The Forgotten Queen (23 page)

“I am rare enough to admire from afar, but too fiery to keep,” I said brokenly, clinging to his hand, pressing it to my cheek.

“Maybe that is what makes you shine above the rest,” he told me.

I looked up, meeting his dove gray gaze, unable to hide the tears welling in my eyes. “I would rather be ordinary. A pearl or a diamond,” I said, fingering the strand of pearls I wore forever about my neck.

“Pearls are for mourning, and diamonds are hard and unfeeling,” Albany told me.

“But people love them,” I countered. “And people keep them.”

“I will keep you.” Albany’s voice was soft as he laid a hand across his breast. “I will keep you here.”

It would have been any courtier’s perfect line, but from Albany it rang with the utmost sincerity.

I wanted to beg him to stay, to marry me, and promise him we could rule together. He was closer to a king as a duke than an earl; he would not compete with Henry or Little Jamie, he would rule by my side. But I knew better than that. I would never take his dream of returning home to France away from him. I would not disgrace myself or our friendship with such pleas.

I would let him go.

Albany stooped down, tilting my chin up with his fingertips. With the greatest gentleness, he leaned in, pressing his lips to mine in a warm, soft kiss. There was no lust in it; it embodied our respect, our friendship, our honor.

Long after Albany departed I sat before my fire, my hand pressed to my lips, clinging to the moment.

It was the sweetest kiss I had ever received.

If Henry and I agreed on anything, and we seldom did, it was that Little Jamie’s minority should be ended. It was time he ruled as king in full; it would save him from the ambitions of the men who surrounded him and perhaps compel Scotland to further solidarity. Henry’s letters were full of grand schemes. He wished to break his daughter the Princess Mary’s betrothal to the Emperor Charles V and instead forge an alliance between her and my son. Though I considered this, I was also aware any betrothal between the cousins would offend France greatly, and I never knew when I would need France as an ally.

I mulled this and other things over in the company of Little Jamie and Henry Stewart, whom I called Harry. I could not bear to address him as I did my brother; while many called him Harry, I never had. Henry was my brother. Harry was my friend.

I began to spend more time with this young Harry, maybe to distract myself from pondering what might have been with Albany and remembering what had been with Angus. Or maybe I was set on proving I could still capture the heart of someone handsome and virile. Harry was six years my junior, but the age difference mattered little; we enjoyed each other, and the rapport he had with Little Jamie was genuine. I could not have asked for more. We began to ride together, hawk together, sing and read together, sharing our time and meals, most often with the king, but sometimes not. When I needed to discuss the matters of Little Jamie’s future, I preferred Harry alone.

“I canna imagine wedding him to Mary,” I told Harry one evening as we took a quiet supper in my apartments of game hens in a cream sauce, with sweet wine, rich cheeses, and bread to accompany them. “If I agreed to such a union, Henry would control them both to suit his own ends and I could not bear that. Little Jamie needs to stand on his own, which is why it is vital that his minority be ended.”

Harry laughed at this.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, irritated that such a serious matter should be scoffed at.

“Nothing funny, Your Grace,” Harry said, his full mouth still spread into a wide grin. “It’s just that if you want His Grace’s minority to end, should you not desist in calling him ‘Little Jamie’? I do not think it makes him feel very . . . manly.”

I began to laugh as well at the thought. “I suppose I’ve never thought of him any other way,” I admitted. “I never will,” I added softly. “He will always be my little one. But you are right. I should call him Jamie now . . . Jamie. . . .” I lowered my eyes as an image of my late husband, the other Jamie, the only Jamie, flashed in my heart.

“I think he’ll appreciate it,” Harry said. If he had read my wistfulness, he did not show it, and I was grateful to him.

“He confides in you, doesn’t he?” I asked, with a knowing smirk. “He put you up to this suggestion, did he not?”

“He . . . may have,” Harry responded, a mischievous smile on his own lips.

“I am glad he found someone he can trust,” I said in earnest. “He has had few enough in his life, men he could count on and admire.”

“I am a lowly man,” Harry said. “I am unworthy of his admiration. But I am very content for his friendship, however he esteems me.”

“He holds you in high esteem,” I said. “Which, of course, inspires me to do the same.”

“Again, I am unworthy,” he said. “You must know I hold you in high esteem as well.”

I laughed. “Oh, I can almost hear it. As ‘more than a queen, as a woman as well,’ isn’t that right?” I challenged.

Harry furrowed his brow at this. “I do not think I could ever see you as anything but a queen, Your Grace. A woman, of course. But you are a queen and I would be a fool to consider you as other women.”

