I am sitting in my nightgown and robe, my hand on my swollen belly where the new baby is moving, when the doorway in my private chamber opens a crack. A lady-in-waiting gasps and points, her other hand over her mouth. “Your Grace?”
I get to my feet, my knees trembling. I am half expecting the Duke of Albany himself, entering through a secret door, having taken the castle by stealth, but instead it is Archibald.
“You’ve come! You’ve come.”
He tumbles into the room and catches me up and covers my face with kisses. “I promised. Did I not?”
“You did. My God! Thank heavens you have come! I have been so frightened. How many men do you have?”
“Not enough,” says his brother, coming through the door behind him. “Only sixty.”
“Oh, George! You’ve come back. I thought you were gone to England forever.”
He bows his dark head over my hand. “Just to gather news and get help,” he says. “Just to serve my brother and you.” His smile is quick.
I flush at the thought of the Douglas loyalty. They are sworn to death for their family, and now I am one of them.
“There are six hundred traitors out there,” Archibald says. “I couldn’t find men who would fight for us. I have only my own tenants and some of Lord Hume’s. I never thought Albany could muster such force.”
“My cause is just! I am queen regent.”
“I know.” George rubs his hand over his young face. “But the common men won’t turn out against the governor, and I couldn’t get any help in England.”
“What can we do?”
“Come away,” Archibald urges me. “Come at once and bring the boys, and we’ll get away to England. Lord Dacre says we’ll be safe the moment we cross the border, and we can all go to London.”
“It’s not safe,” I say instantly.
“Safer than here,” George says.
Archibald nods. “You can’t hold the siege here.”
“My brother will send help if he knows how desperate we are.”
“I’ve tried,” George says. “I’ve spoke to Dacre and to the other Northern lords. They don’t want war. Your sister, Princess Mary, has brought a peace treaty home from France and your brother won’t break it.”
“And I am to be grateful to her! Don’t they think of us?”
“You shouldn’t be grateful for anything,” Archibald corrects me. “You have nothing to thank Henry for. She has come home from France in triumph, married to the man she loves, and is received at court and forgiven. But you—who have done exactly as she has done—are trapped here and I with you, and they have forgotten all about us. You must write to him! You must tell him he cannot betray us.”
“But not now,” George cuts in. “The time for writing is over. Alexander Hume is at the gate with the horses. Come now, Your Grace, and bring your boys with you.”
“I don’t dare.” I give a little moan. “What if they catch us? They’ll know that I am running to Harry and they’ll imprison me so I can’t get to England. They’ll take my sons away from me forever, and you”—I give a little sob—“Ard, they will behead you for treason.”
“Come on,” he says. “I’ll take the risk.”
“No,” I say, suddenly deciding. “I won’t put you in mortal danger. I can’t bear that. I can’t lose you. You go, hide somewhere. I’ll get out of here. I’ll get nearer to the border as soon as I can. Come for me, when it is safer.”
“I’ll stay with the queen and guard her here,” George says boldly to his brother. “You raise men, Archibald, and get a message to Dacre. Tell him that she will come to England. Tell him to meet us.”
“Yes,” I say. “But don’t be captured, Archibald. They won’t dare to do anything to me or my boy James, but they will behead you for sure. Go now. Go, my love.”
I bundle him out of the door, exchanging one passionate kiss as he leaves. George goes out of the chamber to the guardroom. When the door is shut and bolted behind them, I find that the rapid thudding in my ears slows. I put my back to the door and lean against it. My feet hurt, my husband has gone, my baby is heavy in my womb, and I am all alone, once again.
I have taken to walking on the castle walls in the evening. Sometimes James comes with me, his Lord Chamberlain, Davy Lyndsay, beside him. I think the exercise is good for me and for the baby that lies so heavily in my belly. I walk the perimeter of the castle from one tower to another, watching the road that winds up through the trees from the little town below, as the sky grows darker. Looking at the rolling hills towards the green south, the road that would take me to freedom is a green track down from our cliff top, through the town, past the fields and then disappearing into the darkness of the forest. Something catches my eye: a plume of dust and a glint of metal.
