The Forgotten Queen (6 page)

Easier for whom?
I wanted to ask. Was it that he could not bear to look upon my underdeveloped form, my nonexistent breasts and narrow hips? Was I so repulsive then? I kept those disturbing thoughts to myself as the king covered my face with gentle kisses but avoided my mouth, even as I sought his. At last I ceased doing so and lay back, praying I had the strength to endure this act that would cement the alliance between England and Scotland.

As promised he did not attempt to remove either of our shifts; he was as gentle as possible. He did not caress any part of my body save for my hips, which he cradled in his strong hands as he commenced, entering quickly. Tears heated my eyes and I cried out—I told myself I would not, but it was terrifying. This thing inside of me was agonizing—a sword bent on ripping me in two. If I could not abide its presence how would I bear a child? Oh, what a disappointment! The king withdrew at once. He was trembling.

“I have hurt you,” he whispered. “Oh, my lady, my dear little . . . little . . .” He could not say it.

My legs quaked. I drew the covers over myself and averted my head from his moonlit silhouette.

“Will it always be like this?” I asked, my tone tremulous.

“No,” he told me. “As you grow . . .” His voice wavered. “As you grow . . .” He rose and commenced to pour two goblets of wine. “I trust you are ready for some wine now.”

I sat up, nodding.

He handed me the goblet and I downed it like a sailor. It was soothing, warming my quivering limbs.

“Do you think you got a child on me?” I asked then.

“Oh, little Maggie . . .” There was no mistaking the pity in his tone. It shamed me and I held out my goblet for more wine, hoping to drink my disgrace away. “There are other things that have to happen to get a child.”

“Does that hurt, too?” I asked, my gut lurching in terror.

He gazed into his goblet. “No, it is very pleasurable,” he said.

“For the man, you mean,” I remarked, unable to keep the pout from my tone.

He laughed. “Aye. But there is much pleasure to be had for the woman as well. You will see.”

“Have you loved many women?” I asked him.

He hesitated. His face clouded over. Moonlight reflected glistening tears standing bright in his eyes. “Yes, Maggie. I have loved many women.”

I scowled, unable to contain my instant jealousy. It surged through me hotter than any wine. “I suppose they were buxom and wildly curvaceous and knew just what to do.”

His lips twitched. “Maggie, we must not speak of such things on our wedding night,” he told me, setting his goblet down once more and climbing into bed beside me. “Come lay your head on my chest,” he invited as he enfolded me against him. He sighed. “I do not come to our marriage bed an innocent. I wish that I had. Can you forgive me?”

I wiped my tears away, frustrated to have betrayed my jealousy. “I can forgive you anything,” I assured him. “So long as you remember who is the true Mistress. Stewart.”

He laughed. “Mistress. Stewart?”

I nodded. “Mistress. Stewart—it is a title I relish even more than ‘Your Grace.’ ”

“Ah.” He kissed my nose. “Then, may I bid my forever Mistress. Stewart good night?”

Forever
. It was a word that rolled nicely off the tongue. I giggled. “Indeed. Good night . . . Master Stewart.”

But as we lay there lost in our own respective thoughts I wondered what else my husband had experienced while my childhood was spent preparing to be his bride.

I wondered at my capacity for forgiveness.

As the night waxed into dawn I lay awake listening to my king cry and twitch in his sleep.

“Margaret,” he moaned. “Oh, sweet Margaret . . .”

I was reassured. He must have been greatly bothered by our conversation to let it haunt his dreams so.

“I’m here, my love,” I assured, reaching out to stroke his bearded cheek. “I’ll always be here.”

And I wrapped my arm about his broad chest, curling up against him, this man who was to be my world.

 

The king did not try to repeat our wedding night’s unpleasantness and I was just as glad. The longer I could put off that invasion the better. Meantime he was ever solicitous and attentive. Every day I was treated to glittering entertainments. Jamie’s Fool, English John, had such a raunchy sense of humor that I was sent into fits of delight, but the poor fellow was scolded for his bawdy witticisms. I was disappointed in the stricture placed upon him.

Every day hoped to outdo the one before in gaiety. There was naught to do but play and be merry and I relished every opportunity to sun myself in the gardens with my ladies. We played at cards and bowls or spread our embroidery about the lawn and stitched away the hours against the music of our own gossip.

