The Forgotten Queen (20 page)

“Then I look forward to it, for surely I shall be duly rewarded,” I said in flat tones. I hated these types of discussions; they bored me and were often used to obscure or manipulate a more relevant point. “But I do not need your pity, Catherine,” I went on. “I do not need anything from you.”

“Yet you seek refuge in my kingdom.” Her tone became as cool as mine.

“Not your kingdom,” I reminded her. “Your husband’s. My brother’s.”

Catherine averted her head, as if the thought of her power being more limited than she imagined struck her, perhaps even frightened her.

“And you can be assured that I would never revel in the glory of a victory over England, especially one that resulted in the death of my family,” I promised her. “In that I am capable of deporting myself as a queen and a sister, not one or the other.”

Catherine pursed her lips. “Yet clearly you cannot as easily reconcile being a queen and a mother,” she said, her tone low.

My jaw fell agape. The audacity! “How can you say that?” I breathed.

“I only mean to say, were I in your position, nothing would tear me away from my child.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though it were that easy.

“Do not speak so soon, my dear sister,” I warned. “You never know when you will be in my position. For your sake and the princess’s, I hope you never are. But,” I added in hard tones, “if so, you will remember what you said to me.”

Catherine sighed, shaking her head. “There is no use explaining or defending myself. You will see it your way; I, mine.” Her voice softened. “I did not mean to insult you; I do not know your heart, so should not question it.” She clicked her tongue. “Nothing has gone as planned. I came hoping to make peace with you, not renew bitterness. I hoped you would forgive me.” Her voice caught. “Margaret,” she said my name for the first time since I arrived, “can you appreciate that I seek your forgiveness as I know I must, and that I do with a sincere and contrite heart? . . . Can you forgive me?”

I sighed, sitting once more. I did not know if I could forgive her, because I still hadn’t forgiven Jamie for dying. I hadn’t forgiven myself for marrying again. I could not yet forgive Angus for betraying me. Nor could I forgive Catherine now for judging me. With all that weighing on my conscience, how could I with a sincere heart forgive her for her past transgression?

“I want to,” I said in truth. A painful knot of tears swelled my throat. “But I do not know if I can. I am sorry.”

Catherine rose. “I appreciate your honesty,” she remarked. “I suppose it does no good for me to remain then.” She offered a smile; I could not say it was unkind. “I had hoped to be at peace.”

Peace. I had searched for that since Jamie’s passing. I resented her need for it, as if her declaring it somehow eclipsed my own.

I nodded. “It is my wish as well,” I said softly as she quit the room.

Soon after our conversation, I was relocated from the castle of my childhood to Scotland Yard, as fitting a Scottish monarch.

I was no longer a sister in need. I was yet another dignitary in Henry’s court and would be treated as such.

 

Henry did petition the council in Scotland to reject Albany’s regency and exile him once more. Of course this was as offensive to them as any plot could be, and they deemed Henry’s proposition treasonous. Thus incited and insulted, he ordered Lord Dacre to renew warfare on the Border, which meant more raids, more bloody skirmishes, more property stolen, and more lives lost. I hated to see it done but could not fathom a better way to pressure the lairds to just action on behalf of Little Jamie and me.

Henry’s attention to my cause was wearing on him, however, and my presence was another grating manifestation of those tedious efforts. I irritated him and, to be frank, he did me. His arrogance, his showiness, all of it was as if to flaunt his good fortune in my face and remind me that I was at his mercy. He was no longer toasting my presence. Long since ended were the receptions and entertainments welcoming me to his court. I wasn’t the favorite, as I was well aware, but now it showed.

As I was not receiving income from Scotland, I had hoped Henry would supplement me to support my household. I wrote to Henry’s most influential adviser, Cardinal Wolsey, in the hopes that I could appeal for the means I needed to survive with the dignity of my station, to no avail.

