The Forgotten Queen (16 page)

I brought my hand to my mouth, stifling the urge to scream at him. I shook my head against the logic, sound though it may be. “How can we hand them over? What would they think? They would see it as a betrayal,” I told him. “They would feel abandoned and alone. Their father has already passed; for us, the only true family they know and love, to leave them over to Albany and the council . . . they would never understand.” I began to cry. How I hated my unpredictable onsets of emotion during times when I needed calm the most. “If we give them over, they could grow to hate us.”

Angus shook his head at this argument, approaching me. “A child never hates their mother, no matter who she is or what she has done,” he assured me. “And even if they were angry, they would come to understand the decision in time, when the king is met with the challenges of his own rule and his own children.” He opened his arms, expecting me to fold into them as I had so eagerly in the past.

Instead I backed away, shaking my head with more vehemence. “No,” I breathed. “My children are all I have. You canna ask this of me.”

Angus’s arms fell to his sides, limp. “You have our baby,” he told me. “You have me.”

“Dinna do this, Angus,” I urged him. “Dinna make me choose.”

“Dinna put this all on me!” he cried. “As if it is
me
asking you to choose and not Albany and the council! As if I am solely responsible for what has come to pass! I offer you a solution that may not be easy or pleasant, but it may be our only choice until we have the men, the arms, and the support! And yet you say
I
am making you choose when ultimately I
do
have the best interests of you and the children always in mind?” His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

I pursed my lips and turned away. By God, I could not stand a man’s tears.

At once I decided what I must do.

I squared my shoulders. “I am going to Stirling,” I said, my tone hard. “I am taking the children and going. You may do what you like.”

“Margaret!” His tone was urgent, desperate.

I closed my eyes, drawing in a breath, letting it out slowly. “We will not speak of this anymore, Angus,” I told him, raising my hand to silence him as I would any subject.

And then I left him, going once more to collect my children and flee to the only safety I had known in Scotland, my beloved Stirling.

Though we made it to Stirling with Little Jamie thrilled to be a part of another midnight riding adventure, Albany and his men were in pursuit. From inside the castle I watched as we were surrounded by the forces led by the Earls of Cassilis and Lennox. Angus; my newest supporter, Lord Home; and my brother-in-law George Douglas defended us with their own riders, skilled and able horsemen from the Border.

Angus offered a sound option for my strategy. If they were to battle in earnest, he told me to place Little Jamie with his crown, robes, and scepter on the castle’s very walls. Surely this would move them; they could not make war against the person of the king. I shook my head at the thought, remembering too well stories of other child-kings jeopardized in times of violence, children who included my uncles, my late husband, and his grandfather before him.

Albany made his intent more than clear when he arrived with a force seven thousand men strong with “Mons Meg” at the head of it. I shuddered. “Mons Meg” was the utmost cannon in the land—none could withstand her might.

My forces fled at the sight of her.

I crumpled to the floor of the bower, Ellen at my side. “Your Grace!” she cried, seizing my arm. “Your dearest Grace,” she whispered, pulling me to my feet.

My legs quivered as I clung to her. “It is over, Ellen,” I breathed. “I canna have my children witness bloodshed and curse them for life. I have to give them over.”

Ellen began to sob. “I know,” she choked.

I drew in a shaky breath, disengaging from my faithful maid. “We will do so with honor, Ellen. I will do so like a queen.”

“You are nothing less,” Ellen assured me, reaching out to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind my ear.

Nothing less, and nothing more.

 

Before we went out to meet Albany, I knelt before my son the king, dressing him in his robes of state myself. I reached out, stroking his baby skin.

“I may not see you for a while,” I told him. “You and baby Alexander will be staying with the Duke of Albany for a time,” I explained, swallowing an onset of tears. “But only for a time, till Lord Angus and I can fetch you. You must be very good for the duke and his men and show them that you are king. You must look after the baby and show him how to be a strong little prince. We must be brave, hmm?”

“I am brave, Mother!” he assured me with an earnest nod of his head.

