The Forgotten Queen (21 page)

Robin lowered his eyes. “Ye canna be faulted for that, either.”

I straightened myself in my seat, wiping my eyes and squaring my shoulders. “Well. I commend your courage for telling me,” I told my friend. “Now I must decide what to do. . . .”

“Appeal to the lairds of the council for assistance; perhaps they can help restore the stolen funds,” Robin suggested.

I nodded, taking this in. “Then what?” I asked in flat tones. I wished for him, for Ellen, for anybody to take the helm of my life and steer me away from danger. The thought of going it alone was exhausting and at once all I wanted to do was sleep.

“You’re asking me?” Robin retorted. “Ye dinna want to know what I think, Your Grace.”

“I do,” I urged him. “I want you to be honest. Even if I disagree, I will respect your honesty. It is a trait found in few enough men.”

Robin met my eyes with his own stormy green gaze. “Divorce him.” His tone was hard.

Divorce, that most dishonorable of estates. I could only imagine how such a notion would be received. And yet already I was courting that most appealing of solutions. But was I bold enough, brave enough, to take such action, to name our marriage false before Christendom and the world?

Anger clenched my heart and twisted my gut.

Yes,
a voice inside me declared. I was every bit bold and brave enough. I was a Tudor!

 

Before action against Angus could be taken, I summoned him to Stirling for a meeting alone in my presence chamber. I could not go forth if I knew there was any chance of reconciliation, if there was any possibility that the rumors were not true. His set jaw and hard eyes confirmed without a word that they were.

I remained calm; I would make it known who was queen and who was the overreaching subject.

“Why did you marry me, Angus?” I asked in quiet tones, dispensing with the irrelevant and getting to the heart of the matter.

“I could ask the same of you,” he retorted, his tone high with tension.

“Answer the question,” I urged with exaggerated patience. “Please. We’ve nothing to lose now; I know of your transgressions against me. Tell me the truth.”

Angus sighed. “You want the truth? I married you because my grandfather wished it. He thought it would serve our family well. He was wrong. It only tore Scotland in two and took me from the woman I truly loved, causing me nothing but aggravation and turmoil.”

The words struck me to the core. Even though I knew they rang with indisputable truth, my ears ached with each one. But I had asked him to be honest. I could commend him at the very least for that.

“So now you are reunited with your true love,” I observed. “On my lands and with my money.”

“Money and lands that are as much mine as yours,” he spat. “I went through the dread ordeal of being your husband and gave you a daughter; it is the least you can allow me.”

I would not permit myself to flinch at his brazen hatred.

“I answered your bloody question,” Angus went on, irreverent as ever. “So answer mine. Why did you marry me? You did not love me any more than I loved you; of that I was reminded every time you referred to your husband and didn’t mean me but King James. Every time you referred to me by title and never my own name.” He laughed. “Did it ever occur to you to call me Archibald and not Angus?”

I considered this. He was right; I never could bring myself to call him by his given name. Why was it? Did the barrier of a cold title help insulate me against hurt I must have intuited as inevitable?

“I was lonely,” I confessed. “I was afraid of ruling Scotland by myself and feared for the safety of my children. I wanted to feel admired; I wanted to feel loved.” I had nothing to lose in my honesty, but how it shamed me to admit the paltriness of my own desires. “So,” I went on with a sigh of resolve. “We have admitted we have no love of each other. Why not end this travesty? Why not appeal for a divorce?”

“I have always known you thought little of our daughter as compared to your golden sons,” Angus seethed. “But for you to so easily bastardize her shames you beyond what words can express.”

I knew there were ways around that but would not argue with him. I shook my head. “I see,” was all I said to that. I swallowed an onset of tears; I’d be damned if I would allow them to fall in front of him. “I am sorry for everything; I need you to know that. It would have been easier, for baby Margaret’s sake if no other, for us to behave with civility and peace. But if you refuse to, then all I can do is pray for you and wish you and . . . the lady of Traquair . . . well.”

Angus’s eyes softened a moment at this, before returning to murky depths of disdain. “Good-bye, Your Grace,” he said in quiet tones, offering a swift bow.

