Three Sisters, Three Queens

STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1509

As the snow clings on to the peaks of our high Scots hills, and the icy winds strip the blossom from the fruit trees, I think of the two of them in England in this, Harry’s first miraculous summer, glorying in the titles they won by mischance: king and queen, beneficiaries of the deaths of their betters. I think of Katherine, saying it was her destiny, and waiting and biding her time. I think of her saying that she would outlast my father, and now she has done so. I think that there is no true love there, only ambition and vanity. Harry has stolen his brother’s wife; Katherine has captured the heir of England. I think they are despicable, both of them, and that there is no true grief when a younger boy wears his dead brother’s shoes and a widow throws off mourning.

And then another messenger comes from England with urgent news. My lady grandmother has died. They say that she overate at the coronation feast—soothing her grief with roasted cygnet; but I think that perhaps she had nothing to live for, once she saw her grandson to the throne and knew that her great work for the Tudors—both public and secret—was done, knowing we will have and keep the throne forever. I try to feel a sense of loss for the grandmother who ruled me so strictly, but my mind keeps returning to the thought that, with the old lady gone, Katherine will be unchallenged mistress of the court and there will be no one to rule over her. Not even my mother was allowed in the queen’s rooms—they were always reserved for My Lady the King’s Mother. But Katherine will do better than my mother: she will be a queen without a mother-in-law overshadowing her, free to do whatever she wants. Certainly, Harry won’t know how to manage her. She will behave as if she were a queen in her own right, just like her unwomanly mother, Isabella of Castile. She will be triumphant, leaping from poverty to queenship on Harry’s whim. She will think herself the victor of everything, she will think herself the favorite of God Himself. Her mother called herself a “conquistadora”; Katherine has been raised to ride roughshod over everyone.

I write to Mary:

I am sure that the coronation and the wedding were very grand and I am sure that you enjoyed it; but you must be a good sister to Katherine and remind her to be grateful to Harry for raising her to this great position, when she had sunk so very low. Our brother has been generous to recognize his betrothal to her when he was not bound to do so. You should caution her against pride and greed in her new position. Of course, I rejoice in her extraordinary rise to power but we would not be good sisters if we did not warn her against the sin of ambition, and rivalry with us who are Tudors born.