by D. L. Bogdan
“I know I will always be your little lamb, Mother, and I love you for it,” Jamie told me. “But I want to issue a proclamation. Angus and the Douglases are not to be within six miles of Stirling. Within six miles of my person, for that matter. Ever. We will see that it is done.”
I nodded, my heart swelling with admiration for my son. He was decisive, single-minded, and every bit the king he was born to be.
“The Douglases will be punished,” Jamie said then. “And you who have supported my cause with such devotion and at your own peril will be rewarded. You, Harry, will be created Lord Methven.”
Harry’s eyes widened at this. “Your Grace, I am touched and honored. And unworthy of such esteem. I canna thank you enough for your kindness.”
“Those who advise me will be men of my choosing,” Jamie went on, dismissing Harry’s thanks with a wave of his slim-fingered hand. “I want my Davie to be Snowden Herald. And I shall create my schoolmaster of old, dear Gavin Dunbar, Chancellor of Scotland.”
“Jamie, you have been thinking much about this,” I said, a bit awed still that my son was not the long-limbed youth Angus had first taken prisoner nigh on three years ago.
“It is what I must think on, Mother,” Jamie said, his tone hard. “I am king.”
It was, perhaps, though I did not know it then, as much a warning to me as a reminder to himself.
When the Douglases rode back to Stirling we were ready. The premier earls of Scotland, including dear Arran, who I believed had been beaten down by this struggle, rode with Harry and me to meet them. Angus, his brother, and his cousin were little more than a glorified group of thugs to me, and I made sure to meet him in a beautiful dove gray velvet gown trimmed with ermine. Despite being married, I allowed my most stunning feature, my coppery hair, to flow free down my back, and it whipped about me in the wind. I was as a Celtic goddess of old and I laughed at the comparison. Angus was nothing now.
“His Majesty, King James V, expressly orders that neither you, Lord Angus, nor the clan Douglas and their supporters shall be within six.” The herald even had the good sense to hold up six fingers at this, and the condescension in the gesture caused Angus to grimace as I knew it would. “Six miles of His Majesty’s person.”
Angus, eyes narrowed, mouth bowed like a petulant child, drove me a hard stare, to which I only offered my prettiest smile. Look what you lost, I thought as I steered my horse closer to Harry, holding my belly in a gesture that, if not obvious to Harry, sent the message to Angus that another man’s seed was sprouting within me.
Angus shook his head.
They made their inglorious retreat and my heart swelled—the reign of the Douglases, over at last!
“I am not certain you should ride against Angus, Jamie,” I advised my son in the privacy of his chambers. Jamie had set to the task of his kingship with admirable competence, already corresponding with my brother in England in the hopes that the ever-precarious border situation could be stabilized.
Jamie sighed. I was beginning to get the feeling he was impatient with me and indulged my opinions for form’s sake.
“Darling, you’ve been through such an ordeal. Perhaps if you just sent him and his supporters into exile, that would be right. Nothing hurts Angus like being separated from his beloved Scotland,” I informed Jamie.
“Mother, I was his prisoner for nearly three years,” he said. “He was a usurper, not unlike the stories of Richard III you and Davie scared me with when I was a child. I was fortunate to escape him alive. What he did, and for those who supported him, was treasonous and they will all be held accountable.”
“What do you mean to do, Jamie?” I asked. An icy hand clutched my heart. I knew well the toll revenge took and did not want to see it embitter my son.
“I mean to sentence him, Sir George, and the Douglas of Kil-sprindie to death,” Jamie told me in even tones. “I have the backing of Parliament, Mother. Angus is running to Tantallon, wetting his breeches in fear, I imagine. I mean to go after him with my own men. If he won’t meet his death with dignity, he will meet it at the end of my sword, or be torn apart with my cannon.” Jamie shrugged. “I won’t make a fuss either way,” he added lightly.
“Jamie!” I cried. “You canna mean to do that! He is the father of your sister. Jamie, show mercy. It is a true king of greatness that can show mercy on his worst enemies. Please . . .”