I drew him to my breast, squeezing him as tight as I could without hurting him. “Know that I love you, Jamie!” I cried, allowing my tears to fall. “I love you with all my heart, all my soul, and I will do anything to keep you safe.”

“I love you, Mother,” he said, his voice small. His lips quivered as I pulled away.

I shook my head, blinking my tears away. “No tears, lamb,” I urged. I took Little Jamie’s hand, placing in it the keys to Stirling Castle. “When you see my Lord Albany, you will give him the keys to the castle,” I explained. “Because this is our decision, to let him in with peace and dignity. We must go to the duke as a queen and a king. Always remember,
you
are king and no one else.”

Little Jamie swallowed, clutching the keys to his breast and offering another grim nod. How great was the burden set upon the tiny shoulders of this three-year-old king! I could not think of it. I could not afford to meet the duke and his men in tears. I rose, taking my son by the hand and nodding to Nurse, who held the baby for me.

It was time.

 

Albany, given word of my intent, waited with his men outside of Stirling Castle as I made my way to him with my children. I drew on every bit of strength inside of me, holding my head high as I let go of Little Jamie’s hand, urging him toward the duke.

Albany knelt before my son, bowing his head as Little Jamie extended his hand with the keys to the castle in it. Albany took them with solemnity.

“Please,” I said to the duke, my tone low and steady. “We beg you to show mercy to these innocent children. And to my Lord Angus and his forces. Please.”

Albany raised his head. To my shock, his gray eyes were lit with tears. “I know what this is costing you, Your Grace,” he told me. “The king and the Duke of Ross will be treated in accordance with their stations, I promise you.”

I closed my eyes a moment, willing my tears to hide a moment more. Composed, I opened them. The duke was still kneeling before us. All I could see was the artillery behind him. At once his promises faded in the dust the horses kicked up, swirling and blowing away in the bitter wind.

I nodded to him, then turned away.

I could not watch him take them from me. I could not bear to see them go.

I
returned with great reluctance to Edinburgh to offer my halfhearted signature on the agreement supported by Parliament, confirming that the Duke of Albany now had charge of my babies. Though I was reassured I could still see them, Albany made it plain that it may not be wise given my husband’s defection, one Albany never spared mercy for. He feared Angus and I would escape with the children, and despite whatever motherly feeling I retained, I could not be trusted. As outraged as I was, I understood as one who bore the burden of rule the practicality of his decision even while I cursed him for it.

I was twenty-five years old and had been married a year to Angus. It should have been a happy time of raising the boys while preparing for the little one I now carried. I should have been planning my confinement and great entertainments for after its birth. As the child would be a sibling to the king, it would have been a grand affair.

But there was none of that. There was running, always running, nights filled with panic as horrific imaginings gripped my mind, causing me to wonder who my enemies were, if I would even live out each week, if my children were safe and cared for, if I would ever see them again. I wondered if the letters to Henry and Lord Dacre were intercepted. Henry was only to trust letters signed “your loving sister, Margaret R,” but a few of the letters sent in which I sounded agreeable to the fate of my children I was forced to sign as such. Not knowing this, Henry and Lord Dacre chastised me for my decision, telling me the gravity of my mistake, as if I hadn’t a grasp on it. And yet they were men, what did they know of how my choices came to be? Henry had command of armies and still had no children; he had no concept of what it meant to fight for them, to make unbearable decisions one could never imagine being faced with. And Lord Dacre commanded border reivers who could wreak havoc like no other kind of soldier should anyone interfere with his loved ones.

They could not possibly understand. No man could.

I had lost my children, my regency, and the respect of my kingdom. I lost respect for myself.

I was now eight months gone with child and exhausted. But there was no rest for me, no respite in a darkened cloister of a lying-in chamber.

Henry and Lord Dacre had developed a plan. I was to come to the Border, to Lord Dacre, who would then escort me into England, to Henry and his court, to the prospect of support. Dreams of a glittering triumphant return to Scotland at the head of a well-paid, well-fed army swelled my heart. Why else would Henry assist my escape if not to send me back to Scotland stronger and able to oust Albany, thus taking back my children? No matter the beginnings of understanding that were being forged between Albany and me, the thought of having my children back was irresistible.

