The Other Henry VIII

Foreign Shores

17 November 1530
The departure of Princess Margaret was a brief, dull affair. Though there was not a cloud to be seen in the sky, the icy air bit at their cheeks and hands, and threatened the coming of winter. The feast the previous evening had served as a farewell for both the King's sister and his wife, who was entering confinement that very morning. There was no time for pleasantries now; it did not take a genius to deduce that everyone was aching to go back inside and warm themselves by a fire.

Princess Elizabeth could not refrain from rubbing her hands together. She detested standing still for more than a minute at a time, much less in the freezing cold. Clara shot her a covert look and shook her head subtly, at which Lizzie ceased her fidgeting and tucked her hands further into her fur-trimmed sleeves. She tried to copy her elder sister's posture: lifted chin; firm, unwavering gaze; shoulders set back; everything perfectly still. For once, she hoped that no-one was paying her any attention. It felt glorious to be admired everywhere she went, but not when she was scrabbling around like a tipsy serving wench.

She was so focused on trying to strike the right pose that she missed most of the words exchanged between her father and aunt. The two were embracing now — perhaps that meant they had finished? The restlessness within her was hankering to be released.
"And remember," said Leia, "If you have need of an ally over there, my sister Isabel will always be happy to oblige. She may have lived at Francis' court for over half her life, but she is not so French that she would deny the companionship of an English princess."

Lizzie repressed a grin. She had always longed to visit the courts of Europe and understand what the nobles meant by 'very French' or 'typically Spanish'. Languages were one of the few lessons she actually paid attention to, for it would be very bad form if she arrived in France to meet her future husband and could not speak a word of French. How dreadfully unlucky Clara had been; Scotland did not sound half so exotic and glamorous as mainland Europe.
Her aunt stepped into the carriage, gave one last wan smile, and then she was off, moving further and further away until she was no bigger than Lizzie's fingernail. Then a black speck against the green landscape surrounding them, then nothing at all. Princess Margaret had left Richmond Palace for what was likely the final time.

Slowly, the group began to shuffle inside, eyes downcast. Why were they all so morose? Lizzie wondered. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, surely? And yet, here they were — her father, Leia, Clara, the courtiers who had felt the need to prove their loyalties — behaving as if a funeral had occurred instead. She knew that something was brewing at court; nobles exchanged furtive glances in the halls and whispered discreetly to one another when they thought no-one was watching. The most peculiar part, though Lizzie, was the fact that her sister seemed to be caught up in everything. Was the unrest so very bad that even a royal match with France was met with grim faces and despondent sighs?

Lizzie struggled valiantly to suppress those thoughts. She disliked trying to wrap her head around her father's intricate web of politics. It always made her realise just how little control she really had over her own life. Even her father, the King, had no mind of his own. Most of his decisions were heavily influenced by his courtiers and advisers, men who he was supposed to trust, then he went and did the same to his own children. The thought of it made Lizzie feel sick. That was why she pretended not to understand. Why she put on a show of being endlessly cheerful and naive, galloping about the palace with her friends and asking innocent questions to which she already knew the answers. It tricked her mind, as well as others', into believing that she was not part of all the lies and manipulation. That she was the outlier, not the perfect example.

She placed a quivering hand on the polished oak banister and began to climb the stairs back to her lessons. It was Spanish, one of her favourites, but even so she was reluctant. In the hall below, her father bowed courteously to his wife, kissed her hand, and whispered something inaudible in her ear. They would not see one another for two months, thought Lizzie sadly, though her father was known to break the rules of confinement when the fancy took him.