The Forgotten Queen

by D.L. Bogdan

Genres: Tudor Romance

Synopsis

From her earliest days, Margaret Tudor knows she will not have the luxury of choosing a husband. As daughter of Henry VII, her duty is to gain alliances for England. Barely out of girlhood, Margaret is married by proxy to James IV and travels to Edinburgh to become Queen of Scotland.

Despite her doubts, Margaret falls under the spell of her adopted home. But she has rivals. While Jamie is an affectionate husband, he is not a faithful one. And providing an heir cannot guarantee Margaret's safety when Jamie leads an invading army against her own brother, Henry VIII. In the wake of tragic loss she falls prey to the attentions of the ambitious Earl of Angus--a move that brings Scotland to the brink of anarchy. Beset by betrayal, secret alliances, and the vagaries of her own heart, Margaret has one overriding ambition--to preserve the crown of Scotland for her son, no matter what the cost.

Exquisitely detailed and poignant, The Forgotten Queen vividly depicts the life and loves of an extraordinary woman who helped shape the fate of two kingdoms--and in time, became the means of uniting them.

Praise for the novels of D.L. Bogdan

"A story of love and redemption, beautifully told." --Christy English on The Sumerton Women

"Throbs with intensity as it lays bare the secret delights of Tudor court life and the sudden, lethal terrors. A tale of innocence and ruthless ambition locked in a love-hate embrace." --Barbara Kyle on Secrets of the Tudor Court

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

It began with smoke. His Grace King Henry VII said everything began with smoke, from the fall of the old kings to the rise of the new, when the smoke curled about the mouths of the great cannon as they spewed forth their vengeance on the battlefield, to the love born of a man and a woman, where the smoke rose from the smallest flame in the bedchamber, quite unable to rival that which burns in the human heart, the flames he coveted for his own wife, my mother, Queen Elizabeth of York.

But the night I lost my Sheen, the flames arose from a cause unknown, an errant taper, likely. Sliding across the floor, deft and sleek as a snake were the flames. They licked up the side of the wall, taking in with great satisfaction the new tapestries Her Grace my mother had taken such care in embroidering to cheer the king’s chambers that fateful Christmas.

And so watching in awe, I was held fast with helplessness. A cacophony of voices swirled about me, but I was unable to identify their owners.

“The prince!” someone cried. “Remove His Highness, the Prince of Wales!”

Of course it made sense to rescue the treasured heir first. And no one treasured him more than I, his sister. However, I must say a thorn of jealousy twisted in my breast as I watched the guards usher my brother Arthur forth from the chambers, amidst a clamor of frightened dignitaries and courtiers. My mother gathered the other children around her, impetuous Henry and sweet baby Mary, taking flight.

I stood, captivated by the scene. At once my face began to prickle and tingle with the strange sensation that I was being watched. I turned to see him, the man to be feared above all, the man second only to God above. Henry VII, my father, my king. Flames lost their heat in his cool, calm eyes. A small smile lifted the corner of his mouth as his gaze held mine.

“Margaret,” he said, his voice low, knowing he as king had no need to raise it. Even the flames stilled to listen.

Only my tears could answer for me.

“We will build another,” he assured me.

And then I was in the arms of a guard. I closed my eyes to the flames now devouring my world, insatiable, and my ears to the crackling, creaking timbers that once made up my Sheen, palace of my childhood.

Things were about to change. Somehow I knew then more than ever that I was not ordinary.

There was no one high enough to intervene on behalf of my immortal soul, my grandmother had cried. I was a shameful creature, she went on, a wilted petal on the Tudor rose. It was time I was made to examine my wicked ways and repent. Grandmother was through with humble chaplains and confessors. I was a Princess of the Blood; the fate of kingdoms may rest in my finding salvation. Thus I was removed to my godfather, the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, where I must come up with an impressive confession. I was certain it wouldn’t take much; I had a wealth of sins to choose from.

Lord Chancellor John Morton sat before me in his grand white robes, drumming his slim fingers on his knee waiting, waiting for the recitation of my various sins.

I wrung my hands. Oh, where to begin?

“I hit my brother Henry on the head with a stick,” I told him, swallowing my fear as I approached him to lay a hand on his lap. I refused to sit in the confessional. I did not like walls between me and anyone, see-through or not. The archbishop’s robe was very soft under my fingertips and I found myself scrunching the material beneath my nails in nervousness.

