I ride to Lambeth Palace on the white palfrey that Katherine has given me, to meet with Thomas Wolsey and my brother Harry. They are in Harry’s privy chamber with only half a dozen companions and three or four servants. I note with one swift glance that no one stands closer to the king than his new friend, Wolsey, the son of an Ipswich butcher. The smooth-spoken commoner must pinch himself every morning to be sure that he is not dreaming. It is extraordinary that a man from such humble beginnings should have the ear of the king. Surely no one has ever risen so high from so low before? But this is the England that Harry and Katherine are making: one where ability matters more than breeding, and what you do matters more than who you are. For someone like me, who is completely defined by my birth, this is an uneasy prospect. It feels wrong. No king from my mother’s side of the family would ever have made a butcher’s boy Lord Chancellor, and I know—as if she were speaking to me from beyond the grave—that my lady grandmother would never have allowed it.
I make sure that none of this shows in my face as I greet my brother with warm courtesy and give my hand to his advisor as if I am pleased to see him there.
“How were they?” Harry asks briskly.
Clearly, Thomas Wolsey already knows who “they” are and is to be part of this conversation.
“They will return my jewels,” I say with quiet pride. “They admit they were wrong to seize them. They have them safe, all accounted for, and they will send everything to me. My dresses too.”
Wolsey smiles at me. “You are an able diplomat, Your Grace.”
I really think I am. I incline my head. “And they agree that my rents shall be paid. I think I am owed a fortune, perhaps as much as fourteen thousand pounds.”
Harry gives a low whistle. “They say they will pay them?”
“They have promised.”
“And what do they say about the Duke of Albany?” Wolsey asks. “Now that we have settled the question of the gowns?”
I incline my head as the butcher’s son dares to remark on my conversation with my ambassadors. “They insist he remains as regent; but I was very clear to them that this is to deliver Scotland into the power of the French.”
Harry nods.
“I made sure that they know you will not tolerate it.”
“You did well,” he says. “I will not.”
“And so we are to meet again, when they bring my jewels.”
“I will talk with them in the meantime,” Wolsey remarks. “But I doubt I will make more ground than Her Grace has done. What a queen regent you are: two of your aims gained at one meeting!”
“I must have my son restored to me,” I say.
“Your son is safe,” Wolsey says gently. “But there is bad news from Scotland about Alexander Hume and his brother William.”
I wait. Alexander Hume is a turncoat of ridiculous pride. He changed sides against Albany and in my favor because he feared that Albany had made a joke about his little stature. He has all the fiery pride of a short man. But once he had joined my side he was a staunch servant. He rescued me from Linlithgow, and he rode with us from Scotland. He kept Archibald company and we would not have been so brave without his courage. But I know he is terribly unreliable.
“Has he changed sides?” I ask suspiciously.
“He won’t be changing again,” Wolsey says with vulgar humor. “He gave himself up to Albany for a pardon, but then he broke his parole and he has been executed for treason. He’s dead, Your Grace.”
I give a little gasp and I stagger. “Good God. He was executed after a pardon? No one will ever trust Albany again!”
“No.” Wolsey has the impertinence to correct me. “Nobody would ever trust a Hume again. It was he who broke his word. He received a pardon, he swore allegiance, then he rebelled again. He deserved to die. Nobody could argue in his defense.”
I would argue it. I don’t think any promise to Albany needs to be honored. But I am not going to disagree with my brother’s favored advisor, who, in my opinion, should not even be speaking unless invited.
Wolsey nods at Harry, as if to cue him to a speech. “It means that the queen regent has lost the support of a powerful family,” he says, as if thinking aloud. “If only we could get her another ally. A great ally, who would frighten the French. Perhaps the emperor?”
Harry takes my hand and tucks it under his arm. He guides me away from them all: Thomas Wolsey, the courtiers, the servants. There is a long gallery that leads from the privy chamber to the privy stairs and we walk, side by side, our paces matching.
“The emperor would be glad to offer marriage to you,” Harry says frankly. “And with him as your husband you could dictate your terms to the Scots. With him as your husband, and me as your brother, you would be the most powerful woman in Europe.”
I feel a little flare of ambition at the thought of it. “I am married already.”
“Wolsey thinks it could be annulled,” Harry says. “It took place when Scotland was under a ban of excommunication: it is invalid.”
“But it is not invalid in the sight of God,” I say quietly. “I know it, and so does He. And I would make my baby Margaret a bastard. I won’t do that, any more than you would make little Mary a bastard. You couldn’t do it, I know. Neither can I.”
Harry makes a grimace. “It would give you such power,” he reminds me. “And the husband you are defending is not at your side, and his greatest ally has been executed.”
“I can’t do it,” I say. “A marriage is a marriage. You know it cannot be set aside. You, who married for love, as I did, know what a sacred thing that is.”
“Unless God shows His will otherwise,” Harry says. “He did so with our sister, when her husband died within weeks.”
I don’t say out loud that Mary was lucky to get off so quickly, but I think it. “If He shows His will,” I agree. “But God has blessed my marriage with Archibald, and yours with Katherine. He has given us health and issue. I am married for life. As are you. It is till death do us part.”
“I too,” Harry says, yielding to my certainty. He is still the child of my lady grandmother’s raising. He will always take a pious woman’s advice. He cannot help but think that a woman who is determined is a woman who is in the right. It is the consequence of having a self-righteous grandmother. If he ever throws off this belief he will be free to think anything. “But you will consider it, Margaret? For your husband has all but abandoned you, and who knows where he is now? He could be dead. It could be God’s will that your marriage is already over.”
“He has not abandoned me,” I say. “I know exactly where he is now. And I married him for richer or for poorer, I cannot desert him now that he is an outlaw, fighting for what is his own, fighting in my cause.”
“If he is an outlaw still,” Harry suggests. “If he did not surrender with Hume, and make his peace with Albany and abandon your cause.”
“He would never do that,” I maintain. “And I know where my honor and my love lies.” There is something about talking with Harry that always tempts me to speak as if in a masque. He is always rather staged. He never speaks without an eye to his effect. He never walks without an eye to his appearance. His natural pomposity is choreographed.
Now, he kisses me on both cheeks. “God bless you for your honor,” he says gently. “I wish that both my sisters had been so careful of their reputations.”
And there’s a snub for you, little Mary, I think, as I smile under his praise.
THE PALACE OF SCOTLAND, LONDON, ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1516