One ray of light shone in that the jewels and wardrobe left behind during my flight from Tantallon were itemized and returned to me. Not one pearl, gem, or garment was tampered with or stolen. Which meant that the Scots still retained some kind of respect for me. My fine jewel-encrusted hoods and cloth of gold sleeves, my gem-studded collars and hats, my rosaries and pendant pearls, were preserved with the utmost care. If these articles had been treated with such delicacy and honor, then so must my Little Jamie. I could only pray.

The Scottish council had promised to send my dower rents as well, and this lifted my spirits. The less I had to depend on Henry the better. But autumn wasted into winter, with no money ever sent. I was in as desperate a state as I ever was. It would all have been much easier to manage had I never fled Scotland. Time had dulled the urgency of why I had left, clouding the danger I had been in with homesickness. I found myself regretting the decision to come to England. If I had only stayed, perhaps I could have been reunited with my son by now. . . .

I found more and more that I was beginning to think of Scotland as home. I had spent as much time there as I had in England, but being that I was grown for much of that time, I remembered it all the more. I missed the clear lochs, the rolling hills, the craggy paths and trails, the morning mists. I missed Stirling and even Edinburgh.

I missed Little Jamie.

I had left my home an English princess, returning a Scottish queen. More and more I realized I was a foreigner in my own homeland. I started to resent my accent and manner less, seeing it now as a connection to my son, the King of Scots. I longed for him, oh, how much!

Where he was, there also was my home.

 

Another Christmas had come, my second without Little Jamie, and my finances were dire. I had no money to even reward my most faithful servants for the holiday season, and I was ashamed of my estate. Though I had all the accoutrements, I was far from a true queen; it was as if I had been consigned to playing make-believe, with my baby, Margaret, little more than a glorified doll. And Henry was tired of hosting such a charade if it were not his to play. Since he was proving to be of little help, I appealed once more to his trusted Cardinal Wolsey, hoping he would at least see the gravity of my case and make the necessary loans, for I would pay him back when my promised rents from Lord Dacre arrived. I was a woman of honor, after all.

Despite my situation, I was invited to Greenwich Palace to celebrate Twelfth Night with Henry, Catherine, and the court. There it was made clear to me that my brother had more than enough money he could have spared for my expenses. Even clearer was the fact that he did not want to waste it upon me when he could instead hold yet another lavish entertainment, for which he had become so renowned.

This display was called The Garden of Esperance. Towered with ornate gilt rails, the garden sported silk flowers and satin greenery, sparkling with golden accents. On a large central pillar were a bush of white and red roses for the house of Tudor and a pomegranate tree for the house of Aragon. Six knights accompanied by six of the fairest ladies in magnificent gowns and apparel that would have fed a family for a month each took to a splendid sequence of dances that I had to admit were choreographed to perfection. No one fell out of step; it was as if I were glimpsing a garden of the fey, where there was nothing to worry about, nothing to ponder but the next step in a never-ending dance of richness and beauty. Oh, if reality could have been so simple . . .

After the pageant, the garden was wheeled out and we were treated to a banquet as abundant as the garden was exquisite, in which two hundred dishes were served (yes, I counted). It was almost debauched in extravagance, and though I did enjoy it, I could not help but make this point with as much subtlety as I could.

“It is a spectacle beyond belief as always, Henry,” I complimented him, knowing the surest way to appeal to him was through his vanity. “To be among such grandeur, I admit, makes me long to treat my own household this season. They have served me so well; it is a pity they canna be rewarded more suitably.”

Henry shook his head as he dipped an artichoke leaf into a silver dish of melted butter. “I don’t know what you expect from me, Margaret,” he said in light tones. “It isn’t as though you are still wed to James IV.” He sucked the meaty bit of the leaf noisily before discarding it on the floor. “You are the Queen Dowager, not even a regent, yet I cannot help but notice you still wish to live as if you were a queen in full state.”

