The Forgotten Queen (15 page)

Little Jamie, the king of our land, hopped up and down, his face creasing into a smile. “A ride! A ride! Hurray!”

Swallowing tears, I gathered my babies in my arms, determined that they should not be prisoners in their own domain.

Nor would I.

 

Far too recognizable to accompany me, Ellen remained behind. I took but two servants and a guard, ordering a coach. It all seemed too easy; no one noticed our departure, and as the coach lurched along the road I held Alexander on my lap and Little Jamie to my side, exclaiming over our night ride and how they would be given sweetmeats at Stirling. Of course the baby knew nothing was amiss and Little Jamie was in favor of a treat. They did not feel my heart pounding against my ribs, or the beads of sweat gathering on my forehead, running down my face as I struggled to maintain even breathing. I must be calm. If not for myself, for the boys. They needed their mother the queen to be decisive and strong, not simpering and afraid.

The hooves pounding behind me alerted me to the fact that we were missed.

“Faster!” I ordered the driver, holding the children closer. “Please,” I whispered. “Please dinna let them catch us—”

“Halt there, in the name of His Grace, the King!”

I squeezed my eyes shut, drawing in a breath. As the curtains were drawn, I could not see what was happening, but I felt the coach roll to a stop. I bit my lip.

“Are you or are you not transporting the queen, His Grace, and the Duke of Ross?” a male voice thundered.

“Aye,” answered my driver, after the slightest of hesitations. I sighed.

At once the curtains were pulled open by armored hands. Rough faces poked in, examining us with undisguised disgust.

“Right then,” the voice continued. “Take them back to Edinburgh Castle; they are not to leave.”

“Is that your wish, Your Grace?” the driver shouted. I knew it was for form’s sake, to make it seem as if I had a choice.

But I would follow form, if only to make it appear that I still had some power.

“Yes, it is Our wish,” I answered in husky tones.

And so we went back, as prisoners in all but name.

 

We were trapped, and a more sad and solitary place could not be found. I had no one to rely on and few I could trust.

I could think of nothing to do but write to my brother. Angus was right; Henry could be of great help to me. I all but begged him to detain Albany’s arrival from France any way he could and to send an army—he could by both sea and land, I suggested—along with supplies. As it were, I could not keep my forces paid and supplied with my own meager income, especially now that the Party Adversary had voted to cease payment for my dower rents. Henry could afford to send an army that would not threaten the Scots. They must keep the peace without molesting the people and their property. I was sure Henry would understand that. He had to. I was his sister, was I not, and now the danger that faced me was very real; I could not risk losing what little respect the people retained for me as their monarch. It was advantageous to everyone if he sent an army; he could not risk his brothers to the north living in a land of lawless bandits. The violence on the Border proved unsettling enough; could he afford all of Scotland to follow suit?

There were only two men I trusted to relay my messages to Lord Dacre, through whom all correspondence with Henry was sent—Adam Williamson and my secretary, Sir James English. With spies everywhere, robbing and assaulting at will, these brave men traversed the wilds of Scotland to make certain that my brother and I could at least communicate.

Angus meantime roamed the countryside with his men, instigating their own reign of terror. Though it was right to intimidate his enemies, I feared for him. He was not loved by the people, nor was his family. Every day I waited to hear of his murder and I cursed myself that I ever allowed my heart to act before my gut. I was fond of Angus, and God knew I found him desirable. But I should not have married him and put him in this position. His life was in jeopardy now and I was to blame.

“My brother says he will help us,” I told Ellen as I paced before the fire in my chambers. “He said he would send ships. Oh, where are they?” I wrung my hands, picking at my nails until they bled. “If they take the boys from me, Ellen, I do not know if I will survive.”

Ellen could only shake her head. I knew there was nothing she could say to reassure me; my fears were real and Ellen was too wise to try to dismiss them.

At once I heard the doors to my antechamber burst open. I started, gasping. They had come for me! They had come to take my children and perhaps worse.

But as I collected myself, I saw to my delight that it was Angus entering my innermost rooms, Angus and not the enemy. I breathed a sigh, smiling at the rugged soldier making his way to me in long, confident strides.

My heart began to race—how handsome he was! I threw myself in his arms. “Angus, my darling!” I cried. “You’ve come to save me.”

He held me tight a brief moment before disengaging. “I have. Come, there is no time to waste. We are taking the boys and going to Stirling. We will be safe there.”

