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  We neared the halfway point, where I was invited to have a shot at a doe Jamie sent for my hunting pleasure.

  “I will not hunt without my lord!” I cried, delighted he should think of me. How I longed to draw back my bowstring and show him my prowess! He would be so pleased with me!

  At once Jamie arrived attired in purple, sitting a horse dressed in gold. My breath caught in my throat as I beheld him. Oh, but he was a true king! He dismounted, approaching my litter, and, without further ado, swept me up in his arms, planting a firm kiss upon my mouth.

  My eyes widened in delighted surprise as I wrapped my arms about his neck. “Oh, Your Grace!” I breathed.

  His expression was soft, filled with tenderness. No eyes were kinder, I thought to myself as I gazed upon him. I longed to trace his face, to marvel in its every contour and angle. Never had I seen a man in possession of such noble beauty.

  For a while he rode beside me, making certain to ask after my comfort every few moments to the point that I began to giggle at his solicitude.

  “I should like very much for you to ride with me into the city,” he told me.

  “I shall ride one of the new palfreys,” I said as the procession came to a halt.

  “No. You shall ride with me, holding me about the waist,” he added with a smile. How I adored the enthusiasm that caused his voice to crescendo with passion. So infectious was it that I giggled as he continued. “When the people see you thus they will know how pleased their king is by his precious little queen.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be delightful!” I exclaimed as I was helped from my litter. After it was decided that Jamie’s horse wasn’t gentle enough for the task, one of the new palfreys was brought forward. I mounted behind Jamie, wrapping my arms about his waist just as he said. My hands encountered something strange then, a heavy belt of iron. I stiffened. “What is this, Jamie?”

  “ ’Tis nothing to worry your pretty head about, little one,” he assured, moving my hands up to rest above the belt on his belly. “Come now, let’s ride!”

  We began to gallop toward the city. The wind rippled through my copper hair and I laughed, reveling in the freedom of it all. As we rode we were met by pageants and playacting. Knights mock jousted each other for love of a maiden and I was thrilled at all the effort put into these displays.

  “It is all for you,” the king told me. “All for my little Queen Maggie.”

  I nuzzled up between his shoulder blades and squealed in enchantment. All for me! This was a state of affairs I could well get used to!

  When we entered through the gates of Edinburgh at last I was presented with more revolting relics to kiss, including the arm of Saint Giles. Jamie, who seemed most observant and devout, urged me to kiss the disgusting things first, which I did with as much grace as I could summon, and he followed my lead, pressing his lips to the objects with a sincerity I did not feel. To me a bone was a bone.

  Next we were greeted with more pageants. I was presented with the keys to the city by an angel with real feathers for wings. Everywhere about me was opulence and excess; the fountains gushed with red wine and my head throbbed and tingled from the ringing of the bells.

  Edinburgh was alive with merriment and song.

  And all for me!

  It was my wedding day. The proxy ceremony, I realized, had nothing on this. Even if it were overcast the city would be lit by the gold in my procession—my eyes were dazzled by the cloth of gold and jewelry worn by people and horses alike.

  My gown was black velvet and white damask with red silk sleeves to match Jamie, who met me with his bonnet in hand as he did whenever I was in his presence as a sign of respect. My heart stirred at the sight of him standing before me so noble and proud.

  I wore a crown, the crown of a queen. It was heavy on my head and I trembled as I reflected upon its significance. My father told me this was my destiny—my fate since birth. He knew it then and I knew it now. I stood straight under the weight of this crown, vowing even as I exchanged vows with my king that I would endeavor to be the greatest queen Scotland had ever known.

  The Archbishops of Glasgow and York officiated and we shared the Host at the Mass. I started at the trumpets that announced our union and blinked back tears when Jamie handed me the scepter. Holy oil anointed me then and with this ritual I truly became the Queen of Scots.

  Jamie wrapped his arm about my waist as we removed to the banquet at Holyrood House. “One of my favorite residences,” Jamie explained as I gazed at the castle towering before me. “I pray you will come to love it as I do.”

