Three Sisters, Three Queens

EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND, AUGUST 1515

I am a prisoner of my own people. My son the king, the true King of Scotland, and his brother, the next heir, are held in Stirling Castle, honored as guests, but really prisoners of the false duke who holds the keys. I, the queen regent, am held in Edinburgh Castle as if I were a criminal, as if I were a prisoner awaiting trial, awaiting execution.

God knows what is going to become of us. George Douglas disappeared before the cannons were even brought before the castle. So much for him guarding me so that his brother could get to safety—at the first sight of Mons he was gone. The other servants melted away. I don’t know where Archibald is, I don’t know why Harry does not demand of the French king that Albany return my castle to me. I took my little boy James down the stairs to surrender the castle at the front gate, and, like the little king he is, he did not waver. He is only three years old but he is princely. My little son held the keys to Stirling Castle and gave them to this French puppet, without a moment’s trembling.

A true man, a true chevalier, would never have parted a mother from her boys and turned her out of her own home. But Albany put me in the charge of lords faithful to his own rule, and sent me back to Edinburgh Castle. My boys he returned to their nursery at Stirling. Davy Lyndsay went with them, with a little bow to me, as if to say that wherever James goes, his faithful guardian will go too. Albany took his army onward, hunting my innocent husband and his family. He says he will see the rule of law running from sea to sea in Scotland. He says he has been made governor by the council of lords and is going to rule justly. He is not the man to do it. There was one man who could do it; but he is gone, and Katherine of Aragon holds his body, half forgotten, encased in lead, somewhere in a box in London.

I get urgent letters from Dacre and swift scribbled notes from Archibald, urging me to get away at the first opportunity. Now we see how far Albany will go, how terribly he will act. I know that I am not safe in his keeping, and I am near to my time. I cannot go into confinement as a prisoner. If I die in childbed then I will leave two orphans in the care of my enemy.

I send a message to Albany that I want to go to Linlithgow Palace for my lying-in and he makes me sign a letter to Harry to tell him that I am going into confinement and that I am happy leaving my sons in the hands of their cousin. Lies. I am desperate with worry and I sign my name “Margaret R,” as our grandmother used to sign hers—the sign to Harry that I am under duress, but I don’t even know if he will remember this code. I don’t even know if spies will intercept my letter and copy it wrongly to him. I don’t know that Lord Dacre will tell him the terrible danger that we are in. I don’t know where my husband is tonight.

That night, feverish with the weight of the baby on my belly, I turn restlessly from one side to the other and feel the baby shift and grind on my bones, as if I am breaking open like a walnut in the crackers. I think that nowhere is safe. Nowhere is safe for me if my brother will not protect me as he should. Nowhere is safe if my sisters don’t advocate for me. And I don’t even know if they are praying for me as sisters should. They have sent no Virgin’s girdle, no good wishes. I don’t even know if they are thinking of me at all.

As soon as I am dressed for the journey I sink into a chair, turn to my lady-in-waiting and say, “I am ill, I am sick. Tell the duke that I need to see my husband.”

She hesitates.

“It is a matter of life and death,” I say. “Tell the duke that I fear I am failing fast.”

That frightens her. She scuttles down the stairs like a mouse with a broom behind it, hurrying into the castle to find the duke’s many French servants and make them understand that the queen regent is causing trouble . . . again. As we descend the stairs I put out both my hands to my ladies and they guide me down to the stable yard where my litter is waiting for me. On the turn of the stairs I am faint and have to stop. I cannot stand, and have to rest on the windowsill. By the time we are in the stable yard, filled with my enormous baggage train and my waiting retinue, Albany has arrived and is bowing before me.

“I am sorry, my lord,” I say weakly. “I cannot greet you as I should. I have to make such a long journey, and then I will take to my bed.”

“Please . . .” He almost dances on the spot, he is so filled with courteous chagrin. “Is there anything I can do? Can I fetch anything? Physicians?”

I stagger a little. “I fear . . .” I say. “I fear that my child may come early. This is a dangerous time. I have been forced to travel at the most dangerous time. My life . . .”

He blanches at the thought that his tyranny over me might lead me to lose a child, perhaps to my death. He is under instruction from the French king to rule Scotland but not to make matters any worse between Scotland and England. If he kills me, then my sisters will be forced to complain, Harry will take action, realizing that he has been wickedly, shamefully remiss. If I die then the world will blame Albany; and those who have not prized me in life will be anguished with grief at my death.

I double up. “The pain!” I gasp.

My ladies rush towards me, and I let them help me into the litter, put a warm brick under my feet, an earthenware bottle filled with hot water against my straining belly. “My husband,” I whisper. “I must see Archibald once more. I cannot go into confinement without his blessing.”

I see Albany stop and turn again. He has been pursuing Archibald with a charge of treason, determined to see him on the scaffold.

“You have to pardon him,” I pant. “I have to see him. I have to say farewell. What if I never come out of confinement? What if I never see him again?”

Albany does not want to be remembered as the governor who drove the queen to death while he was chasing her young husband through the borderlands, up hill and down dale in country where no stranger could ever overtake a Scot. “It was treason!” he says feebly. “He was guilty of treason. He was ordered to join with the other lords.”

“How could he besiege his own wife? It made no sense to ask it of him!” I snap, for a moment forgetting my part, and then I recoil and clutch my back. “Aah—something is wrong. Where are the midwives?”

“I’ll pardon him, and send him to you at Linlithgow,” Albany assures me. Like any man he is desperate to be away from a woman suffering with mysterious pains. “I will send out a message and tell him he is free to come to you. Take care, my lady. Take care, Your Grace. Should you really be traveling? Should you not stay here?”

“I insist,” I say weakly. “I have to have my baby at Linlithgow with my husband at my side.”

“I will make sure of it,” he promises me.

I nod, I don’t even thank him, as the faintness sweeps over me as I lean back in the arms of my ladies. They lay me down on the goose-down pillows, they flutter around the litter, and I wave them away and command them to drop the curtains. When the litter is shielded by the thick curtains of cloth of gold and they are mounting their horses to escort me, and Albany is gone, I sit up and hug myself, and have to put my hands over my mouth to muffle my joyous laughter.