Archibald invites me to visit my son in Edinburgh. He says I will be an honored guest at Holyroodhouse and I will be able to see James without witnesses, as often and for as long as I like. He says that our daughter, Margaret, is well and happy at Tantallon Castle, and will come to Edinburgh to see me, her mother. With cool courtesy, he offers me the palatial rooms that once housed the Duke of Albany: the regent’s rooms. I understand from this that there is no question of us sharing a bed, and the Whitsun sheets will stay in the linen store. I understand from this that he too has heard from London that divorce is now permissible and he is to treat me with fairness and respect. I understand from this that though I lost the battle against Archibald, I may still come to terms with him. Smiling, I reply that I will be happy to see my son James, my daughter, and my dear cousin Archibald once again.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, AUTUMN 1526
The citizens of Edinburgh line the streets and cheer me as I enter the city and proceed, more like a victor than a defeated estranged wife, to Holyrood. Retainers and servants, Stewart and Douglas, bow and doff their hats to me as I dismount, and Archibald greets me as courteously as if we have never been anything but queen and head of the council. He escorts me to James’s private rooms and he leaves me at the door.
“Whatever he says,” he nods at the closed door behind the grim-faced Douglas men who guard it, “whatever he says, I would not hurt him. I have loved him like my own son. You know that.”
“Yes, I do know that,” I say grudgingly. “But what complaint can he make of you?”
He gives me his rueful smile. “I keep him from the throne,” he admits. “He cannot take power. I have to rule the lords until I am certain that I and my house are safe and the kingdom in alliance with England. You know that.”
I nod. I do know that.
They swing the doors open and I go in to my son.
He jumps up from the floor where he was playing with dice, right hand against left, and he strides across the room to me. He has grown to become a young man, I see it at once. Only last year he would have bounced over the floor like a fawn. Now he comes quickly, but his shoulders are set like a man’s, and he plants his feet, he does not skip. He has presence—he never had it before.
“Every time we meet, you are changed,” I mourn, scanning his face and seeing the shadow of a moustache, and the beginning of a straggly beard on his cheeks. “A beard! You are never growing a beard?”
“You are always the same,” he says gallantly. “Always beautiful.”
“It’s been terrible,” I say bluntly. “I tried and tried to get you away.”
“I know. I tried to come to you.” He drops his voice. “They laid hands on me,” he says. “They said they would tear me limb from limb. You told me never to let them touch me, but they would have dismembered me. I had no authority. They had no respect and I could not make them.”
Miserably, we look at each other. “I’ve failed you,” I say. “God forgive me, and I hope you will forgive me.”
“No,” he says quickly. He has thought about this. “You have always tried to do the best for me, hold the power, get me to the throne. Those who have failed me are your brother the king, your husband my guardian, and the lords who have let themselves be led like sheep following a wolf. You are not at fault for these men and these fools.”
“I have no money and no army and no support from England,” I say bluntly. “I have no plan.”
“I know,” he says, and suddenly his father’s joyful smile lights up his face. “So I thought we would just be happy together. Even if we are imprisoned. I thought that we might be happy this winter and spend Christmas the three of us, and know that every year that I grow older, every month that my beard grows in, the end of the rule of the Red Douglas comes closer. Archibald cannot hold me as his prisoner when I am a full-grown man. We will win in the end just by surviving.”
I take his hands and I kiss his cheeks where the scattering of dark hairs are as soft as his baby curls. We are the same height now, my boy is as tall as I am, and still growing. “Very well,” I say. “Let us send for Margaret and all be happy.”
LINLITHGOW PALACE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1527
To my amazement we live together, all four of us, and we are happy. The long cold Scottish winter finally melts and then the miracle that is the Scottish spring comes slowly, slowly, first in the rain-soaked, meltwater-soaked greenness of the grass, then in the honking calls of geese flying overhead, then in the jumble and ripple of birdsong at dawn, and then finally with the lenten lilies and the buds thickening on the trees and every living thing springing into life as the sap rises so strongly that I can almost taste it on the warm air and the year turns towards summer.
Archibald rules the council. There is no doubt that all the power is centered on him, but he brings the laws and proclamations for James’s signature. James signs and seals the documents as he is told to do, with a little grimace, he never speaks out against his guardian. James is delighted that I am with him again, and I appoint Davy Lyndsay to my household so James has his dearly loved companion at his side every day once again and we are not completely dominated by the Douglas clan.
The court revolves around me and my son, as it should, and we all go hunting and riding out together; we organize little jousts and competitions. When the weather grows warm we all go to Linlithgow, and there is rowing on the lake and James goes fishing for salmon. At night we hold masques and dances and James shows himself to be a good dancer and a musician. No one raised by Davy Lyndsay could fail to be a poet, and James writes the lyrics to his own songs. A band of young noblemen gather around him. I think that some of them are bad influences, drinking too much, playing cards for high stakes, and perhaps whoring. But these are the sports of a young man and, God knows, James’s father was no saint. No one seeing James on horseback or jousting could forget his father. Everyone thinks that he must be granted his power this year or next.
We have news from England and from Europe. The troops of the emperor go on taking ground and even riot inside the gates of Rome, and sack the city. People speak as if every Christian has been killed and all the churches desecrated, as if the end of days must surely come now. The Pope himself is captured by the emperor’s forces, and though I know that I should pray for him, I cannot help thinking of myself, and that this is the end of my hopes of freedom. All Church business will be overseen by the emperor, Katherine’s nephew, so I don’t doubt that my application for an annulment for my marriage has been lost, or burned in the wreck of the Vatican. I don’t believe I will ever be divorced from Archibald, and Henry Stewart will always live outside the court and see me only when we can snatch an afternoon together, which we waste in complaints and regrets. We both think that we will never be allowed to be together, that he will be forever barred from the honor and the profit of royal service and I will never give him a half-royal heir.
My brother never writes to me now. Scotland and England have signed the peace treaty and evidently he feels that my work is done and that he has no need of my affection. Mary writes me a letter of such dizzy despair that I have to read and reread it to even understand what she is saying. God knows what is happening in London.