by D. L. Bogdan
“You’re not disappointed, then,” I said, but watching the pair I knew he was not, and for that my affection toward him was renewed.
“Of course not!” he assured me, never taking his eyes from Margaret’s face. “Though you could have waited a bit longer to arrive,” he told our daughter in the exaggerated tones of a smitten father. “But I think you are as stubborn and impatient as your mother!” he teased.
I laughed, relieved for the lightness of the moment. “Indeed,” I agreed. “And as ambitious as her father!”
Angus shot me a glance at this, his brow furrowing. I had offended him. “Angus, I didn’t mean it,” I told him, reaching my hand out.
He sighed, shifting his eyes to the baby once more. He did not take my hand. It fell to my lap. He was soon cooing at the baby once more and I sighed in relief.
Perhaps he had let it go.
The day Lord Home and Angus had arrived was also the day Christopher Garnyshe, the sweet courtier charged with bringing me the tidings from my brother and sister-in-law, bestowed upon me my gifts. I was carried in a plush chair to the great hall, resplendent with festive Christmas décor; pine boughs wrapped about the great beams with beautiful new tapestries that must have been new, so clean and vibrant were their colors. There were gold plate and cups and scrumptious-looking dishes of silver on the table where we would soon celebrate our Christmas feast. But the most wonderful thing of all was that, to my astonishment and delight, my new wardrobe from my brother was on display for me.
“Oh!” I cried, wishing I had the strength to leap from my chair and run to fondle the pretty things. There were bed hangings, meant I imagine for the confinement chamber I never knew, little clothes for the baby, and my favorite gifts of all—gowns! There was one extraordinary piece of cloth of gold and another in a light silver shimmering material called cloth of tinsel. It was astounding!
“See!” I cried to Lord Home. “My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I certainly shan’t die from lack of clothes!”
The men laughed, but there was something in their eyes, something sad and guarded, and at times they whispered and nodded to one another as if agreeing upon something. They pity me, I thought. My cheeks flushed with the heat of anger. I should not be pitied! I should be admired! And soon, in these gowns and more I planned to have made, I would be. I would regain my strength and become the queen I knew was inside, a beautiful, strong queen who would return to Scotland one day with her new bairn and reunite her family and kingdom!
Twelfth Night came and went. The winter days passed in a windy gray blur. Convalescence was slow. My right leg had become a curse, and I could not bear to stand upon it. I was weak but could not eat to gain strength; I had no appetite. Though I was glad to be losing weight so my husband could at last see how becoming I could be, I knew that I needed to eat enough for clarity of mind and the physical strength to endure the rest of the journey to London.
Lady Dacre fussed over me, seeking to coax my appetite with comforting foods—almond milk, boiled mutton, and different pottages brimming with vegetables. I could eat none of them to anyone’s satisfaction. I picked at things here and there, but my stomach ached and I grew nauseous when the pain was at its height. Little appealed to me.
What’s more, I wanted to go home. I wanted my children. They needed to meet their baby sister and I needed them. I needed to see that Little Jamie was as bluff and bonny as ever and that baby Alexander was thriving.
To pass the time while I struggled to heal, I regaled Lady Dacre with stories of my children and my Ellen. Lady Dacre had never seen a Moor before and was fascinated by the dark beauty. I told her of the matching gowns we used to wear for entertainments and this amused her. I missed having gowns made for my favorite lady, and to remedy this Lady Dacre encouraged me to pay mind to my attire once more. Nothing made a woman feel as well as having new dresses! I was compelled to agree.
I ordered new gowns in addition to the beautiful wardrobe from my brother. It would do to suit my slimmer figure, I reasoned. And after all I had endured, I certainly deserved some finery to take what joy I could from. I would have more satin kirtles, a beautiful purple velvet confection lined with cloth of gold, and another of a stunning velvet as red as rubies, accentuated with the softest ermine. I would enter London every inch a queen, and in those gowns I would feel beautiful again.
