The Forgotten Queen (2 page)

Had I been a fainting girl, that would have been the time.

 

I did not know how to feel, what to think. Queen . . . But I knew I would be a queen; Princesses of the Blood are primed from birth for this function. From cradle to table I had been told that I would marry a prince, that I must bear him many sons, else be deemed a failure. And so with this in mind I prepared for my role as political breeder.

The night I learned I was to become Queen of Scots—Scots, as if he couldn’t find a more glamorous country than where that lot of barbarians reside!—there was none with whom I could find comfort. For a while I climbed into bed with little Princess Mary, my three-year-old sister, cuddling her close. This golden princess would have a charmed life, I was certain. She was so agreeable and adorable; as yet she showed none of my sinful inclinations and everyone fawned over her.

At once I rose from the bed of the favored princess, stirred to anger as I thought of the wonderful marriage Father would arrange for her. No doubt she would live in some glorious court where there would be artists and musicians to entertain her all day long—likely she’d get to live in sunny Spain or romantic France while I wasted away in the North, freezing in some drafty castle surrounded by fur-clad courtiers who spoke as though they had something obstructing their throats . . . ! I dared not think on it anymore. I crossed the rush-strewn floor on bare feet, wringing my hands and blinking back tears. I, Margaret Tudor, was going to be Queen of the Scots . . . those frightening, monstrous Scots....

I retrieved a wrap and sneaked out of the nursery, down the hall. I would see my brother Arthur. Gentle, sweet Arthur, so unlike fiery Henry and docile Mary, would be able to guide me.

The guards stood aside to admit me into the apartments of the Prince of Wales. He was lying across some furs before his fire, thumbing through
The Canterbury Tales
. When he saw me, his handsome, scholarly face lit up with a smile.

“Sister,” he said in his handsome voice. “A midnight visit. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit? Take some wine.” He held the book up for me to see. “I know, I shouldn’t be indulging myself in such fancy, but the naughty parts are too delightful to ignore!”

The tears that had settled in my throat since learning of my impending betrothal were replaced by a smile as I sat beside my brother. There was no one like Arthur the world over, I was convinced. He was the gentlest, sweetest prince in Christendom and would no doubt be a fine king. He was not athletic like Henry, nor did he possess my younger brother’s fleet dancing feet. Arthur was an intellectual; content to study, to ponder, to think. His beauty was delicate and whenever I was with him I could not help but feel the need to protect him, nurture him, just as he had always protected and nurtured me.

The smile faded at the thought, replaced by fresh tears. “Oh, Arthur,” I began. “I hate that I never get to see you. With you living in Ludlow and me here with nobody but Henry to annoy me and Grandmother to torture me . . . it is a miserable existence!”

“So I suppose it best to dispense with the obligatory ‘how are you?’ ” Arthur teased, his blue eyes sparkling as he reached out to cup my cheek. “Now, now, Sister, is it as bad as all that? Far be it for me to disagree with you about Grandmother, but our Henry means well enough. He may be annoying, but his love and devotion are fierce and you do have sweet little Mary—”

“Henry’s love and devotion are fierce only when you’re in his favor and we’re rarely in each other’s favor . . . and Mary is favored by everyone. I pale under the glory of her sun. She is the flawless little Tudor rose and I am the thorn they long to cut out,” I pouted.

“So intense!” Arthur cried, sitting up and putting his book aside.

“But since it would be unseemly to cut the thorn they shall send her to the land of the thistles—to Scotland!” I cried, scowling. “Can you believe it, Arthur?
Scotland?
They may as well be sending me to Hell!”

Arthur chuckled, but I took no pleasure in the handsome sound. It mocked my misery and my brow ached from furrowing it at him. “So that is what this display is about,” he said. “Come here, darling girl.” He held out his arm and I scooted in next to him. He gathered me close, stroking my hair. “We are special people, Margaret,” he told me. “Special people with very special responsibilities. You know well; your whole life has been preparing you for this zenith. It seems unfair; princes are allowed to stay in their native countries for the most part while our sacred princesses must scatter to the four winds, their sacrifice in order to secure sound alliances for the countries to which they are bound. We are God’s chosen, though, my dearest. Chosen to lead His people, chosen to defend them and honor them. You are going to be a
queen,
Margaret. An anointed queen. No one can ever take that away from you. You have the power to do so much good. I know Scotland is not the land you dreamed of spending your life in. They are very different from us; but Father would not send you if he thought you would come to harm. He longs to bring about a good alliance between our two countries. Think of the role you can play in securing that glorious peace! Think of the legacy you will leave! The mark you will make! Margaret, there has not been peace between our two countries in one hundred and seventy years. You have the opportunity of setting things right.”

“I don’t want to set anything right! I don’t want to go away! I want to stay with you!” I cried, burying my head in his chest.

