The Forgotten Queen (7 page)

Jamie remained very quiet during my tirade and when at last I could think of no more insults to hurl forth he approached. I could not read his face. Perhaps I had gone too far . . . perhaps in my unbridled anger I had sabotaged any growing affection he may have harbored for me.

To my astonishment he swept me up in his arms and carried me across the floor to the window seat and, holding me across his lap, he sat, cradling me against his chest.

“Maggie,” he began, his intoxicating tone low as he stroked my hair. “Try and remember, little one, that for the whole of your life I have been a grown man. And ’tis true there are many times when my excessively amorous nature ruled over sound logic. I canna speak for the ladies’ motivations, but I would like to think they were not so sordid as you imply. But then”—he shrugged—“I do not know. I
do
know that my children, despite whatever favor showered upon them, will never usurp the place of the royal children, neither in my heart nor on the throne of Scotland.”

“But you do not know what they could do, what they may be capable of when they grow up and begin to lust for a power they may see as their birthright,” I told him, my voice small with fear.

“A legitimate concern, and one I have taken into consideration. But the relationship I promote with my children is a loving one and it is my hope they will be too bound to me through their affection to ever conspire against me,” he reasoned.

“And their mothers? Or your enemies? Are they so ‘bound to you through their affection’ that they will not use them against you?”

Jamie flinched. “There is no way of knowing.” He bowed his head. “I was used in such a way. . . .” His eyes clouded over as he shook his head, as though ridding himself of dark and terrible thoughts. “I was prevented from knowing my father . . . and his enemies used me against him in the worst way imaginable.”

“How?” I asked, my jealousy yielding to concern as I noted the profound sadness etched upon my husband’s features.

“We must not discuss such things, dearest. Only know that I am raising my children in the hopes that our closeness will cultivate a loyalty that the cleverest of my enemies canna permeate. I—I love them, Maggie,” he told me. “Can you understand?” Tears welled bright in his green eyes. They sparkled like emeralds. “It is my hope that someday you can meet them and perhaps . . . perhaps grow to care for them. I would never expect you to love them as your own but perhaps . . . Do not think on it; it is a lot to ask now, but . . . someday.”

Indeed I could not bear to think of it, but to prevent any discord I said nothing, bowing my head and pursing my lips should they decide to betray me by blurting out something even more unbecoming than had already been spoken.

“What are their names?” I asked at last, unsure if I wanted to know but feigning sincerity to remain in his good graces.

“There is James, Alexander and Catherine, Margaret.” This he said with a flinch and I assumed she was by that other Margaret. “And Janet.”

I was silent a long time. “Quite the family,” I remarked before I could help myself. “Well, someday we’ll have our own babies and you will have to love them most,” I added with a scowl.

Jamie sighed, said nothing, and began to sway.

My mind raced; my heart pounded.
He is
my
husband!
I wanted to shout to his mistresses, present and former.
Mine and not yours!
And someday I would have the only children who could mean anything to Scotland.

M
y English court, my English friends and family, left me. I was alone in this country, an English princess made a Scots queen. I watched the procession depart with all their pomp and fanfare, tears grown cold upon my wind-chapped cheeks. Jamie’s arm was about my waist; he squeezed me to him, holding me upright. I was glad of it. I was weighed down by the finery.

“You will make new friends,” he reassured me.

I was too numb with sorrow to nod. The procession grew smaller and smaller till it became a distant snake, slithering down the Scottish countryside and out of Edinburgh, out of my life. They returned to my home, to my father, to the places and the people I would not see, not ever again.

I had my adopted country to acquaint myself with. I was given Scottish ladies and as time passed I not only found myself understanding their harsh dialect but also heard myself slipping into it.

I was becoming a Scot.

My husband came to me now and again to repeat the obligatory act we were avowed to perform for the good of our country. But as yet there was no pleasure to be found in it. It did not happen often enough and when it did it was always in the dark. We had been married nigh on two years and I had yet to see my husband as God made him and he had yet to see me.

Yet he was as attentive as he could be. Gifts were showered upon me; we hawked and hunted together and he praised my skill with the bow. As promised we frolicked in the loch; Jamie held me and taught me the forbidden art of the swim, but I found the most pleasure hanging on to his neck while he cut through the water like an eel.

Music was another of our favorite pastimes and we played together. I strummed my lute while his slim fingers danced upon his favorite organ. I adored hearing him sing; at times he talked through the songs as much as sang them and bubbles of laughter collected at the base of my throat as I took him in, enchanted. I sang out in a voice strong and clear and Jamie smiled in genuine appreciation. He was nothing if not genuine.

And ever generous, allowing me to have as many new gowns as I desired. I loved to order costumes for masques. Anything I wanted was brought to me; I lacked nothing. I needed nothing. And yet there was this loneliness, profound and persistent even through the lavish entertainments I hosted for my new friends and family. Scotland was littered with Stewarts and I tried to learn every name. They fussed over me, calling me a pretty thing, but no one demonstrated a genuine love of me yet. Jamie said that was nonsense, everyone loved me. It would be impossible not to. Though I believed this should be the way of it, it remained untrue nonetheless. I felt it. I was tolerated because I was securing peace with their longtime enemy.