I glowered at this. “Henry, I’m not asking for much,” I said, matching his light tone, fixing a smile on my face in the hopes no one would observe the strain between us. “You are the King of England, after all. No one is more powerful, more formidable! Henry . . . you can do anything,” I added sweetly.

Henry smiled at this, reaching over to pat my hand. “I can do a lot,” he admitted. “But some things are even beyond my power, Sister.” He chuckled. “My naïve sister,” he added with a more robust laugh.

My shoulders slumped. Perhaps I was naïve. I was reminded of my own lack of power at every turn. To know the same applied to Henry, my larger-than-life brother who could make a garden in winter, was disheartening.

No matter his lush displays of wealth and power, Henry was not magical; he could not work miracles. It occurred to me his words with the Scots on my behalf had little effect. And the control he did have he guarded jealously. He would spare me no more than what he deemed necessary, and our versions of necessity were wildly disproportionate to each other.

The epiphany made the celebration far less merry.

 

Henry paid my financial estate little heed after the holiday season, though a treaty he and Cardinal Wolsey made with Albany would allow me my beloved Stirling and unlimited access to Little Jamie. Beyond that, however, Henry busied himself with hawking well into spring, until matters came to a head in London. It seemed English workers were resenting foreigners in the city, feeling as though they were stealing their livings. On May Day riots erupted, most of them against the Spanish and Portuguese. Henry sent his most able warriors, the Howards, against them, hanging, drawing, and quartering the instigators. It was a gory display; scaffolds by the city gates illustrated the fates of those who disturbed my brother’s peace. At the trial, in her own display of pious theatrics, Catherine begged Henry to show clemency on the rioters. The remainder were pardoned and tossed their halters in the air to my brother’s benevolence.
Good show, Harry!

It was clear to see that Henry had his own matters to deal with in his realm. The new treaty that promised me a reunion with my son was his greatest achievement in my case and I was grateful. And more than eager to leave.

At last the arrangements had been made; I was to go home. We set out on 16 May, Henry riding with me for four days of the journey. I’ll never be certain if guilt over his lack of financial support during my stay in England compelled him to it or if it was another of his shows, but Henry doled out to me rich gifts in farewell. I received more tapestries, gowns, plate, jewels, cloth of arras, sturdy horses, and even money for the journey. Whatever his reasons, I wasn’t going to refuse.

When he left my progress, we embraced. Henry’s arms enveloped me in one of his great bear hugs and all was well between us again. I looked up into his face, at his sparkling blue eyes and impish smile, and reached up to stroke his cheek.

“Thank you for all you have done, Brother,” I told him in sincerity. “I hope I wasn’t too much trouble,” I added with a laugh.

“You’re a Tudor,” Henry said, his thin lips stretching into a wide grin. “And Tudor just may be indistinguishable from ‘trouble.’ ” He squeezed my hands. “But be that as it may, it was good to have you and good to see you.”

“Henry?” I asked. “Do you remember the last time we said good-bye, when I first left for Scotland and you told me about the seventh day to take in my mind, where you would always be there to protect me?”

Henry squinted a moment, as if trying to see into the past. He smiled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Sister. I do not recall.”

I sighed. Maybe it wasn’t as memorable for him; with all he had been through since, I couldn’t expect it to be. Still, it saddened me that so tender a moment was not remembered by him as it was treasured by me.

Henry reached out, squeezing my shoulder. “I wish you well, Margaret. I truly do,” he said, his tone wistful.

“The same, Henry,” I returned, tears caught in my voice. Somewhere deep within I knew, just as when I parted with my father before my marriage, and Jamie before Flodden.

A
t York, to my delight, I learned that Albany had departed for France, taking the brothers and oldest sons of the foremost houses in the land to secure that none would attempt to overthrow him in his absence, an intelligent strategy, I must say. He left Scotland in the care of the Earls of Arran, Huntley, and my Angus. My heart lurched at the thought. Was Angus working for me, hoping to use his new power for my cause, for Little Jamie?

