The Boleyn girl has chosen to withdraw from court to her father’s home at Hever Castle and Harry writes to her often, in his own hand, begging her to return. In his own hand! For some reason, she is allowed to refuse a royal command, and instead of a punishment she has been rewarded with jewels and money.
Maggie, I cannot tell you how demeaning it is to us all to see Harry pursuing this woman as if he were a troubadour and she a lady as grand as a queen. Katherine is completely admirable, she says nothing, she acts as if nothing is wrong, she is as tender and as loving to Harry as she has always been and she never has a cross word for anyone, not even behind closed doors, even though both the whore, the sister Mary and the mother Elizabeth Boleyn (now Lady Rochford—if you can believe it) are still serving in her rooms and she has to endure their half-apologetic, half-triumphant simpering every day. Katherine believes this will all be forgotten as other flirtations have been forgotten, and I suppose it must—for who cares for Bessie Blount now? But if you had seen the velvet that he sent her, you would be as angry as I.
The court is divided between the young and foolish relishing the excitement and the scandal of this courtship, and the older ones who love the queen and remember all that she has done for Harry and for England. But why is the Boleyn girl hiding at Hever? I am so afraid that she is with child. Surely we would know? Besides, she made such an icon of her virginity.
The Holy Father is sending a papal legate to England to reconcile Harry and our sister. Perhaps he will tell Mademoiselle Boleyn to stay at Hever. I hear that she will only come back to court if she is given her own rooms and her own attendants, as if she were a princess born. She wants a bigger household than mine. You need not wonder who is paying her bills. Nobody wonders, everyone knows, it is completely public: they are sent direct to the exchequer.
There is no joy at court any more but we have to attend since Charles says that he cannot lose touch with the king, and I feel I must be beside Katherine as she endures this trial. Her pain can be seen on her face—she looks like a woman with grief like a canker. No one has told the Princess Mary, who is kept at Ludlow as much as possible, guarded by that old dragon Margaret Pole; but of course she knows, how could she not know? All of England knows. Henry Fitzroy is always at court and now he is treated like a prince. I cannot tell you how unhappy we are. Except for Harry, and Anne Boleyn of course—she is a cow in the corn.
We hear that you are returned to your husband and living in harmony. I am so glad for that, dear Maggie. The queen says that you give her hope: to part from him, to make war on him, and to reconcile at last. It is like a miracle.
I may give the queen hope, but I doubt very much that anyone else thinks of me. Clearly, Harry is happy to leave Scotland to be ruled by his brother-in-law. Indeed, he nominates Archibald to be the Warden of the Marches, and puts him in charge of the peace and security of all the border regions, like asking a lion to lie down with a lamb. As my husband, Archibald once again legally receives all the rents and fees from my lands. If he chose to leave me penniless he could do so, but he is generous to me, making sure that the council pays me an allowance as dowager queen and giving me beautiful material for Margaret’s gowns. If he ever visits Janet Stewart of Traquair, tucked away in one of my many properties, then no one mentions it to me. Anyone seeing him, respectful in chapel, courteous at dinner, playful during dancing, would think him a faithful husband and me a lucky wife.
More than that, they would think him warmly affectionate. When he comes into a room he always makes his bow to me with one hand over his heart, as if he does not forget that once he loved me. When he kisses my hand he lingers over my fingers. Sometimes when he is standing behind my chair he rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. When I am riding he is always first at my side to lift me down from the saddle and hold me, for a moment, as he sets me on my feet. He appears to all the world like a loving husband, and this must be what they hear in England, for my sister Mary writes on the turned-over corner as an afterthought:
Do write to Katherine and tell her of your happiness—it will comfort her to know that a husband and wife can come together again after such a long time apart. She is very troubled by the many rumors that have started about her marriage to the king. If anyone asks you, Margaret, be sure that you tell them you remember perfectly well that our father decided before his death that Harry should marry Katherine, and that she and Harry received a full dispensation from the Pope. If anyone says anything about God not giving them a son, you are to say that the ways of God are mysterious indeed and that we have, thanks be, a beautiful healthy princess as our heir. Don’t say a thing about Henry Fitzroy, we never mention him. I pray every day that the Boleyn woman consents to a normal love affair and proves barren. At the moment we are all waiting, like servants in a bathhouse, for her to name her price. Only God Himself knows what she is holding out for.
I ought to be glad that Katherine’s long rule over my brother has ended. I think I must be glad, though I don’t feel it. I keep thinking: this is my moment of triumph—why do I not feel triumphant?
While she lives, cast aside by a merry young court that is dominated by Harry’s new favorite, while she is neglected by the Boleyn family and their kinsmen the Howards, while she is silenced as an advisor to the cardinal and the others who do the business of the country, she cannot influence Harry against me. She cannot persuade any man of the sanctity of marriage when the king is hell-bent on seduction. A Boleyn court thinking only of pleasure, excited by temptation, breathless with scandal, is no audience for Katherine’s profound thoughts on fidelity and constancy. As her influence wanes it must be my moment. But now—as bad luck would have it—is the very moment when the Pope is the emperor’s prisoner, and no business is being transacted at all.
