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 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.