‘If I have learned anything from Angus, I have learned one thing,’ Jamie returned in cool tones. ‘I trust no one.’
I understood; after all he had been through, why should he? Yet I was stricken just the same.
A messenger kept us abreast of the situation as my son rode against the Douglases. I was sewing in my apartments with my ladies while he informed us of the latest.
‘He borrowed cannon from the castle of Dunbar, Your Grace,’ the young man told me. ‘But of course Tantallon was strong against the attack,’ he added, nodding to me as if we were in on this summation of events together. ‘The king was forced to retreat, but the Earl of Argyll won the day for him in the end.’
‘His Majesty is safe?’ I asked, reaching out, squeezing my Ellen’s hand in mine. It felt bony, where once it had been plump and warm. Now a strange coldness had settled into her that caused me to tremble more for her sake than my son’s. I dismissed my momentary worry, squeezing her hand harder.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘His Majesty is safe.’
The tension stretching my shoulders taut relaxed. The throbbing pain of anxiety in my brow eased a bit. ‘You are dismissed, thank you,’ I said with a smile. ‘Ladies, you are all dismissed, save for Ellen.’
After the flurry of skirts and sewing was packed away and the ladies left, I turned to Ellen.
‘My poor son was humiliated, I am sure,’ I told her. ‘I hope he isn’t taking it too hard.’
‘Still,’ Ellen reasoned, ‘it is a good lesson for him to learn. He must not react rashly among these clansmen and he needs to take some counsel.’
‘I had told him as much,’ I said. ‘But,’ I added with a sigh, ‘he is sixteen.’
‘Sixteen …’ Ellen’s sigh was not as light as mine; it was fraught with a deep sadness that seeped straight into my bones. ‘Were we ever so young?’
‘It feels a lifetime ago,’ I said.
‘So …’ Ellen offered a sly glance at my belly. ‘The king has triumphed, at least for the moment. There is nothing preventing you from telling Lord Methven of the little bairn now, is there?’
‘Ellen, how long have you known?’ I countered with a laugh. I could never resent her intuition.
Ellen shook her head. ‘Your Grace, I know you better than anyone.’
‘It’s true,’ I said, my voice heavy with the wistfulness of nostalgia.
At once it struck me to the core that as well as Ellen knew me, I did not know her at all. I swallowed an onset of tears. Was it too late? Or was it not meant to be that kind of friendship for us, with shared secrets, hopes, and dreams?
Perhaps it did not matter.
‘Your Grace, may I be dismissed? I am a bit tired,’ Ellen told me, then, her hand fleeing to her breast a moment, before resting again in her lap.
‘Of course, darling,’ I told her. ‘Get some rest, my friend …’ I bit my lip as she rose, watching her wobble a bit on her feet as she packed her sewing away. ‘Ellen … is there anything you need?’
Ellen offered her sweet smile that seemed to hold so much more knowledge than mine, as if she were in on some divine secret I could only guess at.
‘No,’ she assured me. ‘There is nothing you can do.’ She approached, leaning in to offer a soft kiss upon my forehead. ‘Except, Your Grace … remember Lord Methven. He needs you.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, of course, I could never forget my dear husband,’ I said.
I didn’t know what she meant. I should have. But I didn’t.
Perhaps I chose not to.
Alone that night, Harry and I dined in my apartments on roast peacock, one of my favourites, and I made a fuss over Jamie’s battle against Angus, attributing all the glory to him, of course, a fantasy in which Harry was kind enough to indulge.
‘I am hoping he will drive them out of Scotland and not carry through the death sentences,’ I told Harry.
‘You still are fond of Angus, aren’t you?’ Harry asked me then.
‘How can you even think that?’ I challenged, my voice light. ‘He is young Margaret’s father, however. It seems unchristian to see him dead. He was wrong for what he did to Jamie. But I was wrong for what I did to him. I wonder if he knows that.’
‘What did you do, Margaret?’ Harry tilted a brow. He was not quite accusatory, but his voice was tense with caution. ‘Was it that you were a widow with child, vulnerable and alone, and fell to his charms? Was that so great a sin?’
