The Forgotten Queen (18 page)

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.

Angus sighed at this. I noticed he ate little of his fish stew.

“Eat, darling,” I urged. “We canna have two of us weak and ill.”

He pushed his trencher aside, then took my tray from me, sitting on the bed beside me. I stiffened. The last time he had done so he had told me the news of my baby.

“What is it, Angus?” I asked. I could not bear more secrets. “If it is bad, tell me quickly!”

Angus drew in a breath. “I . . . I am not able to go with you to London.”

I furrowed my brow, folding my arms across my breasts. “What do you mean, you’re not coming with me? Why?”

“Margaret, Albany has offered terms by which I can keep my estates. If I leave now, I could forfeit everything and be exiled forever,” he said. “I have lost much. I canna lose my homeland, too.”

“
You
have lost much?” I cried. “Was it not my baby that just died? Is not my living son motherless in Scotland still? And
you
have lost much!”

“I’ve lost a child before, too!” Angus cried, rising. “You think your situation is so remarkable? And was not the Duke of Ross my stepson? Do you not think his death affected me at all? A coldhearted man you must take me for!”

“I was not saying the loss of Alexander is greater than the loss of your first bairn,” I said, angry he should read my words such, angrier that he should take my tragedy and make it about him. “But you canna say you are more deprived than I am at present! How can you go back to Scotland now and send me, your wife, alone to London with our baby, as if you didn’t care what happens to us at all!”

“You are hardly alone,” Angus reminded me. “And you are hardly a common wife. You are the Queen of Scotland, for love of God, going to meet your brother the King of England! It isn’t as if you are being sent alone with no guards to protect you. Besides, at the court of Henry you will be treated well and entertained; you will hardly miss my presence.”

“It isn’t about that,” I returned, shaking my head at him. “This is not a progress for pleasure. We are going to discuss the fate of my son, of Scotland. How can you not be by my side for that?”

“If I accompany you, I may never get to see Scotland again.” Angus’s tone was low. “Then where would we be? How can I help shape the fate of Scotland if I am exiled from her!”

I shook my head. “You are afraid. You would rather bargain with the devil than stand beside your own wife. I am ashamed of you, Angus. You are a coward.”

Angus bowed his head. “Maybe I am,” he said, his voice husky. “But I will better serve you, my king, and our interests if I am a coward within the kingdom. Perhaps if you could trust me, you could see that.”

“I see no such thing,” I hissed. “You are afraid of losing your precious estates and the esteem of Albany and his cronies. You would rather stand with a horde of wrongdoers for the strength of their numbers than stand with any one person, no matter how isolated they are in their rightness, for to do so could risk losing a future political opportunity!”

Angus’s eyes flashed almost onyx at that and I knew I had him.

“Someday,” Angus told me, “you will regret what you have said.”

“Until then,” I hissed, “God keep you, my dear husband.”

The anger faded from Angus’s eyes, replaced with a sadness I did not want to acknowledge.

“God keep you, my dear Margaret,” he said.

And then he was gone.

T
hough Lord Dacre’s kind eyes reflected sympathy over my husband’s desertion, he was far too polite to voice his opinion. There was too much to do, and even I could not ponder it overmuch. We were to set out to London at last. Soon I would be with my brother and he would set things right, perhaps even have some words for my derelict husband.

Our progress, reminiscent of my long-ago journey to Scotland, gathered a large party of well-wishers to accompany me home. I was feeling rejuvenated with purpose and impatient to arrive at my brother’s court. Each long-suffering plod of the exhausted horse’s hooves, each stop we made along the way, was a torturous hindrance to my goal. Lord Dacre rode with me to Newcastle, where the mayor and my sister-in-law’s equerry Thomas Parr met us. Though I was grateful to be greeted with the proper ceremony and courtesy, I saw all stops as unnecessary. I was feeling as well as could be and wanted to keep moving!

We made it to Stony Stratford in Buckinghamshire, where I drafted a quick note to my brother conveying my eagerness for our reunion, resting before we pressed on. I was so close! I could barely eat or take rest for excitement, though we did at our last stop of Enfield, where we stayed in the comforts of the Lord Treasurer’s home. This, too, lengthened the journey beyond what I found reasonable, though I exuded nothing but gratitude to all of my hosts.

Inside I was mad with anticipation. My heart raced, my face tingled in giddy, girlish delight; every facet of my being longed for London, for my family, for home.

I rode in on a gentle palfrey, a sturdy white echo of others, the ones my father had sent with me to Scotland that were destined to perish in a fire. I willed the vision out of my heart, that and my late husband’s remedy of new white palfreys. Jamie had always been good at making up. . . . I wondered if Angus would ever be compelled to the same chivalry his predecessor had practiced with such ease.

But my arrival was not about either husband and I forced myself to think of the present. At Tottenham Cross my brother met us at last.

He was a sight to behold, and far different from the little brother I had battled wills with as children. His hair and beard shone golden red, a beacon of light for this weary traveler, and his smile exuded confident radiance. Henry stood strong and tall, rippling with the muscles of a young warrior and decked in the regalia of his station; he shared my love of fashion and would never appear in public as anything less than a king. Looking at him, I knew he was everything my father hoped he would be. My face ached from smiling as I took him in.

