LITMIR.BIZ

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so for this night we shall put aside our sceptres and face each other as father and daughter.’

      My lip quivered. Tears began their course down my cheeks; it was a slow progress. Father stroked them away with his thumb.

      ‘I would like to tell you a story,’ he told me, gathering me in his arms. I yielded to the rare display of physical contact; indeed I had always been a loving girl and eager for affection to such an extent that Grandmother had to warn me against the impropriety of sitting on priests’ laps when confessing as a wee girl. Now I flung myself into my father’s arms without restraint, nuzzling my head against his black velvet doublet, taking solace in the embrace for a long moment before he pulled away. He smoothed my hair against my face and offered a sad smile.

      ‘Come now, enough,’ he cooed in soft tones. ‘Lie back and let me cover you,’ he said as I settled back among my pillows. He drew the covers over my shoulders again, then reached out to stroke my hair. ‘Will you remember everything I, your father the king, tell you this night?’

      I offered a grave nod.

      He smiled. ‘From the very first day you were born I knew you would be Queen of the Scots. You were born on St Andrew’s Eve. Saint Andrew, as well you know, is the patron saint of Scotland,’ he added for good measure. I closed my eyes, trying to emblazon his low musical tone in my heart as he continued. How I hoped never to forget the timbre of his voice! ‘I had you christened the very next day at the church honouring Scotland’s Saint Margaret. It was fortuitous, I thought even then. Though it was yet to be addressed, I knew someday, somehow there would be a great alliance between the thistle and the rose through you. And thus it has come to be, and not without its critics,’ he added with a soft chuckle. ‘When I was making the treaty there were those who feared that should the fates be cruel and my heirs stolen from me, leaving you to succeed to the throne of England, it would leave Scotland in control. But I was not in the least bit afraid of such a thing. I told them England will never yield to Scotland but Scotland to England and so it shall someday, and through you. Our crowns are destined to become one. I am convinced of it.’

      ‘How do you know?’ I asked him in a small voice.

      His eyes were filled with wonder as he looked beyond me. ‘I have seen it in a dream. I have seen it and I believe it.’ He reached down again to stroke my head. ‘You must be strong, Margot. What we Tudors are given to endure God gives us the strength to endure. Be a queen before you are a woman always. Always remember that you stand alone; monarchs have no true friends and must act with constant caution. No one will ever truly love you, my child, and I say it not to be cruel. It is a lonely business …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Do not be ruled by your passions; let your head govern you in all that you do. I fear for your brother in that regard.’ His eyes clouded a moment as he sighed. ‘Oh, but you are so young …’ He shook his head, closing his eyes and biting his lip. ‘You will never know what it costs me to let you go. I can offer you all the jewels and gowns in my realm as parting gifts; I can give you palfreys and coaches and splendid litters, every material thing that could satisfy your desire. But it would not be enough; nothing in this world would ever be enough to show you how much …’ His voice caught. ‘How much I love you.’

      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, memorising 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 splendour. 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 be? 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

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