Dacre's War (9 page)

‘Get from my sight!’ she cried. ‘A night or two? What good is that to me? I cannot live without him. No mother could. I will surely die of grief.’ Her howls resumed, bringing maids to her side. The earl stared at the flurry of aprons and skirts and caps around his wife, then left the room, pale with rage except where a stinging palm print glowed upon his cheek. No one dared tell the queen that the boy king was waiting downstairs, ready to be escorted off under the regent’s guard. That was to be a farewell none would ever forget.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The distressing scene that day merely confirmed what Margaret and the earl had long known: they could not bear each other’s presence. The years that followed saw the dowager queen’s dislike of her husband turn to hatred while Angus, for his part, realised that his scheme to topple the regent and take his place would have to be achieved not only without her help, but despite her opposition.

As Angus’s appetite for power grew, Margaret came to recognise that the regent was not the rival she had presumed, and might even be useful as an ally against her conniving spouse. That the Frenchman had no desire to reshape the court, or carve out a fortune for himself, was soon plain. He made no secret of the fact that he saw his position coming to an end once James was old enough to rule. There was an endearingly businesslike manner about him, and his offer to help her reach a settlement for divorce allayed the last of her doubts. Albany never knew if it was this promise that sparked the queen’s lust, but it did not matter. He was grateful for the comfort it brought to his cheerless time in a country he was beginning to detest.

In gaining Margaret’s trust, Albany became privy to court gossip, of which there was no end. But as well as scurrilous tales of the country’s aristocrats, priests and gentry, she had stories of her own to reveal. As if to underline how temporary an arrangement theirs was, she would tease him with tales of former lovers, unlocking the strongbox beneath her bed and showing him their gifts and tokens of devotion. There were letters too, she boasted, though they were too private to be shared.

Long after, when their romance had all but ended, it was Margaret’s response to a letter from her brother Henry that led Albany to suspect the author of those treasured missives. Like the regent, the dowager queen had not been present at Holyrood when the privy council granted a hearing to the English envoys Baron Dacre and the Earl of Surrey. Given safe passage and escort from the border, the pair arrived in Edinburgh in subdued but hopeful mood in the spring of 1523. War had been rumbling since the previous year, but with Albany out of the country, and Margaret in Stirling, Henry’s delegates felt their petition would be well received and hostilities soon at an end.

Dacre was well known to the privy councillors, and respected by some, who found in him an echo of the old English king and a more courteous age. There were nods around the table as he rose to deliver the contents of the document he held in his hand. Surrey elicited no such friendly looks.

‘Your lords, for the purposes of speed I shall take the liberty of paraphrasing,’ said Dacre, with a half-smile, looking around the room like a dominie about to deliver a lesson. ‘The earl and I are here to put before you a proposal from his royal majesty, Henry VIII. We hope that you will give it careful thought, for there are those at his court who would prefer a less amicable arrangement.’

Ignoring the muttering that arose, he cleared his throat. ‘It is Henry’s dearest wish that the Scottish court promise that one day, in the fullness of time, it shall agree to the marriage of King James V to his daughter Mary – and here I quote: “for the keeping of gentle relations between our kingdoms, that harmony matched by the felicity and joy a contented marital union of likeminded parties always brings”.’

Dacre allowed the sanctimonious words to settle over the low-beamed chamber. ‘He further adds that the strife that afflicts our countries would thereby come to an end, and our energies be put to better use at home and on the continent, where both nations will earn glory, and territory, as yet unthought of.’ He placed the parchment on the table, smoothing it flat. ‘That, gentlemen, is the essence of his majesty’s proposal. There remains only one other element, which it is painful for me to divulge in this company, some of whom I believe are bound in more than ordinary allegiance to the Duke of Albany.’

A murmur ran round the table, and quickly died.

‘My lords, Henry makes this offer on the condition that your regent is deposed, and never returns to this country, with immediate effect on the signing of this agreement. If the privy council agrees to these terms, then Henry will guarantee a sixteen-year truce, and an end to a war which plagues us all.’

Amid a clamour of indignation Surrey rapped the table, and stood. The sullen silence he commanded did not bode well. He spoke briskly. ‘It is no secret at our court that the regent is not a man well loved, either by the people or its leaders.’

‘Contemptible! Unfair!’ cried Alexander Montgomerie, Earl of Eglinton, getting to his feet. The councillors alongside tugged him back onto his stool, urging him to hush.

Surrey pushed the parchment across the table so it could be read by all. ‘You would be foolish indeed to disregard this offer. It will not be repeated, nor will you ever be given such an opportunity to solve all your country’s problems so simply. At a stroke you could be rid of Albany, and of the fear that Henry’s army will march north and finish what he began at Flodden.’

There was an intake of breath across the room. Surrey appeared not to notice, though his and Dacre’s hands remained loosely at their sides, within reach of their swords.

‘You have astonishing nerve, to bring such a suggestion before us,’ said the Earl of Hamilton, soft-voiced with fury.

‘We do not intend to insult anyone, and we are sorry if it is construed as such.’ Surrey looked at Dacre, who nodded. ‘We will leave your presence, and await your decision in the chamber below.’

Eglinton saw them to the door, which he slammed behind them, small consolation for not being allowed to whip them for insolence. Back at the table, he vented his frustration, spittle flying. ‘It is an abominable offer, as cynical and calculating as I have yet to hear from that devious English warmonger’s lips.’

Arran leaned forward, his broken nose like a scold’s finger. ‘It is a ruse on Henry’s part, and nothing more. The minute the pair are known to be betrothed, England will be safe, knowing Francis’s men cannot use us as a back door for invasion. This trumped-up notion is merely a means to defuse the threat from France. If we were to eject Albany on Henry’s command, he and the French king would never forgive us. We would have got into bed with our oldest enemy, and lost one of our most powerful friends.’

