B009AY3XF6 EBOK

by D. L. Bogdan

  I was almost too ill to mourn. My thoughts were dominated by the possibility of lending aid to France, thus placing ourselves at odds with Henry’s England, making my recovery even slower. My limbs were so heavy; I found it difficult to summon the will to breathe. My aching breasts dried and I bled with nothing to show for it. I was nauseated but too ill to retch; the bitter taste of bile was forever in my mouth, stagnant and suffocating. My stomach clenched in pain, but I could not even curl up against it. I was too tired to move. My tears cut slow, sluggish trails down my cheeks, lazy as the rest of me.

  “If my brother goes to war with France, you will be against him, won’t you?” I asked Jamie one gray afternoon as he sat by my bedside.

  “It is very possible, Maggie.” His voice was very low.

  I closed my eyes, wearied of it all. Yes, I knew. Jamie said as much before. A vision of my father swirled against the opaque background of my eyelids. I was to forge an understanding between England and Scotland, he had instructed. How could I be the least bit successful in that task if they were in opposition? It was more than a matter of countries; it was a matter of family. My husband and my brother, the two people I loved most in the world—how could I be made to choose one over the other? Oh, there must be a way to avoid this....

  But I could not think of it now.

  I was so very sick . . .

  8

  Queens and Warriors

  December did not see me any better and the news was even worse. Jamie’s intelligence revealed that Henry would tax his people to raise funds for the continued war against France. There was no doubt of whom Jamie would stand with. By 10 December France’s Admiral de la Motte anchored at Leith with a ship full of gunpowder, gunstones, eight brass serpentines, by far the most accurate of light field artillery, wine, and, at last, plate and eight bolts of cloth of gold for me.

  “Maggie, it is almost certain your brother is planning an attack against us as well,” Jamie told me, his eyes lit with the bewildered sadness and anger of betrayal. “He has never taxed his people to this degree. It can mean nothing else. No good will come of it, I can assure you,” he added darkly.

  My heart sank in my chest; even it had ceased to beat with vigor. “Jamie, no . . . for love of me, dinna speak of it anymore. I am so weak, so very weak. . . .”

  My eyes closed and I yielded to the darkness.

  I am kneeling before a chest. My legacy from Grandmother and my brother Arthur has arrived at last! I sift through the jewels. They are so pretty! Emeralds, sapphires, diamonds . . . but wait . . . they are melting. What is happening? I recoil in horror. They are no longer glittering and golden; all have transformed into pearls. The adornment of widows . . . I turn. Jamie must be warned. I reach out to him, but he is falling, falling, falling from a tower’s great height.... I watch him disappear into a bottomless void. No! Jamie, don’t go!

  I awoke with a start. “Jamie . . .” I murmured. “I want Jamie!”

  “He has gone, dearest,” cooed my attendant Ellen. “He goes to pray for the restoration of Your Grace’s health at Tain.”

  At once I began to laugh and cry. “Of course,” I whimpered. “Of course.”

  I was slow to get well and no amount of Christmas festivities thrown for my benefit cheered me. The tensions between my adopted country and country of birth ran too high. I hated France and nightly prayed it would sink into the ocean!

  As winter progressed my strength returned, surging through my limbs, renewing me and readying me for the battle to come. In February my husband received a letter from Queen Anne of Brittany, Louis VII’s conniving wife, promising fourteen thousand French crowns if he stood as her knight, championing her country against Emperor Maximilian, Ferdinand of Aragon, and my brother, Henry VIII, who was the closest. In short, she asked Jamie to go to war against his own brother-in-law and break our marriage treaty. The wench even had the audacity to enclose in her plea a turquoise ring and glove!

  I examined the ring in bed, trying it on as I scowled at Jamie, who was pacing by the buffet. “I suppose you canna resist this, can you? A ‘knightly errand.’ Such utter nonsense, Jamie!” I cried. “She’s playing you, you have to know it! She knows you canna resist a romantic overture and now has you right where she wants you!”

