The Forgotten Queen (10 page)

We had written. How unhappy I was in the beginning! He reassured me without ever addressing the matters to which I wrote. He reassured me with the knowledge that he was there, in England, my beloved father. He sent part of my dowry, arranged my life and secured peace with Scotland through my marriage. Now he was gone forever, taking his wisdom and caution and stoicism with him. He lay beside my mother in the grand tomb he had obsessively erected upon her death.

Henry, my eager, lively, feisty brother, ascended the throne as the Eighth of That Name. He wed Princess Catherine of Aragon and the world bowed before him, the handsome golden boy. He had great plans, I was told; he would usher in a New Age. At that my throat constricted as I recalled the words of my precious brother Arthur. We had planned to usher in that age together, that sparkling New Age when knowledge and tolerance would flow from the conduits like wine. Did Henry have the same goals? Would he be the grand king Arthur no doubt would have been had God allowed him to sit on the throne? Would Henry do our illustrious father proud?

A few days after my brother and his bride’s joint coronation I learned of my grandmother’s death. For all her stricture and hardness, there was no doubting her love. I was her special responsibility; no one attended me as she did. No one worried over me as she did. I recalled all the pranks I pulled on her, noting only now the twitch of her lips as she scolded me, the merry twinkle in her eye as she called me “that impetuous girl.” Could it be that she saw something of herself in me and admired it? I should like to think so.

I looked out over the Scottish countryside, the rolling hills, the silvery mist hovering over the land like a mourning veil, and dreamed of home, of what was and could never be reclaimed. They were all dying; all leaving me. I shuddered with fear. Was there nothing that lasted?

 

The cycle of death was broken with a burst of new life.

The prince was born at Holyrood on 21 October. I became determined to evade the darkness that danced about the fringes of my soul, waiting to devour me. I would not let it. I would see my son into this world. Weak, bleeding, and quivering, I brought him forth, my beautiful Prince Arthur, named for my brother and the famed king from whom we descended, and clasped him to my chest.

It was a fortuitous name—a good sign. Prince Arthur now stood as heir to the thrones of both Scotland and England if my brother bore none himself, and though it was unlikely lusty Henry would have any problem securing the succession, I admitted to a certain evil hope that perhaps those born of my body would one day unite the two kingdoms.

It was the great sin of those who ruled, the lust for more power, and I was not immune to it. Indeed the acuteness of my longing frightened me.

 

I watched him grow, strong and lusty and golden like his namesake. His legs were chubby and fair. I kissed the silky skin; I cradled him to my chest. I sang to him. William Dunbar wrote verses celebrating his beauty, and Jamie, his proud, devoted father, allowed his back to heal at last.

How much joy the little prince brought us! He cooed and giggled. His bright blue eyes sparkled. He rarely cried. The nurses and rockers were enthralled with him; they praised his every move. Never had they cared for such a bonny lad.

There was no indication that we would lose him.

When we did, at Edinburgh on a warm July day just nine months after his birth, we fled the castle. We could not bear to be where our greatest happiness was known, where the memory of his baby laughter still echoed in the nursery.

I accompanied Jamie on his pilgrimage this time. I did not share his enthusiasm for ritual and things holy, but I vowed to make some kind of amends for whatever sin I may have brought down upon our house. I examined my actions, my thoughts, my heart. My pride, I realized, may be what caused God to take him from me. I looked into my baby’s eyes and saw a prince, a future king. I dreamed of him sitting on not only the throne of Scotland but that of England as well. It was a cruel thought, a selfish thought, for in thinking it I wished ill upon my brother and sister-in-law. Now they, too, had known the agony of losing children, and as far removed as I was from them, I had played a part in their losses nonetheless. Now God punished me for it. Again. I had to make amends.

And so I prayed. I kissed relics. I inhaled the sickeningly sweet scent of incense. I lit candles. I offered money. Jamie whipped himself bloody. More links were added to his belt. He planned his Crusade with more fervor, ordering the construction of a great ship to add to his fleet in the hopes of setting sail for the Holy Land when the Pope called for him. He wrote other kingdoms, soliciting their participation in his noble cause; no one committed.

There were matters far more pressing than a fruitless Crusade to occupy them. They cared not for the well-intended obsession of a guilt-ridden king nor for the grief of his queen.

Babies died every day, after all.

