Three Sisters, Three Queens

BERWICK CASTLE, ENGLAND, SUMMER 1517

My guards and, after them, the lords and ladies of my small household ride towards the little town of Berwick and remark on the pretty gleaming stone, the river before the castle, the sea beyond. I remember coming here and gripping Ard’s hand when the captain of the castle would not admit us. Now, I smile grimly as the cannon bawl out a salute, the drawbridge rattles down, the portcullis clanks up, and the captain of the castle hurries out, his officers behind him, his lady behind them, his bonnet under his arm, his face wreathed in obsequious smiles.

I don’t dismount. I let him come to my stirrup and bow his head to his knees. I let him read his speech of welcome. I don’t reproach the town of Berwick for sending me out into the darkness to find refuge at Coldstream Priory, but I won’t forget it either. Then, from under the shadow of the gatehouse, I see a slight, tall figure step forward. I blink. I cannot be sure what I am seeing. I rub my eyes with the backs of my hands. It cannot be him, and yet it is him. It is Archibald. My husband has come to greet me.

“My love,” is all I say. I forget in a moment everything that I have heard against him, everything that I have feared.

Quickly, he steps towards my horse and reaches up for me. I spring down into his arms and he holds me closely. My head against his shoulder, his mouth on my neck, I feel the familiar lithe hardness of him, and know, with a little delicious shudder, his strangeness. We have not been together for more than a year. I lean back in his arms to look at his face. His skin is as dark as a gypsy’s from the months of living rough on the borders. There is a hardness about his profile that reminds me of the two old lords, those two great men, his grandfathers. I married a boy, but this is a man who has come to claim me. At once Harry seems soft and lazy, his court rich and overblown. My sister is a delicate doll married to a jouster, a pretend warrior. A man like my husband needs a woman like me, with courage to match his own, with ambition that runs neck and neck with his.

“I know you are well. I have heard nothing but praise for you on your journey,” he says against my hair. “And my daughter?”

I turn and beckon her nursemaid. Margaret, russet as a Tudor, smiles and waves at the stranger as she has been trained to do. “A princess!” her father exclaims, with real tenderness in his voice. “My little girl.”

He tightens his arm around my waist. “Come in. There’s a feast ready for you and a celebration planned. Scotland wants its queen back. I can’t wait to get you over the border.”

The captain of the castle bows again, his lady curtseys, their household snatch the hats from their heads and drop to their knees as Archibald walks past with my hand in his. I see him glance across the hundreds of people bowing as we go by and the proud curl of his smile, and I know that he will always love me better than any woman in Scotland while every man drops to his knees at the sight of me. Archibald was born to marry a queen. I am her.

He pauses before a stunningly handsome man, dressed all in white.

“You remember the Sieur de la Bastie?” Archibald says without much warmth in his voice. “He is serving as the regent while the Duke of Albany stays in France.” His tone makes it clear that the Duke of Albany makes no difference to us, in France or in Scotland, and that I would be wise not to admire the dazzling nobleman who bends over my hand and kisses it.

“Of course I remember the chevalier. We are old friends.”

“You are welcome home, Your Grace,” he says. He straightens up and tosses his head so his mane of chestnut-brown hair falls away from his face. He smiles at me. “I am sure that we can work together.”