Three Sisters, Three Queens

HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1515

Finally freed from the siege but only so that I may greet my enemies like a queen, I am dressed in robes of state, every inch a Tudor princess and Queen Regent of Scotland. Archibald, beside me, is dazzlingly handsome, tall, with red-brown hair and piercing eyes, looking, at this moment, stern and noble; even regal. We have had our official wedding before the lords, and, standing side by side, so close that our fingers brush, we draw courage from each other. We wait for the arrival of the Duke of Albany from France, who is coming to take up his place, despite my objections, as Governor of Scotland.

My brother Harry swore that he would not renew the treaty of peace with France unless the French kept Albany at home. But he signed it and Albany was allowed to go on his way. The peace that Mary’s marriage made is renewed, despite her remarriage. The peace that I made is forgotten.

It is an insult to me that Albany should be invited over my head, but this is what love has cost me. The parliament deny the brilliance of my husband, deny the greatness of his family. Archibald is at the center of a storm of jealousy; I know that they have nothing against him but envy.

Behind us are the great representatives of his family, the Douglas clan and the Drummonds. Beside my husband stands his grandfather Lord John, and his uncle the bishop Gavin Douglas, my nominee for Saint Andrews and Dunkeld. I am, as I have always longed to be, surrounded and supported by a family who love and prize me. They do not compare me with another woman; my place among them is unique. I am their kinswoman and their queen, as outstanding among them as my grandmother was to her wide family of cousins. All wealth and patronage flow from me, all the power is mine. They don’t compare me to another woman because they cannot; there is simply no one like me. I am their heart, I am their head, these are my people.

But today I am diminished. All the patronage and power was mine, but here comes the Duke of Albany to take my place at the head of the table of the lords’ council, to draw the country closer to France. He would not even be here if my brother’s fleet had been able to catch him at sea. It was Harry’s intention to capture or perhaps even sink the duke’s ship. In the great North Sea they sighted him and missed him, and now here he is, fresh from his landing at Dumbarton with a train of a thousand—a thousand men! As if he were king already.

He enters the room with a flourish, and my decision to dislike him melts away. He is dressed very beautifully in velvets and silks, but not like a king, as he wears no ermine trim. His hands sparkle with jewels and there is a great diamond in his hat, but he is not a walking jewel chest like my brother. He perfectly judges his bow to me, respectful to a queen regent and Tudor princess, but as from a kinsman—not a servant. I curtsey to him and when I rise up we kiss each other to acknowledge the family connection. He smells beautifully of orange flower water and clean linen. He is as immaculate as a princess on her wedding day, and I am seized at once with admiration and envy. This is a Frenchman of the highest breeding, a real nobleman. He makes the rest of my council look like Lowland beggars.

Behind him, bowing with a warm smile on his handsome face, is my chevalier, the Sieur de la Bastie, the white knight who jousted before me when I was a bride, and when I was a new mother. He bows very low and then he takes my hand and kisses it. It is as if I were a girl again and he promising to ride in the joust for me. If de la Bastie is with Albany, I feel I can trust both noblemen. I introduce him to Archibald and I see, with my anxious attention, Albany’s small sideways glance at me, as if to confirm that I did indeed choose this willowy youth as my second husband—I, who had been married to such a great king.

We walk aside from everyone to exchange a few words. I gesture that Archibald shall walk with us, but Albany takes my arm and walks close to me so that Ard has to tag along behind and does not hear and cannot comment. “Your Grace, your councillors advise me that matters have come to a pretty pass here,” he says, smiling. “I hope to help you set things to rights.”

“I have to protect the inheritance of my sons,” I say. “I swore to their father, your cousin, that his son would inherit his throne and continue his work of making this a wealthy and cultured country.”

“You are a scholar like your husband?” he asks me with sudden interest.

“No,” I admit. “But I have continued my husband’s work endowing schools and universities. We are the first country in Europe to provide schooling for the sons of our freeholders. We are proud of our learning in Scotland.”

“It’s a remarkable achievement,” he says. “And I am proud to help you with it. Can we agree that Scotland must continue to find its own way—we cannot bow to English influence?”

