“They can’t get out of hand,” Harry announces. He tips his head to me. “Ask the Queen of Scots: she knows,” he says. “She knows that you have to keep the people in their place with all the skill you have. But once they disobey, you have to smash them down. Don’t you? Smash them down.”
I can’t deny it, though both Mary and Katherine look to me to soothe Harry. “When they rise up they have to be put down,” I say simply. “Look at me—d’you think I would not be on my throne now, but for the people turning against me in their folly?”
“But that was because—” starts Mary and I see, though no one else does, that her husband pinches her hand, to tell her to be silent. Charles Brandon is Harry’s favorite friend, his companion for jousting and drinking, dancing and card-playing. And he has kept his place at the king’s side, month after month, year after year, by never disagreeing with his royal friend and master. Whatever Harry says, Charles agrees. He’s like one of those hinged dolls that Archibald gave to James that just nods its head: nod, nod, nod. Brandon can be nothing but agreeable to his royal master. The hinge of his neck only works one way: nod, nod, nod—“yes, yes, yes.”
“I shall ride out,” Harry insists. He turns to the captain of the guard behind him. “Send for the Duke of Norfolk and his son the earl.”
“My lord—” Katherine begins. Harry has listened to her since the first days of their marriage. But he was bedding her then, besotted with her, and certain that together they would make a son and heir. Now, after all the losses, he doubts that she knows so very much. He doubts that she speaks God’s truth. He doubts that he could learn anything from her. He gives a little swagger and glances round to see that Bessie Blount has noticed his courage. He interrupts Katherine: “We ride tonight.”
Brandon knows they’re in no hurry, and doesn’t even bother to arm. They don’t leave that night, not until late the next morning. Brandon orders his horse in its finest trappings, and rides beside Harry, but they go at a leisurely pace and while they are on their way, the Howards, father and son, take the heavily armed guard through the streets and sweep them clear of the lads. The apprentice boys, some of them grown men, some of them little more than children, are sobering up and tiring, wishing that they were not so far from home, and starting to find the way back to their own districts, when they hear the ring of many hooves on cobbles and see, coming round the corner, the Duke of Norfolk at the head of his men, his visor down, a small army behind him with grim, unforgiving faces, riding them down as if they were Scots at Flodden.
The boys go under the hooves of the warhorses, like children falling beneath a plow. Norfolk takes it upon himself to be judge and jury. Dozens are killed in the first charge, forty lads are hanged, drawn and quartered for the crime of not taking to their heels fast enough, and hundreds—nobody knows how many—two hundred? three hundred? four?—are herded into every prison in the city, awaiting a mass trial and a mass execution, by the time that Harry and Brandon and half a dozen lords ride in.
The ladies of the court follow the noblemen, and a date is set within the week for the trial of all of the young men, regardless of age, or intent, or act. Mostly, they are boys in their first year of training, drawn from homes in the country, new to the City. They were excited by the sermon and fired up against the French; they were drunk on the May Day ales and free from work in a long four-year apprenticeship. Their masters laughed and told them to burn down the houses of rivals. Nobody told them to stay home. Nobody warned them what would happen—how should they know? Who would bring an army against children in their own capital city? These are boys working to learn the trades of maltsters, saddlers, butchers, smiths. Some of them have inky fingers from the presses, some of them are scalded from making candle wax. Some of them are regularly beaten by their masters, most of them are hungry. It does not matter, no individual matters at all. Henry is too great a king to worry about a little lad, to trouble himself about an orphan boy. They will be judged all together in one great trial, and Thomas Wolsey, whose father was once an apprentice boy like these, opens their trial at Westminster with a long speech that reproves them for causing a breach of the peace and warns them that the penalty is death.
I think sourly that they probably know that already, as each one of them is standing with a rope around his neck, holding the spare end in his shaking hand. They are to go out of here and queue up at the public gallows that have been put up at street corners all around the city, each wearing his own halter, carrying his own rope, and wait in line to be hanged.