  “Maggie, there is a lot more to this than you seem to understand—” Jamie began, his tone ever gentle.

  “Believe me, I understand!” I threw the ring across our chambers, where it landed with a clatter at his feet. “It’s wrapped up in a perfect little box, a mission you cannot refuse, sanctioned by your Pope and a damsel in distress as well. My God, it is tailored for you!”

  “Maggie, stop this!” Jamie ordered, sitting on the bed and taking my hands.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. My cheeks flushed in fury. “Jamie, do you know these nightmares I have had?” I forced calm into my voice. It wavered in terror as I recalled the dream that stalked my slumber. I stared at our joined hands, at my fingers, all encircled in rings. “I saw my jewels all melt into pearls . . . pearls, Jamie. The ornament of widowhood.” I met his eyes, furrowing my brows in agony. I reached up, cupping his cheek and stroking his beard. “And I saw you falling from a great tower to your death! You see? These are signs, Jamie, terrible signs of the ill fate that awaits you should you go to war with my brother!”

  “Dreams, darling,” Jamie said, gathering me in his arms. “They are mere dreams. You are terrified for my well-being and that of the country and rightly so. But you must not let your fear rule you. Now, go to sleep, my sweet.” He stroked my hair.

  I pulled away, shaking my head. “If you canna abide the signs of my dream, think of your beloved Scotland should you die in this folly! Our infant son will be left to rule with none but me, a poor woman”—surely he couldn’t resist the plea of this poor woman!—“to cling to a regency that would be sought after by every noble house in the land! How could you risk leaving us so vulnerable? Is Queen Anne so desirable to you that you prefer her over me?”

  I should not have said it. Any chance of winning the argument was lost in that last sentence, for Jamie was on his feet, his eyes flashing in an anger I was unaccustomed to seeing upon his gentle countenance.

  “Maggie, jealousy does not suit you,” he said in low tones. “You are first and foremost my wife. You serve me, not your brother. Dinna think that I am not aggrieved at the turn of events, but he has given me no choice. He broke our treaty long before I even considered it and now must deal with the repercussions.”

  “But there has to be a more peaceful alternative!” I insisted. “Can we meet and discuss it? Can we not meet with my sister-in-law Catherine? She and I could forge some kind of understanding, I am sure of it.”

  He shook his head, his eyes lit with sadness.

  “You will regret breaking the peace,” I thundered. “By God, you will regret it!”

  Jamie shook his head at me and quit the room without another word.

  I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. I thought of my jewels, my pretty jewels all turned to pearls....

  At Lent we were treated to a visitor, my brother’s ambassador the Dean of Windsor, Dr. Nicholas West. As Jamie was on retreat at the monastery of the Friars Observant at Stirling, I was thrilled to receive Dr. West on Good Friday. He brought with him letters from my brother, which I devoured with delight.

  “Oh, good Dr. West, you must tell me everything about him!” I insisted as we sat to dinner alone together on Easter Sunday. Jamie had returned but was resting and would be meeting with the ambassador on Monday.

  The man offered a polite smile and my heart sank. He did not appear to be a personable fellow and I was disappointed. I had so hoped to work some sort of charm on him that he might see how vital keeping the peace with my country was.

  “Tell me of my brother,” I prompted with a bright smile. I would still try my best to win through him an understanding with England. I had grown quite buxom and, freed from the mournful constraints of Lent, had donn
ed a lovely gown of pink and gray damask trimmed with ermine to accentuate each curve. My hair was gathered into a chignon beneath my hood and I allowed ringlets to frame my face in organized disarray. I should think I made quite a pleasing presentation.

  “What does he look like now?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen him since he was twelve.”

  Dr. West tilted his head as he summoned to his mind a portrait of my brother. “King Henry is as bluff and fine of figure as they come, Your Grace,” he told me.

  I laughed, certain he was accurate. “Is he very tall? He had the promise of great height when last I saw him. Is he still a marvelous dancer?” Against my will tears burned my eyes as a pang of longing for home and more innocent days pierced through me.

