Tudor Princess, The (20 page)

It was not for the sake of keeping with the theme of our secret marriage that we made love in the dark.

He did not want to see me. Perhaps he was pretending, too …

We had no honeymoon, no entertainments, nothing to commemorate our union other than our frantic, awkward couplings in the dark. Then again, perhaps it was just as well. It would not have been a good thing to hide from reality any longer, for reality was a ruthless hunter, ferreting me out at every turn. The sooner I faced it, the sooner would I know what I was up against.

Our marriage was no longer secret. My husband saw to that. With his own men, he stormed upon Lord Chancellor Beaton at Perth and seized the Great Seal. Angus thought it a great show of strength.

‘It is the only way to deal with them,’ Angus assured me in our rooms at Edinburgh when I chastised him for his rash behaviour. ‘We must be decisive. Strong. Determined, and seen never to falter!’

‘
We
are not seen as any such thing!’ I cried, infuriated with his impetuosity. ‘
You
are only seen as a fool!’

‘This “fool” is your husband, my dear.’ Angus’s voice contained a hint of warning. ‘Best that you remember it.’

I waved my hand in dismissal. ‘You have incited the lairds against you! Your “strength” inspired the Earl of Arran to come to Edinburgh armed with all his men and appeal to the council that
he
might have power over the government. He is a kinsman of Jam—of the late king!’

‘Not a close enough kinsman,’ Angus reminded me. ‘They’ll never give him any power beyond what he has now.’ He shrugged, shaking his head. ‘Fine, so we stirred them up, and good that we did! We shall rile them up and take them in hand, showing who should indeed have control of the government!’

‘Who should have control then, Angus? You?’ I was scandalized. At once I realised it was not Angus who was the fool, but me. Shame heated my cheeks. I began to shake my head. All along this was what he wanted; it was man’s oldest ambition: power … No! Surely there was more. His tenderness toward the boys was not feigned, and his sensual nature … surely I was being too cautious.

‘Us, my dear, us!’ Angus cried. ‘I am the stepfather of the king and you his beloved mother,’ he went on. ‘There is no other choice more fitting than us.’

I drew in a shaky breath. It had not gone at all like I thought. Of course I did not think of how it would come about. I did not think at all …

‘In favour of us they want the Duke of Albany, my husband’s cousin, from France,’ I told Angus. At once I was exhausted. There was to be a battle ahead, the battle of my life, and I was far from ready to fight.

‘He is more Frenchman than Scot, raised there all his life in exile,’ Angus observed. ‘What could the fate of Scotland really mean for him?’

‘He stands to inherit the throne after Little Jamie and Alexander,’ I reminded Angus. ‘So it could interest him a great deal,’ I added with a shudder.

Angus shook his head. ‘He will not come. Your brother – Henry – he will see to that. Henry will side with us, you will see. He is a powerful ally.’

To refer to the King of England as merely Henry, as if they were old mates, incensed me. ‘Such allegiances are hard won, and harder to maintain,’ I said in even tones.

‘You will of course write and appeal to him while I sort these things out,’ Angus said.
Sorting things out
referred, no doubt, to warfare. Visions of Flodden and all it cost swirled in my mind; could we go through it all again so soon? ‘You are his dear sister after all,’ Angus was reasoning. ‘You have the commonality of your childhood to warm him and it is in his interests to keep his closest enemy a friend.’

‘I always write to my brother,’ I told Angus, irritated that he believed he had to urge me into such action.

‘That’s my girl,’ Angus said, his tone affectionate as he stooped to brush his lips against my cheek. ‘That’s my brave, strong queen.’ With this he made for the door and to the battles ahead. But before leaving, he turned. ‘And Albany is not your husband’s cousin,’ he told me in firm tones. ‘
I
am your husband. And I have no cousin called Albany.’

Then he was gone.

The council was infuriated by my ‘betrayal’ of daring to marry again; I had, to them, forfeited my rights as queen regent, only valid as long as I remained the widow of James IV as per his will. It was natural now that they should choose another. If I relinquished my regency willingly, they assured me, I could retain custody of my children. As if they had the right to consider taking my children from me, regent or not!

