by D. L. Bogdan
“The position would have been a blessing for our family,” Angus said. “But as it is, His Holiness favors Andrew Forman for when old William Elphinstone passes. That is a battle we can fight later together.”
I laughed at this. “Oh, can we, now?” It was both unnerving and exciting, the thought of fighting a battle beside Angus, the thought of having someone to support me.
Angus’s smile was soft. “It serves you that the council seems to have overlooked the possible . . . controversy of your recommendation for now and all has been forgiven; the Pope did agree to Elphinstone, which was your ultimate pick, was it not? So you are still in favor. Who could not favor you, when your heart is so pure and well intended?”
I dismissed the compliment with a wave of one bejeweled hand. “I am grateful they have. If we can keep Scotland united for the sake of this little boy then perhaps it will ease his way when he reaches his majority.” I cast adoring eyes at Little Jamie, who was making a show of moving chess pieces randomly about the board with Angus, who deferred to His Grace with the utmost respect during their mock foray.
Angus’s eyes grew distant. “We can hope. It will not be easy for this little one. So many yearn to control him, and though this document was signed in allegiance to you—in essence him—there are those who will endlessly plot to manipulate him to suit their own ends.”
The words frightened me and echoed Jamie’s ominous warning to me before he died. “The curse of child-kings,” I commented, thinking of Jamie and his grandfather before him. “I will protect him,” I vowed, my voice wavering with fervency. “They will not touch him as long as I am regent.” I reached out to caress my son’s cheek, but my hand never reached its destination, for Angus at once seized it in his. I flinched at his warm touch. I should have scolded him, reminded him of the offense of touching my person without permit. Had Ellen been present, the act may have driven her to slap him outright. But all I could do was hold his hand.
“I will protect him as well,” Angus said. “And, Your dearest Grace, I will protect you. If you will let me.”
“What do you mean?” I breathed.
Angus lowered his eyes a moment, caressing my thumb with his forefinger. “As your friend, as your adviser . . .” He raised his eyes, gazing into my face through to my heart. “And perhaps more.”
I withdrew my hand as an image of Jamie, his eyes so cautious and prudent, presented itself before my mind’s eye. I blinked it away. Jamie was gone. It was Angus here with me now, with my children, loving them and entertaining and guiding them. Angus, who was so handsome and fussed over me, making me feel almost lovely again.
I drew in a quavering breath. “Angus, you must be very careful,” I warned. “I have not even been a year widowed. Should I marry again, I must consider the wishes of my brother Henry and the council. And, not least of all, the regency—”
“Is all but secure now with the signing of that statement,” Angus assured me. “Your Grace . . . Margaret.” His tone grew reverent as he addressed the woman and not the queen. My heart began to pound. “You married for duty as a child. A second marriage is usually never under such obligation. Seize your right as a woman grown to choose and be chosen for love. We have suffered much, you and I. We have lost more than what is deserved in one lifetime. It may be irregular, but what is regular about the times we live in, when death stalks us all day to day and uncertainty is our only constant?”
“Angus . . .” I began. “You cannot speak of this. You must not. People will not look kindly on our match; they will think you are taking advantage. They will think of the benefits for the house of Douglas and the jealousy will tear the kingdom apart.”
“We will make them see!” he cried. “In time they will accept it. When they see me as your husband, when they see us as a family. Can you not see we are a family, Margaret? Have you not felt what I have been feeling these past months?”
I tilted my head back, resting it against the cushion of my chair, closing my eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I did not feel it,” I confessed. “But too much works against us. And you are considered quite young.”
“But I am of your own age! And your brother King Henry is young, is he not? And yet is he not a husband? His marriage is unshakeable!” Angus argued. “What is youth, Margaret, really?”
I rose, calling the nurse to take the children. I did not want them present for this discussion and needed a moment to collect myself, to ponder this remarkable circumstance. Had I not been trysting with the idea since meeting Angus? Could it be possible the council would support the action and see it as a boon for the boys to have a living father and a good Scotsman to defend their queen? It was too much to hope and there was far too much to fear.
