The Forgotten Queen (8 page)

At last Jamie was mine.

 

At Falkland Palace Jamie and I drank in our newfound bliss, having no need of wine or entertainments beyond what could be derived from each other. There we had found a hideaway, a respite from the world. We were not a king and a queen but a man and a maid, simple, eternal, beautiful.

But it was there at Falkland Palace that I learned the truth about Jamie at last. As he was dressing he clasped his iron belt about his fine waist and my heart constricted with pain as I watched him take on this peculiar burden.

“Jamie, why?” I asked him, leaning up on one elbow in my bed, wishing to prolong the ordeal of dressing for a few more minutes.

He arched a questioning brow.

“The belt,” I prompted. “The belt, the lashes on your back . . . the nightmares.” I cringed as I recalled the countless nights I had awakened to Jamie’s agonized cries. “Jamie. Please. I am your wife. Tell me.”

Jamie’s eyes misted over. He sat on the window seat. “It is a penance, Maggie.”

“Why?” I asked again, my breath wavering. Besides keeping mistresses, I could not imagine anything this beautiful man capable of doing that could warrant such cruel observance.

He bowed his head. “My father . . . You recall how I told you that I was used against him. As a child I was kept from him by his enemies. In the Battle of Bannockburn they—they mutilated him, Maggie. They . . . you canna even imagine, you dinna want to imagine . . .” His face was stricken with horror. “And all of it in
my name
. He was made a brutal sacrifice to his enemies’ ambitions and
I
was the figurehead to which they attached themselves, hoping that through me they could rule. They learned soon enough that I would be ruled by none but God.” His voice wavered with conviction, tears streaming down his cheeks. I crossed to the window and sat beside him, taking his hand in mine while stroking his cheek with the other. “I canna pay enough for my part, the part I played in my father’s death. This is the least I can do, for his memory and for God.”

“Jamie, surely you dinna believe you were at fault,” I cooed. “You were innocent—a child. No one was protecting you; no one had your best interests at heart.” I stroked his silky hair, then gathered him in my arms, pulling him to my breast and swaying from side to side. I recalled my father’s words, that to be a monarch is to be alone, without true friends. Those who secured Jamie’s throne for him did so out of self-interest. I trembled with fear as I wondered what forces could work against us and our future children should we displease our subjects.

“Out of respect for my father, Maggie, I must bear this burden,” he told me. “I must continually demonstrate my regret at the treachery and violence that brought the crown upon my head.”

“For whom?” I asked him. “For God? If that is so, be assured that He knows, Jamie. You dinna need to torture your poor body for this. You were a child! God knows your regret and forgives you.”

He shook his head emphatically, squeezing his eyes shut. His shoulders heaved with sobs. “No!” he gasped. “No! You dinna understand! I must! I must! No matter how many years go by, no matter how fortunate and blessed I become, I must remember what it cost!”

“Oh, Jamie!” I did not know how to comfort him. I never regretted something to such extent that I was inspired to resort to such extreme measures.

I rocked to and fro, humming in soft tones, wondering if there was any way to heal my husband’s tortured soul.

It was a way of thinking I did not understand, the need for pain. But Jamie needed it; he thrived off it.

It accompanied him wherever he went, worn like a cloak.

Or an iron belt.

 

Bitter hot bile rose in my throat, filling my mouth, and there was naught to do but spew it forth into the basin my lady held out for me as she had done every few hours. I could hold nothing down. My stomach grew taut with pain and I ingested nothing but bread and broth.

My throat was raw from retching, my temples pounding. Even my cheekbones throbbed and ached. My breasts were so tender I could not lie on my stomach anymore and no longer got any sleep, for that was my favorite position. I curled up in bed useless, burying my head in the pillows as the physician examined me.

“I’m dying,” I told him. “Tell His Grace to find a new queen and she best be fat and hideous. If he chooses Janet Kennedy I’ll haunt him for the rest of his life,” I said in reference to his favorite mistress and mother of his son James.

The physician laughed. “You are not dying, Your Grace. You are with child.”

I sat up, raising my head. My eyes grew wide. “With child?” I breathed in awe.

“You did not recognize the signs?” he asked.

I had never seen the signs before. Besides taking to her bed with exhaustion, my mother was always composed during her pregnancies. If she was ever in such wretched estate she never let on.

“No one told me,” I admitted in small tones, flushing in my ignorance. “I have been kept uninformed on a variety of subjects, it seems,” I added, thinking of Jamie’s children and mistresses.

My lamentation was replaced with a smile as the implication of the physician’s news settled upon me. I was with child. I was carrying a prince for Scotland!

“When will he come?” I asked the physician.

“In the winter, perhaps the early spring,” he informed me.

I reached down, cupping my flat belly, willing it to curve. How I longed to feel the life stir within me!

A prince! At last I was carrying our prince!

I commanded those who knew of my condition to hold their peace. I would choose the proper time and place to inform the king.

The moment came in August, when I was three months gone with child. I lay in Jamie’s arms in our barge, looking up at the night sky, where a peculiar light was seen streaming against its cobalt backdrop, a cloth of gold thread throbbing and pulsating in a heavenly tapestry.

“It is a comet,” Jamie explained. “They are very rare. To see them once in two lifetimes is a miracle. Surely it is a sign from God that something wonderful is about to happen.”