There were some I had grown fond of, however, though I could not say they were close to me. The poet William Dunbar, who composed many a verse praising my beauty or simply to entertain, served as a worthy companion and courtier and was always quick to bring a smile to my face. Another was the privateer Sir Robert Barton, a straightforward man with a rather captivating gift for storytelling, and I was always thrilled to be regaled with his adventures on the high seas, and, even better, by the many exotic gifts bestowed upon me as tribute.

None of the women impressed me much, however. Though I conversed and danced with my ladies, I could call none of them friend, not really. My dearest friend was my husband and I spent as much time enjoying him as I did being jealous of him, jealous of his experience, of his age, of those who admired him with as much conviction as I.

I had even grown jealous of God, for Jamie spent a great deal of time with Him, going on pilgrimages to the shrines of Saint Niniane and Saint Duthlac. I hated when Jamie left me and was not shy about making him aware of my displeasure.

“Going to have another conversation with God?” I snapped one morning as he readied himself for his departure in our chambers at my least favorite castle of Edinburgh.

Jamie strode toward me to cup my cheek. “I regret you canna understand my . . . need to be near Him at times.”

“Oh, I understand,” I said. “Tell me—the technicalities confuse me—do your mistresses accompany you to the shrine or do you visit them after? Or do you all sort of worship together at the altar—or on the altar as the case may be?”

“Maggie!”

“Dinna let me keep you! Go off to your Saint Niniane and leave me here, here in this cold, solitary place and me so lonely I could scream! And you dinna even care about me at all!” I cried.

Jamie took me in his arms, holding me fast. “Never say such things, Maggie, you know it is untrue,” he urged.

“Not at all—not at all!” I reiterated, enjoying the effect of my words on my husband and pulling away, folding my arms across my blossoming breasts. At least something was happening there. I wished the process could be sped along so I would be too irresistible to abandon for a shrine and whatever else he might be devoting himself to.

“Please do not go,” I pleaded in soft tones, my anger fading to misery as my arms dropped to my sides.

“I must, little one, but only for a short time,” he told me, taking me in his arms and kissing the top of my head. “When I get back we shall go on progress, how about that? To Falkland Palace, our favorite. Would you like that?”

I nodded at the thought of the vast, sprawling deer park and lush forest.

“And we’ll hunt together,” he went on. “We shall make quite a merry sport of it, a contest. I trust you will practice your archery while I am gone so that you might hit all your marks. Perhaps you shall kill more stags than I!”

He disarmed me. Already I was thinking of the gowns and jewels I would pack for the journey.

“We shall pass a merry spring there,” he said. “You must plan a grand banquet—would you like to attend to all the special details, to make certain you have everything just as you wish it?”

I offered a nod of eagerness. “Oh, yes! English John and Scotch Dog shall help me. And Dunbar shall amuse us with witty verse!” I cried with delight, enthused about my task.

“My sweet little girl,” Jamie said, kissing my cheeks and touching the tip of my nose with his forefinger. “Plan a wonderful entertainment then and I will come home to you soon.”

“Yes, you always come home to me,” I remarked with a confident smile.

“Always.” And with this Jamie departed. I sat on my bed, bowing my head.

No doubt he visited his children as well on these trips.

I rose, squaring my shoulders. It was no matter. I remained above bastards and would not reduce myself to thinking of them. When our child was born they would be forgotten.

 

“Scotch, I want your best dressmakers to fashion me a gown,” I informed my wardrobe keeper, James Doig, utilizing his pet name.

He was all smiles at the prospect. “What kind of gown would Your Grace be needing?” he asked in his thick burr.

I clasped my hands together as I stood before the mirror in my privy chamber at Edinburgh. “A riding habit—but not an ordinary riding habit. This particular habit must be as enchanting as a ball gown but as seductive as a shift.” To my delight his eyes widened at this shocking revelation.

He stood behind me. In the mirror I noted his eyes slowly traveling from my slippers to my hood. There was no lechery in them. He was assessing his project. “I think I know just the thing,” he said in decisive tones. “Might I be permitted to surprise Your Grace?”

I broke into a smile. “Of course,” I agreed, turning about to take his hands in mine. “Make it a good one, Scotch—the Stewart line is depending on it!”

Scotch’s lips twitched a moment before he yielded to a burst of laughter. It rang in my ears like the tinkling of chimes. His blue eyes sparkled bright with mirth against his rosy complexion as he squeezed my hands. “Be assured, Your Grace, that this will be the finest habit you will ever lay eyes upon!”

He bowed over our joined hands, then made his retreat.

I smiled to myself. My first step in seducing my husband the king had been put into action.

 

There were to be no entertainments at Falkland Palace. I had not planned one, not a single one, for while we were there I wanted no distractions. Jamie would be shared with no one, not even his own courtiers.

The castle was sweetened and scrubbed. I made certain Jamie’s favorite organ was brought so that he might play at his leisure. Twenty-three carts of gowns, jewels, and other supplies necessary for diversion were brought on our progress and when everything was unpacked I waited for Jamie to come to me.