I considered this. It was honest and, being that it was a rare enough trait in men, I relished it.

“Could you see yourself loving a queen, then?” I asked him, cursing myself for revealing my feelings before he did, yet not caring. I had nothing to lose anymore; I had already lost the respect of great nations, what did it matter if I lost his?

“I already do,” Harry said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Do you?” I asked. “In what respect, then? As the mother of your sovereign or something more? All the time we spend in each other’s company and with Jamie . . . why do you do it? You could spend time with Jamie without my company. Why seek me out? Ambition?”

“I am ambitious,” Harry admitted. “I admit that I want to raise my station in life. Who doesn’t? Yet do I love you as more than the king’s mother? Of course.” His tone was so offhanded, as though he were revealing things I should see as obvious, that I laughed. He was without condescension; it was as if he seemed surprised I had not already come to the same conclusions.

“So if I raised you high above the rest,” I went on, “you would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Harry returned again. “I told you I have aspirations for my future; I won’t lie. But I think, if I may be bold, that you are afraid that I wish to intertwine my aspirations with notions of romantic love with you, when in fact that is not so.” He tossed his head a moment, his unruly blond hair flipping up over his eyes and to the side, revealing his earnest, engaging blue gaze. “There are many ways a man can elevate himself. I keep company with the king; I could of course wait for him to promote me. I do not need to romance his mother. I spend time with you because I like you.”

“Why?” I asked, uncaring as to whether I sounded vain or not. “I am far from a fair young maiden. I am thirty-five years old. You are twenty-nine. You could have anyone.”

“So could you,” he returned. “You are a queen and a Tudor princess. Could you not suit a king, a wealthy duke?” I did not know if he implied Albany but chose not to acknowledge it if he did. “Why would you want a man of low station such as me?”

“Because I like you,” I said. “I enjoy being together. I like that you are honest and full of life; I like that you are kind to my son, that you always treat us with respect. I like that you are fun.”

“I feel the same,” Harry said. “You never care what anyone thinks; you say what you want and do what you want. You ride well; you are good with the bow; you have a beautiful voice; you are clearly strong and intelligent. I like those things about you.”

His manner lacked a courtier’s charm; he was not like Angus, full of fair words and dramatic declarations. He was simple; he was honest. And it was rare to be genuinely liked by someone, rather than tolerated for my station under a thin veil of respect.

“I find that I am often too much for a common man,” I warned. “I have been told only a king should love me. And even so, it is rare to find faithfulness in a king let alone a man of lower station. I have been much humiliated in my life, as well you know after Angus’s betrayal. I do not know if it is because being married to a queen was too much for him, or if it is simply man’s nature. But given that I have been with a king and with a great laird and was betrayed just the same, I will venture it is the latter. So. I won’t expect you to be faithful, Harry. All I expect is that you do not humiliate me publicly.”

“What are you asking of me, Your Grace?” Harry’s tone was soft.

“I am asking you,” I began as I rose from my seat at the dining table, rounding the corner to take his hands in mine, “to call me Margaret.”

Harry squeezed my hands. “Margaret . . . what do you want of me?”

“Just you,” I said, pulling him up. With Harry I wasn’t a queen teetering on old age, a queen without power, without prospect. I was desirable and daring; I was taking control and I liked it.

Harry rose and wrapped his arms about my waist as I wrapped mine about his neck.

“Just you,” I whispered as I drew him toward me in a kiss that, if not passionate, was enjoyable.

And that was all I wanted. To enjoy the company and affections of a man; to feel . . .
alive
.

With Harry, for a time, I did.

 

“It seems Angus has fled to my brother’s court,” I told Harry one evening after receiving the disturbing series of dispatches from my brother that revealed his plans.

Harry was naked from the waist up and I admired his torso, rippling with lean muscle as he leaned on his elbow in my bed. I lay next to him, my long coppery locks spilling over my creamy shoulders, reading my brother’s letters.

“He has the audacity to like Angus,” I spat, disgusted with Henry’s fickle ways. “He wants to send him back here for a reconciliation, that we might back Jamie in his rule together when his minority is ended.”

“You aren’t considering it, are you?” Harry raised his brows.

“Why? Do you fear losing me?” I asked, not without a trace of delight. The thought that he would worry about our affair ending pleased me somewhat.

“Of course I do,” Harry said. “I do not know where we are going, but I am enjoying it.”

“Well, you do not have to fear,” I assured him in sugared tones. “I will not reconcile with Angus, no matter what Henry dangles before me. He has no idea the machinations of Scotsmen’s hearts. To elevate the Douglases again would turn clan against clan again and upset the balance of power.”

