The Princess of Scotland (Six Tudor Queens #5.5) Page 3

  In the autumn, my uncle sent me more lavish attire and Mary and I spent happy hours trying on my new gowns, although they were big on her, as she was small and too thin, thanks to all the anxiety she was suffering. I felt such sorrow for her and did all I could to cheer and reassure her. Privately, I could only deplore my uncle’s treatment of the Queen. Yet, outwardly, I knew it was wise to keep a still tongue and not involve myself in controversial matters. I needed to keep the King’s affection and high opinion. I was hoping he would arrange a good marriage for me.

  That year, he sent Mary and me money so that we could both disport ourselves over Christmas. I was disappointed not to be invited to court, but it was probably for the best, as the Boleyn was queening it there and Mary loathed her with a passion. We spent our time playing hide-and-seek or cards and making music.

  Mary was inconsolable when, the following spring, we learned that Thomas Cranmer, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, had declared her mother’s marriage invalid and pronounced her, Mary, a bastard. She was even more horrified to hear that her father had married the Boleyn, who was pregnant. I was witness to the hours Mary spent wailing and weeping. I wept with her, and even more copiously when I was told that my aunt, the French Queen, was dead. Her death may have left me the second lady in the land after the Boleyn, but I was bereft.

  In September 1533, Mary and I secretly rejoiced to hear that the Boleyn had borne, not the long-desired son and heir, but a daughter, Elizabeth. Mary had steadfastly refused to relinquish the title of princess, and she roundly declined to acknowledge Elizabeth as their father’s heir, or her mother as Princess Dowager of Wales; nor would she concede that her mother’s marriage was incestuous and unlawful. The King was furious with her and retaliated by reducing the size of her household. I was allowed to stay on, but not for long. By December, my uncle was so exasperated with what he called Mary’s obstinacy that he dismissed all her servants and packed her off to Hatfield to wait on her new half-sister. I was told – as if some great favour was being conferred on me – that I could attend upon Elizabeth when she was brought to court. For that was where I was bound. The King had appointed me as a lady of honour to the Boleyn.

  Of course, I did not want to go, or serve that creature, who was the cause of all Mary’s troubles. I knew that my loyalties would be cruelly divided. Yet I had no choice in the matter. I was dependent on my uncle’s kindness and charity. I knew that, to retain his favour, I must show myself amenable to the new Queen. I could only pray that Mary would understand.

  The Boleyn welcomed me coolly; she mistrusted me because of my former closeness to the Princess. Neither of us were very happy with the arrangement, but we both made the best of it. My uncle was gratified to see us getting along so amicably.

  It eluded me, what he saw in the Boleyn. Close up, she was swarthy and no beauty. She had wit, I grant her that, and she was a terrible flirt. Yet it was clear that her wiles did not always have the effect she intended on her husband. Sometimes he responded with kisses and caresses; at others, he rebuffed her or coldly reminded her that such levity did not become a queen. She would laugh, but her eyes betrayed her. This was a frightened woman. It was imperative that she gave the King a son. It would bind him to her. She would be safe from her enemies. I’m sure she knew that, without the King’s love, she was nothing.

  I was treated like a queen’s daughter and attended by my own train of servants. My mother remembered me for the first time in years, writing to the Boleyn to thank her for finding a place for me and saluting her as her dearest sister. I felt like puking. But I maintained the pretence of liking my mistress.

  I was not unhappy at this time. At court, I could tell that I was liked, or even loved, by all. The Imperial ambassador addressed me as the Princess of Scotland, which made me smile, as I was neither a princess by birth, nor a Scottish one. But it was good to be so highly regarded.

  From time to time, my uncle spoke of arranging a marriage for me. The Duke of Florence was mentioned as a potential husband, and the son of the King of France. Nothing came of either, even though the passing of an Act of Succession left me third in line to the throne after the Princess Elizabeth and my mother, but I knew myself to be a most desirable bride. It could not be long before I was wed.

