The Forgotten Queen (30 page)

Tears seized my throat. “Harry has encouraged this, has he not? He has bribed you! He made you think I was leaving him for Angus and bribed you to stop the proceedings so he could continue to use me!”

Jamie shook his head, his eyes wide and lit with something that could have been tears. I chose to ignore them and looked down at my hands, which kneaded and wrung my gown in frustration.

“Mother . . . I love you. I am worried about you,” Jamie told me then.

“I am a grown woman!” I cried, rising. “I do not need anyone worrying after me! I am so weary of everyone’s worry!”

And with a whirl of skirts, I quit my son the king’s apartments without waiting to be dismissed.

 

If Jamie would not grant my divorce, my brother would. I would go through him. I was through with Scotland, through with this “farce” of a life my son insisted I maintain. I had written my brother informing him of my plight. My only desire was to live as a princess, in the manner our father ordained, and not be made to follow my son around as some common gentlewoman, living a quiet, subtle life so as not to embarrass him. Surely my brother would understand, and I his only living sister. Surely he would want to protect me.

Letters to Henry were not enough; they often went unanswered as it were, as distracted as he was by his new bride, Jane Seymour, and his fervent desire for an heir. I would take my appeal to him in person. I was still strong; I was still robust with Tudor health. I would make for England. It was the old days again, the days of night flights to the Border. I readied myself and had my most trusted servants procure a Galloway for me, one of the sturdy border ponies. I would only need one armed man, and silenced with a few jewels, he was easy enough to come by.

So began my ride. I rode as if I were a girl again, as if not plagued by pain in my joints, migraines, and shortness of breath. It was exhilarating feeling the wind against my face again, feeling the muscles of the horse work beneath me as he brought me closer and closer toward my refuge. I was happier than I had been in a long time, on that night ride.

Without stopping we navigated the craggy trails of the Border, making it into Berwick. But when I heard the pounding of hooves behind me, I knew I had been caught, that my dream of finding refuge in England was just that, a dream, and that I had further humiliated myself before the eyes of Scotland, living up to my son’s assessment, that my life had become a farce, that I was a fool.

“Your Grace?” a strong male voice shouted. “Your Grace, Margaret, Dowager Queen of Scots, and party?”

I slowed my horse to a stop. “Yes, it is us,” I admitted in small tones.

“I fear you may be lost, Your Grace,” the man who I realized was Lord Maxwell said as he caught up to me on his own chestnut stallion with a party of guards and servants. He offered a kind smile. “Come, I will escort you back. ’Tis dangerous on the Border, you know. . . .”

“Yes . . .” I said, my tone thick with a new exhaustion not born of the ride. “Thank you, Lord Maxwell.”

Thus ended my flight. Lord Maxwell, with the utmost politeness, escorted us back to Edinburgh, graciously maintaining the façade that I had been lost.

It was to Jamie’s credit that I was not treated as a runaway queen mother gone mad.

 

The matter of my flight was never addressed and for that I was grateful. It seemed Jamie at least did not wish to see me further humiliated. There were other matters to attend to now that I knew I was reduced to living out my days in Scotland, so I put the fantasy of rescue from my brother out of my head. Jamie needed me now, as it were.

His young bride had perished from the consumption, as predicted. Jamie’s love was not enough, after all.

My heart ached for him. It was clear there had been genuine feeling between the two of them, and though I did not have the opportunity to know my short-lived daughter-in-law well, she had been a regal creature and I was certain would have made a good queen, had she been robust enough.

David Lindsay’s grand plans were all put asunder, and he wrote a beautiful lament for the queen. Scotland was plunged into mourning. Edinburgh, which was to have come alive in cloth of gold for her coronation, now held vigil over her casket in colors of darker, more somber hues.

My heart also went out to poor King Francois, who lost a daughter in our fair young queen. What a terrible plight, sending a princess away a queen, only to lose her.

Another parent and child, each destined to never lay eyes upon the other again. Such is the fate of princes.

 

Whether it was his grief that had driven him or it was his sincere resounding vengeance against the Douglases that motivated Jamie’s next move I would never know. It had been in the making before the death of Madeleine, to be sure, but came to fruition after. That was the execution of Lady Glamis, Angus’s sister Janet Douglas.

She had been charged with treason and witchcraft. Her treason was in communicating with her exiled brothers. Her witchcraft was in the supposed plan to poison Jamie, a plan with no evidence other than what my son had concocted. So like my brother, Henry, who was rumored to have done similar to his poor Anne Boleyn and Catherine . . .

“You know it is not true,” I told Jamie in his apartments the night before Lady Glamis was to die. “Whatever it is, Jamie, whatever is causing this hatred in you and this fear, if it is the death of Madeleine, I understand. If it is your resentment of Angus, I understand that, too. But it isn’t enough, my dear heart. It isn’t enough to kill a woman for. Please . . . Jamie, if you are anything like your father, you will regret this. It will haunt you. Please. Put a stop to this.”

