I am so offended that I can hardly speak. “As you wish, Your Grace,” I say, very cold, and dignified. “I am sorry that you think so little of me.”
“Not of you, sweetheart,” he says, and he squeezes my hand under his elbow. “No woman can rule. And you have not been taught statecraft, you love the title of queen but you don’t understand that it is a constant labor.”
“You speak as if you were a blacksmith,” I say stiffly.
“I am,” he says. “I am forging a kingdom from a country of clans. I am bringing them into one body. Even now, I have to fight to keep the loyalty of the Isles, I have to watch the borders, I even have to demand the ownership of the debatable lands. Your father had to do the same when he took his throne, and his task was even harder, for everyone knew him as nothing more than the exiled Earl of Richmond. At least I was born and bred a king. Your father struggles with his lords and so do I. I have to teach them loyalty and fidelity and constancy.” He looks at me, smiling. “I have to teach you, too.”
“But who will you name as your heir?” I ask. My belly plunges in fright as I suddenly think that he might honor my brother, Harry. I could not bear for Harry to have a title that bettered mine, and how terrible it would be if it were given to him by my own husband. “Not Harry?”
“Harry? No,” he says. “Don’t you listen at all? The Scots lords would never accept an English king. We have to have our own. The next in line after me is John Stuart, the Duke of Albany, my cousin.”
I blink. This is worse than Harry. “I don’t even know who you mean. Who is he?”
“You’ve not met him. He lives in France, he was raised there, and he was no favorite of my father’s. But, like it or not, he will be my heir until you give me a son. In the meantime, I will make my son James legitimate. I wish to God that you would learn to love my bastards. If you would bring up James as your own I would name him as my heir. At least I can publicly acknowledge him.”
This is a worse humiliation for me than if he had chosen Harry. “Who doesn’t know about him already? Everyone knows about all of them! You can’t foist a bastard on me! You would not dishonor the throne.”
“It’s no dishonor,” he says. “He’s been known as mine since he was made, and all the others who came before and after him. I mean no offense to you, little wife, but until we have a son together I want a boy to bear my name and my blessing. I am going to legitimize James.”
“Which one is he?” I ask coldly. “For there were so many tumbling out of the walls of Stirling that I could not tell one apart from the other.”
“James is Janet Kennedy’s boy. I think you observed him well enough to demand his absence. Alexander and his half brother James will study in Italy and their sister Catherine will live in Edinburgh Castle. I will have my children around me, my dear. So far, you have given me none to put in their place.”
I pull my hand from his arm. “I will never see one of your bastard children at my dinner table or even near the throne,” I say furiously. “And I will not dine tonight. I am unwell. You can go to dinner without me.”
He does not even blink. “Very well,” he says. “I will come to your room after dinner. I will spend the night with you.”
The words “You will not” are on the tip of my tongue but the set of his mouth warns me not to defy him.
“Very well,” I say, sweeping him a curtsey, and as he walks away, calling to his lords that he is sterving for his dinner, I whisper “Peasant” at his broad back, but not so loud that he can hear.
I do not dare show my bad temper to my husband but I have no restraint before my ladies, and I cuff the dogs and whip my horses, they all have to bear it without complaint. James nominates his boy Alexander to the see of Saint Andrews, his late brother’s benefice, and collects the massive fees. The ten-year-old is sent to Italy to study with no less a scholar than Erasmus. Erasmus! Who visited my brother Harry and was impressed by his learning. Thomas More brought him. That Erasmus! For a pair of little Scots bastards! The philosopher visited the royal English court and came to us in our nursery at Eltham and exchanged poetry with my brother Harry. We were suitable pupils for such a great man. But James is blind to rank and blind to merit. He insists that his bastards go to Padua to study and nothing will persuade him that this is to raise them too high.
I know he is mistaken. For all that he calls me unfit to rule, I know some things. I have seen my father haunted by boys, Plantagenet boys; one even called himself a Plantagenet prince. My father paid a fortune on spies to find him, and then bribes to all the liars in Flanders to say that they knew him as a boatman’s son in Tournai. I saw the struggle that my father had to be rid of him when he was captured. I saw him lingering at our court, half prince and half pretender. The only thing to do with a rival is to put him to death, at once. Now James is educating two boys to be the rivals to my son, even saying he will name the oldest as his heir. I know that this is folly. Every prince, every princess, wants to be the only one.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1506
The king showers me with gifts for my sixteenth birthday, for Christmas, for New Year’s Day, and for the pleasure of giving me gold and jewels. The Christmas feast was more playful and joyous than any I have ever seen. James’s alchemist, John Damien, came from Stirling to act as master of the revels and we had disguisings and dancing, fireworks, masques, and surprises every day. The old wizard changed wine to the color of ink, he made flames burn green. Every day we had a new poem, every day a new song, the court was merry and the king was openhanded with his friends, and loving to me.
The only shadow at all is that we have been wedded and bedded for nearly three years and still, there is no sign of a child. There is no fault in the king; there is no “Alas, it never happened for us” in my marriage. He comes to me without fail every night that is not forbidden by the Church, especially in the days before my course, until it comes and disappoints me again. I think that he keeps account of my times and is most attentive when he is likely to succeed, perhaps he and his alchemist judge it by the moon or draw up charts. I don’t know, I don’t ask. How would I know what he reads in his books of Greek, with their horrid pictures of flayed bodies, and distilling goblets, and snakes?
In my package of letters from England I get a note from my sister Mary, boasting about the wonderful time she has had this spring. Isabella of Castile has died and the heirs of Spain, Philip and his wife, Juana, were sailing home to their country but were blown onto the coast at Dorset, and my father and all the court invited them to stay at Windsor and then Richmond. Katherine was dragged out of obscurity and pushed to the fore to greet her sister Juana, and Mary partnered her in dances and singing and riding out with the visitors, for archery—where they won—and hunting—where they caught everything but unicorns. There were masques, celebrations . . . the list goes on and on as Mary details the parties and even the clothes she wore. I am amazed that my lady grandmother lets her put herself forward like this, but in her letter she says that they are considering Charles of Castile as a match for her, and then I understand they have set her out, like a tray of pies, to tempt the buyer. Of course Katherine was part of the team of hucksters that brought these fresh wares to market. I am surprised that she should lower herself to dance at my father’s bidding when he has done nothing for her. I think she should have more pride. I would have had more pride. And, clearly, the attention to Mary was ridiculous.