I held my tears of relief at bay as we rushed to collect the children. All the while I could not help but thank God that Angus had come, that I was not all alone.

That must have meant that he loved me, it must have....

 

Snow was beginning to fall that November night as we made our way to Stirling and Little Jamie delighted in the sparkling white flakes that fell from the heavens. Through his eyes it was a magical adventure, something else I thanked God for. The little boy had no awareness of the idea that he was the center of such conflict and that as many wished to help him, as many wished him harm. I held him close in a moment of wild fear and he squirmed against my embrace.

“I canna see the snow, Mama!” he cried as he wriggled out of my arms to look out the window of the carriage.

I laughed. “We will have plenty enough snow for you to play in at Stirling,” I assured him. “You can play all day if you like, when you aren’t in your lessons.”

Little Jamie’s eyes brightened at this as he thrust his arm out of the curtain to catch the soft snowflakes on his fingertips. He giggled.

It was such an innocent moment, and watching him, I somehow knew I would always remember it. How I wished it could last.

 

Stirling Castle was a safe, strategic spot in the Midland Valley along the Forth, well fortified and well supplied, and my servants there were loyal to me, a hard enough asset to find in anyone. We could hold out there a long while and I could be assured of the safety of my children. Once we arrived, I ordered the portcullis dropped while I wrote my brother once more, briefing him on the situation and begging once more for his help.

There we passed Christmastide and I made the occasion merry for my children, who did not find anything out of the ordinary. I donned a lovely red gown of heavy velvet with gold undersleeves and a matching gold stomacher embroidered with seed pearls, with a matching gown for my faithful Ellen. She was able to accompany me along with some of my ladies who remained out of obligation if nothing else. I trusted none of them beyond Ellen. I was ever grateful for her company and we feasted with music and dancing, a modest entertainment, but it would not do for a queen to pass Christmas by with nothing. I was still a civilized woman despite the fact that I was in Scotland.

Angus seemed to enjoy the festivities; he was boisterous and held a bit of a court of his own.

“He’s taken in quite a bit of wine,” Ellen observed from where we sat at the high table. Her eyes followed Angus as he leaned in over another lady’s plate, laughing as his eyes traveled to her bosom. My jaw clenched.

“He has had a great deal to worry about,” I told Ellen. “It is good to see him enjoy himself; we’ve had little enough to celebrate since our wedding.”

I watched the woman tip back her lovely head, offering throaty titters of laughter that I knew were for his benefit, and my cheeks began to burn.

“Who is that woman?” I asked Ellen.

“That is Jane Stewart,” she informed me. “Of Traquair. Do you . . . do you know of her, Your Grace?”

“What is there to know?” I asked, offering an open stare toward them that I hoped revealed my displeasure.

Ellen was silent.

I turned toward her. “What do you know of her that I do not?”

Ellen lowered her eyes. “It may be just a rumor.”

I drew in a breath, expelling it slowly. “Ellen, by God if you know something of this woman, I should know, too!”

Ellen raised her gaze toward me, sighing. “Only that it is said that my Lord Angus held her in some esteem before he knew Your Grace.”

“What kind of esteem?” I asked as my heart began to thud in my chest.

Ellen hesitated once more. “It is said they spoke of marriage.”

I closed my eyes, leaning back in my chair. The great hall became warm at once and I longed to shed myself of the burden of my gown, the gown I had thought to be so fetching, which Angus hadn’t bothered to compliment once.

Angus, in fact, did not say anything at all to me that night.

 

“Well, didn’t you have a merry evening,” I said to Angus when we had retreated to our bedchambers after the festivities. I sat at my vanity brushing my long tawny tresses while Angus lay across the bed, one arm thrown across his forehead, which ached from his enthusiastic intake of wine, I imagined.

“I did,” he said, rolling to his side and leaning on his elbow. “It was good to be surrounded with people we care about and who care about us instead of having to look over our shoulders.”

“Aye, there were some who cared for you a bit more than others, were there not?” I retorted, attempting to keep my anger in check and remain calm.

Angus offered a wide smile. “Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

“I suddenly become ‘your dear’ whenever you know you’ve displeased me,” I snapped, slamming down my hairbrush and rising from the vanity. “Who is Lady Jane of Traquair and what is she doing at Stirling Castle?”

Angus averted his eyes. “She is of no import, Margaret,” he told me. “Just a lovely young girl who is loyal to you and your cause, I might add.”

“Your lover?”

