Poor Prince Hal
On June 28, 1491, in Greenwich Palace in London, Elizabeth of York presented her husband, Henry VII, with a son. Young Henry Tudor was the second male child born to the royal couple. Their firstborn son, Arthur, was the heir to the throne, and Henry, the younger son, was expected to join the church when he came of age.
Several months after that royal birth, in the county of Gloucestershire, another child was born, a girl. Fair-haired baby Margaret was the daughter of a wealthy landowner in Tewkesbury. Like Henry's, her life was to run on a predetermined course. It had been decided long before Margaret took her first breath that, in accordance with the long-held custom of primogeniture, the eldest son of the family would inherit the lands, the oldest daughter would marry the firstborn son of the family's neighbor to the west and any subsequent children—of which Margaret was one—would become nuns or priests.
Thus, Henry and Margaret had both been destined at birth to become servants of God and the Holy Catholic Church. However, a chance meeting between these two young people would change not only their own lives but also the history of Britain.
* * *
While young Henry was busy with his studies, his older brother Arthur, the Prince of Wales, took his first step toward securing his birthright. On November 14, 1501, he married Catherine of Aragon, daughter of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain. Arthur, however, was not the strong, robust lad that his younger brother was. On April 2, 1502, six months short of his sixteenth birthday, Arthur died of an unknown illness, leaving eleven-year-old Henry next in line for the throne.
With Arthur gone, King Henry VII faced the problem of deciding what to do about his son's young widow. Since he wanted to maintain the alliance between England and Spain—not to mention the miserly ruler wanted to hold on to Catherine's substantial dowry—the king proposed a marriage between Prince Henry and his older brother's widow. While negotiations for the proposed union dragged on and there were times when it appeared no such wedding would take place, the prince grew into a man, one with an appreciation for a pretty face.
It was an autumn day when the prince was hunting with friends, shortly after his sixteenth birthday, that he met Margaret. Henry had been enjoying the day far too much to call an end to it. When the darkness of night drew near, he decided not to return to his castle but to spend the night at the manor house that belonged to Margaret's father.
The girl's mother burst into her daughter's room, bristling with excitement.
"Quick, Margaret, don your finest gown and instruct your servant to put up your hair. When you're done, come to my room. I'll let you wear my emeralds at dinner."
"What's all the fuss about?" her daughter asked. "Don't tell me the bishop is expected."
"I wouldn't bring out my emeralds for the bishop. No. Prince Henry is downstairs. He's asked your father if he can rest here for the night."
"Henry Tudor is here?"
"Yes, and your father has ordered the cooks to prepare a late-night supper. Now hurry up and get dressed. You'll not be presented to His Highness looking like that!"
It is doubtful Henry appreciated the elegance of her gown or the brilliance of her mother's jewels, nor is it likely he was aware of the delicious meal prepared for him on such short notice. What Henry did observe were Margaret's soft, golden curls; her flawless, cream-colored complexion; her almond-shaped, sapphire blue eyes; and her shapely curves. The prince was so taken by her feminine charms that he sat at her side during the meal.
"You are quite beautiful, Margaret," he whispered in her ear. "I fear all the ladies at court will envy you the moment they lay eyes on you."
"But I'll never go to court, Your Majesty," Margaret said with a maidenly blush. "In two months, I'll be sixteen, and I'm to be sent to a convent where I'll take my vows."
Henry fell silent for several minutes and then spoke earnestly.
"Honestly, I don't know which would be worse: to lock such beauty as yours away behind convent walls or to see it wasted on some low-born lout. No," he declared with a hearty laugh. "I see now that I shall have to step in and save you. I'll speak to your parents tomorrow. I will give them no choice but to send you to court."
* * *
When Margaret arrived at Greenwich, Henry was impatiently waiting for her. Although he had already enjoyed many romantic encounters, Margaret was an innocent maiden. But the young Prince Hal quickly introduced her to a wealth of new experiences. It soon became apparent to everyone at court that she was Henry's favorite.
