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  And yet without those foxy and wily ways Henry VII would not be Henry VII at all but the obscure Duke of Richmond nobody cared about. Had my father not conspired against (with the help of another fox, my cunning grandmother Margaret Beaufort) and eventually slain the usurper King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth, the crown of England would not be in Tudor hands and the Wars of the Roses would still be fought in vain. But my father the king, for all his bad hair and fashion sense, swept in and won the day, not only claiming the crown but also uniting the houses of York and Lancaster at last by marrying my fair mother, Elizabeth, ending the wars for good. My father filled the treasury, modernized the government through the appointments of councilors (also men with bad hair and worse fashion sense), ousting all pretenders to the throne with the mightiness of his hand. He was a formidable man, this Henry Tudor, cold and calculating, miserly and cautious. This man, this king, was my father and never was the thought far from my mind that his were the hands that would shape my destiny.

  “Everyone out—We should have audience with Our daughter alone!” Father barked, rousing me from my reverie as I watched a room of scrambling servants and councilors all too eager to do his bidding.

  Father rounded the desk once more to look out the window, past the gardens, past the Tower, far past the known horizon. He was squinting. I found myself doing the same, though I had no idea what we were looking for.

  “You do realize that as a daughter of this house yours is not an ordinary future We have planned,” he said. “Margaret, the peace of kingdoms depends on you.”

  “Oh, if this is about me sinning again I can tell you I have been good for at least a week!” I cried.

  He silenced me with a hand. “Margaret, I’ve news on your suit.”

  I began to tremble. My suit. I braced myself. What prince had my father chosen for me? To what distant land would I be sent?

  “We need an end to these frays with Scotland and one of the ways of achieving that is by forming an alliance,” he explained. “D’you understand?”

  I shook my head, though against my will comprehension was settling upon me, clutching my heart in its merciless talons until I became short of breath.

  “Don’t swoon on me now, child,” Father commanded. “You’ve never been a fainting girl and now is no time to start.” He rested his hands on my shoulders. “Margaret. You are going to be what unites our kingdoms. You are going to bring about a better understanding between us. You are meant for greatness, perhaps a greatness that surpasses even your own brother the Crown Prince Arthur, because yours is a task that is far from easy.” With this he shook me somewhat, not in cruelty, but to illustrate his passion. Fear coursed through me. “Margaret, my child, this is your purpose: You are to become the Queen of the Scots.”

  Had I been a fainting girl, that would have been the time.

  I did not know how to feel, what to think. Queen . . . But I knew I would be a queen; Princesses of the Blood are primed from birth for this function. From cradle to table I had been told that I would marry a prince, that I must bear him many sons, else be deemed a failure. And so with this in mind I prepared for my role as political breeder.

  The night I learned I was to become Queen of Scots—Scots, as if he couldn’t find a more glamorous country than where that lot of barbarians reside!—there was none with whom I could find comfort. For a while I climbed into bed with little Princess Mary, my three-year-old sister, cuddling her close. This golden princess would have a charmed life, I was certain. She was so agreeable and adorable; as yet she showed none of my sinful inclinations and everyone fawned over her.

  At once I rose from the bed of the favored princess, stirred to anger as I thought of the wonderful marriage Father would arrange for her. No doubt she would live in some glorious court where there would be artists and musicians to entertain her all day long—likely she’d get to live in sunny Spain or romantic France while I wasted away in the North, freezing in some drafty castle surrounded by fur-clad courtiers who spoke as though they had something obstructing their throats . . . ! I dared not think on it anymore. I crossed the rush-strewn floor on bare feet, wringing my hands and blinking back tears. I, Margaret Tudor, was going to be Queen of the Scots . . . those frightening, monstrous Scots....

  I retrieved a wrap and sneaked out of the nursery, down the hall. I would see my brother Arthur. Gentle, sweet Arthur, so unlike fiery Henry and docile Mary, would be able to guide me.

