“Margaret,” he says even more softly, “these little bairns take nothing from you; their mothers are not your rivals. You are queen above all others, my one and only wife. Your son when he comes will be a prince of Scotland, and heir to England. They can live here and be no trouble to you. We will only be here a few times in the year; you will barely see them. It will be nothing to you; but I will know that they are in the safest place in the country.”
I don’t smile, though he is swinging my hand gently. I don’t melt, though his touch is warm. I have seen my father terrorized by the sons and cousins and bastards of my grandfather. The Plantagenets are named for a weed that grows unstoppably and, through them, we Tudors are entwined with children of the blood and children of half blood, boys who claim kinship and boys who are ghosts, boys who are no kin at all. I won’t have my castle filled with boys from nowhere. My father put the neck of his wife’s cousin under the axe, so that there should be no doubt about who was the son and heir to the English throne. Katherine’s parents demanded that he was dead before she came to England from Spain. I won’t have less than her. I won’t allow rival heirs to my son before he is even born. I won’t have rivals to me.
“No,” I say flatly, though my pulse is drumming in my ears and I am afraid of defying him.
He bows his head for a moment and I think that I have won, but then I see that he is silent, not humbled at all, but mastering himself and curbing his anger. When he looks up again his eyes are very cold. “Very well,” he says. “But this is small of you, Your Grace. Small and mean, and—worst of all—stupid.”
“Don’t you dare.” I drag my hand from his and I round on him with a blaze of temper, but he just bows his head slightly to me, and makes a deep obeisance to the altar and walks away just as I am about to treat him to the full blast of a Tudor rage. He goes as if he has no interest in my tantrum and leaves me shaking with fury but with nothing to say and no one to hear.
I write again to my lady grandmother. How dare he call me stupid? How dare he—with a castle full of bastards, and the murder of his own father on his conscience—dream of calling me stupid? Who is more stupid? A Tudor princess who defends her rights as queen? Or a man who meets with philosophers by day and whores by night?
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, WINTER 1503
My grandmother’s reply to my first letter passes my angry second letter on the way. The messengers cross, not even seeing the other on the arduous road, and when hers arrives we are back in Edinburgh for my fourteenth birthday and the celebrations for Christmas. The seal has been broken on her letter. It is not damaged, it has been deliberately cut, and from this I know that my husband has read her answer to me and has probably already read my complaints of him.
My lady grandmother writes:
Richmond Palace,
Christmastide 1503
To Margaret, Queen of Scotland,
Greetings, my daughter Margaret,
I was sorry to read that you are disturbed by the presence of your husband’s bastards in your castle, and I urge you to pray to God that he amend his ways. He is your husband set above you by God and the laws of both our countries and you can do nothing but, by patient example and calling on the help of Our Lady, guide him to better behavior in the future. Remember that your marriage vows to him promise your obedience. He did not promise that to you.
The children should be raised as the lords and ladies they are, and you will find an advantage in having a royal family that you can command. Always remember that you are in a country that is uncertain in its temper and with lords of sinfully great independence of spirit. Anyone who might be your friend and be loyal to you and yours should be kept close. These children can be encouraged and persuaded and bribed to be the friends of your prince when he is born. Nothing is more important than his safety and future. You have seen how I befriend and patronize my kinsmen, for this very reason: that my son shall have friends throughout the land who can be called on in time of need. I even married a great lord to give my son a powerful ally. Everything you do must be directed to ensuring your son gets to his throne and stays there. The bastard children must be raised to help you in this.
You will want to have news of our court. The king, my son, is not well and this grieves me and causes me great concern. I do what I can for his health and I take many of the burdens of government from his shoulders. Katherine of Aragon is no trouble to the court at all and we rarely see her. She is trying to live on her own, in her own house, and from what I hear she is hard-pressed to make ends meet. We owe her nothing, and we give her next to nothing. We will not release her to Spain until they have paid us the final sum of her dowry, and they will not receive her until we have paid her widow’s dower. Princess Mary is growing in grace and obedience and we plan a great marriage for her, trusting to the will of God and the establishment of His peace.
I remain high in the favor of God as manifested by His many blessings on me and by my devotion to prayer and good works. Please make sure that you are obedient and agreeable to your husband. You should be making a son of your own, not worrying about his bastards. And make sure that you befriend them now, that you may use them in the future.
Margaret R
She signs herself “Margaret R,” which might mean Margaret Richmond—her title—or might mean Margaret Regina. She has never told anyone, but invented the signature without consulting anybody, in silence, as she does so much else. This is not from modesty but from a tendency to stealth. She makes friends and allies quietly, not for love of them but against the day when she may need them. She married two husbands for what they could do for her son. She oppressed my mother with rarely a word spoken, and she has stifled history about what she did during the reign of Richard. I wish I were as wise as she, I wish I were as cunning. But I am a Tudor princess and I was born proud. Surely I should not wish myself otherwise?
At any rate, the main thing is that I will get my own way. The two boys who carry the name of Stewart will be sent to college in Italy, an honor that I think they could not have expected. The other children are to be housed elsewhere in Scotland, I don’t even know where, and I certainly will not ask.
I am sorry if Katherine is being kept short of money, sorry to think of her struggling to manage a large household in a big house in London without any help from my grandmother or my father; but I cannot help but be pleased that she has not taken my place at court, that she is not the favored daughter, attending all the celebrations, seated next to her betrothed, my brother Harry, dancing with him. I love her so much better when I know that she is not usurping my place.
The most troubling thing for me in this letter is the news that my sister Mary is to make some great match in Europe. I am struck at once by anxiety that they don’t pair her with some old man, or some cruel young tyrant. She is a little beauty: as engaging as a kitten, as exquisite as a carved angel. They must not sell her to the highest bidder, or throw her into the bear pit of some hard-faced court. She is trusting and vulnerable; she has no mother, and I am filled with anxiety and passionate protectiveness for my little sister. I want them to match her with someone kind and loving. Kind and loving, and—in truth—unimportant. For I can’t bear her to marry a great king. I don’t want her to rise beyond her station. This would be wrong. I am the elder sister and I should be senior to her, in greatness as well as in years. Surely this is clear to everyone? Surely my lady grandmother, with her wisdom in strategy and her love of fortune and title, will remember that I, her namesake, cannot be overtaken, must never be overtaken by my little sister?
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1504