A growl of agreement drew the council closer, hands slapping the table, and much more in the same vein followed. Only one voice was raised in dissent. It was David Forsyth, the Earl of Angus’s cousin, who could think of no better stroke of luck than to see Albany sent packing, without so much as unsheathing a sword.

‘We are too hasty,’ he protested, ‘dismissing the offer out of hand. This war is costing us far more than England. There has not been real peace in the borderlands in our lifetime. Such a deal would bring that misery to an end.’

He raised his voice to shout down his decriers. ‘There’s more, too, to consider. Hear me out. Albany’s visits are too rare, and short. He has never made this his home. All the world knows we are a country without a king, as Henry’s offer makes clear. We can take offence if we like, but it does not change the truth, which is that Albany’s rule is close to an end, and he knows it as well as we do.’

Downstairs, where they sat hunched before a salt-coal fire, Dacre and Surrey heard argument and scraping stools overhead. The earl shook his head, and began to denounce this vexatious nation, which allowed festering sores to cloud its judgement. What sensible country would not leap at the offer of peace and prosperity? Did their old connection with France really mean more than to have the beast on their border tamed?

Dacre watched a blue flame flower in the grate. ‘We will learn their answer soon enough,’ was all he said, though his silence did nothing to staunch Surrey’s complaints.

The reply came so quickly, they knew at once the offer was dead. Less than an hour later, Eglinton and Hamilton appeared to tell them the council’s decision, but before Hamilton spoke Surrey was already pulling on his gauntlets.

‘Henry will be disappointed,’ he said, when his guess was confirmed. ‘It was a deal offered in good faith and deserved more consideration than your councillors gave it. I doubt you appreciate, perhaps, how serious the outcome of this refusal might be.’

Eglinton’s face darkened with the effort to restrain himself from putting his hands round the earl’s throat. Instead, he threw the door open and called a servant to take the Englishmen to their quarters.

Surrey picked up his cloak and followed Dacre out of the room. As he passed, Hamilton put a hand on his arm. ‘You should watch what you say, your grace. Our people do not like being threatened. We may be a small country, and poor, but we are also proud.’

The earl would have spoken, but meeting the expression in the Scot’s eye he closed his mouth. Hamilton gave an amicable nod, and as he ushered them along the passage his tone lightened. ‘We shall dine together tonight and put this disagreement aside. In the morning I will have the council’s written reply ready for you. It may not be what Henry had hoped for, but it will not be the first knock he has had from this quarter.’

‘That suits me fine,’ Dacre replied, sounding weary. ‘It is too long since I spent a night in this palace. It brings memories of the dead king that I had thought forgotten. He was a man of honour, and intellect, and charm. He is a sad loss to this kingdom, a fact you must still be painfully aware of, and never more than now.’

Not waiting for a reply, he called over his shoulder to Eglinton, who had not yet spoken. ‘I will be given my old room, I trust? James always had it prepared for me. Our guards can sleep on the floor. I would prefer to keep them close.’

It was some days before Albany, in Paris, was informed by courier of this delegation from Henry’s court, and weeks before Montgomerie described it to him in person, his anger almost as hot in recollection as it had been when he first believed himself insulted. When eventually the regent recounted the scene to Margaret, thinking it would amuse her, she stared, as if he had spoken in Persian and she could not understand what she heard. ‘What?’ she cried, leaping up, and sending her stool toppling. ‘Dacre was privy to this plan? I was told Surrey had brought the message. But Dacre?’ She laughed in disbelief. ‘He thought it possible that I would bind James to the English court, as if he were an ass to be ridden round the fairground? I thought he had a fondness for the boy, indeed I did. He used to say Jamie was almost like a godson. There were times I even felt . . .’

Breaking off, she turned away to gain command of herself, but in that moment her lover began to suspect that the baron and she were better acquainted than was wise, and had been for many years.

It surprised no one that after the Scots’ rejection of the marriage treaty, the English king’s temper quickened. That summer the war gathered pace, Henry launching a sustained campaign of harrying, provoking and destroying the main Scottish towns and castles on the border. One by one he was picking them off, leaving the region in ruins. There was no mistaking his message. He was ettling for a fight. Goaded into action, Albany had returned to meet him, with five thousand French troops at his side.

The Duke lifted his eyes once more to the empty hills around the loch, and was grateful to have been brought up among men who believed wilderness existed solely for the pleasure of the chase. When the hunting season was over, and the woods were daubed with the blood of deer, bears and boar, Francis and his retinue returned to the sanctuary of city and palace, putting on their softest boots and sumptuous rings with ill-disguised relief. Between then and the next expedition, only plague or pestilence could drive them back out to the countryside, with its bad roads and robbers, its comfortless inns and ill-kempt servants.

No surprise, then, that Scotland was too rough for his taste. Even Edinburgh was little more than a town, hills and woods oppressively close. Nowhere in this land could one feel safe from the threat of sudden attack. Nor, he had learned, could its men be persuaded to fight. Their backbone had crumbled, and they were now as nervous as cats.

He still smarted from his humiliation, a year or more ago, when his army had refused to follow him into England. So enraged he could barely speak, the duke had demanded to know what his officers meant by ignoring his orders, by instructing their men to stand fast and not set a foot over the border. A few heads were bowed in shame, but those who were intimidated by Henry VIII’s wrath but not their regent’s looked at him straight. ‘We know what happens to those who cross the border, and poke the hornet’s nest,’ said Lennox, an earl before his time, and still unnerved by his father’s battlefield death. ‘You go ahead, but don’t expect us to follow. We’ve suffered enough at England’s hands. It’s likely you wouldn’t even be in the country when he took his full revenge, but we have nowhere else to go.’