Arthur chuckled again. “You must be brave, lass,
brave
. Take heart and look sharp! A thistle can outlast a thousand roses. Father sends his little thorn to the wilds of Scotland because he knows she is strong enough to bear it.”

I pulled away, looking into his face. “It is just so very far, Arthur. When will I see you and Mother? What if they don’t like me there?”

“Not like you?” Arthur cried, as though this was impossible to conceive. “Why, no one can resist you.”

I brightened at this.

“The Scots will fall madly in love with you,” he went on. “And, think, pretty one, of all the clothes and jewels you will have as queen. There are going to be songs written about you, poems dedicated to you . . . there is so much to look forward to!”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!” I cried, envisioning bolts of velvet and silk, kirtles of cloth of gold, and kid gloves. “I suppose I will be able to eat whatever I want all the time, too.”

“All the time,” he assured me. “Just mind that you don’t become fat. Nobody likes fat queens!”

I laughed. “Oh, no, I shall not! I’ll be a beautiful queen and will set a new standard of elegance for the Scots. All the ladies will want to dress like me—”

“That’s the spirit!” he cried, slapping me on the back as though I were one of the lads.

I seized my brother’s slim hands. “And you’ll write me all the time?”

“All the time,” he said, chucking my chin.

“No one loves me like you do,” I said in a small voice as I regarded my one true champion.

He waved a dismissive hand, flushing. “Nonsense. Everyone loves you.” He smiled. “Now, enough of this fretting. You act as though you’re the only one to have a foreign prince inflicted on you. As yet you’ve expressed no sympathy regarding my suit.”

I cocked my head, puzzled.

“Have you forgotten my marriage to the Infanta, Catalina of Aragon?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Oh, no. But at least she’s coming to you. And I hear she’s very fine and sweet.”

“And I hear the King of Scots is lusty and robust!” he returned. “We’ll do fine, Sister, you’ll see. We’ll usher our European brothers into a New Age!”

“A New Age . . .” I repeated, enchanted by the concept of being a luminary. “Do you think we can?”

“I know we can!” he cried. “Now! Enough. Sit with me and I’ll read you a story to divert you. ‘The Miller’s Tale’ . . .”

I laughed at the thought of hearing the scandalous tale that Grandmother said was a sin to even listen to. Knowing this made me want to hear it all the more.

I covered up with one of the furs and warmed myself by the fire, enveloped in the solace and reassurance I had been seeking, knowing there was none luckier than I, to have such a sweet brother as Arthur, Prince of Wales.

O
h , it was going to be a wonderful year! I was twelve then and beautiful—everyone told me so. Though I was tiny and lacked the curves of some of my contemporaries, I was assured that my daintiness evoked just as much admiration. The worst part about entering womanhood, however, was the menses—how I hated it!

“I do not understand its necessity!” I once confessed to the old archbishop. “There is no fairness in it.”

“Things would be different had Eve not led Adam into sin,” he explained, bowing his head to conceal his flushing face.

“So Adam did not have a mind of his own?” I cried. “If he was witless enough to yield to Eve’s temptation then it is
his
stupidity that warrants the curse!”

“Madam, you tread on blasphemy!”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear it,” I lamented. “You are on his side.”

And so there was nothing to do but bear it. Fortunately, there were plenty enough diversions to occupy me. The Princess Catalina had arrived! Oh, but she was lovely, so fair and sweet. How I pitied her when her name had to be Anglicized. Now she would be forever known as Catherine of Aragon. How much a princess gave up when leaving her home—her family, her customs, her way of life, even her very name.

I was at least fortunate to be removing to an English-speaking country, for the most part, and would keep possession of my name.

I tried my best to offer friendship to my future sister-in-law. She was all Spanish; it oozed from her, reflected in her piety, her thick accent, and her manner of dress. Father was disappointed.

“Guide her, Margaret,” he told me. “Show her what it is to be an English princess.”

I was thrilled at this charge and complied with enthusiasm. Catherine was four years my senior but yielded to my instruction, eager to please her new countrymen. Though she demonstrated a strength of character that suggested she would not be manipulated, she agreed to conform to some of the English customs. I enjoyed acquainting myself with her and took to making plans.

“I shall come visit you in Wales,” I assured her. “And when I live in Scotland I will write you all the time. We will organize meetings between the royal houses that will unite our countries in friendship—it will be so grand! There’ll be masques and entertainments and jousting. England has the best jousters in the world!”

Catherine offered a kind smile. “It all sounds so lovely. May it come to pass just as you imagine it.”

Thrilled with the companionship of the princess, I removed to her betrothed that I might tell him of her.

“She is so lovely, Arthur,” I reported the night before their wedding. “I just know you are going to be happy!” I clasped my hands to my heart and scrunched up my shoulders in glee.

