The Forgotten Queen

Praise for
The Forgotten Queen

“In
The Forgotten Queen,
D. L. Bogdan has given us a thoroughly entertaining novel that vividly captures the turmoil, tensions, passions and intrigue of this period of Tudor and Stewart history. The narrator is Henry VIII’s older sister, Margaret, a feisty, endearing heroine, tested by three tumultuous marriages. Here, in this richly woven tale, Bogdan’s formidable queen takes her place in history, and not only as the grandmother of Mary, Queen of Scots.”

 

—Sandra Worth, author of
Pale Rose of England

Books by D. L. Bogdan

SECRETS OF THE TUDOR COURT

 

RIVALS IN THE TUDOR COURT

 

THE SUMERTON WOMEN

 

THE FORGOTTEN QUEEN

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

The F
ORGOTTEN
Q
UEEN

D. L. BOGDAN

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

As always, I must first thank my wonderful agent, Elizabeth Pomada, who has worked so hard to help keep making my dreams of living as a working writer come true. I must also thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his patience, encouragement, and his ability to meet challenges with tireless grace, along with Paula Reedy and the rest of the magnificent team at Kensington Publishing. A big thanks to Vida Engstrand, my publicist, who is such a joy to work with. I also want to thank the team at the National Archives of Scotland in Edinburgh for their devoted correspondence as I researched this novel. To the authors who became mentors, the bloggers and reviewers who became huge sources of support (you all know who you are!), and the readers who keep me working, my deepest, most heartfelt thanks. I must thank my favorite beta reader, my mother, Cindy Bogdan, who was always up for a late-night phone call as I read her my latest scenes. Not least of all, I must thank my son Quinn for sharing his life and mother with so many historical figures. He knows far more about the Tudors and Stewarts than any twelve-year-old should! To my stepchildren Kristina, Ashley, and Cody (all lucky enough to have grown up and left home, thus avoiding the day-to-day travails of the latest historical obsession), thank you for supporting, respecting, and understanding my work; it means a great deal. And finally, thank you to the love of my life, my best friend, biggest encourager, and shameless promoter: my husband, Kim. I love you, my forever Chief and anchor.

I
t 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 clamor 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.

T
here 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, 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?”

“Well, I also hid Grandmother’s hair shirt,” I confessed. “I wasn’t trying to be bad that time. Honest. I just thought to give her skin a rest—”

“How old are you, Princess Margaret?”

“I am ten,” I told him, offering a bright smile to display the pearly row of grown-up teeth that were my pride.

“Do you think a girl of ten should meddle in the affairs of a woman thrice her age?” he asked me in patient tones. “I should say not. The Lord commands us to honor our mother and father; this applies to all elders. Your grandmother is a very spiritual lady and needs none of your . . . intervention. She is an example of faithfulness. Remember, through her loving discipline you are brought to a better understanding of God.”

I bowed my head. I hated talking about the Venerable Margaret Beaufort with anyone. I hated even
thinking
about her. Spiritual! How I had suffered for Margaret Beaufort’s “spirituality”! If her cane across my back was made to bring about a better understanding of God I could have been an abbess!

“Anything else?”

Summoned to mind was the most grievous sin of all. I sighed. “I asked the king what a whore is.”

The priest’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth with one large hand. “Did you find out?”

“No! Grandmother slapped me!” I cried, hoping to solicit his sympathy. “I can’t begin to imagine why! I only asked because I heard one of the ladies say there were an awful lot of whores about and I feared it was some kind of insect, so I thought it best to find out! I do not want anything crawling on me, after all!”

Archbishop Morton tilted his head back, closing his eyes a long moment. He drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Anything else, my lady?”

I bit my lip. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s just that I sin with such terrible frequency—I can’t seem to keep track. I suppose I should make a list. . . .”

“Highness, has it ever occurred to you that the best way to—er—‘keep track’ of your sins is to reduce the list or perhaps, to the best of your ability, cease sinning altogether?” he asked.

“Oh, but that would be impossible!” I cried.

