My young husband and I attend the council meeting like two children called before angry guardians, and then there is a meeting of the parliament. Everyone is furious, the lords are angry and divided, the parliament of lesser men is outraged at my behavior. They were already furious with Ard for aspiring to marry me, and disgusted with me for marrying him, but now they are filled with complaints about the history of the Douglas clan.
Old legends that I never heard before are invoked against my young husband as if centuries-old crimes are all his fault. I am as calm and as thoughtful as I can be, meeting many of them individually, trying to explain to them that Archibald will be a force for unity in this troubled country, that he will help me be a good queen for all the clans. We will not favor Clan Douglas; the throne has not been captured by Clan Drummond. But they swear that the Douglas family has made attempts on the throne before, that my own husband the late king made it his life’s work to keep them humble. They say things about the family and about John Drummond that I cannot believe. They say he sold his own daughter to my royal husband. They tell me that Archibald’s other grandfather, Bell the Cat, fought James for the favors of Janet Kennedy and James threw him into prison indefinitely, only releasing him because he needed his sons to lead their men at Flodden.
“Don’t say that,” I interrupt. I can’t bear to think of Archibald’s bright young honor sullied with any of these old lusts. Ard and I are a groom and bride new-come to each other, fresh to happiness. We have no connection with my husband’s lovers, nothing to do with the messy feuds and quarrels of the Scots lords. We are young and clean; this is old, dirty history. “The Earl of Angus is devoted to me. Nothing that his grandfather or his father did matters now.”
They disagree. They say he is the head of the Red Douglases, a family even worse than the Black Douglases, and that they have been a danger to the throne from the time of James II.
“This is ancient, ancient history,” I say. “Who cares about all this now?”
But they are determined never to forget old injuries. Nobody is newborn in Scotland; everyone is an heir to injustice, plotting revenge. When I say that Ard will sit beside me and share the regency, they swear this will never happen. Despite all that I say, though I remind them of their oaths of loyalty to me, to my son, they will not hear another thing but declare they will send for the Duke of Albany to take my place and be governor.
This is the French-raised duke, an heir to the Scottish throne, the very man that my brother Harry said I should keep out of Scotland. “He may not come,” I tell them.
“We forbid it,” Ard says.
Lord Hume declares that I have lost the regency by losing my widowhood. The Earl of Arran says that as a Hamilton he should have a higher place in government than a Douglas. Ard says simply in my ear, “We’re not safe here, we must go back to Stirling,” and I cannot control my delight at the thought of running away from all this anger and unhappiness. So that very night we take our horses and a small guard and we get away from my capital city as if we were a pair of vagabonds and not the ruling regent and her consort—or co-regent as I swear Ard shall be when we return.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, AUTUMN 1514
My sister Mary writes her last letter from England, her last letter as an English princess. She says that when she next writes it will be as a French queen. I grit my teeth at this and remind myself that at least I have chosen my husband and I could not be happier. Really, I could not be happier. I have married for love and I care nothing for the disapproval of the council.
As I read her letter, my natural envy—eighteen wagons sealed with the royal French fleur-de-lys, a more elegant symbol than my Scots thistle—fades away and I start to feel sorry for my little sister. In some parts the letters are smudged into illegibility and I think that she was crying as she wrote and her tears blotted her words. She tells me that she is in love, deeply and truly in love, with a gentleman, a nobleman, the most handsome in the court, probably in the world. She has struck a bargain with Harry, one that she swears he must honor. They have agreed that when the King of France dies she shall be free to marry the man of her choice. Coyly, she does not say who it is, but judging from her childish infatuation for Charles Brandon I guess it must be the newly made duke.
Will you support me? Oh, Margaret, will you be a good sister to me? Will you remind Harry of his solemn promise? The day must come that I am a widow, for the old king cannot live long, I am sure that he cannot. Will you help me to follow your example and marry once for the benefit of my family, and the second time for love?
Her hand wobbly with emotion, she writes that she cannot bear to go to France and marry the old French king without being certain that she has to endure only a short while, that she will one day be happy.
I could not do this without hope of the future. I hear that your husband, the Earl of Angus, is young and handsome—I am so glad of this for you, dear Margaret. Will you be a true sister to me, and help me to be as happy as you are, with the man that I love?
I think: how ridiculous she is—there is no comparison. Ard is the great love of my life, from the noblest family in Scotland. He was raised to lead one of the greatest houses, his kinsmen are members of the lords’ council, his grandfather was Lord Justice, his father died nobly at Flodden, he has royal blood. Charles Brandon is an adventurer who was married for money and then betrothed for profit. He kidnapped a wife and she died in childbirth. He married an old lady for her fortune and abandoned her. He has wended his way upwards by charm, sporting skill, and by being one of Harry’s uncritical cronies. My Archibald is a nobleman, Brandon a stable boy.
But I reply to her kindly, my silly little sister, smiling as I write. I say that I am sending her a book of hours as a wedding gift and that she should pray and think on God’s will; He will take her husband in His own good time. If that day comes I will gladly remind our brother that she wishes to choose her next husband, and I think, but I do not say, that she is a fool to hope to ruin herself, demean herself for love. I say that she must do her best as a Queen of France and as the wife of Louis—I think of him as the old lecher but I do not say that either. I write that I hope she is able to give him a child, though my lip curls even as I write it. How shall such a diseased old man get a son? I say that I hope that she will find happiness in her new country with her husband and I mean it—this is my dear little sister, as pretty as a doll and as brainless. From my pinnacle of experience and happiness I promise to pray for her. I am afraid of what he will do to her, I am afraid for her. I will pray, as she will, that the old monster dies quickly and sets her free.
Finding a messenger to take my letter and smuggling him out of the sally port at night is like getting a spy out of a castle under siege. The lords of the council have come in force and are barracked in the houses of the town at the foot of the hill. We keep the portcullis down and the gate closed and nobody comes in or goes out without Ard’s express permission. It is his clan who man the lookouts and guard me. I love their fierce undying loyalty to him; they served his grandfather, they served his father, now he has only to call for them and they are his. This is strange and moving for me, for I belong to a family new-come to the throne. We have no one sworn to our service through centuries.