I shook my head. ‘I know what he did; I know what his grandfather did to push him. It was wrong of me to ever take him in. He could not handle it. He could not handle me.’
Harry lowered his eyes, staring at his plate, which was for the most part untouched, something quite unlike him. His appetite was almost always ravenous.
‘Anyway, Harry,’ I said, reaching over to take his hand in mine. ‘Dinna let’s worry about Angus tonight when there is so much to celebrate. Jamie’s victory … and our child.’
Harry’s full mouth fell agape. He raised his blue eyes to me; they were softened with tears. ‘Really?’ he breathed. ‘Margaret, are you sure you can bear it? Are you well enough, strong enough?’
I waved a hand in dismissal of his outrageous implication of my age. ‘Many women bear children in their thirties and survive.’
‘But you are almost forty,’ Harry interjected.
‘Dinna remind me,’ I muttered. ‘I have borne many and I have always come through, no matter how sick I have been.’ I patted my belly. ‘It has quickened,’ I said with a smile. ‘I feel it is God’s reparation to us, Harry.’
‘And a sign that you need to slow down now,’ Harry told me, his voice firm. ‘It is time to step back a bit from public life, from the king. He has good men around him now, and of course I will always guide him in what modest ways I can. But now it’s time for us to concentrate on our family, on us. We should retire to Methven Castle; you can set up a confinement chamber there and we will be away from all this. I want you and our baby to be well, to thrive. We can get young Margaret from Edinburgh, if you like; I am sure she would love to be a part of her new brother or sister’s life, and wouldn’t you like to have her beside you again?’
My heart lurched at this. ‘Harry … it is so wonderful, what you are saying. But to leave Jamie when his grip on his throne is so precarious and new … I dinna know if I can do it. And I feel strong and lusty. I can bear public life as I always have. And young Margaret is happy where she is; there is no need to disturb her just yet, not till I go into confinement; then perhaps she can come and spend time with me and the baby when he is born.’
Harry’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. He bowed his head. ‘Margaret, His Majesty is so strong willed, just like you. He will never let his throne go, even at his tender age. And the men he has chosen to surround himself with are wise. He seeks counsel from France, from your gracious brother the king, and from so many more. I am certain if he needs us he will make it known and we will be there; if you canna, I surely will in your stead. But you are of an age now where you need to rest more, in your condition. I want you to be safe, Margaret; I want the baby to be lusty as you are.’
I patted his hand. ‘Eat your peacock, darling, and stop fretting like an old woman,’ I teased, flinching as he furrowed his brow, knowing I had insulted him. ‘Harry, I appreciate what you are saying and it is noted, of course. But please trust me. When it is time for confinement we can go to Methven Castle. But for now, we need to be close at hand for Jamie. We need to be a solid presence in his life; Scotland needs to know we are behind him and that the roles we play in his life are not small ones.’
‘But Margaret,’ Harry said in tones soft with hurt. ‘He is the king, isn’t he?’
‘Of course he is!’ I declared with another laugh, made edgy with nervousness. ‘But he is just a boy, Harry. He needs us.’
Harry rose from the table.
‘Harry, you haven’t finished your supper. Sit down, won’t you?’ I gestured to his plate. ‘Come n
ow, this is our celebratory meal!’
‘I prithee pardon, my lady,’ Harry said in cool tones. ‘But I am not much for celebrating tonight … I wonder how His Majesty will take the news of being a brother again. As it is he has … three or four? At least four bastards of his own, all with different ladies.’
My stomach turned to rock. Nausea gripped my throat. It was my life all over again, a mockery of my life, and Jamie was not James V but James IV. I shook my head.
‘You are jesting,’ I said, attempting a chuckle that strangled itself in my throat. ‘You are jesting! Harry, I just informed you that you are to be a father and this is how you act? My God, you ungrateful little man!’
Harry approached me, leaning forward to kiss the top of my head. ‘A mother and grandmother in one year. Isn’t that something?’
‘Oh, get out!’ I cried, rising from my chair, causing it to jostle on its legs. ‘Get out, anyway! I shall celebrate alone, as I always do!’