  Dr. West nodded. “Ah, yes, Your Grace, he is tall and broad and golden—a veritable Apollo is King Henry. And none are as fleet as he on the dance floor.”

  “I didn’t think so,” I said with another giggle as I pictured a golden giant flitting about on the dance floor among a garden of beautiful ladies.

  “And how are my sister Mary and Queen Catherine?” I asked then.

  “Quite well,” he informed me, bowing his head.

  For a moment we were silent, each picking at our plates, wondering in what vein the conversation would go next. Beneath the table my legs trembled. I took a sip of wine to calm myself, then offered the ambassador another cheery smile.

  “Do tell me of my brother’s fleet,” I suggested. “Is the Great Harry as grand as our Great Michael?”

  “It is a grand ship,” Dr. West answered with a glower.

  “I was aboard our Great Michael at Leith,” I continued. “Oh, it is beautiful, Dr. West, and so fine a ship. Why, most of our forest at Falkland was cut down just to build her. Her walls are ten foot thick—impenetrable!”

  “Impressive,” he commented, but his eyes were narrowed.

  “The ambassadors that saw her that day said that no navy on earth could rival ours,” I persisted. “What do you think?”

  “Madam, England boasts a fine navy of her own,” Dr. West told me in firm tones. He paused, examining me a long moment. “I am certain if your husband requires details, good King Henry would be happy to discuss them. With him.”

  The smile I returned was frosty.

  “Your Grace,” Dr. West began. “It is my duty to inform you that King Henry does intend to invade France.”

  My gut lurched. My face remained impassive. Beneath the table I clawed into the material of my gown, clenching it with a white-knuckled grip.

  “It is a dark hour for our countries,” I stated. “I regret my brother’s decision and what it will mean for our peace.”

  “Any hope of preserving the peace between England and Scotland is up to you,” Dr. West retorted, his voice cold and blunt.

  I bit my lip. I wanted to scream at him that I never chose this fate! How could a twenty-three-year-old girl forge peace between two countries? Who would listen to me?

  I heaved a sigh of frustration.

  “King Henry could certainly help with that,” I said at last. “Where is my legacy that he has promised these past four years? The jewels from my brother Arthur and grandmother? Where are they, Dr. West?”

  “The king is most ready to surrender them,” he said smoothly. “If King James promises to keep the peace and not interfere with the French campaign.”

  “And if not?” I asked, hoping my voice did not betray my great sadness.

  “If not? Then no. He cannot relinquish them.”

  “But they are mine!” I cried, losing my self-control. “They were willed to me by my brother and grandmother! How dare he keep from me what is mine!”

  Dr. West said nothing to this. He continued eating. I stared down at my plate, flushed and disgusted.

  The meal continued in frustrated silence; it seemed neither of us would get what we wanted out of it.

  Dr. West tried everything from bribery to open threats in the hopes of securing peace between England and Scotland, to no avail. My husband sought to renew the alliance with the French king, who was as wily as his wife and played on Jamie’s ultimate desire to lead a Crusade by allowing him to make a levy to fund it. Though Dr. West assured Jamie that King Louis would never keep his promise, Jamie remained undeterred.

  Dr. West visited the baby and me at Linlithgow before returning to England.

  “He is beautiful,” the ambassador conceded as he admired my son. “So golden and rosy, and big for his age.”

  I nodded as I sat him on my lap, proudly displaying his chubby legs. “As robust as his uncle King Henry,” I said. I wanted to say more, about the peace that was now broken, about the inevitable war we had now been thrust into. I wanted to share my fears and lamentations about my broken family. But I could not. It would not be politic.

  Dr. West departed, his mission a failure, my attempts at diplomacy all gone awry.

  When Jamie joined me at Linlithgow I clung to him, sobbing. I reduced myself to begging, throwing tantrums, anything, anything that would prevent his doomed enterprise.

