“I know you would,” I say. “And when it is summer and all the lords are at court and happy to be here, or safely on their own lands, and the hunting is good and there is dancing every night, I think that I am safe and will be safe forever. But I have to prepare. I have to find someone to face this beside me.”
He hands me some fruit and a glass of wine. He has such a fluid grace that when he does some small act of service he makes it look as if it is a move in a dance. He never drops or spills anything or swears at his own clumsiness, and he’s always so beautifully dressed. Among the Scots lords who please themselves, ride hard, fight hard, and don’t always trouble to bathe, he is always beautifully barbered and shaved, his hands are always clean, and he smells of clean linen and a musky scent that is all his own. Lord knows he is handsome—half the ladies of my court are in love with him—but he wears his fresh good looks as if they were a jacket he has had forever; he does not know how well he looks. He is betrothed to a girl who lives near his home, one of these Scots family betrothals from the cradle, I suppose. But he does not act like a man betrothed. John Drummond parades his handsome grandson like a prize cock, with his long legs, his slim, lithe strength, the broadness of his shoulders, and that surprisingly dainty Celtic face, hair the color of autumn leaves, dark eyes, and a fascinating smile.
“Janet Stewart of Traquair is a lucky girl,” I say, referring to the young woman he will marry.
He bows his head and flushes. But his eyes come up and meet mine. “It is I who am lucky,” he says. “For I am promised to one of the prettiest girls in Scotland, but I serve the most beautiful queen.”
“Oh, there can be no comparison between us,” I say instantly. “I am a mother of two and an old widow of twenty-four.”
“Not old,” he says. “I’m the same age as you. And widowed like you. And I am Earl of Angus, the head of a great family, the leader of a great house. I know what it feels like to have everyone look to you.”
“Janet Stewart is a young girl, is she not, a maid?”
“She’s nearly thirteen.”
“Oh! A child,” I say disdainfully. “I didn’t know. Everyone spoke of her prettiness; I thought she was a young woman. I am surprised that you didn’t want a woman of your own age.”
“She is my little sweetheart. We have been promised since she was in her cradle. I have watched her grow and never seen a fault in her. I will marry her when she comes of age. But you are my queen, now and forever.”
I lean towards him just a little. “So will you not leave me, Archibald, when you marry your child bride?”
“Call me Ard,” he whispers. “My lovers call me Ard.”
He loves me. I know that he does. I know that his pulse is racing like mine and that he feels the same dizzy elation that I do. I want a man to love me, I need a man to love me, and the young Earl of Angus—Ard, as I secretly name him to myself—clearly does so. And he will never leave me, he will always be in my service, at my side at dinner, riding with me when the court goes out, playing so sweetly with my little boy, admiring my baby. Of course, I will have to marry a great man, the King of France or the emperor, for the sake of my country and my own fortune, but I will always keep Ard at my side. He will be my knight errant, my chevalier. I will be like the lady in the fables, in troubadour songs: adored and forever unattainable. And I really think he shall not marry Janet Stewart of Traquair. I really think that I will allow myself to forbid the wedding, even if the little girl cries into her pillow for a month. I can do this. I am queen; I can do it without explanation.
I receive a letter from my sister Mary, eighteen years old this year and still at home, unmarried. She writes news of the court on their summer progress. They are all well, the Sweat has not come to court, and they are traveling informally in the South of England, sometimes going by barge on the river with musicians accompanying them so that people crowd to the banks to cheer and to wave and to throw rushes and flowers as they go by. Sometimes they go on horseback, with the royal standards ahead, and at every town a delegation comes out to praise Henry for his military might, his victories against France and Scotland, and to give him purses of gold.
I have a wardrobe filled with new gowns paid for by the Spanish, they say that nothing is too good for the bride of Castile. They have demanded yet another portrait and the artist swears that I am the most beautiful princess in Christendom!
