The Forgotten Queen (12 page)

N
o sooner was I made regent than I was being torn between the interests of my divided countrymen: those in favor of an alliance with England and those who preferred French protection and, in turn, a continued war of revenge on the kingdom of my birth. A peace with my brother, as hurt and betrayed as I felt by him and Catherine, would alleviate the immediate turmoil Lord Dacre was creating on the Borders with the endless raids that served as retaliation for the Scottish invasion. Conversely, it was proposed that John Stewart, Duke of Albany, the son of James III’s brother Alexander, who was exiled to France for trying to usurp the throne of Edward IV, be called to Scotland at once. He stood as next in line to the throne after my Little Jamie. It was suggested he would be the most appropriate choice—a strong hand to defend a kingdom he stood to inherit. All the while King Louis VII lurked in the peripheral, trying to decide which purpose would serve him best. He had written his assurances that he would neither send Albany nor make peace with my brother until I wished it.

I could not win. Any choice I made was bound to offend someone and it was all I could do to preserve the smallest decision making for myself, fearing something as minute as wearing the wrong gown would send someone stalking off in a huff. I was a swinging pendulum between one side and the other—the only thing they could agree on was if I swung too far to one side or the other I was showing favoritism. It was exhausting.

And then there was Henry, my brother and current enemy. It was unfathomable. My brother, my enemy . . . How had we come to this? There was no time to reflect. Henry was action and I was reaction. He hounded me endlessly, urging me to stand against the notion of Albany and a French alliance in favor of an alliance with him. After all, he was Little Jamie’s uncle and who better to protect the boy-king than his uncle, the King of England? Albany was heir to the throne himself, Henry warned—what would stop him from ousting me and concocting ill fortune against my son, that he might have the power for himself, not unlike Richard III and the poor, accursed Princes in the Tower? The thought of such a horrific tragedy befalling my child sent me into near hysterics as I entertained one frightening scenario after another in an attempt to decide what was best for my son, my kingdom, and, not least of all, me.

No matter what paths the scenarios twisted and turned, all of them ended with making peace with Henry. He was my only living brother, one of the few constants in my life. I could not bear to think of raising Little Jamie to hate and fear his uncle.

And so it would be to that end that I would strive.

 

In January 1514 old Louis VII’s queen, Anne of Brittany, passed. Against my will my chest constricted with a sense of perverse satisfaction. The woman who with a ring and a glove sent my husband to his death now met the same fate and I was glad of it. May she have died with a thousand regrets!

The winter was passing in a blur. With the new responsibilities as queen regent I no longer spent the days in frivolity, planning gowns for Ellen and me or worrying about the next entertainment. We were a kingdom in mourning—there would be no entertainments, not for a long, long time. Even had Jamie survived Flodden, we would not be entertaining. I was eight months gone with child and exhausted most of the time. My back ached, my head hurt, and I had gained more weight than I wanted with this baby. I felt altogether horrid. Moments of serenity, those few times when I did not have to wrack my brain about matters of state, were taken with my devoted Ellen.

“It is being said that King Louis has cast his gaze upon Scotland for his next bride,” my Ellen informed me one March afternoon as we sat in my privy chamber sewing baby garments.

“My congratulations!” I quipped. “You did not tell me you were to become Queen of France!”

Ellen’s full lips curved into a slow smile. “Your Grace, would it not serve you to wed King Louis? You would be Queen of Scotland and France and be assured protection from your enemies. You would have the help you so need—”

“Not from that poxy old fool,” I told her. “He can keep looking.” I shrugged. “Besides, now that a truce with England has been secured, precarious as it is, it would not be politic to marry my brother’s enemy.” I chuckled at the thought. “Henry would have a fit.” I sighed. “Now it seems all of my enemies are within our borders. Who can protect me from them?”

Ellen could only offer a sympathetic shake of her head as she continued sewing.

“Ellen, I canna marry anybody,” I went on. “My duty is to protect the king and bring him a brother. I must trust that my council is acting in our best interests.”

The last phrase was empty. I knew well the council could not be trusted; they protected no one’s interests but their own. My one hope was that their interests were intertwined with mine.

“Your Grace, I hate to see you alone, constantly torn in two without a strong shoulder to lean on,” Ellen confessed, her voice catching. “You were a woman born for love.”

At once tears clutched my throat as an image of my one love swirled before my mind’s eye. I blinked it away as his words and the words of my father echoed in my ears. “Ah, but Ellen, who was born to love me?”

Ellen bowed her head. She could not answer.

Nor could I.

The crowds still shouted blessings to me when I rode through the streets of Edinburgh for the gathering of Parliament. I found myself heaving a great sigh of relief without knowing I was holding my breath. They were still with me. I was still loved. I needed to be loved.

It was my last public appearance before my confinement and I savored the opportunity to meet with my council. It remained vital that I show myself as much as possible before my lying-in; I must be in the foreground of their memories that they might continue to act for and not against me.

It was that council that would forever alter my course.

“My grandson, Your Grace, and the Sixth Earl of Angus, Archibald Douglas.” It was Lord Drummond who introduced us. Lord Drummond, the father of Margaret, murdered mistress of my Jamie. Unlike Bell-the-Cat, the new Angus’s other grandfather, who was also tied to one of my husband’s mistresses, I was not at ease with Lord Drummond. It was never far from my mind that he hoped to elevate his daughter to the throne and was denied the chance. I hoped the tragedy made him more cautious in his aspirations now, even as almost against my will my eyes were taking in the magnificent tribute to all that was good in young men—his grandson.

