Tudor Princess, The

by Bonnette, Darcey

  I examined the ring in bed, trying it on as I scowled at Jamie, who was pacing by the buffet. ‘I suppose you canna resist this, can you? A “knightly errand.” Such utter nonsense, Jamie!’ I cried. ‘She’s playing you, you have to know it! She knows you canna resist a romantic overture and now has you right where she wants you!’

  ‘Maggie, there is a lot more to this than you seem to understand—’ Jamie began, his tone ever gentle.

  ‘Believe me, I understand!’ I threw the ring across our chambers, where it landed with a clatter at his feet. ‘It’s wrapped up in a perfect little box, a mission you cannot refuse, sanctioned by your Pope and a damsel in distress as well. My God, it is tailored for you!’

  ‘Maggie, stop this!’ Jamie ordered, sitting on the bed and taking my hands.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. My cheeks flushed in fury. ‘Jamie, do you know these nightmares I have had?’ I forced calm into my voice. It wavered in terror as I recalled the dream that stalked my slumber. I stared at our joined hands, at my fingers, all encircled in rings. ‘I saw my jewels all melt into pearls … pearls, Jamie. The ornament of widowhood.’ I met his eyes, furrowing my brows in agony. I reached up, cupping his cheek and stroking his beard. ‘And I saw you falling from a great tower to your death! You see? These are signs, Jamie, terrible signs of the ill fate that awaits you should you go to war with my brother!’

  ‘Dreams, darling,’ Jamie said, gathering me in his arms. ‘They are mere dreams. You are terrified for my well-being and that of the country and rightly so. But you must not let your fear rule you. Now, go to sleep, my sweet.’ He stroked my hair.

  I pulled away, shaking my head. ‘If you canna abide the signs of my dream, think of your beloved Scotland should you die in this folly! Our infant son will be left to rule with none but me, a poor woman’ – surely he couldn’t resist the plea of this poor woman! – ’to cling to a regency that would be sought after by every noble house in the land! How could you risk leaving us so vulnerable? Is Queen Anne so desirable to you that you prefer her over me?’

  I should not have said it. Any chance of winning the argument was lost in that last sentence, for Jamie was on his feet, his eyes flashing in an anger I was unaccustomed to seeing upon his gentle countenance.

  ‘Maggie, jealousy does not suit you,’ he said in low tones. ‘You are first and foremost my wife. You serve me, not your brother. Dinna think that I am not aggrieved at the turn of events, but he has given me no choice. He broke our treaty long before I even considered it and now must deal with the repercussions.’

  ‘But there has to be a more peaceful alternative!’ I insisted. ‘Can we meet and discuss it? Can we not meet with my sister-in-law Catherine? She and I could forge some kind of understanding, I am sure of it.’

  He shook his head, his eyes lit with sadness.

  ‘You will regret breaking the peace,’ I thundered. ‘By God, you will regret it!’

  Jamie shook his head at me and quit the room without another word.

  I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. I thought of my jewels, my pretty jewels all turned to pearls …

  At Lent we were treated to a visitor, my brother’s ambassador the Dean of Windsor, Dr Nicholas West. As Jamie was on retreat at the monastery of the Friars Observant at Stirling, I was thrilled to receive Dr West on Good Friday. He brought with him letters from my brother, which I devoured with delight.

  ‘Oh, good Dr West, you must tell me everything about him!’ I insisted as we sat to dinner alone together on Easter Sunday. Jamie had returned but was resting and would be meeting with the ambassador on Monday.

  The man offered a polite smile and my heart sank. He did not appear to be a personable fellow and I was disappointed. I had so hoped to work some sort of charm on him that he might see how vital keeping the peace with my country was.

  ‘Tell me of my brother,’ I prompted with a bright smile. I would still try my best to win through him an understanding with England. I had grown quite buxom and, freed from the mournful constraints of Lent, had donned a lovely gown of pink and grey damask trimmed with ermine to accentuate each curve. My hair was gathered into a chignon beneath my hood and I allowed ringlets to frame my face in organised disarray. I should think I made quite a pleasing presentation.

