But alongside the pride was rage, rage at Jamie for leading his people into this folly, rage at my sister-in-law for daring to suggest that his precious body be sent to France as a trophy of war. My gut churned and I swallowed bitter bile. I never could have anticipated such coldness in a heart I had always found to be so warm and filled with charity.
I swallowed my disillusionment. Now was no time to lament. Nor could I afford the luxury of hating my sister-in-law at the moment. I could only think of Scotland. I was its regent now.
‘We thank you, sir,’ I told the messenger. I turned to my attendant. ‘Please send for our son,’ I ordered in soft tones.
When the baby was brought to me I rose. He toddled toward me, offering a gap-toothed grin and holding out his chubby arms.
‘Mama up!’ was his first command as King of Scotland. ‘Mama up!’
I was honoured to obey. Stooping down, I gathered my son in my arms, my shoulders convulsing with sobs as I took in his sweet baby scent. I allowed my tears to mingle against his strawberry-blond curls as I held him close, then swept him into my arms as I rose.
The attendants and guards, lords, ladies, and servants all removed their caps. Tears coursed down their cheeks as they knelt and curtsied.
‘Long live King James V,’ they chorused.
Long live James V, the seventeen-month-old King of Scots.
9
Ten Thousand Widows
I removed to the fortress of Stirling with my baby king, where he was crowned by the Archbishop of Glasgow, James Beaton, on 21 September. I watched as the gem-encrusted crown fit for a man’s head was held over that of my son in what all refer to as the Mourning Coronation. Throughout the chapel could be heard nothing but sniffling and sobbing as each witness recalled the loved ones lost at Flodden Field.
I was among them, sobbing for my lost king, shedding tears for the one who replaced him; for myself; for my brother and sister-in-law, who revelled in my husband’s death and treated it as a victory; and for the baby I now carried who would never know its father.
As Jamie’s will was read the weight of my responsibilities bore down upon me in full. I was twenty-three years old and pregnant. I was widowed. My son was not yet two and he was King of Scotland. As Jamie had indicated before his doomed enterprise, I would rule in our son’s stead under the stipulation that I never marry again.
I could not imagine why I would ever want to remarry, why I would ever want to put myself through the agony of loving and losing another person. And yet to never curl against the warmth of another human being in the night, to never savour the comfort only a man can give …
Now was no time to think of it. Now there was but to think of my people and of securing peace with England.
I met with my council, comforting myself with the distractions of governing. They were divided; many resented me for reasons obvious. I was a woman, which went against the cherished Scottish tradition of male rulers. What’s more, I was an Englishwoman.
‘’Twill not be easy,’ said the old Earl of Angus, Archibald ‘Bell-the-Cat’ Douglas, as he visited me in my apartments one winter afternoon. He was nicknamed such for offering to attack Jamie’s father King James III’s favourite Robert Cochrane by pulling his chain from his neck, which led to his and many other of the king’s favourites’ hangings.
I had always been fond of surly old Bell-the-Cat, though my husband was not. He held him partially responsible for the eventual rebellion against Jamie’s father, which led to his death, plaguing Jamie with guilt for the rest of his life. What’s more, the earl had married Jamie’s lover Janet Kennedy. I never knew if this fact did anything to stop them from carrying on their affair, but in those times when I yearned to recall the few happy days we were afforded in our marriage I liked to think so.
I shifted my thoughts back to the old earl. He was not well. His losses in the battle were extensive and took a toll on him.
‘Oh, Bell-the-Cat,’ I sighed, tears gathering in my throat. ‘I should like to think I made the right appointments. I have good men about me – your son Gavin and the Bishop of Aberdeen, who will stand as tutor to my son. And with the uncertainty of our relations with England, Stirling seems the best residence, the most resilient. I recall a time when all I had to occupy myself with was what gown to wear. Now I have to think about the price of cannon and the wages of soldiers. And there are so many other crises … most of the women in Scotland are widows, most of the children fatherless.’
At this Bell-the-Cat flinched. I reached out, taking the withered hand in my own.
‘We mourn the losses of your two fine sons,’ I told him. ‘And your clansmen.’
‘Two hundred of them, Your Grace,’ he said, his voice thick with sadness. ‘Two hundred souls gone in one day, along with ninety-eight hundred more. Ten thousand widows.’
I shook my head, too awed to speak. No words could do what Scotland had lost, what my husband had sacrificed, justice.
They poured in, these poor wretches, and I gave them audience, yes, each and every soul. They came to me, their Queen Widow, and I offered my tears and prayers and useless blessings.
‘My land is gone!’ one woman cried on her knees before me. ‘I canna inherit, as my son and husband were both killed in the great battle. The looters came and took everything of value,’ she sobbed without reserve. ‘And what was most valued, what I begged them not to take, if only for love of the blessed Virgin, was my daughter’s virtue!’
‘Oh, save us!’ I cried, burying my face in my hands.
And on and on they came, all with similar stories of horror, while I sat on my throne of state unable to help, unable to do a thing without aid of council, a group of men who became increasingly frustrating and divided.
There was nothing to give, nothing to restore. All was lost … lost.
‘What am I going to do, Bell-the-Cat?’ I asked my favourite councillor, knowing he had not the answer. ‘I am awed, dumbstruck as I try and work out how to help our country, a country filled with widows and babies. A country filled with weakness and covered in wounds. I made a useless proclamation in the baby king’s name urging the people against these desperate and despicable acts – the looting, the rapes. But no one wants peace. No one wants goodness. No. The women want retribution, rightfully, I believe, but the men? Of course you know what the men want. War. War with England. My brother. Where will that get us but more lives lost? My God … what am I going to do?’
