by D. L. Bogdan
Something was wrong with me.
I could not cry. Please, God, I prayed, let me cry!I
Jamie returned battered and bloody, thinner than before. I was told he added strict fasting onto his exercise in piety, and indeed when he took supper with me in my chambers he ate very little. As he sat in his shift I noted his knees were raw from kneeling at prayer, and he limped into bed. But he held me fast. His tears wetted my forehead and ran down my cheeks, his shoulders quaking with sobs.
I no longer accused him of anything; no questions were asked. I did not want to know in any case. I only stared at this tortured man and upon doing so found at last my ability to cry cleansing, healing tears. I did not cry for the children; that grief had been sorted out in my days of hardness. I bore their loss as my mother bore hers, telling myself over and over as would a chanting monk that God took them for His purposes. Death had always been a reality for me and its constancy was something I well understood. Jamie’s life was not.
He could not inflict upon himself enough pain. He no longer reserved his self-flagellation for his pilgrimages but did so at our homes as well. At night I peered inside the candlelit chapel, watching him bring the whip across his back. I flinched upon hearing it snap and whir through the air, starting as it met with his tender flesh. Horror clenched my heart and twisted my gut as I beheld the rivulets of blood streaming down his body, which was wracked with broken sobs.
His wounds had no time to heal before he inflicted more. His face became void of his once contagious enthusiasm, as though he feared to experience any emotion resembling happiness would mean he enjoyed a life he did not deserve.
“This has to stop, my Jamie,” I told him in bed one night, grateful one aspect of our lives had not changed but rather became more passionate and loving with each passing year.
“I know,” he replied in the intoxicating tone I loved so well. “It is not enough. I have written the Kings of England, France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian. I have for years thought that a Crusade would best demonstrate my faith, that if I can succeed in driving the Infidels from the Holy Land God will at last see my sincere wish to be His child. That He will see how sorry I am . . .”
“Jamie . . .”
He offered a heavy sigh. “They respond with well wishes but no real commitments. They are afraid.”
“They’ve every right,” I said, angered by this useless goal. “Who has ever met with success in the Holy Land? Jamie, it is a fool’s mission. Do not think on it anymore. Think of Scotland, of what can be done to improve our land. Surely that will show God the kind of king you wish to be.”
Jamie lay silent. “Do you think I am a good king, Maggie?”
“Yes,” I said with conviction, for no one was as sincere as Jamie; no one wished to do as much good. Romantic he may have been, misguided at times indeed, but good? Yes, despite everything, Jamie was a good man.
“Yes, Jamie,” I repeated, my voice heated with fervor as I seized his chin between my fingers. “You are a good king and a better man. For love of me, please see that!”
Jamie reached up and cupped my cheek but saw nothing. His vision was clouded with tears and self-loathing and there was nothing I could do about it.
In the winter of 1509, just a few months after the birth and death of my daughter, I was with child again; an autumn arrival was expected. I tried not to think of it, even as my belly swelled, even as it kicked and tumbled about in my womb. Panels were added to my gowns. A beautiful cradle of state was placed in the nursery, but I never ventured near it; I did not want to see it. I did not sew baby garments, leaving that task to my ladies.
Jamie went on pilgrimage once more and spent his time at Tain, whipping himself by the shrine of Saint Duthlac. His fervor frightened me; the enthusiasm he once exhibited for hunting and music was channeled into religion, and for his efforts the Pope named him Protector of the Christian Faith, sending a beautiful sword with a gem-encrusted gold sheath and purple diadem. This fueled his passion even more. If the Pope recognized his potential goodness, surely God would, too. Heretics were persecuted, their ashes carried on the winds. I shivered in fear. Jamie would show God, he said, how sorry he was and how devoted he was to the tenets of the Church of Rome. Perhaps those demonstrations would lift the curse on the Stewarts and ensure us a healthy prince. Oh, poor Jamie, my poor, foolish king . . .
