Three Sisters, Three Queens by Philippa Gregory
“We could take you in slow stages.”
“I can’t do it,” I repeat.
One of the ladies who has been found to serve me steps forward and curtseys to the English lord. “She can’t get out of her bed,” she says bluntly. “Her pain is quite terrible.”
He looks at me. “It is so bad?”
“It is.”
He hesitates. “Your brother has sent you wagonloads of goods for your comfort at Morpeth Castle,” he remarks. “And Queen Katherine has sent you some beautiful gowns.”
I feel desire clutch me like hunger. “Katherine has sent me gowns?”
“And yards of rich cloth, yards and yards of it.”
“I must see them. Can you bring them here?”
“I would be robbed on the road,” he says. “But I can take you to them. If you could find the courage, Your Grace.”
The thought of Morpeth and wagonloads of goods, clean linen and decent wine, and my gowns—new gowns—gives me courage.
“I have commanded physicians to come to Morpeth and see you there,” he says. “Your brother is determined that you shall be well again. And then you can go to London in the New Year.”
“London,” I repeat wistfully.
“Yes indeed,” he says. “And half of Europe is up in arms at the way that you have been treated. People are calling for war on France, and war on the duke. You are their heroine. If only you were able to rise up you could claim your throne.”
“How ever can I get to Morpeth?”
“My men can carry your bed.”
My lady-in-waiting billows forward. “Her Grace cannot be carried in her bed by common soldiers.”
Lord Dacre turns his weather-beaten hard face to me. “What d’you think? It’s that, or hold your Christmas feast garrisoned here, and we could be attacked at any time.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “How many gowns has she sent?”
They tie me into the bed for fear of an accident, and I grip the rope as they manhandle it down the three steps from the chamber to the great hall below. I hide my face in the pillow to silence my moans; at every jolt I feel as if I have been stabbed with a burning poker in my hip. I have never known such agony, I am certain that my back is broken.
Once in the great hall the men gather around my bed and run long poles underneath it as they might carry a coffin. There are six on each side and they go carefully, in step, out of the hall, across the drawbridge and down the long winding ride that leads up the steep slopes of the castle. Before us go the guards, Dacre riding among them, my baby held in the arms of my maid-in-waiting, riding pillion.
The ragged inhabitants, and the poor people who live in shanties against the castle walls hoping for some protection from the weather and the reivers, stand amazed as I go by, swaying like some icon being paraded on a feast day around the borders of a parish. I would feel foolish if I were not completely absorbed by the pain. I lie back on my pillow, and I see the snow clouds thickening in the skies above me and I draw on every scrap of Tudor courage that I have, and pray that this nightmare journey of swaying, jolting steps does not outlast me, and that I don’t break down before we have reached the end of it.
CARTINGTON CASTLE, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1515
It is hours before we arrive at another poor fort, perched on a hill overlooking a burn with a jumble of rough shacks against the walls and a stone-walled keep inside. They carry my bed into the great hall and set it down there. The men are exhausted and cannot face heaving the bed up the narrow stairs, while I can’t bear to go further.
Here we rest for five days. I am in a daze of pain; every time I shift in the bed I can feel my bones grinding and I scream with the agony. When they lift me for the pot they have to give me a gulp of spirits before I can bear to be moved. I eat lying down and they spoon broth into my mouth.
On the morning of the fifth day I know that we have to go on.
“Not far,” Lord Dacre says comfortably.
“How long?” I ask. I wish that I did not sound fearful, but I know that I do.
“About three hours,” he says. “And they’ll carry you better now that they have learned to match their pace.”
I grit my teeth so as not to complain but I know that they will jolt me every step of the five miles. We leave the castle without regret, but they stumble a little on the potholes and slip in the ruts of the road and I cannot muffle my cry.
“Not far,” Thomas Dacre says staunchly.
BRINKBURN PRIORY, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1515
The priory is a poor, small little place with half a dozen monks who are supposed to be Augustinians but keep up a halfhearted practice. They have a stone wall around their buildings and a great bell to sound the alarm, but they are rarely robbed as the local people know that there is not much here to take, and, besides, it is helpful to them all if the monks are there, feeding the poor, housing travelers, and nursing the sick.
They are flustered by my arrival and the prior suggests that my bed be put in the hall of the little guesthouse. They can barely get it through the door and, when it is in, it completely fills the space of the cell-like chamber. But the floor is swept and clean, and when they bring me something to eat it is well-stewed mutton and I am glad of it. They serve a thin red wine and the prior himself comes to bless the food and pray for my recovery. I see from his anxious face that I look desperately sick, and when he says that they will pray for my health and for the life of my baby I whisper: “Please do.”