  Another Act of Parliament made my uncle Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England, in place of the Pope. Everyone holding public office was required to swear an oath recognising his title and his marriage to the Boleyn.

  These were turbulent times, but I strove not to get involved with the controversies that raged through the land. I took the oath. I avoided engaging with the reformist fervour of the Boleyns and their circle, but quietly went on observing my devotions in private. No one challenged me.

  There was much pastime in the Boleyn’s chamber. We played our lutes and sang, danced, joked, gambled on cards and dice, and flirted. With two of my friends, Mary Shelton, the Boleyn’s cousin, and Mary Howard, who was married to the King’s bastard son, my cousin, the Duke of Richmond, I wrote or collected poems. We transcribed them and bound them into a book, which we intended to circulate at court. I have it somewhere still.

  The Boleyn had been queen for two years when I met her uncle, Lord Thomas Howard, at one of the gatherings in her chamber. He was twenty-three and I was twenty. He was the much younger brother of the powerful Duke of Norfolk. We came together through our shared love of poetry. Tom was a competent poet himself; he enjoyed plays on words and conundrums. He paused by the table where the two Marys and I were busily transcribing and picked up one of my poems. I was lost, from that moment.

  We were circumspect. Instinct told me that the King would not approve of my falling in love with a man he had not chosen for me. My marriage was in his gift. It would be made to his advantage, and England’s. Thomas Howard, a younger son with no fortune, no prospects and no influence in any quarter, would not stand a chance. But I was young and headstrong, and my heart was heedless of policy. Even so, I retained enough sense to play hard to get. For a long time, Tom complained that I was disdainful, even though I was only being cautious.

  ‘I love you!’ he whispered, again and again, when we met in secret.

  ‘I can only be your friend,’ I kept telling him, fearing to entangle myself further. ‘I value friendship as highly as love.’

  ‘Friendship?’ he echoed, one evening, when we were walking in a quiet corner of the gardens. ‘If that is all you want from me, we might scarcely be acquainted!’

  My cheeks burned. ‘When I agreed to meet you here, I did not mean for you to declare such raging love for me. All I want is honest, friendly company.’ It was not true. I wanted his love, but dared not say so.

  ‘I love you exceedingly,’ Tom declared, ‘and yet you take it ill! Do you know how hurtful that is?’

  ‘What hurt could honest friendship bring?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s as good as banishing me!’ he muttered. ‘God, I pray for patience!’

  He wrote me a poem after that, complaining of my coldness. Underneath, he drew two barbed arrows, showing me that Cupid’s darts can have a sting in them.

  After that, I grew warmer towards him. I could not help myself, I was so smitten with him. I was scared that someone would discover our love and report us to my uncle, but love blinded me increasingly to the reality of our situation. Yet I was not that far gone in folly that I had forgotten the need to preserve my honour. I took Mary Howard into my confidence and she said we could meet in her bedchamber and agreed to be present, as chaperone. There, we enjoyed many secret trysts. Thomas told me that I was his true love and kissed me hungrily, but he always behaved like a true gentleman. Although we shared passionate embraces, he never asked me to give myself to him. That could wait until we were wed. It was hopeless, and I think we both knew that there could be no future for us, but we deluded ourselves that there was. And thus we continued for a whole year.

  W
e should have known that we were courting disaster. Whenever I picked up the book that my friends and I were compiling, I had a salutary warning before my eyes, on the very first page.

  Take heed betime lest ye be spied,

  Your loving ways you cannot hide;

  At last the truth will sure be tried,

  Therefore take heed!

  1536 was a terrible year. In January, Queen Katherine died. Four months later, I was in attendance on the Boleyn at a May Day tournament when the King abruptly rose and departed with a face like thunder, leaving her nonplussed. We were still speculating on what this portended the next day when she was arrested at Greenwich and imprisoned in the Tower of London, charged with adultery with five men, one her own brother, and for conspiring to assassinate the King. Even I found that barely credible.

