“Come and report to me at once,” I say to the captain of the guard. “And bring all your men. They’re not to speak to anyone. They must tell me first.” I turn into the castle and wait beside the great stone fireplace in de la Bastie’s presence chamber as the guards straggle in and stand together.
The captain speaks for them all. “It was an ambush,” he says slowly. “There was no siege of the tower. That was a lie, a feint to draw us out.”
Behind him I can see Ard intently listening. There is no shock on his face, no unease. He might be hearing of the unfolding of a successful plan, perhaps even his own plan.
“Why?” I ask. But I know.
“We met with George Hume and his force just north of Kelso and the chevalier commanded him to come into the town and explain himself. We rode together, side by side, but just outside Langton it turned nasty. Hume drew his sword, all his men drew theirs. The chevalier shouted to us to follow him and gallop back to Duns. They were after us all the way. It wasn’t a battle, it was a trap, an ambush. I thought my lord would get away. He was headed for his castle. But there is a thick part of the wood, you can’t see more than three feet behind you, with a cliff to one side and a steep slope down to the river on your left.” He turns to Archibald. “You know.”
Ard nods. He knows.
“They caught us there, forcing us off the track, driving us down the hill. There’s a marsh at the bend in the river. We fought back but they had the advantage of the ground, and of surprise. More of them poured out of Duns on foot, twisting round the trees, jumping over fallen branches. Our horses struggled, many fell, we got pushed down the hill, and his lordship’s horse went over the bank into the river, the Whiteadder. It’s deep. Most of the other horses went in too. It was a mess: floundering and screaming and men drowning.”
I put my hand to the warm stone of the chimney breast, clinging to it as if the ground is unsafe beneath me as well. “And then?” I hear my voice say thinly. “And then?”
“His lordship came off his horse. His armor weighed him down, but he had one arm around his horse’s neck and they were swimming together, struggling together. I thought he might get to dry land. One of the Humes—John—called out to him, he had one arm around a leaning tree, his feet on the roots, dry-shod in the marsh. He reached out to his lordship and he took his hand.”
“He saved him?” I ask incredulously.
“He drew him towards him like he was pulling him from the marsh, saving him from drowning, and then he stabbed him in the armpit, where he could get the blade in under the armor. His lordship went down and Patrick Hume drew his sword and hacked off his head.”
The other men nod, too stunned to speak.
“You saw this?” Archibald asks. “Where were you?”
“I had fallen over a tree stump,” one man says.
“I was on my horse on the road.”
“I was fighting out of the marsh.”
“I fell from my horse. God forgive me, I lay still.”
“And what then?” I ask unsteadily.
They bow their heads, they shuffle their feet. They ran away, but they don’t want to admit it.
“Did many come home?” Ard asks. “Did the Humes not pursue you? It’s not like them not to finish the task.”
They shake their heads. “We’re the only ones that got away, I think,” the captain says. “But it was getting dark, and you could see nothing among the trees, it wasn’t like a battle at all, more like a brawl. There might be others, run off home. There might be others stuck like fish in a barrel, drowned like kittens in the river.”
“Not like a joust,” Archibald says with a swift smile to me. “And he was always so beautiful in the joust.”
NEWARK CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1517
We go to Newark Castle as we planned, leaving Craigmillar with the chevalier’s standard at half-mast in deepest mourning. It is a miserable journey in cold driving rain. I am glad that my boy, James, does not come with us and Margaret stays behind in the nursery. But it is odd to ride into my own castle that I hardly know. I find I am looking around for any signs that another woman has lived here, but my rooms are bare and clean and the bed linen fresh and newly changed and the strewing rushes green on the floor. There is no evidence at all that anyone has used this house. I think that the chevalier must have forgotten his code of honor when he spoke against Archibald to me. And Ard is right—all great people are the subject of slander.
My son James cannot come with us because the lords of the council command that he goes back to the greater safety of Edinburgh Castle. Now, since the death of Antoine de la Bastie, they fear their own shadows. They don’t trust me not to steal him away to England, and now that the deputy regent has been murdered they fear that this is the start of an uprising against the regency.
“They suspect that your uncle Gavin Douglas will kidnap my son for me,” I say to Archibald. “They have no faith in anyone.”
“Foolish,” he says levelly. “Is there any charge?”
“No! It is just gossip,” I say. Something in his face makes me hesitate. “Surely it is nothing but gossip, isn’t it?” I ask him. “Nobody would be so mad as to try to kidnap James and take him from his own country? Your uncle would not think of such a thing? Ard—you would not allow such a thing?”
“Wouldn’t James be safer in England?” Archibald asks me. “Wouldn’t we all be safer over the border? If they can kill the deputy regent, your partner?”
“No! James has to stay here. How will he ever get his throne if he is in exile?”
“If he were in England, wouldn’t your brother feel honor-bound to restore him? He gave you money and sent you home to rule.”
“I don’t know.” I cannot promise for Harry. I have hardly heard from him since I came home. I am afraid that when I am not there before him, I slip from his mind. He is careless. He is a careless young man.
It is not just the lords’ council who are fearful and shocked by the death of de la Bastie. They say that George Hume took a handful of the chevalier’s beautiful long brown hair and tied his severed head to his saddlecloth like a trophy. He rode with it banging against his knees all the way to Duns and he nailed it to the mercat cross.
“This is savagery,” I say.
“It’s opportunity,” Ard corrects me. He takes my hand and draws me away from the smoking fire in the center of the great hall. It is early in the morning and the autumn light is bright and clear. If I were in England in weather like this I would go hunting. It is a perfect day, the air so cold, the ground frost-hard, the light so bright. Here, I stay indoors and look from the window, and wonder if I am safe.
“Walk with me,” Ard says, his voice warm.
I let him put my hand on his back, tucked into his belt, while he walks with his arm around my waist. He leads me away from the household preparing the hall for dinner, out of the heavy wooden doorway and down the steps to the green outside. A few steps more and we are over the drawbridge and looking down on the forest tumbling down the hill below us, the heads of the trees bronze and copper, only the pines dark deep green.
“The country is without a leader,” Ard says. “Albany away, and never coming back, de la Bastie dead. The only person here who can take the regency is you.”
“I won’t profit from his death,” I say with sudden revulsion.
“Why not? He would have done so if he had the chance. Since he is dead, you can take your rightful place.”
“They don’t trust me,” I say resentfully.
“They are all in the pay of the French. But the French regent is away and the French deputy regent is dead. Now is the chance for England and for those who love the English princess.”
“Harry himself told me that we must have peace. I was married to bring peace to Scotland and I came back to try again.”