“We’re going to have to do something,” Katherine says quietly to me. “We cannot allow hundreds of apprentices to be killed. We will speak out.”
Mary is white. “Can we ask for mercy?” Her belly is large before her; she has never looked more beautiful. She is like a swollen bud with a white petal face. The three of us huddle closely together, like angels conspiring to turn tyranny into mercy.
“Has Harry asked us to plead for pardon?” I question Katherine.
Her quick gesture of denial tells me everything. “No, no, it should look like our idea. It is the queen’s prerogative. He should stand for justice, we should beg him for kindness.”
“What do we do?” Mary asks.
“I am asking you to plead with me,” Katherine says.
“Of course we will,” I say, cutting off Mary’s enthusiastic assent. “It’s just another dance in a new masque. We should do it beautifully. Do you know your cue?”
Mary is puzzled. “Don’t you want to save them, Maggie?” she asks me. “See, the youngest ones are barely more than children. Think of your little boy. Don’t you want them to have a royal pardon at your request?”
“Go on then,” I say. “Let’s see you beg your wonderful brother.” I turn to Katherine. “Let us see the Queen of England begging the king for the good of the people. This is better than a play, better than a masque. Let’s have a joust of pitiful tears. Which of us can be the more poignant? Which of us will do it most beautifully?”
Mary is confused by my bitter tone. “I am sorry for the boys.”
“So am I,” I say. “I am sorry for everyone who comes up against the Howards. They’re not famous for chivalry.”
Katherine’s sideways glance at me shows that the barb has hurt her. But she takes Mary’s hand. “Let’s all sue for mercy,” she says.
The younger boys are dumb with terror; they don’t understand what is being said. The fat Lord Chancellor in his blazing red robes is an incomprehensible figure to them, the great hall of Westminster Palace, draped with gold banners and the standards of the lords, is overwhelmingly bright, too rich for them to dare to look around. Many of them are openly crying; a couple are craning their necks to see beyond the great men and women to where the common people are standing in silence. One calls out “Mama!” and someone slaps him.
“Don’t you want to see them freed?” Mary whispers.
“I don’t like masques,” I say shortly.
“This is real!” Katherine snaps at me.
“No, it’s not.”
Thomas Wolsey gets down from his judgment seat and goes to where Harry is sitting on his throne, a golden cloth of estate over his head, his crown on his auburn hair, his handsome face stern. The fat fool Wolsey kneels slowly onto a huge hassock that just happens to be conveniently placed before the king. I see, behind Wolsey, equally positioned, three smaller hassocks, embroidered with gold thread. I imagine these are for us. I wait. Katherine will know what is to be done. She will have designed this with her husband. They may even have consulted a dancing master.
A sigh goes through the four hundred boys as they see Wolsey put his hands together in the sign of fealty. They realize now that the great man is pleading for their lives from the great king who still sits in silence. Some of the common people whisper “Please!” Some of the mothers are weeping. “À Tudor!” someone calls, as if to remind Harry of old loyalties.
Henry’s face is as grave as a beautiful statue
. He shakes his head. “No,” he says.
A shudder goes through the hall. Do all these boys have to die? Every one of them? Even the little one who knuckles his eyes and whose grubby face is tracked with tears?
Katherine turns to Margaret Pole, who stands beside her. “My headdress,” she whispers. Margaret Pole, my mother’s cousin, who has seen this before, knows what is to be done. Mary at once copies Katherine as if she is her little mirror, removing her headdress. I turn to my ladies. “Take off my hood,” I order. In a moment we are all bareheaded. Katherine’s graying hair is spread over her shoulders; I toss my head, and my hair, a fairer shade than Harry’s, falls limply down my back, Mary puts her hands to her head and sweeps back a mass of the finest blond curls that tumbles to her waist like a golden mane.
