B009AY3XF6 EBOK

by D. L. Bogdan

  In the midst of our routine, word from my brother arrived from Sir James English, my trusted secretary.

  “His Majesty your brother has a plan,” he told me. “A plan for your escape to the borderlands.”

  “The Border . . .” I breathed. It would be a perilous journey, and with the children in winter; I could be risking their very lives, and then where would we be? I shuddered. “What shall we do, Sir James? Of course I must go, but how?”

  Sir James pursed his lips at this. “I know not, in truth, Your Grace. ’Tis dangerous all over. Why, Williamson was just accosted by ruffians himself. Lord Dacre sent his brother to deal with them, but they are a few of many. Thieves and bandits thrive on the Border.. . .”

  That they did; the situation on the Border was volatile and my brother did not help it, encouraging raids. I wondered if we would ever know peace....

  Everything seemed to be working against us. The next missive from Williamson dealt a harsher blow. Old King Louis of France was dead, my sister a widow held up in Cluny until it would be revealed if she carried a child, and King Francois now sat on the throne. God only knew what his plans were for peace with England or Scotland. Would he send Albany after all? Would my children be taken from me then?

  My head pounded and ached as thoughts turned through it, vultures scavenging on my mind. I could think of nothing but the children and their safety, of my regency all but lost, and of the enemies who would delight in my demise.

  I had to get to England with the children. We needed a safe place for them to grow, a place that would guarantee our protection. And yet to raise the King of Scotland away from his homeland seemed wrong somehow. . . . How would he ever know what it was to be a Scot were he not in his kingdom?

  I wrestled with these and other grim possibilities even as my brother worked on my behalf, not only by continuing to support my nomination of Gavin Douglas to the see of St. Andrews to Pope Leo X but also by utilizing the Duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon, in Paris to sweeten the new king to the idea of not sending Albany to Scotland.

  Winter melted into spring and with a pounding heart I devoured every word my messengers relayed. When we did receive word, it was the word that would drive the thorns through my skull.

  Albany was coming to Scotland. My brother’s attempts, Suffolk’s attempts, were all in vain.

  I should have escaped, I thought over and over in agony. I should have escaped while I could. . . .

  Albany landed in Dumbarton and met me outside of Edinburgh. I met him as a queen in state, dressed in my favorite color, orange, as it so suited my hair.

  “To think he was disappointed when he heard I’d married Angus rather than consider him,” I huffed to Ellen as we watched Albany’s approach.

  “I must say, he is rather handsome, though, isn’t he?” she asked.

  I grunted a halfhearted acknowledgment as I surveyed him. In truth, he was in fact one of the handsomest men I had ever seen, a tall, lean figure and as sophisticated as I imagined the French to be (I could not consider him a true Scot), yet he clearly bore Stewart features. His long face bore a close-cut beard, auburn like his hair, and his eyes were an arresting shade of gray, both deep and clear as a loch.

  He offered a bow. “Madam.” Even his voice was handsome, low and melodious. Quite different from the Scots brogue I had grown accustomed to and found I had adopted over the years myself. “I am Jehan Stuart,” he said. John Stewart was what I had known him as, but his broken English pronounced the name as French as his signature. “I bid you good health from my wife.”

  I was taken aback at this. “We were not aware you had married,” I said in flat tones, as if it did not bother me at all.

  His smile was slow, languid. “Why, indeed I have been married for ten years, madam,” he informed me.

  “We imagine she must miss you sorely,” I said, wishing to impose the thought in his mind, hoping it would make some difference. Perhaps that would mean he would like to return to her soon. Perhaps he would not find Scotland in agreement with his French fancies.

  His gentle chuckle rippled like a pebble in a pond. “Indeed, as I miss her,” he said. His eyes were lit with open kindness as he regarded me. “Madam, it is my wish to be a help to you,” he told me then in low tones. “It is my hope we can work together for the good of His Grace and Scotland.”

