The Other Henry VIII

The Glass Box

13 April 1531
Margaret sat on the side of her bed.
She had been sitting there for quite some time, and would probably have continued to do so if Isabel had not come in to check on her.
What seemed like hours ago, she had watched the sun rise over the distant treetops, illuminating them in a soft ethereal glow. Now it hung in the pale blue sky, unobscured by clouds, and the world was wide awake below.

Queens and princesses, she had always been told, were the happiest of women. Her mother had once pulled her onto her lap, aged six, and whispered a promise that she would never want for anything. Margaret remembered the glossy pearls on her mother's gable hood, how they had gleamed as brightly as the blue eyes gazing down at her. The promise had been half-kept — she had never wanted for anything as long as her mother had lived. But even Queen Elizabeth of York could not have predicted how her daughter's life would unfold. It would not be the life of a fairy-tale princess, but it would be the life of a real one.

The money, the jewels, the gowns — they were not worth it. They were not worth living behind a pane of glass, always remote, always isolated, always just out of reach; but always watched and scrutinised as well. Margaret had felt this way since she was old enough to think for herself. She had been born into the glass box, and there was no way out for her but death. Other women, though, were yet to learn this. The money, the jewels, the gowns — that was all they saw. They did not understand what they would have to give up until it was too late.

Lady Anne was one of these women. Her youth and beauty, her charm and cunning, had secured her a place in King's heart. Now she had basked in his adulation for nearly five years, she had obtained the money, the jewels, the gowns. But she had not yet lived in the glass box for long enough to realise that the door had shut behind her. For what would become of her if King Francis died? Or when her youth had gone and her beauty faded? The world was not kind to unwed women, much less those who had spent their lives in bed with a married man. Half of court feared her, granted, but the other half bitterly resented her and her influence over the King. The very day, the very moment she fell from grace, she would have dozens of powerful nobles scrambling to push her down even further. And on that day, the eyes would still be watching. They would not stop watching until her body lay buried beneath the ground.

But for now, she was untouchable; or so she believed. Margaret had learned the hard way that no-one was untouchable, no matter how wealthy or close to the throne they were. One just had to be patient.

As she observed her husband and his mistress mount their horses outside the stables below, Margaret recalled a blustery February week, when the pair had experienced their fiercest quarrel — according to Isabel — in two years. Francis had been sullen and cantankerous for several days, even refusing to attend matters of business, and the whole court had seen yet again that Lady Anne truly held the reins of France. It was Francis' spiteful desire to chastise her that had brought about the predicament in which Margaret now found herself.

"My Lady?" She had never heard Isabel sound so anxious. "The hens want to know why you have not come out for breakfast."
'The hens' was how they referred to the other ladies-in-waiting, the ones who reported everything they saw to Lady Anne. Margaret wondered if they were listening in at that very moment. She would not put it past them. Not one trusted Isabel, who, despite being at the French court for longer than any of them, was still considered an English spy. She could not risk saying too much, just in case.

"Sit down," she whispered, her gaze not leaving the window. Lady Anne and Francis had ridden out, leaving a trail of dust in their wake. When she felt the bed sink slightly beside her, Margaret reached out, slipped her hand into that of her friend's, and gently guided it to her stomach.
"How long?" asked Isabel.
"Two months. I've suspected it for a while now."
"But is this not good news?"
"I'm nearing forty, Isabel. It almost killed me last time and now it certainly will."
"Not if you fight," she argued.