Tudor Princess, The (16 page)

I shivered. ‘I understand, Jamie, truly I do. But please let us not speak on it any more. You must ride, my love. Ride so that you may return my king and know’ – my voice broke – ’that I will keep your son and your kingdom safe in your absence.’

At this Jamie smiled, offering one last tender kiss.

There was nothing more to be said or done. Our private farewell had been exchanged and there was but to face our kingdom, a united king and queen emanating confidence in the inevitable victory of the battle ahead.

The streets erupted with cheers for him, the bells tolled, the bishops and priests prayed for his victory, and my heart cried out in despair. I clung to him once more before he entered the blinding golden light. He was enthusiastic again, his manner driven and determined, his smile bright, his green eyes twinkling in merriment as he anticipated a glorious battle.

‘Come home to me, Jamie,’ I ordered, taking his hand in mine. ‘You must come home to me to see your next child into the world.’ I guided his hand to my belly.

Tears sparkled in his eyes. He leaned in, kissing my cheek. ‘Oh, my love. I shall return to you. I promise.’

He held me fast, planting a firm kiss on my mouth. I frantically tried to impress upon my memory the exact feeling of his body against mine – the way we fit, the way my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, the way his strong arms enveloped me to his chest, wherein beat his sure, strong, and steady heart.

I did not want to part.

I did not want it to end.

But it did end. Jamie left and I was alone to rule his country.

Jamie raided the Borders as the English raised an army against him headed up by the very men who escorted me on my wedding journey ten years prior – the Earl of Surrey and his son Thomas Howard.

But I was assured their army was smaller than my husband’s and Jamie was set to win the day. I waited for him at Linlithgow, sitting by my window in my bower, looking out at St Michael’s Church. I squinted at the horizon. But I knew he would not come. In the few hours sleep found me, my dreams told me so. He stood at the precipice, surrounded by white light. He turned, then walked off. I ran to the ledge to look down but saw nought but the light, the sweet white light.

He was gone.

I will never see you again.

The messenger who greeted me was coated in slick mud. I sat under my canopy of state in my presence chamber, dressed in black, my hair gathered in a chignon under my hood. I sat straight, my head erect. He would want me to receive the news like a queen.

With effort the messenger sank to his knees, bowing his head. ‘Your Grace, on 9 September the battle was lost.’ His voice caught. ‘We were outwitted by the English on the hill at Flodden Field; their weapons and manoeuvres were superior, though their numbers were fewer. Everything was against us, it seems – the rain and the mud that had us taking our boots off and fighting barefooted and the hill that was at first our advantage only to end as our curse.’ Tears streamed down his cheeks, running off his chin onto the floor, and I was compelled to reach out to him, laying a hand on his dirt-encrusted shoulder. ‘We lost ten thousand men, Your Grace,’ he sobbed. ‘The king among them.’ He made the sign of the cross, then raised his head, his eyes stricken with horror. ‘We couldn’t find the body. There were so many, lying there in the darkness … and by morning most were stripped naked, robbed of their dignity. Lord Dacre found him, or someone he claims to be him, alongside his son Alexander, the Archbishop of St Andrews, lying together surrounded by their loyal comrades. They – they were going to send the body to King Henry in France on orders of Queen Catherine, but Surrey urged her not to, so they sent his coat instead.’ He swallowed several times. ‘You – you want us to send another search party, to make certain the body they uncovered was not an imposter?’

I shook my head, remembering the gentle Lord Dacre, knowing despite our status as enemies that he was an honest man. ‘No … that will not be necessary.’

I drew in a breath. I did not cry. I had known this, after all. I was struck numb and found myself thinking less of Jamie than of his bastard son by Janet Kennedy, the young archbishop whose appointment I resented so much. A strange pride welled in my chest as I thought of the young man who fought a losing battle beside his father. I knew that many of the Scots were against going to war, but go to war they did for their king and now all of them suffered for it. There could not exist a noble in the land untouched by this great loss.

But alongside the pride was rage, rage at Jamie for leading his people into this folly, rage at my sister-in-law for daring to suggest that his precious body be sent to France as a trophy of war. My gut churned and I swallowed bitter bile. I never could have anticipated such coldness in a heart I had always found to be so warm and filled with charity.

I swallowed my disillusionment. Now was no time to lament. Nor could I afford the luxury of hating my sister-in-law at the moment. I could only think of Scotland. I was its regent now.

‘We thank you, sir,’ I told the messenger. I turned to my attendant. ‘Please send for our son,’ I ordered in soft tones.

When the baby was brought to me I rose. He toddled toward me, offering a gap-toothed grin and holding out his chubby arms.

‘Mama up!’ was his first command as King of Scotland. ‘Mama up!’

I was honoured to obey. Stooping down, I gathered my son in my arms, my shoulders convulsing with sobs as I took in his sweet baby scent. I allowed my tears to mingle against his strawberry-blond curls as I held him close, then swept him into my arms as I rose.

The attendants and guards, lords, ladies, and servants all removed their caps. Tears coursed down their cheeks as they knelt and curtsied.

‘Long live King James V,’ they chorused.

Long live James V, the seventeen-month-old King of Scots.

9

I
removed to the fortress of Stirling with my baby king, where he was crowned by the Archbishop of Glasgow, James Beaton, on 21 September. I watched as the gem-encrusted crown fit for a man’s head was held over that of my son in what all refer to as the Mourning Coronation. Throughout the chapel could be heard nothing but sniffling and sobbing as each witness recalled the loved ones lost at Flodden Field.