When I returned, Angus was on his feet. He held out his hands. It would have been rude not to take them in mine.
I bowed my head. “You could have anyone,” I told him. “Someone fetching and slim.” I swallowed the growing lump in my throat. “Look at me, Angus! I have just had a baby. I am not . . .” Shame gripped me as I thought of my reflection in the glass. I hated to see myself now, my body gone soft and round with the rigors of childbearing. “I am not comely anymore. I am growing stout!”
“You have a woman’s curves now, if that is what you mean by that ridiculous tangent,” Angus said. There was something new to his tone now, something beyond his fervency. It was akin to authority. . . but not quite. “And I would rather have a solid woman at my side than a willowy girl who would blow away at the slightest breeze. Come now, that was funny. Give me a smile, won’t you?”
I obliged. The twinkle in his eye would have made it impossible not to. “You mean, you do not think me . . . fat?” The word sounded vulgar on my tongue.
Angus shook his head with vehemence. “I never want to hear that word again,” he ordered. “You are not just the Queen of Scotland but a queen among women. You are beautiful to me. You . . . you and those two bonny lads . . . are . . .”—his voice softened—“everything to me.”
I expelled a breath, not realizing I had been holding it in. He thought me beautiful. How I needed to feel desired again! And he dared see me as a woman, not as a queen. And the boys, he loved them as boys. He thought me beautiful....
“I will,” I heard myself whisper.
With this Angus seized my face between his hands, planting a firm kiss upon my mouth. What startled me more than the heat of his lips was the gut-churning certainty that I felt nothing in the kiss, though as a kiss it was quite pleasant.
It would come in time, I reasoned.
Then you are not marrying for love, are you? Was it Jamie’s voice or my father’s ringing in my head? And if not for love, your earl’s great justification for the match, then why?
Perhaps to be loved. Perhaps because it was the one thing I could choose, or so I thought. And he was so handsome, so passionate.. . .
He thought me beautiful....
Angus insisted we keep our betrothal from the council. It would create a sensation that could curse our union before it had a chance to begin—perhaps even prevent its beginning altogether. It was sound enough reasoning, but something felt strange in it. My first wedding was celebrated with all the pomp and pageantry a Princess of the Blood deserved and had the support of all of my family. Somehow doing something I knew my brother would not support seemed deceptive and wrong. Yet when he found out perhaps he would then be happy for me, perhaps he would understand....
But Henry’s understanding was not nearly as important as Scotland’s. I could not imagine the reaction. I did not want to. I even kept the news secret from my ladies. I did not want to hear any protests or risk the news being spread about court. It was rather delicious keeping a secret to myself, something I alone could savor. Sooner or later all would be found out and I would deal with it then.
For now I lived in a dream, imagining life with Angus, a quiet life keeping my children safe from the divisive world of Scottish politics till they came of an age and strength
of mind to confront such things. And perhaps there would be more children with Angus.... As much as I had come to fear and dread childbirth, the idea of starting a new family with Angus was appealing. These would be children who would be mine and not Scotland’s, children I could love and protect....
It was, for those few weeks before my wedding, a pretty picture.
11
Mistress Douglas
In the oppressive heat of early August, my wedding day stood in such contrast to that of my proxy ceremony to Jamie and my very public reception in Scotland that it was hard to believe any of it was real. We stood in the little church of Kinnoul with none but Lord Drummond’s nephew, the Dean of Dunblane, to officiate. Only a handful were present, all of Lord Drummond’s picking, as I said my vows in my ordinary russet gown. The brief ceremony seemed over almost before it began; a humble gold band was slid up my finger and it was done. I had said, “I do.” I was no longer Mistress Stewart. The thought caused my heart to lurch. I remembered how I had once treasured that name above that of “Your Grace”; it seemed so long ago, when I was with my Jamie and we were happy.