“So that he can gather an army and rise up against me again? Are you willing to take that chance, with my kingdom?” Jamie returned, his dark eyes flashing. I flinched. Of course, I had known it was his kingdom. It had always been his kingdom; was that not what I had always been fighting for?
“Mother, the decision has been made.” Jamie rose from his writing table. “No antics, please. No theatrics, and no schemes.” He smiled; it was his father’s smile and his father’s tactic whenever we disagreed. Jamie meant to offer me some kind of pleasant consolation. I steeled myself against it. “Now. Why don’t you have yourself some new gowns made? I shall have two new gowns, fashioned as richly as you please, ordered for you. Set to picking out the materials with Mistress Ellen. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Of course you would.”
I bowed my head. After all my years of fighting for my son, he was dismissing me as if I were some frivolous maid irritating him.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I said, not without a bit of sarcasm. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Before I made my retreat, I paused, my back turned in a deliberate rebellion to protocol. I inclined my head slightly in my son’s direction. “Remember. You are sixteen years old. You need to rely on men with experience, men you can trust, to guide you in the ways of battle, that you might keep a clear head and a strong plan.”
“If I have learned anything from Angus, I have learned one thing,” Jamie returned in cool tones. “I trust no one.”
I understood; after all he had been through, why should he? Yet I was stricken just the same.
A messenger kept us abreast of the situation as my son rode against the Douglases. I was sewing in my apartments with my ladies while he informed us of the latest.
“He borrowed cannon from the castle of Dunbar, Your Grace,” the young man told me. “But of course Tantallon was strong against the attack,” he added, nodding to me as if we were in on this summation of events together. “The king was forced to retreat, but the Earl of Argyll won the day for him in the end.”
“His Majesty is safe?” I asked, reaching out, squeezing my Ellen’s hand in mine. It felt bony, where once it had been plump and warm. Now a strange coldness had settled into her that caused me to tremble more for her sake than my son’s. I dismissed my momentary worry, squeezing her hand harder.
“Yes,” he answered. “His Majesty is safe.”
The tension stretching my shoulders taut relaxed. The throbbing pain of anxiety in my brow eased a bit. “You are dismissed, thank you,” I said with a smile. “Ladies, you are all dismissed, save for Ellen.”
After the flurry of skirts and sewing was packed away and the ladies left, I turned to Ellen.
“My poor son was humiliated, I am sure,” I told her. “I hope he isn’t taking it too hard.”
“Still,” Ellen reasoned, “it is a good lesson for him to learn. He must not react rashly among these clansmen and he needs to take some counsel.”
“I had told him as much,” I said. “But,” I added with a sigh, “he is sixteen.”
“Sixteen . . .” Ellen’s sigh was not as light as mine; it was fraught with a deep sadness that seeped straight into my bones. “Were we ever so young?”
“It feels a lifetime ago,” I said.
“So . . .” Ellen offered a sly glance at my belly. “The king has triumphed, at least for the moment. There is nothing preventing you from telling Lord Methven of the little bairn now, is there?”
“Ellen, how long have you known?” I countered with a laugh. I could never resent her intuition.
Ellen shook her head. “Your Grace, I know you better than
any-one.”
“It’s true,” I said, my voice heavy with the wistfulness of nostalgia.
At once it struck me to the core that as well as Ellen knew me, I did not know her at all. I swallowed an onset of tears. Was it too late? Or was it not meant to be that kind of friendship for us, with shared secrets, hopes, and dreams?
Perhaps it did not matter.
“Your Grace, may I be dismissed? I am a bit tired,” Ellen told me, then, her hand fleeing to her breast a moment, before resting again in her lap.
“Of course, darling,” I told her. “Get some rest, my friend. . . .” I bit my lip as she rose, watching her wobble a bit on her feet as she packed her sewing away. “Ellen . . . is there anything you need?”
Ellen offered her sweet smile that seemed to hold so much more knowledge than mine, as if she were in on some divine secret I could only guess at.