As the dressmakers worked on my gowns, I had my ladies show me the dresses from Henry. They would bring the dresses to my bed sometimes twice a day, and I would reach out, fingering the beautiful materials and sighing, fantasizing about the day I could wear them and dance at the court of my brother. I couldn’t wait for Angus to see me in them. I knew he would find me truly beautiful then. It would erase any doubts he would have about my fitness as his wife.
I hoped.
One day in early February I was admiring my gowns while Lady Dacre was trying to convince me to eat a creamy bread and apple pudding she had Cook make when Lord Home entered my chambers with Angus.
I brightened at the sight of my handsome husband. He had been so good with the baby and so solicitous of my health that I put our previous grievances aside. Lady Dacre made a gracious retreat in deference to the men.
Angus offered a slow smile. “It is good to see you up, my dear,” he told me in gentle tones as he leaned in to offer his customary kiss upon my forehead. “Are you feeling well? Stronger?”
I nodded. “It restores me to look upon my lovely gowns and think of happier times,” I said. “I canna wait to don them for you.”
Angus sat on the bed beside me, taking my hand in his. “You will steal my breath away, I am sure,” he said. His eyes were so soft they seemed almost lit with tears, and I thought it sweet that he would be so moved by the imagery.
At this Lord Home cleared his throat.
“Lord Home,” I said by way of greeting. I imagined he was not too comfortable with our loving banter, so attempted to adopt a more regal bearing. “Any word from Scotland?”
“My mother has been taken prisoner to Dunbar Castle,” he began. “Didna even let her ride a gentle horse! She had to gallop through the country like a commoner and God only knows what they feed her at the castle.” At this he swore an oath. “It’s me he’s after, by God! It’s a hard sort of man to take revenge against someone’s mother, innocent old woman that she is.”
Anger heated my cheeks at the thought of poor old Lady Home being dragged through the wilderness like a dog. How I detested Lord Albany! What could he have been thinking!
“We are much aggrieved at the thought,” I told Lord Home with sincerity.
At this he and Angus exchanged a glance.
“What else?” I prodded, knowing this could not have been all.
“The duke has taken my estates of Tantallon and Borthwick,” Angus said. “Without those rents it will be hard to finance our cause,” he went on. “And what’s more, he refuses to release my uncle Gavin, even though the Pope has ordered it so he might serve as the bishop he was ordained as.”
“To not even listen to the Pope!” I cried. “For shame!”
Again, Angus and Lord Home found each other’s eyes; it seemed as though they were each trying to urge the other to speak.
Perplexed, I sighed. “Sirs,” I began. “Something else has happened.”
At this Lord Home sat in my bedside chair next to Angus, who tightened his hold on my hand, his thumb stroking my forefinger with a new sense of urgency. He was sweating. A deep flush colored his cheeks and forehead crimson.
“My dear,” he began. He pursed his lips, swallowing hard. “Oh, my dear—”
I squeezed his hand in turn. “Angus, what is it?” I cried. “The children? Are my babies well?”
Lord Home bowed his head at this, shielding his eyes with his hand.
“By God, someone tell me!” I demanded, as frustrated as I was frightened.
Angus’s liquid brown gaze found mine. Tears spilled onto his cheeks. “My dear . . . it is the Duke of R
oss. Alexander . . . he’s . . . he’s . . .”
“He’s dead,” Lord Home finished for Angus.
My breath caught. I withdrew my hand, bringing it to my chest, where my heart throbbed and ached at once. “No . . . no . . .” I breathed, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Oh, God, no! No!”
Angus gathered me in his arms as I sobbed.
“He is lying!” I insisted. “It is a ploy, a trap of some kind! My child canna be dead! It is an evil trick to lure me back, that he might capture us!” I pulled away, blinking back tears, almost convinced that this could be true, hoping it was. “That is it, isn’t it, Angus? Surely that is what you will tell me next. Tell me. Say, ‘The duke is alive, however, and is quite well.’ Tell me, Angus!”
Angus furrowed his brow in helplessness, shaking his head, reaching out to cup my cheek in his large, warm hand. “I am so sorry, Margaret.”
