was annulled.
That leaves three-month-old Elizabeth, Anne’s daughter.
And King Henry’s nieces.
No one wants a queen to rule. Least of all a baby. Or a Scot, like Margaret.
If the king can change the legitimacy of his eldest daughter, could he change the legitimacy of his son? Am I a princess? A duchess? Or just a girl?
“I believe my royal blood takes precedence.”
Margaret’s voice is low and even. Confident. She knows who she is and where she belongs.
I start to bow, but am interrupted.
“In this court, Lady Margaret, you and the Duchess of Richmond are equal.”
The room comes back in a rush—the press of bodies, the reek of sweat, the chains of gossip—and both of us turn together to curtsy to the queen.
I watch Margaret from the corner of my eye. Her back is straight and her head bowed, but she is still regal. Restrained. She has done this her entire life.
If we are equal, I still have a lot to learn. And I hope I’ve found the person I’ll learn it from.
J ANUARY COM ES ON THE ICY FEET O F WINTER AND THE COU RT IS awash in gifts. Everyone gives something to the king and queen—this is a requirement. With the hundreds of gifts they receive each year, you’d think it wouldn’t matter if one person neglects her duty.
But it does.
My mother doesn’t send a gift to Anne Boleyn. This shouldn’t surprise me—the terms Mother used to describe my cousin were never fit to be repeated. But Mother has always sent gifts to the queen on January first.
This year, Mother sends oranges to Katherine of Aragon. She was called queen since before I was born but is now just Princess Dowager, as the king claims they were never legally married, despite a ceremony and twenty years of cohabitation. Mother’s offering is duly noted by the court. And I hear whispers when I leave a room.
I give the queen a small book of poetry that I copied out myself. It isn’t much, but at least it is personal. It’s not my own poetry, of course. Just a couple of Hal’s better pieces. And one or two by Thomas Wyatt. Madge insists I include Chaucer, reading over my shoulder as I write.
My father supervises my gift to the king. He says it must be expensive. And impersonal, in case the king decides to pass it on to someone else.
“It’s the perception of the thing that matters,” Father tells me. “The fact that you gave him something. That he received it.”
So with much trepidation, I give the king a little gold tablet set with pearls. He kisses me wetly on the cheek and thanks me and gives me a ring in return, from his own stash of gifts.
I recognize the ring. Margaret Douglas gave it to him. After I thank him, I hide it in the pocket at my waist and hope she hasn’t noticed.
I have a gift to give Fitz—a gold ring decorated with an enameled white lion, the symbol of the dukedom of Richmond. But I’m not sure how to give it to him. I don’t understand the protocol. I see him at the far end of the great hall. But I cannot penetrate the wall of people to reach him.
The crowds threaten to smother me. I escape the castle to go to the empty orchard, the bare-branched trees running dark and bony up the hill toward Duke Humphrey’s Tower. The grass is wet underfoot, but at least there are no bodies pressing into me. I’m not breathing in someone else’s stale air.
“Duchess!”
Only one person calls me that. And she shouldn’t. I turn to see Madge struggling up the hill in heavy skirts already soaked.
“This is for you,” she says, thrusting a package at me, thumping me in the stomacher.
“For me?” I ask. “Why, Madge, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s not from me, Duchess,” she replies. She raises an eyebrow and grins wickedly. “It’s from your husband.”
How did she get close to him when I couldn’t?
I take the gift and slowly unwrap it. It’s a book. Bound simply in leather, stamped with gold. The pages are thick, and creamy. And blank.
Not a single word written on them.
“Not even a
That leaves three-month-old Elizabeth, Anne’s daughter.
And King Henry’s nieces.
No one wants a queen to rule. Least of all a baby. Or a Scot, like Margaret.
If the king can change the legitimacy of his eldest daughter, could he change the legitimacy of his son? Am I a princess? A duchess? Or just a girl?
“I believe my royal blood takes precedence.”
Margaret’s voice is low and even. Confident. She knows who she is and where she belongs.
I start to bow, but am interrupted.
“In this court, Lady Margaret, you and the Duchess of Richmond are equal.”
The room comes back in a rush—the press of bodies, the reek of sweat, the chains of gossip—and both of us turn together to curtsy to the queen.
I watch Margaret from the corner of my eye. Her back is straight and her head bowed, but she is still regal. Restrained. She has done this her entire life.
If we are equal, I still have a lot to learn. And I hope I’ve found the person I’ll learn it from.
J ANUARY COM ES ON THE ICY FEET O F WINTER AND THE COU RT IS awash in gifts. Everyone gives something to the king and queen—this is a requirement. With the hundreds of gifts they receive each year, you’d think it wouldn’t matter if one person neglects her duty.
But it does.
My mother doesn’t send a gift to Anne Boleyn. This shouldn’t surprise me—the terms Mother used to describe my cousin were never fit to be repeated. But Mother has always sent gifts to the queen on January first.
This year, Mother sends oranges to Katherine of Aragon. She was called queen since before I was born but is now just Princess Dowager, as the king claims they were never legally married, despite a ceremony and twenty years of cohabitation. Mother’s offering is duly noted by the court. And I hear whispers when I leave a room.
I give the queen a small book of poetry that I copied out myself. It isn’t much, but at least it is personal. It’s not my own poetry, of course. Just a couple of Hal’s better pieces. And one or two by Thomas Wyatt. Madge insists I include Chaucer, reading over my shoulder as I write.
My father supervises my gift to the king. He says it must be expensive. And impersonal, in case the king decides to pass it on to someone else.
“It’s the perception of the thing that matters,” Father tells me. “The fact that you gave him something. That he received it.”
So with much trepidation, I give the king a little gold tablet set with pearls. He kisses me wetly on the cheek and thanks me and gives me a ring in return, from his own stash of gifts.
I recognize the ring. Margaret Douglas gave it to him. After I thank him, I hide it in the pocket at my waist and hope she hasn’t noticed.
I have a gift to give Fitz—a gold ring decorated with an enameled white lion, the symbol of the dukedom of Richmond. But I’m not sure how to give it to him. I don’t understand the protocol. I see him at the far end of the great hall. But I cannot penetrate the wall of people to reach him.
The crowds threaten to smother me. I escape the castle to go to the empty orchard, the bare-branched trees running dark and bony up the hill toward Duke Humphrey’s Tower. The grass is wet underfoot, but at least there are no bodies pressing into me. I’m not breathing in someone else’s stale air.
“Duchess!”
Only one person calls me that. And she shouldn’t. I turn to see Madge struggling up the hill in heavy skirts already soaked.
“This is for you,” she says, thrusting a package at me, thumping me in the stomacher.
“For me?” I ask. “Why, Madge, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s not from me, Duchess,” she replies. She raises an eyebrow and grins wickedly. “It’s from your husband.”
How did she get close to him when I couldn’t?
I take the gift and slowly unwrap it. It’s a book. Bound simply in leather, stamped with gold. The pages are thick, and creamy. And blank.
Not a single word written on them.
“Not even a
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