“I have to.”
“Will you name me?” I ask.
The crack of laughter that he cannot contain makes everyone turn and look at us. “Oh! God bless you! No!” he says. “It can’t be you, my dear. You would be running to the border in your petticoat in a month! In a day! The only reason that we are safe on our throne is because I go constantly—constantly—from one end of the country to the other, forcing my will on those lords who would have their own way, begging the friendship of others, pacifying those who are angry by nature, soothing those who are aggrieved. I am building ships! I am forging guns! Only a peace-loving man with an army behind him can keep this country together: only a wise man with an unbeatable army. No woman could do it. I am making this into a country of peace and prosperity after years of struggle. God guard us against a ruling queen. That would ruin everything.”
I am so offended that I can hardly speak. “As you wish, Your Grace,” I say, very cold, and dignified. “I am sorry that you think so little of me.”
“Not of you, sweetheart,” he says, and he squeezes my hand under his elbow. “No woman can rule. And you have not been taught statecraft, you love the title of queen but you don’t understand that it is a constant labor.”
“You speak as if you were a blacksmith,” I say stiffly.
“I am,” he says. “I am forging a kingdom from a country of clans. I am bringing them into one body. Even now, I have to fight to keep the loyalty of the Isles, I have to watch the borders, I even have to demand the ownership of the debatable lands. Your father had to do the same when he took his throne, and his task was even harder, for everyone knew him as nothing more than the exiled Earl of Richmond. At least I was born and bred a king. Your father struggles with his lords and so do I. I have to teach them loyalty and fidelity and constancy.” He looks at me, smiling. “I have to teach you, too.”
“But who will you name as your heir?” I ask. My belly plunges in fright as I suddenly think that he might honor my brother, Harry. I could not bear for Harry to have a title that bettered mine, and how terrible it would be if it were given to him by my own husband. “Not Harry?”
“Harry? No,” he says. “Don’t you listen at all? The Scots lords would never accept an English king. We have to have our own. The next in line after me is John Stuart, the Duke of Albany, my cousin.”
I blink. This is worse than Harry. “I don’t even know who you mean. Who is he?”
“You’ve not met him. He lives in France, he was raised there, and he was no favorite of my father’s. But, like it or not, he will be my heir until you give me a son. In the meantime, I will make my son James legitimate. I wish to God that you would learn to love my bastards. If you would bring up James as your own I would name him as my heir. At least I can publicly acknowledge him.”
This is a worse humiliation for me than if he had chosen Harry. “Who doesn’t know about him already? Everyone knows about all of them! You can’t foist a bastard on me! You would not dishonor the throne.”
“It’s no dishonor,” he says. “He’s been known as mine since he was made, and all the others who came before and after him. I mean no offense to you, little wife, but until we have a son together I want a boy to bear my name and my blessing. I am going to legitimize James.”
“Which one is he?” I ask coldly. “For there were so many tumbling out of the walls of Stirling that I could not tell one apart from the other.”
“James is Janet Kennedy’s boy. I think you observed him well enough to demand his absence. Alexander and his half brother James will study in Italy and their sister Catherine will live in Edinburgh Castle. I will have my children around me, my dear. So far, you have given me none to put in their place.”
I pull my hand from his arm. “I will never see one of your bastard children at my dinner table or even near the throne,” I say furiously. “And I will not dine tonight. I am unwell. You can go to dinner without me.”
He does not even blink. “Very well,” he says. “I will come to your room after dinner. I will spend the night with you.”
The words “You will not” are on the tip of my tongue but the set of his mouth warns me not to defy him.
“Very well,” I say, sweeping him a curtsey, and as he walks away, calling to his lords that he is sterving for his dinner, I whisper “Peasant” at his broad back, but not so loud that he can hear.
I do not dare show my bad temper to my husband but I have no restraint before my ladies, and I cuff the dogs and whip my horses, they all have to bear it without complaint. James nominates his boy Alexander to the see of Saint Andrews, his late brother’s benefice, and collects the massive fees. The ten-year-old is sent to Italy to study with no less a scholar than Erasmus. Erasmus! Who visited my brother Harry and was impressed by his learning. Thomas More brought him. That Erasmus! For a pair of little Scots bastards! The philosopher visited the royal English court and came to us in our nursery at Eltham and exchanged poetry with my brother Harry. We were suitable pupils for such a great man. But James is blind to rank and blind to merit. He insists that his bastards go to Padua to study and nothing will persuade him that this is to raise them too high.
I know he is mistaken. For all that he calls me unfit to rule, I know some things. I have seen my father haunted by boys, Plantagenet boys; one even called himself a Plantagenet prince. My father paid a fortune on spies to find him, and then bribes to all the liars in Flanders to say that they knew him as a boatman’s son in Tournai. I saw the struggle that my father had to be rid of him when he was captured. I saw him lingering at our court, half prince and half pretender. The only thing to do with a rival is to put him to death, at once. Now James is educating two boys to be the rivals to my son, even saying he will name the oldest as his heir. I know that this is folly. Every prince, every princess, wants to be the only one.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1506
The king showers me with gifts for my sixteenth birthday, for Christmas, for New Year’s Day, and for the pleasure of giving me gold and jewels. The Christmas feast was more playful and joyous than any I have ever seen. James’s alchemist, John Damien, came from Stirling to act as master of the revels and we had disguisings and dancing, fireworks, masques, and surprises every day. The old wizard changed wine to the color of ink, he made flames burn green. Every day we had a new poem, every day a new song, the court was merry and the king was openhanded with his friends, and loving to me.
