Three Sisters, Three Queens

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.

“This is what it is to be a Scots lord,” Archibald tells me. “I am born and bred here and so are my men. I cannot help myself but I must lead them. They cannot help themselves but they must follow me. We are kin, we are sworn to one another, we are of the clan.”

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “It is the greatest of loves.”

Of course people say that this proves I am not a queen for Scotland, I am not queen for every lord, raising my son to be a king for every man. They say it shows I am in the Douglas camp but what else can I do? The parliament have fulfilled their threats, denied my regency and sent for the Duke of Albany to come from France. All very well for the French king to write to me with such careful courtesy and promise that he will not send Albany to Scotland unless I ask for him, the Scots lords are demanding him to replace me.

The Lord Chancellor, James Beaton, comes to see me, bearing the seal that stamps every law. I say that he should leave it with me; he says that he is to hold it. Laws must be made when the king commands parliament, not when a woman, a mere mother of a king, takes some whim into her head. I am beyond fury that he should speak to me like this. I exchange a glance with Archibald and I see him go white around the mouth.

“You dare insult me,” I say. “I am regent. Don’t forget who makes the laws in this land.”

“Don’t forget who holds the seal,” he says. “I am lord chancellor.”

Like a boastful fool he holds it up in my face. It is a big silver thing, the size of a dinner plate, carved and grooved to be filled with the hot wax. He holds it before me as if it were a looking glass and I see my furious face distorted in the carving.

“That’s easily mended,” Archibald says and, like a child, snatches it from the lord chancellor’s hand and darts to the other side of the room.

I breathe “Archibald!” in absolute horror, and his grandfather shouts: “Angus! No!” But before anyone can say anything he has dashed from the room, the great seal of Scotland in his hands, as if he were rushing a trencher to a table. The lord chancellor looks at me, his mouth agape, as if he is gasping for air like a landed carp.

I can say nothing. It is so funny and so naughty, so powerful and yet so childish. I exchange one horrified glance with Archibald’s grandfather and then I take up my skirts and I swirl from the room before anyone can say anything to me. I burst into my privy chamber and find Ard dancing around, waving the seal over his head, a beam of triumph on his face. I cannot scold him.

“We’ll have to give it back,” I say.

“Never!” he shouts like a pirate in a play.

“We will, and we will be in terrible trouble.”

“What can they do? What dare they to do to us?”

“They have stopped all my rents, I have no money; they can demand that Albany comes; they can insist that my son goes into their keeping . . .” I volunteer the list. “That’s just the start of it.”

“They can do nothing,” he declares. “You are Queen of Scotland, I am your husband. You are the mother of the king. They can come on their knees to you. They are nothing but rebels and traitors, and now we have the great seal we can pass any law that we want.”

I long for him to be right, and his grandfather and all his kinsmen, both Drummonds and Douglases, agree with him. They say we can defy the lords who disagree with us. When we take this bold position of power, other lords come over to our side. Lord Dacre says that the lords who oppose me and would send for the French heir, Albany, are my enemies, pure and simple, and that I must use the power of the Douglas clan to impose my will on them. England will support me if I make war on them. Archibald says we have to appoint our own government, and so I name his uncle, Bishop Gavin Douglas, as a rival Lord Chancellor and summon a parliament—a rival parliament—to meet under our command at Perth.

I think this may be a great gamble, a powerful, courageous gamble. For the very lords who have sworn to reduce me are obliged to send me a message from the Duke of Albany, who has ruined their treasonous game by the chivalrous fairness of his response. He will only agree to come to Scotland as an advisor; he will not be my enemy, he will not usurp my son’s power. He will not come at their bidding but only at mine.

But what am I to do with the lords? They are rebelling against me and I have no money for an army and no men to muster. It is all very well for Ard to say that we shall set a siege and they will never take Stirling. It is no life for us to be cooped up in a castle while the parliament are sending to France for their preferred regent. I write to Harry and say however busy he is with Mary and her beautiful gowns, her magnificent betrothal and her wonderful voyage to France, he must send me an army for I am besieged by my own people. I say that I am in Stirling for my own safety, but now I find I cannot leave. I am imprisoned in my own castle, and the only one who can rescue me is Harry.

Harry sends me messages through Lord Dacre, Warden of the Marches, who I must now consider a true ally and a friend. Clearly, Harry will not help me as he should. He tells me that he cannot send an army to Scotland for me and my husband the co-regent, because he has just heard that we attacked the Lord Lyon King of Arms and snatched the seal from the Lord Chancellor. Harry says that I am not safe in Scotland and that I must get myself and my sons out of the power of these rebel lords. He tells me that I must flee to Lord Dacre, who will bring me to London. He promises that my boys will be raised as English princes and James will be named as his heir. But I have to get out of Stirling and cross the border to England before Albany arrives and imprisons me. Harry says that he has done his very best with his new brother-in-law, the French king, to ensure that Albany will not come—but if the Scots lords have turned against me and invited him, what can anyone do?

I take the letter to Archibald. “He won’t send an army,” I say shortly. “He says we must escape to England. Ard, what shall we do?”

He looks sick with fear, my brave young husband is afraid for the first time in his life. I feel a powerful wave of tenderness towards him. He was counting on my brother to support us with an army. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”