The Princess of Scotland by Alison Weir

Author:Alison Weir [Alison Weir]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Biographical, Historical, General, Romance, Tudor, History, Europe, Great Britain, Tudor & Elizabethan Era (1485-1603)
ISBN: 9781472271051
Google: 4Zm3DwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B07Z8SZP95
Publisher: Review
Published: 2019-12-31T18:30:00+00:00

It was a blessing that I was now allowed writing materials in the Tower, for I found solace and release in composing poetry. I wondered if Tom was able to enjoy the same privilege. I did not even know where he was, although it was a comfort to know that he was not far away. My constant prayer was that he was being held in agreeable conditions; surely his family would have ensured that? If only I could have seen him. I longed for him so much it was painful.

Surely my parents had heard of my plight by now, even in Perthshire, where mother was living with Harry Stewart? And Father was at the English court; he must be aware of my sad situation. I had been hoping and praying that one or the other of them would have interceded for me. But I knew in my heart I could hope for little from Father. He would do nothing to antagonise King Henry, his benefactor.

My lodgings overlooked a walled garden in which I was permitted to take the air. One winter’s day, I was padding around, my hands in my muffler, when the door in the wall was unlocked and a porter came in with a wheelbarrow. He doffed his hat to me.

‘Morning, my lady. Thomas Shelton at your service,’ he said.

Shelton? I stared at him in surprise.

‘Are you acquainted with Mistress Mary Shelton?’ I asked.

‘I’m her brother,’ he said, grinning.

I stared at him. ‘What are you doing working here?’

‘I need to eat! I am my father’s youngest son and have no estate to look forward to. There is no dishonour in earning your living.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Mary asked me to tell you that Lord Thomas Howard asked that a book of poems be brought to him in the Tower. I was able to help. And I am willing to act as a go-between, if you want to pass a message to him. No one notices me. I come and go at will.’

‘You would do that for me?’ My heart was thumping. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr Shelton!’

As I ran upstairs, I thought quickly. I would send Tom some verses, anonymously, so that, if he was caught with them, he could say he had written them himself. In poetry, I could express myself with more feeling than in a letter.

I sat down, trying to calm myself, and took up my pen, while Mr Shelton waited below, tidying the garden. The words flowed from me.

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