by D. L. Bogdan
Aunty Anne and Lord Thomas Howard pushed me in my favorite swing as my king approached with long, confident strides. Oh, what a handsome spectacle he was! In his arms were cradled two squat black terriers with coarse fur and long squared-off snouts.
“They’re called Skye terriers,” Jamie informed me, his voice infused with his infectious enthusiasm as he placed the wriggling creatures in my arms. “Do you know what Skye means?”
I nodded, proud of myself for remembering. “It is Scotland’s true name,” I said.
“Very good. They are a feisty breed but very affectionate and fiercely loyal.”
“Ah, then they will suit their mistress well.” I laughed, fingering one pup’s gem-studded collar.
“What will you call them?” he asked.
“I shall call the girl Skye,” I said. “And the boy will be named . . .” I put my finger to my chin in thought. “Bruce! After Robert the Bruce!”
“Ah, my little Scottish bride!” Jamie cried, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “Are you quite comfortable and taken care of then?”
“Aye, my lord,” I answered, flushing.
“Then I shall leave you to get acquainted,” he said, offering a deep bow and kissing my hand. After a series of bows and curtsies, he departed with some of his courtiers, leaving me to my pups and my play.
“I suppose we should begin overseeing the details for our return,” remarked Lord Surrey.
Startled, I raised my eyes to him. Return. Of course my English court must leave. They could not stay forever. I knew that. Why did my heart lurch in surprise? I turned toward Lady Surrey and Aunty Anne. Would I see them again? A lump swelled my throat.
“Would that you could all stay a little longer,” I lamented in soft tones.
“There will be visits,” Aunty Anne reassured me.
I bowed my head. Though I appreciated her attempt to cheer me, I knew the likelihood of visiting to be very slim. This was a long, arduous journey; few ever took it twice. I would receive English ambassadors, perhaps an occasional border lord. No friends, no family. They were leaving.
“Come, Thomas,” Surrey commanded in his gravelly tone. “Let us commence.”
Lord Thomas turned to Aunty Anne, offering a gentle smile as he leaned in to press his lips against hers. For a brief moment I was allowed a glimpse into her world; his face emanated love in its form most pure and I was swept up in it. Would Jamie ever look at me that way? He looked upon me with fondness and affection already, but not quite love. Not yet. Soon, I hoped.
Lord Thomas’s expression was fleeting, converting to the stony mask that I had come to associate with him. He offered a bow, kissing my hand as was required, then departed with Surrey.
Though they were soon out of sight, their voices carried on the wind and I heard Surrey mutter, “I’ve sent word to the king about his new son-in-law.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Lord Thomas.
“Ah, that he’s a little too hungry for a Crusade—thinks he’s a regular King Arthur. Doesn’t see things as they are—a hopeless romantic. But I think he’s trustworthy enough for a Scot.” He sighed. “Well, let’s hope he gets a babe on her soon, before one of his bastards gets any ideas.”
I rose, clutching the pups to my chest, my flat, childish chest. My face was hot, my breathing shallow. Tears burned my eyes.
“Your Grace—” Lady Surrey reached for my shoulder.
“Hush!” I commanded, straining my ears.
“At least someone had the good sense to remove the Drummond girl or Scotland very well could have had another Margaret as queen,” Surrey went on. His voice was growing softer as he grew farther out of earshot.
“A pity the sisters went down with her,” Lord Thomas said. “Three girls poisoned at breakfast.”
“What’s three girls?” Lord Surrey retorted with a brief, joyless laugh.
“Ask their father,” Lord Thomas returned, his tone bitter.
Surrey’s reply could not be heard. I whirled upon his wife. “Make me understand, for love of God!” I breathed, tears filling my eyes.
