Three Sisters Three Queens Read online

  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.”

  STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, WINTER 1514

  Mary is crowned Queen of France in November, and I hear that her husband gives her a massive jewel every morning. Her coronation robe was gold brocade, she processed through Paris in an open carriage under arches of lilies of France and roses for Tudor England. The king has gout and can barely stand; but everyone praises the composure and beauty of his bride. He sends Harry a gift of harness, thanking him for sending such a mount. Those are his very words. They make me feel quite sick when our ambassador tells me; this is what it is to be a princess married for her country. We cannot all have the happiness that I have won with Archibald.

  He gives me such joy! Even though we are entrapped by our own strategy, locked up in our own castle, it does not feel like defeat while Ard is with me. I long for the nights when he comes to my room—and he comes every night through feast day and fast, and he laughs with me and says he will have to confess lust, passion, love, and even idolatry. These are the words he says as he kisses my eyelids, the achingly hard tips of my breasts, my belly button, even my hidden sex. He loves me without hesitation, as if I am his kingdom and he is coming into his own. And I, sprawled like a whore, longing for his touch, let him say and do whatever he would like, as long as his mo