“Back to Stirling?” James asks. “I won’t look as if I am afraid. I won’t run away.”
“Stirling to regroup,” I advise. “Archibald cannot take Stirling Castle, and if he sets a siege before it, against the royal standard, then he is a self-declared traitor and no one should support him. Let’s go there, till we know if he is going to surrender to you and hand over his castles.”
James turns to the other lords. “Would this be your advice?” he asks with careful courtesy.
“Aye,” one of them says. “And we need to know what Harry of England is going to do for us, now we have put his nephew on the throne and his sister is married to another lord.”
They all turn to look at me, and I am ashamed that I cannot promise that I have my brother’s support.
“The King of England has always favored the Earl of Angus,” someone says bluntly.
“He cannot do so now!”
“Over his own sister?” someone else asks.
I turn my head away so they cannot see my grimace. He might.
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, AUTUMN 1528
Parliament meets, and since Archibald did not come to the council of lords, nor swear loyalty to James, nor surrender his castles and lands as he was ordered to do, they confirm him as a traitor under sentence of death.
But even now, against the will of the Scots lords, against the rights of a king, against the wishes of a sister, my brother still supports Archibald, though he has taken arms against me and my son together. Incredibly, within weeks of James’s escape, there is a letter from England written by a clerk, addressed to James as king, advising him to restore Archibald to his power and his property as the best and wisest advisor that Scotland can offer.
“He says nothing of you,” James observes.
“No,” I say. “Perhaps he is not writing any personal letters. They are very ill in England.”
The Sweat—the terrible sickness that some people call the Tudor disease—is rife, and Harry has had a terror of it ever since our grandmother swore that he and Arthur should never be near anyone who was ill. The Tudor boys were such rarities that they could not be near disease. While his subjects die in their shops, behind the counters, in the churches at prayer, in the streets on their way home, Harry takes off for a breakneck tour of England, going from one great house to another and only staying if they swear that there is no disease behind their high walls. Anne Boleyn herself is taken ill and has gone off to Hever. If Katherine’s God is merciful to the queen who prays to Him with such fervor, Anne Boleyn will die there.
James defies Harry’s command that he must restore Archibald, and says on the contrary he will bring his former stepfather to justice. He and a small army of loyal lords ride to Tantallon Castle and set a siege. I think of the little castle that overlooks the sea, the white-crowned rock behind it, the seas breaking at the foot of the cliffs. I am in terror for my daughter Margaret, and James offers a reward for her as Archibald holds out for weeks, and then breaks out on a lightning raid on our army, and captures our cannon. He rides through the lands that have been devastated by his orders, and sends raiding parties to burn the autumn bracken on the hills to the south of Edinburgh so that we can smell the smoke in the streets like a threat of arson. For months he demands a pardon and a return to power, and in the meantime makes the lives of the people around his castle a misery by raiding and burning. Finally, he takes the great road south to England, settles my daughter at Norham Castle, and—amazingly enough—sets himself up in London as peacemaker: as the still small voice of calm among the whirlwind of my sin.
An adulterer, a fraudster, and a traitor, he is greeted warmly by people who should be my friends, and my sisters. He refuses to reply to my demands for my daughter. I don’t know how I will ever get her home again. Is she to be raised as if she had no mother? Does he think he can take her as if I were dead? I cannot make myself understand the injustice. Archibald has deserted me and my cause, taken my lands, kidnapped both my children, and made war on his own people for his own ambition, and yet he is regarded as an injured husband and an exiled hero. As night follows day a letter from my sister Mary follows his arrival in London, but it is obvious where her attention lies.
Cardinal Campeggio, the papal legate, has arrived and has met with both Cardinal Wolsey and our brother the king. Harry has been persuaded to doubt the validity of his marriage (not hard to imagine who by) and no one can deny that he is very troubled. Mademoiselle Boleyn has unluckily recovered from her illness and is now in hiding at Hever so that no one can suggest there is any question of selfish desire.
Actually, I hope that Cardinal Campeggio will end this terrible uncertainty. Katherine has shown him the old letter of dispensation from Pope Julius which says that she and Harry were free to marry whether or not her marriage with Arthur was consummated, so there is no basis in law for any inquiry, and she has made it clear that she will not attend any court.
Oh, Maggie—I was there when the cardinal asked her would she consider retiring to a nunnery and leaving Harry. She was so quiet and so dignified. She said that God had called her to the state of matrimony and that she had been a good wife. She told the cardinal to his face that she had received Harry’s friends (she meant his whores, it is shameful how she has been forced to live with them) as if they were her own friends—and it is true. She says that she has never failed him, except that God saw fit to take the babies to His own. She won’t retire, and Campeggio will never persuade her. I think Mademoiselle Boleyn is going to have to settle for being a mistress—she can reach no higher, there is no place higher for one like her. Katherine holds firm and everyone admires her. It is costing her health and her happiness and her beauty, but she does not flinch. She says that marriage is for life, and no one can deny the truth of that.