He offered a grave nod, urging me to continue. “Why would you do such a thing, Princess Margaret?”

“Because Henry is stupid,” I explained with impatience. “If you knew him you would surely hit him as well, my lord.”

The archbishop’s lips twitched. “Pray continue, Highness.”

I twisted the material of his gown in my fist, edging closer to him. My tone was conspiratorial. “And then I stuck my tongue out at my tutor because he called me saucy. I am not saucy, Your Grace!”

“Indeed?” The smallest smile curved his lips. “Go on.”

I swallowed several times, shifting from foot to foot. “And then . . . then I put a frog in my grandmother’s slipper—”

“Gracious, Your Highness, that was creative,” he observed. “Why should you grieve your gentle grandmother so?”

“Do you know my grandmother, Your Grace?” I asked, incredulous that anyone should describe the severe Margaret Beaufort as gentle.

“She is a great lady,” said the archbishop. “It would serve you better to respect her.” He paused, arching a brow. “Now. Anything else?”

“Well, I also hid Grandmother’s hair shirt,” I confessed. “I wasn’t trying to be bad that time. Honest. I just thought to give her skin a rest—”

“How old are you, Princess Margaret?”

“I am ten,” I told him, offering a bright smile to display the pearly row of grown-up teeth that were my pride.

“Do you think a girl of ten should meddle in the affairs of a woman thrice her age?” he asked me in patient tones. “I should say not. The Lord commands us to honor our mother and father; this applies to all elders. Your grandmother is a very spiritual lady and needs none of your . . . intervention. She is an example of faithfulness. Remember, through her loving discipline you are brought to a better understanding of God.”

I bowed my head. I hated talking about the Venerable Margaret Beaufort with anyone. I hated even thinking about her. Spiritual! How I had suffered for Margaret Beaufort’s “spirituality”! If her cane across my back was made to bring about a better understanding of God I could have been an abbess!

“Anything else?”

Summoned to mind was the most grievous sin of all. I sighed. “I asked the king what a whore is.”

The priest’s eyes widened as he covered his mouth with one large hand. “Did you find out?”

“No! Grandmother slapped me!” I cried, hoping to solicit his sympathy. “I can’t begin to imagine why! I only asked because I heard one of the ladies say there were an awful lot of whores about and I feared it was some kind of insect, so I thought it best to find out! I do not want anything crawling on me, after all!”

Archbishop Morton tilted his head back, closing his eyes a long moment. He drew in a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “Anything else, my lady?”

I bit my lip. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

“You’re not sure?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. It’s just that I sin with such terrible frequency—I can’t seem to keep track. I suppose I should make a list. . . .”

“Highness, has it ever occurred to you that the best way to—er—‘keep track’ of your sins is to reduce the list or perhaps, to the best of your ability, cease sinning altogether?” he asked.

“Oh, but that would be impossible!” I cried.

“Indeed, we’re all human and it is in our nature to sin, but I do not believe reducing the regularity of the habit to be an impossibility—”

“How on God’s earth do you expect me to have any fun that way?” I cried.

“Charity shall be your penance,” said the archbishop in decisive tones as he rose. “I should like you to accompany your grandmother on her charitable exploits. ’Twill teach you humility as well and do your soul much good.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” I bowed my head in an attempt at humility, though I was much aggrieved at the thought of accompanying Grandmother anywhere. I raised my head, hoping there was some way to endear myself to him. “Thank you ever so!” I cried then, throwing my arms about his waist and resting my chin against his chest, casting adoring eyes to his stern countenance. How I wished he would scoop me up in his arms and carry me off to Lambeth. Then I could be his little girl most loved. Of course, archbishops couldn’t have little girls, so I supposed it would do to place this fantasy with yet another gentleman. Unfortunately, I seemed to be running out.

“Now, now, Highness, that is quite enough!” cried the archbishop as he disengaged himself from me.

Blinking back a sudden onset of tears, I fell to my knees and, in an unusual display of reverence, kissed his grand ring.

“I will pray fervently for your soul, Your Highness,” he told me.

I rose. “Your Grace . . . no one ever did tell me . . . what is a whore?”

