The Forgotten Queen (13 page)

But for a boy to be without a father . . . He
had
a father, in Heaven. My Jamie would guide him from there. I told myself that. I told myself that would be enough for a growing boy even as I found myself dreaming of a family, a family with a living father and a mother, what every boy—especially a king—needed.

Was it not my duty to provide for the king’s needs?

No! I refused to believe it. I could be loved, queen or not! Someone would love my son and me. Not everyone could be so misguided as to seek only after power.... Someone had to have a true heart. And I would find him. I would find him and keep my regency besides, no matter what Jamie’s will stipulated. The council would see, they would have to see, that it was for the best interest of the boy that he have a man in his life to guide him, to love him.

And to love me.

Alexander, the precious little Duke of Ross, was born on 30 April. It was a remarkable delivery in that my labor was not the struggle of my previous births. Though it sapped me of my strength, I was alert and able to hold my baby right away. I held the soft, warm bundle in my arms, covering the downy head with kisses.

“I gave you another son, Jamie,” I whispered, stroking the silken cheek. “Another prince for Scotland.” I held my tears at bay, praying my husband could see our joy from Heaven, praying he thought me a good wife and mother and queen. The longing, sharp as a blade, was almost too acute to bear . . . oh, Jamie. . . .

My kingdom was there when my husband could not be. Little Alexander was their pride, compensation for the miseries and loss of Flodden, a reminder of the innocence and good that could survive even the harshest tragedies. He was a true son of Scotland, and the kingdom stood as his surrogate. It was no small triumph to me that I was mother to the heirs to not only the Scottish throne but, until my brother and the unfortunate Catherine could produce one, the English throne as well. Was it wrong to nurse the hope that it would be through my bloodline that the crowns of both kingdoms would be united, just as my father had once prophesied? Wouldn’t Father and Jamie have been proud to see that! Yet to hope for that was to wish ill on Henry and Catherine and I could not make that mistake again . . . yet were they not triumphant at the death of my husband? Did she not want to send his bloodied body to Henry as a trophy? The thought made my blood run hot and justified my ambition. To have my children forge understanding between my homeland and country of adoption was a grand aspiration, a noble cause. There was nothing sinful in taking pleasure in God’s will, for it must have been God’s will that I be fruitful where my brother was not.

I told myself that, too. But I told myself many things in those days.

 

“I hope it isn’t unseemly, my visit,” the Earl of Angus told me when he came laden with gifts for baby Alexander, Little Jamie, and me as I convalesced at Stirling. His brown eyes sparkled with unabashed joy at the sight of the baby in my arms and he rushed forward, reaching out a hand that he might stroke Alexander’s head, then drawing back to dip into a bow. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I should not be so impulsive.”

“No, you really should not,” Ellen said from her seat near my bed. I shot her a quick glance that set her scowling into her embroidery.

“It is all right, my lord,” I told him in warm tones. “How thoughtful of you to visit Us; We have been restless for court. And this little one is eager to meet the kingdom—it is appropriate he starts with the best of them.”

Angus beamed at this. He drew near, holding a finger out for the baby to clutch. Tears shone bright in Angus’s eyes as he gazed at Alexander. “He is a bonny lad, Your Grace,” he said, his voice wavering. “After losing my little lamb, it restores me to see life renewed, and such a lusty babe!”

I could not speak. He had lost, I had lost—our babies, our spouses, our fathers—and as he bent over my baby and me something stirred within, something protective and something needing protection. The bond of loss.

“He quite resembles his father,” Ellen observed in conversational tones as she regarded us. “Her Grace says so all the time.”

“Indeed,” Angus said. “It must be a comfort to you, then, I hope.”

He understood, I imagined, the mingled comfort and sadness of family resemblance. I wondered if my eyes revealed my gratitude for this—I hoped so.

“It is,” was all I could say. “Would . . . would you like to hold him, my lord?”

“It is only my deepest wish!” Angus cried as he scooped the baby in his arms, gathering him to his chest. His deep smile revealed dimples on either side of his mouth as he cooed at the baby, pacing back and forth as we are so prone to do when holding a little one. Through a veil of tears, the scene was softened, the figures obscured, and I pretended just then—for just that moment—that it was Jamie holding our son, Jamie looking upon his sweet face, the proud father, and that we were a family united again. I blinked the vision away. There stood Angus once more.

“And how does His Grace like his little brother?” Angus inquired.

I laughed. “I am not certain,” I said, dismissing the royal
We.
“I think he might have been a little put off. He said he wanted a pony.”

“As they grow, he will find that little brothers are much better than ponies!” Angus commented as he returned the baby to my arms. “I should not overtax you, Your Grace. You and our little laird must get some rest. I hope . . . I do hope you will permit my visit again soon?”

Again and again and again,
I wanted to say. I could only nod and resist the urge to beg him to stay and let me pretend, just a little longer.

But I said nothing and allowed his graceful retreat, while ignoring Ellen’s pointed stare as I waited, breath bated, for his return.

 

He did return, many times, sometimes with Lord Drummond or other members of the court, and always with gifts. But I found myself looking forward to having Angus to myself. He loved to laugh and brought life to my chambers. Sometimes Little Jamie joined us and the two played together, silly child’s games, while I held the baby and looked on, cherishing the happy family scene. Angus and I rarely spoke of court matters, only of domestic things—the children, the spring lambs, entertainments to celebrate the birth of Alexander. How I relished those talks and the interest Angus took in the children as children, not as a king and a prince.