“For God’s sake, Margaret, no,” Angus said, flopping on his back once more and staring up at the canopy.

“But she was your lover . . . wasn’t she?” I hissed.

Angus drew in a breath. “We were fond of one another once. But you’ve no need to worry. I am committed to you.”

“Committed,” I echoed, sitting on the bed and dropping my head. “By God, Angus, I have been betrayed and humiliated enough in my life and I will not allow you to do the same. I married you at great risk to my sons and to myself; everything is in jeopardy because of that decision. I demand the respect as a wife and your queen that I deserve.”

Angus sat bolt upright, swinging his legs over the bed and rising. He circled the bed and stood before me, arms folded across his broad chest. “You speak to me as if I am one of your subjects and not your husband,” he said in low tones. “My God, I believe you fancy yourself still married to the late king, and me . . . I dinna know what you think I am. Have I not defended your decisions before the council? Have I not raised sword and shield to protect your sons, children I love as if they were my own?”

My shoulders slumped. Was I being unreasonable? I sank my forehead into my hand, sighing. It did no good to appear jealous; men hated that. Yet how else was I to express my displeasure and maintain respect?

Angus sat beside me. “I have been good to you and to the children. Remember, you agreed quite willingly to marry me, and you did not have to. We canna go back, so either make the best of it or—”

“Oh, Angus, dinna say that!” I cried as hot tears stung my eyes. I turned toward him, throwing myself against his chest. His arms wrapped about me in a loose embrace. “I am sorry I was cross with you. You have no idea what I have endured. I dinna want to go back there; I dinna want to be disrespected the way I once was; you must realize that.”

“And you need to realize that
I
am not James IV,” he said. “Understand it and give me the respect that I deserve if you want my respect in turn.”

I pulled away, nodding. “I will, Angus, I will,” I said, as eager as a child who had been scolded and would do anything to please. I sniffled. “But that Traquair woman. I want her sent away. Please. I may be silly, but . . . please. For me.”

Angus sighed once more. I decided he found the argument tedious; it could not be out of regret for sending that little harlot away. We needed no threats to our union; it was threatened enough without her help.

“Very well,” he said. “Whatever Your Grace desires.”

I wrapped my arms about his neck, ignoring the slight, and held him close, kissing his bearded cheek. He was right; I was married to him now and respect was due him as well.

I would be better, I vowed. I would be the wife he wanted, the woman he wanted, and his head would turn for me alone.

T
he winter was as bitter and bleak as my prospects and we relocated from Stirling to Perth. There I awaited and anticipated word from my brother while I watched the children grow. Little Jamie was as agreeable as he had ever been and baby Alexander a blessing. I spent many hours cooing to him and holding him close, but he had begun to develop a mind of his own and wriggled in my lap, longing to crawl about and explore his world whenever he wasn’t in swaddling bands. It was a joy to watch him and his brother romp and play. They were my sanity, my strength, and my greatest hope.

In the midst of our routine, word from my brother arrived from Sir James English, my trusted secretary.

“His Majesty your brother has a plan,” he told me. “A plan for your escape to the borderlands.”

“The Border . . .” I breathed. It would be a perilous journey, and with the children in winter; I could be risking their very lives, and then where would we be? I shuddered. “What shall we do, Sir James? Of course I must go, but how?”

Sir James pursed his lips at this. “I know not, in truth, Your Grace. ’Tis dangerous all over. Why, Williamson was just accosted by ruffians himself. Lord Dacre sent his brother to deal with them, but they are a few of many. Thieves and bandits thrive on the Border.. . .”

That they did; the situation on the Border was volatile and my brother did not help it, encouraging raids. I wondered if we would ever know peace....

Everything seemed to be working against us. The next missive from Williamson dealt a harsher blow. Old King Louis of France was dead, my sister a widow held up in Cluny until it would be revealed if she carried a child, and King Francois now sat on the throne. God only knew what his plans were for peace with England or Scotland. Would he send Albany after all? Would my children be taken from me then?

My head pounded and ached as thoughts turned through it, vultures scavenging on my mind. I could think of nothing but the children and their safety, of my regency all but lost, and of the enemies who would delight in my demise.

I had to get to England with the children. We needed a safe place for them to grow, a place that would guarantee our protection. And yet to raise the King of Scotland away from his homeland seemed wrong somehow. . . . How would he ever know what it was to be a Scot were he not in his kingdom?

