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by D. L. Bogdan

  Magnus’s eyes widened at this. I detected a trace of mockery in them, as if he did not believe my fears rational but he was intelligent enough to keep such a conclusion to himself.

  Magnus was dismissed and I sat pondering how to keep Angus at bay and how to convince my brother that the threat he presented was very real.

  Once again, when there was no one I trusted to consult, I turned to my Ellen, who remained faithful and steadfast at my side. Alone in my apartments, the other ladies who drifted in and out of my life dismissed, we sipped mulled wine on my plush velvet settee before the fire, not even indulging in the charade of sewing. I almost felt naughty, giggling and talking with her as if we were girls again and plotting our matching gowns for the next entertainment.

  “Not only Henry is badgering me,” I huffed. “He has Lord Dacre, Cardinal Wolsey, and Norfolk haranguing me with their interpretations of morality as well. It is quite taxing listening to their opinions when three of the four of them consort with mistresses regularly.”

  Ellen laughed at this, but the laughter was interrupted by a cough that quaked her shoulders and brought tears to her eyes. Alarmed, I leaned forward.

  “Ellen, that does not sound good; shall I have my physician sent for?” I asked. I could bear much but not the thought of my dearest friend in any discomfort.

  Ellen waved a hand. “Do not worry; Robin has sent me his. He takes good care of me.”

  Robin . . . why, yes, Robin Barton. I did not acknowledge what this could imply; Ellen deserved whatever happiness her unusual position could grant. That it should lie with Robin, the man who saved her from a life of slavery in Portugal, seemed fitting to me, perhaps even ordained.

  “I am grateful to him,” I said, reaching out to take her hand.

  “Enough about me,” Ellen urged, her voice husky. “You were speaking of your brother and the lairds harassing you.”

  “Oh, yes, that,” I returned, eager to distract myself from the thought of a sick Ellen and get back to the topic at hand. I sighed. “Angus is coming. Norfolk detained him at Newcastle, but of course he is for our reconciliation as well and could only keep him for so long. He is on his way. And if he thinks he will get the best of me this time, he is wrong.”

  “What will you do, Your Grace?” Ellen asked. As always, she questioned me more so I could puzzle things out aloud. I suspected it didn’t much matter to her what I did, so long as she had my friendship. I was grateful to her for that.

  “Whatever I can,” I said. “Albany, bless him, is still pushing my suit in Rome, that the Pope might grant our divorce. Angus must learn his place. It is not in my heart, or, for that matter, this realm.”

  “What of your daughter?” Ellen’s eyes were soft.

  I lowered my gaze. Even to Ellen I could not reveal my guilt over young Margaret, who grew up with her nurses and tutors and had very little interaction with me, save for a random petting and fussing here and there, while I worked to secure her brother’s realm. I hoped she wouldn’t hate me for it someday, but were there a different way to pursue matters, I was hard pressed to find it. I loved my daughter, of course; she was a beautiful little girl with her Tudor red hair and willowy build, so reminiscent of my sister, Mary. But I did not want to be reminded of her, how she could suffer for the malice borne between her father and me as surely as if it were another sibling, filled with a life of its own.

  “Margaret loves her father,” I told Ellen. “I of course will not discourage it. But I will try as best I can to protect her from his influence, as I must protect Jamie. It will be Jamie whom Angus goes after; a girl is of little consequence in the grand scheme.”

  Ellen flinched at this. Again I found I could not meet her eyes.

  Yet I had proved, had I not, even as a queen, that I was of little consequence in the face of the ambitions of men? Station was not discriminated against in this; it was fact.

  The world did not belong to women, except for what they could do to further their men. In this, my lot had to be cast with Jamie, as it always had. Such is the only fate for the mothers of kings.

