The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  This was no joust. This was war to the death. The enemy was determined to drive the Scots back beyond the Tweed and the Cheviots; and the Scots were determined to go forward.

  “Alexander, my son…”

  James felt a sob in his throat for his beautiful Alexander had fallen and there was blood where there had but a moment before been the freshness of youth.

  “Oh, my son…my son…”

  Mercifully there was little time for remorse. He did not see the man who struck him. James was dressed as an ordinary soldier for he had determined to go into battle as one of his men; he had wanted no special treatment. He was a soldier just as they were.

  So he fell, as men were falling all about him.

  The battle raged; and it was only later when the fighting was done that the terrible truth was known. On that day of glorious victory for the English and bitter defeat for the Scots, ten thousand Scotsmen lay dead or dying on Flodden Field and among them was their King.

  The Queen had shut herself in that turret of Linlithgow Palace which was known as Queen Margaret’s Bower. She sat alone on the stone bench which surrounded it and looked out of the window hoping and praying for the coming of the messenger.

  When she had heard that James was dallying at Ford Castle with Lady Heron her anger was greater than her fear. Each night she was tormented by vague dreams; each day she came to her bower to watch and wait.

  There she relived so much of her life with James. This very bower itself had been created by him for her pleasure. It was reached from his dressing room by means of a staircase, and James had had a stone table erected in the center. She remembered so well the day he had shown it to her. How charming he was, how tender! And how difficult it was to remind oneself that he had been as charming and tender to other women perhaps the day before he was showing so much solicitude to her.

  News was brought to her frequently. She had learned of all the successes, until they had come to Ford Castle. She knew that Old Bell-the-Cat had left the army in disgust; and she trembled. But then she remembered James, the Wild Knight at the joust. He could not fail. Yet his success would mean disaster for her brother, and she had not known until this time how strong were the ties of blood.

  What did she want? Peace, she answered. That is what I want. Peace between our two countries, and my husband at my side.

  She had known before the messenger spoke that he had brought disastrous news; and as she had listened to his words a numbness took possession of her body. Dead! On Flodden Field.

  She thought: So I shall never seen his handsome face again, never listen to his voice; never again shall I ask myself with what woman he is spending his time now. His beauty has gone; his virile body is but a corpse; and I, his wife, have become his widow.

  She went to the nursery, where her little son, who was riding on David Lindsay’s shoulders, shouted with joy to see her.

  David Lindsay lifted the boy from his shoulders and stood him down; he saw from the Queen’s expression that she had had bad news and, because he knew that the messenger had come from Flodden Field, he guessed the nature of that news. He was filled with horror and his first thoughts were of what this would mean to his young charge.

  “Davie,” said Margaret, “this is a woeful day for Scotland.”

  “Your Grace…Your Grace…”

  She knelt down and with tears in her eyes embraced her son.

  “He is now your King, Davie.”

  “This cannot be!”

  “Alas, it is so. James IV has died at Flodden and now this little one is King of Scotland and the Isles.”

  “So young…and tender,” murmured David.

  “I trust all will remember it,” Margaret answered bitterly. “David,” she went on, “in a few months’ time he will have a brother or sister.”

  David nodded slowly.

  Young James was impatient of this solemnity. He wanted to play.

  “Carry me, David,” he cried imperiously.

  And solemnly David Lindsay lifted the King of Scotland onto his shoulder.

  The whole of Scotland mourned the King. Nor did it mourn him only, for the flower of Scottish manhood had fallen at Flodden and there was scarcely a noble family in the land which was not touched with sorrow. James had won the hearts of his people as few kings had ever done before him. His handsome looks, his great charm, his sympathy with the troubles of all, his chivalry and brilliant performances at the jousts had made of him a public hero. It was forgotten that he was to blame for this terrible defeat against which so many of his advisers had warned him, that it had been unnecessary to fight at all and, having embarked upon the campaign, it had been criminally negligent to jeopardize the lives of so many and the cause of Scotland while he tarried with Lady Heron. They remembered only the hero who had delighted them with the entertainments he had given and in which they had had their share; they remembered only that he whom they had loved was dead.

  Old Bell-the-Cat was a brokenhearted man. He had lost two sons at Flodden—his eldest, George, Master of Douglas, and Sir William of Glenbervie; with them had fallen two hundred gentlemen of the name of Douglas. There could rarely have been a disaster to Scotland and the Douglases to compare with that of Flodden. He no longer had the heart to join in public affairs; he was too old, too sad. All his vast possessions would now go to his grandson Archibald, son of George; and Bell-the-Cat retired to his Priory of Whitehorn in Wigtownshire to set his affairs in order, for he did not think he had long to live—nor did he wish it otherwise.

  But there was no time to waste. Scotland was defeated; and she had left the flower of her army rotting on Flodden Field. What next? asked those who were left.

  The days following the defeat were some of the most anxious the country had ever passed through, until it was realized that Surrey was in no position to march on Scotland; the main army of England was abroad with the King, and the battle of Flodden had been one of defense for England. The Regent, Queen Katharine, was very loath to conduct a war against her husband’s sister; all she wished to do was preserve England from invasion during her husband’s absence. This had been magnificently done; and Katharine was ready to offer Margaret a truce.

