Down goes Doctor West on his knee, as James greets me sweetly with a kiss and with a little gift of a golden brooch. I make much of it. Doctor West can see that I have many jewels already, I don’t need anything from Harry; but I will never consent to Katherine flaunting herself in my grandmother’s jewels. She probably has taken my legacy as well as her own. I go to whisper in James’s ear that the emissary is part spy and part enemy and he puts me gently to one side. He knows this already. He knows everything.
Not one word can Doctor West get from him that evening nor for the remaining days of Easter week. James has returned from his vigil to enjoy himself. The best of the meats and the finest of the wines are brought to him, and he begs me and my ladies to dance. I pass Doctor West with a scornful turn of my head, as if to say: See here! This, my husband, is a king! Not some fool who steals someone else’s jewels, and goes to war against a mighty power like France as his father-in-law bids him. This is a king and I am his chosen wife, and Harry can keep his stupid jewels. My husband will give me more, I have no need of them, and Scotland has no need of the friendship of England; they need not threaten us with taking our towns because we can just as easily take theirs. And we will do so if we so decide. And the French will pay for our army and pay our navy. So Harry had better think of that before he threatens us. And Katherine need not think that because we are sisters she can ride roughshod over me and my rights. She may call herself my dear sister but that does not earn her my inheritance. She may not wear my mother’s jewels.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1513
Harry does not think of anything but invading France. James begs him to reconsider, reminds him that both French and English lords will die on the battlefield and that they—and the kings—should only give up their lives for the glory of God, to recapture the Holy Land. He writes with patience, as an older, wiser man to a foolish young one, and he gets no reply. Harry—stupid, strutting Harry—is going to go to war, just as when he was little he had to ride at the quintain or write the best poem, or learn the new dance. Harry has found an audience, and the great stage of Europe, and he is going to make sure that everyone watches him. Harry wins uncritical admiration from his own wife and he will do anything to please her and her wicked father.
And then he threatens us through the Church. He gets Doctor West to warn James that if he breaks the Treaty of Perpetual Peace he will be excommunicated by the Pope, and go to hell. This! To a man who wants only to go on crusade, who wears a hair shirt for the forty days of Lent and a cilice around his waist all the time. A man so conscious of his sin and so fearful before God that he goes on pilgrimage four times a year and never sees me into confinement without praying all night. It is a wicked threat, struck at the darkest of James’s fears, and I know at once where it has come from. It is Katherine who has told Harry that James is so fearful for my safety. It is Katherine who has told him that James is driven by guilt. It is Katherine who has told of the terrors that my husband confided in me that I trusted to her. She has taken my confidences, my sisterly confidences, and used them against my husband, against us. This is such a betrayal I can hardly bear to think of it.
I run to James’s rooms, furious that Katherine has broken my trust, and I find my husband, smiling and happy, at his working table with tiny screws of brass and rings all around him, and comical spectacles pinched on his nose, assembling an instrument that he says can be used to tell a sailor at sea which direction is north.
“Look at this, Margaret,” he says. “I have taken it apart and now I am putting it back together. Have you ever seen a more tiny compass? Isn’t it a beautiful thing? Venetian, of course; I think we could make them ourselves for our ships.”
“James, they are saying that they will have you excommunicated!”
He smiles and waves the threat aside. “They can threaten,” he says. “They can even buy the Pope against me. But God and I know that I would be halfway to Jerusalem by now if your brother was not swelled up like a pig’s bladder by false pride. I won’t be troubled by a boy who goes to war at the bidding of his wife. I won’t be frightened by the cursing of a pope who has been bought by him.”
“It’s all her fault,” I say eagerly. “Just as I have been a peacemaker, she has been an agent of war.”
James looks at me over his spectacles; but he is not listening. “I am sure you are right.”
Sister Katherine,
Forgive me for my bluntness, I speak as the Northern people do, without concealment and clever turns of phrase. If you persist in advising Harry to support your father in his quarrel with France then you will act against the interests of England. France has long been a true friend to the Scots, and we will support them if we have to. Please don’t let your father put such a rift between James and Harry, your husband and mine, England and Scotland, and between my brother and me. It is unsisterly and un-English.
Also, I don’t have the jewels that my grandmother left me, nor my inheritance from my father. These are objects of great importance to me for my love for the giver—the value means nothing. Has Mary got hers? Do you have yours? Can it be possible that my brother is withholding my inheritance? I cannot believe that he would do such a thing nor that you would permit it. In particular there is a garnet brooch that belonged to my grandmother and that I know she meant for me. Mary can hardly want it, now she has the largest ruby in the world. I demand that it is sent to me. I insist upon it.
Please be a true sister to me, and a true queen to England, and prevent war and deliver my inheritance. I pray that you see the path of duty in this. I think that God’s will is clear.
Margaret
She does not even reply. She persists in encouraging war with France, and I don’t even know if Mary has had her jewels. Only when our ambassador tells us that the invading army has actually left England for France do I understand why Katherine has behaved so badly; only now do I see her reward.