Your husband, the Earl of Angus, is at court and is handsome and well. He speaks so lovingly of you and the terrible consequences of your betrayal of him. He believes that your marriage with Henry Stewart is invalid, your son is badly advised and you are in a state of sin. Margaret, I pray that you will resolve this unhappiness, and invite Archibald home. Katherine shows us how a wife should be. She told me to tell you that it is not too late. She asked me to beg you to restore the earl to his place at court. Margaret, please think about this—if you continue like this we will never see each other again. Think of that, think of Katherine, and think of your boy. Think of your daughter too, you will never see her again unless you can reconcile with your true husband. I am so unhappy for you and for Katherine, I cannot bear to see our family being torn apart, I cannot bear to see you making a fool of yourself before the world. M.
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, WINTER 1528
For the first time, my brother writes to me as he should have done before, to tell me of his fears about his marriage. He explains that he has no other lady in mind, though I know that Anne Boleyn is occupying beautiful rooms provided by Thomas Wolsey and all the court troops to see her every day, that she writes postscripts to my brother’s letters, that even this letter may have been composed with her hanging over his shoulder and turning the smooth phrases.
Even so, I cannot help but feel for him. He is my little brother. He thinks—and God knows that he has good reason to think—that his marriage has been cursed from the first day. I think of the bitter vitriol of our lady grandmother and how she swore that Katherine should never marry Harry and I think—what if she was right? What if there was no true dispensation? What if Katherine was Harry’s sister-in-law all along and never his wife? What else could explain the terrible procession of dead babies? What else in the world could explain that grief?
He writes:
If our marriage was against God’s law and clearly void, then I shall not only sorrow the departing from so good a lady and loving companion, but much more lament and bewail my unfortunate chance that I have so long lived in adultery to God’s great displeasure, and have no true heir of my body to inherit this realm. These are the sor
es that vex my mind, these are the pangs that trouble my conscience, and for these pains I seek a remedy. Therefore, dearest Sister, I require you, as our trust and confidence is in you, to declare to our subjects and our friends, to your subjects and friends, our mind and intent, and pray with us that the very truth may be known for the discharge of our conscience and saving of our soul.
“God bless him,” I say to my husband, Henry Stewart. “Whatever his desire for that woman Anne Boleyn it is a truly terrible thing to happen to a man—to be married for so long and to find his marriage is invalid.”
“It is like a nightmare,” Henry says. “But he seems to be insisting that there is no beautiful young woman in the best rooms of his palace.”
“There are always beautiful young women,” I say. “Never before has Harry thought that his marriage was not valid. There have been beautiful young women and they have given him babies—even sons. If he says that his conscience is troubled then I believe him.”
“And d’you now think Katherine should be set aside?”
I think of the girl who came from Spain, of the sulky bride at Arthur’s wedding, of the widow who leapt from such terrible poverty and humiliation to being Queen of England, and the queen militant who sent her army against my husband and wanted his body pickled as a trophy.
“She has never thought of anyone but herself,” I say coldly. “But my brother is now thinking of the law of God.”
Mary writes me a Christmas letter, but it is nothing but an anguished list of the gifts that Harry has given to Anne. She does not ask after me, nor Henry, her new brother-in-law; she does not ask after my son as he takes his power as king. As always, Mary misses the point. She is full of the glorious rooms that Anne has usurped at Greenwich Palace, and how everyone visits her and neglects Katherine. She says that Anne is wearing borders of gold set with precious stones, and heart-shaped jewels set in headpieces like coronets. Her bracelets are the talk of the court; apparently I would be grieved to my heart if I saw her rubies. Mary says nothing about our brother’s distress and worry nor the state of his soul.
Katherine is not well served in her rooms and the Boleyn and Norfolk ladies do not even attend her now. Our brother the king does not dine with her, nor does he ever spend the night in her bed.
I feel so impatient with Mary. Why should the king spend the night with Katherine? It’s not as if he is going to get a Prince of Wales from sleeping in her barren bed. It may be that the papal legate advises that they are not husband and wife at all. Why should Katherine be served by duchesses? If she is a dowager princess of Wales then she is not a queen and should not have that service. Mary—a dowager queen herself—might consider that rules of the court are there to be kept. Katherine has gloried in her title and her position, she humbled the rest of us while she queened around. Perhaps now the world is changing. My world has changed a hundred times with no help from her. Now her world is changing too and I cannot find it in my heart to pity her. She ruined me once, now she is facing ruin herself.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1529
Of course, my son James turns against any idea that he might marry his cousin, Princess Mary. If there is any chance at all that her mother is merely a dowager princess and the girl a royal bastard, then she is completely unsuitable as a wife for a king. We are completely agreed on this, and then we hear a rumor that Archibald is advising Harry in favor of the marriage and a peace with Scotland. James flares up and says that he needs neither unreliable peace nor a doubtful princess. He says that he wants to ally with France and marry a French princess.
“James, please,” I say to him. “You can’t suddenly decide things like this. Nobody knows what will happen in England.”