I wrestled with these and other grim possibilities even as my brother worked on my behalf, not only by continuing to support my nomination of Gavin Douglas to the see of St. Andrews to Pope Leo X but also by utilizing the Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, in Paris to sweeten the new king to the idea of not sending Albany to Scotland.

Winter melted into spring and with a pounding heart I devoured every word my messengers relayed. When we did receive word, it was the word that would drive the thorns through my skull.

Albany was coming to Scotland. My brother’s attempts, Suffolk’s attempts, were all in vain.

I should have escaped,
I thought over and over in agony.
I should have escaped while I could. . . .

Albany landed in Dumbarton and met me outside of Edinburgh. I met him as a queen in state, dressed in my favorite color, orange, as it so suited my hair.

“To think he was disappointed when he heard I’d married Angus rather than consider him,” I huffed to Ellen as we watched Albany’s approach.

“I must say, he is rather handsome, though, isn’t he?” she asked.

I grunted a halfhearted acknowledgment as I surveyed him. In truth, he was in fact one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, a tall, lean figure and as sophisticated as I imagined the French to be (I could not consider him a true Scot), yet he clearly bore Stewart features. His long face bore a close-cut beard, auburn like his hair, and his eyes were an arresting shade of gray, both deep and clear as a loch.

He offered a bow. “Madam.” Even his voice was handsome, low and melodious. Quite different from the Scots brogue I had grown accustomed to and found I had adopted over the years myself. “I am Jehan Stuart,” he said. John Stewart was what I had known him as, but his broken English pronounced the name as French as his signature. “I bid you good health from my wife.”

I was taken aback at this. “We were not aware you had married,” I said in flat tones, as if it did not bother me at all.

His smile was slow, languid. “Why, indeed I have been married for ten years, madam,” he informed me.

“We imagine she must miss you sorely,” I said, wishing to impose the thought in his mind, hoping it would make some difference. Perhaps that would mean he would like to return to her soon. Perhaps he would not find Scotland in agreement with his French fancies.

His gentle chuckle rippled like a pebble in a pond. “Indeed, as I miss her,” he said. His eyes were lit with open kindness as he regarded me. “Madam, it is my wish to be a help to you,” he told me then in low tones. “It is my hope we can work together for the good of His Grace and Scotland.”

I nodded. I would not acknowledge the statement more than need be. I would make no promises, nor trust any of his, should he make them. He seemed pleasant, but God knew enough pleasant men had brought about the ill fortune of women for generations.

And it was so that I met him, wondering if we were to be friends or enemies or a bit of both. Despite my fears, I found that I liked him.

 

On 12 July, the birthday of Julius Caesar no less, Albany was given the sword and scepter and my regency. I had lost.

And I was pregnant.

I had been missing my courses since March but thought nothing of it. I had been ill with headaches, and weeping had become a regular occurrence. My burdens were many; my worries seemed boundless. To be with child in addition to all of it sent my mind reeling.

Angus, to my surprise, was thrilled.

“It is just what we need,” he told me. “A baby to unite us truly as man and wife, and a brother or sister for His Grace and the young duke.”

Angus used the excuse of my condition’s delicacy to cease his relations as my husband.

It was just as well; I was too sick and exhausted with worry to be of any pleasure, not that I brought him much to begin with. Our couplings were obligatory on Angus’s part. I knew it. He knew I was aware of it. But we both indulged my feigned ignorance.

The baby quickened within my womb as Albany seized power and began his sure, swift justice, or his interpretation of it, on perceived enemies of the Crown. The Pope had rejected Gavin Douglas for the see of St. Andrews and created him Bishop of Dunkeld, sending his nominee, Andrew Forman, home without formally granting him the see.

Gavin Douglas was imprisoned for his ambition. Even my grandfather-in-law, Lord Drummond, was sent to Blackness Castle for boxing the Lyon Herald’s ears when he insulted me by the inappropriateness of his address to my station.

For this I had to intervene. Old Lord Drummond was as temperamental as his grandson, though far wilier, I gathered, and yet still I could not see him exiled to some outland castle.

I left Holyrood House to speak to Albany. He received me in his presence chamber, smiling when I entered as though times were peaceful and I were an old friend come to call.

He rose, bowing, ever the gentleman, then offered me a chair and refreshment.

“You are well, madam?” he asked me. To avoid any conflict in how to address me, he called me the uncontroversial
madam.

