else!’

‘We are good for a great many things,’ she told me. ‘A subtle queen can advise her husband and be involved with the politics of the land if she is clever enough to make him think he does not know how much he relies upon her.’

I smiled. ‘Do you think I will be such a queen?’

‘I hope so,’ she said with her gentle smile. ‘Now you must try and stop grieving, lamb. In a few days the Scots will arrive and you shall be married by proxy in a grand ceremony. The king is sending you all kinds of marvellous gifts.’

‘Gifts? Oh, gifts!’ I exclaimed. At once my head felt much better. ‘What do you suppose a Scot gives his bride?’

‘With any luck, a Scottish bairn!’ cried Mother, taking me in her arms. We dissolved into laughter as I anticipated my impending nuptials.

The proxy ceremony was held on 15 January in my mother’s presence chamber. My northern groom was most generous, sending me a magnificent trousseau from Paris and a gown worth 160 pounds. I almost swooned with delight – what a splendid prince he must be!

How grand everyone looked, even Father, so solemn and stern in his black velvet, and Mother a serene picture of fertility and grace, her golden hair piled beneath her hood in an array of glossy curls.

I was bedecked in grand state robes of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, my throat encircled in jewels, and almost every slim finger ornamented with rings. My copper tresses tumbled to my waist in thick waves and I walked in slow, measured steps, my back straight, my head erect, proud as a Tudor should be.

The Scots did not look as odd as I imagined. There was something alluring about these men; there was an energy in their presence. They were alive . A thrill coursed through me as I pondered my future husband, wondering if he was as handsome and lusty as they said.

Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, served as proxy, looking most fierce and proud as he took my trembling hand before the Archbishop of Glasgow.

The archbishop regarded my parents on the dais and asked them if they knew of any impediment other than what had been dispensed. They said they did not. When I was asked I responded in a clear, strong voice that I, too, knew of nothing to impede my marriage to King James.

Lord Bothwell’s hand was warm in mine and I found myself squeezing it. He squeezed it in turn, glancing at me sideways and offering a quick smile as if to reassure me. The archbishop asked if it was in the King of Scots’ will and mind that he marry me in his name, to which the earl answered with a confident yes.

The archbishop turned his eyes to me. ‘And you, Princess. Are you content, without compulsion, and of your own free will?’

No! I wanted to scream. Who in their right mind was content with the idea of being exiled to Scotland of all places? But I remained calm and composed. I was a Princess of the Blood.

‘If it pleases my lord and father the king and lady mother the queen,’ I said, making certain my voice resonated throughout the chambers. I would show these Scots that their queen would be strong and able.

‘It is my will and pleasure,’ my father rumbled, his expression wistful as he beheld me.

Lord Bothwell repeated his vows after the archbishop, and I strained against his thick Scots brogue, trying to understand the words through the rolling R s and guttural, throaty tones of speech. To think a whole country talked like that and I had to head them up!

My back ached from standing so straight, but I drew myself even straighter as I repeated after the archbishop, ‘I, Margaret, first-begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty prince and princess, Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent, right high and mighty prince, James, King of Scotland and therefore I plight and give to him in your person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.’

At once the trumpets sounded and the minstrels burst into song. A bubble of laughter caught in my chest as I turned to the earl.

‘Many congratulations, Your Grace,’ he told me, dipping into a bow.

Your Grace! I was a Grace! I shot a smug look at my brother, Henry, who was all too eager to sit on the throne. He scrunched his nose up at me but was smiling. I expected both of us were eager to dazzle our guests with our dancing.

Father led the band of Scots to his apartments while Mother approached me, sliding her hand into mine. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, and her tone of reverence humbled me. She curtsied before me. I curtsied in turn.

We were no longer simply mother and daughter but two queens, two great monarchs.

Two Graces!

This was something I could not revel in for long, however, for Mother was now leading me to my apartments. I exchanged state robes for a shift and my hair was brushed till it shone. Mother ran her fingers through it and laughed.

‘You are all Tudor,’ she said. ‘That lustrous red hair is your pride.’

I smiled at my reflection in the glass. I may not have been as beautiful as my little sister, but I was comely with my round face, full lips, and wide, lively brown eyes. Mother, accompanied by my gentle aunts and ladies, put me to bed, covering me up to my shoulders, fanning my hair about the pillow in a pleasing array. She uncovered my foot to the ankle, and the crisp air caused me to shiver. I began to bounce my foot in nervousness.