Henry sets sail, and leaves Katherine in command of England. All of England! Given to the woman who once could not afford fresh apples from Kent. He names her as regent. I cannot believe it, even though I predicted that she wanted this, she would be like this. I am so furious with her that I raise no objection when James tells me that he is honor bound, by his alliance with France. He will invade the Northern lands of England.
“I shall probably have to face your old friend Thomas Howard,” James says when he comes into my rooms to lead me and my ladies in to dinner. I can tell from the smell of gunpowder in his hair that he has been at the powder mill.
“He was no friend of mine,” I reply. “It was you he talked to all the time. He was overproud, I was delighted when he went home.”
“Well, now he has been left to guard England,” James says. “Your brother has taken his best men and all his army to France and left no one but old Howard and his son and the queen to defend England. I will meet him on the field of battle once again.”
“Will he be short of men? Has Harry taken everyone?”
James takes my hand and comes close, so that no one can hear but me.
“He has enough, but if the clans will come out for me, then I will have more. And they will come out for me, for I have been a true king to them and an honorable leader and never led them astray.”
Ahead of us, in the great hall, I can hear the rumble of voices and the scrape of the benches on the floor as people take their seats. I can hear the ripple of music and the slow chant of the choir from the gallery.
“I won’t fail them,” James says quietly. “I am the true-born King of Scots and the English are led by a man new-come to his throne and terribly inexperienced. I have served them for years and they have served me, and the English king is just a boy.”
He glances at me and says the thing that he knows I will want to hear the most: “And I have a queen, a young woman but a great queen, at my side, and he has nothing but a Spanish princess, the widow of his brother, the cat’s paw of her father. How can we fail?”
“And Thomas Howard is so very old,” I say. “Surely his fighting years are over?”
James frowns. “He is out of favor with your brother the king,” he says thoughtfully. “And he has lost a son, who drowned at sea and lost Harry’s ships. Your brother blames the Howards for failing him, he has turned against them. Howard is the only earl not taken to France in Henry’s great army. I think he will fight like a cornered rat when he faces me. He knows it is his last chance to win back the king’s favor. He will be a desperate man—I don’t mind admitting that I would rather not face a man who has nothing to lose.”
“Perhaps you had better not fight?” I suggest nervously. “Perhaps we had better not invade England?”
“This is our chance,” my husband rules. “And we haven’t had a better chance for decades.” He smiles, knowing how to tempt me. “Your sister-in-law and your greatest rival is the English regent. Don’t you want me to march against her army? Don’t you want to see her completely defeated?”
LINLITHGOW PALACE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1513
We visit Linlithgow to see James, our son. The ride is beautiful in the warm summer weather. We go cross-country until we reach the broad banks of the Forth and the water meadows that stretch for miles. As it is midsummer the milkmaids go out every morning and evening and call the cows who are hock deep in lush grass, and at dinner we eat possets and milk puddings, creamy toppings and the rich cheese of the area.
We approach the castle up the sloping ride from the loch and as we enter through the broad gateway, I can see my son James in the arms of his wet nurse in the pretty inner courtyard. Thank God he is growing and strong, past the dangerous date of his first birthday, settled with his Irish nurse, giggly and waving his little clenched fists at his father, screaming with delight when he is pursued, toddling off on fat little feet.
We have easy days at this most comfortable palace. I take the baby down to the loch every day and sometimes we take a boat out, and I let him paddle his toes in the water. The lake is teeming with fish: trout and even salmon. His father wades into the cold deeps with a rod and line and promises me that I will have salmon for my dinner. The gillies go out with him and together they bring back a string of fish, scales like silver, too heavy for one man to carry.
In the evenings I summon James to drink wine with me at the top of the tower on the queen’s side, where the stairs go up and up and at the very head there is the tiny room, roofed against the rain, which looks all over Lothian. When the sun sets I can see the sky all around me as if I am an eagle in an eyrie, the clouds like lace lying over silk. When it rains or when the clouds roll down from the hills I can see huge rainbows, arching up as if they are pointing the way to heaven.
“I knew you would like this,” James says with satisfaction. “When I planned it and had it built for you I imagined you, like this, at the very top of your own palace, looking around. Tell me it is as fine as Greenwich!”
“Oh, it’s so different,” I caution him. “Greenwich is a palace set flat on a tidal river, built for peace. Here you have a palace but still you have a hill and a moat and a drawbridge. Greenwich has a long marble quay before it, modeled after the Venetians, where anyone may land, and doors stand open all the summer. This is more like a castle than a palace.”
I see the disappointment in his face. “But there is no comparison,” I reassure him. “Here we have the most beautiful rooms which lead into one another, the most beautiful great hall. People all around are amazed by it. And here I can ride out around the loch, sail in a boat—look at the quay you have built for the royal sailing boat! And if I want to hunt, there is a park filled with game for me. It is a beautiful palace, perhaps the loveliest in Scotland. And this, at the top of the tower you built for me, is the prettiest room I have ever been in.”
“I am glad that you have come to love it.”
“I have. Nobody could fail to love it.”