“I am an English princess but a Scots queen,” I say. “Scotland must be free.”

“Then your husband’s uncle, Gavin Douglas, must give up his claim to Saint Andrews,” he says quietly. “And also Dunkeld. We all know that he got them only because his nephew married you.”

I give a little gasp. “I don’t agree at all.”

“And your husband’s grandfather will have to answer for his assault on the Lyon Herald,” he goes on, his voice low and patient. “You cannot allow your new kinsmen any special favors—it destroys your reputation as a just queen.”

“He barely touched him!” I protest. “Perhaps his sleeve swept his face.”

He looks at me ruefully, his blue eyes smiling. His charm is completely self-aware; he is so beautifully mannered. “You had better think about this, Your Grace,” he says. “I cannot keep you in your place and restore your dower rents and get the government to pay you what they owe, and honor you as they should, if you do not make your new kinsmen behave as they should.”

“I must have my rents. I am practically penniless.”

“You shall have them. But your kinsmen must obey the law.”

“I am queen regent!” I exclaim.

He nods. I see now that he has an air of superiority, as if he had foreseen this conversation and prepared for it. “You are,” he says. “But—I am sorry to say—your young husband is neither royal nor courtly, and his family are known rogues.”

I am so furious, so insulted, and also—to tell the truth—so afraid, that I call Bishop Gavin Douglas and Lord John Drummond and Archibald into my privy chamber and send my ladies away so that we can whisper together.

“I don’t think we should have insisted that you were made bishop,” I confess to Gavin. “And we shouldn’t have bribed you into Dunkeld.”

“I was the best choice,” he says, quite unrepentant.

“You may be, but the parliament don’t like the Drummonds and Douglases getting everything.”

“It’s not unreasonable,” Lord Drummond says, his hand on my husband’s shoulder. “We are the natural rulers.”

“And we’re not getting everything,” Gavin adds, as if he hopes for more.

Archibald nods. “You are queen regent: the right to make Church appointments is in your hands. You cannot be commanded by others. And of course you favor my family. Who else should you favor? Who else has shown you any support?”

“You shouldn’t have struck the Lyon Herald.” I find the courage to confront John Drummond, though I quail beneath his sharp look. “I am sorry, my lord, but the duke says you will have to answer for it. I didn’t know what to reply.”

“You were there, you know it was nothing.”

“I know that you struck him.”

“You should have denied it,” he says simply.

“I have denied it! But clearly the herald has made a complaint and it is his word against yours.”

“His word against yours,” he emphasizes. “You will continue to deny it. Nobody can challenge the word of a queen.”

“But they do challenge it!” I wail, really afraid now. “I won’t get my dower rents if Albany does not think I am being a good queen. And he will take my boys into his keeping! He will take them away from me.” I put my hand over my belly. “You know I am with child. I dare not go into confinement and leave all this mess. Who will look after—” I break off. I nearly said, who will look after Archibald? “Who will look after my sons?” I correct myself.

“We will,” Lord Drummond says. “Their Douglas and Drummond kinsmen, their stepfather Archibald. And that fool Albany has made his first mistake. He insulted Lord Hume at the first moment of their meeting, so he has lost his greatest ally. Hume has come over to our side, and he will bring in the Bothwells. Soon, the lords on our side will outnumber those that called for Albany and we can throw him out of the country and send him back to France.”

This is good news, but the favor of the lords gives me neither money nor power until they vote for me in parliament. Until then, Albany has a thousand men in his train, ten thousand to follow them, French backing; and I have only the Douglas men but no money to pay them. I don’t even have money for the household; I cannot even feed my servants.

“Hadn’t you better go to your brother?” Archibald asks. “As Lord Dacre suggested? As your brother invites you? We have lost the first round here. Hadn’t you better go to England and get an army and money?”

I turn a burning look on him. “To England? And leave you? Do you want to be rid of me now?”

“My love! Of course not!” He catches up my hand and kisses it. “But think of your boys. Should you not take them to King Henry? He has invited you: go to him for your own safety. You could come back home when it is safe.”