God be thanked! I am saved—it is Harry’s army. It is Harry’s triumphant army. He has come himself and marched north, taken Edinburgh and come onward to take Albany from the rear and free me, and the Scots lords will see that if they defy a princess of England then revenge is swift. I could cheer at that little spark of metal among the trees, the English army coming for an English princess with perhaps my brother at the head, like a true chevalier.
I squint and cup my hands over my eyes to concentrate my gaze on the standards. I think I can see the Tudor rose, my rose. I think I can see the Beaufort portcullis, my lady grandmother’s flag. I think I can see the red cross on the white ground of Saint George.
“Look!” I say to Davy, a little laugh in my voice. “What can you see? What’s that on the Edinburgh road?”
Davy Lyndsay gets up on the sentry step and looks where I am pointing. He steps down in silence and his face is white. Behind him George Douglas is standing in the lee of one of the towers. “Look, George!” I call to him, and I point to where the cloud of dust hides the marching men and the horses, the wagons coming behind them. I rub my eyes with both fists, hoping that I am mistaken, hoping that the evening sun is playing tricks, but now I can see perfectly well. These are not the beloved standards of my country coming up the Edinburgh road to the very walls of the castle. It is not an army for our relief. Now I can even hear the rumble of the wheels of the heavy wagons and the lowing of the oxen as they heave the weight. It is my husband James’s artillery, which he designed and cast. It was his great pride. At the front of the train of wagons is Mons, the greatest cannon of all, the greatest cannon in Europe, the one that he said was the end of chivalry and the beginning of a new warfare. James said that no castle could withstand her massive power. The Duke of Albany has brought my husband’s cannon to use against me with seven thousand men in support, and this is the end of my defiance and the end of my hope, and we will have to surrender before he pounds down the walls of my castle and turns Stirling to dust. I turn to George Douglas.
“I’ll have to surrender,” I say. “Tell Ard.”
Grimly, he nods. “I’ll go now.”
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, AUGUST 1515
I am a prisoner of my own people. My son the king, the true King of Scotland, and his brother, the next heir, are held in Stirling Castle, honored as guests, but really prisoners of the false duke who holds the keys. I, the queen regent, am held in Edinburgh Castle as if I were a criminal, as if I were a prisoner awaiting trial, awaiting execution.
God knows what is going to become of us. George Douglas disappeared before the cannons were even brought before the castle. So much for him guarding me so that his brother could get to safety—at the first sight of Mons he was gone. The other servants melted away. I don’t know where Archibald is, I don’t know why Harry does not demand of the French king that Albany return my castle to me. I took my little boy James down the stairs to surrender the castle at the front gate, and, like the little king he is, he did not waver. He is only three years old but he is princely. My little son held the keys to Stirling Castle and gave them to this French puppet, without a moment’s trembling.
A true man, a true chevalier, would never have par
ted a mother from her boys and turned her out of her own home. But Albany put me in the charge of lords faithful to his own rule, and sent me back to Edinburgh Castle. My boys he returned to their nursery at Stirling. Davy Lyndsay went with them, with a little bow to me, as if to say that wherever James goes, his faithful guardian will go too. Albany took his army onward, hunting my innocent husband and his family. He says he will see the rule of law running from sea to sea in Scotland. He says he has been made governor by the council of lords and is going to rule justly. He is not the man to do it. There was one man who could do it; but he is gone, and Katherine of Aragon holds his body, half forgotten, encased in lead, somewhere in a box in London.
I get urgent letters from Dacre and swift scribbled notes from Archibald, urging me to get away at the first opportunity. Now we see how far Albany will go, how terribly he will act. I know that I am not safe in his keeping, and I am near to my time. I cannot go into confinement as a prisoner. If I die in childbed then I will leave two orphans in the care of my enemy.
