The Forgotten Queen (27 page)

We returned to Stirling to find Dorothea ill with fever. All thoughts of Highland seductresses were put aside as we tended our daughter.

“Why didn’t they send a messenger to us?” I demanded as I held my daughter, who was so hot her flesh was scalding to the touch.

“By the time a messenger would reach you, you would have been on your way back,” Ellen told me.

“ ’Tis a childhood fever, Margaret,” Harry assured me. “We’ve all had them. She will be fine, you’ll see.”

But I knew too well. I bathed my daughter in icy water myself, hoping to abate the fire in her humors to no avail. Her blue eyes began to roll in her head and her body jarred and jerked with fits.

Harry paced the rooms as we waited for the physician.

“She is bound to recover,” he insisted. “She is bound to!”

I knelt on the floor beside my daughter, whom I placed in the center of one of the carpets that she might move freely without harming herself. She flopped about like a fish and I covered my eyes with my hands. I did not want to see this. Oh, I did not want to see this....

At once the flopping stopped. Dorothea was still.

I met Harry’s stricken gaze as he knelt down beside her, reaching out to feel the pulse of life. He searched her neck, laying his big hand on her tiny chest. I shook my head. Harry rose, as if burned by the fever now ebbing with the life force from the little body. He looked upon me, blue eyes wide in horror.

“Oh, Harry . . .” I looked up at him, appealing with my eyes that he might take me in his arms, that we might comfort each other. “Harry, darling—”

“Sometimes,” he said, his voice low, “I do believe you are a curse.”

He turned on his heel and quit the room, leaving me to keep vigil alone over our dead child.

 

“It is because of Margaret that God took her,” I told Ellen in my apartments the night after the interment. Harry would not attend Dorothea’s burial. She was laid to rest beside her half siblings after services subtle and unfit for a Princess of Scotland. The coffin was so small....

“Why do you say that?” Ellen asked me.

“Because I failed her,” I explained. “I failed her as a mother and I failed Dorothea, too. I should never have gone to the Highlands. We never should have gone,” I added, thinking of Harry and the earl’s fair daughter.

Ellen rose from her chair and gathered me in her arms as I at last began to sob for the first time since Dorothea’s passing.

“You did not fail,” Ellen told me. “You have always done what you thought was best at the time. You have always done the best with who you are and what you had. You must hold on to that.”

I shook my head. “I wish I could believe that,” I confessed brokenly. “To Harry I am a curse. Maybe I have always been a curse.”

“No, darling, no . . .” Ellen soothed. “You have been a blessing to me,” she told me.

“Jamie,” I breathed. “I must not fail Jamie. I must do right by him at least; I must protect him. He is all that is left to me.”

“But, Your Grace, you still do have a living daughter,” Ellen told me.

“It is too late for us,” I sobbed. “It was too late the moment she crossed the Border.”

Ellen stroked my hair and back, rocking to and fro. “It is never too late,” she told me. “You have been as good a mother as possible, considering the circumstances.” How gracefully she lied! “And you have ever been a faithful and good mother to His Majesty. Now you must just take care of yourself.”

“Yes, I best,” I spat, my tone hard with bitterness. “I am all I have.”

I
did not see Harry much after Dorothea passed. He called upon me now and again out of formal obligation, but his heart was no longer there; his blue eyes were distant, longing to be elsewhere. The Highlands . . .

One evening when he came to me I presented myself in a warm brown satin gown trimmed with otter fur, making certain my hair, which still shone coppery despite my age, was worn long as he had once preferred it. I ordered a dinner of his favorite roasted fowl and greeted Harry with a smile.

“We should not carry on as we are, Harry,” I told him, reaching out to take his limp hand in mine. “We have so much to live for. Jamie is such a triumph! He’s restored my lands that Angus stole and named you governor of Newark Castle. He even had that border terror Johnny Armstrong hanged. He is putting Scotland right, Harry. We should put our marriage right as well.”

Harry bowed his head. “Of course I want peace with you, Margaret,” he said in soft tones.

