The Forgotten Queen (24 page)

Albany, by the provisions in the Treaty of the More between France and England, was forbidden to enter Scotland during Jamie’s minority, though I could not imagine that Albany would ever wish to return. I was glad that we were no longer beholden to the French; if we were to consort with them, it was of our choosing, not our obligation.

However, despite strides being made in my cause, and allies both in Scotland and abroad, the threat Angus posed to my son was still imminent. In order to preserve the peace of his realm, I was forced to thoughts of reconciliation once again.

“It would be in name only,” I assured Harry, who was wild-eyed at the suggestion. “Harry, it is for the sake of Jamie, for the sake of peace. You must understand that he comes before anything, before my happiness, before us, before everything. The divorce, believe me, is just a matter of time. But in the meantime, is it not better to keep one’s enemies closest?”

Harry shook his head. We were at Edinburgh Castle. Parliament was about to open and we were about to perform the masque of our lives, that of the peaceable family. I was not about to make this harder on Jamie than it had to be.

“Someday,” Harry said, his tone wistful, “when King James is old enough and has full command of himself and this land, I hope you will do things just for yourself and learn to have your own life.”

“Ha!” I laughed, immediately wishing I could take it back. He was serious and the hurt in his eyes that I should mock him constricted my heart. “I can never have my own life, Harry. Queens never belong to themselves,” I added softly.

Harry’s shoulders slumped and he bowed his head.

“Please dinna look at me like that, Harry,” I urged. “I defy all convention to live with you, and display you on my arm to the world with pride; everyone knows who truly has my heart. There will be time for us someday, I promise.”

I turned away, finding myself shaken that I had sounded too much like the men in my life who made such false promises to me. I had always hated lying to those I loved.

 

The opening of Parliament was an affair as tense as a bowstring, the very air alive with animosity as Jamie and I led the procession that included the Earl of Arran holding the scepter, the Earl of Argyll holding the sword of state, and none other than Angus holding Jamie’s crown. Edinburgh was made ready in case Angus and his throng of Red Douglas supporters and clansmen grew hostile, but they seemed to desire peace as much as we did, not that I trusted their reasons. Still, I preferred it to putting my son in any jeopardy.

It was decided that varied lairds would have custody of the king’s person in rotation. The Earls of Argyll, Lennox, and Angus would each host the king. I was loathe to making such an agreement, but the peace of the realm was too precarious, and I needed to capitulate where I could. But I knew I had made a grave mistake.

When it was Angus’s turn, he refused to relinquish the person of the king. Jamie was his prisoner at Edinburgh. I received from my son two missives—one, at the command of Angus, I knew without doubt, that stated he was happy in the care of his beloved stepfather.

The other was a simple, short plea. Jamie needed my help. He wanted to be free of Angus, as free as I longed to be.

It did not take me long to decide what to do. I rode from Stirling at the head of an army with Arran, Argyll, the Earl of Moray, and even old Archbishop Beaton, who now saw it prudent to ally himself to me, reminiscent of old Lord Home’s defection to my cause years ago.

To my horror, Angus met us with an army of his own, Jamie riding at his side. It was a brilliant ploy, one he had also adopted years ago when he urged me to place Jamie dressed in his robes of state and crown on the wall of the castle to dissuade attack against his person. My army could not bear to attack if Jamie’s life could be threatened.

My eyes met those of my son, those tortured brown orbs, and I prayed to convey my love to him, my desire to protect him against the monster I had been fool enough to ever take up with, and my regret at ever submitting to the council’s decision that his custody should be shared with anyone but me, his mother.

Jamie shook his head, the side of his mouth lifting in the most subtle of smiles, as if he hoped to reassure me. I pressed my hand to my breast, squeezing my eyes shut.
Oh, Jamie, Jamie, I am so sorry!

We were forced to retreat.