“Go to my brother like a beggar? And walk behind Katherine like a pauper?”

He does not understand the importance of precedence. “It’s all going wrong here,” he says, as simple as a boy. “The country is splitting into clan against clan, as it used to be. You have not kept the lords in unity as your husband did. What can you do but go back to your brother? Even if you are nothing more than a dowager queen, a woman who once was queen? As long as you are safe. As long as the boys are safe. What does it matter if you walk behind the Queen of England, as long as you are safe?”

“I am damned if she eats humble pie!” His grandfather rounds on him, and makes my heart leap with pride. “Why should she? When she has everything to play for here? And where would you go? Are you sick of the fight? When you tell her to run away, where would you go? Back to Janet Stewart?”

I never thought I would hear her name again. I look from my angry councillor to my white-faced husband. “What? What is this? Who speaks of Janet Stewart?”

Archibald shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he says. “I was thinking only of your safety. There is no need for this.” He scowls at his grandfather. “Does this help us?” he demands quietly. “All quarreling among ourselves? Are you helping me?”

“We’ll go back to Stirling,” I say suddenly. I cannot bear this. “And you will come with me, Archibald. We’ll set the castle for a siege again. We’ll protect my sons and I’ll have my baby there.” I glare at him. “Our baby,” I remind him. “Yours and mine, our first child together. There will be no talk of going to England. There will be no thought of our parting. We are married in the sight of God, once privately and once before the congregation, and we will never be parted.”

He kneels at my feet and takes my hand and crushes it to his lips. “My queen,” he says.

I bend over his bowed head and kiss the nape of his neck. His soft curly hair is warm beneath my lips; he smells clean, like a boy. He is mine and I will never leave him. “And there will be no talk of Janet Stewart of Traquair,” I whisper. “Never another word.”

There is a thunderous knocking on the door, we start apart and all look at one another. The door is swung open by my guards, and there are Albany’s men, his captain of the guard wearing his sword in the French fashion, and in his hand he has warrants of arrest, the ribbons trailing from the seals.

“What are you doing here?” I demand. I am proud that my voice does not tremble. I sound outraged because I am outraged.

“I have a warrant of arrest for John Lord Drummond, for striking the Lyon Herald, and for Gavin Douglas, wrongly named bishop, for fraudulently taking the see of Dunkeld.”

“You can’t,” I say. “I forbid it. I, the queen, forbid it.”

“The regent commanded it,” the captain explains as the guard comes into the room and leads them away, closing the door quietly behind them, leaving Archibald and me quite alone, with no one to support us. Ard raises his hand as if to protest and the captain gives him a steady look. “This is the law,” he says. “These men have broken the law. They are to be tried and sentenced. This is by order of the duke regent.”

Next day, I demand to see the Duke of Albany in person. I call for my horse and, sitting pillion for comfort, I ride up the Via Regis from Holyroodhouse Palace to the castle at the very top of the hill. Everyone cheers me as I go by, for I am still beloved in my capital city and the people remember when I rode in, seated behind my husband the king.

I smile and I wave, and I hope that the so-called duke regent is hearing the cheers as I come to the crest of the hill and over the drawbridge and into the castle. He will learn that he cannot act against me and mine.

I am admitted at once and I go from the great chamber through into the privy chamber, and there is Albany himself, as smart and perfumed as always. He bows very low to me, as he should, and I am gracious to him and we agree that we shall both sit. They bring us chairs, and mine is a little higher, and I sit and do not sigh with exhaustion though my back aches, nor do I lean back and clasp my round belly. I sit with my hands held in my lap, as upright as Katherine of Arrogant, and I say:

“All the charges against Gavin Douglas are false and he must be released at once.”

“The charges?” Albany repeats, as if it has slipped his mind that he has arrested my husband’s uncle.

“I understand that he is charged with colluding and conspiring with England against the interests of Scotland,” I say boldly. “And I am here to tell you that he did not do so, and would not do so. You have my word.”