“I know that my uncle has never honored you or me,” he says tersely. “I know that he has always preferred Archibald Earl of Angus to you and to me, and he is doing so now.”
“I am sure he will honor both the peace and the betrothal,” I say.
James, a boy who looks like a man, a boy with a man’s task to do, blames me, whenever it is Archibald causing trouble. “So you say! But when has he honored his word, to a country or to a woman? Your brother the king does exactly as he wants and then glozes it with sanctity. You wait and see what he will do with the cardinals at his court. He will get his way and then make out that it is God’s will. Well, he does not gloze over me.”
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1529
I am waiting for a letter from Mary; I know that she will want to be first to tell me of the decision of the legatine court on our brother’s case. When they bring me the letter, tied both ways with ribbons and heavily sealed to prevent anyone reading it, I hardly know whether to hope that the cardinals have declared Harry’s marriage void, or that they have ordered him to stay with Katherine. There is no doubt where Mary’s loyalties lie: she has always been Katherine’s little follower. She has never had anything from Katherine but tenderness and support. They have been true sisters to each other. For me, Katherine has been less of a blessing. It is not disloyalty to a sister that makes me wonder if I really want her as Queen of England forever. She has made this estrangement between us, over and over again. When she was in power she was terribly destructive to me, until she started falling, and then she demanded that I help her.
Anne Boleyn is exceeding her position in every way!
Mary starts without a word of greeting, a crisscrossed page of indignation. I spread the sheet on my knees and I look out of the window at the loch and the hills behind it. James is out riding for the day; he will not be home until dinner. I have all the time in the world to decipher Mary’s scrawl.
This Easter she blessed cramp rings for the poor as if she had the divine touch. She lives as high as the queen herself—far better actually, since Katherine fasts completely every Friday and every saint’s day. The Boleyn woman did not dare to attend the legatine court, I think if she had done there would have been a riot in favor of the queen. The women of the City and all of England are up in arms that the Boleyn whore (as they call her!) should dream of trying to take the place of our queen. If Harry gets the decision he wants from the court I really doubt that the people will allow the woman to be crowned. It is too dreadful. I cannot even speak to him about it, he consults no one but her and Wolsey.
You will have heard of the proceedings of the court from the archdeacon, I suppose; but what he may not tell you is that Bishop John Fisher, who was so dear to our lady grandmother, stood up in the court and swore that he had not signed a warrant that all the churchmen had agreed. Harry said there was his seal and signature and he said it was neither his seal nor his hand. It was very dreadful, very shocking, everyone could see that his consent had been forged. Harry said it didn’t matter, but it did matter, Margaret. It mattered to everyone. It shows that the Boleyns will do anything.
Anne Boleyn herself has gone to Hever and Katherine spends all her time praying. Charles says that calling in cardinals is a waste of time and Harry would do better to bed Anne at once and hope for boredom soon. Everyone says something different except dear John Fisher, who says that Katherine’s marriage was good, everyone knew it was so, and he will never say different.
I can’t say because I was too young. You had better say nothing, whatever you think. Everyone has an opinion, everyone talks about nothing else. It has got so bad that servants in the royal livery are getting booed in London and even my household has mud thrown at their horses. I think Harry will ruin this family in order to please that woman. Worst of all, John Fisher repeated in front of everyone what Harry said to you when you started the whole divorce idea (and how sorry you must be that you did!). Do you remember? “This marriage of the king and queen is dissolvable by no power, human or divine.” So now, once again, everyone is pointing to you and speaking of your divorce and saying that if you can divorce then so can Harry—why should he not? So it is as bad as I warned you, and people are speaking of you again and Katherine is very upset.
I s
ay little to James about this letter when he comes home from riding, starving hungry and shouting that dinner must be served at once, as soon as he has washed and changed his clothes. I say only that the legatine court has opened in London and that, no doubt, Archdeacon Magnus will tell us more. It is Henry who asks me, as he sits beside me at dinner: “Do they speak of us at all?”
“No,” I say. “Just of my divorce and how Harry was so against it.”
He nods. “I would rather they did not speak of us.”
I shake my head. “There is so much scandal attached to the name of Tudor now, I would rather they did not speak of any of us.”
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1529
We come back to Edinburgh before making a summer progress up the coast, and meet with the English ambassador.
“You have news from London?” I ask him. “Have the cardinals decided on the king’s great matter?”
“The court is adjourned,” he says. “Cardinal Campeggio tells us now that it has to be decided in Rome, by the Pope. He says that the legatine court has no authority to rule.”
I am thunderstruck. “Then why did he come and open it?”
“He gave us to understand that he had authority,” Thomas Magnus says weakly. “But we think now that he came only to persuade the queen to withdraw to an abbey and take her vows. Since she refuses, he has to take the evidence back to Rome for a decision.”
“But the hearing?”
“It was partial,” he concedes. “The queen would not be questioned.”
I cannot believe that Katherine defied the Pope’s court, she has always been so determinedly obedient to Rome. “She never refused to appear before two cardinals?”