“Your Highness . . .” The archbishop removed his cap to run a hand through his thinning white hair. “You’ll . . . find out when you’re older.”

I refrained from stamping my foot.

I’d find out when I was older. Everyone’s favorite answer when they couldn’t tell me a thing. Likely they didn’t even know!

Oh, confession was a bore!

I resolved to think of a hundred other fun sins to indulge in just to spite them all.

If anything, it would make the dread chore more interesting. It was rather fun shocking the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I liked shocking everyone.

Christmastide distracted me from my mischievous missions and was all the initiative I needed to remain good. Grandmother said this in itself is a sin; I should be good because I wanted to be good, not because it involved some kind of reward.

“But aren’t you being good just so you can get into Heaven?” I countered, recalling my grandmother’s famous displays of piety. “That is a reward.”

This rewarded me with a clout on the mouth and no satisfactory answer.

We removed from Greenwich to Westminster, where all the family would be together for the first time in many months. Excitement surged through me as I peeked out the curtains of my litter to wave to the throng gathered at the palace gates, who shouted blessings at me.

“Bless the princess!” they called.

“Throw them some coin; that’s what they’re waiting for,” my grandmother urged in stern tones. “Goodness knows they’re not really here to see you.”

“They are, too!” I returned. “They adore me!”

Just to ensure this, however, I reached into her purse to fish out a handful of sovereigns, tossing them to the awaiting crowd, who scrambled and scuffled over them in the street. My heart lurched as the truth of my grandmother’s words rang in my ears.

When at last I was permitted to quit the litter and my grandmother’s deplorable company, I ran through the Long Gallery to search out my family. I offered warm greetings to the courtiers and dignitaries who surrounded Father like butterflies around flowers. All rewarded me with smiles and bows.

The Archbishop of Canterbury was there. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “Well, Princess Margaret. You have come to grace us with your presence for the holiday season. Let us pray the palace doesn’t take fire this year.”

My eyes misted as I recalled my precious Sheen, now being rebuilt as my father had promised into a grand palace he had decided to call Richmond, for our family’s seat.

“Well, I didn’t do it,” I assured him, in case that had been his implication.

The archbishop, in a moment of rare tenderness, ruffled my hair as he chuckled. “Of course not, Your Highness. Now. Come with me. You’ll be anxious to see your father, no doubt.”

“Oh, yes!” I cried, sliding my hand in his and leaning my head on his arm. He disengaged and my arm fell to my side as we progressed through the gallery toward my father’s apartments.

We entered King Henry VII’s privy chamber to find him hunched over his writing table, scouring documents. He did not put them aside when my presence was announced and I stood among members of the council, who rolled their eyes at each other as if to say, Here she is again.

Yes, here I am again and you’ll never forget me! I longed to cry. I was not some common street urchin; I was Princess Margaret Tudor and a finer lass they’d never lay eyes upon!

But I said nothing. I sighed and fiddled with the pearls sewn into the neckline of my blue velvet gown. I plaited and unplaited my coppery tresses over my shoulder to busy my fidgety hands until at last the King of England raised his taciturn face toward me. With one slim hand, he gestured for me to come forth.

I made a face at the councilors present, hoping to convey my dislike for them in one charming grimace, and proceeded toward the grand table. I curtsied low.

“Margaret,” he muttered in his gruff voice, looking me up and down. “So this is what we have to work with.”

I scowled before I could help myself. “Your Grace?”

“Altogether too thin,” he mumbled, looking down at his papers. “You had better be able to bear children else you’ll be no use at all.”

“Your Grace!” I cried. This was not the happy reunion I had envisaged. But then most of my fantasies fell scathingly short of reality. I heaved a deep sigh. “There is no reason to believe I shouldn’t be able to bear a wealth of sons, my lord. I am of good Tudor and Plantagenet stock—I will do you proud.”

He raised his head at this, offering a rueful smile. “I think I rather like you,” he said, as though he were experiencing an epiphany and the idea of actually liking his children was quite novel indeed.

“You’ll not let anyone get the best of you, will you?” he mused, rising and rounding the table to lay a hand on my shoulder. “You are of particular interest to me this year, Daughter,” he said, his narrow face creasing into a smile. I must say he looked horrible. His auburn hair grazed his shoulders in a straight and sensible mass that did his long features no good at all. I wished he’d cut it. He looked like an old fox wrapped in his furs, an old fox waiting to leap out and, with the slyness associated with the creature, wreak subtle havoc on those who dared oppose him.

