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fists in frustration, wishing just once that I could see a grin of joyous abandon cross that beautiful melancholy face.

    Our Maggie is too young to appreciate anything, but she points her chubby little finger at her beautiful cousin Margaret Tudor, saying “red” in reference to the princess’s lustrous red mane, which seems to be a Tudor trait.
    Thomas and Wills are beside themselves with pleasure as we progress north to Edinburgh and I tell them about all the famous battles that have occurred in this town or that.
    No one looks at me the way they do; no one admires me as much. I am brought to tears by their flagrant adoration; as I had never admired many growing up, I didn’t realize children were capable of it themselves.
    â€œWhen they are given love, it is returned,” says my princess when I comment on this as we sit in Holyrood Abbey, watching Princess Margaret become the Queen of Scots. She squeezes my hand. “No one will ever love you like a child,” she adds.
    I press her hand in turn. A lump swells my throat. I wonder who our Maggie will marry; it seems odd to think the thought of it affects me far more than marrying off the boys. I suppose all fathers feel that way about their little girls.
    I wonder how the king feels. Is it easy giving one’s children up to faraway kingdoms for political expedience?
    King Henry is a practical man, however. I would be surprised if he gave himself over to such fancies. Indeed, I should take care that I don’t become some kind of blithering idiot, crying at weddings like an old grandmother.
    I am fortunate that I do not have to think about alliances just yet; I have years before my Maggie is marriageable.
    She will be at my side a good long time.

    We return to Stoke to pass a happy autumn. The children are looking forward to Christmastide. Maggie is running everywhere and is far too smart for her own good, and Thomas is itching to have a suit of armor of his own. I tell him he must wait a year but am pleased to practice archery with him. He is a fine boy, full of potential and enthusiasm. He will be an asset to any king’s court.
    These are happy days. My princess’s smile is brought on a little easier now. I have stopped waking up at night to check on the children. I enjoy living the life of a country knight.
    My grandmother passes away that year and I admit little grief as her death was the stipulation in allowing the princess and me to live in more comfort. Besides, she was one of the few who lived to a ripe and proper age, so there is no use mourning a full life.
    I save the mourning for the young and there are plenty of young to mourn for.
    That winter Wills takes ill with a fever. He writhes and twists in his little bed, his black eyes wild as they make helpless appeals to the princess and me. We do not know what to do aside from calling the physician, who can only bleed him.
    I hate watching the leeches attach to my little boy’s back; I cry when the butcher of a doctor makes little slits in the tender skin to allow escape of the bad blood that has corrupted my son’s humors.
    It is all to no avail. Wills dies in his mother’s arms. The princess does not scream this time. She bows her head, allowing her tears to mingle with the sweat on our child’s brow.
    I cannot watch this.
    The only thing I can think of to do is chase the inept physician off my property with a horse whip.
    â€œYou did nothing!” I cry as he leaps onto his horse, his eyes wide in terror. “You killed him! You and your leeches killed my son!”
    The physician rides away without looking back and I throw myself in the dust of the road, sobbing. There is nothing to be done. I look at the horse whip in my hand and in a moment of sheer madness bring it across my own neck. It curls about it and strikes my back. There is something strangely satisfying in the sting of this blow and as I watch the blood pour down my neck onto my shirt, I