Three Sisters, Three Queens

LINLITHGOW PALACE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1527

To my amazement we live together, all four of us, and we are happy. The long cold Scottish winter finally melts and then the miracle that is the Scottish spring comes slowly, slowly, first in the rain-soaked, meltwater-soaked greenness of the grass, then in the honking calls of geese flying overhead, then in the jumble and ripple of birdsong at dawn, and then finally with the lenten lilies and the buds thickening on the trees and every living thing springing into life as the sap rises so strongly that I can almost taste it on the warm air and the year turns towards summer.

Archibald rules the council. There is no doubt that all the power is centered on him, but he brings the laws and proclamations for James’s signature. James signs and seals the documents as he is told to do, with a little grimace, he never speaks out against his guardian. James is delighted that I am with him again, and I appoint Davy Lyndsay to my household so James has his dearly loved companion at his side every day once again and we are not completely dominated by the Douglas clan.

The court revolves around me and my son, as it should, and we all go hunting and riding out together; we organize little jousts and competitions. When the weather grows warm we all go to Linlithgow, and there is rowing on the lake and James goes fishing for salmon. At night we hold masques and dances and James shows himself to be a good dancer and a musician. No one raised by Davy Lyndsay could fail to be a poet, and James writes the lyrics to his own songs. A band of young noblemen gather around him. I think that some of them are bad influences, drinking too much, playing cards for high stakes, and perhaps whoring. But these are the sports of a young man and, God knows, James’s father was no saint. No one seeing James on horseback or jousting could forget his father. Everyone thinks that he must be granted his power this year or next.

We have news from England and from Europe. The troops of the emperor go on taking ground and even riot inside the gates of Rome, and sack the city. People speak as if every Christian has been killed and all the churches desecrated, as if the end of days must surely come now. The Pope himself is captured by the emperor’s forces, and though I know that I should pray for him, I cannot help thinking of myself, and that this is the end of my hopes of freedom. All Church business will be overseen by the emperor, Katherine’s nephew, so I don’t doubt that my application for an annulment for my marriage has been lost, or burned in the wreck of the Vatican. I don’t believe I will ever be divorced from Archibald, and Henry Stewart will always live outside the court and see me only when we can snatch an afternoon together, which we waste in complaints and regrets. We both think that we will never be allowed to be together, that he will be forever barred from the honor and the profit of royal service and I will never give him a half-royal heir.

My brother never writes to me now. Scotland and England have signed the peace treaty and evidently he feels that my work is done and that he has no need of my affection. Mary writes me a letter of such dizzy despair that I have to read and reread it to even understand what she is saying. God knows what is happening in London.

The Boleyn girl has chosen to withdraw from court to her father’s home at Hever Castle and Harry writes to her often, in his own hand, begging her to return. In his own hand! For some reason, she is allowed to refuse a royal command, and instead of a punishment she has been rewarded with jewels and money.

Maggie, I cannot tell you how demeaning it is to us all to see Harry pursuing this woman as if he were a troubadour and she a lady as grand as a queen. Katherine is completely admirable, she says nothing, she acts as if nothing is wrong, she is as tender and as loving to Harry as she has always been and she never has a cross word for anyone, not even behind closed doors, even though both the whore, the sister Mary and the mother Elizabeth Boleyn (now Lady Rochford—if you can believe it) are still serving in her rooms and she has to endure their half-apologetic, half-triumphant simpering every day. Katherine believes this will all be forgotten as other flirtations have been forgotten, and I suppose it must—for who cares for Bessie Blount now? But if you had seen the velvet that he sent her, you would be as angry as I.

The court is divided between the young and foolish relishing the excitement and the scandal of this courtship, and the older ones who love the queen and remember all that she has done for Harry and for England. But why is the Boleyn girl hiding at Hever? I am so afraid that she is with child. Surely we would know? Besides, she made such an icon of her virginity.

The Holy Father is sending a papal legate to England to reconcile Harry and our sister. Perhaps he will tell Mademoiselle Boleyn to stay at Hever. I hear that she will only come back to court if she is given her own rooms and her own attendants, as if she were a princess born. She wants a bigger household than mine. You need not wonder who is paying her bills. Nobody wonders, everyone knows, it is completely public: they are sent direct to the exchequer.

There is no joy at court any more but we have to attend since Charles says that he cannot lose touch with the king, and I feel I must be beside Katherine as she endures this trial. Her pain can be seen on her face—she looks like a woman with grief like a canker. No one has told the Princess Mary, who is kept at Ludlow as much as possible, guarded by that old dragon Margaret Pole; but of course she knows, how could she not know? All of England knows. Henry Fitzroy is always at court and now he is treated like a prince. I cannot tell you how unhappy we are. Except for Harry, and Anne Boleyn of course—she is a cow in the corn.