“That’s good, because here I have to leave you. I have to go to Edinburgh tomorrow,” James says, as if it is nothing but an errand to fetch something. “And then I will meet with my lords and march on England.”
I feel a sick heave in my belly. “What? So soon? Do you mean to go to war?”
“As I must.”
“But the peace . . .”
“Has to be broken.”
“The treaty . . .”
“It’s void. Henry voided it whenever he arrested my men on the seas, and whenever he let his Northern lords raid our lands. If my fleet had caught him as he sailed for France we would have been at war already. As it is, they will wait off the French coast and catch him on his return. In the meantime, we will strike hard and quickly into England.”
I put my hands over my eyes. I am an English princess. I came here to prevent this. “Husband, is there no way that you can find peace?”
“No. Your brother wants a fight. He is a young man, and a fool, and I can lead this campaign, paid for by the French, to regain our lands, and establish ourselves as a mighty neighbor.”
“I am so afraid for you.”
“Thank you. I imagine you are afraid for yourself.”
“That too,” I say honestly. “And for our boy.”
“I have provided for him.” He speaks as if this is merely careful housekeeping, not a preparation for his death. “His tutor will be William Elphinstone, the Bishop of Aberdeen.”
“You don’t even like him!”
“He’s the best we have. I don’t need him always to agree with me. Actually, I won’t be here to disagree.”
“Don’t say such a thing! And don’t leave me here. I don’t want to wait here for you.” I gesture to the little tower, to the room like a beacon at the top. “I don’t want to stand here and look for you.”
He ducks his head as if this is a reproach. “I pray that when you look, you see me return, standard flying in triumph. And if not, my little sweetheart, then you must manage without me.”
“How will I manage without you?”
“I have appointed my son’s tutor, I have nominated a council of lords.”
“But what about me?” I hear my voice: it is the whimper of the Tudor child, always wondering who comes first.
“I have made you Regent of Scotland.”
I am stunned. “As good as her.”
He smiles wryly. “Yes, as good as her. I knew that would be your first thought. I think of you as highly as Harry thinks of Katherine. But this is not just to make you feel equal to your sister-in-law, Margaret. It is because I think that you can rule this kingdom and raise our son, and keep Scotland safe. I think you can do it. You will have to be cleverer than your brother—but I think you are cleverer than your brother. You will have to become a woman like your grandmother was—devoted only to her child, determined to see him as king. I think you can do that. Don’t let anything distract you, not vanity or lust or greed. Take my advice on this and you will be a good woman, indeed a great woman.” His approval is like a breath of sunny air blowing across the loch.
“But perhaps I won’t have to?” I say, quailing.
“I surely hope you won’t have to.”
We are silent for a moment looking down at the clean waters of the loch and the people boating for pleasure, and those swimming off the shore. Some girls have kilted up their skirts and are paddling, screaming when one of them splashes. Everyone looks so carefree, as if nothing bad could ever happen.
“I don’t know that I can do it,” I say miserably. “If you don’t come back from the battle, I don’t know that I can do it.”
He chucks his hand under my chin and raises my face so that I have to meet his eyes. I have always hated how he does this, when I am forced to look into his own face, as if I were some milkmaid in the dairy and he the all-powerful master. “Nobody knows if they can do it,” he rules. “When they killed my father and I was the one who gave the order and I became king, I was sure that I could not do it. But I did it. I learned to do it. I studied to do it. Be the wo
man you were born to be and you will see my children on the thrones of Scotland and England. Be a fool and you will lose everything. I think your brother is a fool and will lose everything that he prizes by running after the things that he cannot have. You might have the wisdom to keep what you have. He will always choose to satisfy his own whims rather than being a true king. You must be a queen and not a fool like him.”
LINLITHGOW PALACE, SCOTLAND, AUGUST 1513
I dream terrible dreams: of James sinking beneath the waves and pearls bubbling from his drowning mouth; of walking on a seashore and calling to him, pearls crunching under my feet; of sitting before a mirror and watching him fasten a magnificent necklace of diamonds about my neck which melts into dripping pearls as he ties it. I wake in tears and I say to him: “You will die, I know you will die, and I will never wear diamonds again. I will have to wear pearls for mourning, nothing but pearls, and I will be alone with my son and how will I ever bring him safely to the throne?”
“Hush,” he says gently. “Nothing can stop it going forward.”
He bids me a formal farewell, as if we are a king and queen of a romance. He bows before me and I put my hand on his stubborn red head and give him my blessing. He rises up and kisses my hand. I give him a silk handkerchief embroidered with my initials and he tucks it inside his jacket, as if it were a favor and he was only going jousting. He wears his finest jacket of crimson red embroidered with his name on the collar in gold thread and with his crest of thistles all over the front. I embroidered it myself, it looks very fine. He turns from me and vaults into the saddle of his warhorse, vaults like a boy as if to show me that he is as young and lusty as my brother. He raises his hand, and his personal guard close up behind him and then they move off. The hooves are like thunder, hundreds of big horses moving like one great beast. The dust rises in a cloud. I gesture for the nursemaid to take our boy inside; but I stand and watch till the men are out of sight.