“Indeed, we’re all human and it is in our nature to sin, but I do not believe reducing the regularity of the habit to be an impossibility—”

“How on God’s earth do you expect me to have any fun
that
way?” I cried.

“Charity shall be your penance,” said the archbishop in decisive tones as he rose. “I should like you to accompany your grandmother on her charitable exploits. ’Twill teach you humility as well and do your soul much good.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” I bowed my head in an attempt at humility, though I was much aggrieved at the thought of accompanying Grandmother anywhere. I raised my head, hoping there was some way to endear myself to him. “Thank you ever so!” I cried then, throwing my arms about his waist and resting my chin against his chest, casting adoring eyes to his stern countenance. How I wished he would scoop me up in his arms and carry me off to Lambeth. Then I could be his little girl most loved. Of course, archbishops couldn’t have little girls, so I supposed it would do to place this fantasy with yet another gentleman. Unfortunately, I seemed to be running out.

“Now, now, Highness, that is quite enough!” cried the archbishop as he disengaged himself from me.

Blinking back a sudden onset of tears, I fell to my knees and, in an unusual display of reverence, kissed his grand ring.

“I will pray fervently for your soul, Your Highness,” he told me.

I rose. “Your Grace . . . no one ever did tell me . . . what is a whore?”

“Your Highness . . .” The archbishop removed his cap to run a hand through his thinning white hair. “You’ll . . . find out when you’re older.”

I refrained from stamping my foot.

I’d find out when I was older. Everyone’s favorite answer when they couldn’t tell me a thing. Likely they didn’t even know!

Oh, confession was a bore!

I resolved to think of a hundred other fun sins to indulge in just to spite them all.

If anything, it would make the dread chore more interesting. It was rather fun shocking the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I liked shocking everyone.

 

Christmastide distracted me from my mischievous missions and was all the initiative I needed to remain good. Grandmother said this in itself is a sin; I should be good because I wanted to be good, not because it involved some kind of reward.

“But aren’t you being good just so you can get into Heaven?” I countered, recalling my grandmother’s famous displays of piety. “That is a reward.”

This rewarded me with a clout on the mouth and no satisfactory answer.

We removed from Greenwich to Westminster, where all the family would be together for the first time in many months. Excitement surged through me as I peeked out the curtains of my litter to wave to the throng gathered at the palace gates, who shouted blessings at me.

“Bless the princess!” they called.

“Throw them some coin; that’s what they’re waiting for,” my grandmother urged in stern tones. “Goodness knows they’re not really here to see you.”

“They are, too!” I returned. “They adore me!”

Just to ensure this, however, I reached into her purse to fish out a handful of sovereigns, tossing them to the awaiting crowd, who scrambled and scuffled over them in the street. My heart lurched as the truth of my grandmother’s words rang in my ears.

When at last I was permitted to quit the litter and my grandmother’s deplorable company, I ran through the Long Gallery to search out my family. I offered warm greetings to the courtiers and dignitaries who surrounded Father like butterflies around flowers. All rewarded me with smiles and bows.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was there. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, Princess Margaret. You have come to grace us with your presence for the holiday season. Let us pray the palace doesn’t take fire this year.”

My eyes misted as I recalled my precious Sheen, now being rebuilt as my father had promised into a grand palace he had decided to call Richmond, for our family’s seat.

“Well,
I
didn’t do it,” I assured him, in case that had been his implication.

The archbishop, in a moment of rare tenderness, ruffled my hair as he chuckled. “Of course not, Your Highness. Now. Come with me. You’ll be anxious to see your father, no doubt.”

“Oh, yes!” I cried, sliding my hand in his and leaning my head on his arm. He disengaged and my arm fell to my side as we progressed through the gallery toward my father’s apartments.

We entered King Henry VII’s privy chamber to find him hunched over his writing table, scouring documents. He did not put them aside when my presence was announced and I stood among members of the council, who rolled their eyes at each other as if to say,
Here she is again.

Yes, here I am again and you’ll never forget me!
I longed to cry. I was not some common street urchin; I was Princess Margaret Tudor and a finer lass they’d never lay eyes upon!

