Three Sisters, Three Queens

STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, DECEMBER 1521

My luck changes, at last, at last.

The Duke of Albany himself walks into my chamber, handsome as ever, urbane as always, and bows over my hand with a French flourish as if he has just stepped out to order his cape to be brushed, and has been no time at all.

“Your Grace, I am at your command,” he says in his Burgundian French—the very pinnacle of elegance and charm.

I jump to my feet; I can barely breathe. “Your Grace!”

“Your loyal servant,” he says.

“How ever did you get here? They’re watching the ports!”

“The English fleet was at sea looking for me but they did not find me. Their spies were watching me in France—they saw me leave court but they did not see where I went.”

“My God, I have prayed for this,” I say frankly.

He takes both my hands and holds them warmly. “I came as soon as I could get away. I have been begging King Francis to let me come to you for more than a year, as soon as I heard the terrible trouble that you were in,” he says. “The deaths of the Hamiltons! Fighting in the streets of Edinburgh! You must have thought the kingdom was being destroyed before your eyes.”

“It has been terrible. Terrible. And they forced me to leave my son!”

“They will beg your forgiveness, and your son will be restored to you.”

“I will see James again?”

“You shall be his guardian, I swear it. But what of your husband? Is he your enemy? You cannot reconcile?”

“It’s over between us, forever.” I realize that the duke and I are still holding hands. I flush and release him. “You can count on me,” I promise. “I will never return to him.”

He hesitates, before he lets me go. “And you can depend on me,” he says.