Archibald Douglas, the newly styled Earl of Angus . . . There he was in a leather doublet with a russet shirt beneath that revealed the muscles of his broad shoulders and upper arms. Ah, he was as strong a lad as one could behold, appearing much older than his twenty-four years. He was big and broad, with his warrior’s hands and well-muscled legs, his chestnut hair and beard, and brown eyes that sparkled with alert intensity. He was not as handsome as my Jamie, of course, but there was something about him . . . something dark and wild and helplessly alluring.

Angus dipped into a deep bow before me, placing a warm kiss on my proffered hand.

“He will be taking his late grandfather’s place on the council,” Lord Drummond explained.

“Our condolences for the loss of your grandfather,” I said in soft tones, watching Lord Drummond’s all-too-conspicuous retreat. “We were very fond of Bell-the-Cat.”

“It was a great loss, Your Grace,” Angus confessed in a voice low and strong as Jamie’s was melodic. “After losing my father and uncle at Flodden, he and my uncle Gavin were all I had left on the Douglas side. And all this after losing my wife in childbed . . . It is almost unimaginable at times.” He offered a quivering smile that caused my heart to constrict. “Pardon me, Your Grace, I still grow emotional.” He sighed. “But the turn of events astounds me. Nothing is quite real anymore; I’ve been going through my days in a dream.” He shook his head, chuckling and sniffling as a flush kissed his cheeks a soft rose. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“You mustn’t apologize,” I urged, endeared by his raw display of emotion most were too afraid to confront. “We know too well what you are enduring. I know,” I added in soft tones.

“Oh, Your Grace, but your position must be far more difficult,” Angus told me. “To lose our king and now to be all alone at the head of this rabble.” He winked as he gazed about the great hall at the members of council, many of them rough lairds to be sure.

I found myself laughing in agreement but soon found myself choking back tears. How quickly they came! “Flodden cursed our kingdom,” I told him. “But We will all endure it together and someday Scotland will be stronger for it. And We are not alone,” I assured him with a smile. “We have advisers like you to help Us through.”

“Till death, Your Grace,” Angus vowed, his fervency matching the intensity of his eyes. “I see it as my sacred duty to hold the interests of your son my king above my own always and”—he seized my hand, bowing before it again—“to serve you in any capacity I can to make your lot easier to bear.”

With that he kissed my hand once more, quitting my presence and taking with him forever my better judgment.

 

“Fair words,” Ellen observed late that evening at Stirling as she brushed my hair while I told her of the encounter. “He is a smart man to say them, and at such a sorrowful time when you need to hear them most.”

“What do you mean? Are you questioning his sincerity?” I demanded.

“Are you not?” Ellen returned. “Your Grace, you have suffered unspeakable tragedy. Such times make a woman . . . open to charms she may dismiss when her head is clear. It is for love of you I advise caution, please understand.”

“I love you for it, Ellen, truly I do,” I assured her. “But you didn’t hear him speak; you didn’t see him. His eyes . . . I canna see a man with eyes like that being a liar. Besides, I thought you would have been happy to note me admiring a man, you who would have seen me married off to old King Louis and wanted an ally for me.”

Ellen offered a soft laugh. “He is a king, Your Grace—and in my opinion it is kings that should suit queens and nothing less. The Douglas is a man among many, an ambitious man. And you mustn’t forget the Douglases remain one of the most opposed houses in Scotland.”

That I knew all too well. After ambition and intrigue led the Douglases to near ruin during the reign of James II, when said king stabbed the conniving and ambitious eighth Earl of Douglas, it was a long climb back into the graces of the Stewarts—and those graces were suspicious at best. But those acts were near seventy years ago—none of it had to do with the young gallant I had seen that day.

I offered a sigh. “Enough of this talk, Ellen,” I said in weary tones. “His eyes . . . they seemed true enough, and that is refreshing for one in my position.”

Ellen’s eyes, those endless black orbs, were another gaze I could count on to be true. But in them all I could see was sadness mingled with fear.

I did not want her to fear for me. I did not want anyone to fear for me. That implied I was not safe. And I had to be safe. I had to be cared for and loved. If I was not safe, it meant I was not loved, that someone could have motives for my fate—and my son’s fate—that were less than pure.

I could not bear to think on that.

I wanted to think of Angus’s eyes.

My confinement was as dreadful as the others and I was impatient to be at court, to be where life was happening. I hated the thought of decisions being made over my head, decisions I had no say in. As it was, the March Parliament had limited my power even more, taking control of all the fortresses in Scotland.

But for my part, I still had the person of the king, my son, Little Jamie, and his value surpassed that of any fortress. His rooms were near my confinement chamber and each day he was brought to me, my one ray of light throughout the dread days of solitude and isolation. At two years old, he was a joy, a rambling babe whose chatter was sweeter than the most accomplished minstrel. My eyes followed wherever he went, his slaves, watching him toddling here and there, exploring a world he ruled unbeknownst to himself. How I cherished his innocence—how I longed to preserve it! Somehow I would; somehow I would manage to raise him and his brother or sister as far away from politics as I could, away from those who wished to steer him this way and that, bending him as a willow in the winds of their own devices. No, this would not be for Little Jamie. He would learn to be a king who stood his ground and was firm in his own understanding. He would be his own king, his own man.