“Good-bye . . . Archibald,” I whispered, watching him retreat and, with him, any hopes of saving the marriage. We stood in direct opposition of what our Lord commanded. We entered into the sacred estate of marriage not with loving hearts desiring to work through any obstacle life threw our way as friends and lovers.

As far as I could see the sin was not in a divorce but in that very union. We had entered into marriage lightly.

M
y estate grew bleaker by the day. I had begun to pawn my jewels and was even dismissing my servants, hardworking gentlemen and ladies I could no longer afford to pay. It was humiliating and no way for a queen to live. Even my dear friend Robin condescended to loan me five hundred pounds of his own money.

“ ’Tis a gift,” he assured me, and with bowed head and flushing cheeks I was forced to accept.

“I am at my wits’ end,” I confided. “I have appealed my cause to my brother, to Wolsey and Albany, to the Pope, to everyone who could have influence. Henry and Catherine have written me, actually scolding me, saying I’d bring scandal to the Tudor name if I divorced Angus.” I held up a letter from Henry, waving it in front of Robin before reading an excerpt. “This is what he says: ‘Remember the divine ordinance of inseparable matrimony, first instituted in Paradise.’ The thought of divorce to him is ‘wicked delusions, inspired by the father of evil, whose malice alone could prompt you to leave your husband or unnaturally to stigmatize the fair daughter you had by him.’ ” With a disgusted click of the tongue, I tossed the letter aside on my writing table. “All this after Henry has a son with one of his mistresses! Hypocrites, all of them! And Angus refuses to make any terms; he sees it as his right to my land and income as my husband, despite the fact that he continues to live with that woman and the child she bore him openly on
my
lands of Newark!”

“It is a shameful ordeal,” Robin conceded.

“Even my old friend Lord Dacre sides with Henry,” I went on miserably. “If my daughter Margaret is bastardized by it, as Henry implies, it makes her less of an asset to him and Angus,” I added, my tone thick with irritation. “She’s fated to be a pawn, just like me. . . .” My tone grew soft with regret.

Robin shook his head. “One thing I will say, Your Grace, is ye’ve conducted yourself admirably. Every bit a queen.”

My chest swelled at the compliment. “I have at least tried to be charitable to Angus,” I agreed. “I will not speak ill of him or his mistress to anyone, at least in public,” I added with a joyless chuckle. “His actions speak for themselves and I won’t lower myself to acknowledge his overt sins. All I want is what’s due me—my lands, my rents, and my dignity.”

“All of which is more than deserved,” Robin noted as he rose from his chair. “Keep being strong and keep your course,” he advised me. “It may be a long struggle, but God will set things right. He knows all.”

I took comfort in the words. Robin’s piety never extended beyond the simple, as with my own, and that was what I appreciated. True piety, I believed, was meant to be modest. God knew our hearts, and no showy displays for the benefit of others would convince Him more than a simple, sincere appeal to Him.

So, along with my brother and Dacre, Albany and the Pope, I commended my cause to God and hoped He would, as Robin assured, see justice done.

 

I knew now that I had one thing to live for, beyond seeking love for myself, beyond seeking the restoration of my finances and rightful lands, and that was Little Jamie. He was my light, my hope, and my ultimate cause. I saw him as often as I could and was relieved to find he was growing more comfortable around me as we reacquainted ourselves. Though we were never allowed to be alone, I delighted in his quiet, scholarly nature. Though I told Henry many a time that he resembled him, in truth it was my brother Arthur that Little Jamie brought to mind. For this I was grateful; the less he resembled Henry and perhaps even me, with our rashness and bold impetuosity, the better.

Angus, too, had access to my son and I resented this; I could not imagine the hate he filled his head with and prayed Little Jamie would remain strong in his own ideals, his own thoughts. The curse of child-kings was the influence of the men around them, and weak spirits often caved to their ambitions.

It was Little Jamie I kept in the forefront of my mind and heart as I continued to pursue my divorce. I wanted him to see his mother as strong and true, as someone who wouldn’t allow herself to be used and abused. Thus by seeing me so I hoped it would inspire him to be the same.