  ‘What does he look like now?’ I asked him. ‘I haven’t seen him since he was twelve.’

  Dr West tilted his head as he summoned to his mind a portrait of my brother. ‘King Henry is as bluff and fine of figure as they come, Your Grace,’ he told me.

  I laughed, certain he was accurate. ‘Is he very tall? He had the promise of great height when last I saw him. Is he still a marvellous dancer?’ Against my will tears burned my eyes as a pang of longing for home and more innocent days pierced through me.

  Dr West nodded. ‘Ah, yes, Your Grace, he is tall and broad and golden – a veritable Apollo is King Henry. And none are as fleet as he on the dance floor.’

  ‘I didn’t think so,’ I said with another giggle as I pictured a golden giant flitting about on the dance floor among a garden of beautiful ladies.

  ‘And how are my sister Mary and Queen Catherine?’ I asked then.

  ‘Quite well,’ he informed me, bowing his head.

  For a moment we were silent, each picking at our plates, wondering in what vein the conversation would go next. Beneath the table my legs trembled. I took a sip of wine to calm myself, then offered the ambassador another cheery smile.

  ‘Do tell me of my brother’s fleet,’ I suggested. ‘Is the Great Harry as grand as our Great Michael?’

  ‘It is a grand ship,’ Dr West answered with a glower.

  ‘I was aboard our Great Michael at Leith,’ I continued. ‘Oh, it is beautiful, Dr West, and so fine a ship. Why, most of our forest at Falkland was cut down just to build her. Her walls are ten foot thick – impenetrable!’

  ‘Impressive,’ he commented, but his eyes were narrowed.

  ‘The ambassadors that saw her that day said that no navy on earth could rival ours,’ I persisted. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Madam, England boasts a fine navy of her own,’ Dr West told me in firm tones. He paused, examining me a long moment. ‘I am certain if your husband requires details, good King Henry would be happy to discuss them. With him.’

  The smile I returned was frosty.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Dr West began. ‘It is my duty to inform you that King Henry does intend to invade France.’

  My gut lurched. My face remained impassive. Beneath the table I clawed into the material of my gown, clenching it with a white-knuckled grip.

  ‘It is a dark hour for our countries,’ I stated. ‘I regret my brother’s decision and what it will mean for our peace.’

  ‘Any hope of preserving the peace between England and Scotland is up to you,’ Dr West retorted, his voice cold and blunt.

  I bit my lip. I wanted to scream at him that I never chose this fate! How could a twenty-three-year-old girl forge peace between two countries? Who would listen to me?

  I heaved a sigh of frustration.

  ‘King Henry could certainly help with that,’ I said at last. ‘Where is my legacy that he has promised these past four years? The jewels from my brother Arthur and grandmother? Where are they, Dr West?’

  ‘The king is most ready to surrender them,’ he said smoothly. ‘If King James promises to keep the peace and not interfere with the French campaign.’

  ‘And if not?’ I asked, hoping my voice did not betray my great sadness.

  ‘If not? Then no. He cannot relinquish them.’

  ‘But they are mine!’ I cried, losing my self-control. ‘They were willed to me by my brother and grandmother! How dare he keep from me what is mine!’

  Dr West said nothing to this. He continued eating. I stared down at my plate, flushed and disgusted.

  The meal continued in frustrated silence; it seemed neither of us would get what we wanted out of it.

  Dr West tried everything from bribery
to open threats in the hopes of securing peace between England and Scotland, to no avail. My husband sought to renew the alliance with the French king, who was as wily as his wife and played on Jamie’s ultimate desire to lead a Crusade by allowing him to make a levy to fund it. Though Dr West assured Jamie that King Louis would never keep his promise, Jamie remained undeterred.

  Dr West visited the baby and me at Linlithgow before returning to England.

  ‘He is beautiful,’ the ambassador conceded as he admired my son. ‘So golden and rosy, and big for his age.’

  I nodded as I sat him on my lap, proudly displaying his chubby legs. ‘As robust as his uncle King Henry,’ I said. I wanted to say more, about the peace that was now broken, about the inevitable war we had now been thrust into. I wanted to share my fears and lamentations about my broken family. But I could not. It would not be politic.

