LITMIR.BIZ

      

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 anglicised. 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 organise 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’d 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 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 was given to 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

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