by D. L. Bogdan
At last in February my waters broke. It was a queer sensation, the warm liquid that poured down my legs followed by the tight, searing pains that seized my belly and caused me to cry out with surprise. The room was filled with at least a hundred people to witness the occasion. There must be no mistakes in birthing a prince; no imposters, no monsters that are switched with a healthy country babe. The onlookers would crowd and cram about my bed and watch me, legs spread and coated in blood, hair matted to my forehead with sweat, as I delivered them a prince. They took my air away; I could not breathe. There were so many of them! I could not stand it. I choked on my screams, trying to retain some kind of dignity during this ordeal. My breath came in spurts, faster and faster till my head began to tingle and hum. Dots of light danced before my eyes till I saw nothing but light, white, carrying me away to a world of colors—blue for the waters carrying my son into this world, red for the blood pounding in my ears and running down my legs, purple for the pain, the pain of royal expectations, the pain gripping my womb. Colors, they swirled and spun around me, faster, faster. I merged with them, floating in and out of their world, reaching, grasping. Peace. What was the color of peace?
And then I was plunged into blackness.
Voices permeated eternal night. My eyes would not open; they were laden down. Had they put the coins on my eyes already, lest they fly open and frighten the mourners?
“A bonny prince!” a male voice cried, but it was a strange cry; slow, drawn out. He was far away, in another realm. I could not get to him. My body would not move.
“The queen . . . near death . . . blood loss,” a woman was saying.
I wanted to hold out my arms for the child. They said I had a prince; I knew I would have a prince . . . I could not move. There was no strength. The blackness claimed me. I ran but stumbled, rendered blind. My soul was permitted this exercise, but my body remained still, chained into submission by my hemorrhage.
“Pilgrimage . . .” I heard the familiar low strain of Jamie’s voice resonate through my darkness. I wanted to speak, to beg him, No, do not go. Not another pilgrimage . . . Must reach him.
I could not.
He left.
They all left.
Blackness . . . blackness . . .
The celebrations ushering in Prince James’s entrance into this world were in full tilt when I at last regained consciousness. The baby was christened; the Bishop of Glasgow, Patrick Hepburn, who stood in as my proxy groom at my first wedding ceremony, and the Countess of Huntley were named godparents, and all without me.
I remained abed, weak as a kitten but at last able to hold my son. How bonny he was with his auburn hair and rosy skin! He smelled so sweet, like the milk of a country maid, calling to mind my days in the nursery at Sheen with my brothers and sister, and a knot welled at the base of my throat as I thought of my Arthur and how happy he would have been for me. How different would life have been had he lived. Would he and Princess Catherine have had a houseful of bonny princes by now?
I did not dwell on such unhappy speculations long but instead reveled in my son. Jamie was delighted with me and fussed over the prince as if he were his first child. He was ever solicitous and enjoyed cuddling with the boy as if he were a nurse. I basked in the affection he granted him, reveling in the fact that I had given Jamie what no other woman could: a prince and heir.
Indeed Scotland warmed to me as well; they were thrilled with their fertile queen, deferring to me with new respect. Gifts were sent to me from all over the land and England as well—bolts of fine fabric, plate, jewels.... I was in a thrill of delight as I sifted through the material and planned new gowns. I had recovered my figure with a few new curves to spare that served only to compliment me. I was a woman now, a woman, a wife, and a mother.
It was the last title I treasured most.
To celebrate Prince James’s birth a great tournament was held at Edinburgh Castle. Jamie was thrilled with Edinburgh’s newest installment of brass cannon and could not wait to show them off. In the courtyard the lists were set up and we were treated to a display to rival my father’s court. The Lady of Honor was my own attendant Black Ellen, a Moorish girl brought by Robert Barton from the mystical land of Africa and raised by the companion of Jamie’s daughter, Marjorie Lindsay. I found great comfort in the fascinating creature since her arrival; she was entertaining and honest, and as we were both foreigners in a foreign land I found I could relate to her in a way I could not with my Scottish ladies.
