The Forgotten Queen (17 page)

“Oh, Lord Dacre, do tell me of them!” I begged, delighted as a child.

Lord Dacre smiled. “You will soon see for yourself, Your Grace, once we reach Morpeth,” he assured me.

The words no sooner fled his lips when I crumpled over as a sharp, searing pain seized my abdomen. My hand shot out, reaching for something, anything, and finding Lord Dacre’s strong hand in response, his hazel eyes wide with fright. I clung to his arm as if it were the only thing that would keep me in this world. The next one was calling; I was sure of it.

“Your Grace!”

Warm liquid rushed down my legs, seeping into my covers and gown. My cheeks burned as I raised my head, looking into the Warden of the Marches’ stricken face. This would set everything back.... I shook my head.

“No,” I breathed as another pain gripped my womb. “Oh, Lord Dacre, no. . . .”

Somewhere I heard the frantic voice of Lord Dacre calling for assistance, but sweet blackness, that longed-for blackness that would sweep me away on a tide of dreams, enveloped me. The voices faded away into nothingness, and then so did I. . . .

 

“This is far from a suitable place to bring in a bairn,” Lord Dacre was saying when again my eyes fluttered open. The chambers were humble, drafty, and without décor, something that would not have perplexed me in the least before. We would have been removing to the luxury of Morpeth and I could have stood a few days in this rough and wild place had my pains not started. But everything was halted. I lay overtaken by guilt and pain and despair. I was an obvious inconvenience to my host and I prayed the pains would stop, that my labor would hold off just a bit longer.

“Her waters have already broken,” an older woman I gathered to be a midwife was informing him. “The bairn will arrive regardless of this castle’s suitability.”

At once my belly quaked with another pain and I cried out. Lord Dacre, thrilled to be out of my reach, I was certain, fled the chambers and I was left to the strange old midwife and less than a handful of servants.

One lady brought a cool cloth to my burning forehead, dabbing gently. “There, there, Your Grace, do not fear,” she said in soothing tones. “All will be well. We will take care of you.”

My head lolled from side to side as I clenched and unclenched my fists. It could not be an easy birth, of course. That would have been right. No, I was fated to bear this child in a rough border castle and suffer as I had with my earlier births. If only it could have been as it was with baby Alexander. How swift his birth was! The thought of him soothed me somewhat and all I could think of was bringing him a healthy brother or sister.

Despite the chill of the castle, I was burning up. Even the sweat that glistened off my body did nothing to cool me. I longed to tear at my gown and blankets and let the air hit my naked skin. But that would not be proper.

My only relief came in the blackness, and when it beckoned I ran to it with the eagerness of a lover.

 

She was born 8 October, a sturdy lass with a tuft of hair as red as my own, another Tudor rose whom I would call Margaret at the urgings of Lord Dacre, for “she so resembles Your Grace,” he said. It mattered not what she was called. She had the great misfortune of being born a girl, and my heart sank. She was soon in the care of her nurses. I was too weak and ill to hold her and pay her as much heed as I had my boys. I wondered what Angus would make of her. It wasn’t that I would have minded a daughter, but in these rough times I feared for her. Would she survive? And if she did, what path lay before her as a Princess of Scotland and daughter of one of the most unloved men in the land? Oh, my poor, sweet lamb . . . I could not bear to think of her fate. I could not bear to think of my own.

Though I was ten days after her birth able to sit and read letters from Henry and Catherine, I was still too weak to be moved. My leg aggrieved me and my exhaustion never seemed to abate. But in November, when Little Margaret was but a month old, it was decided we must risk the journey southward. I knew there was no choice but to press on, but my pain and weariness were so great that I could not abide even a litter for the progress. I was carried aloft on the shoulders of servants on my day bed. As we traveled we were met by more lords of the land who joined our party. We stopped twice for me to rest, once for five days, when I all but slept straight through, waking only to eat and offer my daughter a feeble smile.

When at last we made it to Morpeth I was relieved. We were in civilization now and I was received as a queen should be. Lady Dacre was gracious and kind and informed me she was readying the castle for Christmas. I was eager to be a part of it, though it would be from my bed that I would be so, at least till I gathered more strength.

