I really can’t marry Louis of France, I think. He is nearly as old as Maximilian, almost decrepit, and he is quite vile. He divorced his first wife, declaring her to be too malformed to allow lovemaking, then he forced his second wife to marry him and still could make nothing but dead boys and two girls. Marriage to him would put me at the head of a great power, a Scot ally to be sure, but constantly at war with England. I don’t want to be in a country facing an English army ever again. Also, I cannot believe that we would have a healthy child. He is certain to die and leave me a widow again so I lose the crown almost as soon as I win it. Besides, the man is a monster.
It is a choice between two evils. The only handsome young king in Europe is my brother and Katherine showed me that you have to snatch a husband young. I will take a risk whatever I choose. I order my court to Perth for the summer and promise myself that when I am among the green hills and far away from Katherine’s malevolent letters, I will decide what I should do.
METHVEN CASTLE, PERTH, SCOTLAND, JUNE 1514
“Oh, marry neither,” Archibald Douglas says, laughing. He has come on a picnic to carve the cold venison, but is serving also as the groom of the ewery, handing me the linen and the wine. I am reveling in the fact that we are a family at play, practically alone—this attentive young man, and my children and their nurses. James is running around on the grass, his arms windmilling, his nurse chasing him till he drops down laughing so much that he cannot stand. His Lord Chamberlain Davy Lyndsay is calling “Run, laddie! Run!” as the baby, Alexander, sleeps in his crib in the shade of the trees, his rocker beside him, his wet nurse dozing on a pillow in the shade.
“No, I have to marry,” I say. “It’s lovely now, with the children here and the court at play in summertime, and it feels as if there is nothing to worry about and it will be summer forever. But you know what it will be like when the autumn comes and the winter follows: the lords will plot together and against each other, and the French will try to make war on England through us, and my brother will make demands that I cannot meet, and the cursed Lord Dacre will raid the border and the people will starve and riot.” My voice is trembling at the end of this list. “I can’t face it. I can’t face another winter alone.”
Archibald’s quick sympathy shines in his face. “I would lay down my life for you. We all would,” he says. “All the border lords are my friends. Just say the word and we will put down the reivers, summon the council, insist that they work together. You know I am from a great family, one of the greatest. I have influence. My grandfather John Drummond is clan chieftain of the Drummonds, my late grandfather was Bell the Cat, my father died at Flodden, so now I am head of the Douglas house. These are the mightiest families in Scotland. Say the word and we will protect you.”
“I know you would,” I say. “And when it is summer and all the lords are at court and happy to be here, or safely on their own lands, and the hunting is good and there is dancing every night, I think that I am safe and will be safe forever. But I have to prepare. I have to find someone to face this beside me.”
He hands me some fruit and a glass of wine. He has such a fluid grace that when he does some small act of service he makes it look as if it is a move in a dance. He never drops or spills anything or swears at his own clumsiness, and he’s always so beautifully dressed. Among the Scots lords who please themselves, ride hard, fight hard, and don’t always trouble to bathe, he is always beautifully barbered and shaved, his hands are always clean, and he smells of clean linen and a musky scent that is all his own. Lord knows he is handsome—half the ladies of my court are in love with him—but he wears his fresh good looks as if they were a jacket he has had forever; he does not know how well he looks. He is betrothed to a girl who lives near his home, one of these Scots family betrothals from the cradle, I suppose. But he does not act like a man betrothed. John Drummond parades his handsome grandson like a prize cock, with his long legs, his slim, lithe strength, the broadness of his shoulders, and that surprisingly dainty Celtic face, hair the color of autumn leaves, dark eyes, and a fascinating smile.
“Janet Stewart of Traquair is a lucky girl,” I say, referring to the young woman he will marry.
He bows his head and flushes. But his eyes come up and meet mine. “It is I who am lucky,” he says. “For I am promised to one of the prettiest girls in Scotland, but I serve the most beautiful queen.”
“Oh, there can be no comparison between us,” I say instantly. “I am a mother of two and an old widow of twenty-four.”
“Not old,” he says. “I’m the same age as you. And widowed like you. And I am Earl of Angus, the head of a great family, the leader of a great house. I know what it feels like to have everyone look to you.”
“Janet Stewart is a young girl, is she not, a maid?”
“She’s nearly thirteen.”
“Oh! A child,” I say disdainfully. “I didn’t know. Everyone spoke of her prettiness; I thought she was a young woman. I am surprised that you didn’t want a woman of your own age.”
“She is my little sweetheart. We have been promised since she was in her cradle. I have watched her grow and never seen a fault in her. I will marry her when she comes of age. But you are my queen, now and forever.”
I lean towards him just a little. “So will you not leave me, Archibald, when you marry your child bride?”
“Call me Ard,” he whispers. “My lovers call me Ard.”
He loves me. I know that he does. I know that his pulse is racing like mine and that he feels the same dizzy elation that I do. I want a man to love me, I need a man to love me, and the young Earl of Angus—Ard, as I secretly name him to myself—clearly does so. And he will never leave me, he will always be in my service, at my side at dinner, riding with me when the court goes out, playing so sweetly with my little boy, admiring my baby. Of course, I will have to marry a great man, the King of France or the emperor, for the sake of my country and my own fortune, but I will always keep Ard at my side. He will be my knight errant, my chevalier. I will be like the lady in the fables, in troubadour songs: adored and forever unattainable. And I really think he shall not marry Janet Stewart of Traquair. I really think that I will allow myself to forbid the wedding, even if the little girl cries into her pillow for a month. I can do this. I am queen; I can do it without explanation.
I receive a letter from my sister Mary, eighteen years old this year and still at home, unmarried. She writes news of the court on their summer progress. They are all well, the Sweat has not come to court, and they are traveling informally in the South of England, sometimes going by barge on the river with musicians accompanying them so that people crowd to the banks to cheer and to wave and to throw rushes and flowers as they go by. Sometimes they go on horseback, with the royal standards ahead, and at every town a delegation comes out to praise Henry for his military might, his victories against France and Scotland, and to give him purses of gold.
I have a wardrobe filled with new gowns paid for by the Spanish, they say that nothing is too good for the bride of Castile. They have demanded yet another portrait and the artist swears that I am the most beautiful princess in Christendom!
She says that she is to marry little Charles next year and already they are planning an enormous series of feasts and jousts to celebrate her departure to Spain. Charles Brandon is certain to joust and certain to triumph. Henry has made him a duke, an honor quite beyond anyone’s imagining. Some people think he has been elevated so far above his station so that he can propose marriage to the Archduchess Margaret, but Mary knows better. She tells me so, her handwriting sprawling, misspelled in her excitement, with added scribbled remarks in the margin.