I was plagued by this and other worries as we rode northward. The treasury of Scotland was dwindling; my expenses after Flodden were exhaustive and confronting my financial woes once again was daunting. No one, least of all the Scots, would understand why I had spent as I did, and I drafted a letter to Henry explaining the situation, in the hopes that after our warm farewell he would be sympathetic. I did not want to push him, however; I knew his help was fickle and self-serving when offered.

When we reached the Border, it looked as if Flodden were upon us once more. The land was desolate, burned, and ruined from raiding. Barns and homes stood broken, dilapidated. What new hell was I entering? Was it wise to return to this barren despair?

Only the thought of my son spurred me onward to Berwick Castle, where Angus himself came to meet me.

Despite everything between us, my heart still thrilled at the sight of him; he was as dark and handsome as he had ever been. I was determined to put his abandonment behind me. Perhaps he had been right to return to Scotland, to be a presence there and garner whatever power and sympathy he could in my absence. Perhaps it had all been part of a more intricate strategy.

I offered my brightest smile. “Have you seen the baby, Angus?” I asked him as we made our way into the castle. “She’s beautiful, just like her papa,” I added, hoping to renew whatever affection we had known, though in truth baby Margaret was all Tudor.

“I canna wait to see her,” he said, though he did not meet my eyes. We reached the apartments designated for me during my stay. He reached out, taking my hand, our first touch since meeting.

“How is Little Jamie?” I asked. “Surely you have seen him.”

Angus smiled at this. “I have and he is bonny, truly.”

“Oh, time canna go fast enough!” I exclaimed. “I long to be with him, to hold him, and make known how loved he is.”

Angus nodded, but he seemed half-engaged in the present.

I swallowed. “Angus, I forgive you,” I blurted. And I did. “I want to start over. We can be a family again with baby Margaret and Little Jamie. We can put things right now.”

Angus glanced at my face a brief moment before returning his dark eyes to his boots. “There have been some changes in the year and a half you’ve been gone,” he informed me. “You know that Lord Home has been executed, his clan outlawed.”

My throat tightened at this. I had learned of this; it was a distressing display of Albany’s rule and a loss of a man who had become a great ally, as unlikely as that was.

“A lot has come to pass,” I agreed. “But I am here now. I am recovered from the baby’s birth and my illness; I am ready to fight.”

“There isn’t so much a need for fighting as there is . . . collaboration,” Angus said. “In that, I think you will agree.”

I drew in a breath, expelling it in a heavy sigh. “I dinna want to think on it now, Angus,” I confessed. “I will address each issue as it arises. For now, I want to think of you and the baby, and of seeing Little Jamie soon.”

“And so you shall,” Angus said as he made to quit the room. “I will let you get some rest.”

“You’re leaving?” I asked, furrowing my brow in confusion. “I thought you might want to stay. It has been a long time. . . .”

Angus shook his head with a small smile. “Now, there’s plenty of time for that, my dear. Rest now.”

“You dinna want to stay and rest with me?” I prodded, feeling a desperate fool.

Angus sighed. “My dear . . . Come, I’ll tuck you in.” With this he led me to my bedchamber, drawing the covers down before helping me out of my gown. I slid between the warm blankets, snuggling in as he drew them to my neck, tucking them around me and pressing a kiss against my forehead. “There. Settled?”

I nodded with a smile. “Won’t you join me, keep me warm?”

Angus pursed his lips. “I have matters to attend. You have been through much. Just rest. For me?”

I nodded again, the obedient wife once more. “Of course, darling,” I conceded, watching his strong back retreat.

Changes, indeed. Everything, to my dismay, seemed unremarkably the same.

 

Little Jamie was in the care of the Archbishops of St. Andrews and Glasgow at Edinburgh and I went there straightaway. I could not get there fast enough. In a matter of moments, I would be holding my son.

I was refused entry. There was plague, I was told, and Little Jamie was moved to Craigmillar. Once again I set out for another ride, hoping this wasn’t some kind of scheme to keep me from him, which would stand at odds with the new treaty.