The young girl fell deeply and passionately in love with the strong, athletic prince and basked in his attention. A novice to matters of the heart, Margaret did not know how fleeting an emotion love could be. She naively and foolishly believed that by sharing Henry's bed, she would naturally share his life and his future. She did not realize that their affair was only a passing fancy.
In 1509, Henry VII died, passing the crown and throne of England on to his son. Margaret was breathless with anticipation as she awaited Henry's next visit. Would he propose to her right away, or would he wait until after his coronation? She paced the floor expectantly, imagining how wonderful it would be once she became queen. However, Henry did not come that day or the next; and when he did arrive three days later, he was no longer the dashing, romantic suitor she had known.
"I think it's best you return to Gloucestershire," he announced shortly after entering her apartments.
"For how long?"
"Permanently."
"What?" Margaret cried with disbelief. "But why? Have I done something to displease you?"
"I'm going to marry Catherine, and I don't think your presence at court would be appropriate."
Margaret was devastated. It was as though a sword had pierced her heart.
"Why?" she asked, staring at him imploringly with her magnetic blue eyes.
"Because my father betrothed me to her after Arthur died."
"Your father is dead. No one will hold you to that agreement. Catherine is already twenty-three years old, and you're only seventeen. Besides, she was your brother's wife. The church would consider such a marriage incestuous."
"Not so. Arthur was already ill when he married Catherine, and their marriage was never consummated. The pope has granted a special dispensation that will allow us to marry."
"And what about me? I thought you loved me."
"I do," Henry assured her, "but I could never marry you. Surely you know that. I must marry a highborn girl who will provide me with an heir. And beautiful though you are, my dear, you're not of royal blood."
Margaret fell to her knees in tears, begging her lover not to abandon her, but Henry's mind was already made up. On June 11, he married Catherine of Aragon.
The heartbroken Margaret left London, but she did not return to Gloucestershire. She would neither enter a convent nor live with her parents until they could arrange a suitable marriage for her. Instead, she sold the jewels and gifts that Henry had given her, and with that money, she sailed to Ireland. Disenchanted with love, she then lost faith in the church and embraced an old Celtic religion, one that offered her the knowledge she would need to get revenge on the man who had shattered her heart: the mighty King of England, Henry VIII.
* * *
When Margaret returned to Britain several years later, she was more beautiful than ever, but the sapphire eyes that once sparkled with happiness and love were now a frosty, cold blue, devoid of all tender feeling. Likewise, her heart was completely lacking in warmth. All the finer, softer emotions that humans sometimes possess were swept from her being when Henry cast her aside.
At Christmastime, the doors to Greenwich Palace were thrown open wide, and lavish parties were held at court. Henry, who had been eating and drinking for several hours, exhausted himself dancing with the pretty young girls at court. When he stepped out into the garden to cool off in the night air, he saw a woman dressed in black standing in the shadows.
"Who is it that seeks me out in the darkness of night?" Henry asked jovially, thinking one of the court beauties sought a rendezvous with him.
"What? Have you forgotten me already, Your Majesty?"
The voice sounded familiar, but Henry had never heard the hardness that now eclipsed the former sweetness. Then Margaret stepped out of the shadows. When Henry saw her, he felt a sudden rekindling of the old passion.
"Well, Margaret, I see you didn't join the convent after all. Good! A woman like you would never be suited to a nun's life."
Margaret's look of pure hatred froze the king in his tracks.
"Truthfully, Your Majesty, I have devoted the last several years to religion but not Catholicism. I find the old faith much more to my liking. I am a student of the black arts."
"Black arts—what nonsense you speak!" Henry laughed, but his bravado masked a growing sense of unease.
"Yes, I joined a coven of witches, and I've learned much from them."
"Silence," he ordered. "Any more talk of witchcraft and I'll have you arrested."
Now it was Margaret's turn to laugh.
"Make no mistake about it. I'm not a simple, harmless peasant to be tortured and sent to the gallows. I have powers to protect myself from your church and from those who would judge me. I fear no man: be he bishop or king. In fact, it is you who are in danger, not I."
