I sat up, flinging my arms about his neck once more, feeling his tears wet my cheek. “Oh, Father!” I cried, and at once terror gripped me, terror of leaving all that was familiar, terror of governing a foreign land without any guidance, terror of being alone and unloved. . . .
Father pulled away, seizing my chin between thumb and forefinger. Tears streamed down his high-boned cheeks unchecked. “I will never see you again, Margot,” he whispered, and for a long moment we sat, memorizing each other’s features. “Promise me something,” he said then.
“Anything,” I sobbed.
“Be the queen you were born to be,” he told me.
“I shall,” I promised as he urged me to lie back among the pillows once more. He leaned in and kissed my forehead and thus he left me as a father would his little girl.
Tomorrow we would part as monarchs.
There were no tears for this formal farewell. The court gathered about us, their expressions tender as he bestowed upon me his blessing along with a Book of Hours. Though I was never one to be considered devout, I would treasure it always. I opened the cover, where was inscribed: “Remember your kind and loving father in your good prayers.” On the page opposite the prayers for December he wrote: “Pray for your loving father, that gave you this book, and I give you at all times God’s blessing and mine. Henry R.”
I offered a deep curtsy of gratitude. My tears were kept to myself. Today I was composed, dignified.
A queen.
I was surrounded by splendor. The trumpets sounded; the minstrels sang; the banners snapped and fluttered in the breeze; my white palfrey was brushed till she shone like a star. I mounted her and Father passed the reins to the Earl of Surrey. With effort I stilled my quivering lip as I waved to the onlookers and well-wishers. My grandmother stood stoic and thin lipped, but I was certain the sun caught tears reflecting in those hard eyes.
We began our progress to York and I refrained from turning about on my horse to look back at my father. I could not bear the thought that this was the last time....
I will never see you again,
he had said.
I did not want to believe it.
But with heart-sinking certainty I knew it to be true.
I refused to think of my family as we made our progress north. I decided to think of this as an extended holiday. I would see everyone again in time; this was just a little journey. It was the only way I could bear it. But every night in my bed I thought back to my last night with Father, of his low, rumbling voice as he made his tearful farewell. I thought of my gentle mother resting in her crypt. I thought of Arthur, dear sweet Arthur. I thought of little Mary, such a sweet child with a bright life ahead. I even missed fiery Henry.
But I blinked my tears away and the face I presented to the court was filled with joy, for how could it not? The progress was wonderful and filled with merriment. I was beset with gifts from all those I encountered en route. I was serenaded by my minstrels and by choirs of children who praised my beauty and charm. I was given so many gifts that my chests overflowed. The bells of the towns tolled for me, Queen Margaret Tudor Stewart, and I hummed and resonated with the bell-song.
The only things I hated about entering new towns were the strange relics of saints I was made to kiss as if my kissing them would make some kind of difference. My Scottish emissary and chief escort, the Bishop of Murray, handed them to me with a kind smile and I refrained from grimacing as I kissed some thighbone or finger or vial of blood . . . it was disgusting!
This was something I did not have to indulge in with frequency, thank God, and as soon as I was able to be discreet Aunty Anne brought me some cool water to wash my lips with.
There were now so many people in my train I was overwhelmed. All of the fine ladies and gentlemen of York rode out to meet me along with Lord Northumberland, a stunning man in red, sporting black velvet boots with gilt spurs. He was quite the sight and I found myself sighing more over his finery than his person.
In my litter my ladies helped me dress for my grand entrance into York. It was cramped and we were all near to tripping over one another as I was dressed in my gown of cloth of gold, made even more resplendent with its cloth of gold sash. My throat was encircled with a collar of gems, and rings were slid up almost every slim finger. I held out my hand in admiration.
“They look too big to be real!” I exclaimed over the rubies, sapphires, and emeralds that graced my fingers. “It is almost all too big to be real . . .” I added, my eyes misting.
The tears were swallowed as I was arranged on my plush cushions, all embroidered with my badges of Tudor roses and coats of arms. The pretty white palfrey from Father was dressed in her best and was led behind me as I was shown into York with great fanfare, my ears ringing with the cheers of the masses.
