The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

room of scrambling servants and councillors all too eager to do his bidding.

      Father rounded the desk once more to look out of the window, past the gardens, past the tower, far past the known horizon. He was squinting. I found myself doing the same, though I had no idea what we were looking for.

      ‘You do realise that as a daughter of this house yours is not an ordinary future We have planned,’ he said. ‘Margaret, the peace of kingdoms depends on you.’

      ‘Oh, if this is about me sinning again I can tell you I have been good for at least a week!’ I cried.

      He silenced me with a hand. ‘Margaret, I’ve news on your suit.’

      I began to tremble. My suit. I braced myself. What prince had my father chosen for me? To what distant land would I be sent?

      ‘We need an end to these frays with Scotland and one of the ways of achieving that is by forming an alliance,’ he explained. ‘D’you understand?’

      I shook my head, though against my will comprehension was settling upon me, clutching my heart in its merciless talons until I became short of breath.

      ‘Don’t swoon on me now, child,’ Father commanded. ‘You’ve never been a fainting girl and now is no time to start.’ He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘Margaret. You are going to be what unites our kingdoms. You are going to bring about a better understanding between us. You are meant for greatness, perhaps a greatness that surpasses even your own brother the Crown Prince Arthur, because yours is a task that is far from easy.’ With this he shook me somewhat, not in cruelty, but to illustrate his passion. Fear coursed through me. ‘Margaret, my child, this is your purpose: You are to become the Queen of the Scots.’

      Had I been a fainting girl, that would have been the time.

      I did not know how to feel, what to think. Queen … But I knew I would be a queen; Princesses of the Blood are primed from birth for this function. From cradle to table I had been told that I would marry a prince, that I must bear him many sons, else be deemed a failure. And so with this in mind I prepared for my role as political breeder.

      The night I learned I was to become Queen of the Scots – Scots, as if he couldn’t find a more glamorous country than where that lot of barbarians reside! – there was none with whom I could find comfort. For a while I climbed into bed with little Princess Mary, my three-year-old sister, cuddling her close. This golden princess would have a charmed life, I was certain. She was so agreeable and adorable; as yet she showed none of my sinful inclinations and everyone fawned over her.

      At once I rose from the bed of the favoured princess, stirred to anger as I thought of the wonderful marriage Father would arrange for her. No doubt she would live in some glorious court where there would be artists and musicians to entertain her all day long – likely she’d get to live in sunny Spain or romantic France while I wasted away in the north, freezing in some drafty castle surrounded by fur-clad courtiers who spoke as though they had something obstructing their throats …! I dared not think on it any more. I crossed the rush-strewn floor on bare feet, wringing my hands and blinking back tears. I, Margaret Tudor, was going to be Queen of the Scots … those frightening, monstrous Scots …

      I retrieved a wrap and sneaked out of the nursery, down the hall. I would see my brother Arthur. Gentle, sweet Arthur, so unlike fiery Henry and docile Mary, would be able to guide me.

      The guards stood aside to admit me into the apartments of the Prince of Wales. He was lying across some furs before his fire, thumbing through The Canterbury Tales. When he saw me, his handsome, scholarly face lit up with a smile.

      ‘Sister,’ he said in his handsome voice. ‘A midnight visit. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit? Take some wine.’ He held the book up for me to see. ‘I know, I shouldn’t be indulging myself in such fancy, but the naughty parts are too delightful to ignore!’

      The tears that had settled in my throat since learning of my impending betrothal were replaced by a smile as I sat beside my brother. There was no one like Arthur the world over, I was convinced. He was the gentlest, sweetest prince in Christendom and would no doubt be a fine king. He was not athletic like Henry, nor did he possess my younger brother’s fleet dancing feet. Arthur was an intellectual; content to study, to ponder, to think. His beauty was delicate and whenever I was with him I could not help but feel the need to protect him, nurture him, just as he had always protected and nurtured me.

      The smile faded at the thought, replaced by fresh tears. ‘Oh, Arthur,’ I began. ‘I hate that I never get to see you. With you living in Ludlow and me here with nobody but Henry to annoy me and Grandmother to torture me … it is a miserable existence!’

      ‘So I suppose it best to dispense with the obligatory “how are you?”’ Arthur teased, his blue eyes sparkling as he reached out to cup my cheek. ‘Now, now, Sister, is it as bad as all that? Far be it for me to disagree with you about Grandmother, but our Henry means well enough. He may be annoying, but his love and devotion are fierce and you do have sweet little Mary—’

      ‘Henry’s love and devotion are fierce only when you’re in his favour and we’re rarely in each other’s favour … and Mary is favoured by everyone. I pale under the glory of her sun. She is the flawless little Tudor rose and I am the thorn they long to cut out,’ I pouted.

      ‘So intense!’ Arthur cried, sitting up and putting his book aside.

      ‘But since it would be unseemly to cut the thorn they shall send her to the land of the thistles – to Scotland!’ I cried, scowling. ‘Can you believe it, Arthur? Scotland? They may as well be sending me to hell!’

      Arthur chuckled, but I took no pleasure in the handsome sound. It mocked my misery and my brow ached from furrowing it at him. ‘So that is what this display is about,’ he said. ‘Come here, darling girl.’ He held out his arm and I scooted in next to him. He gathered me close, stroking my hair. ‘We are special people, Margaret,’ he told me. ‘Special people with very special responsibilities. You know well; your whole life has been preparing you for this zenith. It seems unfair; princes are allowed to stay in their native countries for the most part while our sacred princesses must scatter to the four winds, their sacrifice in order to secure sound alliances for the countries to which they are bound. We are God’s chosen, though, my dearest. Chosen to lead His people, chosen to defend them and honour them. You are going to be a queen, Margaret. An anointed queen. No one can ever take that away from you. You have the power to do so much good. I know Scotland is not the land you dreamed of spending your life in. They are very different from us; but Father would not send you if he thought you would come to harm. He longs to bring about a good alliance between our two countries. Think of the role you can play in securing that glorious peace! Think of the legacy you will leave! The mark you will make! Margaret, there has not been peace between our two countries in one hundred and seventy years. You have the opportunity of setting things right.’

      ‘I don’t want to set anything right! I don’t want to go away! I want to stay with you!’ I cried, burying my head in his chest.

      Arthur chuckled again. ‘You must be brave, lass, brave. Take heart and look sharp! A thistle can outlast a thousand roses. Father sends his little thorn to the wilds of Scotland because he knows she is strong enough to bear it.’

      I pulled away, looking into his face. ‘It is just so very far, Arthur. When will I see you and Mother? What if they don’t like me there?’

      ‘Not like you?’ Arthur cried, as though this was impossible to conceive. ‘Why, no one can resist you.’

      I brightened at this.

      ‘The Scots will fall madly in love with you,’ he went on. ‘And, think, pretty one, of all the clothes and jewels you will have as queen. There are going to be songs written about you, poems dedicated to you … there is so much to look forward to!’

      ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!’ I cried, envisioning bolts of velvet and silk, kirtles of cloth of gold, and kid gloves. ‘I suppose I will be able to eat whatever I want