Christmastide 1503
To Margaret, Queen of Scotland,
Greetings, my daughter Margaret,
I was sorry to read that you are disturbed by the presence of your husband’s bastards in your castle, and I urge you to pray to God that he amend his ways. He is your husband set above you by God and the laws of both our countries and you can do nothing but, by patient example and calling on the help of Our Lady, guide him to better behavior in the future. Remember that your marriage vows to him promise your obedience. He did not promise that to you.
The children should be raised as the lords and ladies they are, and you will find an advantage in having a royal family that you can command. Always remember that you are in a country that is uncertain in its temper and with lords of sinfully great independence of spirit. Anyone who might be your friend and be loyal to you and yours should be kept close. These children can be encouraged and persuaded and bribed to be the friends of your prince when he is born. Nothing is more important than his safety and future. You have seen how I befriend and patronize my kinsmen, for this very reason: that my son shall have friends throughout the land who can be called on in time of need. I even married a great lord to give my son a powerful ally. Everything you do must be directed to ensuring your son gets to his throne and stays there. The bastard children must be raised to help you in this.
You will want to have news of our court. The king, my son, is not well and this grieves me and causes me great concern. I do what I can for his health and I take many of the burdens of government from his shoulders. Katherine of Aragon is no trouble to the court at all and we rarely see her. She is trying to live on her own, in her own house, and from what I hear she is hard-pressed to make ends meet. We owe her nothing, and we give her next to nothing. We will not release her to Spain until they have paid us the final sum of her dowry, and they will not receive her until we have paid her widow’s dower. Princess Mary is growing in grace and obedience and we plan a great marriage for her, trusting to the will of God and the establishment of His peace.
I remain high in the favor of God as manifested by His many blessings on me and by my devotion to prayer and good works. Please make sure that you are obedient and agreeable to your husband. You should be making a son of your own, not worrying about his bastards. And make sure that you befriend them now, that you may use them in the future.
Margaret R
She signs herself “Margaret R,” which might mean Margaret Richmond—her title—or might mean Margaret Regina. She has never told anyone, but invented the signature without consulting anybody, in silence, as she does so much else. This is not from modesty but from a tendency to stealth. She makes friends and allies quietly, not for love of them but against the day when she may need them. She married two husbands for what they could do for her son. She oppressed my mother with rarely a word spoken, and she has stifled history about what she did during the reign of Richard. I wish I were as wise as she, I wish I were as cunning. But I am a Tudor princess and I was born proud. Surely I should not wish myself otherwise?
At any rate, the main thing is that I will get my own way. The two boys who carry the name of Stewart will be sent to college in Italy, an honor that I think they could not have expected. The other children are to be housed elsewhere in Scotland, I don’t even know where, and I certainly will not ask.
I am sorry if Katherine is being kept short of money, sorry to think of her struggling to manage a large household in a big house in London without any help from my grandmother or my father; but I cannot help but be pleased that she has not taken my place at court, that she is not the favored daughter, attending all the celebrations, seated next to her betrothed, my brother Harry, dancing with him. I love her so much better when I know that she is not usurping my place.
The most troubling thing for me in this letter is the news that my sister Mary is to make some great match in Europe. I am struck at once by anxiety that they don’t pair her with some old man, or some cruel young tyrant. She is a little beauty: as engaging as a kitten, as exquisite as a carved angel. They must not sell her to the highest bidder, or throw her into the bear pit of some hard-faced court. She is trusting and vulnerable; she has no mother, and I am filled with anxiety and passionate protectiveness for my little sister. I want them to match her with someone kind and loving. Kind and loving, and—in truth—unimportant. For I can’t bear her to marry a great king. I don’t want her to rise beyond her station. This would be wrong. I am the elder sister and I should be senior to her, in greatness as well as in years. Surely this is clear to everyone? Surely my lady grandmother, with her wisdom in strategy and her love of fortune and title, will remember that I, her namesake, cannot be overtaken, must never be overtaken by my little sister?
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1504
In January, just at the end of the Christmas feast, they bring us the news that James’s younger brother, the Duke of Ross, has died. This should be a sad event for my husband, though nothing compared with the loss of Arthur for me; but he hides his grief so well that I think he feels none.
“He was a trouble to me as well as a brother,” he explains, and he takes my hand under his arm as we walk down the gallery, past the dark gloomy pictures of the many other Jameses, as the courtiers chatter among themselves and secretly watch us.
“Brothers are like that,” I agree, thinking of Harry. “Sisters, too.”
“I feared that my father preferred him to me, and part of my quarrel with my father was that he was going to put my brother in my place, name him as heir and put him on the throne.”
“That’s a sin,” I say sanctimoniously. “The elder child should be honored before the others. God has chosen the order of the family, and it should not be overthrown.”
“Spoken like an older sister!” he says, with his quick rueful smile.
“It’s just the truth,” I say, on my dignity. “It was very wrong at home when they let Mary put herself forward, and even worse when Katherine of Aragon tried to take precedence over me when she was a Tudor princess by marriage and I was a true-born one. God has put everyone in their station in life and they should stay there.”
“Well, my brother’s death leaves me with another difficulty. I am sorry if you dislike this, but I will have to name my heir,” he says, without preamble, direct as ever.
“Why?” I ask.
“My dear, I know you are not yet fifteen; but think like a queen! My brother was my heir, of course, and now that he is dead, I have none.”
“You will name an heir?” I ask. At once I am breathless with hope.
“I have to.”
“Will you name me?” I ask.
The crack of laughter that he cannot contain makes everyone turn and look at us. “Oh! God bless you! No!” he says. “It can’t be you, my dear. You would be running to the border in your petticoat in a month! In a day! The only reason that we are safe on our throne is because I go constantly—constantly—from one end of the country to the other, forcing my will on those lords who would have their own way, begging the friendship of others, pacifying those who are angry by nature, soothing those who are aggrieved. I am building ships! I am forging guns! Only a peace-loving man with an army behind him can keep this country together: only a wise man with an unbeatable army. No woman could do it. I am making this into a country of peace and prosperity after years of struggle. God guard us against a ruling queen. That would ruin everything.”