by D. L. Bogdan
It was time.
Albany, given word of my intent, waited with his men outside of Stirling Castle as I made my way to him with my children. I drew on every bit of strength inside of me, holding my head high as I let go of Little Jamie’s hand, urging him toward the duke.
Albany knelt before my son, bowing his head as Little Jamie extended his hand with the keys to the castle in it. Albany took them with solemnity.
“Please,” I said to the duke, my tone low and steady. “We beg you to show mercy to these innocent children. And to my Lord Angus and his forces. Please.”
Albany raised his head. To my shock, his gray eyes were lit with tears. “I know what this is costing you, Your Grace,” he told me. “The king and the Duke of Ross will be treated in accordance with their stations, I promise you.”
I closed my eyes a moment, willing my tears to hide a moment more. Composed, I opened them. The duke was still kneeling before us. All I could see was the artillery behind him. At once his promises faded in the dust the horses kicked up, swirling and blowing away in the bitter wind.
I nodded to him, then turned away.
I could not watch him take them from me. I could not bear to see them go.
13
The Flight
I returned with great reluctance to Edinburgh to offer my halfhearted signature on the agreement supported by Parliament, confirming that the Duke of Albany now had charge of my babies. Though I was reassured I could still see them, Albany made it plain that it may not be wise given my husband’s defection, one Albany never spared mercy for. He feared Angus and I would escape with the children, and despite whatever motherly feeling I retained, I could not be trusted. As outraged as I was, I understood as one who bore the burden of rule the practicality of his decision even while I cursed him for it.
I was twenty-five years old and had been married a year to Angus. It should have been a happy time of raising the boys while preparing for the little one I now carried. I should have been planning my confinement and great entertainments for after its birth. As the child would be a sibling to the king, it would have been a grand affair.
But there was none of that. There was running, always running, nights filled with panic as horrific imaginings gripped my mind, causing me to wonder who my enemies were, if I would even live out each week, if my children were safe and cared for, if I would ever see them again. I wondered if the letters to Henry and Lord Dacre were intercepted. Henry was only to trust letters signed “your loving sister, Margaret R,” but a few of the letters sent in which I sounded agreeable to the fate of my children I was forced to sign as such. Not knowing this, Henry and Lord Dacre chastised me for my decision, telling me the gravity of my mistake, as if I hadn’t a grasp on it. And yet they were men, what did they know of how my choices came to be? Henry had command of armies and still had no children; he had no concept of what it meant to fight for them, to make unbearable decisions one could never imagine being faced with. And Lord Dacre commanded border reivers who could wreak havoc like no other kind of soldier should anyone interfere with his loved ones.
They could not possibly understand. No man could.
I had lost my children, my regency, and the respect of my kingdom. I lost respect for myself.
I was now eight months gone with child and exhausted. But there was no rest for me, no respite in a darkened cloister of a lying-in chamber.
Henry and Lord Dacre had developed a plan. I was to come to the Border, to Lord Dacre, who would then escort me into England, to Henry and his court, to the prospect of support. Dreams of a glittering triumphant return to Scotland at the head of a well-paid, well-fed army swelled my heart. Why else would Henry assist my escape if not to send me back to Scotland stronger and able to oust Albany, thus taking back my children? No matter the beginnings of understanding that were being forged between Albany and me, the thought of having my children back was irresistible.
I would do anything.
Sending coded messages in response, I agreed to the escape.
Albany granted me permission to retire to Linlithgow for my confinement. The jostling of the coach that transported me jarred and jerked my belly and I gripped it as if it were a foreign thing, some awful mass attached to me that caused nothing but pain and sickness and utter inconvenience. How I wished to have this baby so I could move about with more freedom! I could not regret my estate, but how much easier would it have been if I were not with child!
Once we reached the castle, I sought the refuge of the lying-in chamber, developing a “sudden illness” that made for good enough theater on my part to inspire Albany to allow Angus a visit, just as I had intended.