I was Mistress Douglas now. Margaret Douglas. Yet still I was Margaret, the Queen Regent of Scotland. But for how long?
Those were thoughts far too heady as I was whisked away to our secret bridal chambers. It was best not to ponder them overmuch and to give myself over to the moment, subdued as it was. No courtiers laughed and made crude jokes this time; we were alone, save a few servants to attend us and then only when they were sent for.
Angus poured us both healthy draughts of warm spiced wine when we arrived. He was all smiles.
“We did it!” he cried, raising his cup to toast me. “Can you believe it? We will show them all, you and I. Scotland is ours!”
My brows furrowed at the arrogance of his statement. I sat on the bed, cup in hand. “Not ours, Angus,” I admonished. “Scotland belongs to Little Jamie. He is ours to protect, for the sake of Scotland. His Scotland.”
“Of course, my dear,” Angus conceded as he sat next to me, clinking his cup to mine regardless of the inappropriateness of his remarks. “I meant nothing by it, only to say how proud of you I am for being your own woman—your own queen. You went against brother and council and followed your heart. That takes true bravery. If your council cannot see that, then they are blind.”
I sighed. Though I appreciated his confidence in me, I did not want to think of my brother or the council or their opinions. I knew with a sense of gut-churning dread that they would not think me truly brave at all.
“Tonight isn’t about my brother or the council,” I told Angus. “It is about us. About our family,” I added in soft tones.
“You are right, of course,” Angus told me, reaching up to stroke my cheek. His eyes, so sparkling and vibrant, were distracted. “And we are not truly married until our union is consummated. ‘Wedded and bedded,’ ” he quipped with a chuckle. “So enough chatter!”
There was no sensual gentleness in his touch; he clamped his hand on the back of my head, pulling me toward him that he might meet my lips with his own. His kiss was hard, urgent, possessive. I sighed. I should not have expected too much. I had, after all, known the love of a man who was reputed to be one of the foremost lovers of our time. Jamie had known how to kiss a woman. It was for me to teach Angus. I vowed to be more patient with him and, in the hidden part of my soul, that dark recess I did not want to confront, I found it easier to be passionate with him when I pretended he was my Jamie. I would not admit I did it, not even to myself then. But I did.
At once, Angus stood. “We should douse the light,” he suggested as he went about blowing out the tapers.
“You dinna have to, Angus,” I told him. “I am a woman, not a girl. I know the goings-on and am not shy.”
Angus laughed at this. “It is only proper,” he said. “And fitting—a secret marriage, a clandestine consummation in the dark!”
And with that the last of the candles were extinguished as I heard him make his way back to me. His arms went around me as he began to kiss my throat and bosom while fumbling with my gown. I closed my eyes, sighing once more.
It was not for the sake of keeping with the theme of our secret marriage that we made love in the dark.
He did not want to see me. Perhaps he was pretending, too....
We had no honeymoon, no entertainments, nothing to commemorate our union other than our frantic, awkward couplings in the dark. Then again perhaps it was just as well. It would not have been a good thing to hide from reality any longer, for reality was a ruthless hunter, ferreting me out at every turn. The sooner I faced it, the sooner would I know what I was up against.
Our marriage was no longer secret. My husband saw to that. With his own men, he stormed upon Lord Chancellor Beaton at Perth and seized the Great Seal. Angus thought it a great show of strength.
“It is the only way to deal with them,” Angus assured me in our rooms at Edinburgh when I chastised him for his rash behavior. “We must be decisive. Strong. Determined, and seen never to falter!”
“We are not seen as any such thing!” I cried, infuriated with his impetuosity. “You are only seen as a fool!”
“This ‘fool’ is your husband, my dear.” Angus’s voice contained a hint of warning. “Best that you remember it.”
I waved my hand in dismissal. “You have incited the lairds against you! Your ‘strength’ inspired the Earl of Arran to come to Edinburgh armed with all his men and appeal to the council that he might have power over the government. He is a kinsman of Jam—of the late king!”