Arthur was reading abed in his apartments. He offered a lazy smile, then covered his mouth with his handkerchief as his body was seized by a wracking coughing fit. I took to his side, reaching out to feel his forehead.

“You’re burning up!” I cried. “Oh, Arthur, are you well?”

He nodded. “No worries, sweeting. I’m just caught up in all the excitement and am a bit worn out.”

“You must recover yourself for the wedding night!” I teased. My brother Henry had just informed me of the goings-on between a man and maid. He had heard it from Charles Brandon, who was told by Neddy Howard. It sounded horrid and naughty and a little delightful.

“Remember yourself, Princess!” Arthur commanded, but his tone was good-natured. “Now, you better hurry off to bed!”

I rose, then paused, curling my hand about the post. “Arthur . . .”

“What is it, lamb?” he asked.

“Will you still love me even when you are married?”

He laughed again. “You are a silly creature; of course I will. My first daughter will be named for you, how is that?”

I clapped my hands. “Oh, but it would be lovely! And may I stand as godmother to your first son?”

“You are a demanding little wench,” he said.

“I must be; I am going to be a queen, after all!” I returned.

Arthur nodded. “Well, then. I suppose no one would be a better godmother to my first son than you, my dear.”

“Ha! I can’t wait to tell Mary!” I said. “She will be so jealous!”

With this I dashed off to the nursery, brimming with excitement as I anticipated the future of the glorious Tudors.

 

Arthur and Catherine were married on 14 November at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. Oh, what a lovely pair! Broad-shouldered Henry, who could at ten could pass for fourteen, escorted the bride to her groom. He strutted like a peacock, did Henry, and to look at him one would think the day was all about him. Of course if it were up to Henry every day would have been about him. He had thrown a fit over the fact that I should take precedence at public ceremonies since I would soon be Queen of the Scots, stamping his foot, making quite a proper fool of himself.

I supposed I could not blame him—I was guilty of basking in whatever attention given me and as I was the future queen everyone deferred to me before Henry, who was merely the Duke of York and would be nothing more than a glorified landlord and knight. I did not envy him at all.

Rivalries were dismissed at the wedding of Arthur and Catherine, however, and all eyes were upon them. They were a sweet couple and seemed engulfed in happiness. Catherine emanated a sincere desire to be a good English princess, though at her wedding feast she and her Spanish ladies entertained us with the spirited dances of their homeland.

“I must learn those dances!” I told Henry. “See how their feet glide—oh, they’re so graceful!”

He laughed, a sound as infused with merriment as any, and reached for my hand. “Come, Margaret—we will show them all how the
English
dance!” he cried, and before I could protest we were skipping and alighting about the floor. The onlookers clapped and exclaimed over our prowess.

“At last Father has deemed fit to throw a real party!” Henry said as we twirled about. “They’re so few and far between—he cannot bear to part himself from a few crowns!”

“Oh, Henry, you do talk scandalous!” I teased. “But too true!”

Father was sitting under his canopy of state with his chin in his hand, the fixed smile upon his narrow face forced. He was not a man for frivolities. But he must dazzle the Spanish ambassadors with displays of our wealth and hospitality. It was our obligation to show the world we were a power to be reckoned with, and nothing bespoke power like money and nothing bespoke money like an elaborate entertainment.

At last I found Arthur, who was pleased to watch the dancers rather than participate overmuch.

“Are you happy, Arthur?” I asked him.

He nodded. “I could not have hoped for a more beautiful princess,” he told me. “I wish you the same joy upon your marriage.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go to Ludlow,” I pined. “It’s so cold and far away.”

“Be brave, Margaret,” Arthur said, his blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Always remember what I’ve told you. Remember who you are.”

In turn I offered my bravest smile. It was my last private moment with Arthur.

 

Upon his removal to the border of Wales my Arthur perished four months after his wedding, a victim of the terrible sweat....
Oh, Arthur, you were supposed to be reveling in your princess. You were supposed to be giving me a godson and a namesake to follow. You were going to be happy.... We were going to usher in a New Age.... Oh, Arthur, who would ever love me like you?

The bells that had exclaimed my brother’s joy rang out a song of mourning that resonated deep within me; my heart pounded in time with each heavy toll, its own mourning anthem a constant, aching reminder of hope lost. I kept my own counsel during that time, crying soft tears when afforded the privacy to do so. The kind archbishop tried to coax from me confessions of my anger and hurt over my brother’s death, but I could not talk to him. There were no words that would bring my Arthur back.

