So the queen takes her place, alone at the head of all her ladies, a small stocky figure richly dressed, with a kind, square face crunched up with worry. And wait! Here is my mother, dripping with jewels, always in a brocade gown of green (which declares “À Tudor” to the deafest of loyalists). She is next in line for the throne after Elizabeth—and since Elizabeth is not here, she should be hard on the queen’s heels. But wait!—and nobody dares to form a procession until these first places are organized—last in, at an ungainly gallop, comes Lady Margaret Douglas, formerly known as the bastard of Margaret Queen of Scots and her bigamous husband. But only formerly known, because she is now legitimate—Queen Mary has ruled it, the Pope has ruled it. The facts do not matter; what matters is what everyone says. And if she is legitimate, and the daughter of Margaret Queen of Scots (the older sister of Henry VIII), then she goes before my mother, who is legitimate and the daughter of Mary Queen of France (the younger sister). But in his will he names our line, and so did the will of King Edward... so who knows who should be the next heir? Who knows who should walk on the queen’s heels? Not me, for sure. Not anyone waiting to go in to dinner.

It turns into a hushed wrestle. Lady Margaret the Legitimate pushes rudely in front of me, and I step back with false deference and assumed good manners. She is Queen Mary’s favorite, faithful to Rome, loudly faithful to her cousin now she is queen. She is a big woman with thick graying hair packed under an old-fashioned hood. She spent her life in and out of favor of the old king, in and out of the Tower, too, and she is used to elbowing for her place. Beside her, I am like an exquisite daughter, perhaps granddaughter. I am fair, I am dainty, I am thirteen years old, the true and legitimate granddaughter of the famously beautiful Tudor Queen of France. I step back with a little patient sigh, looking a hundred times more royal than she does, pushing in with a grunt.

She and my mother go elbow to elbow, almost fist to fist. It is as good as a wrestling match on the village green, every night. Queen Mary glances back and throws a smile, a word to one or to the other of them and the order is settled. We can process to dinner.