But, to my relief, I was allowed to see him. The lairds and his attendants were present; no one would leave me alone with him, driving the point deep within my breast that I was held suspect of kidnapping my own child. I had to content myself that at least I was allowed to see him.

He was now five years old, slim like his father but robust with health. While retaining as much dignity as I could, I ran to him, taking him in my arms. He stood stiff in my embrace.

“Jamie, darling,” I cooed. “It is me, Mother.” I knelt down beside him, stroking his hair, his face, taking in the feel of his baby skin, his child’s scent. Tears caught my throat. “I know it has been a long time. I have missed you so! But now we are together and I can see you again often. Did you miss me, Jamie?”

He first looked to the lairds, then shifted his gaze to me, offering a slow nod and shy smile. My heart clenched. Damn those men’s influence to manipulate a child’s heart for their own interests!

I took him in my arms again, rocking to and fro. “I’m sorry I had to leave you,” I whispered against his cheek. “And I am so sorry I wasn’t here when baby Alexander died.”

He trembled in my arms at this. I held him tighter.

“It is hard for you to understand,” I went on, swallowing the tears rising in my throat, “but all I have done I have done for you, for us. I love you more than anyone or anything and I always will. Everything I do is for you, to keep you safe and to keep you king.”

“Yes, Mother,” was all he said as I drew back.

My visit was brought to an end and as I left I cursed myself for ever leaving him, for leaving Scotland, and for the forces that were driving my son and me apart.

 

One of the few joys of returning was seeing my Ellen once more. She was as beautiful as when I first saw her, fuller of figure, but it suited her; she appeared healthy and, as always, I cherished her calm, clear perspective on life. Our reunion at Stirling was warm. I was grateful to have my favorite confidante at my side at long last.

“Oh, Ellen, why is it that everything looks better when we’re away from it?” I asked her as we sewed in my apartments. I was sewing garments for Little Jamie. It would please me to see him wear clothes sewn by my hand and grate on the lairds, meeting two objectives at once.

“Distance and time always alter our view of things,” she told me. “It’s why people live in the past; they see it as better. In truth, even then they lived further back in their own minds, where everything is forever good and innocent. Our truest happiness is known when we are but babes. Still, we must try to make some kind of life in our present. Otherwise we miss all the good that is around us now, longing for things we can never have.”

I pondered her words, knowing them to be true. In Scotland I wanted to be in England; in England I wanted to be in Scotland. With my husband Jamie, I wanted the love and devotion of a man who would never betray me; with Angus, I wanted Jamie. It was a torturous existence and I knew it was not exclusive to me.

“The present is as confusing to me as it ever was,” I said, my tone taut with frustration. “Scotland is as barbarous and bloody as ever in its divisiveness. The Homes murdered Deputy-Governor De la Bastie, even having the gall to tie his head by its hair to the saddle of his horse, as if killing him wasn’t enough. Now Lord Hamilton, the Earl of Arran, is his replacement and he suspects my Angus as playing a part in his predecessor’s murder. He’s arrested Angus’s brother George.”

“What do you think, Your Grace?” she asked me. She had abandoned her sewing, engaging me with her ebony eyes, fully attending the conversation while I fumbled with my needle, dropping it and recovering it over and over, fidgety with anxiety.

“I dinna know what to think,” I confessed. “Angus and the rest of the Douglases have always had their share of enemies. And Lord Hamilton was a bit of a pirate in his day, but he has become loyal to me.”

“I think you like pirates,” Ellen teased. “As it is, Robert Barton is your comptroller.” Her eyes grew soft when she said the name of one of my favorite storytellers from my early days in Scotland. I remembered that it was he who captured the Portuguese ship Ellen was on as a slave. He had rescued her and brought her to Scotland with another Moorish beauty, named Margaret after me.

“Yes, but Robin was a
privateer,
” I returned with a smile, utilizing my dear friend’s pet name.