I could not contain myself. His nature was as gentle as my husband’s was fiery. Tears, never far away as I advanced in pregnancy, burned my eyes. I shook my head. “No, my lord, We are not well,” I told him. “Hearing of Lord Drummond’s and Gavin Douglas’s imprisonment distresses Us greatly.”

Albany’s eyes were a strange mingling of calm alertness. “I am sorry you are distressed,” he said, his tone sincere. “But I am afraid imprisonment is all the mercy I can spare on these men. They have disturbed the law of this land, and you must agree Scotland has fallen into disorder since the death of my dear cousin.”

“We do,” I told him in honesty. “Yet can my lord afford more enemies?” I asked him, leaving unspoken the well-known fact that Lord Home, once one of the foremost leaders of my Party Adversary, had changed course and backed me for regent after Albany had addressed him in Latin when Lord Home received him in Dumbarton. As Lord Home did not understand Latin, he thought the duke was being pompous and patronizing. The misunderstanding worked in my favor, for Lord Home was now my man.

“I do not wish any more than you to accumulate more enemies, madam,” Albany said in easy tones. “But it is for me to restore order here and to remind these feuding houses that they are not the unruly men of the Border, that they are to be civilized upholders of the realm. Many of these men hold titles and exalted positions, yet they behave as any rough clan chieftain. I cannot be seen to show favor to any family above another. I am certain you of all people can appreciate that,” he added, his words measured and weighty with their intent.

I rose with an abrupt swirl of my skirts, conceiving of his meaning too well. I stared him down. “You have much to learn about Scotland, sir,” I told him. “It is not France. It is not like any other place in the world.”

And with that I excused myself from his presence.

 

To my surprise, Parliament favored my opinion in regards to the imprisonment of my grandfather-in-law. Yet when discussions opened about who was to obtain custody of my children, my hope wavered. Though I was allowed to participate in the selection of the four guardians of the little king and baby duke, I knew this, like so many moves on the part of men when involving women in a decision, was for form only.

Albany meant to take my children.

The people turned out in droves to witness the guardians meeting us at Edinburgh Castle. There was little time to explain anything to Little Jamie, and we walked hand in hand at the head of our party. Nurse followed, carrying baby Alexander with Angus beside her and our household at a discreet distance.

“Declare the reason for your coming!” I shouted to the approaching party, though I knew their intent. It was a show; everything had become a performance, meant to garner the sympathy and outrage of my people. Who could endure watching children being ripped away from their mother?
Please, Lord,
I prayed,
let them have heart!

“We come for the king!” was the reply.

At once I nodded. The portcullis dropped, in agreement with my plan. As I was a Tudor, this portcullis was more than a barrier: It was also within my grandmother Margaret Beaufort’s coat of arms. If no one else knew it but me, it brought me comfort and strength.

I gazed at the lairds from behind the bars with a cool smile. “By the late king my husband,” I cried in a sure, strong voice, “I was made sole governess of him!” The cheers from the people were deafening; the baby stirred within me and I squeezed Little Jamie’s hand. “Give Us six days and We shall consider the decision of the council!” I added, then retreated with my household to the blessings of the people.

“Are they going to hurt us, Mother?” Little Jamie’s shrill voice asked as we made our way into the castle.

“No,” I assured him, my throat catching. “They are not going to hurt us.”

My face grew hot; my cheeks began to tingle.

I did not relish lying to my son.

 

“Margaret, this has become very serious,” Angus told me that night in our bedchamber. He was pacing before the window, his face drawn, his steps heavy.

I was immediately irritated. Of course it was serious! It had been serious since my husband the king was slain in the mud of Flodden Field. Was Angus just now noticing this was not one of the games of his training days? I drew in a breath, trying to contain my patience.

Angus ceased his pacing, standing still, shaking his head. He parted his lips to speak, stopped, then began once more. “You may want to consider giving the children over,” he said, his tone soft.

My mouth fell agape. I stared at him, trying to conceive of why again I had married him in such haste. Looks alone could never sustain any kind of feeling, I decided then, steeling myself against his sensual mouth and pleading liquid brown eyes. I shook my head, rising from my settle.

“Are you mad?” I hissed. “You married me insisting that you could help protect me and the children from this very thing! And yet now we meet opposition and obstacles and you are ready to surrender? What kind of man are you?”

“Margaret!” His voice was sharp and I started. “You are with child. Think about
our
baby. Think about your health. What good would it do to have all of your children go without a mother? So we give them over. It will not be forever. Just until we can gather enough support to take them back.”