Henry glanced at the garden's shadows nervously. Where were his guards? Margaret smiled at his apprehension.
"Don't worry, there's no assassin hiding in the bushes. I hate you, but I have no desire to see you dead—not yet anyway."
Henry was truly shocked. He had engaged in many sexual dalliances, but to his knowledge, none of the ladies involved bore him any ill will afterward. Why then was Margaret so angry?
"On the contrary, I hope you live a long life, for I have put a curse on you: because you broke my heart when you married Catherine to beget an heir, you will never be happy in marriage, and no son of yours will ever rule England."
"Enough with you and your talk of curses. Catherine and I have a good marriage, and although she's had a few unsuccessful pregnancies, we are both still young and healthy. Why, she's pregnant right now, and my physician predicts this child will be a boy."
"Catherine will never give you a son. I promise you that."
Henry was angry and shouted for a guard. Margaret did not run, nor did she show any sign of fear. A tear—the last she would ever shed—slid down her cheek. She raised her hand to her face and brushed it away.
"I loved you, Henry."
There was little doubt her declaration appealed to his masculine ego as much as her next words aroused his anger.
"You will never know a genuine love again. Although there will be many amorous conquests in your life, you will know nothing but disappointment, treachery and heartbreak—all the gifts you once gave to me."
The guards entered the garden and rushed forward to apprehend the woman who had dared threaten the king, but Margaret vanished before they could lay hands on her.
* * *
In 1516, after suffering four miscarriages, Queen Catherine finally gave birth to a healthy child—a girl—whom the royal couple named Mary. As Henry held the tiny infant in his arms, he remembered Margaret's curse. He looked down at his royal offspring with paternal pride, but he silently swore that his next child would be a boy. Catherine, however, would have no son that lived. Despite nine pregnancies, all she would have to show for her pain would be one daughter.
Meanwhile, Henry looked with romantic interest to his wife's ladies-in-waiting. For several years he had carried on an affair with Elizabeth Blount, who bore him a son out of wedlock. Then in 1526, Henry's eyes turned to another of his wife's ladies, who was a sister of his former paramour, Mary Boleyn. Unlike her sister, Anne Boleyn was not content to be a mere mistress. She rebuffed all the king's advances, thus making him all the more determined to pursue and win her. Anne would not submit, regardless of how strenuously the king pushed his suit. Finally, Henry promised to marry her, but Catherine, his legal wife in the eyes of the church, stood between Anne and the crown.
Henry again appealed to the Pope, this time seeking an annulment of his marriage. When the Pope refused, Henry split with Rome and declared himself the head of the church in England. Then in 1532, Anne Boleyn became pregnant. Henry, who wanted a legal heir and not another illegitimate offspring, married his second wife on January 25, 1533.
On August 26, the king paced the hallway outside his wife's bedchambers. The queen was in labor, and Henry was eagerly awaiting the birth of a son. Like her predecessor, however, Anne gave birth to a girl, Elizabeth. Henry tried to hide his disappointment in the child's sex.
"The next one will be a boy," his wife assured him.
In the two years that followed, Anne had two miscarriages—both of them boys. The queen would not be given another chance to produce an heir, for the king's eye turned to one of her ladies-in-waiting, Jane Seymour.
To pave the way for the king's marriage to Jane, Anne was charged with adultery, incest and plotting to murder the king. It was rumored that during her marriage to Henry, she had several affairs, including an incestuous one with her brother, George. Five men were arrested, and under torture one of them admitted—truthfully or not—to having been intimate with the queen. Anne was arrested, tried and sentenced to death. On May 19, 1536, Queen Anne Boleyn was removed from her cell in the Tower of London and taken out onto the Tower Green where a swordsman cut off her head on the block.