  I nodded. I would not acknowledge the statement more than need be. I would make no promises, nor trust any of his, should he make them. He seemed pleasant, but God knew enough pleasant men had brought about the ill fortune of women for generations.

  And it was so that I met him, wondering if we were to be friends or enemies or a bit of both. Despite my fears, I found that I liked him.

  On 12 July, the birthday of Julius Caesar no less, Albany was given the sword and scepter and my regency. I had lost.

  And I was pregnant.

  I had been missing my courses since March but thought nothing of it. I had been ill with headaches, and weeping had become a regular occurrence. My burdens were many; my worries seemed boundless. To be with child in addition to all of it sent my mind reeling.

  Angus, to my surprise, was thrilled.

  “It is just what we need,” he told me. “A baby to unite us truly as man and wife, and a brother or sister for His Grace and the young duke.”

  Angus used the excuse of my condition’s delicacy to cease his relations as my husband.

  It was just as well; I was too sick and exhausted with worry to be of any pleasure, not that I brought him much to begin with. Our couplings were obligatory on Angus’s part. I knew it. He knew I was aware of it. But we both indulged my feigned ignorance.

  The baby quickened within my womb as Albany seized power and began his sure, swift justice, or his interpretation of it, on perceived enemies of the Crown. The Pope had rejected Gavin Douglas for the see of St. Andrews and created him Bishop of Dunkeld, sending his nominee, Andrew Forman, home without formally granting him the see.

  Gavin Douglas was imprisoned for his ambition. Even my grandfather-in-law, Lord Drummond, was sent to Blackness Castle for boxing the Lyon Herald’s ears when he insulted me by the inappropriateness of his address to my station.

  For this I had to intervene. Old Lord Drummond was as temperamental as his grandson, though far wilier, I gathered, and yet still I could not see him exiled to some outland castle.

  I left Holyrood House to speak to Albany. He received me in his presence chamber, smiling when I entered as though times were peaceful and I were an old friend come to call.

  He rose, bowing, ever the gentleman, then offered me a chair and refreshment.

  “You are well, madam?” he asked me. To avoid any conflict in how to address me, he called me the uncontroversial madam.

  I could not contain myself. His nature was as gentle as my husband’s was fiery. Tears, never far away as I advanced in pregnancy, burned my eyes. I shook my head. “No, my lord, We are not well,” I told him. “Hearing of Lord Drummond’s and Gavin Douglas’s imprisonment distresses Us greatly.”

  Albany’s eyes were a strange mingling of calm alertness. “I am sorry you are distressed,” he said, his tone sincere. “But I am afraid imprisonment is all the mercy I can spare on these men. They have disturbed the law of this land, and you must agree Scotland has fallen into disorder since the death of my dear cousin.”

  “We do,” I told him in honesty. “Yet can my lord afford more enemies?” I asked him, leaving unspoken the well-known fact that Lord Home, once one of the foremost leaders of my Party Adversary, had changed course and backed me for regent after Albany had addressed him in Latin when Lord Home received him in Dumbarton. As Lord Home did not understand Latin, he thought the duke was being pompous and patronizing. The misunderstanding worked in my favor, for Lord Home was now my man.

  “I do not wish any more than you to accumulate more enemies, madam,” Albany said in easy tones. “But it is for me to restore order here and to remind these feuding houses that
they are not the unruly men of the Border, that they are to be civilized upholders of the realm. Many of these men hold titles and exalted positions, yet they behave as any rough clan chieftain. I cannot be seen to show favor to any family above another. I am certain you of all people can appreciate that,” he added, his words measured and weighty with their intent.

  I rose with an abrupt swirl of my skirts, conceiving of his meaning too well. I stared him down. “You have much to learn about Scotland, sir,” I told him. “It is not France. It is not like any other place in the world.”

  And with that I excused myself from his presence.