When Angus appeared in my chambers, I found myself smiling. Gone was my anger from our last encounter. He was working toward the goal of regaining custody of the children; he was doing what he promised he would do. I could see that now and could not bear to harbor resentment against the father of the little one stirring in my womb.
“Are you well, Margaret?” he asked. He looked older. He had always looked older than his years to me, but there was something different about him now. He was becoming seasoned, learning to accommodate himself to disappointment and opposition and the rigors of warfare. He was becoming a man.
I offered a weary nod. “Well enough to make for the Border,” I told him.
He leaned over my bed, offering a light kiss on my forehead before drawing back. He stroked my forehead, offering a faint smile. “You are a brave one, Margaret. Keep being brave.”
I nodded, reaching up to take his hand in mine, too overcome to speak. It was so rare to share a moment of tenderness with my husband I found myself treasuring the words.
“Are you ready?” he asked, tilting a thick black brow.
“Aye,” I said in firm tones.
There was no time for tenderness now. Now was the time for action.
Night had fallen. I was not allowed a coach; it could not negotiate the wilds of the Scottish countryside with its many steep hills and winding paths as well as the sturdy reiver’s Galloway horses. There was but a handful of armed servants to accompany us until we were just beyond the town of Linlithgow, where Lord Home, my unlikely new champion, met us with his own small force.
We were to ride for our very lives.
I had been an able equestrienne when not with child, but it was another matter altogether riding in my heavy gown with the burden of my belly. As we rode, I could not help but be in a terror of losing my balance and falling, then losing the baby as a bitter consequence. I held on as if the ground were covered in writhing demons waiting to take the baby and me to the depths of Hell with them, willing myself to remain atop my horse and keep up with my lord husband.
We arrived at the Douglas stronghold of Tantallon, where I collapsed into bed, clutching my aching belly. My ankles were swollen, my hands calloused from their death grip on the reins of my horse, and nausea clutched my throat. Despite being allowed to lie down, I could not rest. I thought of the children, as always, hoping they were safe, wondering if Little Jamie had said anything amusing or if the baby had done anything new. Would I miss it all? His first steps, his first words . . . I could not bear such reflection.
I thought of my ladies, Ellen in particular. She could not come with me; she could not even be made aware of my escape. Though I trusted her like no other, I could not trust her with this. I could not put her in the position of having to lie to the duke or his men. Nor could I put her in the position of having to tell them the truth.
Angus joined me in my bedchamber, rousing me from my reverie with more news.
“Albany is in pursuit,” he announced, his tone thick with frustration. “We must flee to Lord Home’s castle of Blackadder immediately.”
Even as I sat up and allowed Angus to assist me with my boots, I trembled and moaned with pain. “Oh, Angus, I feel so sick and tired. The baby is going to come soon, I know it,” I told him, voicing for the first time my fears, that this child would c
ome and hamper all plans of escape.
Angus shook his head with vehemence as he helped me to my feet. “You must not say it, Margaret. You must not even think it. The child can wait till we get to England. Hold on for me, eh? Hold on just a bit more.”
I sighed and nodded, as if I could somehow control the advent of my labor, and we set to ride again. In our haste, my jewels and gowns were left behind. Yet they made a far easier sacrifice than the children.
As we made for Blackadder we were met by a messenger.
“The duke amassed a force of forty thousand,” he informed us, breathless. “He intends to take Blackadder.”
“Damn, damn, damn!” Angus cried, flicking his reins with a wild shake of his head. He inclined his head toward me. “We have to get to Berwick Castle, Margaret, d’you hear? Can you make it?”
Through tears the night kept concealed from my husband, I offered a strong “Aye!”
And so we rode. My legs ached, my back was stiff, and the baby kicked up a fury. Despite the rough terrain, the bumps, and the rollicking gallop of my horse, I managed to maintain my seat and my grip, keeping my eyes forward, ever forward, till at last I saw Berwick. We had made it! We were all but in England!
