I am not the only Scot to rejoice in the return of the Duke of Albany. The Hamiltons know that with him returned to Scotland, and the power of the French behind him, they can recover. The Scots lords can see a way out from the tyranny of the Clan Douglas. The people of Scotland, their borderlands destroyed by Dacre’s continual raids, their capital bloodstained and unruly, long for the rule of the regent who brought them peace before.
I write a gleeful taunting letter to Lord Dacre and tell him that, despite his gloomy predictions, the duke has returned to Edinburgh, peace will come to Scotland, and England will not dare to invade now that we are protected by France. I say that his good friend, my husband, seems to have abandoned his post and his family and I beg nobody will reproach me for failing to accompany him into a traitor’s exile. At last we can have some happiness in Scotland again. I laugh as I write; Dacre will know that the tables are turned on him and that I am a free woman and I am in power.
I think my brother must have gone mad. I cannot believe that anyone would dare to speak of a reigning queen in the terms that they are speaking of me. I cannot believe that my brother would listen. A true brother would denounce the gossips. If his wife were a true sister to me, she would insist that they are silenced. The English blacksmiths are commanded by law to slice the tongue of anyone who slanders the royal family, but it is my own brother who writes scandal to Dacre and permits him—a border lord!—to accuse me of unspeakable crimes.
Archibald’s uncle, Gavin Douglas, is an honored guest at the court in London and has told everyone that I am the Duke of Albany’s mistress. He swears that the good duke came to Scotland only to seduce me, to murder my son and put himself on the throne.
This much is madness: insane to say, worse to hear, but Gavin Douglas says even more. He claims that the duke keeps my son in poverty, stealing the red velvet and the cloth-of-gold sleeves for his own pages, refusing to let my son see his tutors or even eat. He says that the regent is starving the young king to death and that I am allowing it to happen, and together we will claim the throne. Worse than this—if there could be worse—he claims that the duke poisoned my poor lost boy Alexander. They say that I am bedding the murderer of my son. They say this, in the courts of Westminster and the throne room at Greenwich, and nobody—not my brother the king, not my sister-in-law the queen, not their favorite, my own little sister Mary—leaps up and denies it. Not even Mary cries out that it cannot be true.
How can the three of them not speak up for me? Katherine saw me just months after I had learned of the death of Alexander. She saw me unable to speak his name for grief. She and Mary both held me while I sobbed for him. How can she listen when my proclaimed enemy says that my lover murdered my son, and that I allowed it?
The two of them, my two sisters, have hurt me before, they have ignored me, they have misunderstood me. But this is greater than anything. This time they are making accusations that I would not level at a witch. I think they must have lost their minds. I think that all of them must have lost their minds and have forgotten everything that we were to each other. I said that they were no sisters to me, that I would forget them. But they have gone further than this: they have become my enemies.
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1522
My brother sends a Clarenceux Herald to Edinburgh to discover the state of affairs since, apparently, I cannot be trusted to report, and my word is worthless. The great man brings grooms and servants, and his clerks carry letters from my sister Mary and my sister-in-law Katherine.
“Her Grace said to give these to you privately and suggest that you read them alone,” says the herald, awkwardly. He does not know what is in them, but—like everyone in England—he knows what is being said about me.
I nod and take them away to my bedchamber. I lock the door behind me and break the seal. There are two letters. First, I read the one from Katherine, the queen.
Dearest Sister,
I cannot and will not believe the things that I have heard about you. Your husband’s uncle Gavin Douglas speaks of vile things. Please believe that I will not hear them said in my presence.
I am sorry that he has the ear of Cardinal Wolsey and of the king. There is nothing I can do about this, and I dare not try. Your brother used to listen to my advice but now he does not.
I am sure that you are lonely and sad. Believe me, sometimes a good wife has to suffer while her husband is in error. If Archibald returns to you from France, and his uncle swears that he will, then you must take him back. Only reuniting with your husband will silence these terrible stories. If you were only living with him now, nobody could say anything against you.
My dear, it is God’s will that a wife has no choice but to forgive an erring husband. No choice. However much her heart may break. I do not advise this lightly. I did not learn this easily. Your sister,
Katherine
Stubbornly, I screw up the letter into a ball and toss it into the red embers at the back of the fireplace. I break the seal of the Dowager Queen of France, which she still insists on using, and smooth Mary’s crumpled letter on my knee. As always she writes of the court, and of the clothes and of the fashions; as always she brags of her own beauty and the masque that she led and the jewel that Henry gave her. But for once there is a different twist in this old story. Mary’s pretty nose is out of joint because another girl is leading the dancing at court, and it sounds like a merry dance. At once I begin to understand the intensity of Katherine’s unhappy tone. I try to decipher Mary’s terrible handwriting and contain my secret squirm of shameful delight. Mary writes that yet another lady has taken Henry’s eye and captured his fancy and this time it is far more public than any previous affair. He chooses her as his partner in the masques, he walks with her and talks with her, rides out with her and plays cards with her. As one of Katherine’s ladies-in-waiting, she is constantly in the queen’s sight; she is acknowledged, not hidden. She has become the most important woman at court, favored over the queen, and she is pretty and blooming and young. Everyone knows that she is the king’s mistress and closest companion.
I should not smile. But the thought of Katherine having to eat humble pie while yet another girl delights her young husband lifts my spirits. If she had understood my pain when Archibald was unfaithful to me, I would be full of sympathy for her now. But then she said it was God’s will that a wife should forgive.
She is far worse than Bessie for she has no discretion at all. And of course, the girl is very beautiful, and, worst of all, Harry is quite besotted. He carried her handkerchief over his heart in a joust, he told Charles that he can’t stop thinking of her. She makes it worse by running after him wherever she can, and Katherine can’t send her home to her husband because she is married to young Carey and he is most helpful: a shameless cuckold. He is to receive lands and places, all for looking the other way. You would pity Katherine if you could see her. And no signs of another baby yet. It is quite miserable here. You would be sorry, I know.
I can see her writing change as she turns the page and remembers that I have troubles of my own. They are saying the most terrible things about you, Mary tells me, in case this has slipped my attention.