  To my surprise, Parliament favored my opinion in regards to the imprisonment of my grandfather-in-law. Yet when discussions opened about who was to obtain custody of my children, my hope wavered. Though I was allowed to participate in the selection of the four guardians of the little king and baby duke, I knew this, like so many moves on the part of men when involving women in a decision, was for form only.

  Albany meant to take my children.

  The people turned out in droves to witness the guardians meeting us at Edinburgh Castle. There was little time to explain anything to Little Jamie, and we walked hand in hand at the head of our party. Nurse followed, carrying baby Alexander with Angus beside her and our household at a discreet distance.

  “Declare the reason for your coming!” I shouted to the approaching party, though I knew their intent. It was a show; everything had become a performance, meant to garner the sympathy and outrage of my people. Who could endure watching children being ripped away from their mother? Please, Lord, I prayed, let them have heart!

  “We come for the king!” was the reply.

  At once I nodded. The portcullis dropped, in agreement with my plan. As I was a Tudor, this portcullis was more than a barrier: It was also within my grandmother Margaret Beaufort’s coat of arms. If no one else knew it but me, it brought me comfort and strength.

  I gazed at the lairds from behind the bars with a cool smile. “By the late king my husband,” I cried in a sure, strong voice, “I was made sole governess of him!” The cheers from the people were deafening; the baby stirred within me and I squeezed Little Jamie’s hand. “Give Us six days and We shall consider the decision of the council!” I added, then retreated with my household to the blessings of the people.

  “Are they going to hurt us, Mother?” Little Jamie’s shrill voice asked as we made our way into the castle.

  “No,” I assured him, my throat catching. “They are not going to hurt us.”

  My face grew hot; my cheeks began to tingle.

  I did not relish lying to my son.

  “Margaret, this has become very serious,” Angus told me that night in our bedchamber. He was pacing before the window, his face drawn, his steps heavy.

  I was immediately irritated. Of course it was serious! It had been serious since my husband the king was slain in the mud of Flodden Field. Was Angus just now noticing this was not one of the games of his training days? I drew in a breath, trying to contain my patience.

  Angus ceased his pacing, standing still, shaking his head. He parted his lips to speak, stopped, then began once more. “You may want to consider giving the children over,” he said, his tone soft.

  My mouth fell agape. I stared at him, trying to conceive of why again I had married him in such haste. Looks alone could never sustain any kind of feeling, I decided then, steeling myself against his sensual mouth and pleading liquid brown eyes. I shook my head, rising from my settle.

  “Are you mad?” I hissed. “You married me insisting that you could help protect me and the children from this very thing! And yet now we meet opposition and obstacles and you are ready to surrender? What kind of man are you?”

  “Margaret!” His voice was sharp and I started. “You are with child. Think about our baby. Think about your health. What good would it do to have all of your children go without a mother? So we give them over. It will not be forever. Just until we can gather enough support to take them back.”

  I brought my hand to my mouth, stifling the urge to scream at him. I shook my head against the logic, sound though it may be. “How can we hand them over? What would they think? They would see it as a betrayal,” I told him. “They would feel abandoned and alone. Their father has already passed; for us, the only true family they know and love, to leave them over to Albany and the council . . . they would never understand.” I began to cry. How I hated my unpredictable onsets of emotion during times when I needed calm the most. “If we give them over, they could grow to hate us.”

  Angus shook his head at this argument, approaching me. “A child never hates their mother, no matter who she is or what she has done,” he assured me. “And even if they were angry, they would come to understand the decision in time, when the king is met with the challenges of his own rule and his own children.” He opened his arms, expecting me to fold into them as I had so eagerly in the past.

  Instead I backed away, shaking my head with more vehemence. “No,” I breathed. “My children are all I have. You canna ask this of me.”

  Angus’s arms fell to his sides, limp. “You have our baby,” he told me. “You have me.”

  “Dinna do this, Angus,” I urged him. “Dinna make me choose.”