“By God, Mother, let me do what I must do!” Jamie cried, meeting my eyes with a gaze as fiery as the stake. “The people must know who sits on the throne of Scotland—the Douglases must know most of all. My rule is absolute and above question.”

I shivered. “Jamie . . . everyone knows you are king in right. There isn’t enough evidence to carry this wicked thing through. Imprison her, exile her if you must, but please, not—not this. Lady Glamis is your sister’s aunt; she is a good woman. She has a young son of her own.”

“Who will watch,” Jamie seethed. “He will watch what becomes of those who are traitors to the king.”

I shook my head, reaching out to take his hand in mine. He withdrew it, rising.

“Jamie, we have both suffered so much,” I pleaded, tears clutching my throat. “Dinna let’s make another innocent suffer for what we have endured.”

“Once and for all, Mother, you are going to see who is king!” Jamie shouted. “Now you are dismissed!”

I dipped into a curtsy on legs wobbling with fear.

“I will pray for you all, Jamie,” I said, thinking of the poor woman I had once known as a sister-in-law and the child who would be motherless, and all for my son’s fear and anger—the two very worst enemies of mankind.

Janet Douglas, Lady Glamis, burned on the stake the very next day.

I refused to witness the execution.

All I could imagine was the fire reflected in the eyes of an innocent young boy, now motherless, and I thought of Jamie. I knew the image was forever burned in his heart. I wondered if he was satisfied, if this mere woman’s death made his reign feel more secure now.

I would never know either way. Jamie never spoke of it to me again.

J
amie waited almost a year before marrying again. In keeping with his wish to restore the Auld Alliance, a bit to my chagrin, it was to another French bride. But she came to us this time and I was grateful Jamie did not have to go fetch her, as he did with the last unfortunate. This Marie de Guise was rumored to be a strong, healthy woman and I prayed this was so. My son did not need any more heartache. Since the deaths of Madeleine and Lady Glamis, he had grown serious and brooding.

I wrote to my brother, hoping he would furnish me with money for clothes suitable to meet my new daughter-in-law, but, as had become typical, received no response.

It was Harry, of all people, who was sent to fetch me from Stirling, that we might share in the entertainments welcoming the new queen to court as if we were a united front. I was sure this was designed to spare my son any embarrassment over his mother’s exploits.

“Where is your Janet?” I asked Harry when we had settled into the coach that made for Edinburgh.

“She is behind,” Harry told me. “Margaret . . . I want you to know I am sorry.”

“I only asked one thing of you when we married, Harry,” I told him. It would be a long ride, I decided; best to say what I had to say now. “One little thing, and it was too much for you. Oh, I expected you to be unfaithful; I have not yet come across a man who was not. Do you remember what I asked of you?”

“You asked me not to humiliate you,” Harry answered in soft tones.

I said nothing.

“And I did anyway,” Harry went on. “And for that I am sorry. You were right when you said you were too much for any common man. I should not have married you. But I did and should have been honorable to you; you deserved that, at least. It is my hope I can be honorable now.”

“Jamie is behind this,” I accused in hard tones.

“His Majesty deserves to have parents that care for one another and can conduct themselves with honor,” Harry said. “And since his father is not here, I am the closest thing to a father on earth that he has. I owe it to him to respect his mother.”

“So are you leaving Janet and your little family you have with her?” I asked with a sneer.

“They will remain away from court,” Harry told me. “And I will keep company with you more. Margaret—” Did his voice break? I gazed at him, startled by the abject sincerity of his tone, wondering if it was wise to believe him, if it was wise to believe in any man. “I do care for you. I feared for you when I heard you tried to ride to England. It was beneath your dignity and could have put you in so much danger. I realized then how low I had brought you. I am sorry for it, Margaret, and I want to offer you a truce. Can we be at peace with one another? Can we be friends again?”

I pursed my lips, closing my eyes a moment, drawing in a breath that I released slowly. I reached out, taking Harry’s hand and squeezing it. “I suppose it is all a woman in my position can ask for,” I said. “A truce it is then, Harry.”

Harry squeezed my hand in turn. We said no more on it.

But our hands remained entwined the rest of the journey.

 

I was presented to Marie de Guise alone. She was an astounding beauty, a tall, graceful woman with curling dark hair and large, attentive blue eyes. She emanated strength and confidence. I had no doubt she would be a healthy and able mate for my son. Relieved at this thought, I offered a low curtsy.

“Maman,” she greeted in her thick French accent, rising from her chair to seize my hands in hers and right me. “How glad I am to meet you at last!” She kissed me on my right cheek and then my left.