“Power that should belong solely to His Grace,” Harry said.

“Exactly,” I agreed, touched that he should recognize it as well and not include himself in that balance as Angus would have done. Angus would have said the power should belong to “us.” Meaning him and Jamie, not him and me. Me he would have flattered till his ends were met, then discarded me as he had countless times before. Oh, how wonderful it was that Harry was not such a man!

“I have written to Henry,” I went on. “I have told him my fears and urged him to detain Angus. I will not have great jealousies stirred up once again and destroy the allegiances I have worked so hard for.” I sighed. “We need to get Jamie away from Stirling, away from his French guards. We will take him to Edinburgh and there the minority will be officially ended. Even Lord Hamilton, the Earl of Arran, agrees.”

“Then we shall do it,” Harry said. “And I will help you however I can.”

“I know you will,” I said, and I did. “But dinna do it for me, Harry. Do it for Jamie. Whatever happens to us, I never want you to lose your affection and allegiance to him.”

“He is my king, Margaret,” Harry assured me. “No matter what happens, I will never lose sight of that.”

Somehow I knew he spoke true. Whatever confidence I had, or lack thereof, in a happy, lasting future with Harry, I knew he meant my son well.

I was learning, as Albany had instructed, to let go of expectations. There was only to think of Jamie’s happiness and safety. What little pleasures I could steal for myself meantime, I would. But none would eclipse what mattered most and that was Jamie. And for whatever Harry would prove himself to be, he was at my side knowing that.

That was all I needed.

W
e rode with Jamie into Edinburgh, where he was invested with the sword, scepter, and crown. He was king as he was meant to be. Acknowledged before his peers as a man, despite being a lad of twelve. Henry lent to me the support of Thomas Howard, the newly styled Duke of Norfolk, elevated from Earl of Surrey upon his father’s death. With him and his men just beyond the Border, the statement of the might that backed the decision to invest Jamie with his full powers of state was made clear. Norfolk was the son of the victor of Flodden. What destruction a Howard could wreak upon Scotland was now legendary. No one would cross me now.

When Jamie presided over his first council, it was decided that Albany’s regency would officially draw to an end. Only Lord Chancellor Beaton, the Archbishop of St. Andrews, objected, for which he was imprisoned. I would not have anyone threaten my son’s power. He was king now; no one would rule over him, not even my dear Albany. Jamie’s power must be felt and respected; if the only way was out of fear, then so be it.

Henry showered Jamie with gifts for his elevation to power, creating him a member of the elite Order of the Garter. He sent Archdeacon Thomas Magnus with five cartloads of treasure. In my apartments we ogled the fine gifts—beautiful lengths of cloth of gold and Jamie’s favorite, a sword inlaid with the finest jewels and gems.

“Look, Mother! En garde!” Jamie cried as he pretended to wield the sword, slicing it through the air with a great
whooshing
sound. I laughed at the sparkle lighting Jamie’s often earnest eyes. He had seen so much in his short life; to watch him play with a sword as a young lad should clenched my throat with tears.

“Your uncle Henry thinks very highly of you,” I told Jamie. “Do you like your presents, darling?”

“Very much,” Jamie said, still gawking at his sword, turning it over and over in his hands to watch the light catch the shimmering rubies and emeralds flashing from its hilt.

“Why not take your sword and show Davie?” I suggested, referring to his tutor David Lindsay.

“I will accompany him,” Harry offered, and I nodded my gratitude, watching my two favorite people retreat companionably, leaving me alone with Magnus.

“Our brother is very generous,” I said to the archdeacon. “What news have you brought with these fine gifts?”

“His Majesty wishes to remind Your Grace of the proposal of marriage he has offered between the Princess Mary and His Young Grace,” Magnus informed me.

“His Majesty!” I laughed. I had forgotten that Henry fancied such glorified styling. I rather liked it and noted to call Jamie the same.

As to the marriage proposal, I began to reconsider. It would not be unfavorable, though it threatened to present obstacles in the future. Yet the peace it could create with England, which was my purpose in life other than being Jamie’s mother, was a tantalizing prospect. Jamie and Mary’s children would be heirs to both thrones.... A united England and Scotland. Was it possible? Would my father’s prophecy come true through them?

“Thank Our brother for his generous offer,” I told Magnus. “It will be considered. Though it also must be considered the great barrier it could cause with France.”

“A worthy deliberation, Your Grace,” the archdeacon said in even tones. “His Majesty also wishes you to consider reconciling with your lord husband. He has a sincere desire to serve Your Grace and the king.”