The only shadow at all is that we have been wedded and bedded for nearly three years and still, there is no sign of a child. There is no fault in the king; there is no “Alas, it never happened for us” in my marriage. He comes to me without fail every night that is not forbidden by the Church, especially in the days before my course, until it comes and disappoints me again. I think that he keeps account of my times and is most attentive when he is likely to succeed, perhaps he and his alchemist judge it by the moon or draw up charts. I don’t know, I don’t ask. How would I know what he reads in his books of Greek, with their horrid pictures of flayed bodies, and distilling goblets, and snakes?
In my package of letters from England I get a note from my sister Mary, boasting about the wonderful time she has had this spring. Isabella of Castile has died and the heirs of Spain, Philip and his wife, Juana, were sailing home to their country but were blown onto the coast at Dorset, and my father and all the court invited them to stay at Windsor and then Richmond. Katherine was dragged out of obscurity and pushed to the fore to greet her sister Juana, and Mary partnered her in dances and singing and riding out with the visitors, for archery—where they won—and hunting—where they caught everything but unicorns. There were masques, celebrations . . . the list goes on and on as Mary details the parties and even the clothes she wore. I am amazed that my lady grandmother lets her put herself forward like this, but in her letter she says that they are considering Charles of Castile as a match for her, and then I understand they have set her out, like a tray of pies, to
tempt the buyer. Of course Katherine was part of the team of hucksters that brought these fresh wares to market. I am surprised that she should lower herself to dance at my father’s bidding when he has done nothing for her. I think she should have more pride. I would have had more pride. And, clearly, the attention to Mary was ridiculous.
Everyone was so kind to me, and they say that I must learn Spanish! Mary writes, her letters looping across the page and then getting cramped and small at the corners. Think if I should marry Charles and be the Holy Roman Empress! Think how lovely that would be! And we should all three of us be queens.
This is such a foolish plan that it makes me laugh and laugh and quite restores my sisterly affection. Charles of Castile is a baby of six years old. Mary will find herself betrothed and stuck in England for eight years at least unless they take her to live with them in Castile as nursemaid to her baby husband. Of course, he will have a great title; but there is no certainty that he will live to see it, and she will have a lifetime to wait before she can call herself queen.
Katherine and I are much together as she has come to live at court, Mary writes, misunderstanding as usual that this is a massive snub to Katherine, who has clearly failed to keep her own house, and now has to live at my father’s board as a hanger-on.
Our father stopped her allowance and dismissed her duenna for poor advice. I am so glad! I love having her at court, even though she finds it hard to make ends meet and cannot dine every day when she has no suitable clothes. She is terribly shabby, as her father will not send her money; but my lady grandmother says that I cannot give her anything and she says that she does not mind.
I wonder why my father and my lady grandmother are driving Katherine to such straits. I suppose they are still punishing her for sharp practice with her dowry. So I send her my love, and I congratulate Mary on her brilliant prospects, giggling as I write. I say that I am happy for her, that it is a fine thing to be a queen in a fair country. I say that I am happy with my husband the king, a fine man, a grown man, a real man, and that I wish her every happiness too, when her bridegroom is grown also—a decade from now. Poor Mary! Foolish Mary! She is so dazzled by his title that she has not realized she will not marry for years, and nobody knows when Katherine will get Harry. Yes, my two sisters, my rivals, may be betrothed to the greatest matches in Europe, but Katherine cannot afford a gown to dance in with her bridegroom and Mary’s betrothed can barely sit on his own little pony. I can hardly sign my name for laughing at the foolish pride of the two of them, my silly sisters.
And then in the summer my joy is complete. I write a proud letter to England to announce to my lady grandmother, to them all, that, finally, I am with child.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, MARCH 1507
There is no doubt in my mind who is now the foremost of the three princesses, my sister-in-law Katherine of Aragon, my sister Mary, or myself: it is obviously me. Katherine failed to conceive a child with Arthur and then told everyone, “Alas, it never happened for us,” and now her marriage is never mentioned and she is a poor relation, an unwanted hanger-on. People may praise Mary’s beauty and her talents, but her betrothal to Charles of Castile is still only a plan, and he is nothing more than a child himself. His father has died so he is now heir to the Holy Roman Emperor. But still, he is a little boy and she won’t be able to marry or present the Habsburgs with a son any time in the next eight years. But I have conceived, carried and birthed a boy. It nearly cost me my life. I was deathly ill, everyone thought that they would lose me. But my husband went on pilgrimage, on foot for hundreds of miles, at least a hundred, to Saint Ninian at Whithorn and at the very moment that he knelt before the altar, I recovered. It is a miracle, a son and heir for Scotland, and a message from God that he blesses my queenship and our marriage.
