It is a relief when the land starts to rise up and we can see a little brightness ahead as the forest grows thinner and there are shrubs and plants at the side of the track, growing towards the light, and then we are going through glades of silver birches and slowly, almost leaf by leaf, we leave the shadows. Now we can see the sky, and we are climbing higher and higher and come out on the flank of a hill that still stretches high above us. The horses blow out and we lean forward as they lower their heads and start to climb up and up, following the faintest of tracks that skirts the cliffs, which fall away on the far side, and takes us over the rounded top. But all we can see are more hills, stretching on and onward before us, as if they were towering waves in an unending sea, before we have to wind down again to the valley floor, now going north, always looking behind us for any sign of the glint of sun on metal, or the distant rumble of Howard’s army.
We ride all day, stopping before noon for something to eat, and then riding on all of the afternoon. As the sun begins to sink towards the tops of the hills and the shadows lengthen over the track, almost obscuring it so that we begin to fear we will lose the way, James cries in a little whiney voice that he is tired, and Davy reaches into his pocket for a piece of bread and gives him a flask filled with milk. James eats, held steady on the saddle, and then leans back against his guardian and sleeps as we keep the steady pace.
Still we go north, now with the setting sun on our left, and I say softly to Davy, “Is it much farther? It will be dark within a few hours.”
“We’ll be in before dark, God willing,” he says. “And if they are following us, they won’t dare to come on in the dark. They’ll camp for the night. They’ll be afraid of ambush and they don’t know the country at all. They can’t find their way in the dark.”
I nod. I am aching in every bone in my body and fearful for the new baby that I am carrying.
“You’ll have a grand dinner and a good night in a soft bed,” Davy says quietly to me. “Behind strong walls.”
I nod; but I think, what if he is wrong and darkness falls and we are still traveling? Will we have to camp out and sleep on the cold hillside? Or what if we have missed the road and gone past the town? What if we are riding onward and onward north, and Stirling is now behind us and we won’t know till tomorrow morning? Then I think: I had better not think like this or I will break down and not be able to ride at all. I have to think, for now and for always, of only one thing at a time, the next thing that I have to do. I have to see these small tasks laid out like matched pearls strung on a necklace with a knot between each one—and not worry that they are the symbols of mourning, as I knew when I dreamed that my husband, my charming, playful husband, tied a string of diamonds around my neck and I watched them melt and drip into widow’s pearls.
Finally, we see a few lights, high up on a hill above us.
“That’s Stirling now, Your Grace,” the standard bearer reins back to tell me, and the horses prick their ears and go forward more briskly, as if they know there are stables with hay and water waiting for them.
I think—pray God there is no trap. Pray God that Thomas Howard has not done a forced march around us and we are not coming in towards him, expecting refuge but finding a battle. There is no way to tell what is hiding in the shadowy hedges at the side of the road as we wind our way towards the little town. The curfew has been sounded and the town gates are bolted shut. My trumpeters sound the royal salute, then we have to wait while the royal burghers rush to the gate and the town guard fling themselves at the bolts and then the great gates creak open, and we can ride inside.
The burghers come towards me, uncovering their heads, some of them shrugging on their jackets and wiping their mouths, called from their dinner. “Your Grace,” they say and they kneel before me as if I am a triumphant Queen of Scots with a victorious husband at war.
Wearily, I make a gesture that tells them everything: the defeat, the death of James, the end of everything. “This is your king,” I say, showing them the little boy, fast asleep in his guardian’s arms on the big horse. “King James V.”
They understand at once that his father is dead. Heavily, they drop to their knees on the cold cobbles. They bow their heads; I see one man put his hands over his eyes to hide that he is weeping, and another buries his face in his bonnet.
We are the first people of authority in Stirling since the battle. Nobody has heard anything but rumors, no soldiers have yet made it back to their homes. The deserters who left before the outcome are certain to have kept their cowardice quiet, and few have got so far north. So now the people come into the streets, their doors banging behind, or they throw open their overhanging windows, hoping that this is a victory progress and that I have come to tell them the king is halfway to London, his army richer every day. Then they see my downturned face and note that I don’t wave or smile, and they stop cheering and fall silent. Someone calls out with sudden sharp urgency:
“The king?”
Everyone looks at me; but I can’t say anything. I can’t pull up my horse and make a grand speech in which I declare that defeat does not mean despair, death is not the end of everything, Scotland has a great future. It would not be true. We are despairing, it is the end of everything, and I cannot see how to make a future.
I raise my voice. “The king is dead. God save the king.”
Slowly, understanding spreads through the silenced crowd. Men pull off their hats, women put their hands to their eyes. “God save the king,” they whisper back to me, as if they cannot bear to say the words. “God save the king.”