Letters flew between me and the various lairds entrusted with my suit. Henry and Lord Dacre continued to chastise, even sending a friar to illustrate the errors of my ways, whom I indulged with politeness and privately scoffed at. Henry was reaching if he thought I could be moved by one of his men, especially if they didn’t come with money.

And money, as Henry continually illustrated, was no issue for him. His glistening triumph, the meeting with King Francois of France called the Field of Cloth of Gold, was an extravagance beyond the imagination, dubbed such because of the extraordinary use of cloth of gold shimmering from every corner of the venue. The one advantage in my brother’s friendship with France was my elevation in their eyes. King Francois, at my brother’s urging, was now leaving Scotland to the Scots, which in turn I hoped would grant me more much-needed influence. So I congratulated my brother on his garish display and commended his tenacity. I had little use for Francois as it were.

There was only one jewel that I needed plucked from the crown of France . . . and that was the Duke of Albany.

 

Angus was doing nothing to further his cause. At a skirmish that had been called Cleanse the Causeway, he instigated an attack against the Hamiltons, the clan of whom the Earl of Arran was head. Their support, along with Robin Barton’s, of the Leith merchants over the burgesses of Edinburgh incensed Angus and the ensuing violence killed the Earl of Arran’s brother along with seventy men. This, and the fact that Angus was seizing offices for himself and his family, was enough to incur resentment among the other lairds.

Though I was loathe to see anyone hurt, I could not help but delight over Angus’s sabotaging of himself. It was the perfect time for Albany, whom I would welcome as an ally and no longer an enemy, to return to Scotland.

Albany came in November of that year 1521, and again I was struck by his elegance, his cool demeanor, and his tactful yet decisive statesmanship. The Constable of Edinburgh handed him the keys to the castle upon his arrival, reminiscent of the days I urged my Little Jamie to do the same, but Albany, ever the gentleman, handed them right back.

After giving him time to settle in his office once more, I began to meet with Albany to discuss my cause. I was always in my finest. On the wintry afternoon that everything changed, I met him in a deep blue velvet gown trimmed with soft gray fox fur and kirtle of gray damask, complemented with a simple strand of pearls I wore in memory of my Jamie. The gaze of appreciation I noted in Albany’s deep slate eyes was not lost on me.

We sought the refuge of his privy chamber, closeted from the spying eyes and ears that surrounded us. I now knew he served as my only hope, not only for my cause but also for Little Jamie’s, that Albany’s power could serve as his best protection, and better to work with great power than against it.

“Madam,” he began. He seemed uncomfortable today, shifting in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Something was on his mind. We sat before a crackling fire drinking hot spiced wine and I smiled at the sound of his melodic voice. “About the baby . . .” he went on; his voice was low. “About the Duke of Ross . . . you have to know that I would never have wished him ill nor had any foul plot inflicted upon him.”

A lump rose in my throat; it still pained me to think of baby Alexander’s death, all these years later. It was clear it still pained Albany as well.

“I know that, Jehan,” I said, making a point of addressing him by the name he preferred. “In truth, though I may have said it in anger before you even came to Scotland in the first place, I have never likened you to a usurper. Yours is not a merry duty; it will be its most challenging now.”

Albany nodded. “And the Earl of Angus,” he went on. “You are determined to appeal to Rome?”

I nodded. “I am. God forgive me, but it is the only way. We canna live like this. And it is the height of injustice that he should be allowed my rents and my lands. I could afford to give him one residence; I won’t begrudge him that. But everything? No,” I added with an emphatic shake of the head.

“I am here for you,” Albany assured me, and no words were sweeter. “I regard it as a debt,” he explained, assuaging my anxiety over a possible betrayal. “You need to understand that Scotland has always been my first priority since taking on the regency. It is to maintain the peace that I have been compelled to the decisions I have, not as any personal offense to you or your right as mother to your children.”

“I do understand,” I admitted. “I have not always agreed and I have not always liked it. But we are statesmen. And I do understand the sacrifices and agonizing decisions that such a role entails.”

“More than most, I imagine,” Albany ventured, his eyes soft. “As to our current situation, you should be informed that I have removed Gavin Douglas from Dunkeld.”

