The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [244]
It was a girl, in any case. When he heard of her birth, he said, “Is it even so? The Stuarts began with a lass, and they shall end with a lass.” Then he turned his face to the wall, and said, “The de‘il take it. The de’il take it,” and died. Jamie was thirty-one years old. He left a week-old baby girl, christened Mary, called Queen of Scots, as his heir.
CXVII
What a windfall! What extraordinary fortune! I could scarce credit it, other than that at long last I enjoyed God’s favour and basked in His rewards!
Scotland was mine, and for the price of a border skirmish! Sir Wharton and his three thousand men, with no elaborate war machinery, no field provisions, had delivered Scotland squarely into my hands, as if by divine edict.
I was suzerain of Scotland. I was grand-uncle of its infant Queen. I would marry her to my Edward. It was perfect; it was all part of a Divine Plan, I could see it now. Before, it had all been masked in murkiness, and I had floundered like a man in a mist, but still trying to discern the will of God, still trying to follow it when I received no external sighting, relying only on the steerings of my conscience. Now I had my reward, now all the mists were cleared away, and I had steered true. I found myself in a marvellous place.
Scotland and England would be one. Edward would be Emperor of Great Britain: ruler of Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England. I, who as a child had had to take refuge in the Tower against a rebellion by Cornishmen—I would leave my son a throne that incorporated three other realms. In one generation the Tudors had gone from local kings to emperors. Because of me.
Scotland was mine! Scotland was mine! I would be a kind and gentle husband to her, as I had been to all my wives. I would honour her and treat her with respect. No mistreatment of the prisoners of war, and no (public) gloating over King Jamie’s death. Instead, I gave the Protestant-leaning Border noblemen we had taken as prisoners instructions to “woo” the Lowland and Highland Scots upon their release, to convince them their future lay with England. They were to return to Edinburgh and act as our agents there.
As for the infant Queen: I issued an order (as her uncle and guardian) that we would draw up a treaty at Greenwich, arranging for her marriage to Edward.
Things always come round a second time; history never exactly repeats herself, but sets up the pieces of the game the same way. In 1286, the Scottish King Alexander had died, leaving his six-year-old granddaughter, “the Maid of Norway,” as his heir. King Edward I of England, who already claimed overlordship of Scotland, immediately moved to have the Maid Margaret betrothed to his son Edward. But the girl had died travelling between Norway and Scotland, and thus the peaceful and natural union of the two countries was averted. But this time there would be no death, this time all “would go merri steerrievances against the King of France, and my tentative battle strategy are all outlined within this document.” I handed him a tightly rolled parchment, which I had written myself, past midnight, and which no man had read or witnessed—nay, not even Will. “I have sealed it well, on both ends, and secured the outer case. Tell Charles to ascertain that the seals are unbroken. I know that you will guard it well en route, and no spies will glimpse its contents.”
“Cromwell is dead, Your Majesty,” Chapuys’s dry little voice said. In old age he resembled a scorpion: brittle, desiccated, but still dangerous.
Pity. I could have used Cromwell now; if not the scoundrel himself, at least his methods. Under my direction, Cromwell’s leftover spies were quite slipshod and inefficient. I lacked their master’s diabolical genius. “Aye. And so letters are safe again.” I laughed.
“Is this farewell?” he asked, quite simply.
“Possibly,” I said. The Emperor might decide not to send him back to England. It was likely a new ambassador would return with