Harry’s bow was stiff. ‘Then I bid you good night, my lady. Enjoy your supper and your … celebrations …’
Harry quit the room and I sank into my chair, laying my head on my folded arms and sobbing.
21
The Princesses of Scotland
In November I was preparing for Christmas early from my confinement chamber at Stirling. I wanted to have a good Christmas with Harry and Jamie and the new baby, despite the unpleasantness revealed the night I informed Harry of our blessing. Jamie’s matters would resolve themselves when he married, and I was considering more and more my brother’s proposition of his daughter, Princess Mary, for his bride. His children by his mistresses would be heaped in honours, just as his half brothers and half sisters were by his father before him, and his ladies well compensated as royal mistresses always seem to be, the lucky little wenches. Marriage would tame him, and if he was able to sire so many children there was no doubt it would be fruitful. The sooner to get him wed, the better. I resolved to make it a priority.
But as to Christmas, I hoped to make at least part of Harry’s wish come true and bring Margaret from her household to celebrate with us at Stirling. I would throw a feast and perhaps even a masque. We would all be happy and at peace and Harry would let go his silly desire to retire to Methven. All would be restored. I would spoil Harry and the children with the best of everything in my power to procure. It would be a happy Christmas.
I regaled Ellen with my plans, hoping to rouse her from her malaise. She always had a good head for planning things, and perhaps a new gown would cheer her as well, if I could afford it. I hated asking for money, but I wasn’t above it, especially at this crucial time of preserving my family and marital peace.
One day as we chattered under the pretext of sewing garments for the new baby, we were interrupted by Harry bursting into the room without ceremony. He was breathing hard, his forehead and cheeks ruddy and glistening with sweat.
‘Harry, how rude of you to come so unkempt,’ I said, mildly annoyed that my time with my truest friend was interrupted. ‘What is it?’
‘Your Grace.’ He bowed as he approached me. ‘Mistress Ellen.’ He offered another nod in her direction, which she returned. ‘I wanted you to hear it from me first,’ he told me. My heart began to thud. Sweat mirroring his own began to gather at my hairline.
‘Harry, this is serious, isn’t it?’ I breathed. ‘Something has happened.’ My stomach began to twist as I swallowed back burning bile. ‘Jamie. Is Jamie all right?’
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and nodded with a sigh I detected exasperation in. ‘Yes, the king is fine, my lady. It is Margaret.’
‘Margaret?’ I screwed up my face in confusion. ‘What on earth could be wrong with Margaret? She has not taken ill, has she?’
Harry shook his head. ‘No, she is not ill. She has been taken by Angus, Your Grace. He has fled Scotland with her.’
My hand flew to my breast as the baby offered a hard jab to my bladder. I doubled over. ‘No … oh, no …’
My daughter, the little fair stranger I had borne Angus … he had taken her, as he had taken Jamie, as he had taken everything, and I did not protect her, I was not there.
I had failed her as I had failed so many times before.
‘What are we to do?’ I breathed. Ellen took my hand, rubbing it. Mine was limp in hers. ‘Oh, God, Harry, what are we to do?’
‘She is at Berwick,’ Harry said. ‘You may wish to consult His Majesty King Henry on this; perhaps he can be of help.’
I nodded, numb. ‘Yes … yes, of course.’ I turned to Ellen, reaching out to pat her cheek. ‘Leave us, darling,’ I said, and she rose to do my bidding. Once we were alone, I reached out my hands. Harry took them.
‘Harry … if we had gone to Methven, like you said …’ I could not speak. Tears choked me. ‘Oh, Harry—’
Harry shook his head, drawing me from my bed to hold me near. His steady heartbeat beneath his doublet was strong, reassuring. I nuzzled against his shoulder.
‘It is not your fault, Margaret,’ he told me, stroking the back of my hair. ‘It is not your fault.’
But I knew better. Harry was being charitable, that we might keep the peace, which had been so delicate of late.
It was completely and entirely my fault.
My labour pains began on my birthday; it was a bit early but not dangerously so. I bore down, anticipating another dreadful birthing experience, wondering how I could ever pursue young Margaret and Angus if my recovery was as slow as when I had had Margaret. With Ellen and my ladies and a competent midwife, I endured. It was a blessing that it proved not to be as hard as I dreaded, and my fair-haired little girl was brought into the world with relative ease on 29 November.
