The king showers me with gifts for my sixteenth birthday, for Christmas, for New Year’s Day, and for the pleasure of giving me gold and jewels. The Christmas feast was more playful and joyous than any I have ever seen. James’s alchemist, John Damien, came from Stirling to act as master of the revels and we had disguisings and dancing, fireworks, masques, and surprises every day. The old wizard changed wine to the color of ink, he made flames burn green. Every day we had a new poem, every day a new song, the court was merry and the king was openhanded with his friends, and loving to me.
The only shadow at all is that we have been wedded and bedded for nearly three years and still, there is no sign of a child. There is no fault in the king; there is no “Alas, it never happened for us” in my marriage. He comes to me without fail every night that is not forbidden by the Church, especially in the days before my course, until it comes and disappoints me again. I think that he keeps account of my times and is most attentive when he is likely to succeed, perhaps he and his alchemist judge it by the moon or draw up charts. I don’t know, I don’t ask. How would I know what he reads in his books of Greek, with their horrid pictures of flayed bodies, and distilling goblets, and snakes?
In my package of letters from England I get a note from my sister Mary, boasting about the wonderful time she has had this spring. Isabella of Castile has died and the heirs of Spain, Philip and his wife, Juana, were sailing home to their country but were blown onto the coast at Dorset, and my father and all the court invited them to stay at Windsor and then Richmond. Katherine was dragged out of obscurity and pushed to the fore to greet her sister Juana, and Mary partnered her in dances and singing and riding out with the visitors, for archery—where they won—and hunting—where they caught everything but unicorns. There were masques, celebrations . . . the list goes on and on as Mary details the parties and even the clothes she wore. I am amazed that my lady grandmother lets her put herself forward like this, but in her letter she says that they are considering Charles of Castile as a match for her, and then I understand they have set her out, like a tray of pies, to tempt the buyer. Of course Katherine was part of the team of hucksters that brought these fresh wares to market. I am surprised that she should lower herself to dance at my father’s bidding when he has done nothing for her. I think she should have more pride. I would have had more pride. And, clearly, the attention to Mary was ridiculous.
Everyone was so kind to me, and they say that I must learn Spanish! Mary writes, her letters looping across the page and then getting cramped and small at the corners. Think if I should marry Charles and be the Holy Roman Empress! Think how lovely that would be! And we should all three of us be queens.
This is such a foolish plan that it makes me laugh and laugh and quite restores my sisterly affection. Charles of Castile is a baby of six years old. Mary will find herself betrothed and stuck in England for eight years at least unless they take her to live with them in Castile as nursemaid to her baby husband. Of course, he will have a great title; but there is no certainty that he will live to see it, and she will have a lifetime to wait before she can call herself queen.
Katherine and I are much together as she has come to live at court, Mary writes, misunderstanding as usual that this is a massive snub to Katherine, who has clearly failed to keep her own house, and now has to live at my father’s board as a hanger-on.
Our father stopped her allowance and dismissed her duenna for poor advice. I am so glad! I love having her at court, even though she finds it hard to make ends meet and cannot dine every day when she has no suitable clothes. She is terribly shabby, as her father will not send her money; but my lady grandmother says that I cannot give her anything and she says that she does not mind.
I wonder why my father and my lady grandmother are driving Katherine to such straits. I suppose they are still punishing her for sharp practice with her dowry. So I send her my love, and I congratulate Mary on her brilliant prospects, giggling as I write. I say that I am happy for her, that it is a fine thing to be a queen in a fair country. I say that I am happy with my husband the king, a fine man, a grown man, a real man, and that I wish her every happiness too, when her bridegroom is grown also—a decade from now. Poor Mary! Foolish Mary! She is so dazzled by his title that she has not realized she will not marry for years, and nobody knows when Katherine will get Harry. Yes, my two sisters, my rivals, may be betrothed to the greatest matches in Europe, but Katherine cannot afford a gown to dance in with her bridegroom and Mary’s betrothed can barely sit on his own little pony. I can hardly sign my name for laughing at the foolish pride of the two of them, my silly sisters.
And then in the summer my joy is complete. I write a proud letter to England to announce to my lady grandmother, to them all, that, finally, I am with child.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, MARCH 1507
There is no doubt in my mind who is now the foremost of the three princesses, my sister-in-law Katherine of Aragon, my sister Mary, or myself: it is obviously me. Katherine failed to conceive a child with Arthur and then told everyone, “Alas, it never happened for us,” and now her marriage is never mentioned and she is a poor relation, an unwanted hanger-on. People may praise Mary’s beauty and her talents, but her betrothal to Charles of Castile is still only a plan, and he is nothing more than a child himself. His father has died so he is now heir to the Holy Roman Emperor. But still, he is a little boy and she won’t be able to marry or present the Habsburgs with a son any time in the next eight years. But I have conceived, carried and birthed a boy. It nearly cost me my life. I was deathly ill, everyone thought that they would lose me. But my husband went on pilgrimage, on foot for hundreds of miles, at least a hundred, to Saint Ninian at Whithorn and at the very moment that he knelt before the altar, I recovered. It is a miracle, a son and heir for Scotland, and a message from God that he blesses my queenship and our marriage.
Our child is an heir for England too. If anything were to happen to Harry (which God forbid, of course) it is my baby who would be heir to the throne of England through me. Katherine and Mary cannot dream of that for themselves, whereas I could be My Lady the King’s Mother, and as great as our grandmother, who runs the English court through her son and has done so ever since he came to the throne, married or widowed.