Our child is an heir for England too. If anything were to happen to Harry (which God forbid, of course) it is my baby who would be heir to the throne of England through me. Katherine and Mary cannot dream of that for themselves, whereas I could be My Lady the King’s Mother, and as great as our grandmother, who runs the English court through her son and has done so ever since he came to the throne, married or widowed.
We hold a magnificent joust to celebrate the birth and the undeniable champion is a mystery knight called “the wild man.” He jousts with the white knight—the Sieur de la Bastie, the handsome French-born knight who fought before me at my wedding. Once again, Antoine delights the crowd and all the ladies with his ice-white armor and the white scarf streaming on his lance. He and James have a bet about the proper treatment of a charger’s feet, and James loses and gives the chevalier a cask of wine to wash his horse’s hooves. The greatest joust of the tournament is when the white knight comes against the wild man. There’s a wonderful series of broken lances and then we all scream with excitement when the wild man challenger takes off his helmet and throws down his disguise—and it is my husband, who has fought all comers and defeated everyone! He is delighted with himself, with me, and with our son, who is named James, Prince of Scotland and the Isles and Duke of Rothesay, so Marion Boyd’s Alexander can step back into half-bred obscurity and play at being archbishop and the bastard James can settle for being an earl.
Everything should be perfect since our marriage is visibly blessed by God, except that my husband doubts, or says that he doubts, my father’s good faith. Scottish reivers raid the lands of the English farmers, stealing sheep and cows and sometimes robbing travelers, and my father rightly complains that this is a breach of the Treaty of Perpetual Peace. James counters with my father’s treatment of Scots merchant shipping, and both of them endlessly write claim and counterclaim about the unreliable justice and constant warring of the borderlands.
My father expected my marriage to bring a peace that would last forever between England and Scotland, but I don’t know how I am supposed to bring it about. James is not a boy to become besotted with an older experienced king, as Mary tells me Harry was with Philip of Castile. James is a grown man, an older man, who will not submit himself to the authority of my father. He would never dream of asking for my advice, and when I offer it—even though I am a princess of England—he takes no notice. I say with great dignity that as a princess of England, Queen of Scotland, and mother of the next King of Scotland, I have thoughts on this, and many matters, and I expect them to be regarded.
And he bows low and says: “God save the Queen!”
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, CHRISTMAS 1507
I am with child again by Christmas and it is only this triumph that helps me to be serene, as serene as a madonna, when I hear the news that Mary my sister is officially betrothed to Charles of Castile. She is to have a dowry of two hundred fifty golden crowns, and his grandfather the emperor sent her a ruby so big that some fool wrote a poem about it. She was betrothed by proxy and made a speech in perfect French, and she takes the title Princess of Castile.
She writes to me herself to boast of her triumph, in a letter so ill written and spelled so wildly that I take nearly an hour to understand it.
I will be married when the prince is fourteen, seven years from now, and I don’t mind waiting at all, though it is a lifetime, because I am to stay at home and learn Spanish. It’s a tremendously difficult language but Katherine says that she will teach me, I think I should pay her for being my tutor as she lives very humbly at court, her parents don’t support her and we won’t pay her widow’s dower until they have paid her dowry. But I am not allowed to see her very often or give her anything.
I am to have a very grand wedding but, until then, I will stay at home. I shall have my title at once, I have it now! I am Princess of Castile and they are sewing my coronet onto all my things. I shall precede my lady grandmother and of course Katherine on every occasion—you can imagine how my lady grandmother likes that! She gave me a tremendous talk about false pride and told me to look at Katherine who is a dowager princess and yet is humbled to dust every day. When you c
ome on a visit you can see my ruby. It is the biggest stone I have ever seen in my life, you could drown a cat with it.
My love, Mary
It is hardly worth the effort of spelling out this combination of triumphing over her sister-in-law and bragging of her own wealth, but I do not let it disturb me. My comfort is that I am a queen, and will continue to outrank her for years; but it is very hard to remember to be as serene as a madonna when she sends me the poem about her ruby, and a drawing of my father and my brother Prince Harry witnessing her triumph, standing on a dais under an awning of cloth of gold. The English ambassador told James that everyone ate off gold plate. Gold plate for Mary! The idea is quite ridiculous.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1508
I think that this has always been an unlucky castle for me. I had my first quarrel with my husband here, and though I emptied it of his bastards, I often think of the children whose home it was, and the alchemist in his tower. I feel as if I miss them every time I enter under the heavy portcullis and climb up the sloping courtyard.
And it is here that the worst thing happens. The worst thing that can possibly happen. My baby, James, Prince James of Scotland and the Isles, Duke of Rothesay, dies in his sleep, in his royal cradle. Nobody knows why; nobody knows if he could have been saved. I am no longer the mother of the next King of Scotland. My belly is full with the next child; but I have an empty cradle, and I think I will never stop crying.
My husband comes to me and I am reminded of the to and fro between my mother and father’s rooms when Arthur died, so I look up when James comes in, and I think he is going to comfort me.
“I am so very unhappy,” I sob at him. “I wish I was dead myself.”