  “I love it already,” I said because it sounded so charming. And I was dazzled. But as I entered the great hall I grew more aware than ever that this was not my home. I will never see you again. My father’s words rang in my ears, as resonating as the church bells celebrating my presence.

  Jamie drew me from my wistful reflections by insisting that the gifts be given in my name. He poured my wine with his own hand, attending to my every need as a stream of gifts paraded before us. Goblets and bolts of fabric, jewels and caskets, trinkets and treasures the worth of which was beyond my conception.

  “Are you happy, little one?” Jamie asked me in his enchanting brogue. He began to fix our plate, making certain I was served first.

  “I am so happy, my lord,” I breathed. “But I am happiest knowing I have married the handsomest, most wonderful prince in Christendom!”

  He laughed, bringing my hand to his lips.

  We ate the splendid fare before us, served from fifty different platters. I could not contain my ravenous appetite and Jamie laughed as he watched me sample the different meats and puddings. He was quite restrained and ate sparingly.

  “You think me unbecoming eating this way,” I commented, flushing.

  “I think you are a growing girl,” he said in soft tones, fondness lighting his green eyes.

  The evening passed in a whirl. The English and Scots minstrels and musicians battled against each other, each in the hopes of outshining the other, and there was an underlying tension behind the seemingly good-natured competition. We danced till the soles of my feet ached and throbbed. My legs tingled and my face flushed from wine.

  At last the moment that held the court breathless with anticipation arrived. We were escorted to our wedding chamber. Separately the king and I were dressed in our shifts.

  “Your hands are cold, Your Grace,” my aunty Anne observed as she squeezed my icy fingers in hers. “You are afraid?”

  I had not allowed myself to think of this moment. Now that it had arrived my heart thudded against my ribs in a painful rhythm. I offered a small nod.

  “Have you been instructed on how best to please a man?” Lady Surrey asked.

  I shook my head. “My grandmother thought it sinful to discuss such things.”

  “A wonder King Henry was conceived at all,” Lady Surrey muttered with a smile. “In any case, it does not take much to please them—I daresay a man will infiltrate any hole available.” I flinched as dozens of scenarios presented themselves before my mind’s eye. “Just yield to their fancies, be sweet, and ever ready to serve.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Your Grace,” Aunty Anne instructed. “The pain does pass.”

  “There’s pain?” I asked, my throat constricting in panic.

  Aunty Anne’s eyes widened, as though she was fearful at revealing this unpleasant insight. She stroked my hair. “There is,” she informed me. “But it is a pain that yields itself to much joy; it is a communion of the souls that cannot be achieved through any other act and becomes a closeness you will never feel with any other being.” Her face was radiant with conviction. I marveled that she should feel this way, wondering if I would ever know the like.

  “Ah, Lady Anne, you are a romantic,” observed Lady Surrey.

  “It is a pretty thought, Lady Surrey,” I said. “I like it.”

  “Then take comfort in it, Your Grace, as you do your duty for Scotland,” commanded Lady Surrey as
she brushed my hair, arranging it over my shoulders.

  I drew in a breath. The moment had come.

  The king and I were led to the massive bed of state by giggling courtiers and ladies. The Archbishops of Glasgow and York stood at its foot, two old men of stony countenance. I flushed under their gazes, fearful that they would stay to observe the entire act as some had been known to do.

  The covers were turned down and Jamie and I were assisted into the bed, where the covers were then drawn over us to the chest. We were blessed by the archbishops. Jamie folded his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, murmuring a prayer to himself. It seemed almost an intrusion that I should bear witness to his private communion with God, a communion I had never experienced during my prayers.

  At the blessing’s conclusion, the archbishops, ladies, and courtiers filed out of the chambers, leaving us alone. Jamie turned down the covers and rose, making toward the buffet, where he poured himself a goblet of wine.

  “Would you like some, little one?” he asked me, his soft tone ever solicitous.