“Lord Home!” I cried, jerking my head away from Angus’s hand, turning my gaze to the older man. “You must know something Angus does not. That is why you are here. Tell me my son is alive and well. Tell me this is an evil ploy on the part of that devil Albany!”
“I’m afraid it’s true, Your Grace,” Lord Home said with a shake of his head, his gravelly voice as gentle as I had ever heard.
I shook my head with vehemence, squeezing my eyes against hot, stinging tears. “When?” I whispered.
Angus drew in a breath. “18 December.”
“18 December!” I cried. “But that was two months ago!” My mouth stood agape as a horrible awareness settled upon me, realizing that the party from Scotland had known when they arrived to see baby Margaret that my son was dead. They had known and allowed me to play with my new wardrobe like a child while they talked of my pitiable case. Those glances at Christmas had told the tale too well. Why did I not sense it then?
“You knew,” I seethed. “You all knew and let me go on like a fool, a great, pathetic fool!”
“Your Grace,” Lord Home began. “We couldna borne telling you in the estate you were in. We had to wait till you were strong enough to bear it. And you are strong enough now. Strong enough to get to London to gather the support you need and return to avenge his death.” He rose. “And we did pity you,” he added in soft tones. “We pity anyone who loses a child. Lord knows we have all lost enough in our lives. But we dinna think you are pathetic, Your Grace. We think you are . . .” He swallowed, lowering his eyes. “We think you are quite strong.”
“A great good strength does me,” I spat, my tone hard. “Thank God I am so strong, strong enough to outlive my children. God can keep that kind of strength.”
Lord Home offered a sigh. There was nothing he could say and he knew it. He bowed. “I will give ye some time alone with your husband,” he said then, grateful for any kind of escape, I imagined. “God keep you strong, Your Grace. Strength is all we have and we need it now, all of us.”
I watched him retreat through a veil of tears. I cursed my strength and I cursed God. How could a loving God do this? How could he take that which I loved most?
“I suppose he was here to make certain you did tell me the truth,” I said, angry that such a precaution must be taken and wondering what it said about Lord Home’s faith in my husband.
“He wanted to be here,” he said. “So you knew that he supported you.”
“All the support in the world won’t bring my baby back,” I returned. I leaned my head back against the pillows, closing my eyes, willing to mind images of my baby when last I saw him so bonny and pretty. “He was fine when I left him. He was strong and bluff as his uncle Henry.” I choked on the words as I thought of Little Jamie. “Does anyone know how fares the king?” I opened my eyes, frantic that the same fate should befall Little Jamie. “Is he well? Is he very afraid? Has anyone comforted him or made him understand what has happened? Oh, God!” It was too much. All of it was too much. Little Jamie in Scotland alone trying to make sense of his baby brother’s death with none but the Duke of Albany and his appointed staff to comfort him? As poor as my estate was, his was so much worse. My heart ached to be with him. Baby Alexander’s battles were over before they began; he was with the angels, with his father, my parents, my grandmother, and God. The suffering was for us now, for Little Jamie and me, and I could not get to him. I could not help him.
It was then I hated the Duke of Albany like no other.
It was his fault my baby was dead. He was no better than Richard III! I would make the world see that; I would expose him for the evil snake of a man he was.
He would pay for his sins against the houses of Stewart and Tudor.
By God, he would pay.
Angus could not comfort me; no one could. I lay alone, the covers drawn to my neck, refusing food and drink. What I longed for no human hand could give. Oh, Alexander . . .
The men drifted in and out of my chambers; none could speak to me, none wished my tears upon them. None knew how to offer true comfort, not even my Angus. True, most of them had lost their own children time and again, but their children were not princes. Their children did not hold the fates of kingdoms on their tiny shoulders. Their feeble words and consolations could do little to restore me.