She says that she is to marry little Charles next year and already they are planning an enormous series of feasts and jousts to celebrate her departure to Spain. Charles Brandon is certain to joust and certain to triumph. Henry has made him a duke, an honor quite beyond anyone’s imagining. Some people think he has been elevated so far above his station so that he can propose marriage to the Archduchess Margaret, but Mary knows better. She tells me so, her handwriting sprawling, misspelled in her excitement, with added scribbled remarks in the margin.
He is not in love with Archduchess Margaret though she adores him; he tells me he is not in love with her at all, he has no eyes for her. He says he has lost his heart to quite another.
Mary believes that he has been given ducal honors—the greatest honor in the kingdom, short only of royal status—because Harry loves him so much.
Now he is acknowledged as one of the truly great men of England, honored as he should be. He is Harry’s best friend, he loves him like a brother.
This gives me pause. Harry had a brother, a finer young man than Charles Brandon can ever be. Can he have forgotten Arthur? Can Mary have forgotten who Harry’s real brother was? Can she use the word “brother” to me and not know who it means? Have they forgotten Arthur, and me as well?
Without doubt he is the most handsome man at court, everyone admires him. I will tell you a secret, Margaret, but you must not breathe a word of it. He has asked to carry my favor at my wedding joust! It will be the finest joust in Christendom and he is certain to win. He says he will wear it next to his heart and he would happily die with it there!
At the end of her letter she remembers that I am a widow with two babies, fighting to rule a difficult country, and that all her talk of gowns and love affairs may grate on me, so she adopts a more personal note. She has studied to be charming, she knows well enough how to be endearing:
I am so sorry that you cannot be with us. I should have so loved you to be here. I want to show you my jewels and my gowns. I wish you could come. It won’t be the same without you, Katherine says so too.
Brandon is not the only scoundrel dragged into the nobility in this prodigal scattering of titles. Thomas Howard, the victor of Flodden, finally regains the title he lost at Bosworth—he is to be Duke of Norfolk and his son will be named Earl of Surrey as a reward for the billhook that smashed my husband’s crowned head, for the arrow that pierced his anointed side. Perhaps he gets his title for the bloodstained jacket that he sent to France? Perhaps for the corpse in lead, which remains, unburied, somewhere in London?
Apparently, my brother thinks that he should reward a murderer before burying his victim, and Thomas Howard wears ducal strawberry leaves while my husband is stored—half forgotten—uncoffined, waiting for the moment when the Pope says that his poor body, excommunicated at Harry’s request, shall be forgiven and his soul may start its journey to heaven.
Mary does not describe Norfolk’s honors, but I know that his ducal crest is a lion: the lion of Scotland, James’s lion, with an arrow through its jaw to represent the billhook cutting off my husband’s face, the arrow in his side. Noble indeed, a beautiful crest to choose. I hope my brother does not rue the day that he honors a king killer.
I hold Mary’s silly vain letter on my lap and I note her facile regrets that I cannot come to her wedding. But I think: perhaps I could attend? I could take a small court, a small guard in new livery. I could make it a state visit: the queen traveling in grandeur, and then I could visit towns, and people could come out and recite poems to me. I think Ard could ride at my side and make me laugh and see how people
in England love me, their first and best Tudor princess. I would like him to see me in England, to see the welcome that they would give me, that I am a great woman in England, a princess in my own right. And on the journey he would lift me down from the saddle and hold me close every day. Nobody would notice that moment. He would stand beside me while I dined every night, and we would dance together. I would have new gowns and my portrait painted, and perhaps I would have him painted beside me, as a favored member of my household. Mary is so spoiled and stupid that she does not invite me, merely assuming that I cannot come; but perhaps I will come—and surprise them all.
It is a daydream—as false and beguiling as Ard’s whispered promises of love. I don’t have the money to make a great trip to London, I don’t have the gowns to outshine my little sister, I don’t have better jewels than the Queen of England, I don’t even have the royal jewels that my father left me—and they have not invited me to attend.
