Darcey Bonnette - The Tudor Princess

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Kensington Publishing, New York, 2013

This edition published by HarperCollins Publishers, Great Britain, 2014

Copyright © Darcey Bonnette 2013

Cover photograph © Richard Jenkins

Cover design © Debbie Clement 2014

Darcey Bonnette asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007497782

Ebook Edition © April 2014 ISBN: 9780007497799

Version: 2016-02-19

Dedicated in loving memory of another sassy redhead: my mother-in-law, Karen Ann Barton

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Book 1: Margaret

Prologue: The Flames of Sheen

1. The Wilted Rose

2. The Song of Loss

3. The Progress

Book 2: Jamie

4. Scotland!

5. Mistress Stewart

6. Margaret the Queen

7. The Stewart Curse

8. Queens and Warriors

9. Ten Thousand Widows

Book 3: The Douglas

10. The Ally

11. Mistress Douglas

Book 4: Jehan

12. The Regent

13. The Flight

14. The Reunion

15. His Sister’s Keeper

16. The Return

17. A Woman of Scandal

18. The Crown of Flames

19. The Mothers of Kings

Book 5: Harry

20. The Captive King

21. The Princesses of Scotland

Book 6: Margaret R

22. Distractions

23. The Distant Drums

24. King Jamie

25. The Stewart Legacy

Author’s Note

Further Reading

Discussion Questions

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

BOOK 1

It began with smoke. His Grace King Henry VII said everything began with smoke, from the fall of the old kings to the rise of the new, when the smoke curled about the mouths of the great cannon as they spewed forth their vengeance on the battlefield, to the love born of a man and a woman, where the smoke rose from the smallest flame in the bedchamber, quite unable to rival that which burns in the human heart, the flames he coveted for his own wife, my mother, Queen Elizabeth of York.

But the night I lost my Sheen, the flames arose from a cause unknown, an errant taper, likely. Sliding across the floor, deft and sleek as a snake were the flames. They licked up the side of the wall, taking in with great satisfaction the new tapestries Her Grace my mother had taken such care in embroidering to cheer the king’s chambers that fateful Christmas.

And so, watching in awe, I was held fast with helplessness. A cacophony of voices swirled about me, but I was unable to identify their owners.

‘The prince!’ someone cried. ‘Remove His Highness, the Prince of Wales!’

Of course it made sense to rescue the treasured heir first. And no one treasured him more than I, his sister. However, I must say a thorn of jealousy twisted in my breast as I watched the guards usher my brother Arthur forth from the chambers, amidst a clam-our of frightened dignitaries and courtiers. My mother gathered the other children around her, impetuous Henry and sweet baby Mary, taking flight.

I stood, captivated by the scene. At once my face began to prickle and tingle with the strange sensation that I was being watched. I turned to see him, the man to be feared above all, the man second only to God above. Henry VII, my father, my king. Flames lost their heat in his cool, calm eyes. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as his gaze held mine.

‘Margaret,’ he said, his voice low, knowing he as king had no need to raise it. Even the flames stilled to listen.

Only my tears could answer for me.

‘We will build another,’ he assured me.

And then I was in the arms of a guard. I closed my eyes to the flames now devouring my world, insatiable, and my ears to the crackling, creaking timbers that once made up my Sheen, palace of my childhood.

Things were about to change. Somehow I knew then more than ever that I was not ordinary.

There was no one high enough to intervene on behalf of my immortal soul, my grandmother had cried. I was a shameful creature, she went on, a wilted petal on the Tudor rose. It was time I was made to examine my wicked ways and repent. Grandmother was through with humble chaplains and confessors. I was a Princess of the Blood; the fate of kingdoms may rest in my finding salvation. Thus I was removed to my godfather, the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, where I must come up with an impressive confession. I was certain it wouldn’t take much; I had a wealth of sins to choose from.

Lord Chancellor John Morton sat before me in his grand white robes, drumming his slim fingers on his knee, waiting for the recitation of my various sins.

I wrung my hands. Oh, where to begin?

‘I hit my brother Henry on the head with a stick,’ I told him, swallowing my fear as I approached him to lay a hand on his lap. I refused to sit in the confessional. I did not like walls between me and anyone, see-through or not. The archbishop’s robe was very soft under my fingertips and I found myself scrunching the material beneath my nails in nervousness.

He offered a grave nod, urging me to continue. ‘Why would you do such a thing, Princess Margaret?’

‘Because Henry is stupid,’ I explained with impatience. ‘If you knew him you would surely hit him as well, my lord.’

The archbishop’s lips twitched. ‘Pray continue, Highness.’

I twisted the material of his gown in my fist, edging closer to him. My tone was conspiratorial. ‘And then I stuck my tongue out at my tutor because he called me saucy. I am not saucy, Your Grace!’

‘Indeed?’ The smallest smile curved his lips. ‘Go on.’

I swallowed several times, shifting from foot to foot. ‘And then … then I put a frog in my grandmother’s slipper—’

‘Gracious, Your Highness, that was creative,’ he observed. ‘Why should you grieve your gentle grandmother so?’

‘Do you know my grandmother, Your Grace?’ I asked, incredulous that anyone should describe the severe Margaret Beaufort as gentle.

‘She is a great lady,’ said the archbishop. ‘It would serve you better to respect her.’ He paused, arching a brow. ‘Now. Anything else?’