She smiles at me as if she is quite unafraid. “I’ll endure. I will outlast them both. Because I know my destiny is to be Queen of England.”
“I wish I were like you,” I say honestly. “I am certain of nothing.”
“You will be. When you are tested, you will be certain too. We are princesses, we were born to be queens, we are sisters.”
I ride away from the house on my expensive palfrey with my fur cape buttoned up to my nose, and I think I will report to my grandmother that Katherine of Arrogant is as proud and as beautiful as ever, but that she does not intend to marry my father. I will not tell her that the princess reminded me, in her stubborn determination, of my lady grandmother herself. If it comes to a battle of wills they will be well matched—but, actually, I would put my money on Katherine.
I will not tell my grandmother either that, for the first time, I like Katherine. I cannot help but think she will make a wonderful Queen of England.
THE BISHOP OF SALISBURY’S HOUSE, LONDON, ENGLAND, JUNE 1503
I don’t know what my grandmother says to her son my father; but he comes out of his mourning, there is an exchange of letters with Spain, and never another word about his courting Katherine. Instead, he pursues the marriage contract that is going to save him so much money with as much enthusiasm as Katherine’s mother in faraway Spain. Together they instruct the Pope to send a dispensation so that a brother- and sister-in-law can marry, and Katherine of Arrogant dresses in virginal white and spreads her bronze hair over her shoulders for yet another grand wedding occasion.
At least this is not in the abbey, and we don’t spend a fortune on it. This is a betrothal, not a wedding—a promise to marry when Harry is fourteen. She walks into the bishop’s chapel as smiling and as queenly as she was just nineteen months ago, and she takes Harry’s hand as if she is glad to promise herself to a boy five years her junior. It is as if Arthur, their wedding, and their bedding never happened. Now she is Harry’s bride and she will be known as the Princess of Wales once again. Her serene dismissal, “Alas, it never happened for us,” seems to be the last word that anyone will ever say about it.
My lady grandmother is there too. She does not smile on the match, but she does not oppose it. For me, it is just another event in this world that means nothing. A mother can die, a brother can die, and a woman can deny her husband and retain her title. The only person who makes any sense to me is Katherine herself. She knows who she was born to be; I wish I had her certainty. When she follows me out of the chapel I know that I am trying to hold my head as she does—as if I were wearing a crown already.
RICHMOND PALACE, ENGLAND, JUNE 1503
I go to the nursery to say good-bye to my sister Mary, and who should I find but Katherine, teaching her to play the lute as if we don’t employ a music master, as if Katherine has nothing better to do. I don’t trouble to conceal my irritation. “I have come to say good-bye to my sister,” I say as a broad hint to Katherine that she might leave us alone.
“And here are both your sisters!”
“I have to say good-bye to Mary.” I ignore Katherine and guide Mary to the seat in the oriel window and pull her down to sit beside me. Katherine stands before us and listens. Good, I think, now you can see that I too have a sense of my destiny.
“I am going to Scotland to my husband; I am going to be a great queen,” I inform Mary. “I will own a fortune, a queen’s fortune. I will write to you and you must reply. You must write properly, not a silly scribble. And I will tell you how I get on as queen in my own court.”
She is seven years old, no longer a baby, but her face puckers up and she reaches out her arms to me. I receive the full sobbing weight of her on my lap. “Don’t cry,” I say. “Don’t cry, Mary. I will come back on visits. Perhaps you will come to visit me.”
She only sobs more passionately, and I meet Katherine’s concerned gaze over her heaving shoulder. “I thought she would be glad for me,” I say. “I thought I should tell her—you know—that a princess is not like a plowman’s daughter.”
“It is hard for her to lose a sister,” she says with ready sympathy. “And she has just lost a mother and a brother.”
“I have too!” I point out.
The older girl smiles and puts her hand gently on my shoulder. “It’s hard for us all.”
“It wasn’t very hard for you.”
I see the shadow pass over her face. “It is,” she says shortly. She kneels beside the two of us and puts her arm around my sister’s thin shaking shoulders. “Little Princess Mary,” she says sweetly. “One sister is leaving you, but one has arrived. I am here. And we will all write to each other, and we will always be friends. And one day, you will go to a beautiful country and be married, and we will always remember our royal sisters.”
Mary raises her tearstained face and reaches out for Katherine’s neck so she is holding us both. It is almost as if we are welded together by sisterly love. I can’t pull away, and I find that I don’t want to. I put my arms around Katherine and Mary and our three golden heads come together as if we were swearing an oath.
“Friends forever and ever,” Mary says solemnly.
“We are the Tudor sisters,” Katherine says, though obviously she’s not.
“Two princesses and one queen,” I say.
Katherine smiles at me, her face close to mine, her eyes shining. “I am sure we will all be queens one day,” she says.
ON PROGRESS, RICHMOND TO COLLYWESTON, ENGLAND, JUNE 1503
Our journey is unbelievably grand, something between a masque and a hunt. First, at the head, free of the dust and setting our own pace, comes my father the king and me: Queen of Scots. He rides behind his royal standard, I behind mine. I change my riding outfits and they are brushed clean every time we stop, sometimes three times a day. I wear Tudor green, dark crimson, a yellow so dark that it is like orange, and a pale blue. My father tends to wear black—always dark colors—but his hat, his gloves and his waistcoat gleam with jewels, and his shoulders are loaded with chains of gold. Our horses are the best that can be had. I have a palfrey, a lady’s horse that has been trained with crowds and fireworks to make sure that nothing startles her, and my groom leads a spare horse. I ride astride, on a thickly padded saddle so that we can go many miles every day, or I can ride behind my master of horse on a pillion saddle embroidered with the emblem of Scotland: the thistle. If I am tired, I have a litter carried by mules, and I can get inside, draw the curtains and sleep while it gently rocks me.
Behind us come the courtiers, as if they were out for a day of pleasure, with the long sleeves of the ladies rippling as we canter, and the cloaks of the gentlemen billowing like standards. The gentlemen of my father’s rooms and my ladies mingle without ceremony, and there is continual laughter and flirtation. Behind them come the mounted guard, though England is supposed to be at peace. My father is perennially suspicious, always afraid that the foolish, wicked people still hold their loyalty to the old royal family. Behind the mounted guard comes the wagon with the hawks and falcons, their leather curtains tied tightly against the dust, and all the birds standing on their traveling perches, their little heads crowned with leather hoods, blinded to all the noise and confusion so they are not frightened.
Around them, baying and yelping, are the big hounds—the wolfhounds and the deerhounds with the huntsmen and the whippers-in riding alongside and keeping them under control. Every now and then one of the dogs gets a scent and gives tongue and all the others are desperate to give chase and follow; but we cannot stop to hunt if we are riding towards a feast or a celebration or a formal welcome. Some days we hunt before breakfast, and sometimes in the cool of the evening, and then the dogs can take a scent and make a run, and the court will spur on their horses, scrambling over ditches and riding through strange woods, laughing and cheering. If we make a kill we present the meat at the next halt to our overnight host.