I had no idea it was so far to go, no idea that so much of Northern England is empty of all people: not hedged, not ditched, not farmed, nor worked at all. It is just empty country, wasteland, not even mapped.
Of course, there are people who scrape a living from this untouched landscape. Every now and then we see in the distance a rough stone tower and sometimes we hear the ringing of a warning bell when their watchmen have seen us. These are the wild Northern men who ride these lands, stealing each other’s crops and horses, rounding up each other’s cattle, scraping a living from their tenants and then robbing others. We don’t go near their outposts and we are too numerous and too well armed for them to attack us; but the leader of my escort, Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey, grinds his old yellow teeth at the very thought of them. He has fought up and down this country and burned out these poor forts to punish these people for their wildness, for their poverty, for their hatred of everything Southern and wealthy and easy.
It is he who prevents me ordering matters as I would like, for everything is commanded by him and his equally disagreeable wife, Agnes. For some reason my father likes and trusts Thomas Howard, and has appointed him to the task of conveying me to Edinburgh, and keeping me to the behavior suitable for a Queen of Scotland. I should think that by now I could be trusted without a Howard at my elbow to give me advice. He’s also here as a spy, since he has fought against the Scots more than once, and he meets with the Northern lords in a little huddle at every town where we halt, to learn of the mood of the Scots border lords, and whether any more of them can be bribed to take our side. He promises our lords that they shall have weapons and money to maintain the defenses of England against Scotland, though the mere fact that I am here will bring a perpetual peace.
Howard does not seem to understand what a change in the world has been made by my marriage to the King of Scotland. He treats me with every outward respect, doffs his hat, bows his knee, accepts dishes from my table, but there is something about his manner that I don’t like. It is as if he does not realize the God-given nature of kingship. It is as if he thinks that he saw my father stumble through the mud of Bosworth Field to pick up his crown, and that he might one day drop it again.
Howard fought against us then, but he persuaded my father that this was commendable loyalty, not treason. He says he was loyal to the crown on that day, he is loyal to the crown now. If the coronet of England were on the head of a baboon from Afric he would be loyal to it then. It is the crown, and the wealth that flows from it, that inspires Howard loyalty. I don’t believe he loves my father and me at all. If he was not such a brilliant general I don’t think I would have to put up with his company. If my mother were alive she would have appointed one of her family. If my brother were alive then my lady grandmother would not be tied at court to guard the only heir we have left. But everything has gone wrong since Katherine came to court and took Arthur away, and these Howards are just an example of how my interests do not come first as they should.
My dislike of them grows at every stop, where they watch how I listen to loyal addresses and prompt me when I am to speak in reply, though I know perfectly well that I have to be admiring in York, and enchanted in Berwick, our northernmost town, a little jewel of a castle set in a bend of the river near to the sea. I don’t have to be told to admire the fortifications; I can see how welcoming Berwick is to me, I know how safe I feel inside these great walls. But Thomas Howard practically dictates the speech of thanks I make to the captain of the castle. He prides himself on his knowledge of tradition. By some means or another he is descended from Edward I, and this means that he thinks he can speak to me about sitting straighter in the saddle and not looking around for the dishes coming into the hall when the speeches go on and on before dinner.
By the time we reach the Scots border, just two hours’ ride from Berwick, I am completely sick of the two Howards, and I resolve that the first thing I shall do when I set up my court is send them home with a note to my father to say that they lack the skills that I require in my courtiers. They may be good enough for him, but not for me. They can serve in Katherine’s court and she can see what joy Thomas Howard brings her. She can see if she likes knowing that he is so loyal to the crown that he does not care whose head it is on. His grimly ambitious presence can remind her that she too married one Prince of Wales but is now determined to be the wife of another; it is always the crown for the Howards and the crown for Katherine.
But none of this matters when we finally cross the border and are in Scotland at last, and the lady of Dalkeith Castle, the Countess of Morton, whispers to me: “The king is coming!”
It has been such a long journey that I had almost forgotten that at the end of it is this: the throne of Scotland, the thistle crown, but also a man, a real man, not just one who sends gifts and flowery compliments through ambassadors—but a real man who is on his way to see me.
The arrangement was that he would meet me as I entered Edinburgh, but there is a stupid tradition that the bridegroom—like a fairy-tale prince—is supposed to be unable to contain his impatience, and rides out early, like a “parfit gentil knight” in a romance, to meet his bride. This reminds me of Arthur again, who rode in the rain to Dogmersfield to meet a reluctant Katherine, and makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time, remembering the poor reception that he got, and his embarrassment. But it shows at least that the King of Scots knows how things should be done, and is demonstrating a flattering interest in me.
We all get into a panic of readiness and even my chief lady-in-waiting Agnes Howard shows a little excitement when she comes to my room. I am dressed in a gown of deep green with cloth-of-gold sleeves and my best pearls, and we all sit as if we were posing for an artist, listening to music and trying to look as if we are not waiting. Thomas Howard comes in and looks around the room as if he were placing sentries. He leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear that I should look as if I am completely surprised by the arrival of the king. I should not look like I am waiting. I tell him that I know this, and then we all wait. Hours go by before finally there is a clatter at the gate, and a shout of acclaim, a rattle at the main door, quick steps in noisy riding boots up the stairs, then the sentries throw open the door and in he comes: my husband.
I nearly scream at the sight of him. He has the most enormous ridiculous beard, as red as a fox, almost the size of a fox. I jump to my feet and I let out a little gasp. Agnes Howard gives me a sharp look and if she were nearer I think she would have pinched me to remind me of my manners. But it doesn’t matter, for the king is taking me by the hand and bowing, apologizing for startling me. He takes my wide-eyed, jaw-dropped gape as a compliment at his unexpected arrival, and he laughs at himself for being a troubadour of love, then he greets all my ladies with a smiling confidence, bows over Agnes Howard’s hand, and greets Thomas Howard as if they will be the best of friends and he has quite forgotten that Thomas has invaded Scotland twice already.
He is beautifully dressed, like a European prince, in red velvet edged with cloth of gold, and he remarks that we have both chosen velvet. The jacket is cut like a riding jacket but the material is priceless, and instead of a crossbow over his back, as if he were hunting, he is carrying a lyre. I say, a little faintly, that he is a troubadour indeed if he carries his lyre everywhere, and he tells me that he loves music, and poetry and dance, and that he hopes I do too.