The lords hand me the scroll of paper. I glance at the name of the new regent. As I guessed, it is James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, grandson to James II, kinsman to my first husband the king. I look up; Archibald is watching me, prompting me to speak.
“And this is the wish of you all?” I ask.
“It is,” they say.
James Hamilton himself gives a modest little bow and starts to come forward.
“I would suggest that there are two regents, ruling together,” I say. “Myself and the noble Earl of Arran, James Hamilton, who has always been my friend.” I completely ignore Archibald, but fix my gaze on James Hamilton’s frowning face. “I am sure that you would want to work with me, my lord? We have been friends for so long.”
He pauses. Certainly, he does not leap at the chance. “As the council wishes,” he says unenthusiastically.
One of the older lords, a man I don’t know, speaks up from the back of the room, and he doesn’t mince his words. “Not if you’re the wife of a traitor and bound to obey him.”
Archibald darts forward to stand by my side. He’s still dressed for hunting and although all blades are forbidden at court everyone knows that he has his hunting dagger in his boot. “Who dares say this?” he demands. “Who dares slander me and the queen, my wife? Who dares defy us and the English king?”
At once there is an angry swell of noise as the lords object to his tone. Ard ignores them, and turns to me. “Propose me,” he says sharply.
“They never will . . .”
“I want to see who refuses.”
“Would you accept a regency with the Earl of Arran and the Earl of Angus?” I say, giving Archibald his full title, looking around at the furious faces.
“Never,” someone says shortly from the back, and all the lords—every single lord present—say, “Nay.”
I turn to Archibald. “I think you’ve seen well enough,” I say bitterly. “And now James Hamilton is regent and the guardian of my boy, and I am despised.”
The lords bow again, and file out of the presence chamber. I hardly notice them go. “See what you’ve done!” I say to Archibald. “You’ve ruined everything!”
“It’s what you’ve done!” he says, quick as a whip. “It is your brother who has failed you. He is making peace with the council without consulting you. It was he who secretly agreed to Arran being regent, and you being nothing. It is he who has made you a nothing here.”
It must be a lie; Harry would not make an agreement behind my back with the council. “He loves me,” I gasp. “He would never abandon me. He promised . . . He sent me back here and he promised!”
“He has abandoned you,” Archibald says. “You see the result.”
“It is you who abandoned me,” I say bitterly. “I know all about Janet Stewart.”
“You know nothing about her,” he says coldly. “Nothing now, and you never will. You cannot imagine her.”
“She is a whore!” I blaze at him. “What is there to imagine in a whore?”
“I will not allow you to speak like that about her,” he says, with strange dignity. “You are the queen. Act like one.”
“I am your wife!” I shout at him. “I should not even hear of her.”
He bows in silence. “You will hear nothing of her from me,” he says icily, and he walks out.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SUMMER 1518
I receive merry news from the court in England. I wonder if they realize that it is like a physical pain to me to hear that they are well and happy and prosperous, making confident plans for the future, secure in their loves and their fortunes? I wonder if Mary ever stops to think that her breathless scribble about dresses, or the plans for a glorious betrothal of little Princess Mary to the French king’s son, makes me feel miserably excluded? She writes page after page and I decipher the excited crisscrossed script and picture the plans for the masque and the dancing and the joust, the dresses that must be ordered, the shoes that must be made, the tirewomen coming and going with gold wire and woven flowers and little diamonds, Harry’s laughter, Harry’s joy, Harry’s triumph at making peace with France and sealing it with the betrothal of his daughter, a baby of little more than two years old. At the very end of it she writes:
And I have saved the best news of all—our dear sister Katherine is with child again, Our Lady of Walsingham has answered our prayers. God willing, the baby will be born in the Christmas season. Think what a Christmas we will have this year, with a new Tudor in the royal cradle!
She commands me to think of their joy—she need not! I cannot stop myself thinking. I am haunted by their happiness. I know only too well what sort of a Christmas there will be at court, and I not there, and never even mentioned. While I am abandoned by my husband, shamed before my council, with my brother conspiring against me, Katherine will go into her confinement and Mary will be unchallenged queen, the leader in all the dances, the prizewinner in all the games, the mistress of the wealthiest court in Europe. Then when Katherine comes out with a baby in her arms, there will be a tremendous christening to honor the precious new child, the parties will begin all over again. If she has a boy there will be an enormous tournament and the celebrations will last for days and spread all over the kingdom. If she has a boy Harry will give her the key to the treasury of England and she can wear a new crown every day of the year, and my son will be disinherited.
I look out of my window at the driving rain, at the gray mountains, shrouded in cloud, and the gray sky above them. I can hardly believe that such a world of joy and music and happiness still exists somewhere, and that once that world was mine. I don’t even begrudge their happiness without me. I cannot really blame them for forgetting about me. Myself, I can barely remember their faces.
HOLYROODHOUSE PALACE, EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND, SPRING 1519
Christmas comes and goes and I have no news of my husband. It is hard to make merry without him carving the meat, or dancing with the ladies. Nobody speaks of him, but I hear that he is snowed-in with Janet Stewart at Newark Castle. The council do not consult me. I give no advice to Lord Dacre. It is as if I have stepped away from the regency, from my marriage, from life itself.
My poor brother has lost a child, again. All their high hopes came to nothing and I am truly sad for him, and for her too. I hear late, long after their grief; the letter from Thomas Lord Dacre comes through only when the first spring thaw clears the road from the south. Bundled in his letter comes a note from Katherine.
God did not grant us the happiness of her birth. Blessed is His Holy Name, and who can doubt His will? She was a little girl and she came early. I hoped it would not be too early, we had physicians and midwives ready when I thought she was coming and I tried to hold her into this unsteady life . . . but Our Father knew better, and I bow to His will, though I cannot understand it.
I know that your life is not easy but I urge you to spend your time with your son, who is such a gift from heaven to a queen and a mother. This was my sixth child and yet I have only one in the nursery, and she is not the prince that I prayed for. God’s will be done, I tell myself this: God’s will be done. I say the words over and over, all through the night when I cannot sleep for crying.