The same day that Anne was executed, Henry proposed to Jane Seymour, and ten days later they were married. The king's third wife was quite different from his second. Where Anne had been dark, Jane was fair. Anne had been outspoken and often sharp-tongued, whereas Jane was quiet, shy and subservient. There was something about Jane that reminded him of Margaret when she was younger, although Henry had to admit that his new queen was not nearly as beautiful as his former lover.
The king often thought about Margaret, especially about their last meeting. He wondered if she had actually been at Greenwich that Christmastime. After all, no one had seen her come or go, and only he saw or spoke to her. Perhaps she had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination, a manifestation of his growing regret for marrying Catherine. This belief was preferable to the idea that Margaret had become a witch and had cast a spell on him.
On October 12, 1537, Jane Seymour gave birth to a son, Edward: the heir Henry had so desperately sought. Twelve days later, however, Jane died of childbed fever. Henry mourned her death for more than two years.
With the queen gone, the king's ambassadors began searching the courts of Europe for Henry's next wife. Understandably, not many women were anxious to wed a man who had already divorced one wife and beheaded another.
In December of 1539, twenty-four-year-old Anne of Cleves arrived in England. She and Henry were married by proxy but had never actually seen one another. When the forty-eight-year-old King of England finally came face to face with his new bride on New Year's Day, he was not at all pleased with what he saw. Having always enjoyed the company of beautiful women, he found his German-born queen exceedingly unattractive, so much so that he could not bear to be with her.
Soon Henry's roving eye fell on the Duke of Norfolk's niece, Catherine Howard, who was a cousin of Mary and Anne Boleyn. Enamored with the beautiful, young Catherine, the king decided it was time to rid himself of Anne of Cleves. Unlike his first wife, his current queen, who bore her husband no great love, readily agreed to a legal separation. On July 13, 1540, Henry's fourth marriage was dissolved by Parliament, and on July 28 Henry wed Catherine Howard.
Unfortunately, just as Henry had not been attracted to his plain German wife, neither was the pretty eighteen-year-old Catherine overjoyed to embrace her aging, obese bridegroom. Moreover, Catherine was a hot-blooded young woman who was rumored to have had several amorous affairs both before and after her royal wedding.
It was soon discovered that Catherine had entered into a precontract to marry another man, a fact that put the legality of her marriage to Henry in question. When the king learned of her dubious past as well as her alleged current affair with a man named Thomas Culpepper, he was furious. As had been the case with her cousin Anne Boleyn, Queen Catherine was taken to the Tower of London. On February 13, 1542, she, too, was beheaded.
After the execution of his fifth wife, Henry again let his roving eye wander. On July 12, 1543, he married Catherine Parr, a woman in her early thirties, who was twice widowed and childless. To the aging king, Catherine was a perfect nursemaid and companion as well as an excellent stepmother to his three children. Regrettably, Henry's new wife had very definite ideas on theology, ones dangerously in opposition to those of her husband. The king's advisors soon spoke against her reformist beliefs, and Henry issued a warrant for her arrest. Clever Catherine, however, was able to talk her way out of harm by appealing to her husband's ego.
Thus, the queen's life had been spared, but Henry's health began to decline.
* * *
In December 1546, Queen Catherine went to Greenwich Palace accompanied by the king's daughters, Mary and Elizabeth. Henry remained in his bed chamber, unable to partake in the joyous holiday celebrations. As he lay in his great bed half asleep, servants tiptoed in and out of the room, leaving him food and drink, removing his dirty dishes and emptying his chamber pot. On the last night of the year, one dark-clad servant entered and stood quietly by his bedside.
"Just take out my tray and leave me be, woman," the ailing king growled. "Can't you see I'm trying to rest?"
"I've come to make sure that you'll rest no more, Hal."
Henry opened his eyes and looked closely at his visitor. It was Margaret. She was only a few months younger than he, yet she looked no older than his wife, Catherine. Apparently, time had been much kinder to her than it had been to him.
"What do you want? To cast another of your foolish spells?"
"No. One was quite enough. I'm here to enjoy my triumph over you."
