The Forgotten Queen (3 page)

 

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 bloody 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 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.

“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 naught 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 favored 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 vigor 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 so 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 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, immobilized 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 honor 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, reveling 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.

F
ather 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 splendor 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.

Henry was given his own household resplendent with every luxury. He had companions by the score, the best tutors and priests. Father would prepare him the way of a king. But Father did not offer his own hand that he might lead him. Henry, who was ever a candle to Arthur’s flaming torch, remained as alienated from Father as before. Father could not seem to give of himself anymore. He was not cold; he was not cruel. He was silent, isolated, and immobile, save for what must get done. He would keep England as peaceful and powerful as possible while remaining true to his cautious and frugal nature by filling the treasury in the hopes that his son and his country would never be left wanting.

One way of maintaining peace was through the Anglo-Scots alliance. Father determined it was then prudent for me to be sent to my husband in the north.

I panicked. I was not yet fourteen; the treaty expressly stated that I was not to leave England until I was fourteen! But traveling to Scotland after November was a fool’s journey. No one wanted to battle the cold and it was this point that convinced me of the necessity of an earlier arrival. As it was I would reach Edinburgh by August.

Everything was arranged. I would be accompanied by a glittering entourage of liveried guards, attendants, courtiers, and servants. Carts of gowns and plate completed the baggage train and I smiled through my rising sense of despair.

“You leave England a princess to enter Scotland a queen,” said my little sister, Mary, squeezing my hands as I bid farewell at Richmond.

I blinked back tears as I took the little girl in my arms, wondering when I would see her again. I drew back, stroking her golden hair from her face. What was her fate, then? What kingdom would she be sent to? Would any of us who shared the nursery together see each other again?

I left her with a kiss, that I might promenade in the gardens alone with Henry arm in arm in an effort to extend my farewell as long as I could.

“Are you afraid, Henry?” I asked him in soft tones.

Henry laughed. “Afraid of what, Sister?”

“Of being king,” I finished with a sigh.

He stopped walking. “I suppose I am.” “I want people to respect me and fear me,” he said, then in softer tones added, “but I want them to like me, too. Are you afraid, Margaret?”

I nodded. “I know it isn’t the same as it is for you; I am the consort and not the ruler of the people. But I will be so far away from you and from everyone I love. I will feel so left out. Mayhap I will not get to attend your wedding or Mary’s. . . . Sometimes letters do not seem as though they will be enough.”

“They will have to be,” Henry told me. He turned toward me, taking my hands in his. He was truly a promising lad, I realized then, putting aside previous rivalry and prejudices. Perhaps he hadn’t been as cold as I thought. His blue eyes shone with nothing but sincerity now.

“Just remember I am your brother,” he told me. “I will always protect you. And when you are afraid, remember this moment. Come to this very spot in your mind and I will be here to hold your hands. Kings never rest, nor do their queens, yet even God had a seventh day.” He laughed, squeezing my hands in his. “So let this be our seventh day,” he said. “Whenever you are afraid or it is all too much to bear, take your seventh day in your mind, and we will all be together again. It will give you strength.”

I reached out, stroking his cheek. It was a lovely thought to hold on to. “I am sorry if I was ever mean to you, Henry,” I was compelled to say.

Henry laughed. “I can take it,” he said. “What kind of prince would I be were I not able to handle the women in my life!”

I laughed in turn as he took me in his arms before we made our way back to the rest of the party.

“Farewell, Sister,” Henry said when we reached the assemblage. “Hold your own against those barbarians!”

Princess Catherine of Aragon laughed at this. “Now, Your Highness, you must not scare her,” she admonished in her gentle tone as we embraced. “May God bless and keep Your Grace.”

I was still unused to the title almost two years later and it caused me to start. I offered a quick smile, turning quickly so the ensemble did not see my tears as I was assisted into my splendid litter, trying to focus on the pageantry of the affair rather than the poignancy.

 

My ladies surrounded me once in the litter, a gaggle of laughing, gossiping girls, and I was rejuvenated at the prospect of making such a grand progress throughout the country.

“We are all with you, Your Grace,” said my aunty Anne Howard. Her whimsical nature was so reminiscent of her sister—my mother—that my heart surged with tenderness for the soft-spoken gentlewoman. “We will carry you all the way to Scotland; our love will carry you farther still.”

I pressed her hand. “Thank you, my lady,” I told her. I pursed my lips, swallowing the painful lump in my throat. “Oh, Aunty,” I added, breaking protocol. “Do you think that love is as the poets say?”

“In what regard?” asked Aunty Anne.

“In that it can overcome anything, distance, anger . . . death,” I added in soft tones.

Aunty Anne wrapped her arm about my shoulders, drawing me near. “I believe it can, Your Grace. All my life I have lost—from my dear little brothers in the Tower to my own child, my baby Henry. . . .” She blinked several times.

“Oh, Aunty, are we all fated to lose?” I asked, desperation seizing me as I gripped my empty womb, terrified that its crop would yield as tragic as that of those around me. “Sometimes I fear we are all stalked by death, as if it were some ravenous hawk, swooping down on us from above, and we never see it coming. . . .”
Like with Arthur,
I thought to myself, sweet, scholarly Arthur who should have been . . . should have been . . . I shook the should-have-beens away, trying to draw myself from what might have been to the present dilemma.

Aunty Anne’s nod was grave. “Yes. We are human beings and our lot is to lose. The sooner we accept what cannot be changed or controlled the happier we will be. And as compensation for our losses God gives us in turn the ability to love and be loved. It is that which sustains us. It is that which sustains me.” She offered a gentle smile filled with triumph. “And it will sustain you, too.”

“You speak as my mother would,” I observed in tremulous tones. For her words she was forever endeared to me. I favored her with a bright smile, determined to lighten the mood. I turned to seek out her husband, Lord Thomas Howard, who sat his charger looking altogether dark and terrifying. “Why, he’s so fierce!” I cried to my aunt.

She laughed. “My fierce knight,” she said. “And yet when we are alone you should see him . . . there is none gentler.” She lowered her eyes. “I loved him from the first time I saw him. I was but a girl just your age.” She yielded to another of her whimsical smiles. “I pray it is so with you and His Grace, King James.”

I lay back among the plush velvet cushions and tried to envision the King of Scots, thirty years old to my thirteen. He was said to be a lover of women . . . oh, I was terrified! What if he thought my form too childish? Surely he had loved many a beautiful, buxom maid . . . but I was no mere maid. I was a queen and his rightful wife. He would love me as he loved no other.

And so with those thoughts to keep my restless mind active, I departed for my new home, filled with eagerness, excitement, and something like hope.

 

The first four days of the progress were not unlike any other progress we had made in years past. The distinct difference was that this was a constant celebration and all in my honor. The country and its people were vibrant, rosy, and infused with summer as they rushed out of their homes to greet my entourage. Children sang my praises, pageants were performed, and I was showered with gifts of fruit, sweet wine and beer, little cakes, and trinkets from children, which I cherished most of all.

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 farther?” 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 somber words, I found myself reveling 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 good-bye 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 scepters 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 honoring 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.”