They have lost one of the greatest warrior-kings that Scotland has ever had. They have lost a musician, a physician, an engineer, an educator, a gunner, a poet, a shipwright, a deeply convinced Christian anxious about his own soul and theirs. They have lost a great prince, a man among men. His coat and banners have been sent to France, his body is rumbling south, a trophy wrapped in lead in a wagon. In his place, all I can offer them is a baby-king, a helpless baby-king, with Scotland’s greatest enemy on our doorstep. They kiss their hands blow the kisses to me as if to say: God bless you. God help you. And I look back at them grimly and think: I can’t do this.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1513
I move into my beautiful rooms in Stirling Castle and I send to the families of the great lords to come to crown James. Very many of them fail to reply; more than half of them are dead. In all of the kingdom there are only fifteen lords left alive. We have lost half a generation of men. But they send the sons who were too young to fight, and the old fathers who are mourning their heirs. They come from all the corners of the kingdom to swear loyalty to the new king.
He is not yet two years old, only a baby, but destiny has laid a heavy hand on my son James. He sits in the lap of his governess and she opens his shift of linen under the cloth-of-gold gown, and the bishops anoint his little chest with holy oil. He makes a little noise of surprise and looks towards me: “Mama?” I nod that he is to stay still and not cry. They put his tiny hand on the barrel of the scepter and the little fingers close on it, as if he will hold on to power, and they elevate the crown over his head. His eyes look up wonderingly as the trumpets blast, his lip trembles at the noise and he turns his head away.
“God save the king!” the bishops cry out; but there is no triumphant shout from the congregation of lords in reply.
They should shout in answer, something has gone terribly wrong. I am aghast at the silence behind me—what can it mean? Do they not accept him? Are they refusing to swear allegiance? Have they secretly decided to surrender to the English and stand dumb at the oath for James? Fearfully, I turn to look behind me at the crowded chapel where the lords are ranged in their clans and families in complete silence. Their faces are pale as they raise them to where the bishops have shouted their oath of loyalty. Then, one by one, each man’s lips form the reply, “God save the king!” but they have lost their voices. It is not a loyal shout but a whisper of grief; the lor
ds are hoarse with sorrow. At the back of the church someone sobs and these strong, battle-hardened men drop their heads to rub the tears from their eyes.
“God save the king,” they say quietly, one after another, with voices straining to speak. “God bless him,” they say, and someone adds: “God take him to His own.” So I know they are thinking not of my little son and the terrible burden we are laying on him today, but of James the dead king, my husband, and his body stolen far away.
I write to my brother Harry, who is joyously celebrating his triumphs in France. I dip the nib of my pen in honey and I beg him to recall Thomas Howard to London and not order him to invade deep into Scotland. I say that my son is young and tender and Scotland has been knocked into despair. I beg him to remember that I am his sister, that our father would have wanted him to protect me in this difficult situation and not make it worse for me. I say that I am the symbol of peace between England and Scotland, and that I wish we were at peace now.
I grit my teeth and take a second sheet of paper to write to Katherine, who is Regent of England and the sole author of my disaster. I wish I could write the truth: that I hate her, I blame her for the death of my brother Arthur, I believe she tried to seduce my father, I know that she captured my little brother and has turned him against me. I blame her for the war between England and France, between England and Scotland, and, most of all, for the death of my husband. She is the enemy to my peace, and to my country.
Dearest, dearest Sister . . .
A guard opens the door of my privy chamber and one of my ladies comes in and leans over my chair to whisper in my ear. “There is a man come to see you, one of the late king’s servants. He has come from Berwick.”
Her voice chokes when she has to say “late king.” Nobody can say his name.
I put my lying letter to one side. “Send him in.”
Someone has given the man a plaid to throw over his shoulder for warmth but his padded jacket shows he was one of James’s guard. He kneels before me, his bonnet clutched in one dirty hand. I see that his other hand is strapped to his side, a stained bandage at the shoulder. Someone nearly cut off his arm. He is lucky to be alive.
I wait.
“Your Grace, I have to tell you something.”
I glance at the letter to Katherine:
Dearest, dearest Sister . . .
This is her doing.
“The body they sent to England was not the king,” the man says bluntly, and at once he has my full attention.
“What?”
“I was the king’s groom. I followed the English back to Berwick. I thought I should wash the body and prepare it for the coffin.” He swallows on a dry throat as if he is trying to choke down tears. “He was my lord. It was my last duty.”
“And?”
“They let me see the body but they would not let me wash him. They wanted him dirty and bloody. And there was no coffin. They were rolling the body in lead so they could take it to London.” He pauses. “In the heat,” he explains. “The body in the heat . . . the flies . . . they had to . . .”
“I understand. Go on.”
“I saw the body as they got the lead ready to roll him up. It wasn’t him.”
Wearily, I look at the man. I don’t think he is lying; but equally this cannot be the truth. “Why don’t you think it was him?”
“It didn’t look like him.”
“Wasn’t his head smashed by a billhook?” I ask harshly. “Wasn’t his face cut off?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t that. There was no cilice.”
“What?”
“The body they rolled in lead and shipped to England had no cilice around the waist.”