 

The Empire, Spain, Venice, and England had formed a Holy League against France by November of 1511 and helped Pope Julius II regain some of his lost holdings. The French had hoped to call for a council in which discussions about church reforms could ensue, but the challenge infuriated the Pope and France was placed under interdict.

While England delivered their declaration of war to the French, I delivered Scotland of a prince, whom we again called James for his father.

I was engulfed in darkness once more, immobilized by the strangling mists. Yet inside the flame the Tudor fire still burned, urging me to live. The baby’s cry was lusty; it seemed stronger than the rest somehow. It served as my guide; I followed it. Louder and louder it grew, piercing my ears with its urgency. He needed me. This baby needed me. The blackness faded and I was immersed in the white light of motherhood.

I awakened, drawing into focus the sweet, elated face of my husband.

“The baby?” I whispered, my body tensing in terror.

“Maggie. He lives,” Jamie assured me, beaming as he stroked my clammy forehead. “He
lives!
”

“Praise God!” I breathed, relinquishing myself to tears of relief. If we could just get through this first year everything would be all right, I was sure of it. Oh, may it go fast!

 

Jamie was in a frenzy. England had put us in an awkward position. France had been Scotland’s longtime ally and my brother’s desire to conquer them had little to do with the Holy League and more to do with regaining England’s lost holdings.

“Christian princes fighting Christian princes!” Jamie seethed as he paced my chambers. “No one will emerge the victor. The real battle is in the Holy Land—if only they would see that!”

I shook my head, saddened, wishing in vain that there was another conduit for Jamie’s obsession. “They’ll not think of the Holy Land if they can gain from the destruction of something much closer to home,” I said at last. “But, by the Mass, I wish Scots-English relations did not have to be strained because of it!”

“Ah, Maggie, I am disappointed,” Jamie lamented, his face writ with genuine disillusionment. “Your brother has not adhered to our treaty; there are still border raids for which we have no choice but to retaliate. He sacrificed diplomacy in favor of rash action when he had the Howard brothers murder our good Captain Andrew Barton for piracy. Poor Robin . . .” he added with a shake of his head, referring to Robert Barton, who had long been one of our favorites. “And the jewels bequeathed to you by your dear brother Arthur and honored grandmother have not yet been sent. Thus far this Henry is not proving to be half the king your father was in any regard.”

“He is so young,” I reminded Jamie in a pathetic attempt to keep the peace. “Just a boy. Young men are often lusty for war. He will learn.”

“At the cost of men’s lives?” Jamie countered. “Not to mention the cost to his own exchequer and his friendship with me, which going to war with Scotland’s oldest ally would certainly jeopardize. I would not think he would want to risk war with me. I am far nearer to him than France.”

“Of course not,” I reaffirmed. “Peace can be negotiated, Jamie. With France and with us. Henry wouldn’t dare offend his sister’s country.”

I cradled our son to my breast, looking down at his rosy countenance. I was with child again and did not wish to contemplate anything unpleasant. Peace was my objective; my children must have a stable alliance secured with England. Oh, heady thoughts . . .

“Wouldn’t it have been wonderful if we were born simple people?” I asked Jamie then. “If we did not have to worry about the decisions we make affecting dynasties and starting wars. I’d have been a shepherdess, I think, and would don a gauzy gown to stroll through the fields as I tended my flock.” I closed my eyes, riveted by my fantasy. “I’d walk through the heather and run my hand along the top, letting it tickle my palm. And every day would be one of peace, surrounded by God’s most beloved creatures.” My eyes fluttered open and I offered my husband a smile. “What would you have been, Jamie, had you been a simple man?”

Jamie smiled in turn. His face softened; his brows relaxed. The crinkle in his forehead smoothed as he sat on my bed to ponder. “I suppose I would have liked to have been a sailor,” he said. His voice was low with whimsy. “Or an alchemist and spend my days trying to convert base metals into gold. Or a musician, with nothing to do but while away his hours strumming his lute and yielding to fancy.” His voice grew softer still. “And you, my Maggie? What else would you have been besides a beautiful shepherdess, had you not been born my queen?”

“Your wife,” I answered. “Before anything else, your wife.”

Jamie gathered me in his arms. The baby gurgled and cooed while his sibling offered a lively kick within my womb.

I decided then and there that there was nothing else I’d rather have been than Jamie’s Queen of Scots.