The first horrid thing I had to do was hear a Mass, and I tried to refrain from wiggling about in restlessness as I listened to the bishop ramble on in Latin. I was not the scholar both Henry and Arthur were and had very little patience or affinity for languages, so the Mass to me was just one endless stream of gibberish. But I remained composed and serene as I imagined a queen should look and complimented the bishop after. His cheeks glowed when I stretched out my hand for him to take and he almost toppled over as he bowed. I stifled a giggle, but my merriment shone through as I lifted him up by the elbow.
Lord and Lady Northumberland were generous in their admiration of me, giving me such feasting and entertainments that I was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Always there was dancing and eating and then more dancing! As much as I loved it, I found myself longing for a nice sleep in a peaceful place. I longed, too, for my mother and the Princesses Mary and Catherine of Aragon.
I longed for home.
I did not have much time to think on it, however, for we quit bustling York on 17 July and I rode my palfrey through the rugged hills of the north. Newcastle greeted me with more choirs of children and I clapped my hands in delight as I listened to the pure, clear voices lifting themselves in my honor.
“I shall give them all presents!” I cried, and passed them rings and precious stones that I was certain they would sell for food, but I cared not. I was making them happy; they smiled at me as if I were the prettiest, grandest lady in the world and that was all that mattered.
“You must not give away your plate, Your Grace!” Lady Guildford admonished gently.
“It is mine to give, is it not?” I returned in haughty tones. “Besides, they love me for it.”
“You do not have to reduce yourself to such things to make people love you,” she said quietly.
I turned toward the brown-haired, plain lady and grimaced in disgust. “I know I do not have to buy anyone’s love, if that is what you are so grossly implying. I’ll not hear another word about it.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, but I liked not the concern in her eyes as she regarded me.
At Newcastle our party was met by Lord Thomas Dacre, deputy to the Warden of the Marches. From first sight I discerned that he would be a friend to me. He was a broad-shouldered man with a gentle face, if a little weak in the chin. But I liked his eyes, soft hazel eyes that seemed as though they would never dream of imparting unkindness upon another living being.
“I am to escort you to Berwick Castle, Your Grace,” he told me. “And there we will have a hunt if it pleases Your Grace.”
“A hunt?” I cried in delight. “Oh, it seems like forever since I have enjoyed a good hunt!”
“We will have a bearbaiting for the pleasure of Your Grace as well,” he added, hazel eyes sparkling as though his first and last wish was to delight me.
I clapped my hands. “Are they big bears?”
He chuckled. “The biggest we could find.”
My heart skipped at the thought of the beasts wrangling with their canine counterparts. Though I feigned excitement at the prospect, in truth bearbaitings frightened me. There was so much blood and death. I hated death....
But I would not offend Lord Dacre, so I exclaimed and carried on as though it were the most anticipated event of my life.
When it came time to witness the event, however, I could not refrain from gasping and averting my head as the bear struck the dog with one large paw, tearing into its flesh with its sharp claws.
“You are not happy with this display, Your Grace,” Lord Dacre observed, and at once I realized it was not a question.
I turned toward him, offering an apologetic smile.
“I do wish you would have told me; I’d have canceled the whole thing,” he said.
“But I couldn’t have done that after you went to so much trouble for me,” I told him.
“Moving a mountain would be no trouble, were it to be done for you,” he said, and my heart stirred in delight. How I adored courtiers!
I hoped the Scottish court was as good to me as Thomas Dacre!
4
Scotland!
T
he progress was getting too long for me and I was anxious to settle at Edinburgh. What was a joyous journey was now a chore. I grew tired and sore from riding. I wanted to soak in a warm bath for hours and know that for one day I would not have to go anywhere and do anything, not even dress up. Certainly that meant I was exhausted, for I cherished my finery and most any opportunity to don it.
Accompanied by eighteen hundred ladies and gentlemen, dressed so fine they looked more like dolls than people, we approached Lamberton Kirk, where we encountered the Scots. They were the most glamorous barbarians I had ever seen! Surely I did not think them capable of dressing so fine, but they wore their damasks and cloth of gold and silver much like we did. It was only that crude accent that separated us.