  As her numbness left her, Margaret realized that she was now in possession of a certain power—and power was something she had always wished for. James had made her Regent and guardian of their son before he went away, and the nobles of Scotland were anxious to respect his wishes.

  First she removed the little King to the strong fortress of Stirling Castle; then she called Parliament, that the will of James IV might be read. There was some murmuring concerning the passing of the Regency into the Queen’s hands, for the tradition of Scotland was that this should be a masculine prerogative, yet because the King was so recently dead, none raised a voice against his wishes. A Council was to assist her, and this was made up of old Bell-the-Cat, the Earls of Arran, Huntley, Glencairn, Argyle, Lennox, Eglington, Drummond and Morton; with Beaton, the Archbishop of Glasgow and Elphinstone, Bishop of Aberdeen.

  Only twenty days after the death of his father, little James was taken to Scone where, what was called throughout the land, the Mourning Coronation took place. Over the brow of the child was held the crown of Scotland and he was solemnly declared King.

  It was the most extraordinary coronation ever witnessed for, as the trumpets sounded, those about the young King burst into loud lamentations; and James was proclaimed King of Scotland and the Isles to the accompaniment of tears and sobbing.

  Thus the power for which Margaret had longed was to some extent hers. Jealousy, the most persistent emotion of her life, had been removed. What did all those women who had tempted James from her side matter now? She had heard that Anne of Brittany, who had roused her anger as much as any, had died a few days after the defeat at Flodden. So, thought Margaret, she did not live long to gloat over what she had persuaded him to do.

  Margaret herself was now twenty-four years old; she had had many years’ exper
ience of Scotland and of the Scottish, and as the weeks following her son’s coronation began to pass, her grief passed with them. She forced herself to remember the unhappiness rather than the happiness James had caused her; and once she had given birth to his child she would be free.

  She began to think with increasing excitement of freedom.

  She was not at this time aware of the feelings of certain members of the Council toward her. They could not forget, first that she was a woman and second that she was English. It was true her nationality meant that the King of England was more likely to show leniency to the Scots while his sister was their Queen; but in spite of the lack of funds in the exchequer and the terrible loss of manpower at Flodden, Scotland was still not eager for friendship with England.

  The pro-French party was strong and there was continual and secret correspondence between this party and the French.

  There came that day when the Bishop of Aberdeen suggested to the Council that the Queen’s task was too much for her strength. It seemed to him that she needed help in her task of Regent; and he proposed that they should invite the Duke of Albany—who, after Margaret’s son, was next in the line of succession—to come to Scotland and share the Regency with her.

  This was agreed to be an excellent suggestion. Albany, uncle of James IV, should be told of their decision, and they would invite him to tell them what his inclinations were.

  Meanwhile the Queen was pregnant and in no fit state to conduct affairs, so first they would approach Albany in secret.

  John Stuart, Duke of Albany, was riding round his estates with his friend Anthony d’Arcy de la Bastie when the messenger from Scotland arrived at the château.

  John—always known as Jehan—had almost forgotten that he was a Scotsman, although de la Bastie, who had visited Scotland, often talked of his stay there and did his best to arouse Albany’s interest in that country. But Albany had been brought up in France by a French mother; French was his native language; he had been in the service of the King of France; and he had married a Frenchwoman. He was now just past thirty and he had been four years old when his father had died, and that had severed, so he thought, all links with Scotland. He was on excellent terms with the French Court; he had been made a knight of St. Michael and Admiral of France for services to the King. He was happily married to his cousin, Anne de la Tour, a rich heiress who had brought him these Auvergne estates. He passed the time pleasantly between Court and the country; so he was perfectly content with his life.

  It was natural at such a time that they should be talking of Scotland. The news of Flodden was fresh and de la Bastie could not forget what it meant.

  He was saying: “Had you met him you would have felt this as deeply as I. He was so vital; so charming to look at and pleasant to be with. I remember his masquerading as the Wild Knight, and then seeming loath to take the glory he had won. And now…he is dead.”

  “A fate which must overtake us all,” mused Albany philosophically.

  “But not in the prime of our lives, let us hope.”

  Albany was silent for a while, then he said: “They are a wild clan, these Stuarts.”

  “All of them?” asked de la Bastie with a smile.

  “My Stuart blood has been tempered by that of the French. I boast that I inherited logic and sweet reason from my French mother.”

  “And nothing from your father?”

  “Heaven help me, not his genius for falling into trouble, I trust.”

  “None could say you had inherited that. Here you are, a friend of the King, a brilliant courtier and a happy countryman. What more could you ask?”

  “Very little. I was not complaining. I have no wish to live as my father did.” He smiled. “I don’t remember him; but my mother talked of him continually. The last years of his life were almost too fantastically adventurous to bear the stamp of truth.”

  “He was indeed a strange man, and an unhappy one—I should think—to quarrel with his brother.”

