Three Sisters Three Queens Read online

  I love him so much, Maggie, that I could not say no. Actually, to tell you the truth, he could not say no, for I cried and begged him and he was so loving that he lifted me up and swore that he would marry me, whatever happened.

  So we are married—oh! me and Charles Brandon—married and nobody can do anything about it, and I could not be happier, I have loved him, I think, all my life. Of course everyone is completely furious with us both; but what were we to do? I could not leave my home again, and be married to a stranger. Harry promised me that my second marriage should be my choice, so why should I not hold him to it? Katherine chose in her second marriage, you did. Why not me too? But everyone is very angry.

  The Privy Council say that Charles will have to be charged with treason! But I know we will be forgiven if you and Katherine ask. Do write to Harry and beg him to forgive me. All I want is to be happy. You and Katherine are happy. Why should I not be?

  It is so childish and so selfish that I have no reply for her. Then I reflect, I have my own troubles, and I am not so sure now that a queen is right to marry for love. I think it is dangerous to make a prince from a commoner, even for love. I think that it would not hurt Brandon to spend a few months in the Tower for his presumption. In the end I write to Katherine:

  Dear Sister,

  I hear that Mary is fearful of losing our brother’s favor because of her marriage. I believe he told her she might take a second husband of her own choosing, and now it is done. She is so young, and she had no one in France to advise her. I hope you will urge Harry to be kind to her, though, God knows, she has no troubles as grave as mine. When you speak with Harry I beg you to remind him that I cannot hold this country and keep the French out without his help. When is he going to send men and money?

  HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1515

  Finally freed from the siege but only so that I may greet my enemies like a queen, I am dressed in robes of state, every inch a Tudor princess and Queen Regent of Scotland. Archibald, beside me, is dazzlingly handsome, tall, with red-brown hair and piercing eyes, looking, at this moment, stern and noble; even regal. We have had our official wedding before the lords, and, standing side by side, so close that our fingers brush, we draw courage from each other. We wait for the arrival of the Duke of Albany from France, who is coming to take up his place, despite my objections, as Governor of Scotland.

  My brother Harry swore that he would not renew the treaty of peace with France unless the French kept Albany at home. But he signed it and Albany was allowed to go on his way. The peace that Mary’s marriage made is renewed, despite her remarriage. The peace that I made is forgotten.

  It is an insult to me that Albany should be invited over my head, but this is what love has cost me. The parliament deny the brilliance of my husband, deny the greatness of his family. Archibald is at the center of a storm of jealousy; I know that they have nothing against him but envy.

  Behind us are the great representatives of his family, the Douglas clan and the Drummonds. Beside my husband stands his grandfather Lord John, and his uncle the bishop Gavin Douglas, my nominee for Saint Andrews and Dunkeld. I am, as I have always longed to be, surrounded and supported by a family who love and prize me. They do not compare me with another woman; my place among them is unique. I am their kinswoman and their queen, as outstanding among them as my grandmother was to her wide family of cousins. All wealth and patronage flow from me, all the power is mine. They don’t compare me to another woman because they cannot; there is simply no one like me. I am their heart, I am their head, these are my people.

  But today I am diminished. All the patronage and power was mine, but here comes the Duke of Albany to take my place at the head of the table of the lords’ council, to draw the country closer to France. He would not even be here if my brother’s fleet had been able to catch him at sea. It was Harry’s intention to capture or perhaps even sink the duke’s ship. In the great North Sea they sighted him and missed him, and now here he is, fresh from his landing at Dumbarton with a train of a thousand—a thousand men! As if he were king already.

  He enters the room with a flourish, and my decision to dislike him melts away. He is dressed very beautifully in velvets and silks, but not like a king, as he wears no ermine trim. His hands sparkle with jewels and there is a great diamond in his hat, but he is not a walking jewel chest like my brother. He perfectly judges his bow to me, respectful to a queen regent and Tudor princess, but as from a kinsman—not a servant. I curtsey to him and when I rise up we kiss each other to acknowledge the family connection. He smells beautifully of orange flower water and clean linen. He is as immaculate as a princess on her wedding day, and I am seized at once with admiration and envy. This is a Frenchman of the highest breeding, a real nobleman. He makes the rest of my council look like Lowland beggars.

  Behind him, bowing with a warm smile on his handsome face, is my chevalier, the Sieur de la Bastie, the white knight who jousted before me when I was a bride, and when I was a new mother. He bows very low and then he takes my hand and kisses it. It is as if I were a girl again and he promising to ride in the joust for me. If de la Bastie is with Albany, I feel I can trust both noblemen. I introduce him to Archibald and I see, with my anxious attention, Albany’s small sideways glance at me, as if to confirm that I did indeed choose this willowy youth as my second husband—I, who had been married to such a great king.

  We walk aside from everyone to exchange a few words. I gesture that Archibald shall walk with us, but Albany takes my arm and walks close to me so that Ard has to tag along behind and does not hear and cannot comment. “Your Grace, your councillors advise me that matters have come to a pretty pass here,” he says, smiling. “I hope to help you set things to rights.”

  “I have to protect the inheritance of my sons,” I say. “I swore to their father, your cousin, that his son would inherit his throne and continue his work of making this a wealthy and cultured country.”

  “You are a scholar like your husband?” he asks me with sudden interest.

  “No,” I admit. “But I have continued my husband’s work endowing schools and universities. We are the first country in Europe to provide schooling for the sons of our freeholders. We are proud of our learning in Scotland.”

  “It’s a remarkable achievement,” he says. “And I am proud to help you with it. Can we agree that Scotland must continue to find its own way—we cannot bow to English influence?”

  “I am an English princess but a Scots queen,” I say. “Scotland must be free.”

  “Then your husband’s uncle, Gavin Douglas, must give up his claim to Saint Andrews,” he says quietly. “And also Dunkeld. We all know that he got them only because his nephew married you.”

  I give a little gasp. “I don’t agree at all.”

  “And your husband’s grandfather will have to answer for his assault on the Lyon Herald,” he goes on, his voice low and patient. “You cannot allow your new kinsmen any special favors—it destroys your reputation as a just queen.”

  “He barely touched him!” I protest. “Perhaps his sleeve swept his face.”

  He looks at me ruefully, his blue eyes smiling. His charm is completely self-aware; he is so beautifully mannered. “You had better think about this, Your Grace,” he says. “I cannot keep you in your place and restore your dower rents and get the government to pay you what they owe, and honor you as they should, if you do not make your new kinsmen behave as they should.”

  “I must have my rents. I am practically penniless.”

  “You shall have them. But your kinsmen must obey the law.”

  “I am queen regent!” I exclaim.

  He nods. I see now that he has an air of superiority, as if he had foreseen this conversation and prepared for it. “You are,” he says. “But—I am sorry to say—your young husband is neither royal nor courtly, and his family are known rogues.”

  I am so furious, so insulted, and also—to tell the truth—so afraid, that I call Bish