The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

as I listened to the bishop ramble on in Latin. I was not the scholar both Henry and Arthur were and had very little patience or affinity for languages, so the Mass to me was just one endless stream of gibberish. But I remained composed and serene as I imagined a queen should look and complimented the bishop afterwards. His cheeks glowed when I stretched out my hand for him to take and he almost toppled over as he bowed. I stifled a giggle, but my merriment shone through as I lifted him up by the elbow.

      Lord and Lady Northumberland were generous in their admiration of me, giving me such feasting and entertainments that I was overwhelmed with exhaustion. Always there was dancing and eating and then more dancing! As much as I loved it, I found myself longing for a nice sleep in a peaceful place. I longed, too, for my mother and the Princesses Mary and Catherine of Aragon.

      I longed for home.

      I did not have much time to think on it, however, for we quit bustling York on 17 July and I rode my palfrey through the rugged hills of the north. Newcastle greeted me with more choirs of children and I clapped my hands in delight as I listened to the pure, clear voices lifting themselves in my honour.

      ‘I shall give them all presents!’ I cried, and passed them rings and precious stones that I was certain they would sell for food, but I cared not. I was making them happy; they smiled at me as if I were the prettiest, grandest lady in the world and that was all that mattered.

      ‘You must not give away your plate, Your Grace!’ Lady Guild-ford admonished gently.

      ‘It is mine to give, is it not?’ I returned in haughty tones. ‘Besides, they love me for it.’

      ‘You do not have to reduce yourself to such things to make people love you,’ she said quietly.

      I turned toward the brown-haired, plain lady and grimaced in disgust. ‘I know I do not have to buy anyone’s love, if that is what you are so grossly implying. I’ll not hear another word about it.’

      ‘Yes, Your Grace,’ she said, but I liked not the concern in her eyes as she regarded me.

      At Newcastle our party was met by Lord Thomas Dacre, deputy to the Warden of the Marches. From first sight I discerned that he would be a friend to me. He was a broad-shouldered man with a gentle face, if a little weak in the chin. But I liked his eyes, soft hazel eyes that seemed as though they would never dream of imparting unkindness upon another living being.

      ‘I am to escort you to Berwick Castle, Your Grace,’ he told me. ‘And there we will have a hunt if it pleases Your Grace.’

      ‘A hunt?’ I cried in delight. ‘Oh, it seems like forever since I have enjoyed a good hunt!’

      ‘We will have a bearbaiting for the pleasure of Your Grace as well,’ he added, hazel eyes sparkling as though his first and last wish was to delight me.

      I clapped my hands. ‘Are they big bears?’

      He chuckled. ‘The biggest we could find.’

      My heart skipped at the thought of the beasts wrangling with their canine counterparts. Though I feigned excitement at the prospect, in truth bearbaitings frightened me. There was so much blood and death. I hated death …

      But I would not offend Lord Dacre, so I exclaimed and carried on as though it were the most anticipated event of my life.

      When it came time to witness the event, however, I could not refrain from gasping and averting my head as the bear struck the dog with one large paw, tearing into its flesh with its sharp claws.

      ‘You are not happy with this display, Your Grace,’ Lord Dacre observed, and at once I realised it was not a question.

      I turned toward him, offering an apologetic smile.

      ‘I do wish you would have told me; I’d have cancelled the whole thing,’ he said.

      ‘But I couldn’t have done that after you went to so much trouble for me,’ I told him.

      ‘Moving a mountain would be no trouble, were it to be done for you,’ he said, and my heart stirred in delight. How I adored courtiers!

      I hoped the Scottish court was as good to me as Thomas Dacre!

BOOK 2

      

4

       Scotland!

      The progress was getting too long for me and I was anxious to settle at Edinburgh. What began as a joyous journey was now a chore. I grew tired and sore from riding. I wanted to soak in a warm bath for hours and know that for one day I would not have to go anywhere and do anything, not even dress up. Certainly that meant I was exhausted, for I cherished my finery and most any opportunity to don it.

      Accompanied by eighteen hundred ladies and gentlemen, dressed so fine they looked more like dolls than people, we approached Lamberton Kirk, where we encountered the Scots. They were the most glamorous barbarians I had ever seen! Surely I did not think them capable of dressing so fine, but they wore their damasks and cloth of gold and silver much like we did. It was only that crude accent that separated us.

      My hair and gown were threaded with pearls and I was disconcerted by this, for pearls were a symbol of mourning and I had had my fill of that. I banished these dark thoughts from my mind, however, as I lay in my litter gazing at the assemblage of Scots in wonderment. My eyes could not help but be drawn to some of the men’s legs, which their kilts showed to great advantage, and I compared many a well-turned calf. As I admired these rogues I wondered what my husband looked like; I had tried not to think upon him too much during the progress. The thought that I would soon meet him filled me with such fear and excitement that I knew not how to manage it.

      After feasting and entertainment, a thousand of these beautiful barbarians joined our entourage and we set to riding again. I was in Scotland now. England was behind me and I knew not if I would ever return. More and more I found myself swallowing tears. This was a wild place, a beautiful land with its rolling hills and emerald fields. But it was not my land and I was frightened of it. What would these people make of me after the novelty of my arrival had worn off? We had been enemies for so long and grudges died hard …

      On 3 August I was met at Dalkeith and given the keys to the castle by Lord and Lady Morton. This was my last stop before Edinburgh and I was glad of it. Soon I would be at my new home. I could not wait!

      Lady Morton showed my ladies and me to our apartments while the rest of the assemblage sought out their lodgings. Many had to sleep in stables and barns, inns when available, and tents. It was good for me indeed to be queen as I thought of crawling into a comfortable bed with covers and herbs to sweeten my chambers.

      Alone with my ladies I kicked off my slippers and twirled about. ‘I cannot wait to sleep and dream of my coronation! I am so very tired!’ I sat on my bed while Agnes Howard, Lady Surrey, brushed my hair. ‘I should like a hot bath before bed,’ I yawned, imagining being enveloped in steaming scented water. Perhaps they would put lavender in it. Yes, that would be pleasing …

      At once the door burst open and Lady Morton entered, curtsying. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace, but the king is approaching!’

      ‘The king?’ I asked, dazed. I rose. ‘The king! No! He cannot come now! I look – well, I am not ready. He wasn’t supposed to see me till Edinburgh.’

      ‘He