Mary says that Katherine is traveling on the summer progress in a litter and at once I turn the page and read it again. Yes, she clearly says it. I know there can be only one reason that Katherine would be in a litter and not on horseback trying to keep up with Harry: she must be with child and praying with all her heart that this time she can keep the baby.
I put the letter in my empty jewel box, and look out of the small arched window at the rolling hills that go on and on to the horizon beyond. It is so unlike the rich low-lying meadows of the Thames valley. Here there is no succession of beautiful houses and rich abbeys surrounded with bobbing apple trees heavy with new fruit. There are no walled parks, or smooth greens for bowling. There is just the wide arching sky over the climbing hills and the steep ridges and cliffs, the darkness of the ancient mountain forests with the eagles soaring above them.
I have been happy this summer with my boys, reveling in the respectful adoration of Ard, and with the country at peace. But my joy falls away from me at this one piece of news. I imagine Katherine riding in a silk-curtained litter, Queen of England, expecting another baby, and I think: she will be ahead of me forever. Forever she will be at peace when I am troubled. She has a husband who protects her, who is victorious when he goes to war. She has a litter to ride in and a country where she is safe. Now she is with child and if she has a boy then she has an heir to the throne of England and my own prince will only ever inherit Scotland and that is a hard kingdom to hold.
I think: I am always going to be in second place to her. I can’t bear for her to be Queen of England with a Prince of Wales in the cradle, while I endure my life, half forgotten in a distant poor kingdom. And in that minute, I think defiantly: well then! I shall defy her mealymouthed good wishes, her sisterly hints. I shall marry Louis of France and I will have an ally for my country who is strong enough and rich enough to defeat England if it comes to war again. I will be Queen of France and Scotland with two strong boys in Scotland and perhaps more to come, and that is better than being Queen of England, clinging to the sides of a litter and hoping not to miscarry your future.
I write privately to the Scots ambassador in France. I tell him that I have made my choice and he can communicate it to the old king that I called a monster. He can tell him that I am prepared to marry. Louis of France shall make a formal public proposal and I will give him my hand. I will marry him, whatever old beast that he is, and I will be Queen of France, England’s enemy, and Katherine’s superior.
METHVEN CASTLE, PERTH, SCOTLAND, JULY 1514
A terrible thing has happened to me, and I cannot comprehend it. I cannot understand the falseness of my sister, my own sister! I cannot believe the duplicity of my own brother. I feel as if I never knew either of them, as if they have betrayed me in some wicked concordance of their own. It is disreputable, it is to brand themselves publicly as liars. They are beneath contempt. They seek to destroy me and my prospects. First they widowed and now they ruin me.
Mary has repudiated her marriage contract with Charles of Castile. Repudiated it! As if it never was! As if she can give her word and accept the jewels and go through with the vows and stand under the canopy of cloth of gold—for I have not forgotten the canopy of cloth of gold, I have not forgotten the woodcut that was printed and went all around the kingdom, everywhere. She did all of that, and now she says that she did not. She did not promise, it will not happen. Mary is not going to marry Charles of Castile.
How is anyone to trust the word of a princess if Mary can be betrothed for years—not for a little while, but for years, with gifts coming every month—and then withdraw her promise, retract her betrothal, and repudiate such a monarch? What of the wardrobe of gowns? The biggest ruby in the world? The grandson of the emperor is suddenly not good enough for her? How high is my sister going to aim? Is this not sinful vanity? Is this not the very sin that my lady grandmother warned her about when she was a little girl in the nursery? Surely someone should tell Mary that she cannot give her word and then break it: the word of a princess should be solid gold.
I am horrified. I am furious. My ladies gather around me and ask if I am ill, for I have blanched white and then blushed feverishly red. I brush them aside. I cannot tell them what is the matter. Nobody must ever know the terrible blow that has fallen on me: for it is the worst thing. The worst thing in the world. Unbelievably, she is going to marry Louis of France.
