He goes to take my hand, but he checks himself.
“Pardon Gavin Douglas,” I beg him. “And Lord Drummond. All they have done has been in my defense. You don’t know what the lords are like! They will turn on you too.”
He is beautifully mannered: he begs me not to cry and from inside his silk jacket he produces his own handkerchief, also silk, embroidered by his wife, a French heiress, with her crest and initials. Who carries a handkerchief in Scotland? They wouldn’t even know what one was.
I hold it to my eyes. It has the lightest of perfumes. I peep at him over it. “My lord?” I ask. I think I have won him over.
He bows low but he speaks coldly: “Alas, Your Grace, I cannot oblige you in this,” and then he goes from the room.
Goes from the room! Without being dismissed! Without a word more! And I am left with tears on my cheeks, having to get up and ride back to Archibald and tell him that his grandfather and his uncle will stay imprisoned, and that Albany knows what we are plotting, and so we are lost. I cannot force this duke to do anything. He is all but incorruptible. I have nothing to show for this but the knowledge that they know our plans before we do, and a silk handkerchief.
But then—just as I knew they would—the lords turn against the Duke of Albany. Perversely, in a fit of temper at foreign manners and French etiquette, the parliament order that Lord Drummond is to be freed in the autumn. He may have been in the wrong to strike the Lyon Herald, but he is a Scots lord, and if anyone can be in the wrong in Edinburgh with everyone’s blessing, it is a Scots lord. They only obey the rules that they admire, and they are not going to be taught manners by a French-raised newcomer.
I write to my brother that now is our chance. The lords have had their moment of love for Albany, now they want to return to their true king. If Harry will help me, I can buy some of them, hire others, and persuade the rest. But he must be aware that I am surrounded by enemies. If they make me write to him against my will I will sign my letter with the signature of our grandmother, Margaret R; if I am writing my own mind I will sign Margaret. He must watch for this, he must conspire with me, he must send me soldiers at once. We have everything to play for now, we Tudors. We are about to win.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1515
The duke regent, Albany, may have been bested by the parliament, but they agree with him that my son the king is not safe in my keeping. He is going to come for my son. Both my sons. He won’t take James without my baby Alexander. Both my children are to be taken from me and I have no power to resist.
Albany may be a great courtier, but I am a great queen. I allow the parliament to come to the drawbridge at Stirling Castle and I stand in the great gateway holding my eldest little boy by the hand. We look both pathetic and indomitable. I have taught James to hold up his head and not to say a word, not to scuff his feet or gaze about. It is as well that I have coached him in the ways of majesty, for outside the castle walls is the whole of the town, come as if to a fair, to see what will happen when the French duke brings the newly appointed royal guardians to take the little king away from his mother.
It’s as good as a play for them, and I make sure that we look like the heroine and her child in a play. Behind me, my hundred-strong household servants and guards stand to attention, in complete silence, their faces grave. My handsome young husband waits with his hand on his sword as if he would challenge anyone to single combat if they dare to come against me.
Little James is perfect. I have dressed him in green and white to remind everyone that he is a Tudor prince, but on his back he carries his father’s lyre. It’s a beautiful touch. I am wearing white, widow white, and a cloth-of-gold train and a heavy gable hood in gold like a crown. My belly is broad, as if to remind everyone that I gave King James sons and heirs. Beside me the nursemaid holds the baby Alexander in his white lawn gown with a perfectly white lace shawl gathered around him. Here is the widowed queen—we say it just by standing here. Here is the King of Scotland, here is his brother, the Duke of Ross. We are dressed in white like the heavenly host. Who is going to dare to part us? Who would bring us down to earth?
People roar with approval at the sight of the three of us. We are royal Stewarts, we are beloved. Nobody can hear anything over the shouts. The people are mad for the sight of their little king and his mother dressed like a martyr, pale as a widow, her belly large with another Scot.
The delegates from parliament come forward and I call out: “Stay and declare the cause of your coming!”
I see the grimace from the councillor in front. This is not going to look well, given the mood of the crowd, and he is wishing himself elsewhere, doubting that he can do this at all. In a voice so low that the crowd shout out, “Sing up!” and “What does he say?” and “Only villains whisper!” he tells me quietly that they have come for the king. He must live in the care of his new guardians who have been appointed by the Duke of Albany and the council.
I make a little gesture with my hand and the portcullis slams down before us, the delegation shut out, my household and myself safely within. James jumps at the rattle of the chain and the scream of the metal coming down and the crash of the teeth on stone, and I pinch his little hand to remind him not to cry. The people roar with approval and I raise my voice and shout to them that I am my son’s guardian, and his mother, that I will consider the recommendations of parliament, but my son is my son, he will always be my son and I must always be with him.
The roar of approval is an endorsement. I let the adulation wash over me, restore me, and then I meet the eyes of the parliamentary delegation through the stout portcullis with bold triumph. I have won this match, they have lost. I smile at them and turn and lead my son and household back inside. Archibald follows.