I took her in my arms, grateful I was able to hold her so soon after the birth, unlike many times before when I had been too ill to hold my other children. She was tiny and pale, thinner than her siblings.
‘What will you call her?’ Ellen asked me.
‘I rather like the name Dorothea,’ I said. ‘Harry fancies it, too.’
‘It is a lovely name,’ Ellen assured me, reaching out to take the baby. ‘Now get some rest while Lord Methven is fetched. He will want to see his new little angel.’
Weariness overcame me as soon as the word ‘rest’ fled Ellen’s lips, and I sank back into the pillows. ‘I hope he is happy. Perhaps next time it will be a boy … but of course perhaps God is sending me this little girl to replace young Margaret …’
Ellen cocked her head, scrunching her nose up and regarding me as if I had said something strange.
I closed my eyes and allowed sleep to carry me away, to lands where I could see the other babies I had borne, babies who were no longer here …
My family was as broken as it had ever been. The months passed, Christmas falling short of my expectations once again, as no one was in a celebratory mood and I was still weak from Dorothea’s birth. Though I wrote to Wolsey, my brother’s adviser, and my brother himself, no one would venture to rescue my Margaret. Instead, Henry arranged that she be brought to his court and be raised beside the Princess Mary. She was gone. I had lost her as surely as if she had died, and I knew I would never see her again, as I would never see the court of England again. She was the daughter of an English princess and would be raised to be a good English maid.
Was it a kinder fate than what Scotland could offer?
I wanted to think so.
‘I never talked to her,’ I confessed to Ellen one night while I rocked Dorothea in her ornate cradle Harry himself helped fashion for her. He did not seem the least bit offended that I had given him a girl; in fact, he seemed mad for the little golden-haired cherub. As for me, I spent as much time with her as I could; I would not repeat with Dorothea my mistakes with Margaret, mistakes that haunted me almost every waking moment.
‘Did you know? I never talked to her,’ I repeated, referring again to Margaret. ‘I canna even remember one meaningful word we have ever, ever spoken to one another, be
yond letters and such. Oh, I fussed over her as a babe and whenever we saw each other as she grew I petted her, of course. But … I never really talked to her. She is thirteen years old and I have never even talked to her!’
‘I know, Your Grace,’ Ellen said. Of course she knew. She knew everything, every dark recess of my soul, which I was certain was now damned, if it hadn’t been before. ‘I know,’ she said again, in her cooing voice.
‘At least I have Dorothea,’ I sighed, looking down into the cradle where lay the sleeping babe. Tears clouded my vision. ‘At least I have her …’
‘Lessons abound, Your Grace,’ Ellen said.
I was tired of learning them.
By the next summer I had recovered well. I was still stouter than I hoped to be, but I was now forty and could not expect much. I was lucky to have lived to forty, as it were. My brother, in a comic twist of irony, was making any attempt he could to further his cause of divorcing Queen Catherine in favour of Anne Boleyn.
‘What do you make of that?’ Ellen had asked me one evening as we were preparing to receive an ambassador from the Vatican to assess our perspective on the situation.
‘I find it hilarious,’ I said. ‘In light of the vulgar things he said about me, and to me, when I dared go against convention and divorce Angus. He didn’t even wait two years before seriously pursuing his own divorce. Ah, hypocrisy …’ I chuckled. ‘Only my brother. He can justify any move he makes and never see the parallels between himself and those he criticises for the same choices.’
Ellen echoed my laughter. ‘Poor Queen Catherine, I wonder how she fares.’
I shrugged. ‘I couldn’t care less. After her triumph over my husband’s death, and her joining in my scolding for the Angus affair, I see it as divine retribution. I wonder how above me she sees herself now that her own daughter is kept from her and she canna do anything about it, especially after her criticism of me when I was separated from my boys.’ I remembered the conversation at Baynard’s Castle too well, when she dared imply my unfitness as a mother. Divine retribution has a bitter taste, doesn’t it, Catherine? I thought with a sneer.
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