“I am ashamed to meet Your Grace in this condition,” I babbled, her calming, sure presence unnerving me, making me feel big and awkward and foolish. “You see, I had written my brother for proper attire, but of course was provided with nothing, as is the usual. And your husband, I am afraid, has not done his mother justice.”

“
Mon Dieu,
but men know nothing of the expense involved in keeping their women beautiful, no?” she returned in a voice sweet as warm honey. “We will make certain to keep you here at court and I will personally see to it you are kept in attire befitting your station, Maman.”

Well,
I thought with a grateful smile,
she is off to a good start
.

“I need you here, you know?” she went on in a light tone. “You can help acclimate me to Scottish ways and make certain I do not cause offense. And you can tell me secrets about His Majesty that I can use against him in arguments!” she added with a laugh that rippled like a pebble skipping across a pond.

“I will be most happy to comply to that,” I assured her, touched to be included in a jest, as if I were an intimate. “I am happy you have come to Scotland, Marie. You will make a good wife, I am certain of it.”

“With a good
maman
as my guide!” she cried, taking me in her arms in a robust embrace. “Now, in your chambers you will find some gifts I have ordered for you. Perhaps you would like to retire there and take some rest before the entertainments begin?”

“Yes,” I agreed, suddenly extraordinarily weary. “Yes, I should like that.”

With that I was dismissed and removed to my chambers, glad that I came to Edinburgh, glad that my son chose this kind woman who would be not only his wife but also my ally.

“Are you happy, Mother?” Jamie asked me as we feasted him and the new queen at the entertainments celebrating their marriage.

I smiled, taking his hand in mine and squeezing. “Very, Jamie. She is a good woman, a strong woman. And she makes you smile again,” I added in soft tones. “You?”

“I am,” he told me, patting my hand in turn. “It is the beginning of a new era in Scotland, an era of prosperity. And an era for peace—for you and me especially, I hope.”

“Of course for us,” I assured him. “More than ever I want to be at peace with you, Jamie. And for you to know I always support you as my son and as king.”

Jamie leaned forward, pressing a kiss against my cheek. “I know,” he whispered. “I am grateful to you, Mother,” he said, his light tone bearing the softest trace of wistfulness. Before I could respond, he pulled away to join his bride and companions on the floor for a dance.

My eyes were diverted from my son and his court by Harry, who sat beside me, allowing his cup of wine to be refilled. I caught him admiring me and pretended to demur under his gaze. I was in a beautiful new gown, one of the gifts that had awaited me in my chambers from my daughter-in-law, of vibrant deep orange velvet that set off the copper still shining through the gray streaks in my hair, my head dressed with a crown befitting my station as the Dowager Queen on the insistence of Her Grace.

“Well, now what are you going to do?” Harry asked in cheerful tones.

“What do you mean, what am I going to do?” I returned, casting a fond gaze on Marie and Jamie as they alighted to the floor in the fleet dances of France with a group of young courtiers whose names I no longer knew.

“Now that you have nothing to fight against,” Harry supplied.

I seized my cup of wine and raised it to Harry. “I am going to appease all of you worriers,” I told him. “I am going to rest.”

We clanked our cups and laughed.

All at last was right. Jamie was married to a sturdy, lusty woman who would be my friend and give me legitimate grandchildren and heirs to the realm. England and Scotland were enjoying as much peace as they could. Harry and I achieved some sort of friendship, and I had, as Harry pointed out, nothing to fight against or for.

At last.

I turned my eyes to Jamie. For a moment it was not my son anymore but his father dancing in his place. The woman beside him was not Marie de Guise but I, tossing my long red locks about as I showed off before the court. I shook my head, squinting, and in our place stood the children once more. It was beginning again, another dynasty, another life of heartaches and triumphs that they would share and I would only observe. I was content to observe.

“You know, Harry, I have been thinking,” I said then, more to myself than to him. “All my life I have been searching for my place, as either Tudor or Douglas or Stewart. But I was never any of those women. This is who I am.”

“What do you mean, Margaret?” Harry asked with an indulgent smile.

I reached up, fingering the crown on my head. At once it was weighty with meaning. I thought of my father in my fevered dream where he presented me with a fiery crown stating,
This is who you are
. How then I did not want it but could never seem to escape it.

“It suits you more than any wedding ring ever could,” Harry told me, noting the gesture. “You are every inch a queen.”

How often had I been told that? How often did I not believe it? Yet it was my place. It was indeed who I was born to be, who I now accepted myself as being. A woman too much for any common man, a woman who at times was too much and not enough for a king. A woman whose search for a constant in life always led her back to herself.

“I am, Harry,” I admitted, my tone rich with contentment. “I am every inch a queen.”

I was, and ever had been, Margaret R.

And it was, for once, enough.