"What nonsense you speak! Your curse was a failure. I've known the love of many women, and I've got my heir to the throne."
"Not one of your many mistresses nor any of your six wives truly loved you, Henry. If you had not been king, do you think any one of them would have welcomed your attentions as I once did?"
"My first wife, Catherine ...."
"... married you because she considered it her duty."
"Anne ...."
"... was an ambitious young woman who wanted to be queen."
"Jane ...."
"... was too frightened to say 'no' to you."
"That horse-faced mare of Cleves ...."
"... was quite happy to agree to an annulment. Or had you forgotten that? And what about your next wife? Did you honestly think a young girl of eighteen would find happiness in the arms of a fat, gout-ridden old fool who was almost old enough to be her grandfather?"
Margaret's cruel remarks struck at Henry where he was most vulnerable. She continued, showing him no mercy.
"And what of your children, Henry? What of your long-awaited heir, Prince Edward? Would you like to know what the future holds for him? He will die in his fifteenth year. Your daughter, Mary, will rule England for a handful of turbulent years, during which time she will eventually earn the name 'Bloody Mary' for all the blood spilled during her reign. Then she will die without issue, and Elizabeth will be placed on the throne. Although she will be a great queen, she will never marry, and upon her death, the Tudors will cease to rule England."
"And I'm supposed to believe all this nonsense because you say it is so."
"I have the sight."
"Another black art you acquired in Ireland?" Henry sneered. "Then if what you say is true—and I'm not saying that I believe you—but if it is true, you've got your revenge, and I salute you. Now go and leave me in peace."
"No, my old love. Neither you nor I shall ever rest in peace. I came here tonight not just to tell you about the future but also to confess a secret of the past. It is true that I have become quite adept at the black arts, but this knowledge came at a terrible price. My own soul was not payment enough for ruining the King of England. If I wanted to rob you of an heir, I had to sacrifice my own child."
"Now what are you rambling on about?"
"My son, Henry—our son—the child I was carrying when you put me out and married Catherine."
Henry's face turned deathly pale at her admission.
"You married Catherine who could produce only one girl in nine pregnancies. Had you chosen me, I would have provided you with the heir you so desperately sought. But you didn't. And in my grief and anger, I compacted with the Devil to destroy your happiness and your line of succession. Not only did I sign away my immortal soul, but I also took a dagger and ended the life of your son to appease my Dark Lord."
Henry lay back on his pillows, gasping for breath. A son! And this witch had killed him! He had doted on Edward, his heir, and had always been generous to his illegitimate son, even going so far as to name him Duke of Richmond. Alas, the poor lad died at the age of seventeen, and Margaret predicted Edward would die in his fifteenth year.
"You unnatural woman," he cried. "You would murder an innocent child!"
"And not only my own baby," Margaret laughed evilly. "How many of the eight children Catherine lost were boys? And what of the two sons Anne lost? It was only the spell I cast on the pregnant Jane that somehow went awry—she died instead of Edward."
Henry had heard enough.
"I should have let your parents lock you away in a convent as they'd planned. You are evil!"
"I am what you made me."
Margaret leaned over and kissed the king on the cheek.
"Goodbye, Henry. I'll see you soon—in hell."
Again, Margaret vanished.
Henry shook his head in denial.
"I must have been dreaming," he said, a statement born of a desperate hope rather than of conviction.
* * *
The queen left Greenwich Palace in January and returned to London, but she would not make it home in time to say farewell to her husband, who died on January 28, 1527. With Henry gone, Catherine Parr was free to marry the man she had loved for many years, Thomas Seymour, the brother of Henry's third wife, Jane.
Margaret's predictions eventually proved to be true. Henry's three children—Edward, Mary and Elizabeth—all ruled England, but not one of them left an heir behind to continue the Tudor line. When Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, the crown passed to a Stewart.
A very old woman, her once blond hair long gone white with age, smiled as James VI ascended to the throne. Her revenge complete at last, Margaret closed her sapphire blue eyes for the last time.
"Good night already, sweet prince!"
