I rest for another two days and then Dacre’s men take up the poles again, and, with my bed swaying and jolting between them, we set off again. This is the longest journey that we have made; it will take all day, from dawn to dusk, before we get to Morpeth. At midday, Dacre orders a halt and the soldiers make a circle around us, with their halberds facing outward, while I and my ladies eat some bread and drink some ale, and then the men stand and eat, watching the road behind us and the way that we have to go, always ready for a raid, fearful of any passing band of brigands. Lord Dacre’s face is set in a grimace of constant resentment.
I think of Archibald telling me that Lord Dacre has paid brigands to ride this border and make it unsafe, stir it up so that it is impossible for a Scots king to govern. I wonder how he is feeling now, unsafe in a desert of his own making, knowing that the men he has paid to be lawless may turn on him.
The sun is setting when I see the massive gatehouse of Morpeth Castle and Lord Dacre reins back his horse and says: “Here, Your Grace. You will be safe here.”
I cry with relief as we go under the huge gateway. It is a triumph to get here, I am safe at last. But I tell no one, as they hurry to greet me, that I wish with all my heart this was Windsor Castle and not Morpeth, and that the gate was opening and my two sisters were coming out to welcome me.
MORPETH CASTLE, ENGLAND, CHRISTMAS 1515
There are gifts waiting for me at Morpeth, as Thomas Dacre promised. Lady Dacre has had them spread out in the great hall so that I can see everything Harry and Katherine have given me; so that everyone can see how my brother treasures me. There are gowns of gold cloth, and gowns of tinsel, there are sleeves of ermine and great bolts of red and purple velvet for me to have made up as I wish. There are headdresses in beaten gold as befits a queen of my importance, there are cloaks, and satin shoes with gold heels. There are heaps of embroidered linen and capes lined with fur. There are bonnets of velvet with brooches of gold. There are perfumed leather gloves and patterned stockings. Finally, there are the jewels of my inheritance, my lady grandmother’s garnets, her crucifix with pearls, my mother’s diamond necklace, and a gold chain. There is everything that a queen should have, and Katherine has chosen it and sent it all to me, to show my brother’s gratitude for my courage in the service of England.
There are letters waiting for me with the gifts. These bring me no joy. Katherine is in her most triumphant mood; I feel that she is taunting me with my losses as she celebrates. She is carrying her child so high, she is certain it is a boy. This baby is stronger, she is sure.
We were all so grieved when we heard that you have had to flee your country.
I grit my teeth at this, since if Harry had supported me, if Katherine had told him to save me, I would have kept my throne.
And so shocked that you left your sons behind.
What does she think I could do? Does she forget that they are fatherless and by her order?
I don’t look far for the reason that she did not insist I was rescued. Why would she save my son and heir, when she is hoping to have one of her own? Her anxiety for me must be a lie. It is to Katherine’s advantage if I am in danger and my sons imprisoned. I know this; her loving words don’t convince me otherwise.
And, my dear, you must be so lonely and afraid without your husband.
This from the woman who ordered my widowhood! I could laugh if I were not so bitter.
I hope you enjoy your gifts—we so want you to have a merry Christmas after the year that you have endured, and come to us as soon as you can.
I make sure that my contempt does not show on my face. Katherine, from her big-bellied greatness, endows me with her sympathy. Yes, she is riding high now, and I am brought as low as can be. I cannot even stand without crutches. But I will recover and, no matter how she is feeling now, there is no certainty in childbirth, she cannot be sure of having a healthy son. She need not crow over me. I may yet win back my kingdom and I still have two royal boys in the nursery and all she has is an empty cradle. She can send me gowns, she can send me furs, she can send me—finally!—my inheritance, but these are all nothing but my due. I am still a queen and a regent, and I am My Lady the King’s Mother.
My sister Mary writes too. She has convinced herself that the baby she is carrying will be a boy. But really, who cares about the baby who will be the heir of the Duke of Suffolk? Mary is inferior to me, her children come after mine, and I have two strong handsome boys: she will never get her son on the throne of England.
Mary’s letter is filled with news of the court and their autumn doings. Henry has built and equipped a great ship, the greatest galley in Europe, and everyone calls her the Princess Mary in a ridiculous compliment to my little sister. Mary writes that they all had the greatest of fun, that Harry took her on board, that he was dressed in a sailor suit of cloth of gold, that he took the wheel and Mary called time for the rowers and banged on the drum like the hortator, that they went faster than the wind, faster than a sailing ship could travel. There are pages and pages of this boasting and a few more pages as to how blessed she is with a loyal husband, which I take as a taunt for having to part from Ard, and how happy they are preparing their country house together, which I understand is her telling me that she knows I could not stay at Tantallon. I hand the whole bundle of letters to the groom of the chamber who is throwing logs on the fire. “Burn this,” I say.
He takes it as if it might scorch him. “Is it secrets?” he asks, awed.
“Sinful vanity,” I say, as irritable as my lady grandmother would have been.
I lie in the great bedchamber, the best room of the house. Lord Dacre and his wife, Elizabeth, have hastily vacated it for me and there are royal hangings on the wall from London, and a cloth of estate over the chair by the fireside. Massive stone carvings, showing the arms of the Greystokes, which Lord Dacre gained from his heiress wife, boast of their importance. But they have to sleep in a lesser chamber while I am here.
They put on a great Christmas feast in the massive old hall in my honor. There has never been a queen in residence at Christmas before, and the steward and the servants and the master of horse have excelled themselves in preparing the castle for the season. Dacre has appointed a witty actor to be master of the feast and every day there is a concert of music, or singing, dancing, a play or an entertainment, a hunt, a race, a challenge. The bleak countryside all around has been stripped of food and provisions so that the castle may feast. Even the woods have their greenery hacked down and carried in so that there are boughs over every door, a Yule log in every fireplace, and the sweet smell of evergreen hanging in the air. The castle is bright in the deep darkness of the North of England, burning like a brand in the night of the North. Travelers from miles away can see the lighted windows as priceless candles are set in every sconce and every fireplace is hot.
Half the nobility of Scotland and all of the North of England come to pay their respects to me and to celebrate the season which is such a promising one for them. They are all determined that England shall make war on the Duke of Albany’s Scotland. They all hope to gain Scottish lands, to steal Scottish goods. The simmering unrest that Thomas Dacre has kept stoked through two reigns is coming to the boil as he declares to every visitor that the King of England will not tolerate such an insult to his sister, that he is certain to invade, that my suffering makes his cause just and (though he never says this) Dacre himself can find his greatest happiness in going to war again.