Dacre's War (7 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Linlithgow, 30 September 1523

A hundred miles north of Harbottle Castle, beneath a spreading elm in the garden of Linlithgow Palace, Margaret, dowager queen of Scotland, looked at the letter the courier had given her. The writing was familiar, the furious, spiky scrawl matching the impatient hand behind it. Green sunlight danced on the parchment, and the tree swayed as if craning to see what it contained. It was many months since Margaret had heard from the baron. Her spirits rose. No matter how impersonal or brisk his business, his messages were always a welcome reminder of the times they had shared.

The courier waited as she untied the ribbon and broke the baron's cockleshell seal. She scanned it fast, for bad news, then more slowly. Her eyes widened in interest.

The courier coughed. ‘Yes, boy, you will have your answer,' she said, reading as she spoke. ‘See your horse is settled, and our kitchen will feed you. You can return to Harbottle tomorrow, with my reply.'

A child in green doublet and yellow hose reached her side, tugging her arm to see what the letter contained. She sighed. James was nearly twelve, but the chances of his being able to decipher Dacre's hand were slim. The boy hated his books. He could barely read Scots, let alone Latin or French. ‘Is he a dunderheid?' she had asked his tutor some weeks earlier. Gavin Dunbar had scraped a bow and smiled, as if a full set of white teeth could impress her.

‘Absolutely not, my lady. He is as sonsy a lad as I've met for many years – like his dear departed father in that regard. But . . .' The teeth disappeared behind a prim mouth, and his glance brushed hers before settling on the horizon.

‘Well?' she asked.

‘I believe him to be lazy, my lady. And easily distracted. The men of this court sometimes lead him astray.'

She had turned, sweeping up her skirts and brushing past him in a slither of silks. ‘He must learn the ways of the world, Master Dunbar,' she replied. ‘The King of Scotland cannot be an innocent.'

Dunbar bowed after her retreating figure, his hat dusting the flagstones. ‘But nor should he be a complete ignoramus,' he muttered.

‘Let me see, Mama!' cried James, lifting the letter from his mother's hand.

‘Careful you do not tear it,' she said, solely from a habit of scolding. Jamie might be slow at his studies, but he was not careless. Even at this young age he would spend an hour arranging the lace at his neck to his taste, or picking invisible dog hairs from his velvet cloak.

‘What does he mean, “setting foxes to catch a wolf”?' he asked.

Margaret plucked the letter from him. ‘I will explain later.' She looked around to see who had heard, but her maids were fondling the spaniels, her courtiers were deep in conversation, and the guards' ears were hidden beneath their helmets.

She summoned the nearest of her courtiers. ‘Send to Edinburgh for the castle gaoler,' she said. ‘Bring him to me at once.' The man bowed and set off at a run, no simple matter in pointed shoes. When the dowager queen spoke in that tone, haste mattered more than dignity.

For the rest of the day, Margaret was aloof. Though she saw him only rarely she dismissed her son, complaining that his voice was giving her a headache. Only her maidservants were allowed at her side, and they too were chided if they fidgeted or laughed. Stretched out on cushions and blankets beneath the elm, she stared into the leaves above as they rustled, dusty and dry in the early autumn sun. Her querulous expression softened as she replayed the scenes of happier times, twisting the bracelets on her arms and making them chime, like the hands of a clock going backward.

She remembered the baron helping to broker her marriage to James IV, arriving at Richmond Palace with a party of Scottish lords with whom he laughed and joked as if they were his dearest friends and not an enemy centuries old. He and her father, Henry VII of England, had been closeted with them all afternoon, trays of ale and biscuits sent in every hour to sustain their negotiations.

When they emerged, her father had nodded at her but not spoken, leading the Scots to the hall where dinner awaited. Only later that night, when his guests had gone to their rooms and she was in bed, did he tell her that her nuptials were arranged. ‘You are the best hope this country has of making a binding peace with Scotland,' he had said, dropping a kiss on her forehead in a rare mood of approbation. ‘I believe James is a good man. I am sure you will be happy.' She watched his departing back, the light from his candle dimming as he crossed the room. Her spirits faded likewise. She would be a wife before she reached thirteen.

The next morning she had stood at her open window as Dacre and their other visitors gathered for the journey north. The baron was at the head of the group, sword in belt and crossbow on back. His stallion pranced, and he held it on a tight rein, but it was plain that he too was eager to be on the road. When eventually the horses wheeled, he looked up at Margaret's window and raised a hand in salute. She watched, twisting the ruby on her forefinger. With a man like that she might be willing to head into the unknown, she thought, turning back to the room, and wondering whether she would feel the same about the Scottish king.

Some months later she arrived in Edinburgh, clutching Dacre's arm as if she were blindfold. Only an hour earlier that arm had been around her waist as she was overcome by dizziness. Over the past few days she had been growing more and more faint-hearted. Her first sight of the north, at Dacre's castle in Morpeth, had left her homesick, the rich hangings and paintings a reminder of Richmond and everything she might never see again. As her retinue drew near the border, plodding through terrain that grew starker with each village, she had to blink back tears. Here she was, leaving her home and family for an uncouth place and a religious husband who, from the miniature she had seen of him, had an alarmingly introspective air and none of the baron's brawn.

‘Courage,' Dacre had whispered as he helped her onto her horse outside an inn on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The cheer she'd taken from his embrace did more to sustain her than the tumbler of hot spiced wine James's servant proffered when they reached Holyrood House. The palace was a shimmer of forbidding grey, hidden beneath a rain so relentless her cloak trailed water up its uncarpeted stairs. She ought to have guessed then that the marriage would be soaked in tears.