Lent was spent not only in deprivation of the finer things in life; I had grown used to that. Mine was a sterner penance. My sons were gone, and the distance between my baby girl and me was of another, subtler kind. I could not bear to hold her or even to look upon her overmuch; when I saw her, I saw her brothers, the one forbidden to me by Albany, the other forbidden to me by God. Whenever I beheld her, I could only but think of her future. Would she one day meet my eyes with the pain of her own agonizing choices as a reflection? Would she lose her children and her loves like me? I could not bear the thought of it; we were all but repetitions of the vicious cycle born unto women, living one another’s lives, crying one another’s tears, over and over again.
At Morpeth, I learned of another highborn daughter’s entrance into the world. My brother and Catherine of Aragon became the new parents of a living princess at last, a little lass they called Mary, for my sister, of course. I imagined since my Margaret’s birth they found I had enough of a namesake and extended the courtesy to the family favorite, as out of favor as she was with her forbidden marriage to Charles Brandon on the heels of the King of France’s death. My sister Mary’s star rose further in my brother’s eyes when she bore Brandon a bonny son in March.
If anything, the Tudors were proving their fertility at last.
As if to echo that thought, spring, silent as the snowflakes of its predecessor, was upon us. The days grew longer, the snow began to melt as the earth renewed itself and, with it, hope for my journey southward.
Lady Dacre, my most faithful and tolerable visitor, came to my side as she had so often these past months. She stroked my hair and held my hand, but even her gentle touch, always hoping to solicit a response, could evoke nothing from me. I could not cry anymore. I could only think of getting back to Scotland, to Albany, and exacting my vengeance.
“The only way to get back to Scotland,” Lady Dacre told me, “is to get first to London. You must get your strength up, Your Grace. Get to London and see what His Majesty can do for you to help you. Then you can return to your child the king and set things right.”
I turned my head on my pillow to gaze at the gentle woman who had offered nothing but hospitality and comfort. For the first time I squeezed the hand that had been holding mine. Tears hovered, a painful swelling in my throat, but I could not let them fall. I could spare no time for tears now. She was right; I needed to get to London. I needed my brother, my family.
I drew in a breath. “Is there any word on the arrangements?”
“My lord husband corresponds with His Majesty to see how soon a party and the proper horses and litter will arrive,” she informed me in her gentle tones.
“Thank you, Lady Dacre,” I told her. “I want you to know how much I appreciate all you and Lord Dacre have done for me
and my baby princess. Were I someplace else,” I added with a sigh, “I do not think I would have been able to endure.”
Lady Dacre’s hazel eyes softened with tears at this, and she reached out to stroke my cheek once more. “We love you, Your Grace,” she said.
It was then my tears, so masterfully hidden of late, began to flow unchecked. How I longed to hear those words! They loved me. Not because I was a queen, not because of my power, or lack thereof. They loved me because I was a woman in need, a mother, a wife, and in me perhaps they saw their own helpless women. For that, or despite it, they loved me.
I reached up, covering the hand on my cheek. I could not speak. No words would ever convey the gratitude that swelled in my heart just then.
It was a good and rare thing to be loved.
In an attempt to gather strength for the journey, I began to eat a bit more. I took in supper with my husband, Angus, while awaiting word of the arrangements.
“It will be good for us to get to court,” I told Angus. “I think you will like my brother and he you. I am certain he will have grand plans in store for our pleasure. It will be so nice to pretend for a while that things are . . . well,” I added in soft tones. “And we will all be together for the first time in thirteen years! Mary and that new husband of hers Charles Brandon—what a scandal that was, him marrying her without my brother’s permission, and even after Henry asked him not to propose! She was fresher in her widowhood than I! It’s a wonder they’re even welcome. Of course my brother will forgive our little sister anything,” I prattled in cheerful tones. Light conversation was so rare these days I was eager to make the most of it. “Though Brandon is said to be quite handsome,” I went on, as if handsomeness could expiate any sin. “And Henry, of course. They call him the ‘handsomest prince in Christendom. ’ ” I chuckled at this. I did not think I would ever be able to think of him as anyone but Henry, the boy I had once hit with a stick for his teasing. “But of course, they have not seen you yet,” I added, hoping to inspire my husband’s affection.