Lord Home arrived with Angus and a party of loyal Scots lairds come to see the baby as promised, and my husband at last was able to hold his daughter.

“She’s beautiful, Margaret!” he exclaimed, clasping the little girl to his breast. His eyes regarded her with a new gentleness, one I had never seen before. True, his dark gaze lit with fondness when admiring my children, but this was different. I imagined he thought of the child he had lost before and in her saw his hopes for the future of a new dynasty realized.

“You’re not disappointed, then,” I said, but watching the pair I knew he was not, and for that my affection toward him was renewed.

“Of course not!” he assured me, never taking his eyes from Margaret’s face. “Though you could have waited a bit longer to arrive,” he told our daughter in the exaggerated tones of a smitten father. “But I think you are as stubborn and impatient as your mother!” he teased.

I laughed, relieved for the lightness of the moment. “Indeed,” I agreed. “And as ambitious as her father!”

Angus shot me a glance at this, his brow furrowing. I had offended him. “Angus, I didn’t mean it,” I told him, reaching my hand out.

He sighed, shifting his eyes to the baby once more. He did not take my hand. It fell to my lap. He was soon cooing at the baby once more and I sighed in relief.

Perhaps he had let it go.

 

The day Lord Home and Angus had arrived was also the day Christopher Garnyshe, the sweet courtier charged with bringing me the tidings from my brother and sister-in-law, bestowed upon me my gifts. I was carried in a plush chair to the great hall, resplendent with festive Christmas décor; pine boughs wrapped about the great beams with beautiful new tapestries that must have been new, so clean and vibrant were their colors. There were gold plate and cups and scrumptious-looking dishes of silver on the table where we would soon celebrate our Christmas feast. But the most wonderful thing of all was that, to my astonishment and delight, my new wardrobe from my brother was on display for me.

“Oh!” I cried, wishing I had the strength to leap from my chair and run to fondle the pretty things. There were bed hangings, meant I imagine for the confinement chamber I never knew, little clothes for the baby, and my favorite gifts of all—gowns! There was one extraordinary piece of cloth of gold and another in a light silver shimmering material called cloth of tinsel. It was astounding!

“See!” I cried to Lord Home. “My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I certainly shan’t die from lack of clothes!”

The men laughed, but there was something in their eyes, something sad and guarded, and at times they whispered and nodded to one another as if agreeing upon something.
They pity me,
I thought. My cheeks flushed with the heat of anger. I should not be pitied! I should be admired! And soon, in these gowns and more I planned to have made, I would be. I would regain my strength and become the queen I knew was inside, a beautiful, strong queen who would return to Scotland one day with her new bairn and reunite her family and kingdom!

 

Twelfth Night came and went. The winter days passed in a windy gray blur. Convalescence was slow. My right leg had become a curse, and I could not bear to stand upon it. I was weak but could not eat to gain strength; I had no appetite. Though I was glad to be losing weight so my husband could at last see how becoming I could be, I knew that I needed to eat enough for clarity of mind and the physical strength to endure the rest of the journey to London.

Lady Dacre fussed over me, seeking to coax my appetite with comforting foods—almond milk, boiled mutton, and different pottages brimming with vegetables. I could eat none of them to anyone’s satisfaction. I picked at things here and there, but my stomach ached and I grew nauseous when the pain was at its height. Little appealed to me.

What’s more, I wanted to go home. I wanted my children. They needed to meet their baby sister and I needed them. I needed to see that Little Jamie was as bluff and bonny as ever and that baby Alexander was thriving.

To pass the time while I struggled to heal, I regaled Lady Dacre with stories of my children and my Ellen. Lady Dacre had never seen a Moor before and was fascinated by the dark beauty. I told her of the matching gowns we used to wear for entertainments and this amused her. I missed having gowns made for my favorite lady, and to remedy this Lady Dacre encouraged me to pay mind to my attire once more. Nothing made a woman feel as well as having new dresses! I was compelled to agree.

I ordered new gowns in addition to the beautiful wardrobe from my brother. It would do to suit my slimmer figure, I reasoned. And after all I had endured, I certainly deserved some finery to take what joy I could from. I would have more satin kirtles, a beautiful purple velvet confection lined with cloth of gold, and another of a stunning velvet as red as rubies, accentuated with the softest ermine. I would enter London every inch a queen, and in those gowns I would feel beautiful again.

