Tudor Princess, The Read Online Free PDF Page B

knowledge that she would be in England. She would write to me and advise me. She would counsel me when I became with child and from her I would learn the art of being a true queen. Once again I was cheated; once again another family member was called to God while I remained behind scrambling to figure out why.
    We took to Westminster to hear her requiem mass. Grandmother wrapped her arms about Henry’s and Mary’s shoulders, drawing them close to her small, strong frame, her countenance resolute, determined as always. She had seen death before, many times. It had lost its effect.
    I sat alone. My beloved Archbishop Morton, one of the few in whom I would have been able to confide my grief, now also waited for Mother in the next world as well. I had not allowed myself to grow fond of the new one, Warham, who locked eyes with me and offered a sad smile I could not return.
    Upon the conclusion of the service I proceeded down the Long Gallery of Westminster. At once it was as though I were swallowed up by the vastness of this hall, which in itself was a small place compared to the whole of England and the wilds of Scotland. And yet I was a queen, which wasn’t small at all, and that must account for something. Would anyone remember me hundreds of years from then?
    Would anyone remember my mother, herself so small and fair?
    I removed to my father’s apartments. I needed to find some assurance in my remaining parent, the king.
    The guards fixed me with stern gazes. ‘The king will see no one,’ one told me.
    ‘I am his daughter,’ I responded. ‘He will see me.’
    The guard shook his head, his mouth drawn into a thin, grim line. ‘His orders are explicit: He will see no one.’
    ‘Great God in heaven, are We not the Queen of Scots! Has not one sovereign the right to see another? You will obey Us,’ I ordered, squaring my shoulders. ‘Or face the displeasure of Our country! We doubt you want to be responsible for a national incident!’
    Startled, the men exchanged glances, then after a moment’s more hesitation stood aside to permit me entrance. The instant I strode into my father’s chambers I lost all confidence. My strong, measured steps became tiny and soft. I approached my father, who sat at his writing table, his head buried in his hands. I had never seen him thus; this was a man who never allowed for vulnerability. There was no time for it. He had a throne to secure, a treasury to fill, a country’s confidence to win. There was no time to be faint of heart.
    Now he sat before me broken, his long face drawn. He had been crying; tears stained his weathered cheeks. At once my breath caught. I had never seen him cry before.
    ‘Your Grace …’ I said, bowing my head and curtsying. ‘I am sorry … I did not mean to burst in.’
    ‘I must say it was well done,’ he commented, offering a sad half smile.
    We gazed at each other a moment, immobilised by sorrow. I could not lament to him as I did to Mother; there was no railing against the fates or questioning God. We faced each other, two monarchs, and would address our grief with dignity, not drama.
    ‘I came to comfort you,’ I said in soft tones.
    ‘My comfort will be in this alliance,’ he told me, extending his hand. I took it. It was so large that mine was made invisible when enfolded within it. ‘Be a good queen, Margaret, as your mother was. Beget many sons. And remember: You are a daughter of England before you are a wife to Scotland. Do whatever it takes to ensure peace between our kingdoms.’
    ‘I shall,’ I promised, forcing strength into my voice as I swallowed my tears. I was determined to face him with stateliness. ‘I shall honour my mother’s memory and do you proud.’
    Father rose. He rested his hands on my shoulders. ‘You have.’ He leaned forward and very gently kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes, revelling in the newfound bond between monarchs, vowing to be every inch the queen my mother was while encompassing the strength of