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
But I don’t overlook Henry’s hints. I write to Lord Dacre to ask him for news of Archibald, and of all those who support me in Scotland. I tell him I know all about Hume; he need not shrink from the truth. I know the worst. But even with that assurance, he does not reply and I take it that he either knows nothing, or does not want to tell me. I meet again with the Scots ambassadors and I cannot tell from their quiet courtesy whether my husband is on my side or has turned his collar and joined theirs. In the end I have to ask Thomas Wolsey to come to me.
I show him his goddaughter, my darling little Meg, and she smiles at him, just as she should. I serve the sweet pastries that he likes with a glass of malmsey wine. Then, when he is flattered and fed, I ask him for a loan. The Scots have sent my jewels and my gowns from my palaces, but no rent money. Thomas Wolsey is obliging—why should he not be? As Lord Chancellor he has control of the royal treasury and is amassing a fortune on his own account. His fat little fingers are loaded with jewels. He lends me money that will be repaid when my rents are paid. Dacre will collect them at the border and send Wolsey his share.
He congratulates me on the agreement I have made with the Scots. “You can go home in safety, you can rule as co-regent,” he says. “They promise to pay your dower and consult you. This is a triumph, Your Grace. I am impressed.”
I smile. “Thank you. I am glad that I have been able to achieve so much. But I really wanted to ask you about the Earl of Angus,” I say.
I am hesitant to say his name. Nor do I want to say “my husband” to this plump clerk whose eyes are so bright, whose wit is so sharp but who knows nothing about living hard, of the hazard and luck of being on the border.
He says nothing, he merely bows.
“I wanted to ask if you know where he is,” I say. “I am concerned . . . after what you told me of Alexander Hume. They were all riding together, the Humes and my husband.”
He knows something. I swear that he has known for weeks.
“Indeed yes, I think that the earl, your husband, surrendered at the same time as the Humes, Alexander and William,” he says evenly. “We think the three of them surrendered to Albany the regent and took the pardon. Your husband has given up.”
For a moment, I simply cannot hear him. “Given up? Given himself up?”
“I only just learned it myself. It is a blow,” Wolsey says, quiet as a priest in confession.
It is a lie. It must be a lie. “He can’t have done,” I say hotly. “He hasn’t written to me. He wouldn’t have done such a thing without telling me. He wouldn’t have surrendered without winning me the right to see my son. He wouldn’t just give up.”
“I think he has got his own lands back,” Wolsey says gently. “He has traded your cause for his own. He has Tantallon Castle back in his keeping. I know it was important to him and to his—clan, do they call themselves?—that he recover his own. And his own fortune, of course.”
“What about my own?” I demand, suddenly furious with this soft-skinned man who tells me such terrible news in a softly confiding voice. “This is my husband! He should be fighting for me! He did not come with me to England so that he could continue the fight. He should be fighting for me now!”
Wolsey spreads his fingers, heavy with diamond rings. “Perhaps he did not come to England so that he could regain his castles and lands. And he has done that. It is, for him, a victory.”
I am so furious that I can hardly speak. “It is no victory for me,” I say, choked.
His round face is tender. “No,” he says. “You have been overlooked again.”
I could cry that he names this grief so exactly. This is always what happens to me, over and over again. I have been put into second place. My needs have been neglected; where I should be first, I have been put aside. My own husband befriends my enemy rather than fighting for my cause. He has betrayed me.
“I can’t believe it,” I mutter. I turn away from Wolsey so that he cannot see my face, twisted with anger. I am torn between fury and despair. I cannot believe that Archibald would surrender without telling me. I cannot believe he would ride to Edinburgh and not to London. I cannot believe that he would get his lands back, and leave me with nothing.
“The wife of the emperor would be the greatest woman in Europe,” Wolsey says silkily. “You would be first. You would be able to command everyone in Scotland.”
Even in my distress, I don’t forget my marriage vows. “Archibald may have neglected his duty to me, but I do not neglect mine to him,” I say. “We were married in the sight of God and nothing can change that.”
“If you’re sure,” Thomas Wolsey says.
LAMBETH PALACE, ENGLAND, AUTUMN 1516
I surprise myself by not collapsing into tears. I find I want to talk to someone who will understand how I feel—not someone whose softly-spoken advice only makes me feel worse. I call for my horse and for my grooms of the stable. I put on my best riding cape and my gown trimmed with marten, and I ride to Greenwich. I don’t go to the king’s presence chamber to see my brother, I take the stairs to the queen’s side, and the chief of my ladies asks the head of Katherine’s household if she will see me. He shows me in at once, and I find her ladies sitting quietly in her presence chamber, and the door to her privy chamber closed.
“You may go in,” he says quietly. “Her Grace is at prayer.”
I enter quietly, closing the door behind me on all of them, and I see her through the open door to the private chapel that she has made adjoining her privy chamber. I stand in the doorway and watch as the priest makes the sign of the cross over her bowed head and crosses himself, and she rises from the luxurious prie-dieu, speaks a few words to him, and comes out, her face smiling and serene.