Once I sat down and forced myself to write, something clicked.... Enjoy!
Rochford, June 1537
Dingwall, June 1537
Dearest George,
How Papa ever became an Ambassador at all, let alone an accomplished one, is honestly beyond me. Oh, I’ve heard all the stories – that he was charming enough to have Margaret of Austria, of all women eating out of the palm of his hand, that she accepted Annie into her household because of the great regard she had for him, but I’ve certainly never seen so much as a smidgen of that charm. But then, why would he bother wasting it on me? After all, I’m no one special. I’m just Nora, his youngest and most scandalous daughter, the one who killed his beloved Eliza. Gods Wounds, we both know he only deigns to speak to me at all because I’ve somehow managed to wangle myself the rank of a royal Duchess, and he wants me to use that new-found influence for his sake.
As if I would! Now, if you were asking, the answer might be different, but for him to suddenly turn up here and demand that Jamie make him Earl of Mar, ‘because of our new-found family ties, and because a man whose blood has given rise to so many of noble blood surely deserves a higher rank than just that of Viscount’… Well, let’s just say Jamie and Sawney threw him out of Scotland faster than blinking. Honestly, I’ve not seen the two of them work together that well in years. It would have been impressive if it hadn’t been so ridiculously humiliating!
Needless to say, the Queen has not let me forget Papa’s audacity…
Anyway, Papa has left Scotland in high dudgeon and I believe he plans to ride for your English estates to try to force you into interceding for him, as he knows I listen to you more than I ever have to him. Please God my courier overhauls him, for I know you would never dream of opening me up to such humiliation all over again. I know you know better than to even dare…”
Furious, pounding footsteps break into George’s concentration and he stifles a groan, leaping to his feet and throwing Nora’s letter aside, He’d know that irate pace anywhere.
Christ! What was his father
thinking! What possessed him to even try to browbeat a King into giving him anything, even if said King is now their relative by marriage? King James would have had every right to imprison him for lese-majeste, never mind throw him from Scotland!
Before George can marshal his thoughts any more than that, however, his father is on him, black-faced and thundering.
“Your Sister! How dare she simply sit there and let King James and Lord Ross banish me, without lifting so much as a finger? It is the duty of all royal women to emulate Queen Esther, and yet she didn’t say a word! The minx wouldn’t even look in my direction! I’m her father! She had a duty to –“
George moves on instinct. He doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until there is the crack of skin on skin and he sees his father’s head rock back, already purpling and bleeding where his signet ring has broken the skin.
His father stares at him in shock, but George merely scoffs.
“You? Nora’s father? I don’t think so. I was more of a father to Nora than you
ever were. Christ,
King Henry was more of a father to her than you were. At least he saw her a few times a year.”
Silence fills the room at this pronouncement, the only sound that of the older man spluttering at his heir’s uncharacteristic audacity. George’s next words fall into the space between them like pebbles, cold, hard and unforgiving.
“You never forgave her Mama’s death, did you? You couldn’t look at Nora without seeing Mama writhing in a bed of blood, so you chose simply never to look at her at all.”
George pauses, waiting for his father to say something, anything, in his own defence. When several moments pass and Thomas still says nothing, he sighs and shrugs his shoulders,
“Well, that was your choice, Papa. I’m sure it’s not the choice Mama would have wanted you to make, but it’s the one you made over two decades ago. I’ll not judge you for what you did in grief. But don’t you ever accuse Nora of not doing her duty by this family when you couldn’t do your duty as a
Christian, let alone a father, and forgive her for being born.”
With that, George stalks around his father, throws open his study door and then returns to his correspondence, pointedly ignoring the older man until Thomas finally cedes the point and retreats, snarling, from the room.
Porto, June 1537
“Where’s Bella?”
The question strikes Margot like an arrow the moment she steps into Jean’s cabin on the
Santa Filipa. She ignores it, merely walking past her brother, so that he has to turn and face her to fire off his next question.
“I said, where’s Bella? She ought to be on board by now, if we’re to sail with the next tide.”
Jean’s voice is sharp, poised to wound, but Margot doesn’t let his prickliness stop her. Instead, she seats herself on the edge of his carved wooden bunk and reaches for his hand, tugging insistently until he gives in to her six-year seniority and sinks down beside her.
Only then does she take a deep breath and inform Jean of the grave news she has come to impart.
“She’s not on board. She won’t be coming with you.”
“What do you mean, she won’t be coming with me? Of course she’s coming with me, she’s my wife. Her place is at my side, whether that’s in France, Milan, Portugal or the godforsaken colonies.”
“No. She came to me last week and told me she’d never wanted to wed at all, and that set her heart on being a bride of Christ a long, long time ago. I took her to our brother the Archbishop and she swore the same to him on the Holy Cross. Henry has commanded her to leave Porto and go and stay at the Convent of Santa Clara until he has decided what is best to do. He’s going to set out for Rome with all possible speed and seek His Holiness’s advice as to whether or not your marriage should be annulled. If His Holiness finds in Bella’s favour, she’ll likely stay at Santa Clara and take her vows as a nun. But never fear, if His Holiness decides to uphold the validity of your marriage, then we’ll waste no time in sending Bella out to you.”
Silence fills the cramped cabin, and, not for the first time, Margot curses the dim light that abounds on ships. The shifting shadows are making it almost impossible for her to read Jean’s face, even though he’s sitting so close to her that their shoulders are touching.
The raw uncertainty in Jean’s next words, therefore, takes her utterly by surprise.
“She’s leaving me too?”
Seconds later, the fifteen-year-old shakes himself and scoffs, “Good Riddance. I never really liked the milksop anyway,” but it is too late. Margot has glimpsed beneath the bravado, and realised that, underneath Jean’s devil-may-care attitude is a lost little boy, the same little boy who looked to her to explain why their
Maman wasn’t at his investiture as Duke of Milan, who cried himself to sleep in her arms for a fortnight after they realised that
Maman really wasn’t coming home this time, that their parents’ marriage had broken down, and might well never been the same again, who latched on to Lady Isabella when she wove her way into Papa’s life, because, at six years old, he
needed a maternal figure, no matter where it came from.
Maman. Madame de Valentinois. Even Margot herself. Every single woman in Jean’s life has left him, abandoned him, whether willingly or unwillingly.
And now Bella’s gone too.
Bella, whom, per the words of the wedding Mass, Jean ought to have been able to rely on until death itself parted them.
Sympathy wells in Margot’s heart and she pulls her brother down, even as he resists, so that his soft dark head rests in the hollow of her shoulder.
“Things will be different in Brazil,” she promises him softly, “Yes, you’ll have to follow Joao’s orders, such as they are, but you’ll be the one making the decisions on the ground. You’re not going to be powerless anymore. I promise you that. I promise.”
Jean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His breathing quickens for a few moments, then steadies again. His firm, rounded shoulders ease, just a bit, and, for Margot, that is enough.
They sit together, not moving, until the Captain of Margot’s guards comes, with an apologetic cough, to tell her that, unless she plans to accompany her younger brother to Brazil after all, it is time for her to disembark.
She nods, drops one final kiss on Jean’s temple – one that is almost maternal, rather than sororal – and moves her hand over his head in a silent blessing.
At the door of the cabin, she looks back. Jean has yet to move. He is still sprawled over the narrow bunk, seemingly catatonic.
Margot wants to say something to him, but doesn’t know what.
In the end, she settles for sending up a silent prayer.
“Saint Nicholas, Saint Clement,
watch over my brother. Guide him through his new journey, and help him work out his true path in life. And, please, let him know he is loved.”