Lady Surrey’s face was wistful. “It was cruel of my husband to speak of such things when he clearly knew you would hear him.” She pursed her lips a moment. “I suppose in his own strange way he means well—in true Howard manner he is trying to prepare you for the situation before the court leaves.” She drew in a wavering breath, closing her eyes. “Lady Margaret Drummond was King James’s mistress for many years. To remove the possible threat of her usurping your rightful place as queen she was poisoned at her breakfast. Unfortunately, two of her sisters ingested the poison as well and—”
Margaret, sweet Margaret. It was not me he cried for in his sleep but her. Was that why he called me Maggie? Because he could not bear to utter the name of his lost love? Oh, God, my handsome prince . . . Was there any hope that he would ever love me?
With effort I stilled my quivering lip. “Wh-who did it?”
Lady Surrey shook her head. “No one knows, Your Grace. Likely, those who had the interests of Scotland at heart. Someone who did not want the Douglases or the Drummonds to rise to power through the girl. Some even suspect—” She lowered her eyes, biting her lip.
“Who, Lady Surrey?” I demanded through gritted teeth.
“No one, Your Grace,” she said quickly.
“I command you to tell me!” I ordered, so angry I was unable to derive pleasure in the fact that I was commanding someone about.
She averted her head, her voice a whisper so soft it was barely audible. “Some suspect your father may have arranged it, Your Grace, to clear your path of obstacles.”
I shook my head. I refused to believe this; I could not bear to have my vision of my father, my stoic, honorable father, altered in any way. In firm tones I said, “Careful you do not speak treason against your king. He is not capable of ordering such cruelty. It was not he; do not even suggest it.”
“I was not going to until you commanded me, Your Grace,” she replied.
“You must not think of it, dearest,” Aunty Anne urged in her soft voice. “You are the queen, the only queen, and none can take your place.”
“What’s more important is I am his wife. His wife.” My voice was heated with fervency. “His Mistress Stewart. And I will never let him forget it.”
But my confidence was forever shaken. Three girls were poisoned, one for daring to love a king and two because they were in the wrong place at the worst of times. If three lives could be extinguished with such ease and lack of conscience then what could become of me should a party among these wild Scots decide I was less than worthy of sitting beside James IV?
I laid a hand upon my flat belly. A baby. I would have a prince and soon. My throne would be secured. Panic gripped me as another thought assaulted me.
Bastards. Plural.
Jamie, my sweet, handsome Jamie, had children.
With supreme effort, I went through the motions for the rest of the day. I played with my new pups, I ate heartily at supper and laughed at the Fools, ever in competition with each other. I played my lute and led the courtiers in song. It would have been a most merry sport were my mind not viciously taunting me with the afternoon’s revelation.
When Jamie and I were alone my temper could no longer be controlled. The moment he entered our chambers I burst into tears.
“Maggie, child, what is it?” he cried, approaching me to place his hands on my shoulders. His face was stricken at my distress and I was glad of it, reminding myself that this could prove a useful technique in future encounters.
“How many, Your Grace?” I seethed, unable to discern his features through my tearful haze.
“How many . . . ?” His face was wrought with confusion. “Maggie, please, child, calm yourself. Tell me what has happened.”
“How many children have you sired?” I sniffled, wiping my cheeks with my palms.
Jamie dropped his hands from my shoulders and backed away. “Oh, Maggie . . . I had hope
d to spare you of this until I deemed you more equipped to manage such news. But the court relishes their gossip. I should have known it would not take too long before rumors reached you.”
“Are they rumors or truths?” I demanded, my chest still heaving with sobs.
He cocked his head, pursing his lips, his eyes making an appeal for an understanding I could not give. After a moment’s more hesitation he said, “It is true. I have children.”
“How many?” I persisted.
“Five.”
“Five?” I cried. “Five? God’s blood, aren’t you the profligate!” I balled my hands into fists. “Two or three I could perhaps understand—perhaps—but five! And all by the same mother?”
He shook his head.
With wild abandon, I began removing pins from my hair and throwing them at him. They bounced off of him, useless as my tears.
