The Tudor Princess. Darcey Bonnette

Sometimes letters do not seem as though they will be enough.’

      ‘They will have to be,’ Henry told me. He turned toward me, taking my hands in his. He was truly a promising lad, I realised then, putting aside previous rivalry and prejudices. Perhaps he hadn’t been as cold as I’d thought. His blue eyes shone with nothing but sincerity now.

      ‘Just remember I am your brother,’ he told me. ‘I will always protect you. And when you are afraid, remember this moment. Come to this very spot in your mind and I will be here to hold your hands. Kings never rest, nor do their queens, yet even God had a seventh day.’ He laughed, squeezing my hands in his. ‘So let this be our seventh day,’ he said. ‘Whenever you are afraid or it is all too much to bear, take your seventh day in your mind, and we will all be together again. It will give you strength.’

      I reached out, stroking his cheek. It was a lovely thought to hold on to. ‘I am sorry if I was ever mean to you, Henry,’ I was compelled to say.

      Henry laughed. ‘I can take it,’ he said. ‘What kind of prince would I be were I not able to handle the women in my life!’

      I laughed in turn as he took me in his arms before we made our way back to the rest of the party.

      ‘Farewell, Sister,’ Henry said when we reached the assemblage. ‘Hold your own against those barbarians!’

      Princess Catherine of Aragon laughed at this. ‘Now, Your Highness, you must not scare her,’ she admonished in her gentle tone as we embraced. ‘May God bless and keep Your Grace.’

      I was still unused to the title almost two years later and it caused me to start. I offered a swift smile, turning quickly so the ensemble did not see my tears as I was assisted into my splendid litter, trying to focus on the pageantry of the affair rather than the poignancy.

       Farewell, dear siblings …

      My ladies surrounded me once in the litter, a gaggle of laughing, gossiping girls, and I was rejuvenated at the prospect of making such a grand progress throughout the country.

      ‘We are all with you, Your Grace,’ said my aunty Anne Howard. Her whimsical nature was so reminiscent of her sister – my mother – that my heart surged with tenderness for the soft-spoken gentlewoman. ‘We will carry you all the way to Scotland; our love will carry you further still.’

      I pressed her hand. ‘Thank you, my lady,’ I told her. I pursed my lips, swallowing the painful lump in my throat. ‘Oh, Aunty,’ I added, breaking protocol. ‘Do you think that love is as the poets say?’

      ‘In what regard?’ asked Aunty Anne.

      ‘In that it can overcome anything, distance, anger … death,’ I added in soft tones.

      Aunty Anne wrapped her arm about my shoulders, drawing me near. ‘I believe it can, Your Grace. All my life I have lost – from my dear little brothers in the tower to my own child, my baby Henry …’ She blinked several times.

      ‘Oh, Aunty, are we all fated to lose?’ I asked, desperation seizing me as I gripped my empty womb, terrified that its crop would yield as tragic as that of those around me. ‘Sometimes I fear we are all stalked by death, as if it were some ravenous hawk, swooping down on us from above, and we never see it coming …’ Like with Arthur, I thought to myself, sweet, scholarly Arthur who should have been … should have been … I shook the should-have-beens away, trying to draw myself from what might have been to the present dilemma.

      Aunty Anne’s nod was grave. ‘Yes. We are human beings and our lot is to lose. The sooner we accept what cannot be changed or controlled the happier we will be. And as compensation for our losses God gives us in turn the ability to love and be loved. It is that which sustains us. It is that which sustains me.’ She offered a gentle smile filled with triumph. ‘And it will sustain you, too.’

      ‘You speak as my mother would,’ I observed in tremulous tones. For her words she was forever endeared to me. I favoured her with a bright smile, determined to lighten the mood. I turned to seek out her husband, Lord Thomas Howard, who sat his charger looking altogether dark and terrifying. ‘Why, he’s so fierce!’ I cried to my aunt.

      She laughed. ‘My fierce knight,’ she said. ‘And yet when we are alone you should see him … there is none gentler.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I loved him from the first time I saw him. I was but a girl just your age.’ She yielded to another of her whimsical smiles. ‘I pray it is so with you and His Grace, King James.’

      I lay back among the plush velvet cushions and tried to envision the King of Scots, thirty years old to my thirteen. He was said to be a lover of women … oh, I was terrified! What if he thought my form too childish? Surely he had loved many a beautiful, buxom maid … but I was no mere maid. I was a queen and his rightful wife. He would love me as he loved no other.

      And so with those thoughts to keep my restless mind active, I departed for my new home, filled with eagerness, excitement, and something like hope.

      The first four days of the progress were not unlike any other progress we had made in years past. The distinct difference was that this was a constant celebration and all in my honour. The country and its people were vibrant, rosy, and infused with summer as they rushed out of their homes to greet my entourage. Children sang my praises, pageants were performed, and I was showered with gifts of fruit, sweet wine and beer, little cakes, and trinkets from children, which I cherished most of all.

      It all changed at my grandmother’s home of Collyweston, however. Father’s journey would end there; he was as far from his royal residence as he could go and the rest of the progress would be spent in the keeping of Aunty Anne’s father-in-law, the Earl of Surrey.

      ‘Can’t he go a little further?’ I asked my grandmother as we prayed in her apartments the evening before I was to leave Collyweston.

      Grandmother shook her head. ‘He has his obligations, Your Grace, just as you have yours.’ Despite the sombre words, I found myself revelling in the fact that she must defer to me as ‘Your Grace’ and no longer as ‘that impetuous girl.’

      I was certain to make the most of it whenever in her company. But looking at her at that moment I was struck with the same fancy as when beholding my sister and brother at Richmond: When would I see her again? For all her sternness and strict religious observance she was the grandmother who oversaw my upbringing with tireless devotion. I was overcome with a wave of tenderness for her and reached out to take her thin hand in mine.

      For the first time in memory, Grandmother softened, stroking my thumb a moment with her cool finger before extracting the hand. ‘Come now, I shall see Your Grace to bed,’ she said, her low voice gentle as she brushed through my coppery hair, then helped me dress. I slid into the large canopied bed, drawing the blankets to my neck despite the warm summer breeze that came in through the window.

      Grandmother smiled down upon me. ‘Make us proud, Queen Margaret,’ she ordered as she leaned in to kiss me on the forehead. ‘Good night.’

      When she exited, I fixed my eyes on the window, on the full moon that reigned over its court of glimmering stars. Did King James even then behold the same moon as I? Did he wonder after his bride; did he long for her? Or did his gut lurch with dread at the thought of having to marry me for the sake of the alliance? My own stomach churned. The moon became a blur.

      At once I heard the creak of my door and sat bolt upright. ‘Who dares enter Our chambers unannounced?’

      Soft male chuckling. My heart pounded. A taper was lit to reveal my father standing there in all his majesty, his stern face softened with a smile. ‘Haughty as a Tudor queen, no less,’ he commented as he approached to sit on my bed.

      I hugged my knees to my chest. ‘Forgive me—’

      He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Nonsense, it was quite the right response.’ He set the taper on my bedside table. ‘Your Grace,’ he began, then lowered his eyes. ‘Margot …’ Tears caught in my throat at the use of the pet name he alone had used. ‘Tomorrow