Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

It all changed at my grandmother’s home of Collyweston, however. Father’s journey would end there; he was as far from his royal residence as he could go and the rest of the progress would be spent in the keeping of Aunty Anne’s father-in-law, the Earl of Surrey.

‘Can’t he go a little further?’ I asked my grandmother as we prayed in her apartments the evening before I was to leave Collyweston.

Grandmother shook her head. ‘He has his obligations, Your Grace, just as you have yours.’ Despite the sombre words, I found myself revelling in the fact that she must defer to me as ‘Your Grace’ and no longer as ‘that impetuous girl.’

I was certain to make the most of it whenever in her company. But looking at her at that moment I was struck with the same fancy as when beholding my sister and brother at Richmond: When would I see her again? For all her sternness and strict religious observance she was the grandmother who oversaw my upbringing with tireless devotion. I was overcome with a wave of tenderness for her and reached out to take her thin hand in mine.

For the first time in memory, Grandmother softened, stroking my thumb a moment with her cool finger before extracting the hand. ‘Come now, I shall see Your Grace to bed,’ she said, her low voice gentle as she brushed through my coppery hair, then helped me dress. I slid into the large canopied bed, drawing the blankets to my neck despite the warm summer breeze that came in through the window.

Grandmother smiled down upon me. ‘Make us proud, Queen Margaret,’ she ordered as she leaned in to kiss me on the forehead. ‘Good night.’

When she exited, I fixed my eyes on the window, on the full moon that reigned over its court of glimmering stars. Did King James even then behold the same moon as I? Did he wonder after his bride; did he long for her? Or did his gut lurch with dread at the thought of having to marry me for the sake of the alliance? My own stomach churned. The moon became a blur.

At once I heard the creak of my door and sat bolt upright. ‘Who dares enter Our chambers unannounced?’

Soft male chuckling. My heart pounded. A taper was lit to reveal my father standing there in all his majesty, his stern face softened with a smile. ‘Haughty as a Tudor queen, no less,’ he commented as he approached to sit on my bed.

I hugged my knees to my chest. ‘Forgive me—’

He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Nonsense, it was quite the right response.’ He set the taper on my bedside table. ‘Your Grace,’ he began, then lowered his eyes. ‘Margot …’ Tears caught in my throat at the use of the pet name he alone had used. ‘Tomorrow we must say farewell in the formal capacity before the court.’ He reached out, cupping my cheek in his large hand. ‘And so for this night we shall put aside our sceptres and face each other as father and daughter.’

My lip quivered. Tears began their course down my cheeks; it was a slow progress. Father stroked them away with his thumb.

‘I would like to tell you a story,’ he told me, gathering me in his arms. I yielded to the rare display of physical contact; indeed I had always been a loving girl and eager for affection to such an extent that Grandmother had to warn me against the impropriety of sitting on priests’ laps when confessing as a wee girl. Now I flung myself into my father’s arms without restraint, nuzzling my head against his black velvet doublet, taking solace in the embrace for a long moment before he pulled away. He smoothed my hair against my face and offered a sad smile.

‘Come now, enough,’ he cooed in soft tones. ‘Lie back and let me cover you,’ he said as I settled back among my pillows. He drew the covers over my shoulders again, then reached out to stroke my hair. ‘Will you remember everything I, your father the king, tell you this night?’

I offered a grave nod.

He smiled. ‘From the very first day you were born I knew you would be Queen of the Scots. You were born on St Andrew’s Eve. Saint Andrew, as well you know, is the patron saint of Scotland,’ he added for good measure. I closed my eyes, trying to emblazon his low musical tone in my heart as he continued. How I hoped never to forget the timbre of his voice! ‘I had you christened the very next day at the church honouring Scotland’s Saint Margaret. It was fortuitous, I thought even then. Though it was yet to be addressed, I knew someday, somehow there would be a great alliance between the thistle and the rose through you. And thus it has come to be, and not without its critics,’ he added with a soft chuckle. ‘When I was making the treaty there were those who feared that should the fates be cruel and my heirs stolen from me, leaving you to succeed to the throne of England, it would leave Scotland in control. But I was not in the least bit afraid of such a thing. I told them England will never yield to Scotland but Scotland to England and so it shall someday, and through you. Our crowns are destined to become one. I am convinced of it.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked him in a small voice.

His eyes were filled with wonder as he looked beyond me. ‘I have seen it in a dream. I have seen it and I believe it.’ He reached down again to stroke my head. ‘You must be strong, Margot. What we Tudors are given to endure God gives us the strength to endure. Be a queen before you are a woman always. Always remember that you stand alone; monarchs have no true friends and must act with constant caution. No one will ever truly love you, my child, and I say it not to be cruel. It is a lonely business …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do not be ruled by your passions; let your head govern you in all that you do. I fear for your brother in that regard.’ His eyes clouded a moment as he sighed. ‘Oh, but you are so young …’ He shook his head, closing his eyes and biting his lip. ‘You will never know what it costs me to let you go. I can offer you all the jewels and gowns in my realm as parting gifts; I can give you palfreys and coaches and splendid litters, every material thing that could satisfy your desire. But it would not be enough; nothing in this world would ever be enough to show you how much …’ His voice caught. ‘How much I love you.’

I sat up, flinging my arms about his neck once more, feeling his tears wet my cheek. ‘Oh, Father!’ I cried, and at once terror gripped me, terror of leaving all that was familiar, terror of governing a foreign land without any guidance, terror of being alone and unloved …

Father pulled away, seizing my chin between thumb and forefinger. Tears streamed down his high-boned cheeks, unchecked. ‘I will never see you again, Margot,’ he whispered, and for a long moment we sat, memorising each other’s features. ‘Promise me something,’ he said then.

‘Anything,’ I sobbed.

‘Be the queen you were born to be,’ he told me.

‘I shall,’ I promised as he urged me to lie back among the pillows once more. He leaned in and kissed my forehead and thus he left me as a father would his little girl.

Tomorrow we would part as monarchs.

There were no tears for this formal farewell. The court gathered about us, their expressions tender as he bestowed upon me his blessing along with a Book of Hours. Though I was never one to be considered devout, I would treasure it always. I opened the cover, where was inscribed: ‘Remember your kind and loving father in your good prayers.’ On the page opposite the prayers for December he wrote: ‘Pray for your loving father, that gave you this book, and I give you at all times God’s blessing and mine. Henry R.’

I offered a deep curtsy of gratitude. My tears were kept to myself. Today I was composed, dignified.

A queen.

I was surrounded by splendour. The trumpets sounded; the minstrels sang; the banners snapped and fluttered in the breeze; my white palfrey was brushed till she shone like a star. I mounted her and Father passed the reins to the Earl of Surrey. With effort I stilled my quivering lip as I waved to the onlookers and well-wishers. My grandmother stood stoic and thin-lipped, but I was certain the sun caught tears reflecting in those hard eyes.