My cheeks flushed at the thought. How long would my brother push this most vile plot? “That will not happen,” I said, hoping to put an end to it. “We have more immediate concerns, sir. First, that Lord Albany will not be sent back; Lord Arran and I have exposed ourselves to great danger by ending King James’s regency. We should like Our son to have a guard of two hundred men who will protect him at all times, not only from that but from Angus’s designs. If you do not think that he will threaten Our son’s power, you are wrong. We urge you to convey to His Majesty that the return of Lord Angus will be a great impediment to peace. He should be kept in prison.”

Magnus’s eyes widened at this. I detected a trace of mockery in them, as if he did not believe my fears rational but he was intelligent enough to keep such a conclusion to himself.

Magnus was dismissed and I sat pondering how to keep Angus at bay and how to convince my brother that the threat he presented was very real.

Once again, when there was no one I trusted to consult, I turned to my Ellen, who remained faithful and steadfast at my side. Alone in my apartments, the other ladies who drifted in and out of my life dismissed, we sipped mulled wine on my plush velvet settee before the fire, not even indulging in the charade of sewing. I almost felt naughty, giggling and talking with her as if we were girls again and plotting our matching gowns for the next entertainment.

“Not only Henry is badgering me,” I huffed. “He has Lord Dacre, Cardinal Wolsey, and Norfolk haranguing me with their interpretations of morality as well. It is quite taxing listening to their opinions when three of the four of them consort with mistresses regularly.”

Ellen laughed at this, but the laughter was interrupted by a cough that quaked her shoulders and brought tears to her eyes. Alarmed, I leaned forward.

“Ellen, that does not sound good; shall I have my physician sent for?” I asked. I could bear much but not the thought of my dearest friend in any discomfort.

Ellen waved a hand. “Do not worry; Robin has sent me his. He takes good care of me.”

Robin . . . why, yes, Robin Barton. I did not acknowledge what this could imply; Ellen deserved whatever happiness her unusual position could grant. That it should lie with Robin, the man who saved her from a life of slavery in Portugal, seemed fitting to me, perhaps even ordained.

“I am grateful to him,” I said, reaching out to take her hand.

“Enough about me,” Ellen urged, her voice husky. “You were speaking of your brother and the lairds harassing you.”

“Oh, yes, that,” I returned, eager to distract myself from the thought of a sick Ellen and get back to the topic at hand. I sighed. “Angus is coming. Norfolk detained him at Newcastle, but of course he is for our reconciliation as well and could only keep him for so long. He is on his way. And if he thinks he will get the best of me this time, he is wrong.”

“What will you do, Your Grace?” Ellen asked. As always, she questioned me more so I could puzzle things out aloud. I suspected it didn’t much matter to her what I did, so long as she had my friendship. I was grateful to her for that.

“Whatever I can,” I said. “Albany, bless him, is still pushing my suit in Rome, that the Pope might grant our divorce. Angus must learn his place. It is not in my heart, or, for that matter, this realm.”

“What of your daughter?” Ellen’s eyes were soft.

I lowered my gaze. Even to Ellen I could not reveal my guilt over young Margaret, who grew up with her nurses and tutors and had very little interaction with me, save for a random petting and fussing here and there, while I worked to secure her brother’s realm. I hoped she wouldn’t hate me for it someday, but were there a different way to pursue matters, I was hard pressed to find it. I loved my daughter, of course; she was a beautiful little girl with her Tudor red hair and willowy build, so reminiscent of my sister, Mary. But I did not want to be reminded of her, how she could suffer for the malice borne between her father and me as surely as if it were another sibling, filled with a life of its own.

“Margaret loves her father,” I told Ellen. “I of course will not discourage it. But I will try as best I can to protect her from his influence, as I must protect Jamie. It will be Jamie whom Angus goes after; a girl is of little consequence in the grand scheme.”

Ellen flinched at this. Again I found I could not meet her eyes.

Yet I had proved, had I not, even as a queen, that I was of little consequence in the face of the ambitions of men? Station was not discriminated against in this; it was fact.

The world did not belong to women, except for what they could do to further their men. In this, my lot had to be cast with Jamie, as it always had. Such is the only fate for the mothers of kings.

 

When Parliament opened, my wrath was unleashed upon my brother’s envoys, Roger Radcliffe and Thomas Magnus, while I prepared to send three ambassadors of my choosing to England. I was mad with rage over the fact that Angus had made his way into Scotland, that my brother’s realm had encouraged it. Could no one see that reconciliation was beyond possible? Letters from Angus, hopes to manipulate me, were sent back to him unread. I would not indulge my brother or Angus’s fantasy that we could rule alongside Jamie as man and wife. Those days were over; Angus’s chance to make things right had long since passed.

