“I know you would,” I say. “And when it is summer and all the lords are at court and happy to be here, or safely on their own lands, and the hunting is good and there is dancing every night, I think that I am safe and will be safe forever. But I have to prepare. I have to find someone to face this beside me.”
He hands me some fruit and a glass of wine. He has such a fluid grace that when he does some small act of service he makes it look as if it is a move in a dance. He never drops or spills anything or swears at his own clumsiness, and he’s always so beautifully dressed. Among the Scots lords who please themselves, ride hard, fight hard, and don’t always trouble to bathe, he is always beautifully barbered and shaved, his hands are always clean, and he smells of clean linen and a musky scent that is all his own. Lord knows he is handsome—half the ladies of my court are in love with him—but he wears his fresh good looks as if they were a jacket he has had forever; he does not know how well he looks. He is betrothed to a girl who lives near his home, one of these Scots family betrothals from the cradle, I suppose. But he does not act like a man betrothed. John Drummond parades his handsome grandson like a prize cock, with his long legs, his slim, lithe strength, the broadness of his shoulders, and that surprisingly dainty Celtic face, hair the color of autumn leaves, dark eyes, and a fascinating smile.
“Janet Stewart of Traquair is a lucky girl,” I say, referring to the young woman he will marry.
He bows his head and flushes. But his eyes come up and meet mine. “It is I who am lucky,” he says. “For I am promised to one of the prettiest girls in Scotland, but I serve the most beautiful queen.”
“Oh, there can be no comparison between us,” I say instantly. “I am a mother of two and an old widow of twenty-four.”
“Not old,” he says. “I’m the same age as you. And widowed like you. And I am Earl of Angus, the head of a great family, the leader of a great house. I know what it feels like to have everyone look to you.”
“Janet Stewart is a young girl, is she not, a maid?”
“She’s nearly thirteen.”
“Oh! A child,” I say disdainfully. “I didn’t know. Everyone spoke of her prettiness; I thought she was a young woman. I am surprised that you didn’t want a woman of your own age.”
“She is my little sweetheart. We have been promised since she was in her cradle. I have watched her grow and never seen a fault in her. I will marry her when she comes of age. But you are my queen, now and forever.”
I lean towards him just a little. “So will you not leave me, Archibald, when you marry your child bride?”
“Call me Ard,” he whispers. “My lovers call me Ard.”
He loves me. I know that he does. I know that his pulse is racing like mine and that he feels the same dizzy elation that I do. I want a man to love me, I need a man to love me, and the young Earl of Angus—Ard, as I secretly name him to myself—clearly does so. And he will never leave me, he will always be in my service, at my side at dinner, riding with me when the court goes out, playing so sweetly with my little boy, admiring my baby. Of course, I will have to marry a great man, the King of France or the emperor, for the sake of my country and my own fortune, but I will always keep Ard at my side. He will be my knight errant, my chevalier. I will be like the lady in the fables, in troubadour songs: adored and forever unattainable. And I really think he shall not marry Janet Stewart of Traquair. I really think that I will allow myself to forbid the wedding, even if the little girl cries into her pillow for a month. I can do this. I am queen; I can do it without explanation.
I receive a letter from my sister Mary, eighteen years old this year and still at home, unmarried. She writes news of the court on their summer progress. They are all well, the Sweat has not come to court, and they are traveling informally in the South of England, sometimes going by barge on the river with musicians accompanying them so that people crowd to the banks to cheer and to wave and to throw rushes and flowers as they go by. Sometimes they go on horseback, with the royal standards ahead, and at every town a delegation comes out to praise Henry for his military might, his victories against France and Scotland, and to give him purses of gold.
I have a wardrobe filled with new gowns paid for by the Spanish, they say that nothing is too good for the bride of Castile. They have demanded yet another portrait and the artist swears that I am the most beautiful princess in Christendom!
She says that she is to marry little Charles next year and already they are planning an enormous series of feasts and jousts to celebrate her departure to Spain. Charles Brandon is certain to joust and certain to triumph. Henry has made him a duke, an honor quite beyond anyone’s imagining. Some people think he has been elevated so far above his station so that he can propose marriage to the Archduchess Margaret, but Mary knows better. She tells me so, her handwriting sprawling, misspelled in her excitement, with added scribbled remarks in the margin.
He is not in love with Archduchess Margaret though she adores him; he tells me he is not in love with her at all, he has no eyes for her. He says he has lost his heart to quite another.
Mary believes that he has been given ducal honors—the greatest honor in the kingdom, short only of royal status—because Harry loves him so much.
Now he is acknowledged as one of the truly great men of England, honored as he should be. He is Harry’s best friend, he loves him like a brother.
This gives me pause. Harry had a brother, a finer young man than Charles Brandon can ever be. Can he have forgotten Arthur? Can Mary have forgotten who Harry’s real brother was? Can she use the word “brother” to me and not know who it means? Have they forgotten Arthur, and me as well?
Without doubt he is the most handsome man at court, everyone admires him. I will tell you a secret, Margaret, but you must not breathe a word of it. He has asked to carry my favor at my wedding joust! It will be the finest joust in Christendom and he is certain to win. He says he will wear it next to his heart and he would happily die with it there!
At the end of her letter she remembers that I am a widow with two babies, fighting to rule a difficult country, and that all her talk of gowns and love affairs may grate on me, so she adopts a more personal note. She has studied to be charming, she knows well enough how to be endearing:
I am so sorry that you cannot be with us. I should have so loved you to be here. I want to show you my jewels and my gowns. I wish you could come. It won’t be the same without you, Katherine says so too.
Brandon is not the only scoundrel dragged into the nobility in this prodigal scattering of titles. Thomas Howard, the victor of Flodden, finally regains the title he lost at Bosworth—he is to be Duke of Norfolk and his son will be named Earl of Surrey as a reward for the billhook that smashed my husband’s crowned head, for the arrow that pierced his anointed side. Perhaps he gets his title for the bloodstained jacket that he sent to France? Perhaps for the corpse in lead, which remains, unburied, somewhere in London?
Apparently, my brother thinks that he should reward a murderer before burying his victim, and Thomas Howard wears ducal strawberry leaves while my husband is stored—half forgotten—uncoffined, waiting for the moment when the Pope says that his poor body, excommunicated at Harry’s request, shall be forgiven and his soul may start its journey to heaven.