One afternoon Jamie descended upon the garden with old Lord Surrey and a group of courtiers. Surrey spent a great deal of time with Jamie and the two seemed to have developed a genuine rapport. I smiled in greeting.

Aunty Anne and Lord Thomas Howard pushed me in my favorite swing as my king approached with long, confident strides. Oh, what a handsome spectacle he was! In his arms were cradled two squat black terriers with coarse fur and long squared-off snouts.

“They’re called Skye terriers,” Jamie informed me, his voice infused with his infectious enthusiasm as he placed the wriggling creatures in my arms. “Do you know what Skye means?”

I nodded, proud of myself for remembering. “It is Scotland’s true name,” I said.

“Very good. They are a feisty breed but very affectionate and fiercely loyal.”

“Ah, then they will suit their mistress well.” I laughed, fingering one pup’s gem-studded collar.

“What will you call them?” he asked.

“I shall call the girl Skye,” I said. “And the boy will be named . . .” I put my finger to my chin in thought. “Bruce! After Robert the Bruce!”

“Ah, my little Scottish bride!” Jamie cried, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “Are you quite comfortable and taken care of then?”

“Aye, my lord,” I answered, flushing.

“Then I shall leave you to get acquainted,” he said, offering a deep bow and kissing my hand. After a series of bows and curtsies, he departed with some of his courtiers, leaving me to my pups and my play.

“I suppose we should begin overseeing the details for our return,” remarked Lord Surrey.

Startled, I raised my eyes to him. Return. Of course my English court must leave. They could not stay forever. I knew that. Why did my heart lurch in surprise? I turned toward Lady Surrey and Aunty Anne. Would I see them again? A lump swelled my throat.

“Would that you could all stay a little longer,” I lamented in soft tones.

“There will be visits,” Aunty Anne reassured me.

I bowed my head. Though I appreciated her attempt to cheer me, I knew the likelihood of visiting to be very slim. This was a long, arduous journey; few ever took it twice. I would receive English ambassadors, perhaps an occasional border lord. No friends, no family. They were leaving.

“Come, Thomas,” Surrey commanded in his gravelly tone. “Let us commence.”

Lord Thomas turned to Aunty Anne, offering a gentle smile as he leaned in to press his lips against hers. For a brief moment I was allowed a glimpse into her world; his face emanated love in its form most pure and I was swept up in it. Would Jamie ever look at me that way? He looked upon me with fondness and affection already, but not quite love. Not yet. Soon, I hoped.

Lord Thomas’s expression was fleeting, converting to the stony mask that I had come to associate with him. He offered a bow, kissing my hand as was required, then departed with Surrey.

Though they were soon out of sight, their voices carried on the wind and I heard Surrey mutter, “I’ve sent word to the king about his new son-in-law.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Lord Thomas.

“Ah, that he’s a little too hungry for a Crusade—thinks he’s a regular King Arthur. Doesn’t see things as they are—a hopeless romantic. But I think he’s trustworthy enough for a Scot.” He sighed. “Well, let’s hope he gets a babe on her soon, before one of his bastards gets any ideas.”

I rose, clutching the pups to my chest, my flat, childish chest. My face was hot, my breathing shallow. Tears burned my eyes.

“Your Grace—” Lady Surrey reached for my shoulder.

“Hush!” I commanded, straining my ears.

“At least someone had the good sense to remove the Drummond girl or Scotland very well could have had another Margaret as queen,” Surrey went on. His voice was growing softer as he grew farther out of earshot.

“A pity the sisters went down with her,” Lord Thomas said. “Three girls poisoned at breakfast.”

“What’s three girls?” Lord Surrey retorted with a brief, joyless laugh.

“Ask their father,” Lord Thomas returned, his tone bitter.

Surrey’s reply could not be heard. I whirled upon his wife. “Make me understand, for love of God!” I breathed, tears filling my eyes.