Katherine leads us forward, as the Lord Chancellor bows even lower. First Katherine, then I, then Mary kneel before Harry and put out our hands like exquisitely gowned beggars. “I beg for mercy,” the queen says.
“I beg for mercy,” I repeat.
“I beg for mercy,” Mary says, her voice thick with tears. Of all of us, she is probably the only one who believes in this charade. She really thinks that Harry may forgive these poor boys on our pleading.
I can hear a shuffle like quiet thunder as all the apprentices go down on their knees, and behind them the common people drop down too. Harry looks over the great hall of Westminster at all the bowed heads, he listens to the susurration of pleas, then he gets to his feet and stretches out his arms like Christ blessing the world and he says: “Mercy.”
Everyone cries, even I cry. The apprentices pull the hangman’s ropes from their necks and the guards stand aside and let them run through the crowds to their parents. People call down blessings on the king, purses filled with gold, that would have bribed the hangman to make a quick end by tugging on a lad’s kicking feet to break his neck before the disemboweling, are dropped at Harry’s feet and picked up by his pages. The Duke of Norfolk, Harry’s executioner, is smiling as if he is delighted by forgiveness. Everyone is bowing to the throne, pulling off their caps, saying: “God bless King Harry! God bless Queen Katherine!” Never has London loved a king more, not even one of the Plantagenet kings. Harry has spared the boys. They will live because of this great king. He is a reverse Herod, he has given life to a generation. People start to cheer, and someone starts to sing the bold tune of a Te Deum.
Katherine is flushed with delight at the success of her gesture. Margaret Pole, behind her, keeps tight hold of her gold-plated headdress—she, for one, does not trust a crowd. Harry, in a lordly gesture, stretches his hand out to Katherine and she comes to stand beside him, smiling warmly at the loyal cheers. Unbidden, Mary goes to his other side, sure of her welcome, and the radiant three beam at the crowd like a trio of angels, more beautiful, more powerful, richer than any of these people could even dream. Harry smiles at me, reveling in my admiration of the picture that the three of them make.
“This is how I rule England,” he says. “This is kingship.”
I smile and nod; but inside I say—no, it’s not.
I set off for Scotland with that picture of the three of them—the King of England and my two sisters—bright in my mind, the only bright thing in my intense inner darkness. I feel outcast from the Eden that is Tudor England, from the court of wealth and glamour where my brother playacts the part of king, with his wife, who cannot even give him a son, as his pretend queen. My sister, without a fortune and with a nobody for a husband, leads all the dances, the most beautiful girl at the court. I think: this is all false, this is all portrait and no reality, this is all masque and no battle. They glory in themselves, in the picture that they make to people so poor that they cannot tell pretense from life. My sisters flaunt their beauty and blessings and persuade themselves that they are rightfully blessed.
But it is not like that for me. Everything I have has to be won. The people in my kingdom will not kneel to me with halters around their necks, my husband will not proudly embrace me before everyone. My sisters are not at my side. I have to go away, up the long road north. Not for Mary, the clamber into the saddle every morning, and the summoning of the courage to ride into drizzle or cold winds. Not for Katherine, the patient waiting on the back of a tired horse while my host for the night recites a long lecture of greeting. Not for Harry, the ceaseless plotting of the capture of a kingdom and the struggle for rightful power. My little girl rides in the arms of her nursemaid; she does not sleep in a gold cradle like her cousins. While I trudge northward my brother and my two sisters go on pilgrimage to Walsingham, riding a short journey in good weather, inviting the blessing of Our Lady on Katherine’s empty womb: denying the omen of barrenness. I go on and on, wondering what Ard is doing. I am solitary, lonely, traveling every day, weary as a beaten dog every night.
BERWICK CASTLE, ENGLAND, SUMMER 1517
My guards and, after them, the lords and ladies of my small household ride towards the little town of Berwick and remark on the pretty gleaming stone, the river before the castle, the sea beyond. I remember coming here and gripping Ard’s hand when the captain of the castle would not admit us. Now, I smile grimly as the cannon bawl out a salute, the drawbridge rattles down, the portcullis clanks up, and the captain of the castle hurries out, his officers behind him, his lady behind them, his bonnet under his arm, his face wreathed in obsequious smiles.