I would do anything.

Sending coded messages in response, I agreed to the escape.

Albany granted me permission to retire to Linlithgow for my confinement. The jostling of the coach that transported me jarred and jerked my belly and I gripped it as if it were a foreign thing, some awful mass attached to me that caused nothing but pain and sickness and utter inconvenience. How I wished to have this baby so I could move about with more freedom! I could not regret my estate, but how much easier would it have been if I were not with child!

Once we reached the castle, I sought the refuge of the lying-in chamber, developing a “sudden illness” that made for good enough theater on my part to inspire Albany to allow Angus a visit, just as I had intended.

When Angus appeared in my chambers, I found myself smiling. Gone was my anger from our last encounter. He was working toward the goal of regaining custody of the children; he was doing what he promised he would do. I could see that now and could not bear to harbor resentment against the father of the little one stirring in my womb.

“Are you well, Margaret?” he asked. He looked older. He had always looked older than his years to me, but there was something different about him now. He was becoming seasoned, learning to accommodate himself to disappointment and opposition and the rigors of warfare. He was becoming a man.

I offered a weary nod. “Well enough to make for the Border,” I told him.

He leaned over my bed, offering a light kiss on my forehead before drawing back. He stroked my forehead, offering a faint smile. “You are a brave one, Margaret. Keep being brave.”

I nodded, reaching up to take his hand in mine, too overcome to speak. It was so rare to share a moment of tenderness with my husband I found myself treasuring the words.

“Are you ready?” he asked, tilting a thick black brow.

“Aye,” I said in firm tones.

There was no time for tenderness now. Now was the time for action.

 

Night had fallen. I was not allowed a coach; it could not negotiate the wilds of the Scottish countryside with its many steep hills and winding paths as well as the sturdy reiver’s Galloway horses. There was but a handful of armed servants to accompany us until we were just beyond the town of Linlithgow, where Lord Home, my unlikely new champion, met us with his own small force.

We were to ride for our very lives.

I had been an able equestrienne when not with child, but it was another matter altogether riding in my heavy gown with the burden of my belly. As we rode, I could not help but be in a terror of losing my balance and falling, then losing the baby as a bitter consequence. I held on as if the ground were covered in writhing demons waiting to take the baby and me to the depths of Hell with them, willing myself to remain atop my horse and keep up with my lord husband.

We arrived at the Douglas stronghold of Tantallon, where I collapsed into bed, clutching my aching belly. My ankles were swollen, my hands calloused from their death grip on the reins of my horse, and nausea clutched my throat. Despite being allowed to lie down, I could not rest. I thought of the children, as always, hoping they were safe, wondering if Little Jamie had said anything amusing or if the baby had done anything new. Would I miss it all? His first steps, his first words . . . I could not bear such reflection.

I thought of my ladies, Ellen in particular. She could not come with me; she could not even be made aware of my escape. Though I trusted her like no other, I could not trust her with this. I could not put her in the position of having to lie to the duke or his men. Nor could I put her in the position of having to tell them the truth.

Angus joined me in my bedchamber, rousing me from my reverie with more news.

“Albany is in pursuit,” he announced, his tone thick with frustration. “We must flee to Lord Home’s castle of Blackadder immediately.”

Even as I sat up and allowed Angus to assist me with my boots, I trembled and moaned with pain. “Oh, Angus, I feel so sick and tired. The baby is going to come soon, I know it,” I told him, voicing for the first time my fears, that this child would come and hamper all plans of escape.

Angus shook his head with vehemence as he helped me to my feet. “You must not say it, Margaret. You must not even think it. The child can wait till we get to England. Hold on for me, eh? Hold on just a bit more.”

I sighed and nodded, as if I could somehow control the advent of my labor, and we set to ride again. In our haste, my jewels and gowns were left behind. Yet they made a far easier sacrifice than the children.