He flushes and I think, triumphantly, that I have out-bluffed him, and that he will have to release Gavin, and how pleased Archibald will be. Ard was in a panic after his uncle’s arrest, doubting my judgment, anxious to hurry us back to Stirling, fearful that we have made terrible mistakes, in terror for his grandfather. Now he will see that I am indeed the great queen he fell in love with, and I can still command.

But Albany’s blush is not for himself: it is embarrassment for me. He shakes his head, looking away, and then he rises to his feet and goes to a table in the corner of the room and picks up some papers. “There are letters,” he says reluctantly. “Letters from Gavin Douglas to your brother the king through Lord Dacre, who is such an enemy to our peace. They show that your husband’s uncle asked the English to support his bid for the sees of Saint Andrews and Dunkeld, and that they did so. They show that he paid for the Church appointment. He is corrupt, and your brother favored him at your request.”

“I . . .” Now I am lost for words and I can feel the rising heat in my face as he confronts me with Gavin Douglas’s crimes. “But this is not against the interests of Scotland . . .” I am floundering.

“It is plotting with a foreign power,” he says simply. “It is treason. I also have letters that passed between your brother, King of England, and you,” he continues very quietly. “You invited him to make false proposals of peace to the Scots parliament, while you secretly asked him to invade. You asked him—Scotland’s enemy—to invade your own country. You sent letters in secret, you used a code. The letters show that you are betraying your country to the English.”

I cannot meet his reproachful eyes. “I asked my own brother for help. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“You advised him how to trick your own lords.”

“My people are rebelling against me. I cannot trust the lords . . .”

“I am sorry, Your Grace, but I know that you are plotting against Scotland. I know that you plan to run away to England, that Lord Dacre is ready to take you to your brother.”

I am so mortified that I feel tears coming into my eyes and I let them rise and fall. I put my hand to my hot forehead while with the other I clasp my belly. “I am alone!” I whisper. “A royal widow! I have to protect the king’s sons, I have to have the help of my family. I have to be able to write to my brother. I have to be able to write to my sisters, my dear sisters.” I glance up from under my wet eyelashes to see if he is moved.

He goes to take my hand, but he checks himself.

“Pardon Gavin Douglas,” I beg him. “And Lord Drummond. All they have done has been in my defense. You don’t know what the lords are like! They will turn on you too.”

He is beautifully mannered: he begs me not to cry and from inside his silk jacket he produces his own handkerchief, also silk, embroidered by his wife, a French heiress, with her crest and initials. Who carries a handkerchief in Scotland? They wouldn’t even know what one was.

I hold it to my eyes. It has the lightest of perfumes. I peep at him over it. “My lord?” I ask. I think I have won him over.

He bows low but he speaks coldly: “Alas, Your Grace, I cannot oblige you in this,” and then he goes from the room.

Goes from the room! Without being dismissed! Without a word more! And I am left with tears on my cheeks, having to get up and ride back to Archibald and tell him that his grandfather and his uncle will stay imprisoned, and that Albany knows what we are plotting, and so we are lost. I cannot force this duke to do anything. He is all but incorruptible. I have nothing to show for this but the knowledge that they know our plans before we do, and a silk handkerchief.

But then—just as I knew they would—the lords turn against the Duke of Albany. Perversely, in a fit of temper at foreign manners and French etiquette, the parliament order that Lord Drummond is to be freed in the autumn. He may have been in the wrong to strike the Lyon Herald, but he is a Scots lord, and if anyone can be in the wrong in Edinburgh with everyone’s blessing, it is a Scots lord. They only obey the rules that they admire, and they are not going to be taught manners by a French-raised newcomer.

I write to my brother that now is our chance. The lords have had their moment of love for Albany, now they want to return to their true king. If Harry will help me, I can buy some of them, hire others, and persuade the rest. But he must be aware that I am surrounded by enemies. If they make me write to him against my will I will sign my letter with the signature of our grandmother, Margaret R; if I am writing my own mind I will sign Margaret. He must watch for this, he must conspire with me, he must send me soldiers at once. We have everything to play for now, we Tudors. We are about to win.