 

In November I was delivered of a premature daughter at Holyrood. So tiny, she was no more than the length of my wrist to my fingertips. I was strong enough to reach out to her, to caress the translucent cheek before God claimed her to reside among her brothers and sister in Heaven.

I was almost too ill to mourn. My thoughts were dominated by the possibility of lending aid to France, thus placing ourselves at odds with Henry’s England, making my recovery even slower. My limbs were so heavy; I found it difficult to summon the will to breathe. My aching breasts dried and I bled with nothing to show for it. I was nauseated but too ill to retch; the bitter taste of bile was forever in my mouth, stagnant and suffocating. My stomach clenched in pain, but I could not even curl up against it. I was too tired to move. My tears cut slow, sluggish trails down my cheeks, lazy as the rest of me.

“If my brother goes to war with France, you will be against him, won’t you?” I asked Jamie one gray afternoon as he sat by my bedside.

“It is very possible, Maggie.” His voice was very low.

I closed my eyes, wearied of it all. Yes, I knew. Jamie said as much before. A vision of my father swirled against the opaque background of my eyelids. I was to forge an understanding between England and Scotland, he had instructed. How could I be the least bit successful in that task if they were in opposition? It was more than a matter of countries; it was a matter of family. My husband and my brother, the two people I loved most in the world—how could I be made to choose one over the other?
Oh, there must be a way to avoid this....

But I could not think of it now.

I was so very sick . . .

D
ecember did not see me any better and the news was even worse. Jamie’s intelligence revealed that Henry would tax his people to raise funds for the continued war against France. There was no doubt of whom Jamie would stand with. By 10 December France’s Admiral de la Motte anchored at Leith with a ship full of gunpowder, gunstones, eight brass serpentines, by far the most accurate of light field artillery, wine, and, at last, plate and eight bolts of cloth of gold for me.

“Maggie, it is almost certain your brother is planning an attack against us as well,” Jamie told me, his eyes lit with the bewildered sadness and anger of betrayal. “He has never taxed his people to this degree. It can mean nothing else. No good will come of it, I can assure you,” he added darkly.

My heart sank in my chest; even it had ceased to beat with vigor. “Jamie, no . . . for love of me, dinna speak of it anymore. I am so weak, so very weak. . . .”

My eyes closed and I yielded to the darkness.

I awoke with a start. “Jamie . . .” I murmured. “I want Jamie!”

“He has gone, dearest,” cooed my attendant Ellen. “He goes to pray for the restoration of Your Grace’s health at Tain.”

At once I began to laugh and cry. “Of course,” I whimpered. “Of course.”

 

I was slow to get well and no amount of Christmas festivities thrown for my benefit cheered me. The tensions between my adopted country and country of birth ran too high. I hated France and nightly prayed it would sink into the ocean!

As winter progressed my strength returned, surging through my limbs, renewing me and readying me for the battle to come. In February my husband received a letter from Queen Anne of Brittany, Louis VII’s conniving wife, promising fourteen thousand French crowns if he stood as her knight, championing her country against Emperor Maximilian, Ferdinand of Aragon, and my brother, Henry VIII, who was the closest. In short, she asked Jamie to go to war against his own brother-in-law and break our marriage treaty. The wench even had the audacity to enclose in her plea a turquoise ring and glove!

I examined the ring in bed, trying it on as I scowled at Jamie, who was pacing by the buffet. “I suppose you canna resist this, can you? A ‘knightly errand.’ Such utter nonsense, Jamie!” I cried. “She’s playing you, you have to know it! She knows you canna resist a romantic overture and now has you right where she wants you!”

“Maggie, there is a lot more to this than you seem to understand—” Jamie began, his tone ever gentle.

“Believe me, I understand!” I threw the ring across our chambers, where it landed with a clatter at his feet. “It’s wrapped up in a perfect little box, a mission you cannot refuse, sanctioned by your Pope and a damsel in distress as well. My God, it is tailored for you!”

“Maggie, stop this!” Jamie ordered, sitting on the bed and taking my hands.

I narrowed my eyes at him. My cheeks flushed in fury. “Jamie, do you know these nightmares I have had?” I forced calm into my voice. It wavered in terror as I recalled the dream that stalked my slumber. I stared at our joined hands, at my fingers, all encircled in rings. “I saw my jewels all melt into pearls . . . pearls, Jamie. The ornament of widowhood.” I met his eyes, furrowing my brows in agony. I reached up, cupping his cheek and stroking his beard. “And I saw you falling from a great tower
to your death!
You see? These are signs, Jamie, terrible signs of the ill fate that awaits you should you go to war with my brother!”

