The Forgotten Queen (19 page)

I
was distracted from the disillusionment of my reunion with Mary and Catherine by the extraordinary sport my brother had arranged for my pleasure. He alighted to the tiltyard with my new brother-in-law, Charles Brandon, and Nicholas Carew to challenge the best jousters at court, who included the Earl of Surrey, our former uncle Thomas Howard, who had since lost my dear aunty Anne and all of their children and wed the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham. My heart lurched at the sight of him; his extensive losses once more reminded me of my own, of Henry’s, and even to a lesser degree Mary’s.

It was no wonder we had become a cold lot.

I refused to dwell on such dark matters that day, however, and watched my brother and his knights in their revels. They had donned rich black velvet covered in golden honeysuckle branches that caught the sunlight, shining so bright that I found myself flinching against it now and again. Their opponents wore gold-fringed blue velvet, looking worthy of their noble company indeed. They were a spectacle of strength and handsomeness and my heart swelled at the sight.

Of course my brother won the day. It would be no other way.

The next afternoon was another feast for the eyes. Henry and his men were outfitted in purple velvet trimmed with ornate golden roses, while his other knights and lords were dressed in stunning yellow with cloth of gold borders. The challengers shone brilliant in white and gold. It was as if I were watching the sun tilt with the stars. My heart leapt as each blow was delivered, and the crashing of lance against armor, hoof against earth, along with the cries of the men and the spectators set me to shivering with delight. As I watched I was reminded of my first tourney, when as a little girl I had passed out the tokens to the winners. How distant did those days seem now!

My brother’s display jostled me into the present as once again he took the day, and ended the festivities with him and Brandon besting each other, performing tricks and an improvised form of jousting that displayed their remarkable skill at the sport. I was as impressed as Henry intended me to be and praised him that evening in Catherine’s apartments, where we feasted.

“Ha!” Henry laughed after receiving my compliments. “See if that coward Angus will come and meet me on the field—would he do so well?”

My cheeks burned. “Not so well as my brother, I am sure,” I said, knowing it was the expected response.

“No, and no other bloody Scot with him!” Henry cried in triumph.

Henry delighted in insulting my husband and my kingdom, doing so ever since my arrival at any opportunity. Though I was grateful for his support and expected most brothers would regard anyone who mistreated their sister as I had been as cowards and traitors, it smarted just the same. But I vowed to keep my peace for now; I was a guest in his land, after all, and I needed his help. It would not do to indulge in petty quarrels and I took to enjoying the remainder of the evening as best I could, taking in the delicacies, the wine, and the company, reminding myself as always that such time with my family would not last forever.

As with all good things, the festivities of that beautiful May drew to a close. The party was over. It was time to attend to my queenly business once again.

One of the lighter pastimes of those days was to attend the nursery with Mary and Catherine, where we would fuss over our bairns as if we were ordinary mothers in an ordinary family. The women prided themselves on their children’s development, but as my daughter entered each new stage my heart throbbed and ached for Alexander and Little Jamie.

One afternoon when Catherine deigned not to join us, Mary noted my quivering lip as I beheld her son.

“Sister . . .” Her tone was gentle, her gray-blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I am so sorry for what has come to pass, for your poor Alexander and the king . . . I cannot imagine being separated from little Henry as you are from the king now.”

“You dinna—do not,” I stammered, attempting ever since my arrival to lose my Scottish accent. “You do not want to imagine it. I hope you never have to endure it.” I turned from the sight of the children and sat in one of the plush velvet-trimmed chairs, taking my sewing in my lap, pretending to examine its stitching, blinking away tears of acute homesickness.

Mary approached, resting one of her slim-fingered hands on my shoulder, again reminding me of the refinement and delicacy I lacked. I swallowed hard, covering her hand with mine and telling myself she couldn’t help being so dainty.

“Oh, Mary . . .” My voice was husky. “I want to be happy here with baby Margaret, but all I can think of is Alexander and how he will never reach another milestone. And thinking of that makes me wonder what ones Little Jamie is reaching without me. I feel so guilty fussing over these children not knowing if my son is being cared for and loved properly. I dinna—do not know if he has the same nurse, if she is warm and kind, or if he is embraced and snuggled with and treated not so much as a king but as a little lad.”

Mary shook her head. “I wish I had the answers for you,” she confessed. “It must be unbearable.”

“It is,” I said, knowing that voicing my thoughts only heightened my longing, knowing that my sister, like most, could do nothing.

Mary sat beside me. “What are you going to do about Angus?” she asked, and despite the unpleasantness of the topic, it was preferable to discussing the children.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“Do you love him, Margaret?”

I closed my eyes. Did I? “I am no longer sure if I ever did. It’s just that he made me feel so pretty for a time; it is always nice to feel wanted by someone so handsome.” This was something I knew Mary could not relate to. Everyone had wanted Mary; everyone had found her beautiful. “And I believe he loved the boys,” I went on. “Do you love Charles?”

Mary’s face softened. Part of me hoped that she did not, that it was a move as impulsive and desperate as my own. But her eyes revealed otherwise and I hoped my own gaze did not yield my disappointment. Not that I wanted her unhappy . . . I just wanted someone to commiserate with, someone who did not see me as pathetic.

“I do,” she told me. “But I do not know if what we did was right,” she said then as if intuiting my thoughts. “We caused a great scandal, and though Henry has been merciful, our debts keep mounting. We owe Henry so much as it is . . .” she sighed. “It is staggering.”

“I am sure I will be indebted as well,” I offered as a bit of consolation. “I receive next to nothing from Scotland and Henry will have to support me as my station requires. I just hope he can do so without a grudge.”