  Dr West departed, his mission a failure, my attempts at diplomacy all gone awry.

  When Jamie joined me at Linlithgow I clung to him, sobbing. I reduced myself to begging, throwing tantrums, anything, anything that would prevent his doomed enterprise.

  In my darkest moment I hired an old man to ‘haunt’ Jamie while he prayed at St Michael’s Church. Dressed in a gown of blue and white and carrying a pikestaff, the long-haired old wraith warned Jamie against going to war and seeking the counsel or comfort of women, after which he artfully disappeared, mystifying the attendants by managing his escape without being accosted.

  But Jamie knew.

  ‘Oh, Maggie, you are reaching,’ he told me in bed that night. He offered a slight laugh. ‘To your credit, you are quite imaginative.’

  ‘What can I do, Jamie?’ I asked in soft tones, fringed with desperation. ‘What can I say to keep you from going to war against my brother? I’ll do anything …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Maggie,’ Jamie whispered, kissing me softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not half as sorry as you are going to be,’ I told him, but my voice was no longer accusatory. It was filled with sadness, all-consuming, terrible sadness.

  By May King Louis had convinced my husband not only to ally himself with him but to invade England as well when my brother removed to France. It was the perfect strategy, the French louse stated, for Jamie may just gain the English crown for himself in Henry’s absence.

  Henry embarked for France in the summer and proved victorious, taking the town of Therouanne. In August Jamie sent Lyon King of Arms with our formal declaration of war, listing all of Scotland’s grievances against England, which included the withholding of my legacy, the Andrew Barton affair, the John Heron incident, and the border raids.

  At Edinburgh my husband prayed, whipping himself with a vengeance in preparation for the battle to come. I watched from the shadows of the chapel and when I could bear it no more I approached him, taking the whip from his hand and holding it at my side, watching my husband’s blood drip from it onto the stone floor.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ I began in quiet tones, ‘if you are hoping to die so that your pain might end at last. Is that so, Jamie?’

  Jamie regarded me, his face tortured.

  I shook my head, sinking to the floor beside him and taking him in my arms. ‘Oh, my love, do not let this be my last memory of you!’ I begged, burying my head in his shoulder. ‘I shall die if all you are to leave me with is the memory of your blood.’

  Tears streamed down Jamie’s face unchecked as he began to sway from side to side.

  We removed to our apartments, where our lovemaking was filled with such bittersweet agony that I wondered if I should have left him to his whipping after all. The blood would have prepared me better. The whipping would have allowed me to hate him. But now I was left with this memory, the memory of tenderness, of his caresses, his voice, his breath, his kiss, his warmth … his love …

  It was unbearable. Oh, it was unbearable …

  Jamie named me Queen Regent of Scotland before he left.

  ‘This will not be an easy task, but it is one in which I have the utmost confidence in your abilities to carry out,’ Jamie told me the morning he would march out.

  ‘I will do my best, until your return, when I will happily relinquish Scotland into your capable hands,’ I assured him warmly.

  Jamie took my hands. ‘Maggie … if I do not come back, the regency will be all the more challenging for you to hold on to. Do you understand what I mean, Maggie?’

  I shook my head. I did not want to hear of it; I did not want to understand.

  ‘Maggie, if … if you marry again, you will sabotage any chance of keeping the regency. You must think of Little Jamie now,’ my husband urged, his tone fervent with intensity. ‘Everything you do from this day on is for him.’ Jamie’s eyes lit with pity. ‘My poor girl; being the wife and mother of kings, you will never be allowed to live for yourself – not until Jamie is well beyond his majority. Vultures and demons will surround you – they will covet control of the crown like no other and devour each other in the process of trying to obtain it. No one will ever love you, my dearest, not like you deserve.’ Those words. Where had I heard them before? Ah, yes. My father had warned me of this many years ago … No one would ever love me … such was the lonely fate of monarchs.

