September 1513
(An excerpt from Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole)
Margaret kept her back straight
and stiff as she knelt before the altar that was set up in her room for private
worship. Months at court left her buzzing with anxiety and unable to let down
her guard even long enough for prayer. The ease that she should have felt with
Henry’s leaving was replaced by concern for her sons and other people she
cherished who had gone to war. She fervently prayed for each of them by name,
and was disturbed by the ache in her knees when she finally rose.
As a girl, she had been able to
leap from the altar unaffected by the cold stones that left her elders rising
more slowly. With chagrin she realized that her younger self would put her in
that category of elders with her grown children marrying and following their
king to glory in France.
“I suppose I am old,” she
whispered to the sculpted Jesus who had already listened to her silent prayers.
The statue had been a gift from her cousin Elizabeth upon Margaret’s marriage.
Many times had her eyes taken in the fine details of craftsmanship that made
her savior seem so lifelike that at times she expected him to give vocal
response to her heavenly requests. His sky colored eyes gazed solemnly into
hers but revealed nothing of his divine wisdom.
Returning to the demands of her
day, Margaret turned from the unchanging stare with a swish of skirts and
strode toward Catherine’s rooms. She had not far to go and was thankful, for
the narrow corridor was much cooler than her private room with its cheerful
fire chasing away the autumn chill that invaded through each crevice of the
palace. She pulled her mantle closed to trap the cozy warmth of her rooms close
to her body, not releasing her grasp until she had gained entry to Catherine’s comfortable
quarters.
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| Margaret Pole Countess of Salisbury |
The queen did not have her fire
roaring as Margaret had. Younger and burdened by the weight of her coming
child, Catherine did not feel the cold as her friend did. In fact, she had
discarded her mantle and was wearing a dress more suited to summer while her
ladies took places closer to the small fire. Her face lit up when she noticed
Margaret’s arrival.
“I have wonderful news,”
Catherine said in a low voice meant only for Margaret. “Henry will be pleased
with tidings from Scotland as our Lord Howard of Surrey is leading his troops
toward an encampment near Flodden Edge. The Scots believe that we cannot bring
the battle to them with our troops in France, but they are confidently marching
toward their own defeat.”
Margaret did her best to appear
impressed by the news that Thomas Howard felt himself ready for battle. Well
advanced in age, Surrey looked to recapture a bit of his family’s former glory,
but Margaret was sure the Scots had good reason for their optimism.
Catherine did not notice
Margaret’s doubt and continued, “He is hopeful that King James himself will be
there.”
“Will that not inspire his
troops to fight that much more fervently?” Margaret asked and then winced that
she had allowed the question to escape.
Catherine, however, merely
shrugged. “It will not matter. James is ineffective and will fail.”
“Henry’s faith in you was well
placed, your grace. I would not have foreseen your aptitude for war.”
With a confident smile that made
Margaret wonder where the queen’s shy blushes had gone, Catherine stated,
“Henry will have every reason to be pleased with me upon his return.”
Margaret nodded. A prince in the
cradle and the Scots put back in their place. This would please the king a
great deal if events went according to his queen’s plan. Margaret prayed that
they would. Surely, God would bless Catherine this time.
As if her thoughts had prompted
the action, Margaret watched Catherine’s eyes widen in fear and her hand reach
under the bulge of her belly. Without giving her a chance to speak, Margaret
ordered the most senior of Catherine’s ladies to clear the room and send for
the midwife.
~~~~
The hours of agony had once
again paid Catherine poor reward. The child, who was born an almost cruelly
perfect baby boy, had struggled to take breath only briefly. One could almost
convince themselves that he was sleeping, so finely formed were his outward
features that his death was a mystery.
Rather than collapsing into
tears, Catherine’s face appeared to be carved from stone when she was given the
news that strident efforts had not saved her son’s life. She was no longer a
girl and had grown used to pain and disappointment, but she was also now the
regent ruler of England and would not show weakness, regardless of how
fractured her soul felt.
After a brief rest taken as
women silently tidied the rooms that should have been filled with a newborn’s
cries and happy celebrating, Catherine requested writing tools to inform Henry
of the birth and death of his son.
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| Catherine of Aragon First wife of Henry VIII Queen of England |
Catherine was still abed several
days later when a messenger wearing the evidence of long travel arrived and
requested an audience with the queen. He was ushered into Margaret’s presence
instead with Bishop John Fisher, Catherine’s most trusted advisor, at her side.
“Your grace,” the young man said
hesitantly, as if uncertain who he addressed or how to properly address her.
“I’ve come with a message for the queen.”
“You will have heard then that
she has recently born a child and cannot receive visitors at this time.”
Margaret knew that she sounded harsh but also knew that a woman must in order
to obtain authority and respect from men. “Queen Catherine sends me as her
proxy, and anything you have to say to her you may tell me.”
With a glance at Fisher, the man
assented. “I bear her majesty victorious news from Northumberland, my lady.
Surrey has taken the day and the King of Scotland lies dead upon the field near
Flodden.”
Margaret controlled her features
to hide her emotions upon hearing that James IV, the husband of Margaret Tudor,
was dead. His son, now James V, had not yet reached two years of age. What
would Henry think of the ascendancy of his nephew?
The messenger was continuing
with details of the battle, men captured, and others lost, while Margaret
considered what this battle would mean to her family and the game of royal
dynasties with Henry’s sister in control of the infant King of Scots. Excusing
herself as soon as she was able, Margaret rushed to share the news with
Catherine.
An unpleasant smile formed on
Catherine’s face as Margaret relayed the news. “I will have the head of the
Scots’ king as a gift for my husband to uplift him as he also prepares for
battle.”
Margaret was caught with her
mouth agape. Of all of the things she had thought her friend might say, this
was an order she had not anticipated. “Catherine?”
A cruel gleam that Margaret had
seen in others but never in Catherine lit the younger woman’s eyes. “See it
done, Lady Salisbury. The king will be pleased to have the head of that
arrogant Scot presented to him before he destroys the French.”
Seeing other faces in the
chamber no less shocked than her own, Margaret mumbled assent and bowed from
the room.
She was thankful when Fisher
pointed out the logistic difficulties of transporting King James’ head to Henry
in a desirable condition and suggested a gift of his bloody doublet in its
stead. As gruesome as the business was, Margaret thanked God that Catherine did
not have to report a double failure to her mercurial husband.
“Do you believe that Henry will
order his sister to return to London?” Margaret asked Catherine as they shared
a simple meal in Catherine’s rooms a few days later.
“It is the course that I plan to
recommend to him,” Catherine said as she shoved a healthy portion of fluffy
white bread into her mouth. Margaret was saddened that a thicker waistline was
all Catherine had to show for her many pregnancies. “He will wish to groom her
son for kingship, I have no doubt.”
“It will serve him well to have
an ally in Scotland, rather than a rival,” Margaret agreed. Best to befriend
the boy while he was young and develop a sustainable relationship with the
Scots.
“Of course, he will be more than
an ally, since he will also be Henry’s heir.”
Catherine seemed to be frequently
taking Margaret by surprise. She considered those who Henry might name as his
heir besides the young King of Scots. There was Edward Stafford, but of course
he would prefer a son of his own sister. “Only until he has a son of his own,”
she said as her mind flitted through the Tudor family tree for acceptable
substitutes.
“That is in God’s hands,”
Catherine stated harshly, closing the subject of her own childbearing.
“As are we all,” Margaret
agreed, submissively bowing her head before this hardened version of her
faithful friend.
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