We hear that you are returned to your husband and living in harmony. I am so glad for that, dear Maggie. The queen says that you give her hope: to part from him, to make war on him, and to reconcile at last. It is like a miracle.

I may give the queen hope, but I doubt very much that anyone else thinks of me. Clearly, Harry is happy to leave Scotland to be ruled by his brother-in-law. Indeed, he nominates Archibald to be the Warden of the Marches, and puts him in charge of the peace and security of all the border regions, like asking a lion to lie down with a lamb. As my husband, Archibald once again legally receives all the rents and fees from my lands. If he chose to leave me penniless he could do so, but he is generous to me, making sure that the council pays me an allowance as dowager queen and giving me beautiful material for Margaret’s gowns. If he ever visits Janet Stewart of Traquair, tucked away in one of my many properties, then no one mentions it to me. Anyone seeing him, respectful in chapel, courteous at dinner, playful during dancing, would think him a faithful husband and me a lucky wife.

More than that, they would think him warmly affectionate. When he comes into a room he always makes his bow to me with one hand over his heart, as if he does not forget that once he loved me. When he kisses my hand he lingers over my fingers. Sometimes when he is standing behind my chair he rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. When I am riding he is always first at my side to lift me down from the saddle and hold me, for a moment, as he sets me on my feet. He appears to all the world like a loving husband, and this must be what they hear in England, for my sister Mary writes on the turned-over corner as an afterthought:

Do write to Katherine and tell her of your happiness—it will comfort her to know that a husband and wife can come together again after such a long time apart. She is very troubled by the many rumors that have started about her marriage to the king. If anyone asks you, Margaret, be sure that you tell them you remember perfectly well that our father decided before his death that Harry should marry Katherine, and that she and Harry received a full dispensation from the Pope. If anyone says anything about God not giving them a son, you are to say that the ways of God are mysterious indeed and that we have, thanks be, a beautiful healthy princess as our heir. Don’t say a thing about Henry Fitzroy, we never mention him. I pray every day that the Boleyn woman consents to a normal love affair and proves barren. At the moment we are all waiting, like servants in a bathhouse, for her to name her price. Only God Himself knows what she is holding out for.

I ought to be glad that Katherine’s long rule over my brother has ended. I think I must be glad, though I don’t feel it. I keep thinking: this is my moment of triumph—why do I not feel triumphant?

While she lives, cast aside by a merry young court that is dominated by Harry’s new favorite, while she is neglected by the Boleyn family and their kinsmen the Howards, while she is silenced as an advisor to the cardinal and the others who do the business of the country, she cannot influence Harry against me. She cannot persuade any man of the sanctity of marriage when the king is hell-bent on seduction. A Boleyn court thinking only of pleasure, excited by temptation, breathless with scandal, is no audience for Katherine’s profound thoughts on fidelity and constancy. As her influence wanes it must be my moment. But now—as bad luck would have it—is the very moment when the Pope is the emperor’s prisoner, and no business is being transacted at all.

“D’you know, I think we will be together forever, like Deucalion and Pyrrha,” Archibald says, coming into my privy chamber and nodding to the ladies as if he had every right to stroll in without announcement.

I don’t smile. I can’t remember who Deucalion and Pyrrha are, and I am not committing myself to anything with Archibald.

“Faithful husband and wife who repopulated the earth,” he prompts. “I think we might make a new Scotland when our boy here is old enough to rule.”

“He’s old enough now,” I say unpleasantly. “And he is my boy, not ours.”

Archibald laughs gently, puts his hand over his heart, and makes a little nod with his head. “I am sure you are right,” he says. “At least we have a daughter together to make us happy.”

“If we are so very happy then I am sure that Archbishop Beaton can return to court?” I ask, testing the ground.

“Och, is he tired of shepherding?” Archibald asks me with a gleam in his eye. “I heard that he had taken up a modest crook in place of his gold one, and left Stirling Castle in a hurry.”

I flush with annoyance. “You know very well what happened,” I say.

He winks at me. “I do, and yes, he can come back to court as far as I am concerned. Your son must be the one who issues the invitation, of course. Anyone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone else that you would like to restore?” he says pleasantly. “If we are to live together, merrily and forever? Anyone else that you would like in your household? Just confirm it with James. I am happy to have any of your friends here, any of your household. As long as . . .”

“As long as what?” I demand, ready to be offended.

“As long as they understand that your reputation is not to be damaged,” he says, as pompous as a choirboy. “While you are with me, as my wife, I would not want there to be any gossip about you. Your reputation as James’s mother, as our daughter’s mother, and as dowager queen should be above reproach.”

“My reputation is above reproach,” I say icily.