And yet without those foxy and wily ways Henry VII would not be Henry VII at all but the obscure Duke of Richmond nobody cared about. Had my father not conspired against (with the help of another fox, my cunning grandmother Margaret Beaufort) and eventually slain the usurper King Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth, the crown of England would not be in Tudor hands and the Wars of the Roses would still be fought in vain. But my father the king, for all his bad hair and fashion sense, swept in and won the day, not only claiming the crown but also uniting the houses of York and Lancaster at last by marrying my fair mother, Elizabeth, ending the wars for good. My father filled the treasury, modernized the government through the appointments of councilors (also men with bad hair and worse fashion sense), ousting all pretenders to the throne with the mightiness of his hand. He was a formidable man, this Henry Tudor, cold and calculating, miserly and cautious. This man, this king, was my father and never was the thought far from my mind that his were the hands that would shape my destiny.

“Everyone out—We should have audience with Our daughter alone!” Father barked, rousing me from my reverie as I watched a room of scrambling servants and councilors all too eager to do his bidding.

Father rounded the desk once more to look out the window, past the gardens, past the Tower, far past the known horizon. He was squinting. I found myself doing the same, though I had no idea what we were looking for.

“You do realize that as a daughter of this house yours is not an ordinary future We have planned,” he said. “Margaret, the peace of kingdoms depends on you.”

“Oh, if this is about me sinning again I can tell you I have been good for at least a week!” I cried.

He silenced me with a hand. “Margaret, I’ve news on your suit.”

I began to tremble. My suit. I braced myself. What prince had my father chosen for me? To what distant land would I be sent?

“We need an end to these frays with Scotland and one of the ways of achieving that is by forming an alliance,” he explained. “D’you understand?”

I shook my head, though against my will comprehension was settling upon me, clutching my heart in its merciless talons until I became short of breath.

“Don’t swoon on me now, child,” Father commanded. “You’ve never been a fainting girl and now is no time to start.” He rested his hands on my shoulders. “Margaret. You are going to be what unites our kingdoms. You are going to bring about a better understanding between us. You are meant for greatness, perhaps a greatness that surpasses even your own brother the Crown Prince Arthur, because yours is a task that is far from easy.” With this he shook me somewhat, not in cruelty, but to illustrate his passion. Fear coursed through me. “Margaret, my child, this is your purpose: You are to become the Queen of the Scots.”

Had I been a fainting girl, that would have been the time.

I did not know how to feel, what to think. Queen . . . But I knew I would be a queen; Princesses of the Blood are primed from birth for this function. From cradle to table I had been told that I would marry a prince, that I must bear him many sons, else be deemed a failure. And so with this in mind I prepared for my role as political breeder.

The night I learned I was to become Queen of Scots—Scots, as if he couldn’t find a more glamorous country than where that lot of barbarians reside!—there was none with whom I could find comfort. For a while I climbed into bed with little Princess Mary, my three-year-old sister, cuddling her close. This golden princess would have a charmed life, I was certain. She was so agreeable and adorable; as yet she showed none of my sinful inclinations and everyone fawned over her.

At once I rose from the bed of the favored princess, stirred to anger as I thought of the wonderful marriage Father would arrange for her. No doubt she would live in some glorious court where there would be artists and musicians to entertain her all day long—likely she’d get to live in sunny Spain or romantic France while I wasted away in the North, freezing in some drafty castle surrounded by fur-clad courtiers who spoke as though they had something obstructing their throats . . . ! I dared not think on it anymore. I crossed the rush-strewn floor on bare feet, wringing my hands and blinking back tears. I, Margaret Tudor, was going to be Queen of the Scots . . . those frightening, monstrous Scots....

I retrieved a wrap and sneaked out of the nursery, down the hall. I would see my brother Arthur. Gentle, sweet Arthur, so unlike fiery Henry and docile Mary, would be able to guide me.

The guards stood aside to admit me into the apartments of the Prince of Wales. He was lying across some furs before his fire, thumbing through The Canterbury Tales. When he saw me, his handsome, scholarly face lit up with a smile.