“No,” she assured me. “There is nothing you can do.” She approached, leaning in to offer a soft kiss upon my forehead. “Except, Your Grace . . . remember Lord Methven. He needs you.”
I nodded. “Yes, of course, I could never forget my dear husband,” I said.
I didn’t know what she meant. I should have. But I didn’t.
Perhaps I chose not to.
Alone that night, Harry and I dined in my apartments on roast peacock, one of my favorites, and I made a fuss over Jamie’s battle against Angus, attributing all the glory to him, of course, a fantasy in which Harry was kind enough to indulge.
“I am hoping he will drive them out of Scotland and not carry through the death sentences,” I told Harry.
“You still are fond of Angus, aren’t you?” Harry asked me then.
“How can you even think that?” I challenged, my voice light. “He is young Margaret’s father, however. It seems unchristian to see him dead. He was wrong for what he did to Jamie. But I was wrong for what I did to him. I wonder if he knows that.”
“What did you do, Margaret?” Harry tilted a brow. He was not quite accusatory, but his voice was tense with caution. “Was it that you were a widow with child, vulnerable and alone, and fell to his charms? Was that so great a sin?”
I shook my head. “I know what he did; I know what his grandfather did to push him. It was wrong of me to ever take him in. He could not handle it. He could not handle me.”
Harry lowered his eyes, staring at his plate, which was for the most part untouched, something quite unlike him. His appetite was almost always ravenous.
“Anyway, Harry,” I said, reaching over to take his hand in mine. “Dinna let’s worry about Angus tonight when there is so much to celebrate. Jamie’s victory . . . and our child.”
Harry’s full mouth fell agape. He raised his blue eyes to me; they were softened with tears. “Really?” he breathed. “Margaret, are you sure you can bear it? Are you well enough, strong enough?”
I waved a hand in dismissal of his outrageous implication of my age. “Many women bear children in their thirties and survive.”
“But you are almost forty,” Harry interjected.
“Dinna remind me,” I muttered. “I have borne many and I have always come through, no matter how sick I have been.” I patted my belly. “It has quickened,” I said with a smile. “I feel it is God’s reparation to us, Harry.”
“And a sign that you need to slow down now,” Harry told me, his voice firm. “It is time to step back a bit from public life, from the king. He has good men around him now, and of course I will always guide him in what modest ways I can. But now it’s time for us to concentrate on our family, on us. We should retire to Methven Castle; you can set up a confinement chamber there and we will be away from all this. I want you and our baby to be well, to thrive. We can get young Margaret from Edinburgh, if you like; I am sure she would love to be a part of her new brother or sister’s life, and wouldn’t you like to have her beside you again?”
My heart lurched at this. “Harry . . . it is so wonderful, what you are saying. But to leave Jamie when his grip on his throne is so precarious and new . . . I dinna know if I can do it. And I feel strong and lusty. I can bear public life as I always have. And young Margaret is happy where she is; there is no need to disturb her just yet, not till I go into confinement; then perhaps she can come and spend time with me and the baby when he is born.”
Harry’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. He bowed his head. “Margaret, His Majesty is so strong willed, just like you. He will never let his throne go, even at his tender age. And the men he has chosen to surround himself with are wise. He seeks counsel from France, from your gracious brother the king, and from so many more. I am certain if he needs us he will make it known and we will be there; if you canna, I surely will in your stead. But you are of an age now where you need to rest more, in your condition. I want you to be safe, Margaret; I want the baby to be lusty as you are.”
I patted his hand. “Eat your peacock, darling, and stop fretting like an old woman,” I teased, flinching as he furrowed his brow, knowing I had insulted him. “Harry, I appreciate what you are saying and it is noted, of course. But please trust me. When it is time for confinement we can go to Methven Castle. But for now, we need to be close at hand for Jamie. We need to be a solid presence in his life; Scotland needs to know we are behind him and that the roles we play in his life are not small ones.”
