Read Online Dacre's War by Rosemary Goring - Free Book Online

‘See your horse is settled, and our kitchen will feed you. You can return to Harbottle tomorrow, with my reply.’
    A child in green doublet and yellow hose reached her side, tugging her arm to see what the letter contained. She sighed. James was nearly twelve, but the chances of his being able to decipher Dacre’s hand were slim. The boy hated his books. He could barely read Scots, let alone Latin or French. ‘Is he a dunderheid?’ she had asked his tutor some weeks earlier. Gavin Dunbar had scraped a bow and smiled, as if a full set of white teeth could impress her.
    â€˜Absolutely not, my lady. He is as sonsy a lad as I’ve met for many years – like his dear departed father in that regard. But . . .’ The teeth disappeared behind a prim mouth, and his glance brushed hers before settling on the horizon.
    â€˜Well?’ she asked.
    â€˜I believe him to be lazy, my lady. And easily distracted. The men of this court sometimes lead him astray.’
    She had turned, sweeping up her skirts and brushing past him in a slither of silks. ‘He must learn the ways of the world, Master Dunbar,’ she replied. ‘The King of Scotland cannot be an innocent.’
    Dunbar bowed after her retreating figure, his hat dusting the flagstones. ‘But nor should he be a complete ignoramus,’ he muttered.
    â€˜Let me see, Mama!’ cried James, lifting the letter from his mother’s hand.
    â€˜Careful you do not tear it,’ she said, solely from a habit of scolding. Jamie might be slow at his studies, but he was not careless. Even at this young age he would spend an hour arranging the lace at his neck to his taste, or picking invisible dog hairs from his velvet cloak.
    â€˜What does he mean, “setting foxes to catch a wolf”?’ he asked.
    Margaret plucked the letter from him. ‘I will explain later.’ She looked around to see who had heard, but her maids were fondling the spaniels, her courtiers were deep in conversation, and the guards’ ears were hidden beneath their helmets.
    She summoned the nearest of her courtiers. ‘Send to Edinburgh for the castle gaoler,’ she said. ‘Bring him to me at once.’ The man bowed and set off at a run, no simple matter in pointed shoes. When the dowager queen spoke in that tone, haste mattered more than dignity.
    For the rest of the day, Margaret was aloof. Though she saw him only rarely she dismissed her son, complaining that his voice was giving her a headache. Only her maidservants were allowed at her side, and they too were chided if they fidgeted or laughed. Stretched out on cushions and blankets beneath the elm, she stared into the leaves above as they rustled, dusty and dry in the early autumn sun. Her querulous expression softened as she replayed the scenes of happier times, twisting the bracelets on her arms and making them chime, like the hands of a clock going backward.
    She remembered the baron helping to broker her marriage to James IV, arriving at Richmond Palace with a party of Scottish lords with whom he laughed and joked as if they were his dearest friends and not an enemy centuries old. He and her father, Henry VII of England, had been closeted with them all afternoon, trays of ale and biscuits sent in every hour to sustain their negotiations.
    When they emerged, her father had nodded at her but not spoken, leading the Scots to the hall where dinner awaited. Only later that night, when his guests had gone to their rooms and she was in bed, did he tell her that her nuptials were arranged. ‘You are the best hope this country has of making a binding peace with Scotland,’ he had said, dropping a kiss on her forehead in a rare mood of approbation. ‘I believe James is a good man. I am sure you will be happy.’ She watched his departing back, the light from his candle dimming as he crossed the room. Her spirits faded likewise. She would be a wife before she reached