I send a message to Albany that I want to go to Linlithgow Palace for my lying-in and he makes me sign a letter to Harry to tell him that I am going into confinement and that I am happy leaving my sons in the hands of their cousin. Lies. I am desperate with worry and I sign my name “Margaret R,” as our grandmother used to sign hers—the sign to Harry that I am under duress, but I don’t even know if he will remember this code. I don’t even know if spies will intercept my letter and copy it wrongly to him. I don’t know that Lord Dacre will tell him the terrible danger that we are in. I don’t know where my husband is tonight.
That night, feverish with the weight of the baby on my belly, I turn restlessly from one side to the other and feel the baby shift and grind on my bones, as if I am breaking open like a walnut in the crackers. I think that nowhere is safe. Nowhere is safe for me if my brother will not protect me as he should. Nowhere is safe if my sisters don’t advocate for me. And I don’t even know if they are praying for me as sisters should. They have sent no Virgin’s girdle, no good wishes. I don’t even know if they are thinking of me at all.
As soon as I am dressed for the journey I sink into a chair, turn to my lady-in-waiting and say, “I am ill, I am sick. Tell the duke that I need to see my husband.”
She hesitates.
“It is a matter of life and death,” I say. “Tell the duke that I fear I am failing fast.”
That frightens her. She scuttles down the stairs like a mouse with a broom behind it, hurrying into the castle to find the duke’s many French servants and make them understand that the queen regent is causing trouble . . . again. As we descend the stairs I put out both my hands to my ladies and they guide me down to the stable yard where my litter is waiting for me. On the turn of the stairs I am faint and have to stop. I cannot stand, and have to rest on the windowsill. By the time we are in the stable yard, filled with my enormous baggage train and my waiting retinue, Albany has arrived and is bowing before me.
“I am sorry, my lord,” I say weakly. “I cannot greet you as I should. I have to make such a long journey, and then I will take to my bed.”
“Please . . .” He almost dances on the spot, he is so filled with courteous chagrin. “Is there anything I can do? Can I fetch anything? Physicians?”
I stagger a little. “I fear . . .” I say. “I fear that my child may come early. This is a dangerous time. I have been forced to travel at the most dangerous time. My life . . .”
He blanches at the thought that his tyranny over me might lead me to lose a child, perhaps to my death. He is under instruction from the French king to rule Scotland but not to make matters any worse between Scotland and England. If he kills me, then my sisters will be forced to complain, Harry will take action, realizing that he has been wickedly, shamefully remiss. If I die then the world will blame Albany; and those who have not prized me in life will be anguished with grief at my death.
I double up. “The pain!” I gasp.
My ladies rush towards me, and I let them help me into the litter, put a warm brick under my feet, an earthenware bottle filled with hot water against my straining belly. “My husband,” I whisper. “I must see Archibald once more. I cannot go into confinement without his blessing.”
I see Albany stop and turn again. He has been pursuing Archibald with a charge of treason, determined to see him on the scaffold.
“You have to pardon him,” I pant. “I have to see him. I have to say farewell. What if I never come out of confinement? What if I never see him again?”
Albany does not want to be remembered as the governor who drove the queen to death while he was chasing her young husband through the borderlands, up hill and down dale in country where no stranger could ever overtake a Scot. “It was treason!” he says feebly. “He was guilty of treason. He was ordered to join with the other lords.”
“How could he besiege his own wife? It made no sense to ask it of him!” I snap, for a moment forgetting my part, and then I recoil and clutch my back. “Aah—something is wrong. Where are the midwives?”
“I’ll pardon him, and send him to you at Linlithgow,” Albany assures me. Like any man he is desperate to be away from a woman suffering with mysterious pains. “I will send out a message and tell him he is free to come to you. Take care, my lady. Take care, Your Grace. Should you really be traveling? Should you not stay here?”
“I insist,” I say weakly. “I have to have my baby at Linlithgow with my husband at my side.”
“I will make sure of it,” he promises me.
