Marriage is something I have gotten used to. You might even say I’ve become good at it.
At 15 I was married to a baron. He died a few years later. A year after his death, I married another baron, and with him I was held captive by Northern Rebels during the Pilgrimage of Grace. I didn’t think I’d walk out from that experience alive, but I did, only to become widow a second time after my husband’s death.
My most recent marriage was by far my best. He was no mere baron, duke or even a prince. No, he was a king, in fact the king of England, and I became his queen consort. He first took notice of me during the pilgrimage in Yorkshire, and while I was flattered to be noticed by the regent, I did not imagine I would later marry him and become queen.
I did not mind that his five previous wives had met such untimely ends. They did not have the experience I did, they did not know how to manage a husband. I am the only queen who was able to outlive Henry.
This was no small feat, I’m sure you’ll agree.