“I beg for mercy,” I repeat.
“I beg for mercy,” Mary says, her voice thick with tears. Of all of us, she is probably the only one who believes in this charade. She really thinks that Harry may forgive these poor boys on our pleading.
I can hear a shuffle like quiet thunder as all the apprentices go down on their knees, and behind them the common people drop down too. Harry looks over the great hall of Westminster at all the bowed heads, he listens to the susurration of pleas, then he gets to his feet and stretches out his arms like Christ blessing the world and he says: “Mercy.”
Everyone cries, even I cry. The apprentices pull the hangman’s ropes from their necks and the guards stand aside and let them run through the crowds to their parents. People call down blessings on the king, purses filled with gold, that would have bribed the hangman to make a quick end by tugging on a lad’s kicking feet to break his neck before the disemboweling, are dropped at Harry’s feet and picked up by his pages. The Duke of Norfolk, Harry’s executioner, is smiling as if he is delighted by forgiveness. Everyone is bowing to the throne, pulling off their caps, saying: “God bless King Harry! God bless Queen Katherine!” Never has London loved a king more, not even one of the Plantagenet kings. Harry has spared the boys. They will live because of this great king. He is a reverse Herod, he has given life to a generation. People start to cheer, and someone starts to sing the bold tune of a Te Deum.
Katherine is flushed with delight at the success of her gesture. Margaret Pole, behind her, keeps tight hold of her gold-plated headdress—she, for one, does not trust a crowd. Harry, in a lordly gesture, stretches his hand out to Katherine and she comes to stand beside him, smiling warmly at the loyal cheers. Unbidden, Mary goes to his other side, sure of her welcome, and the radiant three beam at the crowd like a trio of angels, more beautiful, more powerful, richer than any of these people could even dream. Harry smiles at me, reveling in my admiration of the picture that the three of them make.
“This is how I rule England,” he says. “This is kingship.”
I smile and nod; but inside I say—no, it’s not.
I set off for Scotland with that picture of the three of them—the King of England and my two sisters—bright in my mind, the only bright thing in my intense inner darkness. I feel outcast from the Eden that is Tudor England, from the court of wealth and glamour where my brother playacts the part of king, with his wife, who cannot even give him a son, as his pretend queen. My sister, without a fortune and with a nobody for a husband, leads all the dances, the most beautiful girl at the court. I think: this is all false, this is all portrait and no reality, this is all masque and no battle. They glory in themselves, in the picture that they make to people so poor that they cannot tell pretense from life. My sisters flaunt their beauty and blessings and persuade themselves that they are rightfully blessed.
But it is not like that for me. Everything I have has to be won. The people in my kingdom will not kneel to me with halters around their necks, my husband will not proudly embrace me before everyone. My sisters are not at my side. I have to go away, up the long road north. Not for Mary, the clamber into the saddle every morning, and the summoning of the courage to ride into drizzle or cold winds. Not for Katherine, the patient waiting on the back of a tired horse while my host for the night recites a long lecture of greeting. Not for Harry, the ceaseless plotting of the capture of a kingdom and the struggle for rightful power. My little girl rides in the arms of her nursemaid; she does not sleep in a gold cradle like her cousins. While I trudge northward my brother and my two sisters go on pilgrimage to Walsingham, riding a short journey in good weather, inviting the blessing of Our Lady on Katherine’s empty womb: denying the omen of barrenness. I go on and on, wondering what Ard is doing. I am solitary, lonely, traveling every day, weary as a beaten dog every night.
BERWICK CASTLE, ENGLAND, SUMMER 1517
My guards and, after them, the lords and ladies of my small household ride towards the little town of Berwick and remark on the pretty gleaming stone, the river before the castle, the sea beyond. I remember coming here and gripping Ard’s hand when the captain of the castle would not admit us. Now, I smile grimly as the cannon bawl out a salute, the drawbridge rattles down, the portcullis clanks up, and the captain of the castle hurries out, his officers behind him, his lady behind them, his bonnet under his arm, his face wreathed in obsequious smiles.
I don’t dismount. I let him come to my stirrup and bow his head to his knees. I let him read his speech of welcome. I don’t reproach the town of Berwick for sending me out into the darkness to find refuge at Coldstream Priory, but I won’t forget it either. Then, from under the shadow of the gatehouse, I see a slight, tall figure step forward. I blink. I cannot be sure what I am seeing. I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands. It cannot be him, and yet it is him. It is Archibald. My husband has come to greet me.
“My love,” is all I say. I forget in a moment everything that I have heard against him, everything that I have feared.
Quickly, he steps towards my horse and reaches up for me. I spring down into his arms and he holds me closely. My head against his shoulder, his mouth on my neck, I feel the familiar lithe hardness of him, and know, with a little delicious shudder, his strangeness. We have not been together for more than a year. I lean back in his arms to look at his face. His skin is as dark as a gypsy’s from the months of living rough on the borders. There is a hardness about his profile that reminds me of the two old lords, those two great men, his grandfathers. I married a boy, but this is a man who has come to claim me. At once Harry seems soft and lazy, his court rich and overblown. My sister is a delicate doll married to a jouster, a pretend warrior. A man like my husband needs a woman like me, with courage to match his own, with ambition that runs neck and neck with his.
“I know you are well. I have heard nothing but praise for you on your journey,” he says against my hair. “And my daughter?”
I turn and beckon her nursemaid. Margaret, russet as a Tudor, smiles and waves at the stranger as she has been trained to do. “A princess!” her father exclaims, with real tenderness in his voice. “My little girl.”
He tightens his arm around my waist. “Come in. There’s a feast ready for you and a celebration planned. Scotland wants its queen back. I can’t wait to get you over the border.”
The captain of the castle bows again, his lady curtseys, their household snatch the hats from their heads and drop to their knees as Archibald walks past with my hand in his. I see him glance across the hundreds of people bowing as we go by and the proud curl of his smile, and I know that he will always love me better than any woman in Scotland while every man drops to his knees at the sight of me. Archibald was born to marry a queen. I am her.
He pauses before a stunningly handsome man, dressed all in white.
“You remember the Sieur de la Bastie?” Archibald says without much warmth in his voice. “He is serving as the regent while the Duke of Albany stays in France.” His tone makes it clear that the Duke of Albany makes no difference to us, in France or in Scotland, and that I would be wise not to admire the dazzling nobleman who bends over my hand and kisses it.
“Of course I remember the chevalier. We are old friends.”
“You are welcome home, Your Grace,” he says. He straightens up and tosses his head so his mane of chestnut-brown hair falls away from his face. He smiles at me. “I am sure that we can work together.”
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1517