  The court was in an uproar. We were all wondering who would be apprehended next. We ladies were all questioned, but I had seen nothing untoward in the Boleyn’s behaviour and could not give any evidence, although I would have been willing to testify against her. I did not grieve for her when she was beheaded on a bright May morning, for I had hated all she stood for, although I was shocked at the speediness of her end.

  I rejoiced when, only eleven days later, my uncle the King married her maid-of-honour, Jane Seymour, whom I knew and liked. Jane was a quiet pale blonde whom nobody thought very beautiful, yet I knew her to be a good Catholic who deplored the break with Rome, and that she was sympathetic towards Mary. I know Jane liked me too. She gave me a gift of beads soon after her marriage. It’s a pity I was allowed so little time to enjoy that friendship.

  While these momentous events were taking place, I had been living in my fool’s paradise with Tom. I was so far gone in love with him that, when he asked me to marry him, I agreed. When the court moved to Whitehall Palace in June for the opening of Parliament, we plighted our troth to each other, vowing to wed in the future.

  I could remember my parents’ divorce. I knew what a precontract was and that, in plighting my troth, I had just entered into one. I knew that it was as binding as a marriage and could only be loosed by a church court. It was headstrong and reckless of me, but, by then, I was past caring about any consequences. Of course, both of us knew that my uncle would be wrathful if we were discovered. In our defence, I can only say that we were too far gone in love to care about consequences. There was no malice in us, no desire to anger anyone. How naïve we were! We should have known that secrets could not be kept long at court.

  When King Henry rode with Queen Jane to Westminster on the feast of Corpus Christi, to open Parliament, I rode behind at the head of the Queen’s ladies, for I had been appointed her chief lady of honour. In Westminster Abbey, I carried her train as she proceeded to High Mass. My prominent role in the procession reflected my new status. All the King’s children had been declared or born bastards. My brother James was barred from the English succession because he was a foreigner, and my mother had now renounced her claim. As things stood, I was the next in line for the throne as my uncle’s nearest heir. Everyone was treating me with the greatest respect.

  Far from being overjoyed by my new importance, I was terrified, because it made what Tom and I had done even more reprehensible. I did not have long to fret, however. Someone betrayed us to the King. I’m not sure who it was, but they knew about our precontract. It could not have happened at a worse time because my uncle was not well disposed towards the Howards in the wake of the Boleyn’s fall, and they were decidedly out of favour.

  I still wonder if Mary Howard confided in her father, the Duke of Norfolk, and if it was he who betrayed us. Did he do so to demonstrate his loyalty to his sovereign? Mary had been my confidante and accomplice, and Norfolk would have wanted to deflect the King’s wrath from her – and himself.

  The King was much incensed by my folly and enraged at Tom’s presumption. I imagine he was bitterly disappointed in me, having cherished such a high opinion of me. But that was the least of it. When I was being questioned, it became horrifyingly clear that the King suspected Tom of traitorously coveting the crown. It was believed that he had precontracted himself to me only to gain a throne. What hurt most was that my accusers kept referring to me as baseborn. My uncle was making it plain that there was now no question of my deserving a place in the English succession.

  Looking back, I suppose he had good reason for suspecting Tom’s motives, because our precontract was made after the Princess Elizabeth had been pronounced a bastard. Tom could have realised then that I had realistic hopes of the succession. He could also have seen our marriage as a means of restoring the Howards to power and reviving the Roman faith; the Howards, I might add, are Papists in all but name. I still sometimes wonder if these possibilities had occurred to Tom, but I doubt it. I know in my heart that our betrothal was founded upon love.

  Tom was imprisoned in the Tower. I was hysterical when they told me. Only hours later, they came for me and, trembling with fright, I was conveyed along the Thames in a covered barge towards the brooding fortress where my lover lay. I grew quite light-headed worrying about what they would do to me. The fate of the Boleyn was at the forefront of my mind. I was shaking uncontrollably when I disembarked and was taken under guard to the royal apartments she had occupied.