Lady Surrey’s face was wistful. “It was cruel of my husband to speak of such things when he clearly knew you would hear him.” She pursed her lips a moment. “I suppose in his own strange way he means well—in true Howard manner he is trying to prepare you for the situation before the court leaves.” She drew in a wavering breath, closing her eyes. “Lady Margaret Drummond was King James’s mistress for many years. To remove the possible threat of her usurping your rightful place as queen she was poisoned at her breakfast. Unfortunately, two of her sisters ingested the poison as well and—”

Margaret, sweet Margaret
. It was not me he cried for in his sleep but her. Was that why he called me Maggie? Because he could not bear to utter the name of his lost love? Oh, God, my handsome prince . . . Was there any hope that he would ever love me?

With effort I stilled my quivering lip. “Wh-who did it?”

Lady Surrey shook her head. “No one knows, Your Grace. Likely, those who had the interests of Scotland at heart. Someone who did not want the Douglases or the Drummonds to rise to power through the girl. Some even suspect—” She lowered her eyes, biting her lip.

“Who, Lady Surrey?” I demanded through gritted teeth.

“No one, Your Grace,” she said quickly.

“I command you to tell me!” I ordered, so angry I was unable to derive pleasure in the fact that I was commanding someone about.

She averted her head, her voice a whisper so soft it was barely audible. “Some suspect your father may have arranged it, Your Grace, to clear your path of obstacles.”

I shook my head. I refused to believe this; I could not bear to have my vision of my father, my stoic, honorable father, altered in any way. In firm tones I said, “Careful you do not speak treason against your king. He is not capable of ordering such cruelty. It was not he; do not even suggest it.”

“I was not going to until you commanded me, Your Grace,” she replied.

“You must not think of it, dearest,” Aunty Anne urged in her soft voice. “You are the queen, the only queen, and none can take your place.”

“What’s more important is I am his wife. His
wife
.” My voice was heated with fervency. “His Mistress Stewart. And I will never let him forget it.”

But my confidence was forever shaken. Three girls were poisoned, one for daring to love a king and two because they were in the wrong place at the worst of times. If three lives could be extinguished with such ease and lack of conscience then what could become of me should a party among these wild Scots decide I was less than worthy of sitting beside James IV?

I laid a hand upon my flat belly. A baby. I would have a prince and soon. My throne would be secured. Panic gripped me as another thought assaulted me.

Bastards
. Plural.

Jamie, my sweet, handsome Jamie, had children.

 

With supreme effort, I went through the motions for the rest of the day. I played with my new pups, I ate heartily at supper and laughed at the Fools, ever in competition with each other. I played my lute and led the courtiers in song. It would have been a most merry sport were my mind not viciously taunting me with the afternoon’s revelation.

When Jamie and I were alone my temper could no longer be controlled. The moment he entered our chambers I burst into tears.

“Maggie, child, what is it?” he cried, approaching me to place his hands on my shoulders. His face was stricken at my distress and I was glad of it, reminding myself that this could prove a useful technique in future encounters.

“How many, Your Grace?” I seethed, unable to discern his features through my tearful haze.

“How many . . . ?” His face was wrought with confusion. “Maggie, please, child, calm yourself. Tell me what has happened.”

“How many children have you sired?” I sniffled, wiping my cheeks with my palms.

Jamie dropped his hands from my shoulders and backed away. “Oh, Maggie . . . I had hoped to spare you of this until I deemed you more equipped to manage such news. But the court relishes their gossip. I should have known it would not take too long before rumors reached you.”

“Are they rumors or truths?” I demanded, my chest still heaving with sobs.

He cocked his head, pursing his lips, his eyes making an appeal for an understanding I could not give. After a moment’s more hesitation he said, “It is true. I have children.”

“How many?” I persisted.

“Five.”

“Five?” I cried. “
Five?
God’s blood, aren’t you the profligate!” I balled my hands into fists. “Two or three I could perhaps understand—perhaps—but five! And all by the same mother?”

He shook his head.

With wild abandon, I began removing pins from my hair and throwing them at him. They bounced off of him, useless as my tears.

“Five little threats to your throne!” I went on, my eyes gone painfully dry with rage. “Did you ever think at all before you brought them into this world of the effect they could have on your future? On Scotland’s future? And these women . . . these—these—” I searched for a word, a word nasty enough to encompass what these women were to me, a word unfit to spring forth from a queen’s lips, a word I had heard long ago. “These
whores
of yours! Surely they were happy to give you children in the hopes of raising themselves high and the children even higher!”