  “Oh, he was ambitious, and when you are ambitious it is not good to be born the second son of a king. It was natural that such a man should long for the crown, and when his brother became James III the trouble started. I would rather live in peace than in the center of revolution. I tell you, I follow my mother rather than my father.”

  They had turned their horses toward the château when de la Bastie said: “Look, there are visitors.”

  “You are right.” Albany spurred his horse and the two men broke into a gallop which soon brought them to the gates of the château.

  Several of the servants had seen their approach, for they had been watching for it; and grooms ran forward to take their horses and to gabble that foreigners had arrived.

  Inside the great hall Albany’s wife, who had been the Comtesse de la Tour before she married, was graciously acting as hostess to the foreigners and as Albany went forward, with de la Bastie a few paces behind, he felt a slight apprehension because he saw that the visitors came from Scotland. Moreover they came on an important mission, for the man who faced him was the Lyon King.

  He knew, almost before he heard, what the visitor had to say. It was the logical outcome of recent events. An infant king; a woman regent; and he a grandson of King James II.

  Never! he thought. Why should I? Here I am at peace. Here I am happy. Why should I leave all this for the strife which would naturally be mine in that strife-ridden country?

  But he listened courteously to the Lyon King and gave no hint of his distaste for the mission.

  His guests must be royally entertained; Anne would see that they were. She too was looking uneasy. She need not fear. Their life together was not going to be disrupted.

  He sat thoughtfully in his private chamber remembering the stories he had heard his mother tell him.

  His father had lived a colorful life, but surely happiness, peaceful pleasure, were more to be desired than adventure which had ambition as the spur.

  His father, Alexander Stuart, Duke of Albany, had always been in the thick of intrigue, so it was natural that when his elder brother James came to the throne, he, Alexander, and his younger brother, the Earl of Mar, should begin seeking honors and glory. Scotland had been tortured by revolution, due to them; and when Albany and Mar had come into conflict with those Border barons, Home and Hepburn, James III had seized the opportunity to imprison his troublesome brothers. Mar had died mysteriously in prison; some said as the result of an accident when a physician had bled him; others that the King had ordered his veins to be cut that he might bleed to death. In any case that was the end of Mar.

  Albany had determined that no such misadventure should befall him, and as he had allies in France, he planned his escape. This took place with a drama that characterized all his adventures. It was arranged that two casks should be sent to him in his prison in Edinburgh Castle; these casks were presumed to contain Malmsey; one did, but the contents of the second were rope, which would make escape possible, and instruction as to where the French ship, which would carry him to France, was moored in the Forth.

  Albany made plans with his chamber child, a young attendant who acted as valet during his imprisonment. First he invited the Captain of the Castle to come to his apartment and share the wine which had so generously been sent to him.

  The Captain arrived and when he had taken rather more than he was accustomed to, Albany drew his sword and ran it through his body. Then he sent his chamber child to tell one of the guards that the Captain of the Castle was drunk and needed help; and as soon as the guard came into the apartment, Albany killed him. This was repeated twice and in a short time there were four dead men in Albany’s apartment.

  Albany then commanded the chamber child to descend by the rope, and he himself would follow immediately. The boy was lowered over the walls of the castle, but the rope was too short and he fell, breaking his thigh. Realizing what had happened, Albany drew in the rope, lengthened it and himself descended. Although in imminent danger of discovery he picked up
the child, carried him to a house nearby, commanded the people there to have his wounds attended to, telling them that if any ill befell the child they would have to answer to Albany, and then made his way to the French ship which was waiting to carry him to France. His treatment of the child aroused the sympathy of the people and he was fast becoming a legend throughout the land. He made his way to the French ship and when he arrived in Paris was treated with respect by the King of France, given estates and a bride—a French heiress, Anne, daughter of the Comte d’Auvergne et de Boulogne.

  He had had no wish to settle down in peace, and before long had returned to England where he had entered into an intrigue with Edward IV to oust his brother James III from the throne of Scotland and take the crown himself. The price Edward asked for his help was that Albany should, on gaining the throne, put away his wife and marry Edward’s daughter Cecilia. Albany was not one to trouble himself with such details. He had already been married before he left Scotland to his cousin, Catharine Sinclair, by whom he had had three sons and a daughter. He had divorced her on the grounds of propinquity, so legally the present Duke, his son by Anne de la Tour, was his heir.

  What strife had been caused in Scotland by Albany’s actions! There had been many nobles who were dissatisfied with the King, and they only needed Albany’s banner to join in the revolt against James. Bell-the-Cat was at the head of this revolutionary faction and there had been perpetual strife.

  Eventually Albany had found it necessary to escape from Scotland and once more sought refuge in France, where his death was as dramatic and unexpected as his life had been. Attending a tournament he was accidentally killed by a splinter from a lance when he was not even engaged in the joust but merely a spectator.

  A life of adventure. Had he found it as satisfying as his son found his?

  Perhaps it had contented him, for it was the life he had chosen.

  “But this,” said his son, “is the life for me.”

  De la Bastie was going to be disappointed in him. He knew what his friend wanted. He would like to accompany the new Regent to Scotland because he had undoubtedly become enamored of that strange, dour land.