The jousting arena at Greenwich is as fine as any in Europe. The queen’s box is set opposite the king’s, and my sisters and I, with our ladies, sit in the center of the stand, curtains billowing in the warm winds, facing the tilt rail. Harry and his friends are never in their box, of course; they are challengers, not spectators. There are long rippling flags flying all around the arena. The ground is sifted sand, white as snow. The seats in the stands are packed with people in their very best clothes. Only the nobility and their favorites are invited—you cannot buy a ticket, this is a diversion for the very cream of the country. The merchants of London and the country people come to this great spectacle, wait behind the half walls of the arena and jostle one another for room. The younger ones, the bolder ones, climb the sides to get a better view and are cuffed and pushed down when they bob up alongside the nobility. Everyone laughs as they tumble down.
The poorer people cannot even get into the palace, but they line the riverbank where they can watch the ceaseless coming and going of the barges of the noble houses, bringing the guests. They stand along the lane that runs from the gates of the walled palace to Greenwich and the docks. This is where the horses are brought in, and they see the magnificent saddles and the beautiful jousting costumes as the big chargers, sidling and snorting, come down the road ridden by the squires, or led by the grooms.
The smell of a tournament is instantly recognizable. There is a hint of woodsmoke from where the people are frying bacon on little fires, to eat when the joust is over, and the tang of the black smoke from the forge where horses are being quickly reshod and the sharp ends of lances hammered down to make them blunt. Everywhere, there is the smell of the horses, a mixture of sweat and dung and excitement like a hunt or a race, and over it all the perfume of the flower garlands that hang around the boxes. The orchards have been stripped of apple blossom for our pleasure; the costly pink and white flowers have made the queen’s box into a bower. At every corner the buds of early roses are in posies that we will throw to the bravest challenger. Over all the blossoms, threaded through them, are the starry flowers of honeysuckle in rose pink and yellow and cream, with their haunting heady scent, as sweet as honey. The queen and I and all the ladies have bathed in rosewater and our linen has been sprinkled with lavender water. The bees buzz into the royal box, dazed by perfume, as if they were in an orchard.
I have a sudden memory, unexpected as summer lightning, of my husband James the king in his strength and beauty when he rode as the wild man in green, and the Sieur de la Bastie was all in white, and I was the queen of the joust that celebrated the birth of my first son, when I thought that I would be happy and triumphant and the first in the land forever.
“What is it?” Mary asks me gently.
I shake away the flood of grief. “Nothing. Nothing.”
Everyone is waiting for the entry of the king into the arena. The sand is raked flat, as if a retreating sea has lapped it clean; the squires in their bright liveries stand at every doorway. There is a buzz of excitement and laughter that becomes louder and louder and louder until there is a sudden blast of trumpets and a gasp, then silence as the great doors roll open, and Harry rides into the arena.
I see him as others see him, not as my little brother, but as a great king and a magnificent man. He is on a huge warhorse, a black brute of an animal, broad at the shoulder, powerful in the haunches. Harry has ordered it to be shod with silver and the nails sparkle on the black hooves. His saddle and bridle, the breastplate and the stirrup leathers, are a gorgeous deep blue, the best leather dyed as dark as indigo, and the shine on the horse’s black coat is as bright as if it has been polished. It is wearing a trapper of cloth of gold, set with golden bells that tinkle at each great bouncing stride. Harry himself is wearing deep blue velvet embroidered all over with golden thread in bursts of honeysuckle flowers, so that he sparkles as he rides the full circle of the arena, one hand holding his magnificent horse on a tight blue rein, the other holding his tall lance, couched in gold-inlaid leather at his dark blue leather boot.
Like a warm summer breeze, the crowd sighs in awe at this appearance: a knight from a storybook, a god from a tapestry. Harry is so tall, so handsome, his horse is so toweringly big, his velvets so deep and iridescent, he is more like a portrait of a king, a great king, than the real presence. But then he halts the great horse at the queen’s box and pulls off his hat, set with sapphires, and his bright smile at Katherine tells us all that this is a man, the most handsome man in England, the most loving husband in the world.