“Five little threats to your throne!” I went on, my eyes gone painfully dry with rage. “Did you ever think at all before you brought them into this world of the effect they could have on your future? On Scotland’s future? And these women . . . these—these—” I searched for a word, a word nasty enough to encompass what these women were to me, a word unfit to spring forth from a queen’s lips, a word I had heard long ago. “These whores of yours! Surely they were happy to give you children in the hopes of raising themselves high and the children even higher!”
Jamie remained very quiet during my tirade and when at last I could think of no more insults to hurl forth he approached. I could not read his face. Perhaps I had gone too far . . . perhaps in my unbridled anger I had sabotaged any growing affection he may have harbored for me.
To my astonishment he swept me up in his arms and carried me across the floor to the window seat and, holding me across his lap, he sat, cradling me against his chest.
“Maggie,” he began, his intoxicating tone low as he stroked my hair. “Try and remember, little one, that for the whole of your life I have been a grown man. And ’tis true there are many times when my excessively amorous nature ruled over sound logic. I canna speak for the ladies’ motivations, but I would like to think they were not so sordid as you imply. But then”—he shrugged—“I do not know. I do know that my children, despite whatever favor showered upon them, will never usurp the place of the royal children, neither in my heart nor on the throne of Scotland.”
“But you do not know what they could do, what they may be capable of when they grow up and begin to lust for a power they may see as their birthright,” I told him, my voice small with fear.
“A legitimate concern, and one I have taken into consideration. But the relationship I promote with my children is a loving one and it is my hope they will be too bound to me through their affection to ever conspire against me,” he reasoned.
“And their mothers? Or your enemies? Are they so ‘bound to you through their affection’ that they will not use them against you?”
Jamie flinched. “There is no way of knowing.” He bowed his head. “I was used in such a way. . . .” His eyes clouded over as he shook his head, as though ridding himself of dark and terrible thoughts. “I was prevented from knowing my father . . . and his enemies used me against him in the worst way imaginable.”
“How?” I asked, my jealousy yielding to concern as I noted the profound sadness etched upon my husband’s features.
“We must not discuss such things, dearest. Only know that I am raising my children in the hopes that our closeness will cultivate a loyalty that the cleverest of my enemies canna permeate. I—I love them, Maggie,” he told me. “Can you understand?” Tears welled bright in his green eyes. They sparkled like emeralds. “It is my hope that someday you can meet them and perhaps . . . perhaps grow to care for them. I would never expect you to love them as your own but perhaps . . . Do not think on it; it is a lot to ask now, but . . . someday.”
Indeed I could not bear to think of it, but to prevent any discord I said nothing, bowing my head and pursing my lips should they decide to betray me by blurting out something even more unbecoming than had already been spoken.
“What are their names?” I asked at last, unsure if I wanted to know but feigning sincerity to remain in his good graces.
“There is James, Alexander and Catherine, Margaret.” This he said with a flinch and I assumed she was by that other Margaret. “And Janet.”
I was silent a long time. “Quite the family,” I remarked before I could help myself. “Well, someday we’ll have our own babies and you will have to love them most,” I added with a scowl.
Jamie sighed, said nothing, and began to sway.
My mind raced; my heart pounded. He is my husband! I wanted to shout to his mistresses, present and former. Mine and not yours! And someday I would have the only children who could mean anything to Scotland.
6
Margaret the Queen
My English court, my English friends and family, left me. I was alone in this country, an English princess made a Scots queen. I watched the procession depart with all their pomp and fanfare, tears grown cold upon my wind-chapped cheeks. Jamie’s arm was about my waist; he squeezed me to him, holding me upright. I was glad of it. I was weighed down by the finery.
“You will make new friends,” he reassured me.
I was too numb with sorrow to nod. The procession grew smaller and smaller till it became a distant snake, slithering down the Scottish countryside and out of Edinburgh, out of my life. They returned to my home, to my father, to the places and the people I would not see, not ever again.