I tipped my head back, smiling with a sigh of relief. Soon I would be in a nice, warm bed. Soon I would have food in my belly along with the baby. Soon I could retreat into the only sanctuary I knew—sleep. Oh, how heavenly it all sounded now, far more grand than gowns and entertainments!
But even as I dared to relinquish myself to such sweet fancy, our messenger met us again with more unwelcome news.
“The Governor of Berwick will not admit you without safe-conduct from King Henry,” he told us. His blue eyes were wide, as if fearing a reproach.
“Even to his own sister, man?” Angus cried, incredulous. He bit his lip, his eyes scanning the horizon. The first ruddy strains of dawn lit the hills, coloring them a deep amber. Morning was in pursuit, as unwelcome as Albany and his army.
“Even so,” the messenger replied.
Angus bowed his head. Lord Home, always a rough old man, cursed.
“We best get to the priory at Coldstream,” Lord Home decided after he had exhausted his string of expletives he felt described the situation best. There was nothing to do but agree; I needed to rest. We could not very well camp about in the wild like reivers.
We turned our horses about and rode to the priory, where at last I could take my longed-for rest before the ordeal began again.
At the priory I fell into a fitful slumber. I had hoped that after the difficult ride and my constant fretting sleep would overcome me in that dark, quiet completeness I cherished, but it eluded me. Lord Home’s mother arrived to comfort me and I was grateful for the presence of an older woman. And yet it served to remind me of the loss of my own mother. I ached for her with a longing as acute as that for my children yet was grateful that at least I stood the chance of seeing them again. As for my mother and so many loved ones who went before me, I would have to wait.
Meantime the best way to serve the memory of the dead was to live.
Lord Dacre had arrived, and in him I saw the hope to do just that.
I had not seen him since I was a child entering my kingdom, when he had thrown the entertainments with the god-awful bearbaiting. It seemed like another lifetime, as if it were someone else’s memories I was stealing a glimpse of. Casting my gaze upon his kind countenance reduced me to stilling my quivering lip and blinking back tears. It was happening; safety and support were within my reach at last. But to achieve that safety, Lord Home, my husband, and our party had to remain behind just now.
It was an agonizing good-bye. I had come to like the colorful Lord Home, who would have razed his own castle rather than give it over to Albany. I found Lord Home to be a noble, loyal man, a hero. And my husband, for him to leave now . . .
“We will get to you soon, Margaret,” Angus promised, squeezing my hands. “Be well,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I longed for something deeper, but I supposed he was clinging to propriety.
“Be safe,” I said in turn.
No other words of love were exchanged.
We rode to Lord Dacre’s castle of Harbottle, in England now. I was beyond exhausted. My belly was taut, stretched to its limit, and felt lower than before. My legs quivered and at times my right leg plagued me such that I cried out at the pains, sharp as hot daggers shooting from hip to ankle. My head ached; my swollen hands and feet throbbed. I was grateful that the first destination upon my arrival was a warm, soft bed, where I remained for days, with Lord Dacre making frequent visits in the hopes I would regain my strength for the rest of the journey.
“You will be delighted to know,” Lord Dacre told me, “that the king and queen have sent you many beautiful presents to my home at Morpeth with Sir Christopher Garnyshe.”
I brightened at this. I could in all honesty never resist the thought of gifts. Gifts meant love and I needed to be loved.
“Oh, Lord Dacre, do tell me of them!” I begged, delighted as a child.
Lord Dacre smiled. “You will soon see for yourself, Your Grace, once we reach Morpeth,” he assured me.
The words no sooner fled his lips when I crumpled over as a sharp, searing pain seized my abdomen. My hand shot out, reaching for something, anything, and finding Lord Dacre’s strong hand in response, his hazel eyes wide with fright. I clung to his arm as if it were the only thing that would keep me in this world. The next one was calling; I was sure of it.
“Your Grace!”