  When Parliament opened, my wrath was unleashed upon my brother’s envoys, Roger Radcliffe and Thomas Magnus, while I prepared to send three ambassadors of my choosing to England. I was mad with rage over the fact that Angus had made his way into Scotland, that my brother’s realm had encouraged it. Could no one see that reconciliation was beyond possible? Letters from Angus, hopes to manipulate me, were sent back to him unread. I would not indulge my brother or Angus’s fantasy that we could rule alongside Jamie as man and wife. Those days were over; Angus’s chance to make things right had long since passed.

  Jamie and I were at Holyrood House when we learned of Angus’s arrival.

  “He has scaled the walls of Edinburgh,” Magnus informed us. “His only wish is to sit in Parliament as his ancestors before him had, and, of course, to reconcile with Your Grace, if you would open your heart to him. He has,” he added, raising his brow, “four hundred followers with him.”

  “You think to intimidate Us with this, Magnus?” I cried, enraged that such tactics be used. “We may have been foolish in Our younger days, but no more. We will not be bullied into subjugating Ourselves to Angus’s ambition!”

  “I am certain he longs to be reunited with his daughter as well; he has not seen her in a great while,” Magnus returned.

  I shook my head, beyond irritated that he should dare play that card. Margaret was my business; I would not have her used against me as another manipulation ploy.

  I was distracted from Magnus’s impotent pleas by the ruckus of horses’ hooves and men clanking in their armor beyond the castle walls; it was Angus, no doubt, hoping to impose his force upon us and take what he considered his.

  “We want as much guard assembled as is at Our disposal,” I ordered.

  “We’ve less than five hundred,” Harry told me. “I am afraid this castle is not as well armed as others,” he added, his handsome face drawn with concern.

  “It matters not; We will do what We can,” I assured him. “Turn what cannon We do have on him and his men.”

  If Angus wanted to know my true feelings on matters, I could think of no surer way to communicate them than with cannon.

  “Your Grace!” Magnus cried, scandalized. “To turn the cannon on your own lawful husband? Surely this is not advised!”

  “By God, man, will you go home and quit meddling in Scottish matters?” I cried, whirling on Magnus in a flurry of orange velvet skirts. “Fire one of them, at least,” I ordered my men, who rushed to do my bidding.

  One great booming round was shot, resonating through my body and causing the floor to tremble beneath my feet. My heart thudded at the sound. I truly did not want to cause carnage, but what had Angus driven me to? He could hardly be said to listen to reason. At times the force of warfare was the only language men of such passions understood.

  To my regret, the cannon served to end the lives of a woman, a priest, and two merchants. All innocents, and all dead for a message that was lost upon proud Angus, who retreated with his party on the king’s orders later that afternoon.

  I readied Jamie, who was by now used to fleeing in the night, and we rode in a procession illuminated by torchlight to the safety of Edinburgh Castle. As we rode I composed a defiant letter in my mind to my brother.

  He would no longer assist any Scottish subject, unless by the express orders of my son, the king. I was through asking for Henry’s help, only to be betrayed and manipulated for his own ends.

  I was the Queen of Scots, was I not?

  I laughed as a new thought occurred to me. Ellen was right.

  I had at last chosen a side.

  Whether it was due to my display against Angus, which scandalized the rest of Europe and I am certain sent Henry and Catherine into a fit of shock, or if it was because I was simply too stubborn to fade into the background as other lesser women had done, Parliament backed me in my suit for the regency. I was the Queen of
Scots, acknowledged and respected at long last.

  Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps if they fought long enough and hard enough, there was a place for women in this world.

  I took to wielding my new power with certain exactness. Harry was promoted to Captain of the Guard and I courted Rome about my divorce with renewed vigor. I perpetuated an old rumor that would invalidate my marriage to Angus, that my Jamie had lived through Flodden for a time and I hadn’t learned about it till it was too late. I regretted espousing such a lie; I knew in my heart the moment Jamie had died, with a sickening, all-consuming knowledge that eclipsed all doubt. But His Holiness did not have to know that. It was a divorce I wanted and I would get it, whatever had to be said or done. To my good fortune, I could still call Albany my friend and he did all he could to promote my suit as well.