“Sister,” he said in his handsome voice. “A midnight visit. What an unexpected pleasure. Won’t you sit? Take some wine.” He held the book up for me to see. “I know, I shouldn’t be indulging myself in such fancy, but the naughty parts are too delightful to ignore!”

The tears that had settled in my throat since learning of my impending betrothal were replaced by a smile as I sat beside my brother. There was no one like Arthur the world over, I was convinced. He was the gentlest, sweetest prince in Christendom and would no doubt be a fine king. He was not athletic like Henry, nor did he possess my younger brother’s fleet dancing feet. Arthur was an intellectual; content to study, to ponder, to think. His beauty was delicate and whenever I was with him I could not help but feel the need to protect him, nurture him, just as he had always protected and nurtured me.

The smile faded at the thought, replaced by fresh tears. “Oh, Arthur,” I began. “I hate that I never get to see you. With you living in Ludlow and me here with nobody but Henry to annoy me and Grandmother to torture me . . . it is a miserable existence!”

“So I suppose it best to dispense with the obligatory ‘how are you?’ ” Arthur teased, his blue eyes sparkling as he reached out to cup my cheek. “Now, now, Sister, is it as bad as all that? Far be it for me to disagree with you about Grandmother, but our Henry means well enough. He may be annoying, but his love and devotion are fierce and you do have sweet little Mary—”

“Henry’s love and devotion are fierce only when you’re in his favor and we’re rarely in each other’s favor . . . and Mary is favored by everyone. I pale under the glory of her sun. She is the flawless little Tudor rose and I am the thorn they long to cut out,” I pouted.

“So intense!” Arthur cried, sitting up and putting his book aside.

“But since it would be unseemly to cut the thorn they shall send her to the land of the thistles—to Scotland!” I cried, scowling. “Can you believe it, Arthur? Scotland? They may as well be sending me to Hell!”

Arthur chuckled, but I took no pleasure in the handsome sound. It mocked my misery and my brow ached from furrowing it at him. “So that is what this display is about,” he said. “Come here, darling girl.” He held out his arm and I scooted in next to him. He gathered me close, stroking my hair. “We are special people, Margaret,” he told me. “Special people with very special responsibilities. You know well; your whole life has been preparing you for this zenith. It seems unfair; princes are allowed to stay in their native countries for the most part while our sacred princesses must scatter to the four winds, their sacrifice in order to secure sound alliances for the countries to which they are bound. We are God’s chosen, though, my dearest. Chosen to lead His people, chosen to defend them and honor them. You are going to be a queen, Margaret. An anointed queen. No one can ever take that away from you. You have the power to do so much good. I know Scotland is not the land you dreamed of spending your life in. They are very different from us; but Father would not send you if he thought you would come to harm. He longs to bring about a good alliance between our two countries. Think of the role you can play in securing that glorious peace! Think of the legacy you will leave! The mark you will make! Margaret, there has not been peace between our two countries in one hundred and seventy years. You have the opportunity of setting things right.”

“I don’t want to set anything right! I don’t want to go away! I want to stay with you!” I cried, burying my head in his chest.

Arthur chuckled again. “You must be brave, lass, brave. Take heart and look sharp! A thistle can outlast a thousand roses. Father sends his little thorn to the wilds of Scotland because he knows she is strong enough to bear it.”

I pulled away, looking into his face. “It is just so very far, Arthur. When will I see you and Mother? What if they don’t like me there?”

“Not like you?” Arthur cried, as though this was impossible to conceive. “Why, no one can resist you.”

I brightened at this.

“The Scots will fall madly in love with you,” he went on. “And, think, pretty one, of all the clothes and jewels you will have as queen. There are going to be songs written about you, poems dedicated to you . . . there is so much to look forward to!”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that!” I cried, envisioning bolts of velvet and silk, kirtles of cloth of gold, and kid gloves. “I suppose I will be able to eat whatever I want all the time, too.”

“All the time,” he assured me. “Just mind that you don’t become fat. Nobody likes fat queens!”

I laughed. “Oh, no, I shall not! I’ll be a beautiful queen and will set a new standard of elegance for the Scots. All the ladies will want to dress like me—”

“That’s the spirit!” he cried, slapping me on the back as though I were one of the lads.

I seized my brother’s slim hands. “And you’ll write me all the time?”