As we made for Blackadder we were met by a messenger.

“The duke amassed a force of forty thousand,” he informed us, breathless. “He intends to take Blackadder.”

“Damn, damn, damn!” Angus cried, flicking his reins with a wild shake of his head. He inclined his head toward me. “We have to get to Berwick Castle, Margaret, d’you hear? Can you make it?”

Through tears the night kept concealed from my husband, I offered a strong “Aye!”

And so we rode. My legs ached, my back was stiff, and the baby kicked up a fury. Despite the rough terrain, the bumps, and the rollicking gallop of my horse, I managed to maintain my seat and my grip, keeping my eyes forward, ever forward, till at last I saw Berwick. We had made it! We were all but in England!

I tipped my head back, smiling with a sigh of relief. Soon I would be in a nice, warm bed. Soon I would have food in my belly along with the baby. Soon I could retreat into the only sanctuary I knew—sleep. Oh, how heavenly it all sounded now, far more grand than gowns and entertainments!

But even as I dared to relinquish myself to such sweet fancy, our messenger met us again with more unwelcome news.

“The Governor of Berwick will not admit you without safe-conduct from King Henry,” he told us. His blue eyes were wide, as if fearing a reproach.

“Even to his own sister, man?” Angus cried, incredulous. He bit his lip, his eyes scanning the horizon. The first ruddy strains of dawn lit the hills, coloring them a deep amber. Morning was in pursuit, as unwelcome as Albany and his army.

“Even so,” the messenger replied.

Angus bowed his head. Lord Home, always a rough old man, cursed.

“We best get to the priory at Coldstream,” Lord Home decided after he had exhausted his string of expletives he felt described the situation best. There was nothing to do but agree; I needed to rest. We could not very well camp about in the wild like reivers.

We turned our horses about and rode to the priory, where at last I could take my longed-for rest before the ordeal began again.

At the priory I fell into a fitful slumber. I had hoped that after the difficult ride and my constant fretting sleep would overcome me in that dark, quiet completeness I cherished, but it eluded me. Lord Home’s mother arrived to comfort me and I was grateful for the presence of an older woman. And yet it served to remind me of the loss of my own mother. I ached for her with a longing as acute as that for my children yet was grateful that at least I stood the chance of seeing them again. As for my mother and so many loved ones who went before me, I would have to wait.

Meantime the best way to serve the memory of the dead was to live.

Lord Dacre had arrived, and in him I saw the hope to do just that.

I had not seen him since I was a child entering my kingdom, when he had thrown the entertainments with the god-awful bearbaiting. It seemed like another lifetime, as if it were someone else’s memories I was stealing a glimpse of. Casting my gaze upon his kind countenance reduced me to stilling my quivering lip and blinking back tears. It was happening; safety and support were within my reach at last. But to achieve that safety, Lord Home, my husband, and our party had to remain behind just now.

It was an agonizing good-bye. I had come to like the colorful Lord Home, who would have razed his own castle rather than give it over to Albany. I found Lord Home to be a noble, loyal man, a hero. And my husband, for him to leave now . . .

“We will get to you soon, Margaret,” Angus promised, squeezing my hands. “Be well,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I longed for something deeper, but I supposed he was clinging to propriety.

“Be safe,” I said in turn.

No other words of love were exchanged.

 

We rode to Lord Dacre’s castle of Harbottle, in England now. I was beyond exhausted. My belly was taut, stretched to its limit, and felt lower than before. My legs quivered and at times my right leg plagued me such that I cried out at the pains, sharp as hot daggers shooting from hip to ankle. My head ached; my swollen hands and feet throbbed. I was grateful that the first destination upon my arrival was a warm, soft bed, where I remained for days, with Lord Dacre making frequent visits in the hopes I would regain my strength for the rest of the journey.

“You will be delighted to know,” Lord Dacre told me, “that the king and queen have sent you many beautiful presents to my home at Morpeth with Sir Christopher Garnyshe.”

I brightened at this. I could in all honesty never resist the thought of gifts. Gifts meant love and I needed to be loved.