Ellen entered in a golden chariot, rendering the spectators breathless with her exotic allure. My eyes widened at the sight of the ebony-skinned beauty in her damask gown, which was trimmed with gold and green taffeta. The men were entranced by her. William Dunbar called her Muckle Lips for their fullness and speculated about what it would be like to kiss them.
“The victors will find out,” said Dunbar with a sly smile as he ogled her.
A wild encounter ensued, with bandits “threatening” poor Ellen. She was saved by a group of wild men dressed in goatskins with antlers weighing down their heads. They were led by the Wild Knight, who brandished his lance and sword, “defeating” all those who dared oppose him.
“Who can he be?” whispered the ladies, giggling behind their hands.
He removed his helmet, uncovering the tousled auburn hair and sparkling eyes of my Jamie. He beamed as he beheld me.
“My Wild Knight,” I murmured, extending my hand. He took it; his was trembling from the exertion. “My Jamie.”
“Maggie,” he whispered, laying upon my hand the sweetest of kisses. “You have made me a happy man.”
I cupped his cheek, wishing to emblazon the moment in my heart forever.
This must be the beginning, I thought, of something grand.
The bells that heralded my son’s birth tolled out their heavy mourning song a year later after the baby, my baby, whom I held and rocked and kissed, died at Stirling. Mourners filled the streets, keening and wailing and beating their breasts for the little prince, who was accompanied to his tomb by knights in black livery.
My chest ached, my eyes were puffy, burning from the endless stream of tears that assaulted me day and night. I was with child again and reeling from the myriad of emotions that assaulted me when pregnant, all of them amplified by the horror of my loss. I lay in bed, pounding the mattress, tearing at my pillows, scratching my hands and forearms till little rivers of scarlet appeared bright against the stark alabaster skin. I screamed and raged and cursed; the ladies were in a terror of me.
We were fated to lose. My aunt the Lady Anne Howard had told me this. My mother knew it. All women know it. Babies were born and died every day. Queens were far from exempt.
It did not alter the pain. I was inconsolable. And the one person who could have consoled me had left me, gone on pilgrimage again in the hopes of appeasing God for whatever sin he believed cursed us with such grave misfortune.
“He goes on his pilgrimage and leaves me here to sort through this by myself!” I cried to Ellen, my fast and newfound friend, as she was another slave in exile like me. She sat beside me on my bed, shaking her dark head, unsure of how to comfort one who would receive no comfort.
“The king is a religious man; it is the only way he can see fit to bear it, Your Grace,” was all she could say.
“ ‘Religious man’!” I spat. “Don’t you see, Ellen? It is a staged play to him, an act. But an act he has convinced himself of. He is so theatrical! When he wants to be the chivalrous knight he plays it to the hilt! Now he is the grieving father, and though I believe he genuinely grieves, he will play the penitent to the hilt, too!” I scowled. “No doubt he takes comfort in the other children . . . and their mothers, their fertile mothers who are all too eager to spew out more bloody brats to threaten his throne!” I added darkly.
“Oh, Your Grace . . .” Ellen murmured, thoroughly perplexed. Her onyx eyes filled with tears. “Would that your pain could be eased.”
I offered a bitter s
mile. “It will be eased soon enough. As soon as this child is born. I proved myself capable; I will do so again. I will get through this, Ellen. I am a Tudor. What is gone canna be reclaimed; the baby is with God. Until his cradle is filled there will be no rest for me.” I began to laugh, an edgy, maniacal laugh. “I must secure the succession. I am the Royal Breeder . . . and breed I shall!”
I laughed with abandon; the sound grated on my ears. My eyes filled with burning tears.
“Oh, Ellen, help me!” I cried. “I’m so afraid!”
“Hold on to me, Your Grace,” Ellen ordered, her voice choking on a sob as she gathered me in her arms, breaking propriety in the hopes of saving a queen gone mad. She held me tight, stroking my hair and swaying to and fro. “Hold on to me as long as you need,” she added in a husky whisper.
