The Boleyn girl has chosen to withdraw from court to her father’s home at Hever Castle and Harry writes to her often, in his own hand, begging her to return. In his own hand! For some reason, she is allowed to refuse a royal command, and instead of a punishment she has been rewarded with jewels and money.
Maggie, I cannot tell you how demeaning it is to us all to see Harry pursuing this woman as if he were a troubadour and she a lady as grand as a queen. Katherine is completely admirable, she says nothing, she acts as if nothing is wrong, she is as tender and as loving to Harry as she has always been and she never has a cross word for anyone, not even behind closed doors, even though both the whore, the sister Mary and the mother Elizabeth Boleyn (now Lady Rochford—if you can believe it) are still serving in her rooms and she has to endure their half-apologetic, half-triumphant simpering every day. Katherine believes this will all be forgotten as other flirtations have been forgotten, and I suppose it must—for who cares for Bessie Blount now? But if you had seen the velvet that he sent her, you would be as angry as I.
The court is divided between the young and foolish relishing the excitement and the scandal of this courtship, and the older ones who love the queen and remember all that she has done for Harry and for England. But why is the Boleyn girl hiding at Hever? I am so afraid that she is with child. Surely we would know? Besides, she made such an icon of her virginity.
The Holy Father is sending a papal legate to England to reconcile Harry and our sister. Perhaps he will tell Mademoiselle Boleyn to stay at Hever. I hear that she will only come back to court if she is given her own rooms and her own attendants, as if she were a princess born. She wants a bigger household than mine. You need not wonder who is paying her bills. Nobody wonders, everyone knows, it is completely public: they are sent direct to the exchequer.
There is no joy at court any more but we have to attend since Charles says that he cannot lose touch with the king, and I feel I must be beside Katherine as she endures this trial. Her pain can be seen on her face—she looks like a woman with grief like a canker. No one has told the Princess Mary, who is kept at Ludlow as much as possible, guarded by that old dragon Margaret Pole; but of course she knows, how could she not know? All of England knows. Henry Fitzroy is always at court and now he is treated like a prince. I cannot tell you how unhappy we are. Except for Harry, and Anne Boleyn of course—she is a cow in the corn.
We hear that you are returned to your husband and living in harmony. I am so glad for that, dear Maggie. The queen says that you give her hope: to part from him, to make war on him, and to reconcile at last. It is like a miracle.
I may give the queen hope, but I doubt very much that anyone else thinks of me. Clearly, Harry is happy to leave Scotland to be ruled by his brother-in-law. Indeed, he nominates Archibald to be the Warden of the Marches, and puts him in charge of the peace and security of all the border regions, like asking a lion to lie down with a lamb. As my husband, Archibald once again legally receives all the rents and fees from my lands. If he chose to leave me penniless he could do so, but he is generous to me, making sure that the council pays me an allowance as dowager queen and giving me beautiful material for Margaret’s gowns. If he ever visits Janet Stewart of Traquair, tucked away in one of my many properties, then no one mentions it to me. Anyone seeing him, respectful in chapel, courteous at dinner, playful during dancing, would think him a faithful husband and me a lucky wife.
More than that, they would think him warmly affectionate. When he comes into a room he always makes his bow to me with one hand over his heart, as if he does not forget that once he loved me. When he kisses my hand he lingers over my fingers. Sometimes when he is standing behind my chair he rests a gentle hand on my shoulder. When I am riding he is always first at my side to lift me down from the saddle and hold me, for a moment, as he sets me on my feet. He appears to all the world like a loving husband, and this must be what they hear in England, for my sister Mary writes on the turned-over corner as an afterthought:
Do write to Katherine and tell her of your happiness—it will comfort her to know that a husband and wife can come together again after such a long time apart. She is very troubled by the many rumors that have started about her marriage to the king. If anyone asks you, Margaret, be sure that you tell them you remember perfectly well that our father decided before his death that Harry should marry Katherine, and that she and Harry received a full dispensation from the Pope. If anyone says anything about God not giving them a son, you are to say that the ways of God are mysterious indeed and that we have, thanks be, a beautiful healthy princess as our heir. Don’t say a thing about Henry Fitzroy, we never mention him. I pray every day that the Boleyn woman consents to a normal love affair and proves barren. At the moment we are all waiting, like servants in a bathhouse, for her to name her price. Only God Himself knows what she is holding out for.
I ought to be glad that Katherine’s long rule over my brother has ended. I think I must be glad, though I don’t feel it. I keep thinking: this is my moment of triumph—why do I not feel triumphant?
While she lives, cast aside by a merry young court that is dominated by Harry’s new favorite, while she is neglected by the Boleyn family and their kinsmen the Howards, while she is silenced as an advisor to the cardinal and the others who do the business of the country, she cannot influence Harry against me. She cannot persuade any man of the sanctity of marriage when the king is hell-bent on seduction. A Boleyn court thinking only of pleasure, excited by temptation, breathless with scandal, is no audience for Katherine’s profound thoughts on fidelity and constancy. As her influence wanes it must be my moment. But now—as bad luck would have it—is the very moment when the Pope is the emperor’s prisoner, and no business is being transacted at all.
“D’you know, I think we will be together forever, like Deucalion and Pyrrha,” Archibald says, coming into my privy chamber and nodding to the ladies as if he had every right to stroll in without announcement.
I don’t smile. I can’t remember who Deucalion and Pyrrha are, and I am not committing myself to anything with Archibald.
“Faithful husband and wife who repopulated the earth,” he prompts. “I think we might make a new Scotland when our boy here is old enough to rule.”
“He’s old enough now,” I say unpleasantly. “And he is my boy, not ours.”
Archibald laughs gently, puts his hand over his heart, and makes a little nod with his head. “I am sure you are right,” he says. “At least we have a daughter together to make us happy.”
“If we are so very happy then I am sure that Archbishop Beaton can return to court?” I ask, testing the ground.
“Och, is he tired of shepherding?” Archibald asks me with a gleam in his eye. “I heard that he had taken up a modest crook in place of his gold one, and left Stirling Castle in a hurry.”
I flush with annoyance. “You know very well what happened,” I say.
He winks at me. “I do, and yes, he can come back to court as far as I am concerned. Your son must be the one who issues the invitation, of course. Anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Anyone else that you would like to restore?” he says pleasantly. “If we are to live together, merrily and forever? Anyone else that you would like in your household? Just confirm it with James. I am happy to have any of your friends here, any of your household. As long as . . .”
“As long as what?” I demand, ready to be offended.
“As long as they understand that your reputation is not to be damaged,” he says, as pompous as a choirboy. “While you are with me, as my wife, I would not want there to be any gossip about you. Your reputation as James’s mother, as our daughter’s mother, and as dowager queen should be above reproach.”