  Meantime it was learned that King Francois of France was now being held prisoner in Italy after the Battle of Pavia. His mother, Louise, wrote to me, offering me the pick of her granddaughters for Jamie and a restoration of the Auld Alliance. She pointed out my brother’s fickle nature, his numerous betrayals to both France and Scotland, and the breaking of his daughter Princess Mary’s betrothals to both the Dauphin and the Emperor. I admired Louise’s shrewdness. It was true my brother had a pattern of breaking promises, and she assured he would break them to the Scots as well. Though I was mildly offended that it was my family she was insulting, her reasoning was not beyond my imaginings, especially after the scathing letter I had received from Henry chastising me for my treatment of Angus. The letter sent me into a fit of tears for an hour; that Henry could talk to a fellow monarch, sister or not, with such judgment and disrespect was appalling. My embassy in England had come to nothing, but here France was prostrating itself at my doorstep. It was a worthy consideration.

  Albany, by the provisions in the Treaty of the More between France and England, was forbidden to enter Scotland during Jamie’s minority, though I could not imagine that Albany would ever wish to return. I was glad that we were no longer beholden to the French; if we were to consort with them, it was of our choosing, not our obligation.

  However, despite strides being made in my cause, and allies both in Scotland and abroad, the threat Angus posed to my son was still imminent. In order to preserve the peace of his realm, I was forced to thoughts of reconciliation once again.

  “It would be in name only,” I assured Harry, who was wild-eyed at the suggestion. “Harry, it is for the sake of Jamie, for the sake of peace. You must understand that he comes before anything, before my happiness, before us, before everything. The divorce, believe me, is just a matter of time. But in the meantime, is it not better to keep one’s enemies closest?”

  Harry shook his head. We were at Edinburgh Castle. Parliament was about to open and we were about to perform the masque of our lives, that of the peaceable family. I was not about to make this harder on Jamie than it had to be.

  “Someday,” Harry said, his tone wistful, “when King James is old enough and has full command of himself and this land, I hope you will do things just for yourself and learn to have your own life.”

  “Ha!” I laughed, immediately wishing I could take it back. He was serious and the hurt in his eyes that I should mock him constricted my heart. “I can never have my own life, Harry. Queens never belong to themselves,” I added softly.

  Harry’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head.

  “Please dinna look at me like that, Harry,” I urged. “I defy all convention to live with you, and display you on my arm to the world with pride; everyone knows who truly has my heart. There will be time for us someday, I promise.”

  I turned away, finding myself shaken that I had sounded too much like the men in my life who made such false promises to me. I had always hated lying to those I loved.

  The opening of Parliament was an affair as tense as a bowstring, the very air alive with animosity as Jamie and I led the procession that included the Earl of Arran holding the scepter, the Earl of Argyll holding the sword of state, and none other than Angus holding Jamie’s crown. Edinburgh was made ready in case Angus and his throng of Red Douglas supporters and clansmen grew hostile, but they seemed to desire peace as much as we did, not that I trusted their reasons. Still, I preferred it to putting my son in any jeopardy.

  It was decided that varied lairds would have custody of the king’s person in rotation. The Earls of Argyll, Lennox, and Angus would each host the king. I was loathe to making such an agreement, but the peace of the realm was too precarious, and I needed to capitulate where I could. But I knew I had made a grave mistake.

  When it was Angus’s turn, he refused to relinquish the person of the king. Jamie was his prisoner at Edinburgh. I received from my son two missives—one, at the command of Angus, I knew without doubt, that stated he was happy in the care of his beloved stepfather.

  The other was a simple, short plea. Jamie needed my help. He wanted to be free of Angus, as free as I longed to be.

  It did not take me long to decide what to do. I rode from Stirling at the head of an army with Arran, Argyll, the Earl of Moray, and even old Archbishop Beaton, who now saw it prudent to ally himself to me, reminiscent of old Lord Home’s defection to my cause years ago.