  “Dinna put this all on me!” he cried. “As if it is me asking you to choose and not Albany and the council! As if I am solely responsible for what has come to pass! I offer you a solution that may not be easy or pleasant, but it may be our only choice until we have the men, the arms, and the support! And yet you say I am making you choose when ultimately I do have the best interests of you and the children always in mind?” His eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

  I pursed my lips and turned away. By God, I could not stand a man’s tears.

  At once I decided what I must do.

  I squared my shoulders. “I am going to Stirling,” I said, my tone hard. “I am taking the children and going. You may do what you like.”

  “Margaret!” His tone was urgent, desperate.

  I closed my eyes, drawing in a breath, letting it out slowly. “We will not speak of this anymore, Angus,” I told him, raising my hand to silence him as I would any subject.

  And then I left him, going once more to collect my children and flee to the only safety I had known in Scotland, my beloved Stirling.

  Though we made it to Stirling with Little Jamie thrilled to be a part of another midnight riding adventure, Albany and his men were in pursuit. From inside the castle I watched as we were surrounded by the forces led by the Earls of Cassilis and Lennox. Angus; my newest supporter, Lord Home; and my brother-in-law George Douglas defended us with their own riders, skilled and able horsemen from the Border.

  Angus offered a sound option for my strategy. If they were to battle in earnest, he told me to place Little Jamie with his crown, robes, and scepter on the castle’s very walls. Surely this would move them; they could not make war against the person of the king. I shook my head at the thought, remembering too well stories of other child-kings jeopardized in times of violence, children who included my uncles, my late husband, and his grandfather before him.

  Albany made his intent more than clear when he arrived with a force seven thousand men strong with “Mons Meg” at the head of it. I shuddered. “Mons Meg” was the utmost cannon in the land—none could withstand her might.

  My forces fled at the sight of her.

  I crumpled to the floor of the bower, Ellen at my side. “Your Grace!” she cried, seizing my arm. “Your dearest Grace,” she whispered, pulling me to my feet.

  My legs quivered as I clung to her. “It is over, Ellen,” I breathed. “I canna have my children witness bloodshed and curse them for life. I have to give them over.”

  My boys, my boys, will you ever forgive me?

  Ellen began to sob. “I know,” she choked.

  I drew in a shaky breath, disengaging from my faithful maid. “We will do so with honor, Ellen. I will do
so like a queen.”

  “You are nothing less,” Ellen assured me, reaching out to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind my ear.

  Nothing less, and nothing more.

  Before we went out to meet Albany, I knelt before my son the king, dressing him in his robes of state myself. I reached out, stroking his baby skin.

  “I may not see you for a while,” I told him. “You and baby Alexander will be staying with the Duke of Albany for a time,” I explained, swallowing an onset of tears. “But only for a time, till Lord Angus and I can fetch you. You must be very good for the duke and his men and show them that you are king. You must look after the baby and show him how to be a strong little prince. We must be brave, hmm?”

  “I am brave, Mother!” he assured me with an earnest nod of his head.

  I drew him to my breast, squeezing him as tight as I could without hurting him. “Know that I love you, Jamie!” I cried, allowing my tears to fall. “I love you with all my heart, all my soul, and I will do anything to keep you safe.”

  “I love you, Mother,” he said, his voice small. His lips quivered as I pulled away.

  I shook my head, blinking my tears away. “No tears, lamb,” I urged. I took Little Jamie’s hand, placing in it the keys to Stirling Castle. “When you see my Lord Albany, you will give him the keys to the castle,” I explained. “Because this is our decision, to let him in with peace and dignity. We must go to the duke as a queen and a king. Always remember, you are king and no one else.”

  Little Jamie swallowed, clutching the keys to his breast and offering another grim nod. How great was the burden set upon the tiny shoulders of this three-year-old king! I could not think of it. I could not afford to meet the duke and his men in tears. I rose, taking my son by the hand and nodding to Nurse, who held the baby for me.