“Oh, look at her,” I say gently. “She is a tiny little thing, and a long way from marriageable age. Her mother will keep her home for another ten years, surely. You will have half a dozen babies in the cradle before Edmund Tudor can wed or bed her.” We both look down the room at the girl whose little head is still bobbing up and down as if she wishes someone would speak to her. The queen laughs. “Well, I hope so; surely a little shrimp like that will never make a royal heir.”
This is about Margaret Beaufort and LITTLE DO THEY KNOW