In the years that followed, Baron Dacre was a frequent guest at the king's table, as diplomat, dinner companion, and sparring partner at dice. Neither in manner nor look did he suggest he felt more for James's young queen than the respect and honour she was owed, yet Margaret was certain this was a man on whom she could rely for support, and possibly more.

The elm shivered in the late afternoon breeze, and her maids draped themselves in shawls. Margaret picked up the letter and, turning on her side, reread its criss-crossed page.

Let me not bore you with an account of what you owe me, or I you. In a friendship such as ours, there is no abacus of debt. Yet it must be plainly acknowledged that my obligation is greater than yours. Even so, I feel confident I can make another claim on your good nature. If I tell you that aiding me in this matter will ultimately be to your advantage as well as mine, perhaps that might secure your answer. Although with one so generous as your highness, no sweetener is required, I feel sure, when appealing to your better nature.

Margaret rolled onto her back, the letter pressed to her bodice. Save for passing him information lately that had prevented the regent Albany from marching his army into England, she had done little to earn his gratitude. On her side, the tally of what she owed was as long as a bishop's homily. The slate had begun when Dacre found her dead husband on the battlefield. Without his word that he had seen James's corpse, she might have believed the rumours that the king had survived and gone into hiding. Enduring the weeks after his death had been hard enough. She did not like to think what condition she would have been in had she hoped, in vain, for his return.

In the long months after Flodden, Dacre had proved a friend. Margaret had been appointed regent, but many in the council, and beyond, wanted her gone. It was not just that she was a woman, though for most that was reason enough. Their misgivings lay in the letters that passed between her and her brother Henry VIII, a busy correspondence that saw her named the Tattler. She did not care. Without James at her side, Scotland was an alarming place for a widow with young princes in her care. Henry's support and advice were a comfort. And Dacre, no doubt seeing the advantage in being the counsellor of his sovereign's sister, became her staunchest ally. She never doubted that he acted from motives of self-interest, but then so did she.

Only once did their friendship falter. Less than a year after Flodden, she had secretly married her lover, Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus. A few weeks before, she had hinted to Dacre that Angus and she were close. His lips had thinned, and he had taken her by the elbow beyond earshot of the rest of the room. ‘Bed him if ye must, milady, and no one will blame you for your needs. But marry him and you will seal your own ill fortune, and that of your country. Angus is a fool, as witless as he is pretty. He cannot make any woman happy.' He caught her raised eyebrow. ‘Leastwise, ma'am, not for longer than an hour at a time.'

Nevertheless she married the earl, and swiftly regretted it. Angus's ardour dimmed before the year was out, his honeyed words growing more tart. Where once he had been content to lounge at her side, listening to her chatter while he toyed with her fingers, now he could think of nothing but who would run the country.

It was little wonder. Their marriage not only ended Margaret's regency, as they had feared, but brought Scotland under the control of her late husband's cousin John Stewart, Duke of Albany. That Albany's father had tried to usurp James III from the throne and been banished for life, and his associates executed, was conveniently forgotten, but Margaret had her suspicions of him from the start. As the years passed, he proved a presence unlike any she had encountered before. A handsome, haughty courtier, whose Scottish roots lay hidden beneath a veneer of Gallic charm, the scent of the French court was so overpowering whenever he walked into a room that he must surely have marinated himself in cologne overnight.

That a man of such elegance could be so dangerous had never surprised her. Nobody was a greater threat to his ambitions that she. But others also wanted her gone. As resentment grew among a cabal of ill-wishers, led by the Earl of Arran who sought the throne for himself, she began to fear for her life. On a night she did not now like to recall, she had been obliged to ride for the borders, seeking Dacre's protection. That was nine years ago, when a daughter was kicking in the womb, ready to make her arrival. More like bandits than royalty, Margaret and her servants had fled through the night to Harbottle, escaping before Albany and his gaolers knew she had crept out of Linlithgow Palace. Leaving her boys behind, she had taken the hill roads to safety.

It was the last she saw of her younger son. Even now, the fear that little Alexander might have thought she had abandoned him tormented her. From Harbottle, and then Morpeth Castle, where Dacre insisted she retire for comfort, she had written to her boys each week, sending gifts of candied fruits and toys. She told them about their new little sister, Meg who, she promised, would be the perfect playmate for Alexander.

Young Margaret was a strapping child who'd given her mother no worries except with her temper. But at the memory of her green-eyed boy, dying without her at his side to hold his hand, her throat tightened. James IV had not been a perfect husband, but she missed his laughter, his persuasive professions of undying love. He was obliged to say so many Hail Marys to atone for his constant straying, she marvelled he found time to attend council. Yet cruel as his infidelities were, she had learned to ignore what she did not, or ought not, observe. When he was taken from her, the unborn Alexander – her husband's parting gift – promised in some measure to make up for his loss. But within two years the adorable boy, like his father, was also gone.

Margaret tossed the letter onto the grass and closed her eyes, but even from a distance her maids saw the tears washing her powdered cheeks clean.

The following day, the castle gaoler was ushered into the dowager queen's apartment. His hair had been whipped into a tangled cloud, and his face was hot from his unaccustomed ride. The smell of straw and beer and well-worn hose entered the room with him and Margaret reached for a pomander, breathing deep before cupping it in her lap, as if she might require it urgently at any moment. The gaoler flushed and sweat pooled under his wilted ruff, deepening the scent that he exuded.

The dowager queen did not offer him a chair. Though the furniture in this room was carved from wood, the palace's silks and brocades kept for her private quarters, she could not have this begrimed man soiling her seats. Instead, she inclined her head in unsmiling welcome, and waved Dacre's letter at him.