  The guards stood aside to admit me into the apartments of the Prince of Wales. He was lying across some furs before his fire, thumbing through The Canterbury Tales. When he saw me, his handsome, scholarly face lit up with a smile.

  “Sister,” he said in his handsome voice. “A midnight visit. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit? Take some wine.” He held the book up for me to see. “I know, I shouldn’t be indulging myself in such fancy, but the naughty parts are too delightful to ignore!”

  The tears that had settled in my throat since learning of my impending betrothal were replaced by a smile as I sat beside my brother. There was no one like Arthur the world over, I was convinced. He was the gentlest, sweetest prince in Christendom and would no doubt be a fine king. He was not athletic like Henry, nor did he possess my younger brother’s fleet dancing feet. Arthur was an intellectual; content to study, to ponder, to think. His beauty was delicate and whenever I was with him I could not help but feel the need to protect him, nurture him, just as he had always protected and nurtured me.

  The smile faded at the thought, replaced by fresh tears. “Oh, Arthur,” I began. “I hate that I never get to see you. With you living in Ludlow and me here with nobody but Henry to annoy me and Grandmother to torture me . . . it is a miserable existence!”

  “So I suppose it best to dispense with the obligatory ‘how are you?’ ” Arthur teased, his blue eyes sparkling as he reached out to cup my cheek. “Now, now, Sister, is it as bad as all that? Far be it for me to disagree with you about Grandmother, but our Henry means well enough. He may be annoying, but his love and devotion are fierce and you do have sweet little Mary—”

  “Henry’s love and devotion are fierce only when you’re in his favor and we’re rarely in each other’s favor . . . and Mary is favored by everyone. I pale under the glory of her sun. She is the flawless little Tudor rose and I am the thorn they long to cut out,” I pouted.

  “So intense!” Arthur cried, sitting up and putting his book aside.

  “But since it would be unseemly to cut the thorn they shall send her to the land of the thistles—to Scotland!” I cried, scowling. “Can you believe it, Arthur? Scotland? They may as well be sending me to Hell!”

  Arthur chuckled, but I took no pleasure in the handsome sound. It mocked my misery and my brow ached from furrowing it at him. “So that is what this display is about,” he said. “Come here, darling girl.” He held out his arm and I scooted in next to him. He gathered me close, stroking my hair. “We are special people, Margaret,” he told me. “Special people with very special responsibilities. You know well; your whole life has been preparing you for this zenith. It seems unfair; princes are allowed to stay in their native countries for the most part while our sacred princesses must scatter to the four winds, their sacrifice in order to secure sound alliances for the countries to which they are bound. We are God’s chosen, though, my dearest. Chosen to lead His people, chosen to defend them and honor them. You are going to be a queen, Margaret. An anointed queen. No one can ever take that away from you. You have the power to do so much good. I know Scotland is not the land you dreamed of spending your life in. They are very different from us; but Father would not send you if he thought you would come to harm. He longs to bring about a good alliance between our two countries. Think of the role you can play in securing that glorious peace! Think of the legacy you will leave! The mark you will make! Margaret, there has not been peace between our two countries in one hundred and seventy years. You have the opportunity of setting things right.”r />
  “I don’t want to set anything right! I don’t want to go away! I want to stay with you!” I cried, burying my head in his chest.

  Arthur chuckled again. “You must be brave, lass, brave. Take heart and look sharp! A thistle can outlast a thousand roses. Father sends his little thorn to the wilds of Scotland because he knows she is strong enough to bear it.”

  I pulled away, looking into his face. “It is just so very far, Arthur. When will I see you and Mother? What if they don’t like me there?”

  “Not like you?” Arthur cried, as though this was impossible to conceive. “Why, no one can resist you.”

  I brightened at this.