He takes my hands as if he would console me. “Ah, my dear, there is always gossip. I am afraid that your brother has heard from the French that you are in constant communication with the Duke of Albany.”

“I am supposed to be in constant communication with him! He is Regent of Scotland!”

“Even so. Your brother believes that you are hoping to marry him.”

“This is ridiculous!”

“And someone has told your brother that you have taken a lover, Henry Stewart.”

I don’t stammer. “I deny it completely.”

“Someone has told him that you and Henry Stewart are planning to kidnap your son and put him on the throne as a pawn of the Stewart clan.”

“Oh, who would that be?” I say bitterly. “Who is my brother’s spy, who has such detail, and is heard so sympathetically in England?”

Archibald presses my hands to his lips. “Not me, actually. But since I know how much your family means to you, and since the king is inquiring into the validity of his own marriage—it matters all the more to him that there is no scandal about you.”

“Harry is inquiring into the validity of his own marriage?”

“Of course.”

“You believe that he means to leave Katherine?” I whisper.

“He should,” Archibald says, as if pronouncing sentence on her, a blameless woman, a woman of no power.

“I heard that a papal legate was coming to England to reconcile them?”

Archibald gives a short laugh. “To tell her to let him go.”

I turn away from him and go to the window and look down into the gardens. The blossom is whirling down from the apple trees as if it were snow in springtime. I don’t know whether I feel triumphant or bereft. It is as if the high cliff that they call Arthur’s Seat has suddenly shifted and sunk; the horizon has changed completely. Katherine has dominated my life; I have envied her and loved her and been irritated by her and been nearly destroyed by her more than once. Can she suddenly disappear? Can she suddenly be unimportant?

“She will never ever agree,” I predict.

“No, but if the marriage is shown to be invalid, then it is not up to her.”

“On what possible grounds could it be invalid?”

“Because she was married to your brother Arthur,” Archibald says simply, as if it is obvious.

I remember Mary’s letter, warning me what I was to say. My two sisters whispering together will have prepared a reply to every question. They don’t consult me, they instruct me. “There was a dispensation,” I say, as Mary told me to say.

“Perhaps the dispensation was not valid.”

I look blankly at him. “What sort of argument is this? Of course a papal dispensation is valid.”

“It hardly matters now. The queen’s nephew holds the Pope in his keeping. I doubt that the Holy Father will be brave enough to put shame on his jailor’s kinswoman. He will never allow your brother’s divorce. He will never allow yours.”

“But this has nothing to do with me!” I exclaim.

“The Pope has his own troubles—he won’t care about yours. And Harry won’t want anyone to get a divorce but himself.” Archibald sums up with complete accuracy the focus of Harry’s growing vanity and his habitual selfishness. “He won’t want anyone to think that a Tudor applies for an annulment for any reason but God’s proven will. The last thing he wants is you—with your history of marrying for your own desire, so far from God, such a scandalous woman—applying for a divorce before him, and besmirching his own reputation. He will want everyone’s behavior to be beyond question so that he can apply for an annulment without any suggestion of his . . .” He breaks off, looking for the right word.

“His what?”

“Selfish lust.”

I look at him, shocked at his naming Harry’s vice so bluntly. “You should not say that of him, not even to me.”

“Be very sure he won’t want it said of you.”

I think that Henry Stewart may as well come to court so that we can have the comfort of each other’s company since we will never be free to marry, but to my surprise, it is my son James who refuses permission. He draws himself up to his full height, just a little taller than I am, and says that he cannot condone any immorality at his court.

I almost laugh in his face. “But James!” I say, speaking to him as if he is a cross little boy. “You may not be the judge of my friends.”

“Indeed I shall,” he says. He speaks coldly, not like my boy at all. “Be very sure that it is my household and I will be the judge of who is here. I have one stepfather set over me, I won’t have another. I thought you had enough of husbands.”

“Henry would not try to rule you!” I exclaim. “He has always been such a friend to you. He’s so charming, I like him so much, he is a pleasure to be with.”

“Those are the very reasons I would not want him here,” James says stiffly.

“He is not your stepfather; he can never be my husband.”

“This makes it worse. I would have thought that you would have seen that.”

“Son, you mistake yourself,” I say, my temper rising.

“Lady Mother, I do not.”

“I will not be ruled by anyone. Not even you, my son. I am a Tudor princess.”

“That name is becoming a byword for scandal,” James says pompously. “Your brother’s adultery is known throughout the world, your own name is slandered. I will not have my mother spoken of in every tavern.”

“How dare you? When everyone knows that you and your court gamble and fornicate, that they are a lewd company and drink to excess! How dare you reproach me? I have done nothing but marry once for love and been betrayed. Now I want to marry again. What could be wrong with that?”

He says nothing. He looks at me steadily, as his father would have done.

I turn without curtseying and I fling myself out of the room.