LITMIR.BIZ

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we’re all human and it is in our nature to sin, but I do not believe reducing the regularity of the habit to be an impossibility—’

      ‘How on God’s earth do you expect me to have any fun that way?’ I cried.

      ‘Charity shall be your penance,’ said the archbishop in decisive tones as he rose. ‘I should like you to accompany your grandmother on her charitable exploits. ’Twill teach you humility as well and do your soul much good.’

      ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ I bowed my head in an attempt at humility, though I was much aggrieved at the thought of accompanying Grandmother anywhere. I raised my head, hoping there was some way to endear myself to him. ‘Thank you ever so!’ I cried then, throwing my arms about his waist and resting my chin against his chest, casting adoring eyes to his stern countenance. How I wished he would scoop me up in his arms and carry me off to Lambeth. Then I could be his little girl most loved. Of course, archbishops couldn’t have little girls, so I supposed it would do to place this fantasy with yet another gentleman. Unfortunately, I seemed to be running out.

      ‘Now, now, Highness, that is quite enough!’ cried the archbishop as he disengaged himself from me.

      Blinking back a sudden onset of tears, I fell to my knees and, in an unusual display of reverence, kissed his grand ring.

      ‘I will pray fervently for your soul, Your Highness,’ he told me.

      I rose. ‘Your Grace … no one ever did tell me … what is a whore?’

      ‘Your Highness …’ The archbishop removed his cap to run a hand through his thinning white hair. ‘You’ll … find out when you’re older.’

      I refrained from stamping my foot.

      I’d find out when I was older. Everyone’s favourite answer when they couldn’t tell me a thing. Likely they didn’t even know!

      Oh, confession was a bore!

      I resolved to think of a hundred other fun sins to indulge in, just to spite them all.

      If anything, it would make the dread chore more interesting. It was rather fun shocking the Archbishop of Canterbury.

      I liked shocking everyone.

      Christmastide distracted me from my mischievous missions and was all the incentive I needed to remain good. Grandmother said this in itself is a sin; I should be good because I wanted to be good, not because it involved some kind of reward.

      ‘But aren’t you being good just so you can get into heaven?’ I countered, recalling my grandmother’s famous displays of piety. ‘That is a reward.’

      This rewarded me with a clout on the mouth and no satisfactory answer.

      We removed from Greenwich to Westminster, where all the family would be together for the first time in many months. Excitement surged through me as I peeked out of the curtains of my litter to wave to the throng gathered at the palace gates, who shouted blessings at me.

      ‘Bless the princess!’ they called.

      ‘Throw them some coin; that’s what they’re waiting for,’ my grandmother urged in stern tones. ‘Goodness knows they’re not really here to see you.’

      ‘They are, too!’ I returned. ‘They adore me!’

      Just to ensure this, however, I reached into her purse to fish out a handful of sovereigns, tossing them to the awaiting crowd, who scrambled and scuffled over them in the street. My heart lurched as the truth of my grandmother’s words rang in my ears.

      When at last I was permitted to quit the litter and my grandmother’s deplorable company, I ran through the Long Gallery to search out my family. I offered warm greetings to the courtiers and dignitaries who surrounded Father like butterflies around flowers. All rewarded me with smiles and bows.

      The Archbishop of Canterbury was there. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘Well, Princess Margaret. You have come to grace us with your presence for the holiday season. Let us pray the palace doesn’t take fire this year.’

      My eyes misted as I recalled my precious Sheen, now being rebuilt as my father had promised into a grand palace he had decided to call Richmond, for our family’s seat.

      ‘Well, I didn’t do it,’ I assured him, in case that had been his implication.

      The archbishop, in a moment of rare tenderness, ruffled my hair as he chuckled. ‘Of course not, Your Highness. Now. Come with me. You’ll be anxious to see your father, no doubt.’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ I cried, sliding my hand in his and leaning my head on his arm. He disengaged and my arm fell to my side as we progressed through the gallery toward my father’s apartments.

      We entered King Henry VII’s privy chamber to find him hunched over his writing table, scouring documents. He did not put them aside when my presence was announced and I stood among members of the council, who rolled their eyes at each other as if to say, Here she is again.

      Yes, here I am again and you’ll never forget me! I longed to cry. I was not some common street urchin; I was Princess Margaret Tudor and a finer lass they’d never lay eyes upon!

      But I said nothing. I sighed and fiddled with the pearls sewn into the neckline of my blue velvet gown. I plaited and unplaited my coppery tresses over my shoulder to busy my fidgety hands, until at last the King of England raised his taciturn face toward me. With one slim hand, he gestured for me to come forth.

      I made a face at the councillors present, hoping to convey my dislike for them in one charming grimace, and proceeded toward the grand table. I curtsied low.

      ‘Margaret,’ he muttered in his gruff voice, looking me up and down. ‘So this is what we have to work with.’

      I scowled before I could help myself. ‘Your Grace?’

      ‘Altogether too thin,’ he mumbled, looking down at his papers. ‘You had better be able to bear children else you’ll be no use at all.’

      ‘Your Grace!’ I cried. This was not the happy reunion I had envisaged. But then most of my fantasies fell scathingly short of reality. I heaved a deep sigh. ‘There is no reason to believe I shouldn’t be able to bear a wealth of sons, my lord. I am of good Tudor and Plantagenet stock – I will do you proud.’

      He raised his head at this, offering a rueful smile. ‘I think I rather like you,’ he said, as though he were experiencing an epiphany and the idea of actually liking his children was quite novel indeed.

      ‘You’ll not let anyone get the best of you, will you?’ he mused, rising and rounding the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. ‘You are of particular interest to me this year, Daughter,’ he said, his narrow face creasing into a smile. I must say he looked horrible. His auburn hair grazed his shoulders in a straight and sensible mass that did his long features no good at all. I wished he’d cut it. He looked like an old fox wrapped in his furs, an old fox waiting to leap out and, with the slyness associated with the creature, wreak subtle havoc on those who dared oppose him.

      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, modernised the government through the appointments of councillors (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

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