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 i
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.
I cannot receive anyone, though the Dacres make over their great presence chamber to me, and Lord Dacre says that he himself will carry me in his chair. He says he will pad it with cushions and hang the cloth of estate over it and it will be my throne. But I cannot bear even to be lifted from the bed; my leg is swollen so that it is nearly as big as my body. I see only those people whom I admit to my bedchamber, but I can’t leave my bed for them. I have become a cripple, as weak as one of the beggars at the mercat cross who has to be pushed around on a little cart and carried to the steps in the morning.
So Lady Bothwell and Lady Musgrove make their visit to my bedroom to sit with me, and Lady Dacre comes to my chamber a dozen times a day to see if I need anything. I receive Lord Hume, who has been loyal to my cause though it has cost him his lands and his safety, and together we discuss how I shall return and how I shall get my sons back. He looks a little askance as if there is something wrong when I speak of them. “My boys must live with me,” I say. “I don’t intend to put them into the keeping of my brother or his wife. They shall come to me.”
“Of course, of course,” he says with the sudden anxious soothing of a married man who knows that a woman should not be crossed when she is in pain. “We will talk about it more when you are better. And besides, I have some news for you that will be the best physic in the world.”
I can hear the tramp of booted feet along the gallery outside my chamber. “I cannot have visitors,” I start.
“You will welcome this one,” he says confidently, and he throws open the door to my bedchamber and the guard outside steps back . . . and Archibald, my husband, comes in.
I bounce up in bed and I cry out in pain at the same moment as he flings himself across the room. “My love, my love,” he whispers into my hair. He kisses my face, he embraces me tightly, and then gently holds me away from him so that he can see the tears streaming from my eyes as I say, “Archibald, oh, Ard! I never thought that I would see you again. And our little girl! You must see her.”
Lady Bothwell has already sent someone running to the nursery, and now the chief nurse comes with little Margaret in her arms. Ard holds her at arm’s length, looks into her sleeping face, shakes his head in awe at her. “She is so small!” he marvels. “She is so perfect.”
“I thought we would lose her, and that I would die!”
Carefully, he restores her to her nurse and turns back to me. “It must have been terrible for you. So many times I have wished that I was with you.”
“I knew you couldn’t be. You couldn’t risk being in England without a safe conduct!” At once the thought strikes me. “Ard, my love, are you safe now?”
“Your brother the king has sent a safe conduct for me and for Lord Hume, and for my brother. We are all to go to London in honor, as soon as you are well enough to travel.”
“I will be well soon,” I promise him. “The pain has been terrible. Not even Lord Dacre’s best physician from Newcastle knows what is wrong with my leg. But resting in bed is easing the pain, and I am sure the swelli
They dine on cygnet and heron, venison and wild boar. They bring the best dishes to my room and Ard sits with me and feeds me from his own spoon. He keeps me company through the twelve days of Christmas and through the cold days, and together we listen to the merriment from the hall, he on a humble stool at my side, for I cannot bear anyone sitting on the bed and making the feather mattress dip. I lie propped low on only one beautifully embroidered pillow, so that my legs and back are still.
“I am no wife to you,” I say fretfully. I cannot hold him, I cannot lie with him, I cannot even stand beside him. In a few months I have become an old lady and he is far stronger and more handsome than when he was the young man appointed to be my carver. He has been hardened and toughened by his winter on the run; he has had to command men, face danger, defy the Regent of Scotland. He is more lithe than ever, quick on his feet, alert to any danger. And I am tired and in pain, fat from pregnancy, unable even to move from my bed without crying out.
“It was being my wife that has brought you to this,” he says. “If you had stayed a widow queen, you would still be in Stirling Castle.”
He is speaking soothingly, almost by rote, but suddenly the enormity of what he has said makes him fall silent and look at me. He swallows, as if he has never before felt the despair of these words on his tongue. “I have been your ruin.”
Bleakly, I look back at him. “And I yours.”
It is true. He has lost his castle Tantallon, his beautiful family home, which stood so proudly, so inviolate on the cliff. He has lost his land, and all the people who were his men and had belonged to his clan for generations have lost their leader and the head of their house. He is a named outlaw, he owns nothing but what he stands up in, he is a landless man, a man without followers: in Scotland that is as good as being a beggar. He is completely identified with the English cause: in Scotland that is as good as being a named traitor; and he is a named traitor.