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The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette
Читать онлайн.Название The Tudor Princess
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007497799
Автор произведения Darcey Bonnette
Издательство HarperCollins
‘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 that 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.’
‘I wish you didn’t have to go to Ludlow,’ I pined. ‘It’s so cold and far away.’
‘Be brave, Margaret,’ Arthur said, his blue eyes sparkling with unshed tears. ‘Always remember what I’ve told you. Remember who you are.’
In turn I offered my bravest smile. It was my last private moment with Arthur.
Upon his removal to the border of Wales my Arthur perished four months after his wedding, a victim of the terrible sweat … Oh, Arthur, you were supposed to be revelling in your princess. You were supposed to be giving me a godson and a namesake to follow. You were going to be happy … We were going to usher in a New Age … Oh, Arthur, who would ever love me like you?
The bells that had exclaimed my brother’s joy rang out a song of mourning that resonated deep within me; my heart pounded in time with each heavy toll, its own mourning anthem a constant, aching reminder of hope lost. I kept my own counsel during that time, crying soft tears when afforded the privacy to do so. The kind archbishop tried to coax from me confessions of my anger and hurt over my brother’s death, but I could not talk to him. There were no words that would bring my Arthur back.
The Crown Prince was dead, his beautiful bride widowed, and I was not the only one to feel the void of his loss. Mother took to her bed, inconsolable. Henry and little Mary clung to each other, but I noted a grim flicker in Henry’s blue eyes. Was it satisfaction? Surely not. And yet I could not doubt he was relishing the fact that he was now the Crown Prince; Arthur’s demise afforded him with the once unforeseen destiny of becoming King of England. Oh, Henry, there is something missing in you, I wanted to scream, but had no strength. He was but ten and I supposed everything was all a little unreal to a ten-year-old boy, who was so very behind a twelve-year-old girl in everything.
Father was devastated by the loss. Arthur was his pride. He loved him. Now his love was showered upon Henry; he became overprotective and strict, determined to prepare the boy for a life never anticipated for him. I almost pitied Henry as he adopted his new role. There was talk that he would become betrothed to Catherine, which would at least enable her to remain my sister-in-law. Though the thought comforted me, I found it strange to think that Henry would have all of Arthur’s leavings, right down to his own wife.
Mother’s way of combating the grief was by proving her fertility. She was with child. Thus far she had been pregnant seven times, suffering stillbirths and miscarriages in addition to the loss of our beloved Arthur. Perhaps she hoped to ensure the succession by giving England another healthy prince in case Henry should meet with the same fate … Oh, I could not bear to think of that.
Father was delighted, and though he was not a demonstrative man, he showered her with gifts.
‘What can bring us more comfort than the hope new life brings?’ he asked me, his stern countenance yielding to a rare smile that revealed more wistfulness than cheer.
The baby arrived but was short-lived. Our little Prince Edward was born a month premature and died within his first weeks of life. I did not cry this time. The state of my fear was too great, and as I regarded my gentle, fair-haired mother, her head bent in prayer, I pondered my fate. Was this what it meant to be a queen? To give and give and give of oneself and only lose in return? Your girls were sent abroad, your boys were set apart for their glorious educations, and God claimed the rest … Surging through me was a fear cold as ice. I trembled. I was so gripped by nausea I could not abide the sight of food and became even tinier.
It seemed despite everything, kings enjoyed the glory while queens bore the pain.
It was a heady thing.
Mother wasted no time grieving and in the winter of 1502 her belly swelled yet again. This time I could not contain my anxiety. Nerves caused me to take to my bed with dreadful headaches. The nurse brought this to Mother’s attention and she alighted to my side one evening over Christmastide.
‘Margaret, darling, what is happening to you?’ she asked in her soft voice. Ah, her voice. There was none like it; it was akin to a gentle wind, warm and sweet, never raised. There existed in the world no gentler a mother and tears streamed down my cheeks at the thought of causing her distress of any kind.
I sat up in my bed and wrapped my arms about her neck, burying my head in her shoulder. She began to sway, stroking my hair.
‘Margaret,’ she murmured. ‘What is it? Tell me.’
‘Oh, my lady, I am so afraid!’ I confided. ‘What if you lose this baby, too? How will your poor body bear it? You’re so delicate and pale.’ I reached up to stroke a flaxen curl away from her alabaster cheek.
Mother pulled away, cupping my face in her hands. ‘You mustn’t worry about me, darling. This is what I was made for. God’s will be done.’
‘I am afraid of God’s will,’ I confessed.
‘You must not be afraid, for He intends only the very best,’ she told me. ‘Now enough fretting. You do not want to spoil your beauty for the Scottish Embassy; we can’t have them telling King James his bride’s face is tearstained, that she is beside herself with nerves. You must be strong. Arthur would want you to be strong,’ she added, her eyes knowing as she confronted my deepest grief.
‘Arthur …’ I covered my eyes to ward off a vision of my gentle brother, a vision that taunted me by being forever unattainable. ‘Then the baby. Oh, Mother, I am so sorry about the baby.’ I drew in a shuddering breath. ‘I watch you endure and you’re so gracious and strong. I want to be like you, but I am so afraid I will never live up to your queenly example. I am afflicted with such fear – all I can think of is childbearing and what it’d be like if I were in your place. How would I bear losing my Crown Prince and all those babies? How would I go on?’
‘You go on because it is your duty,’ she said. ‘I will not pretend that it doesn’t break my heart; sometimes I think I lose a little more of myself with each passing.’ Her tone became thoughtful. ‘But we cannot bury ourselves with our loved ones. As queens we have a duty to our countries. We must provide heirs as long as we are able.’
‘What a business!’ I sniffed, anger replacing my tears. ‘We are good for nothing else!’
‘We are good for a great many things,’ she told me. ‘A subtle queen can advise her husband and be involved with the politics of the land if she is clever enough to make him think he does not know how much he relies upon her.’
I smiled.