“Oh, yes, a marked difference.” Ellen laughed. “A pirate with papers!”

We giggled at that and it lifted my spirits to laugh and tease as if we were young girls at court again.

“I hate to see Lord Arran at odds with my husband and his family,” I said, returning to the topic at hand. “I dinna know what to make of Angus, Ellen. He is so cold to me.”

To this, Ellen bowed her head, saying nothing.

Her silences had always revealed more than she intended, or perhaps exactly what she intended. She knew why Angus was cold; perhaps everyone did.

For me, I was content to live in ignorance a bit longer.

I did not want to know.

 

To my utter surprise, I received a letter from Albany stating that I should appeal to the council for the return of my regency. His correspondences had been warmer to me of late. Perhaps he was plagued by the guilt of baby Alexander’s death, though in truth I no longer blamed him for it. Perhaps Scottish politics had been too much for him, with the constant feuding and clan rivalries. Or perhaps he was accepting that he was a Frenchman at heart and wanted to remain in the home of his former exile. Whatever the reason, this turn of heart rejuvenated me.

I took this news to the lairds of my council, suggesting that Angus be my co-regent; nothing like this boost of power would prove my desire for a happy marriage more. After our triumphant ride into Edinburgh together with a train four hundred horses strong, our ears ringing with the cries of the loving crowds, the hope of being received well as regents seemed reachable.

My appeals were denied to a man.

“Angus,” said Lord Arran, “is not an honorable man.”

I shook my head at this, taking to my apartments again to wonder why. Angus was rash, his moves bold. But was he without honor?

It was in my apartments that I was paid a visit by Robin Barton. He was a handsome man, I had always thought, with his cut figure, dark curling hair and thin mustache, skin tanned from years at sea, and bold green eyes. His stories of his adventures had delighted me as a young girl, and his loyalty touched me as a woman.

Ellen remained with me for his visit and I noted the softness in their eyes as they regarded each other. Robin sat across from me in a stiff-backed chair, folding his ankle over his other knee and leaning forward.

“Your Grace,” he began in his gruff voice. “What do ye know?”

“About what, Robin?” I asked, knowing somehow that he was to be the bearer of bad tidings and steeling myself against it.

“About Angus,” he finished. “About the goings-on while ye’ve been in England.”

My heart began to pound. I lowered my eyes, clenching my hands on the arms of my chair. “I know nothing,” I breathed.

Robin drew in a breath, expelling it in a
whoosh
. I could see he was uncomfortable in his task.

“It is my unfortunate duty to make plain to you what he has done,” he said. “And I dinna like it any more than you,” he added with a wag of his finger. His eyes softened. “Your Grace, Angus took up with his old love, Lady Jane Stewart of Traquair. He lived with her for the whole of your departure. On your lands and on your money.”

The words were a lance in my side. I clutched my churning belly, squeezing my eyes shut, praying it was a dream, praying I would open them and Robin would begin telling a story of the sea, something far removed from these days that only grew darker and more complex.

I shook my head and felt Ellen behind me. She wrapped her arm about my shoulders, drawing me to her. I grew stiff. I could not begin to fathom what I had been told, even if I had suspected he dallied with the girl well before I left Scotland. But to live with her on
my
lands, on
my
finances! The depth of his brazen disrespect boggled the mind.

“He’s taken the rents from both Methven and Ettrick Forest,” he revealed.

I offered a shaky sigh. “Oh, Robin . . . I am a great fool. No wonder I am mocked and laughed at. No wonder the lairds rejected my proposal. God curse me for even thinking to name him co-regent!” I dipped my head in my hand, humiliation heating my cheeks. “I am fated to be the last to know, always. Such a fool, such a fool . . .”

“Not a fool,” Robin amended. “A woman. Ye canna condemn yourself for falling in love. It happens to the best of us and always throws reason over the ledge.”

“I did not love him, Robin,” I confessed. “I loved love.”