Everyone cheers. Even the people outside the arena, on the banks of the river, on the roads leading to the port, hear the deep-throated roar of approval and they cheer too. Harry glows like an actor welcomed to the stage, and then turns and beckons his companions.
There are four challengers, dressed to match the king, Charles Brandon among them, his handsome face turning this way and that to acknowledge the applause. Behind them come eighteen knights, also in blue velvet on their great horses, behind them their attendants on foot, wearing satin of so deep a blue that it shines with color, and after them all the grooms and the knights, the trumpeters, the saddlers, the servants, the water-carriers, the runners of errands, dozens and dozens of them, all in blue damask.
They all draw up before the royal box and Katherine, in her blue gown which suddenly looks dull and dowdy beside the blaze of peacock blue from her husband’s livery, stands to take the salute from the challengers.
“Let the tournament begin!” bellows the herald. There is a blast of sound from the trumpets so all the warhorses sidle and trample in their excitement and Harry rides slowly towards his end of the list while his squire waits with his helmet and gold-inlaid gauntlets.
When he is ready, strapped into his beautiful suit of armor, helmet on his head, visor lowered, horse sidling slightly from nerves on one side of the brightly painted tilt rail, his opponent waiting at the other end, on the opposite side, Katherine rises to her feet, holding her white napkin in her bare hand. Her glove is tucked inside Harry’s breastplate, over his heart. He is meticulous in these chivalric signs of devotion. She holds the napkin high, and then she lets it fall.
The minute it is released Harry has spurred his horse and the beast leaps from its powerful haunches and thunders down the long list. His opponent starts at the same time and the lances thunder closer and closer. Harry’s reach is longer, his stance low in the saddle but thrusting forward. There is a terrific clang of noise as his lance crashes against his opponent’s breastplate, and Harry wrenches it back, so that he does not overbalance and come down. A few seconds later and the opponent’s lance, off balance and reeling from the impact, has struck him a glancing blow on the shoulder. But Harry is already riding by, regaining his balance, heaving the long lance back towards him as his opponent rocks in the saddle, grabs the pommel and horse’s neck with his mailed hand, is falling, is going, and reels backwards off his horse, flung to the ground with the ringing crash of metal armor. The horse bucks, its trappings flapping, its reins trailing; the knight lies still, obviously winded, perhaps worse. Grooms in their blue damask catch the horse, squires in their blue satin run to the knight. They open his visor, his head lolls.
“Is his neck broken?” my little sister asks anxiously.
“No,” I say, as I always used to say to her when she was a little princess, afraid for every horse, for every knight. “He’s probably just shaken.”
The physician comes running, and the barber surgeon. The hurdle comes, carried by four squires. Carefully they lift the knight on. Harry, down from his horse, his helmet under his arms, goes stiff-legged in his armor to see his opponent. Smiling, he says a few words to the fallen knight. We see them touch gauntlets as if shaking hands.
“There,” I tell Mary. “He’s fine.”
There is a roar as they carry him out of the arena and Harry turns all around the circle, taking in the applause, his bright smile gleaming, his red hair dark with sweat. He puts h
is mailed fist to his breastplate as he bows to Katherine and then he walks off. He passes Charles Brandon, high on a bay charger, who acknowledges his king with a comradely salute and a bow of his head as he trots around the arena and stops before our box to salute his queen, me, and then his wife.
“Does he not have your glove?” I ask Mary, seeing that she is wearing a pair.
She makes a little face. “He forgot,” she says. “And I didn’t feel like running after him to remind him.”
“He doesn’t carry your favor?”