But I said nothing. I sighed and fiddled with the pearls sewn into the neckline of my blue velvet gown. I plaited and unplaited my coppery tresses over my shoulder to busy my fidgety hands until at last the King of England raised his taciturn face toward me. With one slim hand, he gestured for me to come forth.

I made a face at the councilors present, hoping to convey my dislike for them in one charming grimace, and proceeded toward the grand table. I curtsied low.

“Margaret,” he muttered in his gruff voice, looking me up and down. “So this is what we have to work with.”

I scowled before I could help myself. “Your Grace?”

“Altogether too thin,” he mumbled, looking down at his papers. “You had better be able to bear children else you’ll be no use at all.”

“Your Grace!” I cried. This was not the happy reunion I had envisaged. But then most of my fantasies fell scathingly short of reality. I heaved a deep sigh. “There is no reason to believe I shouldn’t be able to bear a wealth of sons, my lord. I am of good Tudor and Plantagenet stock—I will do you proud.”

He raised his head at this, offering a rueful smile. “I think I rather like you,” he said, as though he were experiencing an epiphany and the idea of actually liking his children was quite novel indeed.

“You’ll not let anyone get the best of you, will you?” he mused, rising and rounding the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. “You are of particular interest to me this year, Daughter,” he said, his narrow face creasing into a smile. I must say he looked horrible. His auburn hair grazed his shoulders in a straight and sensible mass that did his long features no good at all. I wished he’d cut it. He looked like an old fox wrapped in his furs, an old fox waiting to leap out and, with the slyness associated with the creature, wreak subtle havoc on those who dared oppose him.

And yet without those foxy and wily ways Henry VII would not be Henry VII at all but the obscure Duke of Richmond nobody cared about. Had my father not conspired against (with the help of another fox, my cunning grandmother Margaret Beaufort) and eventually slain the usurper King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth, the crown of England would not be in Tudor hands and the Wars of the Roses would still be fought in vain. But my father the king, for all his bad hair and fashion sense, swept in and won the day, not only claiming the crown but also uniting the houses of York and Lancaster at last by marrying my fair mother, Elizabeth, ending the wars for good. My father filled the treasury, modernized the government through the appointments of councilors (also men with bad hair and worse fashion sense), ousting all pretenders to the throne with the mightiness of his hand. He was a formidable man, this Henry Tudor, cold and calculating, miserly and cautious. This man, this king, was my father and never was the thought far from my mind that his were the hands that would shape my destiny.

“Everyone out—We should have audience with Our daughter alone!” Father barked, rousing me from my reverie as I watched a room of scrambling servants and councilors all too eager to do his bidding.

Father rounded the desk once more to look out the window, past the gardens, past the Tower, far past the known horizon. He was squinting. I found myself doing the same, though I had no idea what we were looking for.

“You do realize that as a daughter of this house yours is not an ordinary future We have planned,” he said. “Margaret, the peace of kingdoms depends on you.”

“Oh, if this is about me sinning again I can tell you I have been good for at least a week!” I cried.

He silenced me with a hand. “Margaret, I’ve news on your suit.”

I began to tremble. My suit. I braced myself. What prince had my father chosen for me? To what distant land would I be sent?

“We need an end to these frays with Scotland and one of the ways of achieving that is by forming an alliance,” he explained. “D’you understand?”

I shook my head, though against my will comprehension was settling upon me, clutching my heart in its merciless talons until I became short of breath.

“Don’t swoon on me now, child,” Father commanded. “You’ve never been a fainting girl and now is no time to start.” He rested his hands on my shoulders. “Margaret. You are going to be what unites our kingdoms. You are going to bring about a better understanding between us. You are meant for greatness, perhaps a greatness that surpasses even your own brother the Crown Prince Arthur, because yours is a task that is far from easy.” With this he shook me somewhat, not in cruelty, but to illustrate his passion. Fear coursed through me. “Margaret, my child, this is your purpose: You are to become the Queen of the Scots.”