“Then stay with me tonight, Harry,” I urged, hoping he would respond to my aggressive passions as he had in the past. “We lost our precious Dorothea, but we can still have more children. It is not too late. I am still lusty with health.”

Harry withdrew his hand as though I were as fevered as Dorothea had been the night we lost her and he was at risk for contracting it. He shook his head. “Margaret, no. Whatever you may think, I do worry after your health and how taxing it would be to bear another child. And perhaps it is your age that cursed Dorothea with such ill health. I do not want to risk that upon future children.”

“But that is ridiculous!” I cried, rising, balling my hands into fists. “It is just that you dinna want me anymore, do you, Harry? You’ve found another, younger maid to warm your bed and now you want to put me aside, isn’t that it? It’s Janet Stewart, isn’t it?”

Harry rose. “I do not want to hurt you, Margaret, please believe that.”

I laughed, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Of course not, they never do.” I shook my head, dismissing him with an impatient gesture. “Go to her, then. I am sure I have only been an impediment to your plans. Go!”

Harry offered a blow and I sank to my seat once again.

Somehow I had known the night would play out that way.

Perhaps in some perverse sense, I had planned it thus all along.

 

I threw myself into the reign of my son with more enthusiasm. I had nothing else. And whether he liked it or not, I would be there to advise him against the foolish impulsivity of his youth and give him the clearheaded guidance he yearned for, even if he did not know it.

One of the foremost priorities, in my mind at least, was Jamie’s impending marriage. My brother had sent Lord William Howard to court to discuss a possible alliance with the Princess Mary.

I received Lord William in my apartments at Edinburgh Castle, thrilled to discuss such a delightful enterprise.

“Lord William!” I cried to the smiling young lord, so different from his darker, more brooding older brother, the Duke of Norfolk. “How happy We are to see you! Tell Us of England and Our brother. Tell Us of his court. Is he well? What news of the divorce from Queen Catherine?”

“Still a confounding, difficult endeavor, Your Grace,” Lord William said with a grimace. “Let us hope we can make these arrangements with more ease. Is His Majesty in favor of a wedding to the Princess Mary, then?”

I offered a half smile. “Our son seems to have his own ideas. We are still working toward making the sense of that end clear to him.”

“Ah, I see,” Lord William replied with a laugh. “Well, then, I suppose it would be best to discuss the matter with him directly.”

I was reluctant to agree to this, but then Jamie was king. It would be good to allow him to think he had say in a matter as important as his marriage.

Lord William rose. As he bowed, he said in a light voice, “And the Lady Margaret Douglas, Your Grace . . . I am happy to report that she is thriving and doing well at the court of His Majesty, King Henry.”

Her name jarred me. I was ashamed I hadn’t asked of her. There was too much else on my mind, as there had always been where Margaret was concerned.

“Ah,” I answered, matching his light tone. “That is good . . . that is good.”

I did not cry till after he quit my rooms.

 

“I will go to war with Henry if I have to!” Jamie told me, his cheeks ruddy with rage as we discussed the matter of my brother’s insistent support of Angus in his apartments. Despite my trying to steer the conversation toward the lighter fare of marriage, Jamie would not be dissuaded. Talk of Angus inflamed him. “Do not think I am above going to war against my uncle if he keeps undermining the peace of Scotland!”

I shook my head with a heavy sigh. “Nothing will surprise me. Brothers war against brother, son against father . . . nephew against uncle is nothing new,” I said, my tone weary. “But please, Jamie, think of Scotland and the peace I have worked for these past thirty years. Please think of that, of how hard won it has been.”

“Of course I want to maintain the peace, Mother,” Jamie told me. “But I will not tolerate betrayal. By anyone.”

“I have offered myself as mediator,” I said. “I want to honor the treaty of Berwick; perhaps we can renew it. England is too mighty an enemy to have at one’s border, Jamie. We canna afford it.”