 

Angus deprived Jamie of everyone he had known and loved. He dismissed David Lindsay, Jamie’s beloved tutor and one of the few constant fixtures in his life since he was a bairn, replacing him with his own brother George. Angus made his uncle, another Archibald Douglas, his treasurer, and he created himself Chancellor, taking the Great Seal from Lord Beaton. It was Angus’s Scotland now and I cursed my brother as I never had before, that he should have ever allowed him to cross the Border again.

Yet I did not lose hope. More attempts were made to save Jamie from Angus. The Earl of Lennox, a man much loved by my son and prized for his loyal friendship, went to battle in my son’s name at Linlithgow. The dear man was slain on the field. I could only imagine my son’s distress; a man he had known and loved well had lost his life for his cause. It seemed after the death of Lennox the Earl of Arran gave up altogether and retreated from public life along with old Beaton.

Oh, how weighty was the crown on young kings!

Meantime Angus made a show of educating Jamie in the manner he saw fit, taking him to preside over cases at the Justice Ayres.
May Jamie learn enough about law to best his keeper,
I prayed when I heard.

This was one of the best lessons he could have taught in comparison to what else Jamie was learning from him.

“He makes sure the king is able to hunt and hawk,” David Lindsay reported to me, his eyes wide with sadness. “But he also encourages him to gamble and seek the company of . . .”

“Of whom?” I asked, horrified that my son should take to such reckless pursuits at such a young age. Though he had been declared of age at fourteen years old, he had not been released from Angus’s clutches any more than before and was as captive to him as ever. As time was passing, months into one year, and then another, I feared for what his influence wrought upon my studious, gentle son. He was just sixteen years old, still young, still malleable to the ambitions of evil men.

“Of lowborn women,” David informed me delicately.

Whores. Just like his father. Ah, how clever Angus was, that he should steer my son so, exploiting the weakness in both the Tudor and Stewart bloodlines that ran deeper than the Tweed.

“Something must be done,” I pleaded as I paced my apartments at Stirling. “He canna be brought down to a debauching degenerate, steered from his duties by pleasure so Angus can rule in his stead. God rot that man’s wicked soul for leading my son’s into such peril!”

Though it could be argued living with a man who was not my husband put my own soul in equal jeopardy, I was not about to indulge that thought. I was not encouraging every woman who came my way to do the same; it was by necessity that I lived, eking out what little happiness I could. As soon as I was granted my divorce by Rome, all would be remedied as it were. There was no comparison to Angus, I reassured myself. I was still a good woman, a good mother, a good queen.

Harry was sitting before the fire, his long legs stretched out, his arms folded across his chest. “Sit and be calm, Margaret,” he urged. “Nothing will be solved if you make yourself ill.”

I did as I was bid, sitting across from him, but wringing my gown in my hands, twisting the material and pinching it in my fidgety state of nerves. As I attempted to collect myself and rid images of lewd women guiding my son into the depths of sin, a messenger was announced.

The man appeared exhausted as he made his way into my presence, offering a deep bow. “News from the Vatican, Your Grace,” he said in a thick Italian accent.

My heart thudded. News from Rome, from the Pope. I closed my eyes, readying myself for the worst.

“His Holiness, Pope Clement, has granted your divorce,” he began. I had to restrain myself from whooping out loud, bidding him to continue. “It is on the grounds that Lord Angus was pre-contracted in marriage to the lady of Traquair. Because you did not know of this at the time, Lady Margaret Douglas is still considered legitimate.”

“God bless him!” I cried, rising, previous anxieties held at bay for a time. “Clement, he couldna chosen a more suitable name!” I praised. “Good sir, your journey has been long and arduous, We are sure. You are Our esteemed guest and shall be treated to the finest meals and most comfortable apartments. Bless you, sir!”

The man bowed again and was dismissed while servants were ordered to carry out my good wishes for him.

I turned to Harry, clasping my hands to my breast in delight. “The sun can still shine in the darkest of hours, Harry!” I cried. “I am free!”