I try to hold that moment of triumph. I try to remember the deep bellow of the crowd and my knowledge that the people of Scotland love me. I try to remember the endearing touch of James’s little hand in mine, knowing that I have a son, knowing that my son is a king. What greater joy can a woman have than this? I have achieved what it took my grandmother a hard lifetime to achieve, and I am still only twenty-five. I have a royal family, and I have a husband who risks everything to be with me.
I am clinging to the love that the Scots had for my husband, have for my son, surely have for me. I am clinging to my love for Ard—I cannot consider what it has cost me—when I get a letter from England with Mary’s scrawl over the front and her seal on the flap. She is using the royal seal of France; she will forever call herself the Queen of France, I know it.
Dear Sister, dearest Sister, I am so happy, this must be my greatest day. I have married my beloved Charles, for the second time, in England, and Harry and Katherine came to the wedding and rejoiced in my happiness. We have a terrible debt to pay, we will never have any money, we will have to live on prayer like Franciscans, but at least I have got my way. Even queens can marry where they love. Katherine did, you did, I have. Why should I not choose my happiness when she and you did? And everyone who says that I am a fool can ask themselves—who married the greatest king in Christendom and then married for love? Me!
There is more. It goes on and on. She predicts that Harry will be unable to be angry for long. He has fined them into poverty, they will never be out of debt to him, but he loves his friend Charles and he adores her . . . and so on, and so on, crisscross over the page, with foolish exclamations about her happiness added in the margins.
At the very end she says that she must surely be forgiven the debt because Harry is in the greatest of spirits about Katherine’s pregnancy. They are certain this time the baby will go to full term, and all the physicians say that she is carrying him well.
I hold the letter in my lap and look out of the window. I remind myself that I have two sons in the nursery, and I am carrying another child. I have not married a nobody that I am trying to foist on my family and drag into the nobility. My son with Ard will not be a prince, but he will be born an earl in his own right. W
hat was Charles Brandon’s family a generation ago? How will Mary bear it when the first flush has worn off and she sees a man whose entire reputation rests on her? Does she think that the joy of the first year lasts forever?
I have a young husband, a handsome husband from a great family, and he loves me, only me, while Katherine has to look the other way from Harry’s infidelities and pretend not to mind. I am a queen just as good as her, and better than her—far better—I have a son who is king. She gives birth to nothing but dead babies or babies who die after birth; she must be wretched. She should be wretched. When I think what she has done to me I know that she should be wretched forever.
But it is no comfort to think of her hunched over her swelling belly and praying that this time God grants her a live child, hoping that Harry won’t be unfaithful during the months of her confinement. Although I feel sour and envious, I find I get no pleasure in imagining her being wretched. For despite listing my blessings—my handsome husband, my two boys, the baby in my belly—I feel rather wretched too.
We wait to hear what the response will be from the Duke of Albany, and the council of lords. Archibald rides out with James every day, teaching him how to sit on his pony and raise a hand to take a salute. He talks to him of battles. I don’t like them to go far afield, as I am afraid that the council may grow impatient and kidnap our little king. I am uneasy, nervous in my pregnancy. I think that I am allowing myself to be frightened of shadows. Then sometimes I think that I have much to fear.
I have the vivid dreams of pregnancy. I start to think of Albany with dread, as if he were the devil himself and not a careful, courteous politician. I think he will take James by force. I think he will take Ard from me. I think of him stripping John, Lord Drummond, of his wealth, for nothing more than being a good advisor to me, a tender grandfather. Although they have promised to release him from imprisonment, they have ruined him, taking his estates and his castles. Ard has lost his inheritance and now we have no money at all. Bishop Gavin Douglas is imprisoned with no hope of release, and my secret letters to Harry have been read by everyone. Everyone knows that I was plotting to bring the English down on my own country, that my husband and his family were profiting from my treason. George Douglas, Ard’s younger brother, has fled to England, marking the whole family as traitors. I feel as if I have lost all my friends, I feel as if Ard has lost his family for me, and yet still my brother sends neither money nor help. Still Katherine does not advise him that they should compensate me—yet who brought me into this danger but her?
I know that the Duke of Albany will not wait forever, and at the end of July he sends for James, my son. The council is determined that I hand over the little king to his new guardians.
Again, I speak through the portcullis, but this time there are no cheering spectators. I say that Stirling is my own castle, my husband the king gave it to me himself. I say that my son is in my own keeping, my royal husband made me his protector. I say I will not hand him over. I will not surrender the keys of the castle.
They call on Archibald, who is standing silently behind me, and they order him to advise me. Confidently, I turn and smile, but Archibald astounds me. Then and there, in the courtyard of Stirling Castle, where he used to count himself lucky if I let him lift me into the saddle, he says that his advice to me as my husband has always been that I should obey the governor, the Duke of Albany, who has been appointed by the parliament as regent. He says that this is the will of the lords of Scotland and we should all obey the earthly powers. I am completely silent, my eyes blazing at his pale face as he betrays me completely, politely, and in public. I say nothing at all until we have gone inside the castle and the door is closed on my privy chamber and we are alone. Then he stands with his hands behind his back, his head down, his face sulky as a child’s, waiting for the scolding that he knows is coming.