  To my horror, Angus met us with an army of his own, Jamie riding at his side. It was a brilliant ploy, one he had also adopted years ago when he urged me to place Jamie dressed in his robes of state and crown on the wall of the castle to dissuade attack against his person. My army could not bear to attack if Jamie’s life could be threatened.

  My eyes met those of my son, those tortured brown orbs, and I prayed to convey my love to him, my desire to protect him against the monster I had been fool enough to ever take up with, and my regret at ever submitting to the council’s decision that his custody should be shared with anyone but me, his mother.

  Jamie shook his head, the side of his mouth lifting in the most subtle of smiles, as if he hoped to reassure me. I pressed my hand to my breast, squeezing my eyes shut. Oh, Jamie, Jamie, I am so sorry!

  We were forced to retreat.

  Angus deprived Jamie of everyone he had known and loved. He dismissed David Lindsay, Jamie’s beloved tutor and one of the few constant fixtures in his life since he was a bairn, replacing him with his own brother George. Angus made his uncle, another Archibald Douglas, his treasurer, and he created himself Chancellor, taking the Great Seal from Lord Beaton. It was Angus’s Scotland now and I cursed my brother as I never had before, that he should have ever allowed him to cross the Border again.

  Yet I did not lose hope. More attempts were made to save Jamie from Angus. The Earl of Lennox, a man much loved by my son and prized for his loyal friendship, went to battle in my son’s name at Linlithgow. The dear man was slain on the field. I could only imagine my son’s distress; a man he had known and loved well had lost his life for his cause. It seemed after the death of Lennox the Earl of Arran gave up altogether and retreated from public life along with old Beaton.

  Oh, how weighty was the crown on young kings!

  Meantime Angus made a show of educating Jamie in the manner he saw fit, taking him to preside over cases at the Justice Ayres. May Jamie learn enough about law to best his keeper, I prayed when I heard.

  This was one of the best lessons he could have taught in comparison to what else Jamie was learning from him.

  “He makes sure the king is able to hunt and hawk,” David Lindsay reported to me, his eyes wide with sadness. “But he also encourages him to gamble and seek the company of . . .”

  “Of whom?” I asked, horrified that my son should take to such reckless pursuits at such a young age. Though he had been declared of age at fourteen years old, he had not been released from Angus’s clutches any more than before and was as captive to him as ever. As time was passing, months into one year, and then another, I feared for what his influence wrought upon my studious, gentle son. He was just sixteen years old, still young, still malleable to the ambitio
ns of evil men.

  “Of lowborn women,” David informed me delicately.

  Whores. Just like his father. Ah, how clever Angus was, that he should steer my son so, exploiting the weakness in both the Tudor and Stewart bloodlines that ran deeper than the Tweed.

  “Something must be done,” I pleaded as I paced my apartments at Stirling. “He canna be brought down to a debauching degenerate, steered from his duties by pleasure so Angus can rule in his stead. God rot that man’s wicked soul for leading my son’s into such peril!”

  Though it could be argued living with a man who was not my husband put my own soul in equal jeopardy, I was not about to indulge that thought. I was not encouraging every woman who came my way to do the same; it was by necessity that I lived, eking out what little happiness I could. As soon as I was granted my divorce by Rome, all would be remedied as it were. There was no comparison to Angus, I reassured myself. I was still a good woman, a good mother, a good queen.

  Harry was sitting before the fire, his long legs stretched out, his arms folded across his chest. “Sit and be calm, Margaret,” he urged. “Nothing will be solved if you make yourself ill.”

  I did as I was bid, sitting across from him, but wringing my gown in my hands, twisting the material and pinching it in my fidgety state of nerves. As I attempted to collect myself and rid images of lewd women guiding my son into the depths of sin, a messenger was announced.

  The man appeared exhausted as he made his way into my presence, offering a deep bow. “News from the Vatican, Your Grace,” he said in a thick Italian accent.

  My heart thudded. News from Rome, from the Pope. I closed my eyes, readying myself for the worst.