As the dressmakers worked on my gowns, I had my ladies show me the dresses from Henry. They would bring the dresses to my bed sometimes twice a day, and I would reach out, fingering the beautiful materials and sighing, fantasizing about the day I could wear them and dance at the court of my brother. I couldn’t wait for Angus to see me in them. I knew he would find me truly beautiful then. It would erase any doubts he would have about my fitness as his wife.

I hoped.

 

One day in early February I was admiring my gowns while Lady Dacre was trying to convince me to eat a creamy bread and apple pudding she had Cook make when Lord Home entered my chambers with Angus.

I brightened at the sight of my handsome husband. He had been so good with the baby and so solicitous of my health that I put our previous grievances aside. Lady Dacre made a gracious retreat in deference to the men.

Angus offered a slow smile. “It is good to see you up, my dear,” he told me in gentle tones as he leaned in to offer his customary kiss upon my forehead. “Are you feeling well? Stronger?”

I nodded. “It restores me to look upon my lovely gowns and think of happier times,” I said. “I canna wait to don them for you.”

Angus sat on the bed beside me, taking my hand in his. “You will steal my breath away, I am sure,” he said. His eyes were so soft they seemed almost lit with tears, and I thought it sweet that he would be so moved by the imagery.

At this Lord Home cleared his throat.

“Lord Home,” I said by way of greeting. I imagined he was not too comfortable with our loving banter, so attempted to adopt a more regal bearing. “Any word from Scotland?”

“My mother has been taken prisoner to Dunbar Castle,” he began. “Didna even let her ride a gentle horse! She had to gallop through the country like a commoner and God only knows what they feed her at the castle.” At this he swore an oath. “It’s me he’s after, by God! It’s a hard sort of man to take revenge against someone’s mother, innocent old woman that she is.”

Anger heated my cheeks at the thought of poor old Lady Home being dragged through the wilderness like a dog. How I detested Lord Albany! What could he have been thinking!

“We are much aggrieved at the thought,” I told Lord Home with sincerity.

At this he and Angus exchanged a glance.

“What else?” I prodded, knowing this could not have been all.

“The duke has taken my estates of Tantallon and Borthwick,” Angus said. “Without those rents it will be hard to finance our cause,” he went on. “And what’s more, he refuses to release my uncle Gavin, even though the Pope has ordered it so he might serve as the bishop he was ordained as.”

“To not even listen to the Pope!” I cried. “For shame!”

Again, Angus and Lord Home found each other’s eyes; it seemed as though they were each trying to urge the other to speak.

Perplexed, I sighed. “Sirs,” I began. “Something else has happened.”

At this Lord Home sat in my bedside chair next to Angus, who tightened his hold on my hand, his thumb stroking my forefinger with a new sense of urgency. He was sweating. A deep flush colored his cheeks and forehead crimson.

“My dear,” he began. He pursed his lips, swallowing hard. “Oh, my dear—”

I squeezed his hand in turn. “Angus, what is it?” I cried. “The children? Are my babies well?”

Lord Home bowed his head at this, shielding his eyes with his hand.

“By God, someone tell me!” I demanded, as frustrated as I was frightened.

Angus’s liquid brown gaze found mine. Tears spilled onto his cheeks. “My dear . . . it is the Duke of Ross. Alexander . . . he’s . . . he’s . . .”

“He’s dead,” Lord Home finished for Angus.

My breath caught. I withdrew my hand, bringing it to my chest, where my heart throbbed and ached at once. “No . . . no . . .” I breathed, closing my eyes and shaking my head. “Oh, God, no! No!”

Angus gathered me in his arms as I sobbed.

“He is lying!” I insisted. “It is a ploy, a trap of some kind! My child canna be dead! It is an evil trick to lure me back, that he might capture us!” I pulled away, blinking back tears, almost convinced that this could be true, hoping it was. “That is it, isn’t it, Angus? Surely that is what you will tell me next. Tell me. Say, ‘The duke is alive, however, and is quite well.’ Tell me, Angus!”