“I can’t afford to throw away a pair of gloves every time he jousts,” she says in an irritable undertone. “The king pays for his armor and trappings, the wardrobe gives me a gown. But my gloves and my linen I have to find myself, and we are as poor as mice, Maggie. Really we are.”
I don’t say anything but I squeeze her hand. That a Tudor princess should be brought so low as to worry about the price of a pair of gloves is quite shocking. Harry should be generous to Mary; he should be generous to me. Our father would have paid my debts earlier; he would not have fined Mary for marrying the man of her choice. Harry should remember that we are all Tudors, even though he is the only surviving boy. We are all heirs of England.
All day fresh incomers ride against the challengers, and the sand is churned and dirty, and the beautiful harness and livery are torn and dulled by the time the sun starts to set over the arena and the king’s team are declared the victors, and the greatest of them is Harry.
Katherine stands in the box as he comes and bows before her, and I think that she looks like our mother did when she was weary but making the effort to respond to Harry’s constant need for praise. She smiles as warmly as our mother did, handing down the prize of a gold belt of sapphires, giving a fortune to the young man who already owns everything. She clasps her hands together as if she is overwhelmed by joy at his victory, and then, when she has done everything he could hope for, she turns and we follow her back into the palace for the lengthy tournament dinner. There will be speeches, there will be masques, there will be dancing late into the night. I see her sideways glance at her baby, Mary, who has been brought to the box to witness her father’s triumph and to be shown to the cheering crowd, and I know that she would far rather be in the nursery watching her baby feed, and then going to bed herself.
I have no sympathy for her. She is Queen of England, the wealthiest woman in England, the greatest woman in the kingdom. Her husband has just beaten all comers. I would expect her to be beside herself with joy. Lord knows, if I were in her place, I would be.
I am to meet with the Scots lords who have come to England to persuade Harry to peace. They will ask him to keep me in exile, they will ask him to allow the Duke of Albany to rule my country, they will remind him that my husband is an outlaw and suggest that he should stay that way, to be hunted like a beast till they catch and kill him. They must be sick with anxiety, for I am a Tudor princess again, in prime place in my brother’s fickle attention. He will not even see them.
“They shall attend you before me,” Harry promises me at dinner at Greenwich Palace. I am seated on his left side, Katherine is on his right, my sister is beside me, exquisite in a gown of the palest yellow, her thick blond hair hidden by a pale yellow hood studded with diamonds, undoubtedly the most beautiful of the three of us—but she is two seats away from the throne, not adjacent as I am. “You shall state your demands. They shall make their explanations to you.”
“And will you see them after?” I ask.
He nods. “You can tell me what they have said to you. We’ll talk with Wolsey. We’ll bring them to heel, Margaret, never doubt it.”
“When will they come?” I am not nervous; I know that I can persuade them. I know that I can be a good queen regent. Scotland is a mass of warring loyalties; but so is England, so is France. Any throne attracts rivals—James taught me that—and now I am ready to learn his lessons and be the great Queen of Scotland that he said I should be.
“In a few days” time. But I want you to move house. Guess where.”
For a moment I wonder if I am to go into one of the royal palaces, and for a moment I hope for Richmond. But then I know where I should be. “The Palace of Scotland,” I say.
Harry laughs at my quickness and clinks his golden goblet against mine. “You’re right,” he says. “I want them to see you in the London palace of the kings of Scotland. It can remind them that you own it as much as Edinburgh Castle.”
THE PALACE OF SCOTLAND, LONDON, ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1516
They have sent the Bishop of Galloway and the Commendator of Dryburgh. Monsieur du Plains comes too, to represent the French interest and to persuade us all to a compromise that leaves the duke as regent. They have half a dozen clerks as well and a couple of minor lords. I receive them in the throne room. The palace is terribly dilapidated; nobody has used it since the visit of the Scottish lords for my proxy wedding and that was thirteen years ago. But the fresh rushes hide the worn stones and the old floorboards, and Katherine has loaned tapestries to keep out the draughts from the doors where the timbers have shrunk. The building itself is imposing and Harry’s groom of the household has given me massive oak furniture, including a throne inlaid with silver. As always, the appearance of royalty matters more than the reality. Nobody approaching the throne room of the Palace of Scotland could doubt for a moment that I am a great queen.