Bell-the-Cat squeezed my hand and shook his head. ‘We are in sorry estate, madam. Sorry estate.’ He paused. ‘But ye’ve got good men.’
‘Divided men,’ I said again. ‘And I can make no decisions of my own without consulting three spiritual and three temporal lords. And the likelihood of them agreeing is …’ I dissolved into tears, swallowed, then collected myself. ‘They want to recall the Duke of Albany from France to serve as a military leader. To usurp my regency, I imagine. The King of France wrote to tell me that he will not send him until he knows my wishes. He claims he will not make peace with my brother until I permit him to do so. I know I must make peace with Henry, but France is a powerful ally—’
‘Ye best keep the peace with your brother,’ Bell-the-Cat advised, then erupted into a fit of coughing. ‘He’s already proved what he can do. There may be another way to secure the alliance with France.’ At this his gaze grew pointed. ‘Anne of Brittany is not well, you know. The king could be a valuable commodity.’
I laughed; the sound was without joy and grated on my ears. ‘I’d be valuable to him, you mean. Imagine, Louis VII, King of France and King Consort of Scotland. Henry would die.’
‘It is a possibility not to be overlooked,’ Bell-the-Cat insisted as he was wracked by another fit of coughing. ‘In any event, Your Grace, a sound alliance with a good man here at home may serve you well, as another consideration. Someone who will advise you, protect you and our young king.’
‘Oh, Bell-the-Cat, and lose my regency?’ I reached out to him,
placing my hands upon his shoulders. I could not bear to tell him I would never lower myself into marrying the poxy and decrepit King of France and I could not think of any good Scotsman to ally myself with either. ‘You need to return to your home at Tantallon. You need rest, my dear lord, and time to grieve.’
‘I am loathe to leave you during your trials, Your Grace,’ he confessed in gruff tones.
‘I am loathe to let you go,’ I admitted. ‘But you must so that you might return to me strong and able.’
He bowed.
‘Farewell, good councillor,’ I murmured to his retreating back.
I will never see you again.
Though I received a message from my brother through Lord Dacre assuring me that my sister-in-law sent her love and hopes for peace, my anger resurged, fierce and hot as I imagined her commanding my husband’s body to be sent to Henry. She fancied herself a warrior-queen like her mother, Isabella of Castile, who was just as renowned for her cruelty during the Inquisition.
I crumpled the dispatch in my hand in fury, gritting my teeth a long moment before relaxing.
Peace. She wanted peace. Was that not my goal as well? This had to end. Scotland could not take another loss.
I could not take another loss.
If I could just win the support of my council, if I could just convince them that I was not working in the best interests of England but for Scotland. As it was they tried to oust me at every turn and commanded all the greatest fortresses in the country.
‘I have never felt so completely alone,’ I confessed to my Moorish lady, my favourite attendant, Ellen. The bond I secured with her had never been achieved with any of my other women, which made me value her all the more.
We were in my apartments. I rubbed my swollen belly; the baby was kicking now and a lump swelled in my throat as I thought of the father who would never feel it, never see it …
‘Poor Ellen, you must be weary of my tears,’ I said.
Ellen shook her noble head. She was tall and regal in her red taffeta gown. Her tight black curls cascaded down her back in ringlets impossible for a white woman to achieve. To look at her was to be stunned.
‘You will endure, Your Grace,’ she assured me in her melodious accent. ‘God will grant you the strength. We both came here as slaves, you and I, ripped from our people and our homes. If we can survive what we have thus far, we can survive anything. The worst is behind us.’
As I beheld the dark beauty I wondered what else she had survived. For all the years I had known her she had been my confidante but shared very little of herself. I never pried but instead took strength in her wisdom, hoping whatever she derived from me in return was enough to sustain her regard for me.
I reached out, taking her hand. ‘If only I were not so lonely. I think of him all the time, Ellen … I try not to. I try to busy myself with affairs of state – God knows there are enough of them. But at night, when I am alone in my bed, feeling our baby kick and stir within me as some kind of mockery to what was and what will never be, I am tormented by thoughts of him. And I am so angry at him for leaving me with this!’
Ellen bowed her head as she sat beside me on my chaise. ‘You must think of the new king now and your little baby to come, not as an affront to what was but as your husband’s legacy to you and your people. Focus on them. Take comfort in them. You have the power to do so much good.’
She echoed the words of my dear brother Arthur, spoken so many years ago, in times so very different from these.
‘How can I do good if my council prevents me?’ I persisted, knowing she did not have the answer.
‘Find an ally,’ she said, insinuating Bell-the-Cat’s blatant suggestion. ‘A good, strong ally to protect you. Perhaps together you can do right by the people.’
‘An ally …’ I sank back into my chaise, thinking.
Who did I know that I could possibly trust?
‘Oh, Ellen, would that you had the power I would ally myself to you!’ I cried with a sudden rare smile.
‘Wouldn’t we be the talk of Christendom!’ Ellen exclaimed. ‘Imagine all we could accomplish while the rest of the world was consumed with the scandal of it!’
But our laughter converted to bittersweet tears soon enough.
As Bell-the-Cat so aptly put it, we were in sorry estate.
BOOK 3
The Douglas
10
The Ally
No sooner was I made regent than I was being torn between the interests of my divided countrymen: those in favour 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 favouritism. 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 favour 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 garm
ents.
‘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.
Tudor Princess, The Page 12