I had my adopted country to acquaint myself with. I was given Scottish ladies and as time passed I not only found myself understanding their harsh dialect but also heard myself slipping into it.
I was becoming a Scot.
My husband came to me now and again to repeat the obligatory act we were avowed to perform for the good of our country. But as yet there was no pleasure to be found in it. It did not happen often enough and when it did it was always in the dark. We had been married nigh on two years and I had yet to see my husband as God made him and he had yet to see me.
Yet he was as attentive as he could be. Gifts were showered upon me; we hawked and hunted together and he praised my skill with the bow. As promised we frolicked in the loch; Jamie held me and taught me the forbidden art of the swim, but I found the most pleasure hanging on to his neck while he cut through the water like an eel.
Music was another of our favorite pastimes and we played together. I strummed my lute while his slim fingers danced upon his favorite organ. I adored hearing him sing; at times he talked through the songs as much as sang them and bubbles of laughter collected at the base of my throat as I took him in, enchanted. I sang out in a voice strong and clear and Jamie smiled in genuine appreciation. He was nothing if not genuine.
And ever generous, allowing me to have as many new gowns as I desired. I loved to order costumes for masques. Anything I wanted was brought to me; I lacked nothing. I needed nothing. And yet there was this loneliness, profound and persistent even through the lavish entertainments I hosted for my new friends and family. Scotland was littered with Stewarts and I tried to learn every name. They fussed over me, calling me a pretty thing, but no one demonstrated a genuine love of me yet. Jamie said that was nonsense, everyone loved me. It would be impossible not to. Though I believed this should be the way of it, it remained untrue nonetheless. I felt it. I was tolerated because I was securing peace with their longtime enemy.
There were some I had grown fond of, however, though I could not say they were close to me. The poet William Dunbar, who composed many a verse praising my beauty or simply to entertain, served as a worthy companion and courtier and was always quick to bring a smile to my face. Another was the privateer Sir Robert Barton, a straightforward man with a rather captivating gift for storytelling, and I was always thrilled to be regaled with his adventures on the high seas, and, even better, by the many exotic gifts bestowed upon me as tribute.
&n
bsp; None of the women impressed me much, however. Though I conversed and danced with my ladies, I could call none of them friend, not really. My dearest friend was my husband and I spent as much time enjoying him as I did being jealous of him, jealous of his experience, of his age, of those who admired him with as much conviction as I.
I had even grown jealous of God, for Jamie spent a great deal of time with Him, going on pilgrimages to the shrines of Saint Niniane and Saint Duthlac. I hated when Jamie left me and was not shy about making him aware of my displeasure.
“Going to have another conversation with God?” I snapped one morning as he readied himself for his departure in our chambers at my least favorite castle of Edinburgh.
Jamie strode toward me to cup my cheek. “I regret you canna understand my . . . need to be near Him at times.”
“Oh, I understand,” I said. “Tell me—the technicalities confuse me—do your mistresses accompany you to the shrine or do you visit them after? Or do you all sort of worship together at the altar—or on the altar as the case may be?”
“Maggie!”
“Dinna let me keep you! Go off to your Saint Niniane and leave me here, here in this cold, solitary place and me so lonely I could scream! And you dinna even care about me at all!” I cried.
Jamie took me in his arms, holding me fast. “Never say such things, Maggie, you know it is untrue,” he urged.
“Not at all—not at all!” I reiterated, enjoying the effect of my words on my husband and pulling away, folding my arms across my blossoming breasts. At least something was happening there. I wished the process could be sped along so I would be too irresistible to abandon for a shrine and whatever else he might be devoting himself to.
“Please do not go,” I pleaded in soft tones, my anger fading to misery as my arms dropped to my sides.
“I must, little one, but only for a short time,” he told me, taking me in his arms and kissing the top of my head. “When I get back we shall go on progress, how about that? To Falkland Palace, our favorite. Would you like that?”
