Next day, I demand to see the Duke of Albany in person. I call for my horse and, sitting pillion for comfort, I ride up the Via Regis from Holyroodhouse Palace to the castle at the very top of the hill. Everyone cheers me as I go by, for I am still beloved in my capital city and the people remember when I rode in, seated behind my husband the king.
I smile and I wave, and I hope that the so-called duke regent is hearing the cheers as I come to the crest of the hill and over the drawbridge and into the castle. He will learn that he cannot act against me and mine.
I am admitted at once and I go from the great chamber through into the privy chamber, and there is Albany himself, as smart and perfumed as always. He bows very low to me, as he should, and I am gracious to him and we agree that we shall both sit. They bring us chairs, and mine is a little higher, and I sit and do not sigh with exhaustion though my back aches, nor do I lean back and clasp my round belly. I sit with my hands held in my lap, as upright as Katherine of Arrogant, and I say:
“All the charges against Gavin Douglas are false and he must be released at once.”
“The charges?” Albany repeats, as if it has slipped his mind that he has arrested my husband’s uncle.
“I understand that he is charged with colluding and conspiring with England against the interests of Scotland,” I say boldly. “And I am here to tell you that he did not do so, and would not do so. You have my word.”
He flushes and I think, triumphantly, that I have out-bluffed him, and that he will have to release Gavin, and how pleased Archibald will be. Ard was in a panic after his uncle’s arrest, doubting my judgment, anxious to hurry us back to Stirling, fearful that we have made terrible mistakes, in terror for his grandfather. Now he will see that I am indeed the great queen he fell in love with, and I can still command.
But Albany’s blush is not for himself: it is embarrassment for me. He shakes his head, looking away, and then he rises to his feet and goes to a table in the corner of the room and picks up some papers. “There are letters,” he says reluctantly. “Letters from Gavin Douglas to your brother the king through Lord Dacre, who is such an enemy to our peace. They show that your husband’s uncle asked the English to support his bid for the sees of Saint Andrews and Dunkeld, and that they did so. They show that he paid for the Church appointment. He is corrupt, and your brother favored him at your request.”
“I . . .” Now I am lost for words and I can feel the rising heat in my face as he confronts me with Gavin Douglas’s crimes. “But this is not against the interests of Scotland . . .” I am floundering.
“It is plotting with a foreign power,” he says simply. “It is treason. I also have letters that passed between your brother, King of England, and you,” he continues very quietly. “You invited him to make false proposals of peace to the Scots parliament, while you secretly asked him to invade. You asked him—Scotland’s enemy—to invade your own country. You sent letters in secret, you used a code. The letters show that you are betraying your country to the English.”
I cannot meet his reproachful eyes. “I asked my own brother for help. There is nothing wrong with that.”
“You advised him how to trick your own lords.”
“My people are rebelling against me. I cannot trust the lords . . .”
“I am sorry, Your Grace, but I know that you are plotting against Scotland. I know that you plan to run away to England, that Lord Dacre is ready to take you to your brother.”
I am so mortified that I feel tears coming into my eyes and I let them rise and fall. I put my hand to my hot forehead while with the other I clasp my belly. “I am alone!” I whisper. “A royal widow! I have to protect the king’s sons, I have to have the help of my family. I have to be able to write to my brother. I have to be able to write to my sisters, my dear sisters.” I glance up from under my wet eyelashes to see if he is moved.
He goes to take my hand, but he checks himself.
“Pardon Gavin Douglas,” I beg him. “And Lord Drummond. All they have done has been in my defense. You don’t know what the lords are like! They will turn on you too.”
He is beautifully mannered: he begs me not to cry and from inside his silk jacket he produces his own handkerchief, also silk, embroidered by his wife, a French heiress, with her crest and initials. Who carries a handkerchief in Scotland? They wouldn’t even know what one was.
I hold it to my eyes. It has the lightest of perfumes. I peep at him over it. “My lord?” I ask. I think I have won him over.
He bows low but he speaks coldly: “Alas, Your Grace, I cannot oblige you in this,” and then he goes from the room.
Goes from the room! Without being dismissed! Without a word more! And I am left with tears on my cheeks, having to get up and ride back to Archibald and tell him that his grandfather and his uncle will stay imprisoned, and that Albany knows what we are plotting, and so we are lost. I cannot force this duke to do anything. He is all but incorruptible. I have nothing to show for this but the knowledge that they know our plans before we do, and a silk handkerchief.
But then—just as I knew they would—the lords turn against the Duke of Albany. Perversely, in a fit of temper at foreign manners and French etiquette, the parliament order that Lord Drummond is to be freed in the autumn. He may have been in the wrong to strike the Lyon Herald, but he is a Scots lord, and if anyone can be in the wrong in Edinburgh with everyone’s blessing, it is a Scots lord. They only obey the rules that they admire, and they are not going to be taught manners by a French-raised newcomer.
I write to my brother that now is our chance. The lords have had their moment of love for Albany, now they want to return to their true king. If Harry will help me, I can buy some of them, hire others, and persuade the rest. But he must be aware that I am surrounded by enemies. If they make me write to him against my will I will sign my letter with the signature of our grandmother, Margaret R; if I am writing my own mind I will sign Margaret. He must watch for this, he must conspire with me, he must send me soldiers at once. We have everything to play for now, we Tudors. We are about to win.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1515
The duke regent, Albany, may have been bested by the parliament, but they agree with him that my son the king is not safe in my keeping. He is going to come for my son. Both my sons. He won’t take James without my baby Alexander. Both my children are to be taken from me and I have no power to resist.
Albany may be a great courtier, but I am a great queen. I allow the parliament to come to the drawbridge at Stirling Castle and I stand in the great gateway holding my eldest little boy by the hand. We look both pathetic and indomitable. I have taught James to hold up his head and not to say a word, not to scuff his feet or gaze about. It is as well that I have coached him in the ways of majesty, for outside the castle walls is the whole of the town, come as if to a fair, to see what will happen when the French duke brings the newly appointed royal guardians to take the little king away from his mother.
It’s as good as a play for them, and I make sure that we look like the heroine and her child in a play. Behind me, my hundred-strong household servants and guards stand to attention, in complete silence, their faces grave. My handsome young husband waits with his hand on his sword as if he would challenge anyone to single combat if they dare to come against me.