“I know, Mother, I know, by God,” Jamie answered, his voice thin with impatience. “Meantime, what of the English court? You know more than I, I am sure.” This was not true; Jamie was indulging me, but for the sake of indulging his need for distraction I told him. Anything to be relieved of the topic of Angus.

“Henry wrested his wish for a divorce at least from the English people,” I informed him. “Though His Holiness was none too eager to grant him a thing, and excommunicated him.”

“His soul is in peril, then,” Jamie observed, wide-eyed. For as much of a profligate my son was proving to be, it amused me how prudish he could be when the occasion called for it. He was not as different from his uncle Henry as he thought.

I laughed. “Well, he separated from Rome and made himself head of the new Church of England, with one of his own as Archbishop of Canterbury. So I imagine he sees his soul as quite reconciled with the Lord, Jamie.” I could not help but admire my brother’s tenacity and great strength of will. He managed to carve out a way where no way seemed possible and was ruled by no one but himself. Had I only been as strong . . .

“So he married his Anne, then,” Jamie said.

“Yes,” I said. “And she is even expecting a prince already,” I noted.

“Well, I suppose all is as he wants it now and he can address English matters of policy with more focus.”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Perhaps one of those matters should be your own marriage, Jamie. To the Princess Mary?” I could not keep the hopefulness from my voice.

“Mother, you canna be serious,” Jamie said with a laugh. “With the king remarried, the princess is now illegitimate. I have advised the Duke of Albany and Lord William Howard of the same. The marriage is not to be considered.”

“How can that be? My daughter Margaret is recognized even though Angus and I are divorced,” I pointed out.

“King Henry wants no one standing in the way of future male heirs, Mother,” Jamie told me. “You must know that.”

I suppose I did. “Well, then,” I said, not without a bit of sadness in seeing my long-held dream of the cousins wed dying. “What did Albany say?” I asked then, my heart still thrilling after all these years at the thought of him.

“He has proposed his niece by marriage, Catherine de’ Medici,” Jamie informed me.

“Oh, an Italian,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand.

“A very wealthy Italian,” Jamie told me.

“She’d never survive Scotland,” I told him.

“Albany was told the same thing,” Jamie returned with a laugh. “But what think you, Mother, of Margaret Erskine?”

“What, a Scotswoman?” I was scandalized at the thought. “What on earth could she offer you?”

“She is a noblewoman, Mother, and the mother of my son,” Jamie told me. “I think she could offer me a great deal. I am very fond of her.”

“Perish the thought,” I said. “What has love ever gotten us? You are better off with a foreign princess who can give you an alliance and a good dowry.”

Jamie sighed at this. “Sometimes I think you have been through too much, Mother,” he observed, his tone thick with sadness. “It is making you cold.”

I pursed my lips at this, too afraid to speak past the painful lump growing in my throat. “Well. Be that as it may. If you won’t take my good advice about marriage, then perhaps we can at least set to organizing a personal meeting between you and Henry.” I blinked away the onset of tears, allowing myself to be captivated by the new dream. “Oh, but I would love that! It would be a great spectacle, like Henry’s Field of Cloth and Gold with King Francois long ago. Wouldn’t it be wonderful? An historic meeting between two great monarchs.”

“Now, now, Mother, dinna get ahead of yourself,” Jamie cautioned, but he was smiling. “It would be a great thing, were we able to achieve it. But first, we must achieve some sort of lasting peace, else a personal meeting could go drastically awry.”

I would not lose hope for it, though. Ah, but wouldn’t Father be proud! If I could achieve such a meeting between the two men I loved most in the world, it would be my greatest glory. . . . Peace, lasting peace, between our realms, orchestrated by me. My dreams would have all come true, marriage or no marriage between Jamie and my brother’s daughter. My purpose would still have been fulfilled.

I could die happy then.