  “The Scots will fall madly in love with you,” he went on. “And, think, pretty one, of all the clothes and jewels you will have as queen. There are going to be songs written about you, poems dedicated to you . . . there is so much to look forward to!”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!” I cried, envisioning bolts of velvet and silk, kirtles of cloth of gold, and kid gloves. “I suppose I will be able to eat whatever I want all the time, too.”

  “All the time,” he assured me. “Just mind that you don’t become fat. Nobody likes fat queens!”

  I laughed. “Oh, no, I shall not! I’ll be a beautiful queen and will set a new standard of elegance for the Scots. All the ladies will want to dress like me—”

  “That’s the spirit!” he cried, slapping me on the back as though I were one of the lads.

  I seized my brother’s slim hands. “And you’ll write me all the time?”

  “All the time,” he said, chucking my chin.

  “No one loves me like you do,” I said in a small voice as I regarded my one true champion.

  He waved a dismissive hand, flushing. “Nonsense. Everyone loves you.” He smiled. “Now, enough of this fretting. You act as though you’re the only one to have a foreign prince inflicted on you. As yet you’ve expressed no sympathy regarding my suit.”

  I cocked my head, puzzled.

  “Have you forgotten my marriage to the Infanta, Catalina of Aragon?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Oh, no. But at least she’s coming to you. And I hear she’s very fine and sweet.”

  “And I hear the King of Scots is lusty and robust!” he returned. “We’ll do fine, Sister, you’ll see. We’ll usher our European brothers into a New Age!”

  “A New Age . . .” I repeated, enchanted by the concept of being a luminary. “Do you think we can?”

  “I know we can!” he cried. “Now! Enough. Sit with me and I’ll read you a story to divert you. ‘The Miller’s Tale’ . . .”

  I laughed at the thought of hearing the scandalous tale that Grandmother said was a sin to even listen to. Knowing this made me want to hear it all the more.

  I covered up with one of the furs and warmed myself by the fire, enveloped in the solace and reassurance I had been seeking, knowing there was none luckier than I, to have such a sweet brother as Arthur, Prince of Wales.

  2

  The Song of Loss

  Oh , it was going to be a wonderful year! I was twelve then and beautiful—everyone told me so. Though I was tiny and lacked the curves of some of my contemporaries, I was assured that my daintiness evoked just as much admiration. The worst part about entering womanhood, however, was the menses—how I hated it!

  “I do not understand its necessity!” I once confessed to the old archbishop. “There is no fairness in it.”

  “Things would be different had Eve not led Adam into sin,” he explained, bowing his head to conceal his flushing face.

  “So Adam did not have a mind of his own?” I cried. “If he was witless enough to yield to Eve’s temptation then it is his stupidity that warrants the curse!”

  “Madam, you tread on blasphemy!”

  “Oh, you don’t want to hear it,” I lamented. “You are on his side.”

  And so there was nothing to do but bear it. Fortunately, there were plenty enough diversions to occupy me. The Princess Catalina had arrived! Oh, but she was lovely, so fair and sweet. How I pitied her when her name had to be Anglicized. Now she would be forever known as Catherine of Aragon. How much a princess gave up when leaving her home—her family, her customs, her way of life, even her very name.

  I was at least fortunate to be removing to an English-speaking country, for the most part, and would keep possession of my name.

  I tried my best to offer friendship to my future sister-in-law. She was all Spanish; it oozed from her, reflected in her piety, her thick accent, and her manner of dress. Father was disappointed.

  “Guide her, Margaret,” he told me. “Show her what it is to be an English princess.”

  I was thrilled at this charge and complied with enthusiasm. Catherine was four years my senior but yielded to my instruction, eager to please her new countrymen. Though she demonstrated a strength of character that suggested she would not be manipulated, she agreed to conform to some of the English customs. I enjoyed acquainting myself with her and took to making plans.

  “I shall come visit you in Wales,” I assured her. “And when I live in Scotland I will write you all the time. We will organize meetings between the royal houses that will unite our countries in friendship—it will be so grand! There’ll be masques and entertainments and jousting. England has the best jousters in the world!”