“Jamie . . .” I murmured against her shoulder. “I want Jamie! Bring him home! Oh, bring him home!”
But no one brought him home.
He came in his own time.
Jamie returned, his shirt dried to his skin with blood so that it had to be peeled off. He ordered it done slowly so that he might appreciate the pain. I stood in his chambers watching with dry eyes as his servants flinched, recoiling from the sight of my beloved’s back, which bore fresh, angry new wounds. It was a map of rivers and tributaries whose destination was the ocean of his shattered heart; they surged and drove on in pain-ridden streams, coursing, ever coursing, into the fathomless scarlet depths of his despair as Jamie asked himself what more could be done to demonstrate his penitence. He added more links to his iron belt; it weighed heavily about his trim waist and the sweet white skin of his hips bore raw scrapes, bitter hallmarks of his strange self-punishment.
When the servants were dismissed Jamie lay facedown on his bed, staring without seeing at the wall.
“Why did you leave me to do this to yourself?” I asked in calm tones. I had a sincere desire to understand. “While you cried with each snap of the whip I cried here alone in a foreign land with only servants to comfort me. My heart, my one child, was ripped from me while you have five to comfort you with their laughter and their health. But you did not think of this. You thought of yourself, how to demonstrate your regret in this savage way, and God help me, I shall never understand—”
“Oh, my dearest girl, I am sorry I left you, but I had to go . . . I had to pay. It was my fault that he died!” he cried, sitting up, his face stricken with genuine despair. “You see? I have cursed the house of Stewart. My participation in my father’s death has cursed the line. I sire bastards by the score, but my prince, my heir, perishes and all because of my wickedness.”
I sat beside him, taking his hands in mine. “Jamie, have you ever thought to consider that this may not be about you at all? My mother and father lost several children and neither of them did anything to deserve it—goodness, everyone loses at least one child! The Howards—Surrey and his son Lord Thomas and Lady Anne, my aunt. They’ve lost children and all gathered up their strength to have more. It may very well have been God’s will to take our prince but not because of something you did.” I forced out a joyless laugh. “Why would God punish a baby for your crimes, real or imagined?”
“ ‘The sins of the father’ . . .” Jamie’s face was writ with terror.
“Pah!” I waved a dismissive hand.
“Maggie, I appreciate your sentiments, but you are no theologian. You dinna understand the complexities of God,” Jamie told me.
“And you do?” I returned, fury flushing my face as crimson as the scars snaking across his back. “You, who prostrate yourself at these shrines and beat yourself bloody, then proceed to bed the nearest wench in sight? Tell me, Jamie, what does God make of that?”
Jamie buried his face in his hands, heaving great broken sobs. “You are right, Maggie,” he admitted in soft tones, reaching his hand out. I took it, swallowing a painful lump rising in my throat. “There is something wrong with me . . . I am evil and my ways have favored you with nothing but heartbreak.”
“Jamie,” I cooed. I wanted to take him in my arms but feared hurting him. Even more I feared he’d derive a perverse pleasure in the pain, so I did nothing but gaze at this twisted creature in helplessness. “Jamie, you can change. You can do anything you want to do. If you are wracked with guilt by your actions, then for your own health and happiness you must change.”
Jamie rocked back and forth, trembling, his eyes wide with terror. He was afraid, I realized at once. Afraid of change, for change is more painful than the soundest whipping. It may have been easier to remain the way he was, a martyr to his passions. He sinned and sinned again, but all was made up for with the searing heat of the whip, the weight of the belt, and the salve of my pitiable tears.
If there was anyone bound to change in this marriage, I could see with heart-clenching clarity, it would not be Jamie.
7
The Stewart Curse
The suffocating heat of summer permeated my confinement chambers and I was slick with sweat, engulfed in darkness once more. All was still; my body would not obey me. I was gripped by pain but could not respond to it; my throat would not emit sound and was as dry as my eyes. I lay, unable to writhe, unable to call out, rendered a helpless slave to a dark force that claimed me once more.