Harry rose, gathering me in his arms and holding me close. “Not for long!” He laughed as he picked me up off my feet and whirled me about. When he set me down again, he leaned in, kissing the tip of my nose. “Not for long,” he whispered again.

I leaned up, looking into his handsome face, bright and hopeful as the sun, and counted my blessings. Soon I would be his wife, I would belong to someone once again in the eyes of God and the realm and no longer be looked down upon for living with him in sin. I would provide a stable home and good, loving stepfather for Jamie and even little Margaret. We would be together soon, a real family in a real home. We would be happy soon.

Soon...

I set the wedding for March. It would do my heart good to have a happy occasion in the bleakness of winter. I cared not if it were during Lent. Lent never cared much for me anyway and I could see little use in all the deprivations; if such exemplified Catholic values, Jamie and I should have been canonized long ago.

As I planned my wedding, I kept Henry in England abreast of the atrocities done to my son—his deprivations, his restrictions, and Angus’s tyrannical hold on him and the realm. My brother loathed upstarts; I could not imagine him sanctioning these antics. But, I had learned, Henry had troubles of his own.

“Can you believe it, Ellen?” I asked as Ellen and I were shown swatches of fabrics for my wedding gown. Ellen was lying on one of my chaises. She had been ill of late, and I did not want her to stand on ceremony for my account and made her comfortable in my rooms so I could still enjoy my favorite’s company.

“Henry wants to appeal to Rome for a divorce from Queen Catherine,” I said, barely able to refrain from giggling. “He says that their marriage is invalid, on the grounds that she was married previously to our brother Arthur. He cannot bear living sons with Catherine because God is cursing him for living with his brother’s widow, he says.”

Ellen smiled. “Irony is quite the jester,” she quipped. “Considering all you told me he said about your marriage to Angus and you living with Harry.”

“Well, Henry has a code of conduct for the rest of the world to follow, then a separate code for himself,” I returned, my cheeks hurting from smiling. “I want to be sympathetic to my dear brother, truly I do—” At once titters of laughter escaped my lips. “But I just canna!” I blurted with a burst of laughter.

“So whom is His Majesty putting the queen aside for then?” Ellen inquired.

“A lady called Anne Boleyn,” I answered. “She is in some way related to the Howards.” I laughed again. “And knowing the ambitious and hardheaded Duke of Norfolk as I do, I can only imagine he is thrilled to promote their match. Ah, well.” I dismissed the subject with a wave of my hand. “If anything, I feel a bit vindicated. Henry is as much a slave to the passions of his heart as I am. I canna really condemn him. I know I will never get an apology from him as to my own choices. But”—I shrugged—“I suppose being the Christian sister that I am, I can forgive him a mite easier. I only hope he will remember me for that.”

“What will happen to the Princess Mary if they are granted a divorce, and the marriage plans?” Ellen asked then.

“I had not really thought on it,” I replied as I fingered some cloth of gold, deciding then I should have it made into the kirtle for my gown. “The bastards of my husband James IV all did quite well; a child of a king is always the child of a king,” I remarked, finding technicalities tedious when they did not serve my purposes. “To have a solid peace between England and Scotland is my greatest desire and I will espouse whatever agreement to further that end. Och!” I held my hands to my temples in mock pain. “But I am not to think of Jamie’s wedding today! Today is about my own!”

Ellen laughed at this and we dissolved into the chatter of two friends planning a happy occasion. I settled on deep crimson velvet for my gown, with cloth of gold accents and rubies sewn into the stomacher, with pearls, my tribute to my late husband Jamie, embroidered on the neckline. For Ellen, who would attend me, we decided upon beautiful yellow velvet, with red satin accents and amber sewn into her stomacher. Her gown would be cut much the same way as mine, so we would complement each other. “If we were a painting, I would title us ‘Mirrored Opposites,’ ” I told her with a laugh. It was as if we were in the days of old again and I savored the moment.