When Jamie was not at Tain he dealt with new matters that had arisen on the Border that could threaten the treaty our marriage was meant to represent. Our Warden of the Middle Marches was murdered by a devil named John Heron—called the Bastard by those who knew of his barbaric antics—and two of his companions, who were both delivered up to my husband for their crime. Heron escaped, however, which caused Jamie anxiety. He never trusted my father completely—a Scot—trusted an Englishman no more than an Englishman trusted a Scot and I could not help but wonder if Jamie thought my father was hiding Heron out somewhere, despite my strident reassurance that he would have done no such thing.
And yet if he would order the death of Jamie’s mistress Margaret Drummond . . . but there was no proof of that. Why would I think such a thing?
Jamie was vexed further when Father took Jamie’s cousin, the Earl of Arran, captive. He had taken Jamie’s son the fourteen-year-old Archbishop of St. Andrews (an appointment that still caused my face to flush with rage) to France to study with the celebrated scholar Erasmus, and though the earl had a letter of marque from Jamie permitting him safe-conduct, he did not obtain one to go through England on his return trip a year later.
Father could have ignored it, even I knew that, but instead he had him arrested, fearing that the earl was really in France to restore the Auld Alliance. He sent his almoner Thomas Wolsey as his ambassador, but when he arrived, after many delays and aggravations, Jamie made the portly priest wait.
Wolsey was uncomfortable in my presence and I in his. I did not know what to say, how to deal with affairs of state. I never had to before. Now I sat, with child and wanting nothing more than to lie down, but instead I was obligated to play hostess and diplomat at the same time.
Arran’s brother Patrick Hamilton arrived during this ordeal and confused matters by telling me that Father treated him well but then informing Jamie of the opposite. He was obliged to say that, I argued, as he was a Scot. No, he was saying that to win your favor, I was told.
I grew weary of it all and awaited a resolution, angry at Father for upsetting the peace between our countries and caught very much in the middle. Though the incidents were eventually ironed out, Arran being returned to Scotland as a means of compensating for England’s inability to capture the Bastard, something changed in me. For the first time I became interested in matters beyond myself; I was interested in what it meant to be Queen of Scotland. For the first time I wanted to understand politics and learn how to forge an understanding between the country of my birth and the country of my adoption.
I was told before I came to Scotland that I was to be a daughter of England before I was a wife to my new country, but was there not a way I could reconcile the two? Was there not a way I could be both?
Father never anticipated upon issuing that order how much I would love my Jamie. The balance was a delicate one. I was unsure of my footing and gripped by new fears as at last the realization of my purpose settled upon me.
Determination surged through my veins. I throbbed with it, tingling with motivation. I was an English girl and a Scottish queen and by God I would do my countries proud.
Both of them.
Father was dead. I sat in my chambers numb. All previous resolve was replaced by an acute attack of homesickness. A few months prior Father had sent gifts with his ambassadors, beautiful horses for Jamie and me to ride. I delighted in my new ponies, remembering the palfreys that had been sacrificed to that dreaded fire when first I arrived.
I will never see you again.
We had written. How unhappy I was in the beginning! He reassured me without
ever addressing the matters to which I wrote. He reassured me with the knowledge that he was there, in England, my beloved father. He sent part of my dowry, arranged my life and secured peace with Scotland through my marriage. Now he was gone forever, taking his wisdom and caution and stoicism with him. He lay beside my mother in the grand tomb he had obsessively erected upon her death.
Henry, my eager, lively, feisty brother, ascended the throne as the Eighth of That Name. He wed Princess Catherine of Aragon and the world bowed before him, the handsome golden boy. He had great plans, I was told; he would usher in a New Age. At that my throat constricted as I recalled the words of my precious brother Arthur. We had planned to usher in that age together, that sparkling New Age when knowledge and tolerance would flow from the conduits like wine. Did Henry have the same goals? Would he be the grand king Arthur no doubt would have been had God allowed him to sit on the throne? Would Henry do our illustrious father proud?