I don’t dismount. I let him come to my stirrup and bow his head to his knees. I let him read his speech of welcome. I don’t reproach the town of Berwick for sending me out into the darkness to find refuge at Coldstream Priory, but I won’t forget it either. Then, from under the shadow of the gatehouse, I see a slight, tall figure step forward. I blink. I cannot be sure what I am seeing. I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands. It cannot be him, and yet it is him. It is Archibald. My husband has come to greet me.
“My love,” is all I say. I forget in a moment everything that I have heard against him, everything that I have feared.
Quickly, he steps towards my horse and reaches up for me. I spring down into his arms and he holds me closely. My head against his shoulder, his mouth on my neck, I feel the familiar lithe hardness of him, and know, with a little delicious shudder, his strangeness. We have not been together for more than a year. I lean back in his arms to look at his face. His skin is as dark as a gypsy’s from the months of living rough on the borders. There is a hardness about his profile that reminds me of the two old lords, those two great men, his grandfathers. I married a boy, but this is a man who has come to claim me. At once Harry seems soft and lazy, his court rich and overblown. My sister is a delicate doll married to a jouster, a pretend warrior. A man like my husband needs a woman like me, with courage to match his own, with ambition that runs neck and neck with his.
“I know you are well. I have heard nothing but praise for you on your journey,” he says against my hair. “And my daughter?”
I turn and beckon her nursemaid. Margaret, russet as a Tudor, smiles and waves at the stranger as she has been trained to do. “A princess!” her father exclaims, with real tenderness in his voice. “My little girl.”
He tightens his arm around my waist. “Come in. There’s a feast ready for you and a celebration planned. Scotland wants its queen back. I can’t wait to get you over the border.”
The captain of the castle bows again, his lady curtseys, their household snatch the hats from their heads and drop to their knees as Archibald walks past with my hand in his. I see him glance across the hundreds of people bowing as we go by and the proud curl of his smile, and I know that he will always love me better than any woman in Scotland while every man drops to his knees at the sight of me. Archibald was born to marry a queen. I am her.
He pauses before a stunningly handsome man, dressed all in white.
“You remember the Sieur de la Bastie?” Archibald says without much warmth in his voice. “He is serving as the regent while the Duke of Albany stays in France.” His tone makes i
t clear that the Duke of Albany makes no difference to us, in France or in Scotland, and that I would be wise not to admire the dazzling nobleman who bends over my hand and kisses it.
“Of course I remember the chevalier. We are old friends.”
“You are welcome home, Your Grace,” he says. He straightens up and tosses his head so his mane of chestnut-brown hair falls away from his face. He smiles at me. “I am sure that we can work together.”
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1517
I have every reason for confidence this summer as I come back to my country and my power. Ard has done great work in my absence. Not only did he negotiate a free pardon from the Duke of Albany, but he has recovered his lands, his wealth, and has rejoined the council, where he can choose the guardians who are appointed to my son. He has prepared the council for my return, and encouraged Albany to go home to France to his sick wife. “I have done everything to persuade them that you as regent and an alliance with England is our future,” he says quietly in my ear as he lifts me down from the saddle in the courtyard before the palace. “I think we can take Scotland together, my love.”
As always, as he lifts me down from my horse and holds me, I feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.
“I have to go and see my son at once,” I say unsteadily. Truth be told, I cannot even remember that I am a mother, that I am a princess. I have forgotten that I am a dowager queen with national ambitions. I would go in a moment to my bedchamber like an eager girl, and lie with him.
He smiles at me as if he knows this perfectly well. “Go,” he says. “And when you come back we will dine and we will go to bed. I had to wait for you for a year of absence. I can wait another hour or two.”