 

As I prayed for peace between my son and my brother, a messenger delivered more heartbreak from England. My sister, Mary, was dead. I prayed for her soul when I learned of it, saddened as I recalled her wistful beauty, wondering if she had found happiness with her Brandon after all, wondering many things. I recalled the years when I was jealous of her beauty and her fortune; she had gone after the man she loved and won him, with little consequence from my brother. Had it been worth it then? I knew little of Brandon. I knew little of her.

Now I was Henry’s only sister left; for a Tudor nursery once so full, it was now down to the two of us. It made the necessity of peace between our realms all the more urgent for me. I could not bear the thought of being at odds with my only sibling.

Anne was delivered of a baby girl in September of that year, and though my heart ached for my brother’s disappointment, I rejoiced just the same. They called her Elizabeth after our mother and I was told she had the Tudor red hair, perhaps a Heavenly tribute to her aunt Mary in Heaven. Elizabeth was said to be a lusty bairn and I was assured her birth meant more babes would soon fill England’s nursery again.

I wondered if my Margaret saw the baby and what she thought of her.

I did not hear from my daughter enough to know one way or another.

 

In 1534 the treaty of Berwick was renewed between Jamie and my brother. It would not be long before, I hoped, a meeting could be arranged between uncle and nephew. As the treaty stood, both Henry and Jamie swore to peace as long as they lived. May their reigns be long!

“I canna help but feel complete,” I told Ellen. We had just arrived at Stirling from Edinburgh and I was glad as always to be at my favorite residence. “Everything I have worked for has come to fruition; I have at last realized my purpose.”

“Well, good,” Ellen said, her voice laden with weariness as she sat, a bit heavily, in her plush velvet chair, pulled before the merry fire I insisted remained stoked in my rooms regardless of the season. It reminded me of the many days I spent before fires, with Albany, with Jamie, with my brother Arthur . . . fire cheered me; it restored me. As I was born under the sign of fire, this did not surprise me. I was one with it.

“Now perhaps this means Your Grace can take a bit of much-needed, well-deserved rest,” she said.

“Rest?” I waved a hand. “Really, Ellen, you speak to me as if I am an old woman! Rest!” I mocked with a laugh. “Not while Jamie is unmarried and has that ridiculous notion of wedding Lady Erskine. No, I must find him a proper bride. And I still must arrange the meeting between him and my brother.”

Ellen regarded me a long moment, then shook her head. Or perhaps I imagined she did. Her smile was as indulgent as always.

She offered a long sigh. “Perhaps you will allow me, then, to take some rest, Your Grace.”

“But of course!” I told her. “Do you need to nap? You may go to your apartments and rest as long as you like, only come back later so we might sew together and take in a bit of music.”

“No,” Ellen said, her voice unusually firm. I started at the sound. “Your Grace, I mean, I would like to retire from court life. I would like to go home.”

“Home?” I screwed up my face in confusion. “What do you mean, home? Your home is with me.”

Ellen bowed her head. “I would like to go to the Lindsays. It was Marjorie Lindsay who took me in as a child, and I have . . . family there. I would like to retire with them.”

“But, Ellen, that is just foolish,” I said, incredulous that she should suggest such a preposterous thing when we had so much to do. “Whom will I consult on gowns? You know I hate my other ladies; I have no use for any of them, they are all flighty, false-hearted fools. I need you. And the Lindsays, you dinna really know them, not like you know me. You wouldn’t be happy there.”

“Perhaps Your Grace would allow me to be the judge of that,” Ellen told me. “Your Grace, you dinna really need me. What am I? Your Moorish lass. I am nothing to the great minds who advise you. And wouldn’t you like to repair things with your lord husband?”

“Ellen!” I snapped. “Dinna throw Harry at me at a time like this, just to distract me from you weaseling your way out of my service, and after all I have done for you! Really!” I huffed, folding my arms across my chest. “I’ll hear no more talk of it; it is sheer foolishness. I will permit you to take rest whenever you like, though,” I added in softer tones. “I know we are none of us as young as we once were, though I’m hard pressed to let it stop me,” I said with an air of superiority. “You can go rest now, if you like, and we shall go on as if this unpleasant topic has never been discussed.”