“He has done nothing but abuse the generosity and endorsements I gave him in such good faith,” I muttered, irritated that the man I had admired and called friend also served to be as much a traitor as his nephew Angus.

Albany nodded in agreement. “He has sought refuge at the court of your brother.”

I sighed in exasperation. “Of course he would.”

“The Douglases have been removed from their posts. And for the moment you may not have to worry about your lands and rents,” Albany went on with a note of languid cheer. “Angus is in exile. He has fled to France.”

“Ironic,” I observed with a smile, marveling at all Albany had accomplished in such a short time. “You have switched places, it seems.”

Albany lowered his eyes at this, and I flushed. I had not meant it to be interpreted in a flirtatious manner . . . yet I wouldn’t
not
let his mind wander in such vein either. What was I thinking? Albany was my friend; I could see that now. I was not about to lose a friend for sake of attraction, not ever again. And yet, for whatever my womanly wiles were worth, dull and dowdy though they may be now, I was not averse to utilizing them for whatever favor I could gain.

“Thank you for all you have done,” I said in sincerity, hoping to offset the awkward moment.

“Do not thank me yet,” Albany cautioned with a smile. “Your brother is far from pleased. I have received a letter from him; he accuses me of pretending to the throne, of abusing and manipulating you, and, of course, of unlawfully gaining custody of His Grace. He has all but declared war, madam.”

I shielded my mouth with my hand a moment, repressing a gasp. “I should have known. He sent Clarencieux King of Arms to scold me. There are the most wicked rumors. . . .” I was ashamed to name them. It was being said that Albany and I were lovers. Part of me found I was disappointed that, for once, the rumors were not true. But being thus, I was indignant. I never liked rumors even when based on truth. That my dignity and honor should be so besmirched without any right was infuriating.

“I have heard the rumors,” Albany said. “Let them think what they will; they will find enough fuel for their hatred regardless of what we do. Keep pressing forth, doing what you feel God is steering you to do. I truly believe that right always wins out in the end. It may take a while. Sometimes the end isn’t even in our lifetime. But I do believe that.” His eyes revealed the conviction of his words and I admired him more for it.

“I wish I had your optimism,” I confessed. “It always amazes me how people regard matters of faith and life. We all endure the same tragedies, yet some of us turn to coldness, to doubt, while others, like you, retain a kindness and purity of heart that I envy.”

“I would not say you are cold,” Albany assured me.

“I dinna know what I am now,” I admitted, bowing my head, amazed to be revealing my soul to this man. “I find myself swinging on the pendulum of extremes. Some days I hate the world and the people in it; other days I am filled with hope and charity.”

“Be assured, madam, whatever you are,” Albany said, “I would not have you any other way.”

My eyes stung with tears at the simple sweetness of the sentiment. I met his soft gaze and in it found no sense of regret or unease in his confession.

And I loved him for it.

 

Whatever I may have felt for Albany, there would be no addressing it. I would be chaste and honorable; I would never fall to the side of the rumors and give my brother and those who spread such wickedness the satisfaction of seeing them made true. The fondness I bore Albany was pure; he would be one of the only men in my life who could in truth be described as noble. And I wanted to keep it that way.

We had enough to worry about without complicating our friendship with the joys of the flesh. And yet there were days when we would stroll the grounds together, arm in arm, and I found myself stumbling just so he would help me right myself. It was these small things that sustained me—his touch, his voice, his low, subtle laughter, his company. And when we weren’t caught up in the tensions of the realm, which was rare, we took time to take in a few of the things we both enjoyed: music, hawking, riding. Albany was competent at all three and especially gifted in music.

If I close my eyes now, I can still see Albany standing straight and rigid before the window, hands linked behind his back as he sang a French ballad, his low baritone resonating through my body like the hum of a bell. I would watch him, how he closed his eyes, feeling the music, letting it carry him away from this wretched place. No part of him would move, save his lips and his eyes when he sang, and yet never had I witnessed a performance more filled with conviction and emotion than his. Not even my talented Jamie or brother, Henry, was as gifted as this duke. Even I, with my appreciation for music and performing, would not dare to sing when Albany did. It would seem, somehow, disrespectful and intrusive on a moment too beautiful to last. It was almost holy.