  ‘To the world, you are a prize to be won, the closest thing to Little Jamie on this earth. Winning you wins him – and he is the ultimate prize. Therefore you must always be on guard against deceivers and those wishing to rule over you and our son,’ Jamie warned.

  I shivered. ‘I understand, Jamie, truly I do. But please let us not speak on it any more. You must ride, my love. Ride so that you may return my king and know’ – my voice broke – ’that I will keep your son and your kingdom safe in your absence.’

  At this Jamie smiled, offering one last tender kiss.

  There was nothing more to be said or done. Our private farewell had been exchanged and there was but to face our kingdom, a united king and queen emanating confidence in the inevitable victory of the battle ahead.

  The streets erupted with cheers for him, the bells tolled, the bishops and priests prayed for his victory, and my heart cried out in despair. I clung to him once more before he entered the blinding golden light. He was enthusiastic again, his manner driven and determined, his smile bright, his green eyes twinkling in merriment as he anticipated a glorious battle.

  ‘Come home to me, Jamie,’ I ordered, taking his hand in mine. ‘You must come home to me to see your next child into the world.’ I guided his hand to my belly.

  Tears sparkled in his eyes. He leaned in, kissing my cheek. ‘Oh, my love. I shall return to you. I promise.’

  He held me fast, planting a firm kiss on my mouth. I frantically tried to impress upon my memory the exact feeling of his body against mine – the way we fit, the way my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, the way his strong arms enveloped me to his chest, wherein beat his sure, strong, and steady heart.

  I did not want to part.

  I did not want it to end.

  But it did end. Jamie left and I was alone to rule his country.

  Jamie raided the Borders as the English raised an army against him headed up by the very men who escorted me on my wedding journey ten years prior – the Earl of Surrey and his son Thomas Howard.

  But I was assured their army was smaller than my husband’s and Jamie was set to win the day. I waited for him at Linlithgow, sitting by my window in my bower, looking out at St Michael’s Church. I squinted at the horizon. But I knew he would not come. In the few hours sleep found me, my dreams told me so. He stood at the precipice, surrounded by white light. He turned, then walked off. I ran to the ledge to look down but saw nought but the light, the sweet white light.

  He was gone.

  I will never see you again.

  The messenger who greeted me was coated in slick mud. I sat under my canopy of state in my presence chamber, dressed in black, my hair gathered in a chignon under my hood. I sat straight, my head erect. He would
want me to receive the news like a queen.

  With effort the messenger sank to his knees, bowing his head. ‘Your Grace, on 9 September the battle was lost.’ His voice caught. ‘We were outwitted by the English on the hill at Flodden Field; their weapons and manoeuvres were superior, though their numbers were fewer. Everything was against us, it seems – the rain and the mud that had us taking our boots off and fighting barefooted and the hill that was at first our advantage only to end as our curse.’ Tears streamed down his cheeks, running off his chin onto the floor, and I was compelled to reach out to him, laying a hand on his dirt-encrusted shoulder. ‘We lost ten thousand men, Your Grace,’ he sobbed. ‘The king among them.’ He made the sign of the cross, then raised his head, his eyes stricken with horror. ‘We couldn’t find the body. There were so many, lying there in the darkness … and by morning most were stripped naked, robbed of their dignity. Lord Dacre found him, or someone he claims to be him, alongside his son Alexander, the Archbishop of St Andrews, lying together surrounded by their loyal comrades. They – they were going to send the body to King Henry in France on orders of Queen Catherine, but Surrey urged her not to, so they sent his coat instead.’ He swallowed several times. ‘You – you want us to send another search party, to make certain the body they uncovered was not an imposter?’

  I shook my head, remembering the gentle Lord Dacre, knowing despite our status as enemies that he was an honest man. ‘No … that will not be necessary.’

  I drew in a breath. I did not cry. I had known this, after all. I was struck numb and found myself thinking less of Jamie than of his bastard son by Janet Kennedy, the young archbishop whose appointment I resented so much. A strange pride welled in my chest as I thought of the young man who fought a losing battle beside his father. I knew that many of the Scots were against going to war, but go to war they did for their king and now all of them suffered for it. There could not exist a noble in the land untouched by this great loss.