They were determined to oust me from my regency in favour of the Duke of Albany, despite my protests and fears that bringing the duke in too strongly resembled a story that had haunted me in my childhood, that of Richard III. Were they willing for my sons, and one of them their own king, to suffer that same cruel fate as my uncles in the tower should Albany decide to usurp power for himself? Such fears were considered the hysterics of a woman, and mentioning Richard III likely reminded them that the fears belonged to an
English
woman besides. All of my concerns were dismissed.

The Lyon King of Arms William Comyn was sent to tell me the outcome of the council’s vote in my presence chamber, which was to end my regency. The man even had the audacity to honour the council’s newly appointed title for me – ‘my lady the king’s mother,’ rather than ‘Your Grace’ – for which my new grandfather-in-law, Lord Drummond, boxed his ears. And rightly; it was a great, unfair offence: I was still the queen and I had care of my children’s persons. I would not give up my rightful title or regency so quickly; even my husband, as my appointed co-regent, should have been respected, bold as he was. Why should my personal happiness interfere with affairs of state? What did it matter who I married, so long as he was good to my son? And for all Angus had to learn, he was good to my son. It wasn’t Angus’s fault that he belonged to the Red Douglases. No one chooses who they are born to, otherwise would I not have chosen a noble family in England other than the royal one, in which I might have lived and loved in happiness rather than for sake of politics?

There was no use rallying against the system at hand. There was but to remain a step ahead of my council and all who opposed me. They became my Party Adversary, for that was what they were – divided, disloyal men, all out for themselves and all of them so willing to take my kingdom and children from me for the simple offence of marrying a man of my own choosing and not theirs. It was a battle of pride, nothing more, nothing less.

In that, they did not realise whom they were up against.

No one was prouder than a Tudor.

October proved an eventful month. My sister, fair little Mary, became Queen of France, a development that rather took me by surprise, as she had once been betrothed to Charles of Castile. It should not have shocked me much, in truth. Mary had everything – famed beauty, the admiration of kingdoms, the unquestioned adoration of my brother and his court, and now she had France. Did it matter if old King Louis was riddled with the pox? She no doubt would take on plenty of lusty young lovers of her own. And should the old man die, she still had the title without any of the adversity I had suffered as a widow. Henry would coddle her, no doubt, and no army would be strong enough or large enough to come to the rescue of his baby sister … Better to be happy for her, I supposed. I could not think of it much, in any event. I had enough worries of my own.

For also in October, the see of St Andrews became vacant once more, as old Elphinstone passed away; again, no surprise: he was ancient when he was elected. It was my chance to use my authority for good and show my own strength. At once I recommended Angus’s uncle Gavin Douglas to the post. It was my right, the Crown’s right, to do so. Gavin deserved it, after all, as I had thought before ever marrying Angus. He was not only a gifted poet with a quick wit but also a most learned man. He had translated the entire
Aeneid
into English – quite a feat! Despite the fact that I hadn’t read it, it was admirable nonetheless.

I believed my reasoning for my pick to be sound. Would it not be prudent for Scotland to see that not all Douglases were of the ‘Red Douglases’? That one could perform holy duties and prove himself an able man and be seen as living beyond the scandals of his family name? If so, could then my Angus be seen as more? Not least of all, it stood that whoever the Archbishop of St Andrews would be, he would be guardian of the king. It would do to have a man as close to my son’s family as could be.

My nomination, like my every move, went without support, save for the Douglases and Henry, who whispered in the Pope’s ear on my behalf. His Holiness still favoured Andrew Forman, however, and Henry could not influence the fate of the see any more than I could. The Hepburns, the Bothwells, and a force organised by Lord Fleming took the castle of St Andrews by force, placing John Hepburn, the prior of the castle, in care of the see. Though I sent my husband and his men in the hopes that they could take the castle back for Gavin Douglas, the force Lord Home sent was stronger, defeating my husband’s men.

And while I waited for news and pondered every angle of my situation, my most faithful of attendants, my rare dark jewel, Ellen, rushed into my privy chamber, stealing me from my reverie.

‘Your Grace, forgive my disturbing you!’ she cried, breathless. ‘But Lord Home has stormed Edinburgh! He has the castle surrounded.’

