Tudor Princess, The (26 page)

‘You are hardly alone,’ Angus reminded me. ‘And you are hardly a common wife. You are the Queen of Scotland, for love of God, going to meet your brother the King of England! It isn’t as if you are being sent alone with no guards to protect you. Besides, at the court of Henry you will be treated well and entertained; you will hardly miss my presence.’

‘It isn’t about that,’ I returned, shaking my head at him. ‘This is not a progress for pleasure. We are going to discuss the fate of my son, of Scotland. How can you not be by my side for that?’

‘If I accompany you, I may never get to see Scotland again.’ Angus’s tone was low. ‘Then where would we be? How can I help shape the fate of Scotland if I am exiled from her!’

I shook my head. ‘You are afraid. You would rather bargain with the devil than stand beside your own wife. I am ashamed of you, Angus. You are a coward.’

Angus bowed his head. ‘Maybe I am,’ he said, his voice husky. ‘But I will better serve you, my king, and our interests if I am a coward within the kingdom. Perhaps if you could trust me, you could see that.’

‘I see no such thing,’ I hissed. ‘You are afraid of losing your precious estates and the esteem of Albany and his cronies. You would rather stand with a horde of wrongdoers for the strength of their numbers than stand with any one person, no matter how isolated they are in their rightness, for to do so could risk losing a future political opportunity!’

Angus’s eyes flashed almost onyx at that and I knew I had him.

‘Someday,’ Angus told me, ‘you will regret what you have said.’

‘Until then,’ I hissed, ‘God keep you, my dear husband.’

The anger faded from Angus’s eyes, replaced with a sadness I did not want to acknowledge.

‘God keep you, my dear Margaret,’ he said.

And then he was gone.

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T
hough Lord Dacre’s kind eyes reflected sympathy over my husband’s desertion, he was far too polite to voice his opinion. There was too much to do, and even I could not ponder it overmuch. We were to set out to London at last. Soon I would be with my brother and he would set things right, perhaps even have some words for my derelict husband.

Our progress, reminiscent of my long-ago journey to Scotland, gathered a large party of well-wishers to accompany me home. I was feeling rejuvenated with purpose and impatient to arrive at my brother’s court. Each long-suffering plod of the exhausted horse’s hooves, each stop we made along the way, was a torturous hindrance to my goal. Lord Dacre rode with me to Newcastle, where the mayor and my sister-in-law’s equerry Thomas Parr met us. Though I was grateful to be greeted with the proper ceremony and courtesy, I saw all stops as unnecessary. I was feeling as well as could be and wanted to keep moving!

We made it to Stony Stratford in Buckinghamshire, where I drafted a quick note to my brother conveying my eagerness for our reunion, resting before we pressed on. I was so close! I could barely eat or take rest for excitement, though we did at our last stop of Enfield, where we stayed in the comforts of the Lord Treasurer’s home. This, too, lengthened the journey beyond what I found reasonable, though I exuded nothing but gratitude to all of my hosts.

Inside I was mad with anticipation. My heart raced, my face tingled in giddy, girlish delight; every facet of my being longed for London, for my family, for home.

I rode in on a gentle palfrey, a sturdy white echo of others, the ones my father had sent with me to Scotland that were destined to perish in a fire. I willed the vision out of my heart, that and my late husband’s remedy of new white palfreys. Jamie had always been good at making up … I wondered if Angus would ever be compelled to the same chivalry his predecessor had practiced with such ease.

But my arrival was not about either husband and I forced myself to think of the present. At Tottenham Cross my brother met us at last.

He was a sight to behold, and far different from the little brother I had battled wills with as children. His hair and beard shone golden red, a beacon of light for this weary traveller, and his smile exuded confident radiance. Henry stood strong and tall, rippling with the muscles of a young warrior and decked in the regalia of his station; he shared my love of fashion and would never appear in public as anything less than a king. Looking at him, I knew he was everything my father hoped he would be. My face ached from smiling as I took him in.

We were not permitted a personal greeting yet; I was received as his sister the queen in his booming voice, thunderous and thrilling to hear as I realised with a laugh that any time I thought of my brother speaking it was still in his child’s voice. I longed to throw my arms around him and talk of times gone by and times yet to come. But, as the last, sweetest, most tantalising leg of my journey, that had to wait … for now I had to be content with a meeting of monarchs.