“D’you know, I think we will be together forever, like Deucalion and Pyrrha,” Archibald says, coming into my privy chamber and nodding to the ladies as if he had every right to stroll in without announcement.
I don’t smile. I can’t remember who Deucalion and Pyrrha are, and I am not committing myself to anything with Archibald.
“Faithful husband and wife who repopulated the earth,” he prompts. “I think we might make a new Scotland when our boy here is old enough to rule.”
“He’s old enough now,” I say unpleasantly. “And he is my boy, not ours.”
Archibald laughs gently, puts his hand over his heart, and makes a little nod with his head. “I am sure you are right,” he says. “At least we have a daughter together to make us happy.”
“If we are so very happy then I am sure that Archbishop Beaton can return to court?” I ask, testing the ground.
“Och, is he tired of shepherding?” Archibald asks me with a gleam in his eye. “I heard that he had taken up a modest crook in place of his gold one, and left Stirling Castle in a hurry.”
I flush with annoyance. “You know very well what happened,” I say.
He winks at me. “I do, and yes, he can come back to court as far as I am concerned. Your son must be the one who issues the invitation, of course. Anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone else that you would like to restore?” he says pleasantly. “If we are to live together, merrily and forever? Anyone else that you would like in your household? Just confirm it with James. I am happy to have any of your friends here, any of your household. As long as . . .”
“As long as what?” I demand, ready to be offended.
“As long as they understand that your reputation is not to be damaged,” he says, as pompous as a choirboy. “While you are with me, as my wife, I would not want there to be any gossip about you. Your reputation as James’s mother, as our daughter’s mother, and as dowager queen should be above reproach.”
“My reputation is above reproach,” I say icily.
He takes my hands as if he would console me. “Ah, my dear, there is always gossip. I am afraid that your brother has heard from the French that you are in constant co
mmunication with the Duke of Albany.”
“I am supposed to be in constant communication with him! He is Regent of Scotland!”
“Even so. Your brother believes that you are hoping to marry him.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“And someone has told your brother that you have taken a lover, Henry Stewart.”
I don’t stammer. “I deny it completely.”
“Someone has told him that you and Henry Stewart are planning to kidnap your son and put him on the throne as a pawn of the Stewart clan.”
“Oh, who would that be?” I say bitterly. “Who is my brother’s spy, who has such detail, and is heard so sympathetically in England?”
Archibald presses my hands to his lips. “Not me, actually. But since I know how much your family means to you, and since the king is inquiring into the validity of his own marriage—it matters all the more to him that there is no scandal about you.”
“Harry is inquiring into the validity of his own marriage?”
“Of course.”
“You believe that he means to leave Katherine?” I whisper.
“He should,” Archibald says, as if pronouncing sentence on her, a blameless woman, a woman of no power.
“I heard that a papal legate was coming to England to reconcile them?”
Archibald gives a short laugh. “To tell her to let him go.”
I turn away from him and go to the window and look down into the gardens. The blossom is whirling down from the apple trees as if it were snow in springtime. I don’t know whether I feel triumphant or bereft. It is as if the high cliff that they call Arthur’s Seat has suddenly shifted and sunk; the horizon has changed completely. Katherine has dominated my life; I have envied her and loved her and been irritated by her and been nearly destroyed by her more than once. Can she suddenly disappear? Can she suddenly be unimportant?
“She will never ever agree,” I predict.
“No, but if the marriage is shown to be invalid, then it is not up to her.”
“On what possible grounds could it be invalid?”
“Because she was married to your brother Arthur,” Archibald says simply, as if it is obvious.
I remember Mary’s letter, warning me what I was to say. My two sisters whispering together will have prepared a reply to every question. They don’t consult me, they instruct me. “There was a dispensation,” I say, as Mary told me to say.
“Perhaps the dispensation was not valid.”
I look blankly at him. “What sort of argument is this? Of course a papal dispensation is valid.”
“It hardly matters now. The queen’s nephew holds the Pope in his keeping. I doubt that the Holy Father will be brave enough to put shame on his jailor’s kinswoman. He will never allow your brother’s divorce. He will never allow yours.”
“But this has nothing to do with me!” I exclaim.
“The Pope has his own troubles—he won’t care about yours. And Harry won’t want anyone to get a divorce but himself.” Archibald sums up with complete accuracy the focus of Harry’s growing vanity and his habitual selfishness. “He won’t want anyone to think that a Tudor applies for an annulment for any reason but God’s proven will. The last thing he wants is you—with your history of marrying for your own desire, so far from God, such a scandalous woman—applying for a divorce before him, and besmirching his own reputation. He will want everyone’s behavior to be beyond question so that he can apply for an annulment without any suggestion of his . . .” He breaks off, looking for the right word.
“His what?”
“Selfish lust.”
I look at him, shocked at his naming Harry’s vice so bluntly. “You should not say that of him, not even to me.”
“Be very sure he won’t want it said of you.”