Mary smiled at this. “I am sure he will; we are his sisters.”

But I am not his favorite,
I hesitated to add.

“We are to be leaving,” she said then. “Charles and I are going to the country. We can no longer afford to be here; the tourney has set us back even more and being here will only remind Henry of his burden.”

I understood that pressure all too well. I wondered how long it would be before my own welcome wore itself out.

Despite the awkwardness and inherent rivalry in our relationship, I was reluctant to see Mary go.

“I feel as if I am just getting to know you again,” I told her. “Or perhaps for the first time. I should be used to good-byes,” I added in husky tones.

Mary pursed her lip and bowed her head. “As we all have been,” she said as she rose. “But take heart. We are luckier than most. Many royal families never live to see reunions such as ours.”

I rose in turn, offering my sister a fast, tight embrace. For all I knew, it could be our last.

“Indeed.” I forced myself to agree. “We are . . . lucky.”

 

Without my sister, Mary, to be the buffer in our conversations, Catherine and I were left to ourselves. Prior visits had been easier to endure; Mary, as if sensing the tension I experienced in our sister-in-law’s presence, steered the topics to the children and court gossip (nothing too scandalous; Catherine’s sensibilities tended toward the pious). Now that Mary had retired to the country, more to my regret than I had anticipated—I had begun to like her; in her I recognized a vulnerability and sweetness that both Henry and I lacked, which I knew endeared us both to her, fostering a sense of protectiveness in me I did not demonstrate for many—visits with Catherine were forced and awkward.

“Your Grace,” Catherine began one balmy afternoon, having never called me by name. She was alone, which was rare; she almost always had her closest ladies at her side.

I was too tired and hot to sew and preferred to cool myself on the chaise of my apartments with an ivory-handled little fan my mother had told me long ago was from a Crusader. I was disappointed to see Catherine in my rooms, but as she was my hostess, I knew I could not refuse her. I offered a languid smile, hoping to reveal my sleepy state and inspire her to cut her visit short.

Catherine sat, stiff as she always was. I wondered if she ever allowed herself a moment’s relaxation.

“Your Grace,” she said again. “I feel as if you have been avoiding me.”

I ceased my fanning, drawing in a breath, expelling it slowly. “We have seen each other often, Sister,” I told her. “With Mary in the nursery, at the entertainments, and of course at Mass.”

Catherine lowered her eyes. “I understand we have seen each other. But we have not spoken much, not of anything . . . true.”

I clenched my jaw at this, swinging my legs over the side of the chaise to right myself. “I do not know what you expect me to say,” I confessed, my tone guarded.

“About Flodden, about King Ja—”

“Do not say it,” I cautioned. “There is no use going back. What’s done is done.”

Catherine never lost her composure. “I want you to know I am sorry about James.”

I shook my head. It was not as easy to remain calm. “How sorry are you, Catherine?” I challenged. I did not want to address her by title. We were two women now, and one had been quite wronged. “Were you sorry when you wished to send his body to Henry, as if he were a stag, as if it were all a great sport?”

Catherine had the grace to bow her head at this. “I was regent in Henry’s absence. I was trying to show our strength, to keep the confidence of our people boosted. I acted as a queen, not as your family, just as King James acted when he invaded our kingdom. He did not regard us as family then, did he?”

I rose, turning my back to her and heading to the window, watching the swans glide through the sun-kissed sparkles of the Thames, envying their beautiful simplicity.

“My husband had his reasons,” was all I could think of to say, though in truth none were good. The reasons for war never were.

“I had mine,” Catherine returned. “But I do recognize how it could have been perceived by you; I did then and do now. And I am sorry for it.”

“For what good it does, I accept your apology,” I said. “But it changes nothing. My husband is still dead, by the hands of your countrymen.”

“Because he invaded and we were defending our homeland,” Catherine reminded me, and though I knew she was right in her line of logic, I hated her for it nonetheless.

“Still, he was your brother-in-law,” I told her, turning to face her once more. “For whatever wrong he did, and however the consequences played out, he was your family. To triumph over his death, to gloat, and to even entertain the idea of sending Henry his body was barbaric. That was unforgivable.”

“So you cannot forgive me, then.” Catherine’s voice was soft. She lowered her eyes to her folded hands. “Even though in the end, I did not do it. And still you cannot forgive me for the error of my thoughts, which I now confess to you? Was not James a Christian king?”

“Don’t let’s make this a matter of faith,” I snapped, irritated she would enter that vein. “What does faith have to do with it? Did it stop my husband from committing adultery? Did it stop the armies from slaying each other, forgetting ‘thou shalt not kill’ so easily? Or are you insinuating that I lack faith? I know exactly where I stand with God. I am more faithful than all of you who declare yourselves His devout children as loudly as you sin.”

Catherine flinched. “So you insinuate in turn that I am a hypocrite?” The furrow of her brow and light in her dull blue eyes revealed genuine hurt. I could not bring myself to regret my words.

“We all are,” I admitted. “But I do not like being told that someone is more faithful than I. My husband used to visit his shrines with all the enthusiasm of a monk and none of the discipline. He had a lover waiting for him at almost every one.

“I may not demonstrate faith the way he did, but I do believe in God. I believe He will always be there to take everything I love most from me; in that I have the utmost faith.” My voice caught on the last word.

Catherine shook her head. “Then I pity you. That is the wrong thing to have faith in. You must hold faith that God hears your prayers and cries two tears for every one you shed, and that tragedies arise from us being born in a sinful world, not from God’s desire to inflict them upon us. God is faithful; it is He who gets us through those tragedies. He rewards long-suffering. He rewards steadfastness.”