The Crown Prince was dead, his beautiful bride widowed, and I was not the only one to feel the void of his loss. Mother took to her bed, inconsolable. Henry and little Mary clung to each other, but I noted a grim flicker in Henry’s blue eyes. Was it satisfaction? Surely not. And yet I could not doubt he was relishing the fact that he was now the Crown Prince; Arthur’s demise afforded him with the once unforeseen destiny of becoming King of England.
Oh, Henry, there is something missing in you,
I wanted to scream, but had no strength. He was but ten and I supposed everything was all a little unreal to a ten-year-old boy, who was so very behind a twelve-year-old girl in everything.

Father was devastated by the loss. Arthur was his pride. He loved him. Now his love was showered upon Henry; he became overprotective and strict, determined to prepare the boy for a life never anticipated for him. I almost pitied Henry as he adopted his new role. There was talk he would become betrothed to Catherine, which would at least enable her to remain my sister-in-law. Though the thought comforted me, I found it strange to think that Henry would have all of Arthur’s leavings, right down to his own wife.

Mother’s way of combating the grief was by proving her fertility. She was with child. Thus far she had been pregnant seven times, suffering stillbirths and miscarriages in addition to the loss of our beloved Arthur. Perhaps she hoped to ensure the succession by giving England another healthy prince in case Henry should meet with the same fate.... Oh, I could not bear to think of that.

Father was delighted, and though he was not a demonstrative man, he showered her with gifts.

“What can bring us more comfort than the hope new life brings?” he asked me, his stern countenance yielding to a rare smile that revealed more wistfulness than cheer.

The baby arrived but was short-lived. Our little Prince Edward was born a month premature and died within his first weeks of life. I did not cry this time. The state of my fear was too great, and as I regarded my gentle, fair-haired mother, her head bent in prayer, I pondered my fate. Was this what it meant to be a queen? To give and give and give of oneself and only lose in return? Your girls were sent abroad, your boys were set apart for their glorious educations, and God claimed the rest.... Surging through me was a fear cold as ice. I trembled. I was so gripped by nausea I could not abide the sight of food and became even tinier.

It seemed despite everything, kings enjoyed the glory while queens bore the pain.

It was a heady thing.

 

Mother wasted no time grieving and in the winter of 1502 her belly swelled yet again. This time I could not contain my anxiety. Nerves caused me to take to my bed with dreadful headaches. The nurse brought this to Mother’s attention and she alighted to my side one evening over Christmastide.

“Margaret, darling, what is happening to you?” she asked in her soft voice. Ah, her voice. There was none like it; it was akin to a gentle wind, warm and sweet, never raised. There existed in the world no gentler a mother and tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought of causing her distress of any kind.

I sat up in my bed and wrapped my arms about her neck, burying my head in her shoulder. She began to sway, stroking my hair.

“Margaret,” she murmured. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Oh, my lady, I am so afraid!” I confided. “What if you lose this baby, too? How will your poor body bear it? You’re so delicate and pale.” I reached up to stroke a flaxen curl away from her alabaster cheek.

Mother pulled away, cupping my face in her hands. “You mustn’t worry about me, darling. This is what I was made for. God’s will be done.”

“I am afraid of God’s will,” I confessed.

“You must not be afraid, for He intends only the very best,” she told me. “Now enough fretting. You do not want to spoil your beauty for the Scottish Embassy; we can’t have them telling King James his bride’s face is tearstained, that she is beside herself with nerves. You must be strong. Arthur would want you to be strong,” she added, her eyes knowing as she confronted my deepest grief.

“Arthur . . .” I covered my eyes to ward off a vision of my gentle brother, a vision that taunted me by being forever unattainable. “Then the baby. Oh, Mother, I am so sorry about the baby.” I drew in a shuddering breath. “I watch you endure and you’re so gracious and strong. I want to be like you, but I am so afraid I will never live up to your queenly example. I am afflicted with such fear—all I can think of is childbearing and what it’d be like if I were in your place. How would I bear losing my Crown Prince and all those babies? How would I go on?”

“You go on because it is your duty,” she said. “I will not pretend that it doesn’t break my heart; sometimes I think I lose a little more of myself with each passing.” Her tone became thoughtful. “But we cannot bury ourselves with our loved ones. As queens we have a duty to our countries. We must provide heirs as long as we are able.”

“What a business!” I sniffed, anger replacing my tears. “We are good for nothing else!”

“We are good for a great many things,” she told me. “A subtle queen can advise her husband and be involved with the politics of the land if she is clever enough to make him think he does not know how much he relies upon her.”

I smiled. “Do you think I will be such a queen?”

“I hope so,” she said with her gentle smile. “Now you must try and stop grieving, lamb. In a few days the Scots will arrive and you shall be married by proxy in a grand ceremony. The king is sending you all kinds of marvelous gifts.”

“Gifts? Oh, gifts!” I exclaimed. At once my head felt much better. “What do you suppose a Scot gives his bride?”

“With any luck, a Scottish bairn!” cried Mother, taking me in her arms. We dissolved into laughter as I anticipated my impending nuptials.