I go at once to meet the princess at Thornbury Castle, and I take my new daughter-in-law Constance with me, to serve the Princess Mary as a lady-in-waiting. The return of Tudor favor puts us all in our rightful places, back at the heart of the royal court. I show her the beautiful castle at Ludlow with pride as a place where I was once mistress, and I tell her about Arthur and the princess who was his bride. I don’t tell them that the young couple were in love, that their passion for each other illuminated the plum-colored castle. But I do say that it was a happy home, and that we will make it happy again.
THORNBURY CASTLE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE, AUGUST 1525
Nine-year-old Princess Mary arrives on a blazing hot summer’s day, riding her own small horse, flanked by two hundred outriders, in her livery of blue and green, and smiling to the people who are massed around the castle gate to see this new princess coming into her own.
I stand in the shadow of the doorway, glad to be out of the heat, ready to welcome her into the castle that I once counted as my daughter Ursula’s inheritance. This was a Stafford house; it should have been Ursula’s home. The cardinal took it from the duke, and now it is to be used by the princess, and I shall run it as I will run all her houses.
Her retinue is headed by my kinsman Walter Devereux, Baron Ferrers of Chartley. He greets me with a warm kiss on both cheeks and then helps the little princess down from her saddle.
I am shocked at my first sight of her. It has been so long since I have seen her I was imagining her taller, a sturdy Tudor girl like her aunt Margaret, stocky as a pony; but she is tiny, dainty as a flower. I see her pale heart-shaped face in the shadow of the big hood of her cape and think her swamped in adult clothes, too frail for such a costume, for such a force of guards, too slight to be carrying her titles and all our expectations, too young to be taking up her duties and lands. I feel myself swallow with anxiety. She is fragile, like a princess made out of snow, a princess wished into being and only lightly embodied.
But then she surprises me by taking Walter’s hand and jumping off her horse like an agile boy, bounding up the steps towards me, and flinging herself into my arms. “Lady Margaret! My Lady Margaret!” she whispers, her face pressed against me, her head at my breast, her body slight and thin. I hold her close and feel her tremble with relief that she is with me again. I hold her tight and think I should take her by the hand and present her to her household, show her to her people. But I can’t bear to turn her away from me. I wrap my arms around her and I don’t let go for a long time. This is a child as beloved as any one of my own, a little girl still, and I have missed four years of her childhood and I am glad to have her back into my keeping.
“I thought I would never see you again,” she breathes.
“I knew I would come back to you,” I say. “And I won’t ever leave you again.”
LUDLOW CASTLE, WELSH MARCHES, 1525–1526
She is not a difficult child to raise. She has her mother’s sweet temper and all of the Spanish stubbornness, so I introduce her tutors to her, and persuade her to practice music and take exercise. I never command her; this is a daughter of England and Princess of Wales—nobody can command her but her father and mother—but I tell her that her beloved parents have put her in my keeping and will blame me if she does not live well, study like a scholar, and hunt like a Tudor. At once she applies herself for love of me. By making her lessons pleasant and interesting and encouraging her to question and consider things, by ensuring that her Master of Horse chooses hunters for her who are eager but obedient, and by having music and dancing in the castle every night, it is easy to encourage her to gain the skills that a princess must have. She is an intelligent, thoughtful girl, if anything a little too grave. I cannot help but think that she would be an apt pupil for Reginald, and that it would benefit all our family if he were to become an influence in her life.
In the meantime, her tutor is Dr. Richard Fetherston, the choice of her mother and a man that I like on sight. He is tall and brown haired, and he has a quick wit. He teaches Mary Latin with the classic authors, and translations of the Bible, but he also composes silly rhymes for her and nonsense poems. His loyalty to her mother—which we never mention—is, I think, quite unshakable.
Princess Mary is a passionately loving girl. She counts herself betrothed to her cousin King Charles of Spain, and she pins a brooch which says “The Emperor” on every gown. Her mother has encouraged this attachment, and spoken of him to her; but this summer we learn that her engagement is to be released and that instead she will marry into the French royal family.
I tell her the news myself and she runs away and locks herself in her room. She is a princess—she knows better than to complain. But she puts the diamond brooch in the bottom of her jewelry box and we have a sulky few days.
Of course, I feel for her. She is nine and she thinks her heart is broken. I brush her beautiful long russet hair as she looks pale-faced into her mirror and tells me that she thinks she will never be happy again. I am not surprised that her betrothal has been broken, but I am genuinely shocked when we receive a letter from the cardinal and learn that the king has decided to marry her to a man old enough to be her father, the notoriously loose-living, widowed King of France. She dislikes him for these three good reasons and it is my duty to tell her that as a princess of England she has to make up her mind to serve her country with her marriage, and that in this, as in everything else, her father has to be obeyed and that he has the absolute right to place her where he thinks best.
“But what if my mother thinks differently?” she asks me, her dark eyes bright with anger.
I don’t allow myself to smile. She draws herself up to her full height, a magisterial four feet, as proud as a Spanish queen. “Then your mother and your father must agree,” I say steadily. “And you would not be a good daughter if you presumed to judge them, or to take sides.”
“Well, I shan’t like him,” she says stubbornly.
“You will love and respect him as a good and dutiful wife,” I tell her. “Nobody requires you to like him.”
Her quick wit grasps the humor of this and she rewards me with a peal of ready laughter. “Oh, Lady Governess! What a thing to say!”
“And anyway you will probably come to like him,” I say comfortingly, pulling her to sit beside me so that she can rest her head on my shoulder. “Once you marry a man and you have children together and you rule your lands together, you will find in him all sorts of qualities that you admire. And if he is kind to you and a good father to your children, then you will come to love and like him.”
“Not always,” she points out. “My aunt Margaret, the Dowager Queen of Scotland, turned the cannons of her castle on her own husband and is trying to persuade the Pope to give her a divorce.”
“She’s very wrong to do so,” I maintain. “It is God’s will that a woman obey her husband and that their marriage can only be ended by death. And your father has told her so himself.”
“So can it be better to marry for love?” she demands. “My father the king married my mother for love.”
“He did indeed,” I agree. “And it was as lovely as a fairy story. But not all of us can have a life like a fairy story. Most of us will not. Your mother was very blessed that the king chose her, and he was honored with her love.”
“So why does he befriend other ladies?” Mary asks me, her voice lowered to a whisper, though we are quite alone in my private chamber. “Why does that happen, Lady Margaret?”