My heart lurched in my chest as my stomach twisted in a painful knot. I reached out, taking her hand in mine.

‘We will escape,’ I told her. ‘We will take the children and flee to Stirling. Angus will find us there.’

Ellen’s ebony eyes misted over as she offered a quick nod.

I alighted to the nursery, my forced smile bright as I clapped my hands. ‘Come, my darlings!’ I cried to my children. ‘We shall go on a ride!’

Little Jamie, the king of our land, hopped up and down, his face creasing into a smile. ‘A ride! A ride! Hurray!’

Swallowing tears, I gathered my babies in my arms, determined that they should not be prisoners in their own domain.

Nor would I.

Far too recognisable to accompany me, Ellen remained behind. I took but two servants and a guard, ordering a coach. It all seemed too easy; no one noticed our departure, and as the coach lurched along the road I held Alexander on my lap and Little Jamie to my side, exclaiming over our night ride and how they would be given sweetmeats at Stirling. Of course the baby knew nothing was amiss and Little Jamie was in favour of a treat. They did not feel my heart pounding against my ribs, or the beads of sweat gathering on my forehead, running down my face as I struggled to maintain even breathing. I must be calm. If not for myself, for the boys. They needed their mother the queen to be decisive and strong, not simpering and afraid.

The hooves pounding behind me alerted me to the fact that we were missed.

‘Faster!’ I ordered the driver, holding the children closer. ‘Please,’ I whispered. ‘Please dinna let them catch us—’

‘Halt there, in the name of His Grace, the King!’

I squeezed my eyes shut, drawing in a breath. As the curtains were drawn, I could not see what was happening, but I felt the coach roll to a stop. I bit my lip.

‘Are you or are you not transporting the queen, His Grace, and the Duke of Ross?’ a male voice thundered.

‘Aye,’ answered my driver, after the slightest of hesitations. I sighed.

At once the curtains were pulled open by armoured hands. Rough faces poked in, examining us with undisguised disgust.

‘Right then,’ the voice continued. ‘Take them back to Edinburgh Castle; they are not to leave.’

‘Is that your wish, Your Grace?’ the driver shouted. I knew it was for form’s sake, to make it seem as if I had a choice.

But I would follow form, if only to make it appear that I still had some power.

‘Yes, it is Our wish,’ I answered in husky tones.

And so we went back, as prisoners in all but name.

We were trapped, and a more sad and solitary place could not be found. I had no one to rely on and few I could trust.

I could think of nothing to do but write to my brother. Angus was right; Henry could be of great help to me. I all but begged him to detain Albany’s arrival from France any way he could and to send an army – he could by both sea and land, I suggested – along with supplies. As it were, I could not keep my forces paid and supplied with my own meagre income, especially now that the Party Adversary had voted to cease payment for my dower rents. Henry could afford to send an army that would not threaten the Scots. They must keep the peace without molesting the people and their property. I was sure Henry would understand that. He had to. I was his sister, was I not, and now the danger that faced me was very real; I could not risk losing what little respect the people retained for me as their monarch. It was advantageous to everyone if he sent an army; he could not risk his brothers to the north living in a land of lawless bandits. The violence on the Border proved unsettling enough; could he afford all of Scotland to follow suit?

There were only two men I trusted to relay my messages to Lord Dacre, through whom all correspondence with Henry was sent – Adam Williamson and my secretary, Sir James English. With spies everywhere, robbing and assaulting at will, these brave men traversed the wilds of Scotland to make certain that my brother and I could at least communicate.

Angus meantime roamed the countryside with his men, instigating their own reign of terror. Though it was right to intimidate his enemies, I feared for him. He was not loved by the people, nor was his family. Every day I waited to hear of his murder and I cursed myself that I ever allowed my heart to act before my gut. I was fond of Angus, and God knew I found him desirable. But I should not have married him and put him in this position. His life was in jeopardy now and I was to blame.

‘My brother says he will help us,’ I told Ellen as I paced before the fire in my chambers. ‘He said he would send ships. Oh, where are they?’ I wrung my hands, picking at my nails until they bled. ‘If they take the boys from me, Ellen, I do not know if I will survive.’