  “I fear I shall fall asleep if I have any more,” I confessed with a nervous giggle. I looked about our suite, my eyes wide with awe. Tapestries depicted the grandeur of the court of King Solomon and the strength of Hercules, certain to be two of my king’s heroes. The glazed windows bore the arms of Scotland and England, and crowns of interweaving thistles and roses adorned the bosses. I drank it all in with delight.

  “Thistles and roses,” I observed with a slight sigh, recalling that long-ago conversation with my beloved Arthur when I likened myself to a thorn.

  “Entwined as one,” Jamie said, but his smile was distracted. He brought his goblet to his lips, downing it. He turned, gazing at me a long moment. I was unable to read his expression; it was distant, wrought with an emotion I could not understand. Pity, confusion perhaps? It did not make sense to me.

  “Would you . . . like to sleep, sweetheart?” he asked then, looking down into his goblet.

  I shook my head. “Of course not, Your Grace!”

  He smiled through pursed lips. Sweat gathered at his brow. He set the goblet on the buffet, making for the window seat, but did not sit. He gazed out and I had the distinct feeling he was viewing nothing of the scenery. He rested his forehead in his hand a moment before letting the hand fall to his side as he drew in a deep breath, expelling it in a sudden whoosh.

  “Your Grace . . .” I leaned up on one elbow. “Jamie . . . have I done something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “No, no, of course not.” He crossed to the buffet once more, pouring himself another cup of wine, taking a long draught, then sitting beside me on the bed. He sighed. “I fear for you,” he confided. “You’re so very small and I’m—” He bit his lip, his face flushing.

  “Your Grace?” I asked, screwing my face up in confusion.

  He bowed his head. “Tomorrow morning they will inspect the sheets,” he explained. “And we must give them the blood proof that our union has been consummated.”

  “B-blood?” I asked, scrambling up toward the pillow. “Blood from whom? Nobody told me there would be any blood!”

  Jamie gathered me in his arms. “Oh, little one, little one, dinna fret. . . .” He swayed to and fro and I took comfort in the steady beat of his strong heart. “We do not have to do it just yet.” He paused. “Let me tell you of your new home.” His voice grew very soft and low as it did whenever addressing me. “Here in Scotland there is a fog that shrouds the land every morning, very romantic. It softens our hard-edged world. I love to walk in it and look about; it is smoky and a little undefined, like a painting.” He smiled. “And we have lochs so calm and clear that you can see straight to the bottom. I shall take you swimming—yes, I fancy swimming and you shall learn to as well, no matter how ‘unladylike’ they say it is. We will float on our barge, listening to the water lap against its sides, and let the sun warm us as we dip our toes into the water. There are fish to catch and stags to hunt. We will hawk and ride in the Highlands, where it is so green and the air is so clean and crisp.” He drew in a breath, as if he were there, breathing in the Highland air. I found myself doing the same. “And there are castles, beautiful castles where you will play and sing and make many friends. You can decorate as you please and throw as many entertainments as you like.”

  I tilted my face toward his, watching his beautiful mouth move as he described his kingdom and its people, who he promised would love me. He told me of all the pets I would keep, the horses and dogs and birds of prey to be used for my pleasure. All the while his voice rose and fell, alternating between passionate enthusiasm and gentle musing. His was an enchanting voice; I grew lost in it. I grew lost in him.

  At last he laid me back against the pillows and stroked my cheek. “I shall be quick,” he reassured me. “There will be no need to even uncover yourself. We shall keep our shifts on.” He rose and blew out the tapers, cloaking us in darkness. My breath caught in my throat. He returned to me, climbing in bed once more. “There. Mayhap it will be easier this way.”

  Easier for whom? I wanted to ask. Was it that he could not bear to look upon my underdeveloped form, my nonexistent breasts and narrow hips? Was I so repulsive then? I kept those disturbing thoughts to myself as the king covered my face with gentle kisses but avoided my mouth, even as I sought his. At last I ceased doing so and lay back, praying I had the strength to endure this act that would cement the alliance between England and Scotland.