  Catherine offered a kind smile. “It all sounds so lovely. May it come to pass just as you imagine it.”

  Thrilled with the companionship of the princess, I removed to her betrothed that I might tell him of her.

  “She is so lovely, Arthur,” I reported the night before their wedding. “I just know you are going to be happy!” I clasped my hands to my heart and scrunched up my shoulders in glee.

  Arthur was reading abed in his apartments. He offered a lazy smile, then covered his mouth with his handkerchief as his body was seized by a wracking coughing fit. I took to his side, reaching out to feel his forehead.

  “You’re burning up!” I cried. “Oh, Arthur, are you well?”

  He nodded. “No worries, sweeting. I’m just caught up in all the excitement and am a bit worn out.”

  “You must recover yourself for the wedding night!” I teased. My brother Henry had just informed me of the goings-on between a man and maid. He had heard it from Charles Brandon, who was told by Neddy Howard. It sounded horrid and naughty and a little delightful.

  “Remember yourself, Princess!” Arthur commanded, but his tone was good-natured. “Now, you better hurry off to bed!”

  I rose, then paused, curling my hand about the post. “Arthur . . .”

  “What is it, lamb?” he asked.

  “Will you still love me even when you are married?”

  He laughed again. “You are a silly creature; of course I will. My first daughter will be named for you, how is that?”

  I clapped my hands. “Oh, but it would be lovely! And may I stand as godmother to your first son?”

  “You are a demanding little wench,” he said.

  “I must be; I am going to be a queen, after all!” I returned.

  Arthur nodded. “Well, then. I suppose no one would be a better godmother to my first son than you, my dear.”

  “Ha! I can’t wait to tell Mary!” I said. “She will be so jealous!”

  With this I dashed off to the nursery, brimming with excitement as I anticipated the future of the glorious Tudors.

  Arthur and Catherine were married on 14 November at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. Oh, what a lovely pair! Broad-shouldered Henry, who could at ten could pass for fourteen, escorted the bride to her groom. He strutted like a peacock, did Henry, and to look at him one would think the day was all about him. Of course if it were up to Henry every day would have been about him. He had thrown a fit over the fact that I should take precedence at public ceremonies since I would soon be Queen of the Scots, stamping his foot, making quite a proper fool of himself.

  I supposed I could not blame him—
I was guilty of basking in whatever attention given me and as I was the future queen everyone deferred to me before Henry, who was merely the Duke of York and would be nothing more than a glorified landlord and knight. I did not envy him at all.

  Rivalries were dismissed at the wedding of Arthur and Catherine, however, and all eyes were upon them. They were a sweet couple and seemed engulfed in happiness. Catherine emanated a sincere desire to be a good English princess, though at her wedding feast she and her Spanish ladies entertained us with the spirited dances of their homeland.

  “I must learn those dances!” I told Henry. “See how their feet glide—oh, they’re so graceful!”

  He laughed, a sound as infused with merriment as any, and reached for my hand. “Come, Margaret—we will show them all how the English dance!” he cried, and before I could protest we were skipping and alighting about the floor. The onlookers clapped and exclaimed over our prowess.

  “At last Father has deemed fit to throw a real party!” Henry said as we twirled about. “They’re so few and far between—he cannot bear to part himself from a few crowns!”

  “Oh, Henry, you do talk scandalous!” I teased. “But too true!”

  Father was sitting under his canopy of state with his chin in his hand, the fixed smile upon his narrow face forced. He was not a man for frivolities. But he must dazzle the Spanish ambassadors with displays of our wealth and hospitality. It was our obligation to show the world we were a power to be reckoned with, and nothing bespoke power like money and nothing bespoke money like an elaborate entertainment.

  At last I found Arthur, who was pleased to watch the dancers rather than participate overmuch.

  “Are you happy, Arthur?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “I could not have hoped for a more beautiful princess,” he told me. “I wish you the same joy upon your marriage.”