“He’s the best we have. I don’t need him always to agree with me. Actually, I won’t be here to disagree.”
“Don’t say such a thing! And don’t leave me here. I don’t want to wait here for you.” I gesture to the little tower, to the room like a beacon at the top. “I don’t want to stand here and look for you.”
He ducks his head as if this is a reproach. “I pray that when you look, you see me return, standard flying in triumph. And if not, my little sweetheart, then you must manage without me.”
“How will I manage without you?”
“I have appointed my son’s tutor, I have nominated a council of lords.”
“But what about me?” I hear my voice: it is the whimper of the Tudor child, always wondering who comes first.
“I have made you Regent of Scotland.”
I am stunned. “As good as her.”
He smiles wryly. “Yes, as good as her. I knew that would be your first thought. I think of you as highly as Harry thinks of Katherine. But this is not just to make you feel equal to your sister-in-law, Margaret. It is because I think that you can rule this kingdom and raise our son, and keep Scotland safe. I think you can do it. You will have to be cleverer than your brother—but I think you are cleverer than your brother. You will have to become a woman like your grandmother was—devoted only to her child, determined to see him as king. I think you can do that. Don’t let anything distract you, not vanity or lust or greed. Take my advice on this and you will be a good woman, indeed a great woman.” His approval is like a breath of sunny air blowing across the loch.
“But perhaps I won’t have to?” I say, quailing.
“I surely hope you won’t have to.”
We are silent for a moment looking down at the clean waters of the loch and the people boating for pleasure, and those swimming off the shore. Some girls have kilted up their skirts and are paddling, screaming when one of them splashes. Everyone looks so carefree, as if nothing bad could ever happen.
“I don’t know that I can do it,” I say miserably. “If you don’t come back from the battle, I don’t know that I can do it.”
He chucks his hand under my chin and raises my face so that I have to meet his eyes. I have always hated how he does this, when I am forced to look into his own face, as if I were some milkmaid in the dairy and he the all-powerful master. “Nobody knows if they can do it,” he rules. “When they killed my father and I was the one who gave the order and I became king, I was sure that I could not do it. But I did it. I learned to do it. I studied to do it. Be the woman you were born to be and you will see my children on the thrones of Scotland and England. Be a fool and you will lose everything. I think your brother is a fool and will lose everything that he prizes by running after the things that he cannot have. You might have the wisdom to keep what you have. He will always choose to satisfy his own whims rather than being a true king. You must be a queen and not a fool like him.”
LINLITHGOW PALACE, SCOTLAND, AUGUST 1513
I dream terrible dreams: of James sinking beneath the waves and pearls bubbling from his drowning mouth; of walking on a seashore and calling to him, pearls crunching under my feet; of sitting before a mirror and watching him fasten a magnificent necklace of diamonds about my neck which melts into dripping pearls as he ties it. I wake in tears and I say to him: “You will die, I know you will die, and I will never wear diamonds again. I will have to wear pearls for mourning, nothing but pearls, and I will be alone with my son and how will I ever bring him safely to the throne?”
“Hush,” he says gently. “Nothing can stop it going forward.”
He bids me a formal farewell, as if we are a king and queen of a romance. He bows before me and I put my hand on his stubborn red head and give him my blessing. He rises up and kisses my hand. I give him a silk handkerchief embroidered with my initials and he tucks it inside his jacket, as if it were a favor and he was only going jousting. He wears his finest jacket of crimson red embroidered with his name on the collar in gold thread and with his crest of thistles all over the front. I embroidered it myself, it looks very fine. He turns from me and vaults into the saddle of his warhorse, vaults like a boy as if to show me that he is as young and lusty as my brother. He raises his hand, and his personal guard close up behind him and then they move off. The hooves are like thunder, hundreds of big horses moving like one great beast. The dust rises in a cloud. I gesture for the nursemaid to take our boy inside; but I stand and watch till the men are out of sight.
Then we have to wait. I find I keep hoping for a last-minute change of plans. I am a symbol of the perpetual peace; I cannot make myself understand that the peace is broken. They bring me news almost daily. James takes Norham Castle, and then Wark, Etal Castle and others. These are no petty victories; these are great fortresses, engraved on the hearts of the border men, and we are moving the border, pushing it farther and farther south, towards Newcastle. We are taking English castles, we are taking English land. The area that they call the “debatable lands” will be debated no more; it will become Scotland. This is becoming a great expedition: no mere raid, this is a victorious invasion.
Each time the messenger draws close to the castle on the loch, the king’s standard rippling before him, a guard thundering behind him, we become more confident. As we foresaw, Thomas Howard brings all the forces that he can muster, but Thomas Howard is underprovisioned and fearful. He has no reserves, he has no local support. His own English border lords rob his wagon train and steal his horses. His allies are uncertain, and begrudge sending servants to fight at the border when they have already paid fees for a war in France. Harry has taken the flower of his nobility to France to make war for his father-in-law, to oblige his wife. He has left England woefully unprotected. He is a fool. We can win this war against an absent king and halfhearted defenders.
Then James sends a short message to say that they will come to open battle. He will take possession of Branxton Hill. He has outmaneuvered Howard who should, if he had any sense, withdraw to Newcastle. Howard’s soldiers are hungry, thirsty, stealing their own rations, and the borderers—wild men, English and Scots—set upon stragglers, kill them, and strip them naked. James’s army, well fed and well armed, is established on the high ground of Flodden Edge. The English will have to fight uphill against Scots gunners.
I wait for news. A battle must have been joined. Thomas Howard dare not go back to London to face Katherine without a battle to report. If he returns defeated, then the Howard family will be ruined. He has everything to lose. His reputation and the friendship of his king hang in the balance; I know how doggedly, how bitterly he will pursue his only course. But James need not fight, James could withdraw. He and his army could melt away back across our border, and boast of another successful raid on England that frightened them to death in the Northern counties and showed Harry that he cannot treat us with contempt.