I nod, I don’t even thank him, as the faintness sweeps over me as I lean back in the arms of my ladies. They lay me down on the goose-down pillows, they flutter around the litter, and I wave them away and command them to drop the curtains. When the litter is shielded by the thick curtains of cloth of gold and they are mounting their horses to escort me, and Albany is gone, I sit up and hug myself, and have to put my hands over my mouth to muffle my joyous laughter.
LINLITHGOW PALACE, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1515
I am seated in a chair at the fireside, in a loose silver night robe. My hair is combed out and spread over my shoulders like a golden veil. When the captain of Albany’s troop brings my husband into the room I raise my eyes and make a little gesture as if to show that I cannot rise, as Archibald, tanned and smiling after weeks of hard riding, runs to fling himself at my feet and bends his smooth fox head into my lap.
“Your Grace,” he says, muffled. “My wife, my beloved.”
“I’ll leave you,” the captain says, anxious to be out of the perfumed room. “My lord—you are on parole. I will report to the Duke of Albany in Edinburgh that you are safely here and on your honor to stay here within the palace walls.”
My husband turns his head and smiles at our enemy. “Thank him for this,” he says. “I am grateful. Whatever happens in the future, he has behaved with the courtesy of a lord of chivalry.”
The captain puffs up a little, and bows and goes out.
Silently, Archibald tiptoes across the room and locks the door behind him. He turns back to me. “Ready?” His dark eyes are sparkling with excitement.
“Ready,” I say. I throw off the billowing night robe, underneath I am wearing my riding gown. Archibald himself kneels at my feet and helps me into my riding boots. My lady-in-waiting hands me a dark cape and I draw the hood over my head.
“You have everything?”
“Tom, my groom, has my jewels and what money I have to hand,” I say. “The luggage train will come after.”
He nods. “You know the stairs?”
I lead him through the adjoining door to the little chapel. Behind the altar is a hidden doorway, used only by the visiting priests. It opens without a creak and I take a candle from the altar and lead him down the winding steps. The door at the bottom is unbolted, Archibald pulls it open and there, waiting for us, are George Douglas and a couple of servants and men-at-arms.
“Can you ride?” George asks, eyeing m
y swollen belly.
“I have to,” I say simply. “I will tell you if I have to stop.”
They have a pillion saddle on Archibald’s horse and a man-at-arms lifts me up behind him. My maid and my lady-in-waiting go on their own horses and the grooms lead a couple of spares.
“Not too fast,” I say to Archibald.
“We have to get away,” he reminds me. “We have to meet with Alexander Hume and his guard, and ride to my castle before they know you are gone.”
I wrap my arms around him and I put my belly against his back. My baby’s father is going to save us. He has rescued us from an unjust imprisonment. We are free.
TANTALLON CASTLE, FIRTH OF FORTH, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1515
We ride all night through country that I sense, but cannot see. There are wide skies above, and a rolling landscape around us. I hear owls, and once a white-faced ghost of a barn owl lifts off the hedge before us, making the horse shy, and I grip onto Ard in fright. For most of the journey I can hear the sea, which grows louder and louder, and then I hear the piercing cry of seagulls.
It is dawn before we come to Tantallon Castle, Ard’s own fortress, his family home, and I gasp when there is a gap in the trees and I see it for the first time. It is a formidable hulk of a building, beautifully designed with proud turrets each capped with a conical roof. It is faced with gray limestone but here and there the stone has been battered away by hard weather, and the plum color of the local stone makes the castle gleam as warm as sunrise.
It faces the North Sea, where the sun is showing long brilliant rays across the rolling waves. The sound of the sea roars on, as loud as our hoofbeats; the smell of the sea makes me lift my head, and breathe the salt air. The seagulls cry, whirling in the dawn light, and beyond the castle I see the Bass Rock: a great dome of rock like a mountain, blazing white in the morning light, with a cloud of seabirds around its cliffs and a little fort perched facing the land. Castle and island face each other, equally impregnable. Round the castle there is a constant swirl of house martins, and now I hear their screaming cries.