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

a busy correspondence that saw her named the Tattler. She did not care. Without James at her side, Scotland was an alarming place for a widow with young princes in her care. Henry’s support and advice were a comfort. And Dacre, no doubt seeing the advantage in being the counsellor of his sovereign’s sister, became her staunchest ally. She never doubted that he acted from motives of self-interest, but then so did she.
    Only once did their friendship falter. Less than a year after Flodden, she had secretly married her lover, Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus. A few weeks before, she had hinted to Dacre that Angus and she were close. His lips had thinned, and he had taken her by the elbow beyond earshot of the rest of the room. ‘Bed him if ye must, milady, and no one will blame you for your needs. But marry him and you will seal your own ill fortune, and that of your country. Angus is a fool, as witless as he is pretty. He cannot make any woman happy.’ He caught her raised eyebrow. ‘Leastwise, ma’am, not for longer than an hour at a time.’
    Nevertheless she married the earl, and swiftly regretted it. Angus’s ardour dimmed before the year was out, his honeyed words growing more tart. Where once he had been content to lounge at her side, listening to her chatter while he toyed with her fingers, now he could think of nothing but who would run the country.
    It was little wonder. Their marriage not only ended Margaret’s regency, as they had feared, but brought Scotland under the control of her late husband’s cousin John Stewart, Duke of Albany. That Albany’s father had tried to usurp James III from the throne and been banished for life, and his associates executed, was conveniently forgotten, but Margaret had her suspicions of him from the start. As the years passed, he proved a presence unlike any she had encountered before. A handsome, haughty courtier, whose Scottish roots lay hidden beneath a veneer of Gallic charm, the scent of the French court was so overpowering whenever he walked into a room that he must surely have marinated himself in cologne overnight.
    That a man of such elegance could be so dangerous had never surprised her. Nobody was a greater threat to his ambitions that she. But others also wanted her gone. As resentment grew among a cabal of ill-wishers, led by the Earl of Arran who sought the throne for himself, she began to fear for her life. On a night she did not now like to recall, she had been obliged to ride for the borders, seeking Dacre’s protection. That was nine years ago, when a daughter was kicking in the womb, ready to make her arrival. More like bandits than royalty, Margaret and her servants had fled through the night to Harbottle, escaping before Albany and his gaolers knew she had crept out of Linlithgow Palace. Leaving her boys behind, she had taken the hill roads to safety.
    It was the last she saw of her younger son. Even now, the fear that little Alexander might have thought she had abandoned him tormented her. From Harbottle, and then Morpeth Castle, where Dacre insisted she retire for comfort, she had written to her boys each week, sending gifts of candied fruits and toys. She told them about their new little sister, Meg who, she promised, would be the perfect playmate for Alexander.
    Young Margaret was a strapping child who’d given her mother no worries except with her temper. But at the memory of her green-eyed boy, dying without her at his side to hold his hand, her throat tightened. James IV had not been a perfect husband, but she missed his laughter, his persuasive professions of undying love. He was obliged to say so many Hail Marys to atone for his constant straying, she marvelled he found time to attend council. Yet cruel as his infidelities were, she had learned to ignore what she did not, or ought not, observe. When he was taken from her, the unborn Alexander – her husband’s parting gift – promised in some