Three Sisters, Three Queens

STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1529

I am waiting for a letter from Mary; I know that she will want to be first to tell me of the decision of the legatine court on our brother’s case. When they bring me the letter, tied both ways with ribbons and heavily sealed to prevent anyone reading it, I hardly know whether to hope that the cardinals have declared Harry’s marriage void, or that they have ordered him to stay with Katherine. There is no doubt where Mary’s loyalties lie: she has always been Katherine’s little follower. She has never had anything from Katherine but tenderness and support. They have been true sisters to each other. For me, Katherine has been less of a blessing. It is not disloyalty to a sister that makes me wonder if I really want her as Queen of England forever. She has made this estrangement between us, over and over again. When she was in power she was terribly destructive to me, until she started falling, and then she demanded that I help her.

Anne Boleyn is exceeding her position in every way!

Mary starts without a word of greeting, a crisscrossed page of indignation. I spread the sheet on my knees and I look out of the window at the loch and the hills behind it. James is out riding for the day; he will not be home until dinner. I have all the time in the world to decipher Mary’s scrawl.

This Easter she blessed cramp rings for the poor as if she had the divine touch. She lives as high as the queen herself—far better actually, since Katherine fasts completely every Friday and every saint’s day. The Boleyn woman did not dare to attend the legatine court, I think if she had done there would have been a riot in favor of the queen. The women of the City and all of England are up in arms that the Boleyn whore (as they call her!) should dream of trying to take the place of our queen. If Harry gets the decision he wants from the court I really doubt that the people will allow the woman to be crowned. It is too dreadful. I cannot even speak to him about it, he consults no one but her and Wolsey.

You will have heard of the proceedings of the court from the archdeacon, I suppose; but what he may not tell you is that Bishop John Fisher, who was so dear to our lady grandmother, stood up in the court and swore that he had not signed a warrant that all the churchmen had agreed. Harry said there was his seal and signature and he said it was neither his seal nor his hand. It was very dreadful, very shocking, everyone could see that his consent had been forged. Harry said it didn’t matter, but it did matter, Margaret. It mattered to everyone. It shows that the Boleyns will do anything.

Anne Boleyn herself has gone to Hever and Katherine spends all her time praying. Charles says that calling in cardinals is a waste of time and Harry would do better to bed Anne at once and hope for boredom soon. Everyone says something different except dear John Fisher, who says that Katherine’s marriage was good, everyone knew it was so, and he will never say different.

I can’t say because I was too young. You had better say nothing, whatever you think. Everyone has an opinion, everyone talks about nothing else. It has got so bad that servants in the royal livery are getting booed in London and even my household has mud thrown at their horses. I think Harry will ruin this family in order to please that woman. Worst of all, John Fisher repeated in front of everyone what Harry said to you when you started the whole divorce idea (and how sorry you must be that you did!). Do you remember? “This marriage of the king and queen is dissolvable by no power, human or divine.” So now, once again, everyone is pointing to you and speaking of your divorce and saying that if you can divorce then so can Harry—why should he not? So it is as bad as I warned you, and people are speaking of you again and Katherine is very upset.

I say little to James about this letter when he comes home from riding, starving hungry and shouting that dinner must be served at once, as soon as he has washed and changed his clothes. I say only that the legatine court has opened in London and that, no doubt, Archdeacon Magnus will tell us more. It is Henry who asks me, as he sits beside me at dinner: “Do they speak of us at all?”

“No,” I say. “Just of my divorce and how Harry was so against it.”

He nods. “I would rather they did not speak of us.”

I shake my head. “There is so much scandal attached to the name of Tudor now, I would rather they did not speak of any of us.”