My princess rests a slim hand on her heart. “God rest his poor soul,” she murmurs of the late prince. “He was so young and frail….” She casts her eyes to our son, little Wills, who cannot be described such. He is as robust as Princess Catherine’s new betrothed, young Prince Henry. She is not thinking of the late prince, however, or of the new Crown Prince. She is thinking of our boy, our Henry, and fearing the others perishing of the Scottish wind.
I clear my throat. “No use dwelling on all that,” I tell her, hating the awkwardness that has arisen between us since the baby’s death. “We are going to have a wonderful journey, my sweet, you will see. The children are going to love it. And they should be there to attend their royal cousin.”
My princess offers a sad nod of acquiescence and I find myself balling my fists in frustration, wishing just once that I could see a grin of joyous abandon cross that beautiful melancholy face.
Our Maggie is too young to appreciate anything, but she points her chubby little finger at her beautiful cousin Margaret Tudor, saying “red” in reference to the princess’s lustrous red mane, which seems to be a Tudor trait.
Thomas and Wills are beside themselves with pleasure as we progress north to Edinburgh and I tell them about all the famous battles that have occurred in this town or that.
No one looks at me the way they do; no one admires me as much. I am brought to tears by their flagrant adoration; as I had never admired many growing up, I didn’t realise children were capable of it themselves.
“When they are given love, it is returned,” says my princess when I comment on this as we sit in Holyrood Abbey, watching Princess Margaret become the Queen of Scots. She squeezes my hand. “No one will ever love you like a child,” she adds.
I press her hand in turn. A lump swells my throat. I wonder who our Maggie will marry; it seems odd to think the thought of it affects me far more than marrying off the boys. I suppose all fathers feel that way about their little girls.
I wonder how the king feels. Is it easy giving one’s children up to faraway kingdoms for political expedience?
King Henry is a practical man, however. I would be surprised if he gave himself over to such fancies. Indeed, I should take care that I don’t become some kind of blithering idiot, crying at weddings like an old grandmother.
I am fortunate that I do not have to think about alliances just yet; I have years before my Maggie is marriageable.
She will be at my side a good long time.
We return to Stoke to pass a happy autumn. The children are looking forward to Christmastide. Maggie is running everywhere and is far too smart for her own good, and Thomas is itching to have a suit of armour of his own. I tell him he must wait a year but am pleased to practise archery with him. He is a fine boy, full of potential and enthusiasm. He will be an asset to any king’s court.
These are happy days. My princess’s smile is brought on a little easier now. I have stopped waking up at night to check on the children. I enjoy living the life of a country knight.
My grandmother passes away that year and I admit little grief as her death was the stipulation in allowing the princess and me to live in more comfort. Besides, she was one of the few who lived to a ripe and proper age, and there is no use mourning a full life.
I save the mourning for the young and there are plenty of young to mourn for.
That winter Wills takes ill with a fever. He writhes and twists in his little bed, his black eyes wild as they make helpless appeals to the princess and me. We do not know what to do aside from calling the physician, who can only bleed him.
I hate watching the leeches attach to my little boy’s back; I cry when the butcher of a doctor makes little slits in the tender skin to allow escape of the bad blood that has corrupted my son’s humours.
It is all to no avail. Wills dies in his mother’s arms. The princess does not scream this time. She bows her head, allowing her tears to mingle with the sweat on our child’s brow.
I cannot watch this.
The only thing I can think of to do is chase the inept physician off my property with a horse whip.
“You did nothing!” I cry as he leaps onto his horse, his eyes wide in terror. “You killed him! You and your leeches killed my son!”
The physician rides away without looking back and I throw myself in the dust of the road, sobbing. There is nothing to be done. I look at the horse whip in my hand and in a moment of sheer madness bring it across my own neck. It curls about it and strikes my back. There is something strangely satisfying in the sting of this blow and as I watch the blood pour down my neck onto my shirt, I start to laugh at the insanity of it all. I strike myself again and again until my arm is too weak and my throat is too raw from the laughter that has converted to screaming, racking, useless sobs.
Thomas does not understand what has happened. He does not understand death. He asks about Wills daily, so much so that I have to extract myself from him. I take long walks and longer rides. I swim, immersing my body in the coolness of our pond. Sometimes I wish I would drown.
One day the princess finds me there, floating on my back, staring at the sky. I do not think of anything but the grey sky, grey as the Gypsy woman’s eyes, and the water that envelops me and comforts my broken soul.
“Come back to me, my lord,” she pleads in her soft voice.
She stares at me pointedly, then walks away.
In that moment, tears of gratitude replace those of sorrow. I rise.
Indeed, no one on this earth is wiser than my princess, for there is nothing that can be done but to press on. I cannot abandon the children who are here, looking to me for guidance. I cannot teach them that it is permissible to wallow in selfish grief while life surges on about me.
With new determination I dress and go into the house. To my children. To my princess. To the life I still have.
It is a vain goal, trying to seize something that is not mine to have, trying to hold in this hand, this hand that is said to be so powerful, the thread of life that binds my children to this world.
In early 1508 my daughter, my precious little Maggie, succumbs to an imbalance of the humours of the bowels. She doubles over in pain one evening at supper and we allow her to take rest in the nursery. I had thought she was trying to avoid eating the eels; she never had a robust appetite and hated trying anything new.
“You’re a manipulative little creature,” I tell the six-year-old, my voice stern. “Feigning a stomach ache to get out of eating supper. Well, you shall have nothing to eat, not one thing, for the rest of the evening, and I don’t care how much you cry or beg. You have to learn that you cannot always have what you want.”
How was I to know those would be the last words of mine she would ever hear?
The nurse fetches us moments later, her eyes wide with fear. “The little one has taken ill, my lord,” she whispers, crossing herself. “She is in such terrible pain …” She bows her head. “Such terrible pain.”
The princess and I rush to the side of the writhing child, her face flushed with fever, her black hair matted to her fair forehead with sweat.
I take her in my arms, rocking back and forth. She is clutching her little belly, her head lolling about from side to side in restlessness. There is no outlet for her pain. She reaches out for my face, seizing it between her tiny hands.
“It hurts, it hurts,” she cries. “Make it go away … please, make it go away!”
There is no physician to call. He would have done nothing but bleed her, anyway, and I could not have suffered it. I hold the little girl to my breast as she slips into delirium. She drops her hands. Her face relaxes, the black eyes glaze over, her small body goes limp.
And