“All the time,” he said, chucking my chin.

“No one loves me like you do,” I said in a small voice as I regarded my one true champion.

He waved a dismissive hand, flushing. “Nonsense. Everyone loves you.” He smiled. “Now, enough of this fretting. You act as though you’re the only one to have a foreign prince inflicted on you. As yet you’ve expressed no sympathy regarding my suit.”

I cocked my head, puzzled.

“Have you forgotten my marriage to the Infanta, Catalina of Aragon?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Oh, no. But at least she’s coming to you. And I hear she’s very fine and sweet.”

“And I hear the King of Scots is lusty and robust!” he returned. “We’ll do fine, Sister, you’ll see. We’ll usher our European brothers into a New Age!”

“A New Age . . .” I repeated, enchanted by the concept of being a luminary. “Do you think we can?”

“I know we can!” he cried. “Now! Enough. Sit with me and I’ll read you a story to divert you. ‘The Miller’s Tale’ . . .”

I laughed at the thought of hearing the scandalous tale that Grandmother said was a sin to even listen to. Knowing this made me want to hear it all the more.

I covered up with one of the furs and warmed myself by the fire, enveloped in the solace and reassurance I had been seeking, knowing there was none luckier than I, to have such a sweet brother as Arthur, Prince of Wales.

Oh , it was going to be a wonderful year! I was twelve then and beautiful—everyone told me so. Though I was tiny and lacked the curves of some of my contemporaries, I was assured that my daintiness evoked just as much admiration. The worst part about entering womanhood, however, was the menses—how I hated it!

“I do not understand its necessity!” I once confessed to the old archbishop. “There is no fairness in it.”

“Things would be different had Eve not led Adam into sin,” he explained, bowing his head to conceal his flushing face.

“So Adam did not have a mind of his own?” I cried. “If he was witless enough to yield to Eve’s temptation then it is his stupidity that warrants the curse!”

“Madam, you tread on blasphemy!”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear it,” I lamented. “You are on his side.”

And so there was nothing to do but bear it. Fortunately, there were plenty enough diversions to occupy me. The Princess Catalina had arrived! Oh, but she was lovely, so fair and sweet. How I pitied her when her name had to be Anglicized. Now she would be forever known as Catherine of Aragon. How much a princess gave up when leaving her home—her family, her customs, her way of life, even her very name.

I was at least fortunate to be removing to an English-speaking country, for the most part, and would keep possession of my name.

I tried my best to offer friendship to my future sister-in-law. She was all Spanish; it oozed from her, reflected in her piety, her thick accent, and her manner of dress. Father was disappointed.

“Guide her, Margaret,” he told me. “Show her what it is to be an English princess.”

I was thrilled at this charge and complied with enthusiasm. Catherine was four years my senior but yielded to my instruction, eager to please her new countrymen. Though she demonstrated a strength of character that suggested she would not be manipulated, she agreed to conform to some of the English customs. I enjoyed acquainting myself with her and took to making plans.

“I shall come visit you in Wales,” I assured her. “And when I live in Scotland I will write you all the time. We will organize meetings between the royal houses that will unite our countries in friendship—it will be so grand! There’ll be masques and entertainments and jousting. England has the best jousters in the world!”

Catherine offered a kind smile. “It all sounds so lovely. May it come to pass just as you imagine it.”

Thrilled with the companionship of the princess, I removed to her betrothed that I might tell him of her.

“She is so lovely, Arthur,” I reported the night before their wedding. “I just know you are going to be happy!” I clasped my hands to my heart and scrunched up my shoulders in glee.

Arthur was reading abed in his apartments. He offered a lazy smile, then covered his mouth with his handkerchief as his body was seized by a wracking coughing fit. I took to his side, reaching out to feel his forehead.

“You’re burning up!” I cried. “Oh, Arthur, are you well?”

He nodded. “No worries, sweeting. I’m just caught up in all the excitement and am a bit worn out.”

“You must recover yourself for the wedding night!” I teased. My brother Henry had just informed me of the goings-on between a man and maid. He had heard it from Charles Brandon, who was told by Neddy Howard. It sounded horrid and naughty and a little delightful.

“Remember yourself, Princess!” Arthur commanded, but his tone was good-natured. “Now, you better hurry off to bed!”

I ro. . .