Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

‘Be still, love,’ said Mother. ‘You must be composed.’

With effort I collected myself. It would not do to see the Queen of Scots fidgeting in her bed.

It was not long before male voices were heard approaching, Scots and Englishmen laughing and jesting. None would think from that night that there was a moment’s unrest between our two kingdoms.

The men entered my chambers, led in by Father and the Archbishops of Glasgow, York, and Canterbury. I offered a shy smile at the last, feeling peculiar that they should see me in such estate. Patrick Hepburn, my proxy husband, was dressed in nought but his shift and he approached the bed, looking at once imposing and awkward. I resisted the urge to shrink away from him as he exposed his bare leg. I pressed my foot to his thigh, my toes cold against his warm flesh. It was so odd that the act should amount to a legal consummation that I stifled another nervous giggle.

The room erupted into cheers and wine was passed about. The men vacated to take in their share and my aunts surrounded me on the bed laughing and I admitted that I was relieved I was not asked to do anything else but press my foot to Hepburn’s hairy leg that night.

The thought of all that a real consummation entailed filled me with as much dread as delight.

All of London was celebrating me! There were masques and jousts and feasting. My hunger was insatiable, rejuvenated after a year of grieving and poor appetite. Henry and I gobbled everything in sight; we could not get enough of the roast boar, the eels, the mutton, the meat pies and puddings, the creamy cheeses, the wine that flowed so readily. We danced, our cheeks glowing and ruddy from spirits and excitement. Only on the floor did my chest clench with a pang of sadness as I recalled Arthur, how we would have celebrated that day, how he would have favoured me with words of gentleness and wisdom. Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. I would not have the Scots thinking I was a reluctant queen. I tossed my hair about and commenced to dance with tireless vigour as Henry and I ushered in the dawn.

At the jousts I sat beside Lord Bothwell, waving to the glittering knights, awarding them with tokens and prizes for their command of the lance. Oh, they were so brave and fine, those English knights, and I could not imagine their like existing in Scotland.

The earl asked me to point out the jousters and tell him about them. I did so, waving my hands with enthusiasm as I bragged about their prowess. As I did, I heard a Scots ambassador lean in to his companion and say, ‘Poor lass, she’s just a babe.’ ‘Aye,’ agreed the friend.

My cheeks flushed in anger. I was not a babe! That day, for all intents and purposes, I was a bride and a queen.

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.

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.