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hope so,’ she said with her gentle smile. ‘Now you must try and stop grieving, lamb. In a few days the Scots will arrive and you shall be married by proxy in a grand ceremony. The king is sending you all kinds of marvellous gifts.’

      ‘Gifts? Oh, gifts!’ I exclaimed. At once my head felt much better. ‘What do you suppose a Scot gives his bride?’

      ‘With any luck, a Scottish bairn!’ cried Mother, taking me in her arms. We dissolved into laughter as I anticipated my impending nuptials.

      The proxy ceremony was held on 15 January in my mother’s presence chamber. My northern groom was most generous, sending me a magnificent trousseau from Paris and a gown worth 160 pounds. I almost swooned with delight – what a splendid prince he must be!

      How grand everyone looked, even Father, so solemn and stern in his black velvet, and Mother a serene picture of fertility and grace, her golden hair piled beneath her hood in an array of glossy curls.

      I was bedecked in grand state robes of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, my throat encircled in jewels, and almost every slim finger ornamented with rings. My copper tresses tumbled to my waist in thick waves and I walked in slow, measured steps, my back straight, my head erect, proud as a Tudor should be.

      The Scots did not look as odd as I imagined. There was something alluring about these men; there was an energy in their presence. They were alive. A thrill coursed through me as I pondered my future husband, wondering if he was as handsome and lusty as they said.

      Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, served as proxy, looking most fierce and proud as he took my trembling hand before the Archbishop of Glasgow.

      The archbishop regarded my parents on the dais and asked them if they knew of any impediment other than what had been dispensed. They said they did not. When I was asked I responded in a clear, strong voice that I, too, knew of nothing to impede my marriage to King James.

      Lord Bothwell’s hand was warm in mine and I found myself squeezing it. He squeezed it in turn, glancing at me sideways and offering a quick smile as if to reassure me. The archbishop asked if it was in the King of Scots’ will and mind that he marry me in his name, to which the earl answered with a confident yes.

      The archbishop turned his eyes to me. ‘And you, Princess. Are you content, without compulsion, and of your own free will?’

      No! I wanted to scream. Who in their right mind was content with the idea of being exiled to Scotland of all places? But I remained calm and composed. I was a Princess of the Blood.

      ‘If it pleases my lord and father the king and lady mother the queen,’ I said, making certain my voice resonated throughout the chambers. I would show these Scots that their queen would be strong and able.

      ‘It is my will and pleasure,’ my father rumbled, his expression wistful as he beheld me.

      Lord Bothwell repeated his vows after the archbishop, and I strained against his thick Scots brogue, trying to understand the words through the rolling Rs and guttural, throaty tones of speech. To think a whole country talked like that and I had to head them up!

      My back ached from standing so straight, but I drew myself even straighter as I repeated after the archbishop, ‘I, Margaret, first-begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty prince and princess, Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent, right high and mighty prince, James, King of Scotland and therefore I plight and give to him in your person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.’

      At once the trumpets sounded and the minstrels burst into song. A bubble of laughter caught in my chest as I turned to the earl.

      ‘Many congratulations, Your Grace,’ he told me, dipping into a bow.

      Your Grace! I was a Grace! I shot a smug look at my brother, Henry, who was all too eager to sit on the throne. He scrunched his nose up at me but was smiling. I expected both of us were eager to dazzle our guests with our dancing.

      Father led the band of Scots to his apartments while Mother approached me, sliding her hand into mine. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, and her tone of reverence humbled me. She curtsied before me. I curtsied in turn.

      We were no longer simply mother and daughter but two queens, two great monarchs.

      Two Graces!

      This was something I could not revel in for long, however, for Mother was now leading me to my apartments. I exchanged state robes for a shift and my hair was brushed till it shone. Mother ran her fingers through it and laughed.

      ‘You are all Tudor,’ she said. ‘That lustrous red hair is your pride.’

      I smiled at my reflection in the glass. I may not have been as beautiful as my little sister, but I was comely with my round face, full lips, and wide, lively brown eyes. Mother, accompanied by my gentle aunts and ladies, put me to bed, covering me up to my shoulders, fanning my hair about the pillow in a pleasing array. She uncovered my foot to the ankle, and the crisp air caused me to shiver. I began to bounce my foot in nervousness.

      ‘Be still, love,’ said Mother. ‘You must be composed.’

      With effort I collected myself. It would not do to see the Queen of Scots fidgeting in her bed.

      It was not long before male voices were heard approaching, Scots and Englishmen laughing and jesting. None would think from that night that there was a moment’s unrest between our two kingdoms.

      The men entered my chambers, led in by Father and the Archbishops of Glasgow, York, and Canterbury. I offered a shy smile at the last, feeling peculiar that they should see me in such estate. Patrick Hepburn, my proxy husband, was dressed in nought but his shift and he approached the bed, looking at once imposing and awkward. I resisted the urge to shrink away from him as he exposed his bare leg. I pressed my foot to his thigh, my toes cold against his warm flesh. It was so odd that the act should amount to a legal consummation that I stifled another nervous giggle.

      The room erupted into cheers and wine was passed about. The men vacated to take in their share and my aunts surrounded me on the bed laughing and I admitted that I was relieved I was not asked to do anything else but press my foot to Hepburn’s hairy leg that night.

      The thought of all that a real consummation entailed filled me with as much dread as delight.

      All of London was celebrating me! There were masques and jousts and feasting. My hunger was insatiable, rejuvenated after a year of grieving and poor appetite. Henry and I gobbled everything in sight; we could not get enough of the roast boar, the eels, the mutton, the meat pies and puddings, the creamy cheeses, the wine that flowed so readily. We danced, our cheeks glowing and ruddy from spirits and excitement. Only on the floor did my chest clench with a pang of sadness as I recalled Arthur, how we would have celebrated that day, how he would have favoured me with words of gentleness and wisdom. Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them away. I would not have the Scots thinking I was a reluctant queen. I tossed my hair about and commenced to dance with tireless vigour as Henry and I ushered in the dawn.

      At the jousts I sat beside Lord Bothwell, waving to the glittering knights, awarding them with tokens and prizes for their command of the lance. Oh, they were so brave and fine, those English knights, and I could not imagine their like existing in Scotland.

      The earl asked me to point out the jousters and tell him about them. I did so, waving my hands with enthusiasm as I bragged about their prowess. As I did, I heard a Scots ambassador lean in to his companion and say, ‘Poor lass, she’s just a babe.’ ‘Aye,’ agreed the friend.

      My cheeks flushed in anger. I was not a babe! That day, for all intents and purposes, I was a bride and a queen.

      I would show them that this babe was no one to trifle with.

      My sister Catherine was born dead on 2 February, just a few short weeks after my wedding. A few

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