Praise for The Forgotten Queen
In The Forgotten Queen, D. L. Bogdan has given us a thoroughly entertaining novel that vividly captures the turmoil, tensions, passions and intrigue of this period of Tudor and Stewart history. The narrator is Henry VIIIs older sister, Margaret, a feisty, endearing heroine, tested by three tumultuous marriages. Here, in this richly woven tale, Bogdans formidable queen takes her place in history, and not only as the grandmother of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Sandra Worth, author of Pale Rose of England
Books by D. L. Bogdan
SECRETS OF THE TUDOR COURT
RIVALS IN THE TUDOR COURT
THE SUMERTON WOMEN
THE FORGOTTEN QUEEN
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The F ORGOTTEN Q UEEN
D. L. BOGDAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Dedicated in loving memory of another sassy redhead:
my mother-in-law, Karen Ann Barton
Acknowledgments
As always, I must first thank my wonderful agent, Elizabeth Pomada, who has worked so hard to help keep making my dreams of living as a working writer come true. I must also thank my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his patience, encouragement, and his ability to meet challenges with tireless grace, along with Paula Reedy and the rest of the magnificent team at Kensington Publishing. A big thanks to Vida Engstrand, my publicist, who is such a joy to work with. I also want to thank the team at the National Archives of Scotland in Edinburgh for their devoted correspondence as I researched this novel. To the authors who became mentors, the bloggers and reviewers who became huge sources of support (you all know who you are!), and the readers who keep me working, my deepest, most heartfelt thanks. I must thank my favorite beta reader, my mother, Cindy Bogdan, who was always up for a late-night phone call as I read her my latest scenes. Not least of all, I must thank my son Quinn for sharing his life and mother with so many historical figures. He knows far more about the Tudors and Stewarts than any twelve-year-old should! To my stepchildren Kristina, Ashley, and Cody (all lucky enough to have grown up and left home, thus avoiding the day-to-day travails of the latest historical obsession), thank you for supporting, respecting, and understanding my work; it means a great deal. And finally, thank you to the love of my life, my best friend, biggest encourager, and shameless promoter: my husband, Kim. I love you, my forever Chief and anchor.
PROLOGUE
The Flames of Sheen
I t 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 kings 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.
The Wilted Rose
T here 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 wouldnt 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 archbishops 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 archbishops 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 grandmothers 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 Grandmothers hair shirt, I confessed. I wasnt trying to be bad that time. Honest. I just thought to give her skin a rest