A few days after my brother and his bride’s joint coronation I learned of my grandmother’s death. For all her stricture and hardness, there was no doubting her love. I was her special responsibility; no one attended me as she did. No one worried over me as she did. I recalled all the pranks I pulled on her, noting only now the twitch of her lips as she scolded me, the merry twinkle in her eye as she called me “that impetuous girl.” Could it be that she saw something of herself in me and admired it? I should like to think so.
I looked out over the Scottish countryside, the rolling hills, the silvery mist hovering over the land like a mourning veil, and dreamed of home, of what was and could never be reclaimed. They were all dying; all leaving me. I shuddered with fear. Was there nothing that lasted?
I will never see you again.
The cycle of death was broken with a burst of new life.
The prince was born at Holyrood on 21 October. I became determined to evade the darkness that danced about the fringes of my soul, waiting to devour me. I would not let it. I would see my son into this world. Weak, bleeding, and quivering, I brought him forth, my beautiful Prince Arthur, named for my brother and the famed king from whom we descended, and clasped him to my chest.
It was a fortuitous name—a good sign. Prince Arthur now stood as heir to the thrones of both Scotland and England if my brother bore none himself, and though it was unlikely lusty Henry would have any problem securing the succession, I admitted to a certain evil hope that perhaps those born of my body would one day unite the two kingdoms.
It was the great sin of those who ruled, the lust for more power, and I was not immune to it. Indeed the acuteness of my longing frightened me.
I watched him grow, strong and lusty and golden like his namesake. His legs were chubby and fair. I kissed the silky skin; I cradled him to my chest. I sang to him. William Dunbar wrote verses celebrating his beauty, and Jamie, his proud, devoted father, allowed his back to heal at last.
How much joy the little prince brought us! He cooed and giggled. His bright blue eyes sparkled. He rarely cried. The nurses and rockers were enthralled with him; they praised his every move. Never had they cared for such a bonny lad.
There was no indication that we would lose him.
When we did, at Edinburgh on a warm July day just nine months after his birth, we fled the castle. We could not bear to be where our greatest happiness was known, where the memory of his baby laughter still echoed in the nursery.
I accompanied Jamie on his pilgrimage this time. I did not share his enthusiasm for ritual and things holy, but I vowed to make some kind of amends for whatever sin I may have brought down upon our house. I examined my actions, my thoughts, my heart. My pride, I realized, may be what caused God to take him from me. I looked into my baby’s eyes and saw a prince, a future king. I dreamed of him sitting on not only the throne of Scotland but that of England as well. It was a cruel thought, a selfish thought, for in thinking it I wished ill upon my brother and sister-in-law. Now they, too, had known the agony of losing children, and as far removed as I was from them, I had played a part in their losses nonetheless. Now God punished me for it. Again. I had to make amends.
And so I prayed. I kissed relics. I inhaled the sickeningly sweet scent of incense. I lit candles. I offered money. Jamie whipped himself bloody. More links were added to his belt. He planned his Crusade with more fervor, ordering the construction of a great ship to add to his fleet in the hopes of setting sail for the Holy Land when the Pope called for him. He wrote other kingdoms, soliciting their participation in his noble cause; no one committed.
There were matters far more pressing than a fruitless Crusade to occupy them. They cared not for the well-intended obsession of a guilt-ridden king nor for the grief of his queen.
Babies died every day, after all.
The Empire, Spain, Venice, and England had formed a Holy League against France by November of 1511 and helped Pope Julius II regain some of his lost holdings. The French had hoped to call for a council in which discussions about church reforms could ensue, but the challenge infuriated the Pope and France was placed under interdict.
While England delivered their declaration of war to the French, I delivered Scotland of a prince, whom we again called James for his father.
I was engulfed in darkness once more, immobilized by the strangling mists. Yet inside the flame the Tudor fire still burned, urging me to live. The baby’s cry was lusty; it seemed stronger than the rest somehow. It served as my guide; I followed it. Louder and louder it grew, piercing my ears with its urgency. He needed me. This baby needed me. The blackness faded and I was immersed in the white light of motherhood.