I planned a hunt. Together we would ride through the thick forest that surrounded the palace; the sweet spring air would fill our lungs until we were rendered breathless. The clomping of the horses’ hooves would pound against the forest floor, mirroring the blood pounding in our ears. Our bodies would thrill with the stretch of the bowstrings as we drew them back to hit our mark, the regal stag. Oh, the hunt!

Jamie arrived to find me and a handful of courtiers waiting. As usual he removed his cap and played the chivalrous knight, ever solicitous, ever caring. I did not offer any challenges about his previous whereabouts but celebrated his presence, reminding myself that he may love a hundred common women but only one queen.

The morning of the hunt a smiling Scotch Dog visited my apartments. Two servants followed with a chest that was set before me.

“Your habit, Your Grace,” he announced with a dramatic hand gesture before stooping down to open the chest. He commenced to reveal the most beautiful riding habit I had ever beheld. The low-cut velvet gown was deep claret, with an orange kirtle the color of autumn leaves and fitted sleeves to match. Resplendent velvet oversleeves were claret to match the gown, and the boyish velvet cap with a claret ribbon sported a black feather that Scotch advised me to wear at a jaunty angle.

“Oh, Scotch!” I breathed, clutching the soft velvet of the over-sleeve and rubbing it against my cheek. “It’s perfect! Tell me it is easy to remove.”

Scotch laughed. “Very,” he informed me as he showed me where it laced up.

“Excellent work, Scotch!” I commended.

“Happy hunting, Your Grace,” he retorted with a wink of his twinkling blue eye.

I giggled. “This is one prey I’m not letting get away from me!”

Scotch departed with another bow and I was assisted into my gown, shocking my ladies with the knowledge that I wore nothing beneath it.

“Your Grace, it simply isn’t done!” they cried.

“Then I am setting a precedent,” I replied. “Soon everyone will be doing it and think me quite a visionary.”

They clicked their tongues and shook their heads but obeyed and I admitted to a certain freedom as I slipped into the gown without the bother of all those petticoats.

My hair was left flowing over my shoulders, streaming to my waist in a rippling copper mane. The cap was set upon my head at an angle, the claret ribbon tied beneath my chin. I smiled at my reflection, pleased. The gown accentuated my developing curves, and even my ladies gasped in appreciation.

Satisfied with my appearance, I removed to the stables, choosing my favorite palfrey and riding her to where Jamie awaited at the edge of the forest. I rode at a deliberate speed, with purpose.

When Jamie beheld me his eyes widened, his lips parting. “Maggie . . .” he breathed.

“Your Grace,” I replied, flashing him a bright smile. “Shall we make for the forest?”

He nodded. To my delight he was unable to remove his eyes from me. I pretended not to notice but thrilled with pleasure.

We commenced into the forest. Anticipation made me alert to every noise. It was not long before we were on the tracks of a stag, discovering him grazing in a clearing. He raised his majestic head, heavy with its crown of antlers. His brown gaze fell upon us, cautious, questioning. He was still, his muscles tense. At last he flicked his tail and leapt into the forest. The chase began in earnest and I readied my bow as I followed him, my husband in tow.

The stag turned once more and I drew back, my shoulder aching with the tension in the string. I let it snap. The arrow swished through the air, piercing through the chest of the animal. Brilliant crimson stained his fur as he dropped. A lump swelled in my throat as it did with every kill—as exhilarating as the hunt was for me, I could not help but be moved by the creature’s sacrifice.

“Wonderful, Maggie!” Jamie cried as he dismounted. He instructed his courtiers to remove the stag to the palace for our evening’s supper. With this executed we stood alone. Our breathing was heavy, the thrill of the kill still surging through our veins. I quivered, trembling with excitement.

Jamie approached me, taking my hands in his. They were hot, slick with sweat. He shook his head as though in disbelief. “My God, Maggie . . . You’re so beautiful.”

I smiled, drawing him nearer to me. “Jamie . . .”

He wrapped his arms about me, his lips descending upon mine in our first true kiss. His lips were hungry, inflamed with a passion I did not know he possessed as he devoured mine. I returned the kiss, matching his passion with my own. His hands roamed my body and I found myself boldly unlacing his breeches and removing his doublet. Freed of our bonds, we stood before each other as God made us, shining with sweat, our chests heaving. I took in Jamie’s body, drinking in its beauty—all angles, all muscles, taut and fine. But he was scarred. His hips were chafed from the iron belt he insisted on wearing, his back a patchwork of white and pink wounds that snaked across his flesh, jagged rivers of pain.

“Jamie, who dared whip you?” I asked him.

He shook his head, tears lighting his green eyes. “It is a burden I bear gladly—please let us not think of it or anything unpleasant at this moment. Let me look at you . . . oh, Maggie. . . .” He drew me to him and I reveled in the silkiness of his skin against mine. We pressed against each other with urgency, kissing once more. His lips traveled down my neck, to my breasts, my belly, my legs. My body was aflame with sensation; I was primal, pagan as a priestess at a Beltane fire. Infused with passion, we fell to the ground and with tender urgency claimed what was our right, writhing with love there in the middle of the forest, on a bed of thick, sweet grass surrounded by thistles and wild roses.