Warm liquid rushed down my legs, seeping into my covers and gown. My cheeks burned as I raised my head, looking into the Warden of the Marches’ stricken face. This would set everything back.... I shook my head.
“No,” I breathed as another pain gripped my womb. “Oh, Lord Dacre, no. . . .”
Somewhere I heard the frantic voice of Lord Dacre calling for assistance, but sweet blackness, that longed-for blackness that would sweep me away on a tide of dreams, enveloped me. The voices faded away into nothingness, and then so did I. . . .
“This is far from a suitable place to bring in a bairn,” Lord Dacre was saying when again my eyes fluttered open. The chambers were humble, drafty, and without décor, something that would not have perplexed me in the least before. We would have been removing to the luxury of Morpeth and I could have stood a few days in this rough and wild place had my pains not started. But everything was halted. I lay overtaken by guilt and pain and despair. I was an obvious inconvenience to my host and I prayed the pains would stop, that my labor would hold off just a bit longer.
“Her waters have already broken,” an older woman I gathered to be a midwife was informing him. “The bairn will arrive regardless of this castle’s suitability.”
At once my belly quaked with another pain and I cried out. Lord Dacre, thrilled to be out of my reach, I was certain, fled the chambers and I was left to the strange old midwife and less than a handful of servants.
One lady brought a cool cloth to my burning forehead, dabbing gently. “There, there, Your Grace, do not fear,” she said in soothing tones. “All will be well. We will take care of you.”
My head lolled from side to side as I clenched and unclenched my fists. It could not be an easy birth, of course. That would have been right. No, I was fated to bear this child in a rough border castle and suffer as I had with my earlier births. If only it could have been as it was with baby Alexander. How swift his birth was! The thought of him soothed me somewhat and all I could think of was bringing him a healthy brother or sister.
Despite the chill of the castle, I was burning up. Even the sweat that glistened off my body did nothing to cool me. I longed to tear at my gown and blankets and let the air hit my naked skin. But that would not be proper.
My only relief came in the blackness, and when it beckoned I ran to it with the eagerness of a lover.
She was born 8 October, a sturdy lass with a tuft of hair as red as my own,
another Tudor rose whom I would call Margaret at the urgings of Lord Dacre, for “she so resembles Your Grace,” he said. It mattered not what she was called. She had the great misfortune of being born a girl, and my heart sank. She was soon in the care of her nurses. I was too weak and ill to hold her and pay her as much heed as I had my boys. I wondered what Angus would make of her. It wasn’t that I would have minded a daughter, but in these rough times I feared for her. Would she survive? And if she did, what path lay before her as a Princess of Scotland and daughter of one of the most unloved men in the land? Oh, my poor, sweet lamb . . . I could not bear to think of her fate. I could not bear to think of my own.
Though I was ten days after her birth able to sit and read letters from Henry and Catherine, I was still too weak to be moved. My leg aggrieved me and my exhaustion never seemed to abate. But in November, when Little Margaret was but a month old, it was decided we must risk the journey southward. I knew there was no choice but to press on, but my pain and weariness were so great that I could not abide even a litter for the progress. I was carried aloft on the shoulders of servants on my day bed. As we traveled we were met by more lords of the land who joined our party. We stopped twice for me to rest, once for five days, when I all but slept straight through, waking only to eat and offer my daughter a feeble smile.
When at last we made it to Morpeth I was relieved. We were in civilization now and I was received as a queen should be. Lady Dacre was gracious and kind and informed me she was readying the castle for Christmas. I was eager to be a part of it, though it would be from my bed that I would be so, at least till I gathered more strength.
Lord Home arrived with Angus and a party of loyal Scots lairds come to see the baby as promised, and my husband at last was able to hold his daughter.
“She’s beautiful, Margaret!” he exclaimed, clasping the little girl to his breast. His eyes regarded her with a new gentleness, one I had never seen before. True, his dark gaze lit with fondness when admiring my children, but this was different. I imagined he thought of the child he had lost before and in her saw his hopes for the future of a new dynasty realized.