Three Sisters Three Queens Read online

  Down goes Doctor West on his knee, as James greets me sweetly with a kiss and with a little gift of a golden brooch. I make much of it. Doctor West can see that I have many jewels already, I don’t need anything from Harry; but I will never consent to Katherine flaunting herself in my grandmother’s jewels. She probably has taken my legacy as well as her own. I go to whisper in James’s ear that the emissary is part spy and part enemy and he puts me gently to one side. He knows this already. He knows everything.

  Not one word can Doctor West get from him that evening nor for the remaining days of Easter week. James has returned from his vigil to enjoy himself. The best of the meats and the finest of the wines are brought to him, and he begs me and my ladies to dance. I pass Doctor West with a scornful turn of my head, as if to say: See here! This, my husband, is a king! Not some fool who steals someone else’s jewels, and goes to war against a mighty power like France as his father-in-law bids him. This is a king and I am his chosen wife, and Harry can keep his stupid jewels. My husband will give me more, I have no need of them, and Scotland has no need of the friendship of England; they need not threaten us with taking our towns because we can just as easily take theirs. And we will do so if we so decide. And the French will pay for our army and pay our navy. So Harry had better think of that before he threatens us. And Katherine need not think that because we are sisters she can ride roughshod over me and my rights. She may call herself my dear sister but that does not earn her my inheritance. She may not wear my mother’s jewels.

  HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1513

  Harry does not think of anything but invading France. James begs him to reconsider, reminds him that both French and English lords will die on the battlefield and that they—and the kings—should only give up their lives for the glory of God, to recapture the Holy Land. He writes with patience, as an older, wiser man to a foolish young one, and he gets no reply. Harry—stupid, strutting Harry—is going to go to war, just as when he was little he had to ride at the quintain or write the best poem, or learn the new dance. Harry has found an audience, and the great stage of Europe, and he is going to make sure that everyone watches him. Harry wins uncritical admiration from his own wife and he will do anything to please her and her wicked father.

  And then he threatens us through the Church. He gets Doctor West to warn James that if he breaks the Treaty of Perpetual Peace he will be excommunicated by the Pope, and go to hell. This! To a man who wants only to go on crusade, who wears a hair shirt for the forty days of Lent and a cilice around his waist all the time. A man so conscious of his sin and so fearful before God that he goes on pilgrimage four times a year and never sees me into confinement without praying all night. It is a wicked threat, struck at the darkest of James’s fears, and I know at once where it has come from. It is Katherine who has told Harry that James is so fearful for my safety. It is Katherine who has told him that James is driven by guilt. It is Katherine who has told of the terrors that my husband confided in me that I trusted to her. She has taken my confidences, my sisterly confidences, and used them against my husband, against us. This is such a betrayal I can hardly bear to think of it.

  I run to James’s rooms, furious that Katherine has broken my trust, and I find my husband, smiling and happy, at his working table with tiny screws of brass and rings all around him, and comical spectacles pinched on his nose, assembling an instrument that he says can be used to tell a sailor at sea which direction is north.

  “Look at this, Margaret,” he says. “I have taken it apart and now I am putting it back together. Have you ever seen a more tiny compass? Isn’t it a beautiful thing? Venetian, of course; I think we could make them ourselves for our ships.”

  “James, they are saying that they will have you excommunicated!”

  He smiles and waves the threat aside. “They can threaten,” he says. “They can even buy the Pope against me. But God and I know that I would be halfway to Jerusalem by now if your brother was not swelled up like a pig’s bladder by false pride. I won’t be troubled by a boy who goes to war at the bidding of his wife. I won’t be frightened by the cursing of a pope who has been bought by him.”

  “It’s all her fault,” I say eagerly. “Just as I have been a peacemaker, she has been an agent of war.”

  James looks at me over his spectacles; but he is not listening. “I am sure you are right.”

  Sister Katherine,

  Forgive me for my bluntness, I speak as the Northern people do, without concealment and clever turns of phrase. If you persist in advising Harry to support your father in his quarrel with France then you will act against the interests of England. France has long been a true friend to the Scots, and we will support them if we have to. Please don’t let your father put such a rift between James and Harry, your husband and mine, England and Scotland, and between my brother and me. It is unsisterly and un-English.

  Also, I don’t have the jewels that my grandmother left me, nor my inheritance from my father. These are objects of great importance to me for my love for the giver—the value means nothing. Has Mary got hers? Do you have yours? Can it be possible that my brother is withholding my inheritance? I cannot believe that he would do such a thing nor that you would permit it. In particular there is a garnet brooch that belonged to my grandmother and that I know she meant for me. Mary can hardly want it, now she has the largest ruby in the world. I demand that it is sent to me. I insist upon it.

  Please be a true sister to me, and a true queen to England, and prevent war and deliver my inheritance. I pray that you see the path of duty in this. I think that God’s will is clear.

  Margaret

  She does not even reply. She persists in encouraging war with France, and I don’t even know if Mary has had her jewels. Only when our ambassador tells us that the invading army has actually left England for France do I understand why Katherine has behaved so badly; only now do I see her reward.

  Henry sets sail, and leaves Katherine in command of England. All of England! Given to the woman who once could not afford fresh apples from Kent. He names her as regent. I cannot believe it, even though I predicted that she wanted this, she would be like this. I am so furious with her that I raise no objection when James tells me that he is honor bound, by his alliance with France. He will invade the Northern lands of England.

  “I shall probably have to face your old friend Thomas Howard,” James says when he comes into my rooms to lead me and my ladies in to dinner. I can tell from the smell of gunpowder in his hair that he has been at the powder mill.

  “He was no friend of mine,” I reply. “It was you he talked to all the time. He was overproud, I was delighted when he went home.”

  “Well, now he has been left to guard England,” James says. “Your brother has taken his best men and all his army to France and left no one but old Howard and his son and the queen to defend England. I will meet him on the field of battle once again.”

  “Will he be short of men? Has Harry taken everyone?”

  James takes my hand and comes close, so that no one can hear but me.

  “He has enough, but if the clans will come out for me, then I will have more. And they will come out for me, for I have been a true king to them and an honorable leader and never led them astray.”

  Ahead of us, in the great hall, I can hear the rumble of voices and the scrape of the benches on the floor as people take their seats. I can hear the ripple of music and the slow chant of the choir from the gallery.

  “I won’t fail them,” James says quietly. “I am the true-born King of Scots and the English are led by a man new-come to his throne and terribly inexperienced. I have served them for years and they have served me, and the English king is just a boy.”

  He glances at me and says the thing that he knows I will want to hear the most: “And I have a queen, a young woman but a great queen, at my side, and he has nothing but a Spanish princess, the widow of his brother, the cat’s paw of her father. How can we fail?”