I
t began with smoke. His Grace King Henry VII said everything began with smoke, from the fall of the old kings to the rise of the new, when the smoke curled about the mouths of the great cannon as they spewed forth their vengeance on the battlefield, to the love born of a man and a woman, where the smoke rose from the smallest flame in the bedchamber, quite unable to rival that which burns in the human heart, the flames he coveted for his own wife, my mother, Queen Elizabeth of York.

But the night I lost my Sheen, the flames arose from a cause unknown, an errant taper, likely. Sliding across the floor, deft and sleek as a snake were the flames. They licked up the side of the wall, taking in with great satisfaction the new tapestries Her Grace my mother had taken such care in embroidering to cheer the king’s chambers that fateful Christmas.

And so, watching in awe, I was held fast with helplessness. A cacophony of voices swirled about me, but I was unable to identify their owners.

‘The prince!’ someone cried. ‘Remove His Highness, the Prince of Wales!’

Of course it made sense to rescue the treasured heir first. And no one treasured him more than I, his sister. However, I must say a thorn of jealousy twisted in my breast as I watched the guards usher my brother Arthur forth from the chambers, amidst a clam-our of frightened dignitaries and courtiers. My mother gathered the other children around her, impetuous Henry and sweet baby Mary, taking flight.

I stood, captivated by the scene. At once my face began to prickle and tingle with the strange sensation that I was being watched. I turned to see him, the man to be feared above all, the man second only to God above. Henry VII, my father, my king. Flames lost their heat in his cool, calm eyes. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as his gaze held mine.

‘Margaret,’ he said, his voice low, knowing he as king had no need to raise it. Even the flames stilled to listen.

Only my tears could answer for me.

‘We will build another,’ he assured me.

And then I was in the arms of a guard. I closed my eyes to the flames now devouring my world, insatiable, and my ears to the crackling, creaking timbers that once made up my Sheen, palace of my childhood.

Things were about to change. Somehow I knew then more than ever that I was not ordinary.

1
The Wilted Rose

T
here was no one high enough to intervene on behalf of my immortal soul, my grandmother had cried. I was a shameful creature, she went on, a wilted petal on the Tudor rose. It was time I was made to examine my wicked ways and repent. Grandmother was through with humble chaplains and confessors. I was a Princess of the Blood; the fate of kingdoms may rest in my finding salvation. Thus I was removed to my godfather, the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, where I must come up with an impressive confession. I was certain it wouldn’t take much; I had a wealth of sins to choose from.

Lord Chancellor John Morton sat before me in his grand white robes, drumming his slim fingers on his knee, waiting for the recitation of my various sins.

I wrung my hands. Oh, where to begin?

‘I hit my brother Henry on the head with a stick,’ I told him, swallowing my fear as I approached him to lay a hand on his lap. I refused to sit in the confessional. I did not like walls between me and anyone, see-through or not. The archbishop’s robe was very soft under my fingertips and I found myself scrunching the material beneath my nails in nervousness.

He offered a grave nod, urging me to continue. ‘Why would you do such a thing, Princess Margaret?’

‘Because Henry is stupid,’ I explained with impatience. ‘If you knew him you would surely hit him as well, my lord.’

The archbishop’s lips twitched. ‘Pray continue, Highness.’

I twisted the material of his gown in my fist, edging closer to him. My tone was conspiratorial. ‘And then I stuck my tongue out at my tutor because he called me saucy. I am
not
saucy, Your Grace!’

‘Indeed?’ The smallest smile curved his lips. ‘Go on.’

I swallowed several times, shifting from foot to foot. ‘And then … then I put a frog in my grandmother’s slipper—’

‘Gracious, Your Highness, that was creative,’ he observed. ‘Why should you grieve your gentle grandmother so?’

‘Do you
know
my grandmother, Your Grace?’ I asked, incredulous that anyone should describe the severe Margaret Beaufort as gentle.

‘She is a great lady,’ said the archbishop. ‘It would serve you better to respect her.’ He paused, arching a brow. ‘Now. Anything else?’

‘Well, I also hid Grandmother’s hair shirt,’ I confessed. ‘I wasn’t trying to be bad that time. Honest. I just thought to give her skin a rest—’

‘How old are you, Princess Margaret?’

‘I am ten,’ I told him, offering a bright smile to display the pearly row of grown-up teeth that were my pride.

‘Do you think a girl of ten should meddle in the affairs of a woman more than thrice her age?’ he asked me in patient tones. ‘I should say not. The Lord commands us to honour our mother and father; this applies to all elders. Your grandmother is a very spiritual lady and needs none of your … intervention. She is an example of faithfulness. Remember, through her loving discipline you are brought to a better understanding of God.’

I bowed my head. I hated talking about the Venerable Margaret Beaufort with anyone. I hated even
thinking
about her. Spiritual! How I had suffered for Margaret Beaufort’s ‘spirituality’! If her cane across my back was made to bring about a better understanding of God I could have been an abbess!

‘Anything else?’

Summoned to mind was the most grievous sin of all. I sighed. ‘I asked the king what a whore is.’

The priest’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth with one large hand. ‘Did you find out?’

‘No! Grandmother slapped me!’ I cried, hoping to solicit his sympathy. ‘I can’t begin to imagine why! I only asked because I heard one of the ladies say there were an awful lot of whores about and I feared it was some kind of insect, so I thought it best to find out! I do not want anything crawling on me, after all!’

Archbishop Morton tilted his head back, closing his eyes a long moment. He drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. ‘Anything else, my lady?’

I bit my lip. ‘I … I’m not sure.’

‘You’re not sure?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s just that I sin with such terrible frequency – I can’t seem to keep track. I suppose I should make a list …’

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