“Dreams, darling,” Jamie said, gathering me in his arms. “They are mere dreams. You are terrified for my well-being and that of the country and rightly so. But you must not let your fear rule you. Now, go to sleep, my sweet.” He stroked my hair.

I pulled away, shaking my head. “If you canna abide the signs of my dream, think of your beloved Scotland should you die in this folly! Our infant son will be left to rule with none but me, a poor woman”—surely he couldn’t resist the plea of this poor woman!—“to cling to a regency that would be sought after by every noble house in the land! How could you risk leaving us so vulnerable? Is Queen Anne so desirable to you that you prefer her over me?”

I should not have said it. Any chance of winning the argument was lost in that last sentence, for Jamie was on his feet, his eyes flashing in an anger I was unaccustomed to seeing upon his gentle countenance.

“Maggie, jealousy does not suit you,” he said in low tones. “You are first and foremost my wife. You serve me, not your brother. Dinna think that I am not aggrieved at the turn of events, but he has given me no choice. He broke our treaty long before I even considered it and now must deal with the repercussions.”

“But there has to be a more peaceful alternative!” I insisted. “Can we meet and discuss it? Can we not meet with my sister-in-law Catherine? She and I could forge some kind of understanding, I am sure of it.”

He shook his head, his eyes lit with sadness.

“You will regret breaking the peace,” I thundered. “By God, you will regret it!”

Jamie shook his head at me and quit the room without another word.

I buried my head in my hands and sobbed. I thought of my jewels, my pretty jewels all turned to pearls....

 

At Lent we were treated to a visitor, my brother’s ambassador the Dean of Windsor, Dr. Nicholas West. As Jamie was on retreat at the monastery of the Friars Observant at Stirling, I was thrilled to receive Dr. West on Good Friday. He brought with him letters from my brother, which I devoured with delight.

“Oh, good Dr. West, you must tell me everything about him!” I insisted as we sat to dinner alone together on Easter Sunday. Jamie had returned but was resting and would be meeting with the ambassador on Monday.

The man offered a polite smile and my heart sank. He did not appear to be a personable fellow and I was disappointed. I had so hoped to work some sort of charm on him that he might see how vital keeping the peace with my country was.

“Tell me of my brother,” I prompted with a bright smile. I would still try my best to win through him an understanding with England. I had grown quite buxom and, freed from the mournful constraints of Lent, had donned a lovely gown of pink and gray damask trimmed with ermine to accentuate each curve. My hair was gathered into a chignon beneath my hood and I allowed ringlets to frame my face in organized disarray. I should think I made quite a pleasing presentation.

“What does he look like now?” I asked him. “I haven’t seen him since he was twelve.”

Dr. West tilted his head as he summoned to his mind a portrait of my brother. “King Henry is as bluff and fine of figure as they come, Your Grace,” he told me.

I laughed, certain he was accurate. “Is he very tall? He had the promise of great height when last I saw him. Is he still a marvelous dancer?” Against my will tears burned my eyes as a pang of longing for home and more innocent days pierced through me.

Dr. West nodded. “Ah, yes, Your Grace, he is tall and broad and golden—a veritable Apollo is King Henry. And none are as fleet as he on the dance floor.”

“I didn’t think so,” I said with another giggle as I pictured a golden giant flitting about on the dance floor among a garden of beautiful ladies.

“And how are my sister Mary and Queen Catherine?” I asked then.

“Quite well,” he informed me, bowing his head.

For a moment we were silent, each picking at our plates, wondering in what vein the conversation would go next. Beneath the table my legs trembled. I took a sip of wine to calm myself, then offered the ambassador another cheery smile.

“Do tell me of my brother’s fleet,” I suggested. “Is the
Great Harry
as grand as our
Great Michael?
”

“It is a grand ship,” Dr. West answered with a glower.

“I was aboard our
Great Michael
at Leith,” I continued. “Oh, it is beautiful, Dr. West, and so fine a ship. Why, most of our forest at Falkland was cut down just to build her. Her walls are ten foot thick—impenetrable!”

“Impressive,” he commented, but his eyes were narrowed.

“The ambassadors that saw her that day said that no navy on earth could rival ours,” I persisted. “What do you think?”

