I do not reply at once. I cannot give Katherine the assurance she asks for; I cannot sacrifice my own happiness to support hers. I cannot mirror my own brother’s hypocrisy. I cannot claim that I am guided only by the will of God. For the first time in my life I am free of fear and out of danger. James is safe, my daughter is living happily at Tantallon, the country is quiet under the rule of Archibald, Henry and I live like a private lord and lady, running our estate and enjoying ourselves. I feel as if I have never been able to be happy and at peace in my life before. At last I am away from Archibald and free of the constant mixture of fear and desire that he inspires in me. At last I can be with the man who loves me and respond to him simply, without a shadow, without lies. This is my autumn, this is my season.
We are bringing in wood for the great fires of the winter. We are laying down salted fish and smoked meats in the great castle larders. We are riding under trees that shed their leaves in jewel colors of rubies and brass, gold and emerald, when Henry nods to our castle gateway, high above us, up on the hill, and says, “Look! Isn’t that the papal standard? Are they flying the papal standard? A messenger from the Pope must have come.”
I squint against the red sunset. “It is,” I say, my hand to my throat. “Oh, Henry, can it be a messenger about the divorce?”
“Could be,” he says steadily. He puts his hand over mine on the reins. “Be calm, my love. It could be anything. The Pope freed? A new pope? The divorce or any number of a dozen things.”
“Come on!” I say, and my horse leaps forward and we ride through the woods and up the hill, round and round on the twisting track to the top, and we go into the castle at a run and find the papal messenger in the great hall with a cup of mulled ale in his hand, standing before the hearth.
He bows as I come in, and when I see the depth of his bow to Henry I know that we have won.
“The Holy Father has granted me a divorce,” I say with certainty.
The messenger bows again, to us equally, as if Henry is my husband already. “He has,” he says.
At last. I cannot believe it. I am free of Archibald at last. This is my baptism into freedom from sin, this is my birth. This is my renewal. I could almost be a heretic and say this is my second coming. I have a chance to be happy again. I have a chance to marry again. I will be the center of Henry’s life and hold my head high in Scotland and before the world. The very thing that Katherine said could never be has come about—despite her interdict. The Pope himself and I have defied her. She said that I cannot be divorced, that I must not be divorced—and I am. This is the triumph of my will over hers, and I am deeply happy.
We have a great feast that night: haunches of venison, pies of songbirds, slices of roast goose, fish in plenty, roast boar, and tray after tray of sweetmeats at the end of the dinner. Everyone knows that the papal messenger has brought good news and that I am free of Archibald and someone is certain to have slipped away to Edinburgh already to tell Archibald that he has finally lost and I am free. Margaret is not to be named as a bastard and I shall demand that she lives with me.
I laugh at the thought that I am a free woman. I can hardly believe that it is true after so many years of waiting, after so many terrible letters from England. I think that they will soon hear of this, and I think of my sister-in-law, on her knees for my soul and the soul of her husband. I think I am sorry for her, for Katherine, the wife who will be left behind; and I am glad and proud of myself who will be married again, and to a young man who loves me for myself. I think I am a young woman like that slut Anne Boleyn who dares to look the old rules in the face and choose her own future. I think that Katherine, and all the old people who would keep women where they are, under the rule of men, are my enemy. The world is changing and I am in the forefront of change.
“What news of my brother, the King of England?” I ask the papal messenger as the groom of the servery pours him another glass of wine.
“The Holy Father has received an application,” the messenger says. “He is sending a papal legate to London to hear the evidence.”
I am so surprised that I drop my spoon. “What evidence? I thought the legate was coming to reconcile them, or to talk with the queen?”
“He is hearing evidence for an annulment,” the man replies, as if the matter is simple. “The Holy Father is making a full inquiry.”
I should have foreseen this, but Harry’s ability to say one thing and do another continues to amaze me. “My brother has sought to annul his marriage?”
“Your Grace did not know?”
“I knew that he had doubts. I thought that the papal legate was coming to London to resolve those doubts. I did not know that there was to be an inquiry. I did not know that there was any evidence. I thought that my brother the king was opposed to the dissolution of marriage.”
A small, hidden smile suggests that the messenger has been told this too. “It is not a question of dissolution of a valid marriage,” he says carefully. “I understand that the king believes that a valid marriage to the queen never took place. He has produced proofs. And of course, he has no heir.”
“He has had no male heir for eighteen years,” I say tartly. “And he has a princess. Why would he apply for an annulment now?”
“Apparently, it is not to marry another lady,” the messenger says carefully. “It is to ensure that he is not living in a state of sin. He is not self-serving; he believes that God has not blessed the marriage as it was no marriage. It was never a marriage.”
I glance at Henry, who is seated at the head of the table of lords, not beside me, since he is not yet my husband. “Even here in Scotland we have heard of Anne Boleyn,” I remark.
The papal messenger shakes his head slowly, enjoying the twisting diplomatic denial of the obvious. “But not in the Vatican. The curia has not heard of the lady,” he lies beautifully. “Her name is not mentioned in any documents. Her presence at the court in London is not material to the evidence. Your brother is seeking the annulment of his marriage on clerical grounds, not for his personal feelings. He has doubts. He does not have desires.”
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1528
Henry and I are married in the little castle chapel at Stirling. It’s one of the oldest buildings on the steep side of the castle bailey and so the stone-flagged floor slopes upwards to the altar and climbs in a series of worn stone steps. As Henry and I go hand in hand towards my confessor it is an uphill walk, and indeed, I feel that is how our shared life has been.
We have witnesses—never again will I let someone claim that I had no marriage at all but a private handfasting; the priest brings a choirboy to sing the anthem, but it is a private ceremony. Henry gives me the ring of his clan, with the pelican insignia of his family crest. He gives me a purse of gold. We go to bed that afternoon and so the marriage is made, unbreakably. At last I am married to a good man in the safety of my own castle in Scotland. As I doze in his arms and the cold spring afternoon turns dark outside, I think of Katherine and the chilly comforts of her faith. I think that she was so emphatic that she knew what was right, she knew what was God’s will. But here am I, her much less clever sister-in-law, less devout, less educated, poorer and with fewer jewels, inferior in every way, yet it is I who am married to a handsome young husband with our lives before us, and that while the court dances in the great hall, she is alone praying, abandoned by the king who tells her that she is the finest wife he could have, but alas, never his wife at all.