The very moment that I had decided to accept his proposal, for such politic reasons, for such queenly reasons, Mary has pushed in first and is going to marry him instead of me. In my place! And how could he make a proposal to her when he was in the middle of an offer for me? Is it not dishonorable of him? Everyone says he is a byword for dishonor and oath breaking, but nobody warned me that he might throw me over for my little sister. And what of Harry, who knew that Louis had proposed to me, and that I was considering his offer? Should Harry not say: “How dare you make a proposal to a great queen, and at the same time court her younger sister?” This is double-dealing by Louis—but by Harry and Mary too!
Why should Mary even consider him? Is he not old enough to be her grandfather? Her great-grandfather? Is he not riddled with the pox and a danger to any wife? Did he not drive one wife into a nunnery and the other into an early grave? Why would Mary accept? Why would Harry desire it? Why would Katherine consent? For sure, this will be Harry’s doing: Harry and Katherine’s. God knows it will be they who pull the strings, as if Mary were a little marionette in a morality play. How Harry could do this to his sister is beyond me. Louis is his enemy! The enemy that he marched against only last year. The lifelong enemy of his Spanish wife and all her family!
There is dealing here that is so double and redoubled that I cannot begin to understand it. But one thing is clear—Katherine’s father has changed his mind about France and so his daughter obeys him and marries off her little sister to a monster, humiliating me in the process, leaving me husbandless and helpless in Scotland—a consequence that no one has considered.
If that were all it would be bad enough, but there is more, and it is worse. Our ambassador in France reports that Harry is negotiating with the French and demanding they accept his ownership of the French towns he has conquered, and pay him a massive fee. If Louis marries Mary, he must pay one and a half million crowns. It is a fortune, it is a ransom for a princess beyond imagining. It shows the world how highly Harry prizes his beautiful little sister, and what Louis will pay for her. But if Louis chooses to marry me, he gets me at a discount. If he marries me, he only has to pay England one hundred thousand crowns.
I see it. I see what he thinks of me, what they all think of me. I see how I am valued. Harry has told everyone how I am valued. I am publicly shamed. I see that Mary’s hand is worth one and a half million crowns and the handing over of French towns; but I am priced for a quick sale. Harry has told the world that he thinks she is worth fifteen of me. Louis has confirmed that he will pay almost anything to marry her. I have never been so cruelly insulted in all my life.
I march up and down my p
resence chamber at Methven, passing the open window without a glance at the warm summer landscape, my gown swishing around like the twitching tail of an angry cat at every turn. One of my ladies runs to my side but I brush her away. Nobody must know of my boiling rage of hurt and wounded vanity. I have to be sly and secret when I am screaming with rage and hurt inside.
I can’t bear it. To think that I had told Louis that I would be his wife, to think that I had decided to sacrifice myself to be Queen of France, and now it will be Mary! I stop in horror at another thought: how humiliated I should be if I had told my council of lords that I was accepting Louis, if the world knew that I had agreed—and then everyone saw him choose Mary! I can’t bear that anyone should know it was my intention; I can’t bear that anyone should even guess it. I should marry my farrier at once so that everyone can see I had no thoughts of Louis. I should marry the emperor. I have to make sure that no one will ever say that the disgusting, dangerous King of France could have married me, but decided against it. That horrid old man proposed to me and proposed to Mary and then decided that he preferred Mary! My little sister! A foolish child with nothing in her favor but a pretty face! Worth more than ten of me at my brother’s own estimate. What does that say about Harry and how he prizes me?
John Drummond and his grandson, my carver Archibald, come in without announcement, as I am pounding up and down the length of my presence chamber, my ladies pressed back against the walls, keeping out of my way. Clearly, one of my ladies, terrified of my temper, slipped away to fetch John Drummond. He takes one look at me and nods to my ladies, who whisk out of the room as if only these two men are strong enough to hear my whispered curses, my hissing rage.