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Authors: Rosemary Goring
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thirteen.
The next morning she had stood at her open window as Dacre and their other visitors gathered for the journey north. The baron was at the head of the group, sword in belt and crossbow on back. His stallion pranced, and he held it on a tight rein, but it was plain that he too was eager to be on the road. When eventually the horses wheeled, he looked up at Margaretâs window and raised a hand in salute. She watched, twisting the ruby on her forefinger. With a man like that she might be willing to head into the unknown, she thought, turning back to the room, and wondering whether she would feel the same about the Scottish king.
Some months later she arrived in Edinburgh, clutching Dacreâs arm as if she were blindfold. Only an hour earlier that arm had been around her waist as she was overcome by dizziness. Over the past few days she had been growing more and more faint-hearted. Her first sight of the north, at Dacreâs castle in Morpeth, had left her homesick, the rich hangings and paintings a reminder of Richmond and everything she might never see again. As her retinue drew near the border, plodding through terrain that grew starker with each village, she had to blink back tears. Here she was, leaving her home and family for an uncouth place and a religious husband who, from the miniature she had seen of him, had an alarmingly introspective air and none of the baronâs brawn.
âCourage,â Dacre had whispered as he helped her onto her horse outside an inn on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The cheer sheâd taken from his embrace did more to sustain her than the tumbler of hot spiced wine Jamesâs servant proffered when they reached Holyrood House. The palace was a shimmer of forbidding grey, hidden beneath a rain so relentless her cloak trailed water up its uncarpeted stairs. She ought to have guessed then that the marriage would be soaked in tears.
In the years that followed, Baron Dacre was a frequent guest at the kingâs table, as diplomat, dinner companion, and sparring partner at dice. Neither in manner nor look did he suggest he felt more for Jamesâs young queen than the respect and honour she was owed, yet Margaret was certain this was a man on whom she could rely for support, and possibly more.
The elm shivered in the late afternoon breeze, and her maids draped themselves in shawls. Margaret picked up the letter and, turning on her side, reread its criss-crossed page.
Let me not bore you with an account of what you owe me, or I you. In a friendship such as ours, there is no abacus of debt. Yet it must be plainly acknowledged that my obligation is greater than yours. Even so, I feel confident I can make another claim on your good nature. If I tell you that aiding me in this matter will ultimately be to your advantage as well as mine, perhaps that might secure your answer. Although with one so generous as your highness, no sweetener is required, I feel sure, when appealing to your better nature.
Margaret rolled onto her back, the letter pressed to her bodice. Save for passing him information lately that had prevented the regent Albany from marching his army into England, she had done little to earn his gratitude. On her side, the tally of what she owed was as long as a bishopâs homily. The slate had begun when Dacre found her dead husband on the battlefield. Without his word that he had seen Jamesâs corpse, she might have believed the rumours that the king had survived and gone into hiding. Enduring the weeks after his death had been hard enough. She did not like to think what condition she would have been in had she hoped, in vain, for his return.
In the long months after Flodden, Dacre had proved a friend. Margaret had been appointed regent, but many in the council, and beyond, wanted her gone. It was not just that she was a woman, though for most that was reason enough. Their misgivings lay in the letters that passed between her and her brother Henry VIII,
The next morning she had stood at her open window as Dacre and their other visitors gathered for the journey north. The baron was at the head of the group, sword in belt and crossbow on back. His stallion pranced, and he held it on a tight rein, but it was plain that he too was eager to be on the road. When eventually the horses wheeled, he looked up at Margaretâs window and raised a hand in salute. She watched, twisting the ruby on her forefinger. With a man like that she might be willing to head into the unknown, she thought, turning back to the room, and wondering whether she would feel the same about the Scottish king.
Some months later she arrived in Edinburgh, clutching Dacreâs arm as if she were blindfold. Only an hour earlier that arm had been around her waist as she was overcome by dizziness. Over the past few days she had been growing more and more faint-hearted. Her first sight of the north, at Dacreâs castle in Morpeth, had left her homesick, the rich hangings and paintings a reminder of Richmond and everything she might never see again. As her retinue drew near the border, plodding through terrain that grew starker with each village, she had to blink back tears. Here she was, leaving her home and family for an uncouth place and a religious husband who, from the miniature she had seen of him, had an alarmingly introspective air and none of the baronâs brawn.
âCourage,â Dacre had whispered as he helped her onto her horse outside an inn on the outskirts of Edinburgh. The cheer sheâd taken from his embrace did more to sustain her than the tumbler of hot spiced wine Jamesâs servant proffered when they reached Holyrood House. The palace was a shimmer of forbidding grey, hidden beneath a rain so relentless her cloak trailed water up its uncarpeted stairs. She ought to have guessed then that the marriage would be soaked in tears.
In the years that followed, Baron Dacre was a frequent guest at the kingâs table, as diplomat, dinner companion, and sparring partner at dice. Neither in manner nor look did he suggest he felt more for Jamesâs young queen than the respect and honour she was owed, yet Margaret was certain this was a man on whom she could rely for support, and possibly more.
The elm shivered in the late afternoon breeze, and her maids draped themselves in shawls. Margaret picked up the letter and, turning on her side, reread its criss-crossed page.
Let me not bore you with an account of what you owe me, or I you. In a friendship such as ours, there is no abacus of debt. Yet it must be plainly acknowledged that my obligation is greater than yours. Even so, I feel confident I can make another claim on your good nature. If I tell you that aiding me in this matter will ultimately be to your advantage as well as mine, perhaps that might secure your answer. Although with one so generous as your highness, no sweetener is required, I feel sure, when appealing to your better nature.
Margaret rolled onto her back, the letter pressed to her bodice. Save for passing him information lately that had prevented the regent Albany from marching his army into England, she had done little to earn his gratitude. On her side, the tally of what she owed was as long as a bishopâs homily. The slate had begun when Dacre found her dead husband on the battlefield. Without his word that he had seen Jamesâs corpse, she might have believed the rumours that the king had survived and gone into hiding. Enduring the weeks after his death had been hard enough. She did not like to think what condition she would have been in had she hoped, in vain, for his return.
In the long months after Flodden, Dacre had proved a friend. Margaret had been appointed regent, but many in the council, and beyond, wanted her gone. It was not just that she was a woman, though for most that was reason enough. Their misgivings lay in the letters that passed between her and her brother Henry VIII,
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