Such attire was appropriate for a high court function, a celebration. The ludicrousness of his attire was made even greater by a joyless, sour face.
“I am Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower,” he said tonelessly. “You are here by express command of His Majesty.”
“How can that be?” I asked.
Sir William stepped closer still and I saw the deep wrinkles of exhaustion creasing his face. “After the disturbance at Smithfield, a messenger rode to Greenwich, where the king and queen are in residence,” he said. “The king was apprised of the situation, and it was his pleasure that you, your father, and the third party involved be brought to the Tower pending a complete and thorough investigation.”
“Is my father here now, in the Tower?” I asked. “What is his condition?”
Sir William did not answer. Instead, he reached out and, with a long velvet-clad arm, pointed at the dark archway.
“It is time to go inside now, Mistress Stafford,” he said.
They waited to see what I would do, the constable and the lieutenant. I’d heard stories of prisoners dragged screaming into the Tower. I would not become one of them.
I bowed and turned toward the archway, and, with yeomen warders marching in front of me and the rest of the men behind, I entered the Tower of London.
5
Stafford Castle, April 1527
I don’t want to be married.”
Margaret was seventeen, and I was sixteen. It was late at night, in my bedchamber. We were lying next to each other in bed, in our nightclothes, huddled together for warmth. It was spring, but my room was cold. It was forbidden to light a fire at night after Easter, one of the many economies we practiced at Stafford Castle.
I pulled a blanket higher, up to our chins, as I searched for the right thing to say. I’d been pained to hear of Margaret’s marriage plans earlier that day, because it meant I would see even less of her, but it was selfish to say as much. Now that she’d confessed she didn’t even want to be a wife, I was at a loss.
Something came to me.
“I don’t want to be maid of honor to the queen,” I said.
Margaret shook her head. “I can’t blame you for that.”
Our respective fates had been discussed at dinner that day, in the great hall. It was a room rarely used for meals anymore, but an effort was made because of the occasion. My cousin Elizabeth, the Duchess of Norfolk, had come to visit for a fortnight, without her husband, of course. She’d brought not only her favorite companion, Margaret, but her eight-year-old daughter, Mary, and, oddly, her brother-in-law, Charles Howard. I had never much liked Elizabeth, who was older than me and quite haughty, and I had no use for any Howard, but this visit was most welcome for bringing Margaret back to me.
The Staffords and the Howards had once been the two greatest ducal families in England. The marriage of Thomas Howard, heir to the dukedom of Norfolk, to Elizabeth, the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, was a gloriousmatch. Her fiancé was much older, and a widower, but he was a rising man of the court, a commander on the battlefields of France, Scotland, and Ireland. She took his hand and promised God to honor and obey him.
What a blessing she could not see into her future, see the execution of her father, the ruin of the Stafford family, and the wretchedness of her marriage.
After the Duke of Buckingham was put to death in 1521, his estates, all of his castles and lands and income, were seized by the king, with one exception: Stafford Castle, the family seat, built on a hill in the reign of William the Conqueror. I had lived there most of my life. The duke’s oldest son, my cousin Henry, was permitted to hold it and draw income from the land surrounding. He settled in the crumbling castle with his family, joined by my father, mother, and myself. The rest of the Stafford clan, the cousins and aunts and uncles, dispersed, including Margaret. Elizabeth insisted that Margaret come live
“I am Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower,” he said tonelessly. “You are here by express command of His Majesty.”
“How can that be?” I asked.
Sir William stepped closer still and I saw the deep wrinkles of exhaustion creasing his face. “After the disturbance at Smithfield, a messenger rode to Greenwich, where the king and queen are in residence,” he said. “The king was apprised of the situation, and it was his pleasure that you, your father, and the third party involved be brought to the Tower pending a complete and thorough investigation.”
“Is my father here now, in the Tower?” I asked. “What is his condition?”
Sir William did not answer. Instead, he reached out and, with a long velvet-clad arm, pointed at the dark archway.
“It is time to go inside now, Mistress Stafford,” he said.
They waited to see what I would do, the constable and the lieutenant. I’d heard stories of prisoners dragged screaming into the Tower. I would not become one of them.
I bowed and turned toward the archway, and, with yeomen warders marching in front of me and the rest of the men behind, I entered the Tower of London.
5
Stafford Castle, April 1527
I don’t want to be married.”
Margaret was seventeen, and I was sixteen. It was late at night, in my bedchamber. We were lying next to each other in bed, in our nightclothes, huddled together for warmth. It was spring, but my room was cold. It was forbidden to light a fire at night after Easter, one of the many economies we practiced at Stafford Castle.
I pulled a blanket higher, up to our chins, as I searched for the right thing to say. I’d been pained to hear of Margaret’s marriage plans earlier that day, because it meant I would see even less of her, but it was selfish to say as much. Now that she’d confessed she didn’t even want to be a wife, I was at a loss.
Something came to me.
“I don’t want to be maid of honor to the queen,” I said.
Margaret shook her head. “I can’t blame you for that.”
Our respective fates had been discussed at dinner that day, in the great hall. It was a room rarely used for meals anymore, but an effort was made because of the occasion. My cousin Elizabeth, the Duchess of Norfolk, had come to visit for a fortnight, without her husband, of course. She’d brought not only her favorite companion, Margaret, but her eight-year-old daughter, Mary, and, oddly, her brother-in-law, Charles Howard. I had never much liked Elizabeth, who was older than me and quite haughty, and I had no use for any Howard, but this visit was most welcome for bringing Margaret back to me.
The Staffords and the Howards had once been the two greatest ducal families in England. The marriage of Thomas Howard, heir to the dukedom of Norfolk, to Elizabeth, the daughter of the Duke of Buckingham, was a gloriousmatch. Her fiancé was much older, and a widower, but he was a rising man of the court, a commander on the battlefields of France, Scotland, and Ireland. She took his hand and promised God to honor and obey him.
What a blessing she could not see into her future, see the execution of her father, the ruin of the Stafford family, and the wretchedness of her marriage.
After the Duke of Buckingham was put to death in 1521, his estates, all of his castles and lands and income, were seized by the king, with one exception: Stafford Castle, the family seat, built on a hill in the reign of William the Conqueror. I had lived there most of my life. The duke’s oldest son, my cousin Henry, was permitted to hold it and draw income from the land surrounding. He settled in the crumbling castle with his family, joined by my father, mother, and myself. The rest of the Stafford clan, the cousins and aunts and uncles, dispersed, including Margaret. Elizabeth insisted that Margaret come live
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