We were not permitted a personal greeting yet; I was received as his sister the queen in his booming voice, thunderous and thrilling to hear as I realized with a laugh that anytime I thought of my brother speaking it was still in his child’s voice. I longed to throw my arms around him and talk of times gone by and times yet to come. But, as the last, sweetest, most tantalizing leg of my journey, that had to wait . . . for now I had to be content with a meeting of monarchs.

We rode to Baynard’s Castle at the head of a grand welcoming party Henry assembled for my reception. As we rode I could not help but offer my brother the happiest of smiles; the crowds were too boisterous for us to converse, but the joy on our faces rendered words inadequate as it were. I could not take my eyes off Henry; I longed to impress this memory in my mind for as long as I lived; who knew when we would see each other in a time of such bliss again?

When at last I was shown to my apartments, we were afforded our longed-for moment of privacy. I threw myself into Henry’s arms, taking comfort in his strong, hearty embrace. Being held by a member of my own family once more served only to remind me of who was not present, and the thought of Father and Mother, Grandmother, and old Archbishop Morton coaxed forth an onset of tears. My shoulders quaked with sobs as Henry stroked my back, clucking endearments in my ear as he would to a distraught child.

Collecting myself somewhat, I pulled away, my arms still entwined through Henry’s as I gazed into his ruddy face. His blue eyes were lit with tears in turn, but his smile was irrepressible; the imp he was as a child was quite alive in the man.

“Forgive my tears,” I said, my first words to my brother in the privacy of my chambers. “It’s just there is so much to take in—and so much that is no longer here.”

Henry shook his head. “I know,” he returned. “But too many wondrous events have transpired these past few months to think on that, my dear sister. We’ve three bonny Tudor babes in our nursery! Think of that! Your precious little Margaret, our little princess, and another Henry in the Brandon boy! Now how is that for good fortune?”

Listing the babies present drove the thought home again of those who were not, those who never would be, and I fought the urge to cry again. Henry must have perceived this and took me in his arms again.

“Ah, Margaret, I’m so sorry. We’ve lost much,” he cooed as he rocked from side to side. “It does no good that your husband couldn’t even accompany you,” he added to my chagrin. I could only imagine how disappointed Henry was in Angus. “Done like a Scot,” he uttered again, his now famous phrase for my husband’s betrayal.

“I am just so happy to be with you,” I said, hoping to avoid the topic for now.

“And I you,” Henry said as he pulled away once more. Now he took the time to assess me, and heat flushed my cheeks as his gaze traveled from my hood to my slippers. “Well, at least they fed you well in Scotland,” he offered, which I chose to take as a compliment. I was not nearly so stout as I was months ago and was too proud of my newfound figure, curvaceous as it was, to take it as anything less.

“That they did,” I said. “But it was your Lord Dacre who restored my health best after the birth of baby Margaret,” I told him, to appeal to his pride.

“I am glad of it,” Henry assured me, squeezing my hand. “And now we are to be all together again for a time!” he exclaimed with a joy so contagious I could not help but smile in turn. “We shall keep you merry here in England, Sister. We have ordered feasts and entertainments to celebrate your arrival; we shall dance together as we did when we were children!”

“I will cherish every moment,” I told him in truth. Unlike when I was a child, I knew now that such moments were to be treasured beyond the most coveted jewels.

They were stolen all too often as we grew.

 

My sister, Mary, came to see me in the company of my sister-in-law Queen Catherine. I was not prepared for my reaction to either. Mary was slim and fair as ever, even for just having borne a child, and it was easy to see why she had maintained her position of favorite despite any scandal. She had a special talent for being the mildest, most agreeable person to one’s face no matter how she followed her own convictions behind one’s back. With her ethereal features, fair hair, and light eyes, she was every bit the opposite of her sturdy older sister, and seeing her caused my bones to ache with my own inadequacies. Her carriage and manner were fluid as a dancer’s, her speech soft and sweet as honey. I moved about in a brash, heavy way no matter how big or small I was at the time and my speech had become foreign in my own ears next to those of the English around me; I rolled my
r’
s and had assumed many of the phrases of my adopted homeland, sounding grating, guttural, and northern.

I had become a Scot.

Catherine, conversely, was not the beauty my sister was, and this lifted my spirits somewhat. She had also grown a bit stouter and her expression revealed the all-pervasive exhaustion afforded by continual loss. I offered her a cool smile and stiff embrace. Never far from my mind was her triumph over my late husband’s slaying. Seeing her confirmed I would never be able to think of her with the fondness of our childhood connection again.

But together we sat and spoke of lighthearted things. No one spoke of Mary’s outrageous debt to Henry or of the rumors of Henry’s philandering on Catherine. Nor did they mention Angus and his scandalous desertion or the loss of my little Alexander.

The visit was steeped in formality and falsehood.

It was as if we had never met, had never shared any common bond, and were now forced together out of necessity; we danced the dance of diplomats and courtiers—ever superficial, ever polite.

Ever strangers.