May drifted into June and June to July. If I did not regain my figure after the birth of Alexander, I at least regained my strength, and the summer, warm and languid, saw me with my children, Angus, and the court. On 12 July my council signed a document stating they would not divide into factions, that my regency was supported.

“A triumph, Your Grace,” Angus told me one evening as we dined in my chambers. “Never has Scotland seen such unity.”

“It is true,” I agreed. “There has been too much division over the years. I fear my recommending your uncle Gavin to the Pope for the Archbishopric of St. Andrews jeopardized my favor with the council. I must make recommendations based on the quality of those recommended and nothing else, even though I myself consider him quite able and he was much loved by the late king. It’s just that I must not be seen to show favoritism to any one family over another.”

“The position would have been a blessing for our family,” Angus said. “But as it is, His Holiness favors Andrew Forman for when old William Elphinstone passes. That is a battle we can fight later together.”

I laughed at this. “Oh, can we, now?” It was both unnerving and exciting, the thought of fighting a battle beside Angus, the thought of having someone to support me.

Angus’s smile was soft. “It serves you that the council seems to have overlooked the possible . . . controversy of your recommendation for now and all has been forgiven; the Pope did agree to Elphinstone, which was your ultimate pick, was it not? So you are still in favor. Who could not favor you, when your heart is so pure and well intended?”

I dismissed the compliment with a wave of one bejeweled hand. “I am grateful they have. If we can keep Scotland united for the sake of this little boy then perhaps it will ease his way when he reaches his majority.” I cast adoring eyes at Little Jamie, who was making a show of moving chess pieces randomly about the board with Angus, who deferred to His Grace with the utmost respect during their mock foray.

Angus’s eyes grew distant. “We can hope. It will not be easy for this little one. So many yearn to control him, and though this document was signed in allegiance to you—in essence him—there are those who will endlessly plot to manipulate him to suit their own ends.”

The words frightened me and echoed Jamie’s ominous warning to me before he died. “The curse of child-kings,” I commented, thinking of Jamie and his grandfather before him. “I will protect him,” I vowed, my voice wavering with fervency. “They will not touch him as long as I am regent.” I reached out to caress my son’s cheek, but my hand never reached its destination, for Angus at once seized it in his. I flinched at his warm touch. I should have scolded him, reminded him of the offense of touching my person without permit. Had Ellen been present, the act may have driven her to slap him outright. But all I could do was hold his hand.

“I will protect him as well,” Angus said. “And, Your dearest Grace, I will protect you. If you will let me.”

“What do you mean?” I breathed.

Angus lowered his eyes a moment, caressing my thumb with his forefinger. “As your friend, as your adviser . . .” He raised his eyes, gazing into my face through to my heart. “And perhaps more.”

I withdrew my hand as an image of Jamie, his eyes so cautious and prudent, presented itself before my mind’s eye. I blinked it away. Jamie was gone. It was Angus here with me now, with my children, loving them and entertaining and guiding them. Angus, who was so handsome and fussed over me, making me feel almost lovely again.

I drew in a quavering breath. “Angus, you must be very careful,” I warned. “I have not even been a year widowed. Should I marry again, I must consider the wishes of my brother Henry and the council. And, not least of all, the regency—”

“Is all but secure now with the signing of that statement,” Angus assured me. “Your Grace . . . Margaret.” His tone grew reverent as he addressed the woman and not the queen. My heart began to pound. “You married for duty as a child. A second marriage is usually never under such obligation. Seize your right as a woman grown to choose and be chosen for
love
. We have suffered much, you and I. We have lost more than what is deserved in one lifetime. It may be irregular, but what is regular about the times we live in, when death stalks us all day to day and uncertainty is our only constant?”

“Angus . . .” I began. “You cannot speak of this. You must not. People will not look kindly on our match; they will think you are taking advantage. They will think of the benefits for the house of Douglas and the jealousy will tear the kingdom apart.”

“We will make them see!” he cried. “In time they will accept it. When they see me as your husband, when they see us as a family. Can you not see we are a family, Margaret? Have you not felt what I have been feeling these past months?”

I tilted my head back, resting it against the cushion of my chair, closing my eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I did not feel it,” I confessed. “But too much works against us. And you are considered quite young.”

“But I am of your own age! And your brother King Henry is young, is he not? And yet is he not a husband? His marriage is unshakeable!” Angus argued. “What is youth, Margaret, really?”

I rose, calling the nurse to take the children. I did not want them present for this discussion and needed a moment to collect myself, to ponder this remarkable circumstance. Had I not been trysting with the idea since meeting Angus? Could it be possible the council would support the action and see it as a boon for the boys to have a living father and a good Scotsman to defend their queen? It was too much to hope and there was far too much to fear.

When I returned, Angus was on his feet. He held out his hands. It would have been rude not to take them in mine.

I bowed my head. “You could have anyone,” I told him. “Someone fetching and slim.” I swallowed the growing lump in my throat. “Look at me, Angus! I have just had a baby. I am not . . .” Shame gripped me as I thought of my reflection in the glass. I hated to see myself now, my body gone soft and round with the rigors of childbearing. “I am not comely anymore. I am growing stout!”

“You have a woman’s curves now, if that is what you mean by that ridiculous tangent,” Angus said. There was something new to his tone now, something beyond his fervency. It was akin to authority. . . but not quite. “And I would rather have a solid woman at my side than a willowy girl who would blow away at the slightest breeze. Come now, that was funny. Give me a smile, won’t you?”