The court, floating among us in their barges, pointed and commented on the beautiful long-tailed star.

I nuzzled against his shoulder. “Perhaps it is foretelling the birth of your prince,” I said.

I heard his heart quicken beneath his doublet. He looked down at me. “Maggie?”

I nodded. “Late winter, early spring.” My lips hurt from smiling.

Jamie proceeded to cover my face in kisses, drawing me across his lap and holding me tight. “Oh, my precious girl, my precious, precious girl . . .”

For ten days the comet lit the sky, convincing us that the baby growing within me would be a prince to rival all others.

 

The prince sapped me of all of my strength, and though I relished the feeling of him swimming and stretching in my womb, I grew too tired to attend court functions. I lay in my apartments, one hand over my rounded belly, taking in with delight every kick as the entertainment was brought to me. I was surrounded by amusement. English John kept me laughing with his bawdy jokes that he daren’t utter before the king, and William Dunbar recited verse. He was as artful as English John. His words settled upon my ears, threaded together with the lyricism of a song and the poignancy of a lover’s kiss.

Scotch Dog was there, too, ever solicitous. With his encouragement, I planned the baby’s wardrobe and sewed garments with my ladies day and night. They praised my stitches and we fantasized about all the lovely gowns I would have after the baby was born and I reclaimed my figure once more.

Jamie had become caught up in plans as well. He ordered that every man in Edinburgh have a new suit of clothes for the birth of the prince and commanded them to come to the abbey upon the announcement of his birth.

Devout as ever, Jamie threw himself into his prayers, counting his rosary beads even in his sleep. He remained as hopeful as he was antagonized and I could not understand it. He paced the floor late into the night. I begged him to join me in bed, but he refused with a disarming smile. I watched his silhouette in the silvery moonlight filtering through the window and recalled a lion in my father’s menagerie, its restless pacing, its wild, frightened eyes. I tried not to compare it to Jamie.

In January I entered confinement, observing the laws set down by my grandmother for ladies of royalty in my condition. I took to my bed. My chambers were darkened and closed off from receiving any outside air, lest it carry harmful contagion, and for the next month no men are allowed within this sacred
gynaeceum.
I was surrounded by women, never my favorite estate, and longed for Scotch Dog and Robert Barton, whom I had fondly come to know as Robin. I missed Jamie and fretted over his whereabouts, allowing tears to slide icy trails down my cheeks as I imagined him passing the month in the arms of Janet Kennedy or romping with his children.

I cradled my belly. The prince was lively, his favorite time to kick being at night, and since night and day had all run together in this strange world of isolation I did not mind. His activity reminded me of life, life beyond the chambers and the life I would soon hold in my arms.

At last in February my waters broke. It was a queer sensation, the warm liquid that poured down my legs followed by the tight, searing pains that seized my belly and caused me to cry out with surprise. The room was filled with at least a hundred people to witness the occasion. There must be no mistakes in birthing a prince; no imposters, no monsters that are switched with a healthy country babe. The onlookers would crowd and cram about my bed and watch me, legs spread and coated in blood, hair matted to my forehead with sweat, as I delivered them a prince. They took my air away; I could not breathe. There were so many of them! I could not stand it. I choked on my screams, trying to retain some kind of dignity during this ordeal. My breath came in spurts, faster and faster till my head began to tingle and hum. Dots of light danced before my eyes till I saw nothing but light, white, carrying me away to a world of colors—blue for the waters carrying my son into this world, red for the blood pounding in my ears and running down my legs, purple for the pain, the pain of royal expectations, the pain gripping my womb. Colors, they swirled and spun around me, faster, faster. I merged with them, floating in and out of their world, reaching, grasping. Peace. What was the color of peace?

And then I was plunged into blackness.

 

Voices permeated eternal night. My eyes would not open; they were laden down. Had they put the coins on my eyes already, lest they fly open and frighten the mourners?

“A bonny prince!” a male voice cried, but it was a strange cry; slow, drawn out. He was far away, in another realm. I could not get to him. My body would not move.

“The queen . . . near death . . . blood loss,” a woman was saying.

I wanted to hold out my arms for the child. They said I had a prince; I knew I would have a prince . . . I could not move. There was no strength. The blackness claimed me. I ran but stumbled, rendered blind. My soul was permitted this exercise, but my body remained still, chained into submission by my hemorrhage.

“Pilgrimage . . .” I heard the familiar low strain of Jamie’s voice resonate through my darkness. I wanted to speak, to beg him,
No, do not go.
Not another pilgrimage . . . Must reach him.

I could not.

He left.

They all left.

Blackness . . . blackness . . .

The celebrations ushering in Prince James’s entrance into this world were in full tilt when I at last regained consciousness. The baby was christened; the Bishop of Glasgow, Patrick Hepburn, who stood in as my proxy groom at my first wedding ceremony, and the Countess of Huntley were named godparents, and all without me.

I remained abed, weak as a kitten but at last able to hold my son. How bonny he was with his auburn hair and rosy skin! He smelled so sweet, like the milk of a country maid, calling to mind my days in the nursery at Sheen with my brothers and sister, and a knot welled at the base of my throat as I thought of my Arthur and how happy he would have been for me. How different would life have been had he lived. Would he and Princess Catherine have had a houseful of bonny princes by now?