Three Sisters, Three Queens

HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, WINTER 1532

Davy Lyndsay comes to court for a poetry joust. We hold a “flyting,” when one poet laughingly abuses another in a stream of extempore insults. James is witty and he has the court roaring at his abuse of his companion, complaining of everything from his terrible snoring to outrageous claims that he gets his rhymes from a book. Davy replies with a strong complaint about James’s promiscuity. I clap my hands over my ears and say that I will hear no more, but James laughs and says that Davy says no worse than the truth and that he must be married or he will repopulate the barren Marches with little Jameses.

When the laughter and poetry have finished there is dancing and Davy comes to kiss my hand and watch the dancers at my side. “He’s no worse than any young man,” I say.

“I am sorry to disagree with you,” Davy says. “But he is. Every night he rides out to visit a woman in the town or outside it, and when he doesn’t go beyond the palace walls he’s with one of the serving maids or even with one of the ladies. He’s a coney, Your Grace.”

“He’s very handsome,” I say indulgently. “And he’s a young man. I know my ladies flirt with him, how should he refuse them?”

“He should be married,” Davy says.

I nod. “I know. It’s true.”

“The Princess Mary will never do for him,” Davy says determinedly. “I am sorry to pass a comment on your family, Your Grace, but your niece will not do. Her title cannot be relied upon. Her position is not certain.”

I cannot disagree any more. Harry did not take his own legitimate daughter with him on a state visit to France; he took his bastard boy, Henry Fitzroy, and left him there on a visit with the King of France’s own children, as if he were a born prince. Nobody can be sure what title Henry Fitzroy will be given next, but Harry looks as if he is preparing him to be royal. Nobody can be sure that Princess Mary will keep her title; nobody even knows if you can take a title from a princess. No king, in the history of the world, has tried to do such a thing before.

“She was born with royal blood. Nobody can deny that.”

“Alas,” is all he says.

We are silent for a minute.

“Do you hear of your own daughter, Lady Margaret?” Davy asks gently.

“Archibald will not let her come to me. He’s put her in service to Lady Anne Boleyn.” I feel my mouth twist with contempt, and I smooth out my expression. “She is high in favor with the king her uncle. It is said to be an enviable position.”

“Young James wants to marry the French king’s daughter,” Davy remarks. “It’s been considered for years, she has a handsome dowry and it is the Auld Alliance.”

“Harry won’t like it,” I predict. “He won’t want France meddling in the affairs of Scotland.”

“No need for them to meddle,” Davy asserts. “She comes to be his wife, she’s not a regent. And we need the money she would bring. You won’t get a dowry like hers from Scots girls like Margaret Erskine!”

“Princess Madeleine of France it is then,” I say. “Unless we hear good news from England.”

Davy Lyndsay looks at me with a wry smile. “You hope for good news from England?”

“Not really, not any more. I never have good news from England any more.”