This is incomprehensible. James would never have taken off the cilice before battle. Surely nobody could be so wicked as to cut it off for a trophy? Can he have escaped from the battle? Can someone have stolen his body from Katherine? My thoughts are whirling but nothing helps me. I look down at my begging letter to the sister-in-law I despise. “What difference does it make to me?” I ask despairingly. “If he was coming home he would be here by now. If he wasn’t dead he would still be fighting. It makes no difference at all.”
We convene a council of the lords that have survived and they recognize me as regent according to the king’s will. I am to rule with their advice. I am to have my son in my keeping. I am to have a council of lords to assist me. Head of them will be the Earl of Angus, whom they call “Bell the Cat” from an old triumph. He stands before me now with his face grooved with grief. Two of his sons rode with my husband at Flodden, and they won’t come home either. I know that he is untrustworthy. He has sided with England and Scotland one after the other through a long life of border warfare, and James once imprisoned him over a woman, the mother of one of the bastards. But he looks at me and his dark eyes are sharp. “You can trust me,” he says.
I can tell by the glances between the lords that they can hardly believe themselves, sitting in unity under the command of an English woman. I can hardly believe it myself. But everything is unexpected, everything is wrong. There is not a man at the table who has not lost a beloved son or brother or father or friend. We have all lost our king, and we still don’t know what can be saved.
We agree to reinforce Stirling. This will be the new center of government, the focus of our defense. We agree to build a new wall at Edinburgh Castle, but we know that if Howard comes with his army in force, the castle will fall. I tell them that I have written to my brother and sister-in-law to beg for peace and they greet this news with unfriendly silence. “We have to make peace with them,” I say. “Whatever we feel.”
I tell them that my brother Henry, King of England, has commanded me to send my baby into his keeping in London to be raised as King of Scotland far from his home. He says I must not let the lords of Scotland lay hands on my little boy and take him off to the Isles where he will be “in danger and hard for the king to attain.” They laugh shortly at that, though there is little real mirth among us all. We agree, without discussion, that James V, the new King of Scotland, will stay in his country and with his mother. Katherine has stolen the body of the father; she is not getting the son as well.
The law of the land has ceased to run. There are too many fatherless sons and they are not being given their inheritance. There are too many widows with no one to protect them. The borderlands are in a constant state of warfare, as the Warden of the Marches, Thomas, Lord Dacre, under Katherine’s orders, rides out every day to burn crops, destroy homes, and keep the debatable lands in a state of constant danger and distress. No man trusts his neighbor. They arm against one another. Without my husband James to hold the kingdom together it is breaking down into lordships and tribal lands, warring against each other.
We pass laws, we issue commands. Soldiers returning from Flodden must be supported, but they must not steal and rape. Orphans must be provided for. But there are not enough lords to enforce the laws and the good men who rode with them are dead.
It is a dark council. But I have one piece of good news for them. “I must inform you, my lords, that I am with child,” I say quietly, my eyes on the table. Of course this should be done by an announcement by herald, from a queen to her royal husband: but nothing is as it should be.
There is an embarrassed murmur of sympathy and congratulation from the lords but old Bell the Cat does not respond as a lord but as a father. He puts his hand over mine, though he should not touch a royal person, and he looks at me with rough sympathy. “God bless you, poor little bairn,” he says shockingly. “And God bless you that James has left us something to remember him by. And are you due in the spring?”
I gasp at his familiarity, and the three ladies seated behind my chair rise to their feet and come forward as if to shield me from rudeness. Someone’s head goes up and someone says a short angry word, but then I see that there are tears in the earl’s eyes and I realize that he is not thinking of me as a queen, or an untouchable English princess, but like one of h
is own, one of the many Scots widows who will have children in the cradle and babies in the womb and no husband coming home to help them ever again.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, CHRISTMAS 1513
We have a quiet Christmas. I have no money to spend on feasting and dances, and no one is in the mood for a celebration. The court is in mourning, still shocked by the loss of so many men. There is no handsome king to call for music or wine, and there is no money to pay for either.
The old advisor, the Earl of Angus, retires to his castle, perched on a cliff at Tantallon, and dies at Whithorn to the sound of calling gulls. The title goes to his grandson, a young man in my household who serves as my carver, and I have lost another experienced man. My council is divided between those who would like to make peace with England, our dangerous neighbor, and those who will never forgive the English for our losses and long to take French money to make war on them for our revenge.
But we have one visitor who makes the arduous journey north from London, traveling slowly through the mud and the ice, struggling through the snowdrifts, rising late in the dark mornings, having to find shelter in the dark afternoons. Friar Bonaventure Langley brings me the condolences of my sister-in-law, as if all my troubles were not made by her. Incredibly, Katherine, knowing that I am widowed, knowing that I am with child, knowing that I am alone in a dangerous kingdom with a little boy in my keeping, knowing that I am penniless and heartbroken, thinks that the most helpful thing she can do is to send me a confessor.
Gently, he takes my hands; kindly, he signs the cross over my bowed head. I kiss the crucifix he offers me as he helps me to rise, and then he says: “Can you assure me, daughter, that he really is dead? There is a fearsome rumor in England and abroad that the King of Scots is alive. The queen must know—she has promised her husband that she will discover the truth.”