Jamie and I were at Holyrood House when we learned of Angus’s arrival.

“He has scaled the walls of Edinburgh,” Magnus informed us. “His only wish is to sit in Parliament as his ancestors before him had, and, of course, to reconcile with Your Grace, if you would open your heart to him. He has,” he added, raising his brow, “four hundred followers with him.”

“You think to intimidate Us with this, Magnus?” I cried, enraged that such tactics be used. “We may have been foolish in Our younger days, but no more. We will not be bullied into subjugating Ourselves to Angus’s ambition!”

“I am certain he longs to be reunited with his daughter as well; he has not seen her in a great while,” Magnus returned.

I shook my head, beyond irritated that he should dare play that card. Margaret was my business; I would not have her used against me as another manipulation ploy.

I was distracted from Magnus’s impotent pleas by the ruckus of horses’ hooves and men clanking in their armor beyond the castle walls; it was Angus, no doubt, hoping to impose his force upon us and take what he considered his.

“We want as much guard assembled as is at Our disposal,” I ordered.

“We’ve less than five hundred,” Harry told me. “I am afraid this castle is not as well armed as others,” he added, his handsome face drawn with concern.

“It matters not; We will do what We can,” I assured him. “Turn what cannon We do have on him and his men.”

If Angus wanted to know my true feelings on matters, I could think of no surer way to communicate them than with cannon.

“Your Grace!” Magnus cried, scandalized. “To turn the cannon on your own lawful husband? Surely this is not advised!”

“By God, man, will you go home and quit meddling in Scottish matters?” I cried, whirling on Magnus in a flurry of orange velvet skirts. “Fire one of them, at least,” I ordered my men, who rushed to do my bidding.

One great booming round was shot, resonating through my body and causing the floor to tremble beneath my feet. My heart thudded at the sound. I truly did not want to cause carnage, but what had Angus driven me to? He could hardly be said to listen to reason. At times the force of warfare was the only language men of such passions understood.

To my regret, the cannon served to end the lives of a woman, a priest, and two merchants. All innocents, and all dead for a message that was lost upon proud Angus, who retreated with his party on the king’s orders later that afternoon.

I readied Jamie, who was by now used to fleeing in the night, and we rode in a procession illuminated by torchlight to the safety of Edinburgh Castle. As we rode I composed a defiant letter in my mind to my brother.

He would no longer assist any Scottish subject, unless by the express orders of my son, the king. I was through asking for Henry’s help, only to be betrayed and manipulated for his own ends.

I was the Queen of Scots, was I not?

I laughed as a new thought occurred to me. Ellen was right.

I had at last chosen a side.

 

Whether it was due to my display against Angus, which scandalized the rest of Europe and I am certain sent Henry and Catherine into a fit of shock, or if it was because I was simply too stubborn to fade into the background as other lesser women had done, Parliament backed me in my suit for the regency. I was the Queen of Scots, acknowledged and respected at long last.

Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps if they fought long enough and hard enough, there was a place for women in this world.

I took to wielding my new power with certain exactness. Harry was promoted to Captain of the Guard and I courted Rome about my divorce with renewed vigor. I perpetuated an old rumor that would invalidate my marriage to Angus, that my Jamie had lived through Flodden for a time and I hadn’t learned about it till it was too late. I regretted espousing such a lie; I knew in my heart the moment Jamie had died, with a sickening, all-consuming knowledge that eclipsed all doubt. But His Holiness did not have to know that. It was a divorce I wanted and I would get it, whatever had to be said or done. To my good fortune, I could still call Albany my friend and he did all he could to promote my suit as well.

Meantime it was learned that King Francois of France was now being held prisoner in Italy after the Battle of Pavia. His mother, Louise, wrote to me, offering me the pick of her granddaughters for Jamie and a restoration of the Auld Alliance. She pointed out my brother’s fickle nature, his numerous betrayals to both France and Scotland, and the breaking of his daughter Princess Mary’s betrothals to both the Dauphin and the Emperor. I admired Louise’s shrewdness. It was true my brother had a pattern of breaking promises, and she assured he would break them to the Scots as well. Though I was mildly offended that it was my family she was insulting, her reasoning was not beyond my imaginings, especially after the scathing letter I had received from Henry chastising me for my treatment of Angus. The letter sent me into a fit of tears for an hour; that Henry could talk to a fellow monarch, sister or not, with such judgment and disrespect was appalling. My embassy in England had come to nothing, but here France was prostrating itself at my doorstep. It was a worthy consideration.