  In my darkest moment I hired an old man to “haunt” Jamie while he prayed at St. Michael’s Church. Dressed in a gown of blue and white and carrying a pikestaff, the long-haired old wraith warned Jamie against going to war and seeking the counsel or comfort of women, after which he artfully disappeared, mystifying the attendants by managing his escape without being accosted.

  But Jamie knew.

  “Oh, Maggie, you are reaching,” he told me in bed that night. He offered a slight laugh. “To your credit, you are quite imaginative.”

  “What can I do, Jamie?” I asked in soft tones, fringed with desperation. “What can I say to keep you from going to war against my brother? I’ll do anything. . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Maggie,” Jamie whispered, kissing me softly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not half as sorry as you are going to be,” I told him, but my voice was no longer accusatory. It was filled with sadness, all-consuming, terrible sadness.

  By May King Louis convinced my husband not only to ally himself with him but to invade England as well when my brother removed to France. It was the perfect strategy, the French louse stated, for Jamie may just gain the English crown for himself in Henry’s absence.

  Henry embarked for France in the summer and proved victorious, taking the town of Therouanne. In August Jamie sent Lyon King of Arms with our formal declaration of war, listing all of Scotland’s grievances against England, which included the withholding of my legacy, the Andrew Barton affair, the John Heron incident, and the border raids.

  At Edinburgh my husband prayed, whipping himself with a vengeance in preparation for the battle to come. I watched from the shadows of the chapel and when I could bear it no more I approached him, taking the whip from his hand and holding it at my side, watching my husband’s blood drip from it onto the stone floor.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” I began in quiet tones, “if you are hoping to die so that your pain might end at last. Is that so, Jamie?”

  Jamie regarded me, his face tortured.

  I shook my head, sinking to the floor beside him and taking him in my arms. “Oh, my love, do not let this be my last memory of you!” I begged, burying my head in his shoulder. “I shall die if all you are to leave me with is the memory of your blood.”

  Tears streamed down Jamie’s face unchecked as he began to sway from side to side.

  We removed to our apartments, where our lovemaking was filled with such bittersweet agony that I wondered if I should have left him to his whipping after all. The blood would have prepared me better. The whipping would have allowed me to hate him. But now I was left with this memory, the memory of tenderness, of his caresses, his voice, his breath, his kiss, his warmth . . . his love....

  It was unbearable. Oh, it was unbearable....

  Jamie named me Queen Regent of Scotland before he left.

  “This will not be an easy task, but it is one in which I have the u
tmost confidence in your abilities to carry out,” Jamie told me the morning he would march out.

  “I will do my best, until your return, when I will happily relinquish Scotland into your capable hands,” I assured him warmly.

  Jamie took my hands. “Maggie . . . if I do not come back, the regency will be all the more challenging for you to hold on to. Do you understand what I mean, Maggie?”

  I shook my head. I did not want to hear of it; I did not want to understand.

  “Maggie, if . . . if you marry again, you will sabotage any chance of keeping the regency. You must think of Little Jamie now,” my husband urged, his tone fervent with intensity. “Everything you do from this day on is for him.” Jamie’s eyes lit with pity. “My poor girl; being the wife and mother of kings, you will never be allowed to live for yourself—not until Jamie is well beyond his majority. Vultures and demons will surround you—they will covet control of the crown like no other and devour each other in the process of trying to obtain it. No one will ever love you, my dearest, not like you deserve.” Those words. Where had I heard them before? Ah, yes. My father had warned me of this many years ago.... No one would ever love me . . . such was the lonely fate of monarchs.

  “To the world, you are a prize to be won, the closest thing to Little Jamie on this earth. Winning you wins him—and he is the ultimate prize. Therefore you must always be on guard against deceivers and those wishing to rule over you and our son,” Jamie warned.

  I shivered. “I understand, Jamie, truly I do. But please let us not speak on it anymore. You must ride, my love. Ride so that you may return my king and know”—my voice broke—“that I will keep your son and your kingdom safe in your absence.”

  At this Jamie smiled, offering one last tender kiss.