God allowed me the use of my ears and, though I could not respond, I heard the midwife and ladies. I heard the footfalls, running about in a frantic flutter of anxiety. I wanted to ask after Jamie but could not will my mouth to move. I lay. I breathed. Darkness . . . oh, this darkness . . .
“She bleeds,” the midwife told the assemblage in urgent tones. “God help me, I canna stop the bleeding!” A cool hand was laid across my forehead. “And the poor child burns with fever.”
“God save the queen,” someone murmured, their voice far away.
Yes, God save me . . . God save me. . . .
I was enfolded in the darkness; what terrified me moments before became a comfort, a refuge. My womb shuddered and quivered, tensing and relaxing till it pushed something forth, a great wailing thing that was proclaimed to be a princess of Scotland. My legs shook. Something slippery gushed from between them. I was carried on waves of red, my life draining from me. I wanted to see her. I longed to see my little girl....
“Princess Margaret!” Jamie was crying. “We shall name her for her dear mother.”
Princess Margaret. I wanted to smile. Was she pretty? I wanted to ask. Was she a lusty Stewart girl?
No one could tell me. No one heard my thoughts and I was alone in the darkness.
I heard her crying for me. I knew it was for me. Her little cries grew weaker and weaker. I could not help her. I could not mother her. She was christened; I heard that from one of the ladies in my room. And when she cried no more she was buried beside her brother, the prince.
Still I could not move; the darkness consumed me. My body was numb, weak. My voice could not be summoned forth, not even to cry for my child, the baby I never laid eyes upon.
Jamie sat at my bedside stroking my face. “Can you forgive me if I go?” he whispered. “I canna lose you, Maggie. God restored you to me last time; if I go, if I do more penance, I know He will have mercy.” His lips brushed against my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth. “I love you, Maggie, God, how much! I go to plea for your life.”
I needed to summon the strength to beg him not to. He did his penance in sincerity but could never resist the temptation along the way. . . . Please, Jamie, do not go! But the words stayed silent, stuck in my impotent throat.
Jamie left. He always left.
“I’m starting to believe that His Grace does have the ear of God,” I said in weak tones to Ellen as she sat at my bedside. We were playing chess and she was losing on purpose. “Seems the moment he leaves I recover.”
“In body, perhaps,” observed my attendant. “But has your heart, Your Grace? There is none to remain strong for. No one would condemn a mother’s tears.”
I pursed my lips. “I fe
ar for myself, Ellen,” I confessed. “I want to cry. Sometimes I lie here trying to will the tears to come. But my eyes remain dry, so dry it is painful. I wonder, have I grown so cold, so heartless, that I am rendered incapable of human grief?” I shook my head in bewildered terror.
Ellen removed the chessboard to scoot closer to me. She took my hand, shaking her head. “No, Your dearest Grace. You are being affected in a different way is all.”
“I never saw her, Ellen,” I said in soft tones. “I never saw my baby girl. I heard her cry sometimes, even through that strange black mist that claimed me. And I thought . . . I thought she must be crying for me. Yearning for me. And I couldn’t be there! I . . . I couldn’t be a mother to her. She was all alone. Perhaps that is why she died, because she did not feel my love—”
Ellen’s face was writ with pity and I averted my head. “I am certain that is not true. Please, Your Grace, do not punish yourself for this.”
“No, His Grace has seized those reins,” I said, my voice edgy with bitterness. “No one punishes themselves with greater competence and skill than my husband.”
Ellen bowed her head.
“Oh, dismissed, Ellen. I’ll not draw you into our hell,” I ordered with a wave of my hand.
Ellen rose. “I would stay, Your Grace. I am your devoted servant and friend for life.”
I tried to smile, but what twisted my lips could be called nothing more than a contemptuous sneer. “Then you curse yourself,” I told her. “For this is hell, and hell is where you’ll surely be while serving me.”
Ellen shook her head once more, then offered a deep curtsy and retreated, tears glistening upon her cheeks.
I stared with envy at the space she once occupied, longing for those tears to fall upon my cheeks, from my eyes.
