Tudor Princess, The (11 page)

Jamie arrived to find me and a handful of courtiers waiting. As usual he removed his cap and played the chivalrous knight, ever solicitous, ever caring. I did not offer any challenges about his previous whereabouts but celebrated his presence, reminding myself that he may love a hundred common women but only one queen.

The morning of the hunt a smiling Scotch Dog visited my apartments. Two servants followed with a chest that was set before me.

‘Your habit, Your Grace,’ he announced with a dramatic hand gesture before stooping down to open the chest. He commenced to reveal the most beautiful riding habit I had ever beheld. The low-cut velvet gown was deep claret, with an orange kirtle the colour of autumn leaves and fitted sleeves to match. Resplendent velvet oversleeves were claret to match the gown, and the boyish velvet cap with a claret ribbon sported a black feather that Scotch advised me to wear at a jaunty angle.

‘Oh, Scotch!’ I breathed, clutching the soft velvet of the over-sleeve and rubbing it against my cheek. ‘It’s perfect! Tell me it is easy to remove.’

Scotch laughed. ‘Very,’ he informed me as he showed me where it laced up.

‘Excellent work, Scotch!’ I commended.

‘Happy hunting, Your Grace,’ he retorted with a wink of his twinkling blue eye.

I giggled. ‘This is one prey I’m not letting get away from me!’

Scotch departed with another bow and I was assisted into my gown, shocking my ladies with the knowledge that I wore nothing beneath it.

‘Your Grace, it simply isn’t done!’ they cried.

‘Then I am setting a precedent,’ I replied. ‘Soon everyone will be doing it and think me quite a visionary.’

They clicked their tongues and shook their heads but obeyed and I admitted to a certain freedom as I slipped into the gown without the bother of all those petticoats.

My hair was left flowing over my shoulders, streaming to my waist in a rippling copper mane. The cap was set upon my head at an angle, the claret ribbon tied beneath my chin. I smiled at my reflection, pleased. The gown accentuated my developing curves, and even my ladies gasped in appreciation.

Satisfied with my appearance, I removed to the stables, choosing my favourite palfrey and riding her to where Jamie awaited at the edge of the forest. I rode at a deliberate speed, with purpose.

When Jamie beheld me his eyes widened, his lips parting. ‘Maggie …’ he breathed.

‘Your Grace,’ I replied, flashing him a bright smile. ‘Shall we make for the forest?’

He nodded. To my delight he was unable to remove his eyes from me. I pretended not to notice but thrilled with pleasure.

We commenced into the forest. Anticipation made me alert to every noise. It was not long before we were on the tracks of a stag, discovering him grazing in a clearing. He raised his majestic head, heavy with its crown of antlers. His brown gaze fell upon us, cautious, questioning. He was still, his muscles tense. At last he flicked his tail and leapt into the forest. The chase began in earnest and I readied my bow as I followed him, my husband in tow.

The stag turned once more and I drew back, my shoulder aching with the tension in the string. I let it snap. The arrow swished through the air, piercing through the chest of the animal. Brilliant crimson stained his fur as he dropped. A lump swelled in my throat as it did with every kill – as exhilarating as the hunt was for me, I could not help but be moved by the creature’s sacrifice.

‘Wonderful, Maggie!’ Jamie cried as he dismounted. He instructed his courtiers to remove the stag to the palace for our evening’s supper. With this executed we stood alone. Our breathing was heavy, the thrill of the kill still surging through our veins. I quivered, trembling with excitement.

Jamie approached me, taking my hands in his. They were hot, slick with sweat. He shook his head as though in disbelief. ‘My God, Maggie … You’re so beautiful.’

I smiled, drawing him nearer to me. ‘Jamie …’

He wrapped his arms about me, his lips descending upon mine in our first true kiss. His lips were hungry, inflamed with a passion I did not know he possessed as he devoured mine. I returned the kiss, matching his passion with my own. His hands roamed my body and I found myself boldly unlacing his breeches and removing his doublet. Freed of our bonds, we stood before each other as God made us, shining with sweat, our chests heaving. I took in Jamie’s body, drinking in its beauty – all angles, all muscles, taut and fine. But he was scarred. His hips were chafed from the iron belt he insisted on wearing, his back a patchwork of white and pink wounds that snaked across his flesh, jagged rivers of pain.

‘Jamie, who dared whip you?’ I asked him.

He shook his head, tears lighting his green eyes. ‘It is a burden I bear gladly – please let us not think of it or anything unpleasant at this moment. Let me look at you … oh, Maggie …’ He drew me to him and I revelled in the silkiness of his skin against mine. We pressed against each other with urgency, kissing once more. His lips travelled down my neck, to my breasts, my belly, my legs. My body was aflame with sensation; I was primal, pagan as a priestess at a Beltane fire. Infused with passion, we fell to the ground and with tender urgency claimed what was our right, writhing with love there in the middle of the forest, on a bed of thick, sweet grass surrounded by thistles and wild roses.

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 agonised 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 any more and no longer got any sleep, for that was my favourite 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 favourite 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 recognise 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 fantasised 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 antagonised 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 favourite 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.