“How could you? How could you?”
He looks tired. He looks pale, like a boy who has been forced to take on troubles beyond his years. “So that they don’t charge me with treason like my grandfather,” he says.
“How could you betray me? You owe me everything. I have done everything for you. You are nothing more than Charles Brandon is to my sister. We both have honored husbands far below us, men who would be nothing without us.”
He shakes his head and it only makes me angrier.
“I will never forgive this,” I rail at him. “I have lost my throne for love of you. If I had not married you I would still be queen regent. All this is your fault, and yet when they call on you, you answer obediently! But you are not free to answer to them, you are bound to me! You are my husband, I am queen regent. You should not even speak when they address you!”
“I answer fair so that I keep my lands and goods,” he says slowly. There is no rage in his voice; unlike me, he speaks slowly and steadily. “I keep my castles and my tenants. I am going now, to raise troops to defend you. We have no one here in Stirling; we have no money to pay an army. But if I can get home and raise my tenantry and call on my friends and borrow money, then I can come back and get you out of here.”
“You are defending me?” My rage turns to astonishment. I feel the pulse of a complete change of heart.
“Of course. Of course.”
I grab his hands, tears pouring down my face, as anguished as I was angry. “You swear it? You’re not just leaving me? You’re not just saving your own skin and leaving me here?”
“Of course not.” He kisses my hands, he kisses my tearstained face. “What do you take me for? Of course I am going to raise an army to save you. I am your husband, I know what I must do.”
“I thought you had betrayed me. Before them all! I thought that you had gone over to their side and left me.”
“I knew you would. But you had to believe it, and they had to believe it, so that I can serve you.”
“Oh, Archibald, stay with me.”
“No, I shall go and get my men so I can save you. I shall go to my home.”
“And you won’t see her?” The words slip out before I can stop myself.
At once the tender look falls from his face and he looks as old as his grandfather and weary. “I will have to see her if I am trying to raise troops from her lands. She is a sweet loyal girl and has never failed in kindness towards me. Even now, she would do anything for me. I will have to meet with her family to plead your cause. But I am not leaving you for her. I don’t forget I am married to you. I know my duty, even though it is not what I thought it would be.”
“We will be happy again,” I promise him as if he is a child, like James, desperate to restore the love to his eyes. “Your duties will be merry again. We will break out of this, Harry will send an army. We will have our child and you will be glad. I will give you a son, I know I will. I will give you the next Earl of Angus. You will like that. And we will take power.”
He shows me a weary smile. “I am sure. I will go now and make all the speed I can to come back to you.”
“You will come back? You won’t run away to England like your brother George?”
He shakes his head. “I have given the word of a Douglas.”
I wait in the castle alone. Albany’s retinue and the lords who support him have invested the town of Stirling, and the castle is under siege. I have to guard my sons and defy the parliament, the lords, and the governor. I write to Harry. I tell him that I am alone, surrounded by my own parliament. They insist on taking my boys, his own nephews, his heirs. If he does not come to rescue me I cannot predict what will happen. I get no reply. Lord Dacre advises me in a secret letter that Harry and the new French king, Francis, have agreed together not to meddle in the affairs of Scotland. I know what this means: Harry has abandoned my cause; my brother has betrayed me.
I am sick at the thought of Harry agreeing to leave me to chance, but then I realize that the treaty cuts both ways. Albany, too, has no patron as he tries to rule Scotland; he will get no help from France. He and I are equally isolated, equally
alone. He is camped in the town of Stirling, I am stuck in the castle. He has no king supporting his attempt to be governor, I have no brother helping me to be queen regent. I have no sisters pressing my case. We are to fight it out, like cocks in a ring, until one rips out the throat of the other.
I wait for Archibald to come back, but he does not. I play with the boys, I rest in the afternoon, I rack my brains to think who might come to rescue me since Harry has betrayed me and Archibald does not come; and I know that there is no one.
At the end of the week I can delay no longer and I agree to hand over the boys to the lords of my choosing. I nominate my husband, the Earl of Angus, and our friend Lord Hume. Albany does not even pretend to consider my proposals. He merely demands that I send out my boys. I answer him by keeping the drawbridge up and arming the guns. I know that we are moving towards a battle, I know that this can end only one way. I cannot win. I send a note to my husband by one of his menservants.
“If you don’t come I will lose my sons. Save me.”
I send the same letter to Harry.
Neither of them answers.
We are short of bread; we are short of the flour to make bread. The well is deep, there is always reliable water, so we will never go thirsty. But we are short of meat, and cheese. There are hens and cows inside the castle, grazing on the green, but we are short of hay. I order the horses to be driven out of the little gate, where Albany’s soldiers catch them and shout ironic thanks for the gift; but still we have only enough hay for a few weeks. When we kill the animals for meat we will have no milk or eggs. My sons need fresh food—they are children, they should not be starved in a siege. I don’t know what I can do.