  As promised he did not attempt to remove either of our shifts; he was as gentle as possible. He did not caress any part of my body save for my hips, which he cradled in his strong hands as he commenced, entering quickly. Tears heated my eyes and I cried out—I told myself I would not, but it was terrifying. This thing inside of me was agonizing—a sword bent on ripping me in two. If I could not abide its presence how would I bear a child? Oh, what a disappointment! The king withdrew at once. He was trembling.

  “I have hurt you,” he whispered. “Oh, my lady, my dear little . . . little . . .” He could not say it.

  My legs quaked. I drew the covers over myself and averted my head from his moonlit silhouette.

  “Will it always be like this?” I asked, my tone tremulous.

  “No,” he told me. “As you grow . . .” His voice wavered. “As you grow . . .” He rose and commenced to pour two goblets of wine. “I trust you are ready for some wine now.”

  I sat up, nodding.

  He handed me the goblet and I downed it like a sailor. It was soothing, warming my quivering limbs.

  “Do you think you got a child on me?” I asked then.

  “Oh, little Maggie . . .” There was no mistaking the pity in his tone. It shamed me and I held out my goblet for more wine, hoping to drink my disgrace away. “There are other things that have to happen to get a child.”

  “Does that hurt, too?” I asked, my gut lurching in terror.

  He gazed into his goblet. “No, it is very pleasurable,” he said.

  “For the man, you mean,” I remarked, unable to keep the pout from my tone.

  He laughed. “Aye. But there is much pleasure to be had for the woman as well. You will see.”

  “Have you loved many women?” I asked him.

  He hesitated. His face clouded over. Moonlight reflected glistening tears standing bright in his eyes. “Yes, Maggie. I have loved many women.”

  I scowled, unable to contain my instant jealousy. It surged through me hotter than any wine. “I suppose they were buxom and wildly curvaceous and knew just what to do.”

  His lips twitched. “Maggie, we must not speak of such things on our wedding night,” he told me, setting his goblet down once more and climbing into bed beside me. “Come lay your head on my chest,” he invited as he enfolded me against him. He sighed. “I do not come to our marriage bed an innocent. I wish that I had. Can you forgive me?”

  I wiped my tears away, frustrated to have betrayed my jealousy. “I can forgive you anything,” I assured him. �
�So long as you remember who is the true Mistress. Stewart.”

  He laughed. “Mistress. Stewart?”

  I nodded. “Mistress. Stewart—it is a title I relish even more than ‘Your Grace.’ ”

  “Ah.” He kissed my nose. “Then, may I bid my forever Mistress. Stewart good night?”

  Forever. It was a word that rolled nicely off the tongue. I giggled. “Indeed. Good night . . . Master Stewart.”

  But as we lay there lost in our own respective thoughts I wondered what else my husband had experienced while my childhood was spent preparing to be his bride.

  I wondered at my capacity for forgiveness.

  As the night waxed into dawn I lay awake listening to my king cry and twitch in his sleep.

  “Margaret,” he moaned. “Oh, sweet Margaret . . .”

  I was reassured. He must have been greatly bothered by our conversation to let it haunt his dreams so.

  “I’m here, my love,” I assured, reaching out to stroke his bearded cheek. “I’ll always be here.”

  And I wrapped my arm about his broad chest, curling up against him, this man who was to be my world.

  The king did not try to repeat our wedding night’s unpleasantness and I was just as glad. The longer I could put off that invasion the better. Meantime he was ever solicitous and attentive. Every day I was treated to glittering entertainments. Jamie’s Fool, English John, had such a raunchy sense of humor that I was sent into fits of delight, but the poor fellow was scolded for his bawdy witticisms. I was disappointed in the stricture placed upon him.

  Every day hoped to outdo the one before in gaiety. There was naught to do but play and be merry and I relished every opportunity to sun myself in the gardens with my ladies. We played at cards and bowls or spread our embroidery about the lawn and stitched away the hours against the music of our own gossip.

  One afternoon Jamie descended upon the garden with old Lord Surrey and a group of courtiers. Surrey spent a great deal of time with Jamie and the two seemed to have developed a genuine rapport. I smiled in greeting.