“But Margaret,” Harry said in tones soft with hurt. “He is the king, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is!” I declared with another laugh, made edgy with nervousness. “But he is just a boy, Harry. He needs us.”
Harry rose from the table.
“Harry, you haven’t finished your supper. Sit down, won’t you?” I gestured to his plate. “Come now, this is our celebratory meal!”
“I prithee pardon, my lady,” Harry said in cool tones. “But I am not much for celebrating tonight.... I wonder how His Majesty will take the news of being a brother again. As it is he has . . . three or four? At least four bastards of his own, all with different ladies.”
My stomach turned to rock. Nausea gripped my throat. It was my life all over again, a mockery of my life, and Jamie was not James V but James IV. I shook my head.
“You are jesting,” I said, attempting a chuckle that strangled itself in my throat. “You are jesting! Harry, I just informed you that you are to be a father and this is how you act? My God, you ungrateful little man!”
Harry approached me, leaning forward to kiss the top of my head. “A mother and grandmother in one year. Isn’t that something?”
“Oh, get out!” I cried, rising from my chair, causing it to jostle on its legs. “Get out, anyway! I shall celebrate alone, as I always do!”
Harry’s bow was stiff. “Then I bid you good night, my lady. Enjoy your supper and your . . . celebrations. . . .”
Harry quit the room and I sank into my chair, laying my head on my folded arms and sobbing.
21
The Princesses of Scotland
In November I was preparing for Christmas early from my confinement chamber at Stirling. I wanted to have a good Christmas with Harry and Jamie and the new baby, despite the unpleasantness revealed the night I informed Harry of our blessing. Jamie’s matters would resolve themselves when he married, and I was considering more and more my brother’s proposition of his daughter, Princess Mary, for his bride. His children by his mistresses would be heaped in honors, just as his half brothers and half sisters were by his father before him, and his ladies well compensated as royal mistresses always seem to be, the lucky little wenches. Marriage would tame him, and if he was able to sire so many children there was no doubt it would be fruitful. The sooner to get him wed, the better. I resolved to make it a priority.
But as to Christmas, I hoped to make at least part of Harry’s wish come true and bring Margaret from her household to celebrate with us at Stirling. I would throw a feast and perhaps even a masque. We would all be happy and at peace and Harry would let go his silly desire to retire to Methven. A
ll would be restored. I would spoil Harry and the children with the best of everything in my power to procure. It would be a happy Christmas.
I regaled Ellen with my plans, hoping to rouse her from her malaise. She always had a good head for planning things, and perhaps a new gown would cheer her as well, if I could afford it. I hated asking for money, but I wasn’t above it, especially at this crucial time of preserving my family and marital peace.
One day as we chattered under the pretext of sewing garments for the new baby, we were interrupted by Harry bursting into the room without ceremony. He was breathing hard, his forehead and cheeks ruddy and glistening with sweat.
“Harry, how rude of you to come so unkempt,” I said, mildly annoyed that my time with my truest friend was interrupted. “What is it?”
“Your Grace.” He bowed as he approached me. “Mistress Ellen.” He offered another nod in her direction, which she returned. “I wanted you to hear it from me first,” he told me. My heart began to thud. Sweat mirroring his own began to gather at my hairline.
“Harry, this is serious, isn’t it?” I breathed. “Something has happened.” My stomach began to twist as I swallowed back burning bile. “Jamie. Is Jamie all right?”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and nodded with a sigh I detected exasperation in. “Yes, the king is fine, my lady. It is Margaret.”
“Margaret?” I screwed up my face in confusion. “What on earth could be wrong with Margaret? She has not taken ill, has she?”
Harry shook his head. “No, she is not ill. She has been taken by Angus, Your Grace. He has fled Scotland with her.”
My hand flew to my breast as the baby offered a hard jab to my bladder. I doubled over. “No . . . oh, no . . .”
My daughter, the little fair stranger I had borne Angus . . . he had taken her, as he had taken Jamie, as he had taken everything, and I did not protect her, I was not there.