My hair and gown were threaded with pearls and I was disconcerted by this, for pearls were a symbol of mourning and I had had my fill of that. I banished these dark thoughts from my mind, however, as I lay in my litter gazing at the assemblage of Scots in wonderment. My eyes could not help but be drawn to some of the men’s legs, which their kilts showed to great advantage, and I compared many a well-turned calf. As I admired these rogues I wondered what my husband looked like; I had tried not to think upon him too much during the progress. The thought that I would soon meet him filled me with such fear and excitement that I knew not how to manage it.
After feasting and entertainment, a thousand of these beautiful barbarians joined our entourage and we set to riding again. I was in Scotland now. England was behind me and I knew not if I would ever return. More and more I found myself swallowing tears. This was a wild place, a beautiful land with its rolling hills and emerald fields. But it was not my land and I was frightened of it. What would these people make of me after the novelty of my arrival had worn off? We had been enemies for so long and grudges died hard....
On 3 August I was met at Dalkeith and given the keys to the castle by Lord and Lady Morton. This was my last stop before Edinburgh and I was glad of it. Soon I would be at my new home. I could not wait!
Lady Morton showed my ladies and me to our apartments while the rest of the assemblage sought out their lodgings. Many had to sleep in stables and barns, inns when available, and tents. It was good for me indeed to be queen as I thought of crawling into a comfortable bed with covers and herbs to sweeten my chambers.
Alone with my ladies I kicked off my slippers and twirled about. “I cannot wait to sleep and dream of my coronation! I am so very tired!” I sat on my bed while Agnes Howard, Lady Surrey, brushed my hair. “I should like a hot bath before bed,” I yawned, imagining being enveloped in steaming scented water. Perhaps they would put lavender in it. Yes, that would be pleasing....
At once the door burst open and Lady Morton entered, curtsying. “Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but the king is approaching!”
“The king?” I asked, dazed. I rose. “The king! No! He cannot come now! I look—well, I am not ready. He wasn’t supposed to see me till Edinburgh.”
“He will see you now,” said Lady Morton, not without a slight note of annoyance in her tone.
I scowled. “Help me with my gown, Lady Surrey, and make certain the pearls are still threaded prettily through my hair.”
I stared down my reflection in the metal of the mirror, wishing there were some better way of seeing myself. I held the swells of my breasts. “Not much I can do about these, I suppose,” I lamented.
“You’ll fill out as you grow, Your Grace,” Lady Surrey assured me.
“I wish I’d grow in the next ten minutes,” I pouted.
“Come now, you’re beautiful,” said Lady Guildford in her tiny voice. “He will adore you.”
I blinked the hot tears from my eyes, hating the quickness with which they appeared. “Do you think?”
She nodded, along with Lady Surrey.
When I was deemed presentable the room began to fill with courtiers both Scottish and English. I stood by the window, shoulders squared, trying to rein in my trembling. The king . . . my husband. He was coming....
When at last he swept in, I took in the sight of him. Tall and well built, with auburn hair grazing his shoulders in layered waves, his lively eyes a vivid green, his nose aquiline, and the beard that hugged his well-defined jawline framing a sensual mouth, he was the quintessence of regal bearing. He sported his hunting habit of crimson velvet and wore his hawking lure over his shoulder. Upon seeing me he removed his cap. His lips were parted; his eyes were gentle.
I dipped into a deep curtsy as he approached. He bowed and once we were both righted he took my hands. His were strong, with long, tapering fingers. A hunter’s hands. A king’s hands.
“But you’re beautiful,” he breathed as he gazed upon me.
Strange warmth coursed through my veins. My cheeks tingled as I looked at him through my lashes.
“Expecting something else?” I asked him.
He laughed. “One never knows.” His voice was handsome despite the thick Scots brogue. Somehow when he spoke the accent was far more charming than grating. “And so, Margaret, my beautiful little bride, do you resent very much my impatience at wanting to see you?”
“I should,” I told him. “How unkind coming upon me this way!” But I was teasing him and he knew it. His green eyes sparkled with merriment. “You could have found me in my shift!”
“All the more delightful!” he cried, but I noted as he assessed me, his face clouded over. His eyes softened, as though in pity. My heart raced.
“Have I displeased you, Your Grace?” I asked in small tones.
He rested his hands on my shoulders. “No, dear heart, no . . . but you are so very young and so far from home. Are you terribly frightened?”