“Madam, England boasts a fine navy of her own,” Dr. West told me in firm tones. He paused, examining me a long moment. “I am certain if your husband requires details, good King Henry would be happy to discuss them. With him.”

The smile I returned was frosty.

“Your Grace,” Dr. West began. “It is my duty to inform you that King Henry does intend to invade France.”

My gut lurched. My face remained impassive. Beneath the table I clawed into the material of my gown, clenching it with a white-knuckled grip.

“It is a dark hour for our countries,” I stated. “I regret my brother’s decision and what it will mean for our peace.”

“Any hope of preserving the peace between England and Scotland is up to you,” Dr. West retorted, his voice cold and blunt.

I bit my lip. I wanted to scream at him that I never chose this fate! How could a twenty-three-year-old girl forge peace between two countries? Who would listen to me?

I heaved a sigh of frustration.

“King Henry could certainly help with that,” I said at last. “Where is my legacy that he has promised these past four years? The jewels from my brother Arthur and grandmother? Where are they, Dr. West?”

“The king is most ready to surrender them,” he said smoothly. “If King James promises to keep the peace and not interfere with the French campaign.”

“And if not?” I asked, hoping my voice did not betray my great sadness.

“If not? Then no. He cannot relinquish them.”

“But they are mine!” I cried, losing my self-control. “They were willed to me by my brother and grandmother! How dare he keep from me what is mine!”

Dr. West said nothing to this. He continued eating. I stared down at my plate, flushed and disgusted.

The meal continued in frustrated silence; it seemed neither of us would get what we wanted out of it.

 

Dr. West tried everything from bribery to open threats in the hopes of securing peace between England and Scotland, to no avail. My husband sought to renew the alliance with the French king, who was as wily as his wife and played on Jamie’s ultimate desire to lead a Crusade by allowing him to make a levy to fund it. Though Dr. West assured Jamie that King Louis would never keep his promise, Jamie remained undeterred.

Dr. West visited the baby and me at Linlithgow before returning to England.

“He is beautiful,” the ambassador conceded as he admired my son. “So golden and rosy, and big for his age.”

I nodded as I sat him on my lap, proudly displaying his chubby legs. “As robust as his uncle King Henry,” I said. I wanted to say more, about the peace that was now broken, about the inevitable war we had now been thrust into. I wanted to share my fears and lamentations about my broken family. But I could not. It would not be politic.

Dr. West departed, his mission a failure, my attempts at diplomacy all gone awry.

 

When Jamie joined me at Linlithgow I clung to him, sobbing. I reduced myself to begging, throwing tantrums, anything, anything that would prevent his doomed enterprise.

In my darkest moment I hired an old man to “haunt” Jamie while he prayed at St. Michael’s Church. Dressed in a gown of blue and white and carrying a pikestaff, the long-haired old wraith warned Jamie against going to war and seeking the counsel or comfort of women, after which he artfully disappeared, mystifying the attendants by managing his escape without being accosted.

But Jamie knew.

“Oh, Maggie, you are reaching,” he told me in bed that night. He offered a slight laugh. “To your credit, you are quite imaginative.”

“What can I do, Jamie?” I asked in soft tones, fringed with desperation. “What can I say to keep you from going to war against my brother? I’ll do anything. . . .”

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Jamie whispered, kissing me softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as you are going to be,” I told him, but my voice was no longer accusatory. It was filled with sadness, all-consuming, terrible sadness.

 

By May King Louis convinced my husband not only to ally himself with him but to invade England as well when my brother removed to France. It was the perfect strategy, the French louse stated, for Jamie may just gain the English crown for himself in Henry’s absence.

Henry embarked for France in the summer and proved victorious, taking the town of Therouanne. In August Jamie sent Lyon King of Arms with our formal declaration of war, listing all of Scotland’s grievances against England, which included the withholding of my legacy, the Andrew Barton affair, the John Heron incident, and the border raids.

At Edinburgh my husband prayed, whipping himself with a vengeance in preparation for the battle to come. I watched from the shadows of the chapel and when I could bear it no more I approached him, taking the whip from his hand and holding it at my side, watching my husband’s blood drip from it onto the stone floor.

“Sometimes I wonder,” I began in quiet tones, “if you are hoping to die so that your pain might end at last. Is that so, Jamie?”

Jamie regarded me, his face tortured.