  There, I could not sleep. I saw ghosts in every corner. Every time the door opened, I thought my time had come. All I could do was lament my ill fortune and the loss of my love, and pray that my uncle would be lenient. He loved me, didn’t he? Wasn’t it evident in the comfort of my apartments and the privileges I was allowed? Surely he was just teaching me a lesson, one I would never forget.

  I comforted myself with such thoughts, assuring myself that this luxurious confinement was the worst that would happen to me, so I was shocked when Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, informed me that an Act of Attainder had been passed, sentencing Tom to death for high treason. In the wake of our ill-considered betrothal, Parliament had declared it treason for a man to marry, deflower or contract himself to any of the King’s female relatives without royal permission. To this Act, my uncle had given his consent.

  ‘But the Act was not in force when we plighted our troth!’ I protested vehemently, but to no avail.

  ‘Madam, it is not my office to question the King’s laws,’ Sir William said frostily. ‘And I would remind you that you stand in the greatest jeopardy. It is my painful duty to inform you that, because you consented to the precontract, you yourself will likewise incur pain of death.’

  I could not believe what I was hearing. This could not be happening! My uncle would never go so far! Terror gripped me. I swayed and Sir William stepped forward to catch me, or I would have fallen.

  I spent several dreadful days agonising over the prospect of dying a hideous death for the crime of having fallen in love. I was just twenty years old and I was nowhere near ready to die. I would have appealed to the King, to King James and to my parents, but I was not allowed to write letters. I was under no illusions as to what I was facing. I remembered that my uncle had sent his own wife to the scaffold, and that he had executed others of his own blood in the past. Why should he spare his niece? That he would send me to the block was all too believable. And he might do worse. The Boleyn had been sentenced to be burned or beheaded at his pleasure. Because she was queen, she was allowed the kinder death. Would the King be so merciful to me? I came near to screaming several times when I considered that he might not.

  But then came my reprieve.

  ‘You have been pardoned your life,’ Sir William informed me, looking almost as relieved as I felt. ‘This is on account of it having been established that there is no proof of a conspiracy and that you did not have carnal relations with Lord Thomas.’

  Thank God, thank God! I sank to my knees.

  Sir William looked at me with compassion. ‘You will be relieved to know that Lord Thomas has been spared too.
You will both remain in the Tower at the King’s pleasure.’

  Hope sprang in me. It was very rare for my uncle to reprieve a traitor who had been sentenced to death. He was just punishing us for our presumption! He might even let us marry after we had learned our lesson.

  Well, I would be patient. I would live in hope.

  I needed that patience. I was not allowed visitors. I was constrained to live modestly, given that the King was paying for my upkeep in the Tower. I pretended that I no longer cherished feelings for Tom. I was determined to be the model prisoner, so that my uncle would relent and let me out the sooner.

  When winter drew in, it was hard to stay positive, for it was cold in the Queen’s lodgings, despite the fires I was permitted, and the nights were long. Often, I lay awake, feeling despondent. Would my imprisonment never end? And then, on the last day of that terrible year, a package was brought to me. I unwrapped it eagerly to find lengths of costly silver and crimson silk fringe. Then a chair of crimson velvet with a fringe of Venice silk was carried in. All were gifts from my uncle. The message could not have been clearer. He had thawed towards me. I was well on the way to being forgiven. My spirits soared. I could look forward to the new year of 1537 with hope, for freedom was in my sights.

  It was a blessing that I was now allowed writing materials in the Tower, for I found solace and release in composing poetry. I wondered if Tom was able to enjoy the same privilege. I did not even know where he was, although it was a comfort to know that he was not far away. My constant prayer was that he was being held in agreeable conditions; surely his family would have ensured that? If only I could have seen him. I longed for him so much it was painful.

  Surely my parents had heard of my plight by now, even in Perthshire, where mother was living with Harry Stewart? And Father was at the English court; he must be aware of my sad situation. I had been hoping and praying that one or the other of them would have interceded for me. But I knew in my heart I could hope for little from Father. He would do nothing to antagonise King Henry, his benefactor.