My lip quivered. How I longed to throw myself in his arms and cry,
Yes, yes, I am frightened! Rock me, hold me, do not let me go till the fear dispels!
But I only offered a smile.
“How can I be frightened, my lord?” I asked him. “You say I am far from home, but I could not be closer. I am in Scotland beside my husband the king. What is there to fear in my true home?”
He tipped back his head, offering a deep belly-shaking laugh. “Well said, my lady, well said!” He cupped my face between his strong hands. “Scotland is your true home and I shall always endeavor to make it feel that way to you.”
He leaned forward then and bestowed the gentlest of kisses upon my lips. The courtiers who had been pretending to be absorbed in their own nonsensical chatter grew quiet as the king pulled away, breaking into his boisterous laughter once more as he led me to the assembly.
As I stood next to him I could not stop looking at him. This was my husband and the King of Scotland.
Most important, he was the most wonderful man in the world and he was mine!
That night the bells began to toll and I started. “Mother is dead!” I cried, then, shaking myself to my senses, scrambled out of bed to see what the matter was.
“ ’Tis the stables, Your Grace,” a servant informed me. I looked out the window into the black pitch of night. The sky glowed with an eerie golden hue. “Up in flames.”
“What of my palfreys?” I asked, my heart racing in panic. “What of the palfreys from my father?”
“All gone, Your Grace,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”
“No!” I cried, throwing myself facedown on the bed and burying my head in my folded arms. All the tears I tried so hard to quell throughout the long progress into Scotland freed themselves; the floodgates of my soul were torn asunder and I sobbed great gulping gasping sobs. I counted my losses . . . Arthur, baby Catherine, Mother, home, and all that was familiar.... Now my loyal horses, the beautiful dear horses Father gave me, were gone. It was as though I were allowed to keep nothing from England. I would be all Scot. I would have Scottish palfreys, Scottish gowns, Scottish maids. I was not to be reminded of home, not even in the smallest sense.
The servant departed and it was not long before I was surrounded by the Ladies Surrey, Guildford, and Morton, who petted me and cooed to me as though I were a wee babe. All meant well, but it was of no use. I could not be consoled.
“I want my mother,” I sobbed as Lady Surrey collected me in her arms, swaying gently from side to side.
“Oh, darling,” she murmured. “Oh, Your poor little Grace, how much you have endured!”
My ladies slept beside me all night, comforting me when I awoke crying for Mother and Arthur, my little palfreys, and a childhood long gone.
The king himself arrived at dawn and admitted himself into my chambers after I donned a green velvet dressing gown.
He gathered me in his strong arms and I buried my head against his ribs, for I was so small that I did not even reach his breast. He stroked my hair as my tears mingled with the black velvet of his doublet.
“My precious Maggie,” he said, and I warmed to the new pet name. “Dearest little girl, dinna cry. Please dinna cry. Your Jamie’s going to move you to Newbottle, how would that suit you? Then you will not have to look upon where such tragedy befell you. And I am going to buy you all new palfreys, how about that? White and shining, just as good as your old ones, and they’ll be outfitted in the prettiest you’ve ever seen.”
I nodded, hiccoughing and shuddering with renewed sobs.
“Now, now, dinna cry, love. Think about all the entertainments! I canna wait to see you dance and hear you play the lute—it is rumored you are of great talent.” He kissed the top of my head. “We’ll sing together, won’t we? Hmm? You can sing, can you not? Why, I know you can, your speaking voice is such a delight.”
“Oh, Your Grace—”
“Jamie,” he corrected me. “Your Jamie.”
I tried to smile, but my lips quivered so much it was a feeble attempt. “Jamie, I’m so tired,” I murmured. “Everything has been so wonderful, but I long so much to sleep all day long.”
At this request, Jamie lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bed. When he settled me on the mattress he pulled off one slipper, then the other, then drew the coverlet over my body. “And so you shall. Sleep till you can sleep no more and when you awaken I shall have you carried to Newbottle, where I will arrange the most magnificent entertainment in your honor. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.” I yawned.
He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Till then, sweetheart,” he said as he bowed.
“Till then, Jamie,” I echoed, casting adoring eyes at his beautiful face.
Oh, but he made me feel better! He was so handsome and chivalrous! Truly he was the incarnation of Lancelot himself!