I awakened, drawing into focus the sweet, elated face of my husband.
“The baby?” I whispered, my body tensing in terror.
“Maggie. He lives,” Jamie assured me, beaming as he stroked my clammy forehead. “He lives!”
“Praise God!” I breathed, relinquishing myself to tears of relief. If we could just get through this first year everything would be all right, I was sure of it. Oh, may it go fast!
Jamie was in a frenzy. England had put us in an awkward position. France had been Scotland’s longtime ally and my brother’s desire to conquer them had little to do with the Holy League and more to do with regaining England’s lost holdings.
“Christian princes fighting Christian princes!” Jamie seethed as he paced my chambers. “No one will emerge the victor. The real battle is in the Holy Land—if only they would see that!”
I shook my head, saddened, wishing in vain that there was another conduit for Jamie’s obsession. “They’ll not think of the Holy Land if they can gain from the destruction of something much closer to home,” I said at last. “But, by the Mass, I wish Scots-English relations did not have to be strained because of it!”
“Ah, Maggie, I am disappointed,” Jamie lamented, his face writ with genuine disillusionment. “Your brother has not adhered to our treaty; there are still border raids for which we have no choice but to retaliate. He sacrificed diplomacy in favor of rash action when he had the Howard brothers murder our good Captain Andrew Barton for piracy. Poor Robin . . .” he added with a shake of his head, referring to Robert Barton, who had long been one of our favorites. “And the jewels bequeathed to you by your dear brother Arthur and honored grandmother have not yet been sent. Thus far this Henry is not proving to be half the king your father was in any regard.”
“He is so young,” I reminded Jamie in a pathetic attempt to keep the peace. “Just a boy. Young men are often lusty for war. He will learn.”
“At the cost of men’s lives?” Jamie countered. “Not to mention the cost to his own exchequer and his friendship with me, which going to war with Scotland’s oldest ally would certainly jeopardize. I would not think he would want to risk war with me. I am far nearer to him than France.”
“Of course not,” I reaffirmed. “Peace can be negotiated, Jamie. With France and with us. Henry wouldn’t dare offend his sister’s country.”
I cradled
our son to my breast, looking down at his rosy countenance. I was with child again and did not wish to contemplate anything unpleasant. Peace was my objective; my children must have a stable alliance secured with England. Oh, heady thoughts . . .
“Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if we were born simple people?” I asked Jamie then. “If we did not have to worry about the decisions we make affecting dynasties and starting wars. I’d have been a shepherdess, I think, and would don a gauzy gown to stroll through the fields as I tended my flock.” I closed my eyes, riveted by my fantasy. “I’d walk through the heather and run my hand along the top, letting it tickle my palm. And every day would be one of peace, surrounded by God’s most beloved creatures.” My eyes fluttered open and I offered my husband a smile. “What would you have been, Jamie, had you been a simple man?”
Jamie smiled in turn. His face softened; his brows relaxed. The crinkle in his forehead smoothed as he sat on my bed to ponder. “I suppose I would have liked to have been a sailor,” he said. His voice was low with whimsy. “Or an alchemist and spend my days trying to convert base metals into gold. Or a musician, with nothing to do but while away his hours strumming his lute and yielding to fancy.” His voice grew softer still. “And you, my Maggie? What else would you have been besides a beautiful shepherdess, had you not been born my queen?”
“Your wife,” I answered. “Before anything else, your wife.”
Jamie gathered me in his arms. The baby gurgled and cooed while his sibling offered a lively kick within my womb.
I decided then and there that there was nothing else I’d rather have been than Jamie’s Queen of Scots.
In November I was delivered of a premature daughter at Holyrood. So tiny, she was no more than the length of my wrist to my fingertips. I was strong enough to reach out to her, to caress the translucent cheek before God claimed her to reside among her brothers and sister in Heaven.