“Not a close enough kinsman,” Angus reminded me. “They’ll never give him any power beyond what he has now.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “Fine, so we stirred them up, and good that we did! We shall rile them up and take them in hand, showing who should indeed have control of the government!”
“Who should have control then, Angus? You?” I was scandalized. At once I realized it was not Angus who was the fool, but me. Shame heated my cheeks. I began to shake my head. All along this was what he wanted; it was man’s oldest ambition: power.... No! Surely there was more. His tenderness toward the boys was not feigned, and his sensual nature . . . surely I was being too cautious.
“Us, my dear, us!” Angus cried. “I am the stepfather of the king and you his beloved mother,” he went on. “There is no other choice more fitting than us.”
I drew in a shaky breath. It had not gone at all like I thought. Of course I did not think of how it would come about. I did not think at all. . . .
“In favor of us they want the Duke of Albany, my husband’s cousin, from France,” I told Angus. At once I was exhausted. There was to be a battle ahead, the battle of my life, and I was far from ready to fight.
“He is more Frenchman than Scot, raised there all his life in exile,” Angus observed. “What could the fate of Scotland really mean for him?”
“He stands to inherit the throne after Little Jamie and Alexander,” I reminded Angus. “So it could interest him a great deal,” I added with a shudder.
Angus shook his head. “He will not come. Your brother—Henry—he will see to that. Henry will side with us, you will see. He is a powerful ally.”
To refer to the King of England as merely Henry, as if they were old mates, incensed me. “Such allegiances are hard won, and harder to maintain,” I said in even tones.
“You will of course write and appeal to him while I sort these things out,” Angus said. Sorting things out referred, no doubt, to warfare. Visions of Flodden and all it cost swirled in my mind; could we go through it all again so soon? “You are his dear sister after all,” Angus was reasoning. “You have the commonality of your childhood to warm him and it is in his interests to keep his closest enemy a friend.”
“I always write to my brother,” I told Angus, irritated that he believed he had to urge me into such action.
“That’s my girl,” Angus said, his tone affectionate as he stoop
ed to brush his lips against my cheek. “That’s my brave, strong queen.” With this he made for the door and to the battles ahead. But before leaving, he turned. “And Albany is not your husband’s cousin,” he told me in firm tones. “I am your husband. And I have no cousin called Albany.”
Then he was gone.
The council was infuriated by my “betrayal” of daring to marry again; I had, to them, forfeited my rights as queen regent, only valid as long as I remained the widow of James IV as per his will. It was natural now that they should choose another. If I relinquished my regency willingly, they assured me, I could retain custody of my children. As if they had the right to consider taking my children from me, regent or not!
They were determined to oust me from my regency in favor of the Duke of Albany, despite my protests and fears that bringing the duke in too strongly resembled a story that haunted me in my childhood, that of Richard III. Were they willing for my sons, and one of them their own king, to suffer that same cruel fate as my uncles in the Tower should Albany decide to usurp power for himself? Such fears were considered the hysterics of a woman, and mentioning Richard III likely reminded them that the fears belonged to an Englishwoman besides. All of my concerns were dismissed.
The Lyon King of Arms William Comyn was sent to tell me the outcome of the council’s vote in my presence chamber, which was to end my regency. The man even had the audacity to honor the council’s newly appointed title for me—“my lady the king’s mother,” rather than “Your Grace”—for which my new grandfather-in-law, Lord Drummond, boxed his ears. And rightly; it was a great, unfair offense: I was still the queen and I had care of my children’s persons. I would not give up my rightful title or regency so quickly; even my husband, as my appointed co-regent, should have been respected, bold as he was. Why should my personal happiness interfere with affairs of state? What did it matter who I married, so long as he was good to my son? And for all Angus had to learn, he was good to my son. It wasn’t Angus’s fault that he belonged to the Red Douglases. No one chooses who they are born to, otherwise would I not have chosen a noble family in England other than the royal one, in which I might have lived and loved in happiness rather than for sake of politics?