We rode to Baynard’s Castle at the head of a grand welcoming party Henry assembled for my reception. As we rode I could not help but offer my brother the happiest of smiles; the crowds were too boisterous for us to converse, but the joy on our faces rendered words inadequate as it were. I could not take my eyes off Henry; I longed to impress this memory in my mind for as long as I lived; who knew when we would see each other in a time of such bliss again?

When at last I was shown to my apartments, we were afforded our longed-for moment of privacy. I threw myself into Henry’s arms, taking comfort in his strong, hearty embrace. Being held by a member of my own family once more served only to remind me of who was not present, and the thought of Father and Mother, Grandmother, and old Archbishop Morton coaxed forth an onset of tears. My shoulders quaked with sobs as Henry stroked my back, clucking endearments in my ear as he would to a distraught child.

Collecting myself somewhat, I pulled away, my arms still entwined through Henry’s as I gazed into his ruddy face. His blue eyes were lit with tears in turn, but his smile was irrepressible; the imp he was as a child was quite alive in the man.

‘Forgive my tears,’ I said, my first words to my brother in the privacy of my chambers. ‘It’s just there is so much to take in – and so much that is no longer here.’

Henry shook his head. ‘I know,’ he returned. ‘But too many wondrous events have transpired these past few months to think on that, my dear sister. We’ve three bonny Tudor babes in our nursery! Think of that! Your precious little Margaret, our little princess, and another Henry in the Brandon boy! Now how is that for good fortune?’

Listing the babies present drove the thought home again of those who were not, those who never would be, and I fought the urge to cry again. Henry must have perceived this and took me in his arms again.

‘Ah, Margaret, I’m so sorry. We’ve lost much,’ he cooed as he rocked from side to side. ‘It does no good that your husband couldn’t even accompany you,’ he added to my chagrin. I could only imagine how disappointed Henry was in Angus. ‘Done like a Scot,’ he uttered again, his now famous phrase for my husband’s betrayal.

‘I am just so happy to be with you,’ I said, hoping to avoid the topic for now.

‘And I you,’ Henry said as he pulled away once more. Now he took the time to assess me, and heat flushed my cheeks as his gaze travelled from my hood to my slippers. ‘Well, at least they fed you well in Scotland,’ he offered, which I chose to take as a compliment. I was not nearly so stout as I was months ago and was too proud of my newfound figure, curvaceous as it was, to take it as anything less.

‘That they did,’ I said. ‘But it was your Lord Dacre who restored my health best after the birth of baby Margaret,’ I told him, to appeal to his pride.

‘I am glad of it,’ Henry assured me, squeezing my hand. ‘And now we are to be all together again for a time!’ he exclaimed with a joy so contagious I could not help but smile in turn. ‘We shall keep you merry here in England, Sister. We have ordered feasts and entertainments to celebrate your arrival; we shall dance together as we did when we were children!’

‘I will cherish every moment,’ I told him in truth. Unlike when I was a child, I knew now that such moments were to be treasured beyond the most coveted jewels.

They were stolen all too often as we grew.

My sister, Mary, came to see me in the company of my sister-in-law Queen Catherine. I was not prepared for my reaction to either. Mary was slim and fair as ever, even for just having borne a child, and it was easy to see why she had maintained her position of favourite despite any scandal. She had a special talent for being the mildest, most agreeable person to one’s face no matter how she followed her own convictions behind one’s back. With her ethereal features, fair hair, and light eyes, she was every bit the opposite of her sturdy older sister, and seeing her caused my bones to ache with my own inadequacies. Her carriage and manner were fluid as a dancer’s, her speech soft and sweet as honey. I moved about in a brash, heavy way no matter how big or small I was at the time and my speech had become foreign in my own ears next to those of the English around me; I rolled my
R
s and had assumed many of the phrases of my adopted homeland, sounding grating, guttural, and northern.

I had become a Scot.

Catherine, conversely, was not the beauty my sister was, and this lifted my spirits somewhat. She had also grown a bit stouter and her expression revealed the all-pervasive exhaustion afforded by continual loss. I offered her a cool smile and stiff embrace. Never far from my mind was her triumph over my late husband’s slaying. Seeing her confirmed I would never be able to think of her with the fondness of our childhood connection again.

But together we sat and spoke of lighthearted things. No one spoke of Mary’s outrageous debt to Henry or of the rumours of Henry’s philandering on Catherine. Nor did they mention Angus and his scandalous desertion or the loss of my little Alexander.

The visit was steeped in formality and falsehood.

It was as if we had never met, had never shared any common bond, and were now forced together out of necessity; we danced the dance of diplomats and courtiers – ever superficial, ever polite.

Ever strangers.

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