I was among them, sobbing for my lost king, shedding tears for the one who replaced him; for myself; for my brother and sister-in-law, who revelled in my husband’s death and treated it as a victory; and for the baby I now carried who would never know its father.

As Jamie’s will was read the weight of my responsibilities bore down upon me in full. I was twenty-three years old and pregnant. I was widowed. My son was not yet two and he was King of Scotland. As Jamie had indicated before his doomed enterprise, I would rule in our son’s stead under the stipulation that I never marry again.

I could not imagine why I would ever want to remarry, why I would ever want to put myself through the agony of loving and losing another person. And yet to never curl against the warmth of another human being in the night, to never savour the comfort only a man can give …

Now was no time to think of it. Now there was but to think of my people and of securing peace with England.

I met with my council, comforting myself with the distractions of governing. They were divided; many resented me for reasons obvious. I was a woman, which went against the cherished Scottish tradition of male rulers. What’s more, I was an Englishwoman.

‘’Twill not be easy,’ said the old Earl of Angus, Archibald ‘Bell-the-Cat’ Douglas, as he visited me in my apartments one winter afternoon. He was nicknamed such for offering to attack Jamie’s father King James III’s favourite Robert Cochrane by pulling his chain from his neck, which led to his and many other of the king’s favourites’ hangings.

I had always been fond of surly old Bell-the-Cat, though my husband was not. He held him partially responsible for the eventual rebellion against Jamie’s father, which led to his death, plaguing Jamie with guilt for the rest of his life. What’s more, the earl had married Jamie’s lover Janet Kennedy. I never knew if this fact did anything to stop them from carrying on their affair, but in those times when I yearned to recall the few happy days we were afforded in our marriage I liked to think so.

I shifted my thoughts back to the old earl. He was not well. His losses in the battle were extensive and took a toll on him.

‘Oh, Bell-the-Cat,’ I sighed, tears gathering in my throat. ‘I should like to think I made the right appointments. I have good men about me – your son Gavin and the Bishop of Aberdeen, who will stand as tutor to my son. And with the uncertainty of our relations with England, Stirling seems the best residence, the most resilient. I recall a time when all I had to occupy myself with was what gown to wear. Now I have to think about the price of cannon and the wages of soldiers. And there are so many other crises … most of the women in Scotland are widows, most of the children fatherless.’

At this Bell-the-Cat flinched. I reached out, taking the withered hand in my own.

‘We mourn the losses of your two fine sons,’ I told him. ‘And your clansmen.’

‘Two hundred of them, Your Grace,’ he said, his voice thick with sadness. ‘Two hundred souls gone in one day, along with ninety-eight hundred more. Ten thousand widows.’

I shook my head, too awed to speak. No words could do what Scotland had lost, what my husband had sacrificed, justice.

They poured in, these poor wretches, and I gave them audience, yes, each and every soul. They came to me, their Queen Widow, and I offered my tears and prayers and useless blessings.

‘My land is gone!’ one woman cried on her knees before me. ‘I canna inherit, as my son and husband were both killed in the great battle. The looters came and took everything of value,’ she sobbed without reserve. ‘And what was most valued, what I begged them not to take, if only for love of the blessed Virgin, was my daughter’s virtue!’

‘Oh, save us!’ I cried, burying my face in my hands.

And on and on they came, all with similar stories of horror, while I sat on my throne of state unable to help, unable to do a thing without aid of council, a group of men who became increasingly frustrating and divided.

There was nothing to give, nothing to restore. All was lost … lost.

‘What am I going to do, Bell-the-Cat?’ I asked my favourite councillor, knowing he had not the answer. ‘I am awed, dumbstruck as I try and work out how to help our country, a country filled with widows and babies. A country filled with weakness and covered in wounds. I made a useless proclamation in the baby king’s name urging the people against these desperate and despicable acts – the looting, the rapes. But no one wants peace. No one wants goodness. No. The women want retribution, rightfully, I believe, but the men? Of course you know what the men want. War. War with England. My brother. Where will that get us but more lives lost? My God … what am I going to do?’

Bell-the-Cat squeezed my hand and shook his head. ‘We are in sorry estate, madam. Sorry estate.’ He paused. ‘But ye’ve got good men.’

‘Divided men,’ I said again. ‘And I can make no decisions of my own without consulting three spiritual and three temporal lords. And the likelihood of them agreeing is …’ I dissolved into tears, swallowed, then collected myself. ‘They want to recall the Duke of Albany from France to serve as a military leader. To usurp my regency, I imagine. The King of France wrote to tell me that he will not send him until he knows my wishes. He claims he will not make peace with my brother until I permit him to do so. I know I must make peace with Henry, but France is a powerful ally—’

‘Ye best keep the peace with your brother,’ Bell-the-Cat advised, then erupted into a fit of coughing. ‘He’s already proved what he can do. There may be another way to secure the alliance with France.’ At this his gaze grew pointed. ‘Anne of Brittany is not well, you know. The king could be a valuable commodity.’

I laughed; the sound was without joy and grated on my ears. ‘I’d be valuable to him, you mean. Imagine, Louis VII, King of France and King Consort of Scotland. Henry would die.’