I think that Henry Stewart may as well come to court so that we can have the comfort of each other’s company since we will never be free to marry, but to my surprise, it is my son James who refuses permission. He draws himself up to his full height, just a little taller than I am, and says that he cannot condone any immorality at his court.
I almost laugh in his face. “But James!” I say, speaking to him as if he is a cross little boy. “You may not be the judge of my friends.”
“Indeed I shall,” he says. He speaks coldly, not like my boy at all. “Be very sure that it is my household and I will be the judge of who is here. I have one stepfather set over me, I won’t have another. I thought you had enough of husbands.”
“Henry would not try to rule you!” I exclaim. “He has always been such a friend to you. He’s so charming, I like him so much, he is a pleasure to be with.”
“Those are the very reasons I would not want him here,” James says stiffly.
“He is not your stepfather; he can never be my husband.”
“This makes it worse. I would have thought that you would have seen that.”
“Son, you mistake yourself,” I say, my temper rising.
“Lady Mother, I do not.”
“I will not be ruled by anyone. Not even you, my son. I am a Tudor princess.”
“That name is becoming a byword for scandal,” James says pompously. “Your brother’s adultery is known throughout the world, your own name is slandered. I will not have my mother spoken of in every tavern.”
“How dare you? When everyone knows that you and your court gamble and fornicate, that they are a lewd company and drink to excess! How dare you reproach me? I have done nothing but marry once for love and been betrayed. Now I want to marry again. What could be wrong with that?”
He says nothing. He looks at me steadily, as his father would have done.
I turn without curtseying and I fling myself out of the room.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1527
I go to Stirling, and at once someone tells Harry that I have been banned from my own son’s court and that I am living adulterously with a lover. Someone has told him that my son pleaded with me to amend my ways and turn away from sin and that when I would not, he rightly sent me away. Harry sends me an outraged letter in which he threatens me with eternal damnation if I will not give up my adultery. He writes to James too and tells him that he also must reform. He must stop drinking, stop whoring, and commit himself to knightly practice and noble sports. I am baffled by this stern new morality until I get a scribbled note from Mary:
Mademoiselle Anne will not yield to the king. They talk a great deal about her virtue and how she is storm-tossed. I have never seen a seduction like it, we are all to ponder her chastity while she wears her gowns cut low and her hoods pushed back. She pretends to a French accent and reads heretical books. This is a modern young woman indeed. We have become fervently chaste while dancing like whores. The queen is ill; I really don’t know how she manages to get through dinner while the rich dishes go out to the young women and they lick their spoons.
I can hardly bear court. I would not go at all if Charles did not make me. Katherine asks you to assure her that you will do nothing to undermine the state of marriage. She has heard that you have left your son’s court in order to live with your lover. I told her that this must be a lie. I know you would not do such a thing. Not for your own sake, not for ours. You would not, would you? Swear to me that you would not.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, AUTUMN 1527
I do not reply at once. I cannot give Katherine the assurance she asks for; I cannot sacrifice my own happiness to support hers. I cannot mirror my own brother’s hypocrisy. I cannot claim that I am guided only by the will of God. For the first time in my life I am free of fear and out of danger. James is safe, my daughter is living happily at Tantallon, the country is quiet under the rule of Archibald, Henry and I live like a private lord and lady, running our estate and enjoying ourselves. I feel as if I have never been able to be happy and at peace in my life before. At last I am away from Archibald and free of the constant mixture of fear and desire that he inspires in me. At last I can be with the m
an who loves me and respond to him simply, without a shadow, without lies. This is my autumn, this is my season.
We are bringing in wood for the great fires of the winter. We are laying down salted fish and smoked meats in the great castle larders. We are riding under trees that shed their leaves in jewel colors of rubies and brass, gold and emerald, when Henry nods to our castle gateway, high above us, up on the hill, and says, “Look! Isn’t that the papal standard? Are they flying the papal standard? A messenger from the Pope must have come.”
I squint against the red sunset. “It is,” I say, my hand to my throat. “Oh, Henry, can it be a messenger about the divorce?”
“Could be,” he says steadily. He puts his hand over mine on the reins. “Be calm, my love. It could be anything. The Pope freed? A new pope? The divorce or any number of a dozen things.”
“Come on!” I say, and my horse leaps forward and we ride through the woods and up the hill, round and round on the twisting track to the top, and we go into the castle at a run and find the papal messenger in the great hall with a cup of mulled ale in his hand, standing before the hearth.
He bows as I come in, and when I see the depth of his bow to Henry I know that we have won.
“The Holy Father has granted me a divorce,” I say with certainty.
The messenger bows again, to us equally, as if Henry is my husband already. “He has,” he says.
At last. I cannot believe it. I am free of Archibald at last. This is my baptism into freedom from sin, this is my birth. This is my renewal. I could almost be a heretic and say this is my second coming. I have a chance to be happy again. I have a chance to marry again. I will be the center of Henry’s life and hold my head high in Scotland and before the world. The very thing that Katherine said could never be has come about—despite her interdict. The Pope himself and I have defied her. She said that I cannot be divorced, that I must not be divorced—and I am. This is the triumph of my will over hers, and I am deeply happy.