I think—pray God there is no trap. Pray God that Thomas Howard has not done a forced march around us and we are not coming in towards him, expecting refuge but finding a battle. There is no way to tell what is hiding in the shadowy hedges at the side of the road as we wind our way towards the little town. The curfew has been sounded and the town gates are bolted shut. My trumpeters sound the royal salute, then we have to wait while the royal burghers rush to the gate and the town guard fling themselves at the bolts and then the great gates creak open, and we can ride inside.
The burghers come towards me, uncovering their heads, some of them shrugging on their jackets and wiping their mouths, called from their dinner. “Your Grace,” they say and they kneel before me as if I am a triumphant Queen of Scots with a victorious husband at war.
Wearily, I make a gesture that tells them everything: the defeat, the death of James, the end of everything. “This is your king,” I say, showing them the little boy, fast asleep in his guardian’s arms on the big horse. “King James V.”
They understand at once that his father is dead. Heavily, they drop to their knees on the cold cobbles. They bow their heads; I see one man put his hands over his eyes to hide that he is weeping, and another buries his face in his bonnet.
We are the first people of authority in Stirling since the battle. Nobody has heard anything but rumors, no soldiers have yet made it back to their homes. The deserters who left before the outcome are certain to have kept their cowardice quiet, and few have got so far north. So now the people come into the streets, their doors banging behind, or they throw open their overhanging windows, hoping that this is a victory progress and that I have come to tell them the king is halfway to London, his army richer every day. Then they see my downturned face and note that I don’t wave or smile, and they stop cheering and fall silent. Someone calls out with sudden sharp urgency:
“The king?”
Everyone looks at me; but I can’t say anything. I can’t pull up my horse and make a grand speech in which I declare that defeat does not mean despair, death is not the end of everything, Scotland has a great future. It would not be true. We are despairing, it is the end of everything, and I cannot see how to make a future.
I raise my voice. “The king is dead. God save the king.”
Slowly, understanding spreads through the silenced crowd. Men pull off their hats, women put their hands to their eyes. “God save the king,” they whisper back to me, as if they cannot bear to say the words. “God save the king.”
They have lost one of the greatest warrior-kings that Scotland has ever had. They have lost a musician, a physician, an engineer, an educator, a gunner, a poet, a shipwright, a deeply convinced Christian anxious about his own soul and theirs. They have lost a great prince, a man among men. His coat and banners have been sent to France, his body is rumbling south, a trophy wrapped in lead in a wagon. In his place, all I can offer them is a baby-king, a helpless baby-king, with Scotland’s greatest enemy on our doorstep. They kiss their hands blow the kisses to me as if to say: God bless you. God help you. And I look back at them grimly and think: I can’t do this.
STIRLING CASTLE, SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1513
I move into my beautiful rooms in Stirling Castle and I send to the families of the great lords to come to crown James. Very many of them fail to reply; more than half of them are dead. In all of the kingdom there are only fifteen lords left alive. We have lost half a generation of men. But they send the sons who were too young to fight, and the old fathers who are mourning their heirs. They come from all the corners of the kingdom to swear loyalty to the new king.
He is not yet two years old, only a baby, but destiny has laid a heavy hand on my son James. He sits in the lap of his governess and she opens his shift of linen under the cloth-of-gold gown, and the bishops anoint his little chest with holy oil. He makes a little noise of surprise and looks towards me: “Mama?” I nod that he is to stay still and not cry. They put his tiny hand on the barrel of the scepter and the little fingers close on it, as if he will hold on to power, and they elevate the crown over his head. His eyes look up wonderingly as the trumpets blast, his lip trembles at the noise and he turns his head away.
“God save the king!” the bishops cry out; but there is no triumphant shout from the congregation of lords in reply.
They should shout in answer, something has gone terribly wrong. I am aghast at the silence behind me—what can it mean? Do they not accept him? Are they refusing to swear allegiance? Have they secretly decided to surrender to the English and stand dumb at the oath for James? Fearfully, I turn to look behind me at the crowded chapel where the lords are ranged in their clans and families in complete silence. Their faces are pale as they raise them to where the bishops have shouted their oath of loyalty. Then, one by one, each man’s lips form the reply, “God save the king!” but they have lost their voices. It is not a loyal shout but a whisper of grief; the lords are hoarse with sorrow. At the back of the church someone sobs and these strong, battle-hardened men drop their heads to rub the tears from their eyes.
“God save the king,” they say quietly, one after another, with voices straining to speak. “God bless him,” they say, and someone adds: “God take him to His own.” So I know they are thinking not of my little son and the terrible burden we are laying on him today, but of James the dead king, my husband, and his body stolen far away.
I write to my brother Harry, who is joyously celebrating his triumphs in France. I dip the nib of my pen in honey and I beg him to recall Thomas Howard to London and not order him to invade deep into Scotland. I say that my son is young and tender and Scotland has been knocked into despair. I beg him to remember that I am his sister, that our father would have wanted him to protect me in this difficult situation and not make it worse for me. I say that I am the symbol of peace between England and Scotland, and that I wish we were at peace now.
I grit my teeth and take a second sheet of paper to write to Katherine, who is Regent of England and the sole author of my disaster. I wish I could write the truth: that I hate her, I blame her for the death of my brother Arthur, I believe she tried to seduce my father, I know that she captured my little brother and has turned him against me. I blame her for the war between England and France, between England and Scotland, and, most of all, for the death of my husband. She is the enemy to my peace, and to my country.
Dearest, dearest Sister . . .
A guard opens the door of my privy chamber and one of my ladies comes in and leans over my chair to whisper in my ear. “There is a man come to see you, one of the late king’s servants. He has come from Berwick.”
Her voice chokes when she has to say “late king.” Nobody can say his name.
I put my lying letter to one side. “Send him in.”
Someone has given the man a plaid to throw over his shoulder for warmth but his padded jacket shows he was one of James’s guard. He kneels before me, his bonnet clutched in one dirty hand. I see that his other hand is strapped to his side, a stained bandage at the shoulder. Someone nearly cut off his arm. He is lucky to be alive.
I wait.
“Your Grace, I have to tell you something.”
I glance at the letter to Katherine:
Dearest, dearest Sister . . .
This is her doing.
“The body they sent to England was not the king,” the man says bluntly, and at once he has my full attention.