Tudor Princess, The Read Online Free PDF Page A

golden hair piled beneath her hood in an array of glossy curls.
    I was bedecked in grand state robes of crimson velvet trimmed with ermine, my throat encircled in jewels, and almost every slim finger ornamented with rings. My copper tresses tumbled to my waist in thick waves and I walked in slow, measured steps, my back straight, my head erect, proud as a Tudor should be.
    The Scots did not look as odd as I imagined. There was something alluring about these men; there was an energy in their presence. They were
alive
. A thrill coursed through me as I pondered my future husband, wondering if he was as handsome and lusty as they said.
    Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, served as proxy, looking most fierce and proud as he took my trembling hand before the Archbishop of Glasgow.
    The archbishop regarded my parents on the dais and asked them if they knew of any impediment other than what had been dispensed. They said they did not. When I was asked I responded in a clear, strong voice that I, too, knew of nothing to impede my marriage to King James.
    Lord Bothwell’s hand was warm in mine and I found myself squeezing it. He squeezed it in turn, glancing at me sideways and offering a quick smile as if to reassure me. The archbishop asked if it was in the King of Scots’ will and mind that he marry me in his name, to which the earl answered with a confident yes.
    The archbishop turned his eyes to me. ‘And you, Princess. Are you content, without compulsion, and of your own free will?’
    No!
I wanted to scream. Who in their right mind was content with the idea of being exiled to Scotland of all places? But I remained calm and composed. I was a Princess of the Blood.
    ‘If it pleases my lord and father the king and lady mother the queen,’ I said, making certain my voice resonated throughout the chambers. I would show these Scots that their queen would be strong and able.
    ‘It is my will and pleasure,’ my father rumbled, his expression wistful as he beheld me.
    Lord Bothwell repeated his vows after the archbishop, and I strained against his thick Scots brogue, trying to understand the words through the rolling
R
s and guttural, throaty tones of speech. To think a whole country talked like that and I had to head them up!
    My back ached from standing so straight, but I drew myself even straighter as I repeated after the archbishop, ‘I, Margaret, first-begotten daughter of the right excellent, right high and mighty prince and princess, Henry by the Grace of God King of England and Elizabeth queen of the same, wittingly and of deliberate mind, having twelve years complete in age in the month of November last past, contract matrimony with the right excellent, right high and mighty prince, James, King of Scotland and therefore I plight and give to him in your person of whom Patrick, Earl of Bothwell, as procurator aforesaid, my faith and troth.’
    At once the trumpets sounded and the minstrels burst into song. A bubble of laughter caught in my chest as I turned to the earl.
    ‘Many congratulations, Your Grace,’ he told me, dipping into a bow.
    Your Grace! I was a
Grace!
I shot a smug look at my brother, Henry, who was all too eager to sit on the throne. He scrunched his nose up at me but was smiling. I expected both of us were eager to dazzle our guests with our dancing.
    Father led the band of Scots to his apartments while Mother approached me, sliding her hand into mine. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, and her tone of reverence humbled me. She curtsied before me. I curtsied in turn.
    We were no longer simply mother and daughter but two queens, two great monarchs.
    Two Graces!
    This was something I could not revel in for long, however, for Mother was now leading me to my apartments. I exchanged state robes for a shift and my hair was brushed till it shone. Mother ran her fingers through it and laughed.
    ‘You are all Tudor,’ she said. ‘That lustrous red hair is your pride.’
    I smiled at my reflection in the glass. I may