I sit on my throne beneath a cloth of estate as they come in, as still as if I were the Spanish princess, on her best, most formal manners, all those years ago, and I let them bow to me, without rising from my chair.
I speak with a balance of majesty and diplomacy. I have thought long and hard what agreement I will make. I cannot be impulsive and angry about my son James, my husband, or the deep terrible loss of Alexander. I have to win them over. I have to make them want me to return.
I see them warm to me. I have the Tudor charm—we all have it, Mary and Harry and I—we all know that we do—and I am patronizingly pleasant as I listen to them, and pretend an interest in their views. I play them, as my lady grandmother used to play the great men of England: asking them for their opinions, consulting them as experts, feigning deference, while all the time she had her own plan. And all the while, they are standing before me, and I am seated under a cloth of gold, the cloth of estate of majesty. The duke that they call regent may rule them but he does not sit under cloth of gold, his sleeves are not trimmed with the white ermine of royalty.
I speak to them frankly. I say that I must have my goods returned to me. There were gowns and jewels sent to Archibald’s castle at Tantallon, my summer wardrobe in Linlithgow—I expect them to be sent to me here in London. The regent owes me the rents on all my lands in Scotland: my dower lands, which were given to me by my husband the King of Scotland himself. Albany cannot say that he is ruling a country at peace, and then pretend that rents cannot be collected. And it must be me who appoints my son’s tutors. I have to hear from James, my son. I have to be free to return to Scotland and he must live with me. My husband and his grandfather and all his family must be pardoned, they must be free to live with me.
The Scots suggest quietly, politely, that I cannot return and expect to rule. I tell them that is exactly what I do expect. They were wrong to put Albany in my place; they have obeyed the French king, not me, their true queen. Look at their ally of France, advancing unstoppably across Europe! I give Monsieur du Plains a little smile as if to say that I perfectly understand his interests, he does not fool me. Who can doubt that France hopes to hold Scotland by this transparent device? If Scotland continues to side with the French spy Albany, with his French wife and loyalties, they will lead the kingdom of Scotland into war with England. My brother will not tolerate the French army on his doorstep. He insists on my safe return. Do they really want another war with England? Have they so many sons that they want to lose another generation at another Flodden? When we are still grieving for the last one?
Monsieur du Plains p
rotests quietly at this, saying that France has no intention of capturing Scotland by deceit, that the duke is a Scot, heir to the throne after my son, not a Frenchman. I smile beyond him to the commendator and the bishop. My smile says—we know, we three Scots, that he is lying. And they smile back at me. We know, we three Scots.
LAMBETH PALACE, LONDON, ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1516
I ride to Lambeth Palace on the white palfrey that Katherine has given me, to meet with Thomas Wolsey and my brother Harry. They are in Harry’s privy chamber with only half a dozen companions and three or four servants. I note with one swift glance that no one stands closer to the king than his new friend, Wolsey, the son of an Ipswich butcher. The smooth-spoken commoner must pinch himself every morning to be sure that he is not dreaming. It is extraordinary that a man from such humble beginnings should have the ear of the king. Surely no one has ever risen so high from so low before? But this is the England that Harry and Katherine are making: one where ability matters more than breeding, and what you do matters more than who you are. For someone like me, who is completely defined by my birth, this is an uneasy prospect. It feels wrong. No king from my mother’s side of the family would ever have made a butcher’s boy Lord Chancellor, and I know—as if she were speaking to me from beyond the grave—that my lady grandmother would never have allowed it.
I make sure that none of this shows in my face as I greet my brother with warm courtesy and give my hand to his advisor as if I am pleased to see him there.