Holyrood, July 1534
No one wants to admit it, but tension hovers thick in the air as Alexander, Mary and Nora process down the Great Hall at Holyrood, preparing to greet James and his new bride.
While Alexander has met Louise already, having escorted her into the capital from Leith in May, this is the first time Mary is meeting her. Louise has been in Scotland a full two months without ever setting eyes on her English cousin.
Officially, Mary’s poor health and slow recovery after the birth of Lord Robert and Lady Margaret has been given as the reason for her delayed arrival in Edinburgh, but there is definitely more than one courtier watching her walk down the Great Hall who has wondered, at least in recent weeks, whether the young Duchess’s suddenly delicate health has been no more than a convenient excuse; one she has exploited to avoid having to come face to face with the younger cousin that her own father’s armies have so recently rendered fatherless. There is definitely more than one person wondering whether the fierce young Queen, who is already very clearly her new husband’s darling, will call the Duchess out on it, and if so, whether Lord Ross will come to his wife’s defence, or whether he will let her challenge of Mary’s behaviour stand.
And that is by no means the only reason that eyebrows are being raised as the Rosses process through the Hall. Nora is carrying Mary’s train of green and white alexander, and a ripple of shocked whispering follows her through the hall.
Scandalous behaviour in his own home is one thing, but is Lord Ross really so bold as to have his harlot present when he is greeting Scotland’s new Queen, even if she is nominally one of his wife’s chief ladies?
Alerted by the sudden hiss of noise, James glances up.
His eyes widen for the merest moment at the sight of Nora, before he sends a narrow-eyed glare at his brother. What does Sawney think he’s doing? Mistresses are all very well, but to bring one into the audience chamber, the very first time he presents Mary to Louise?! It’s a slight to both girls, and he must know that!
Louise turns to him, taken aback by Sawney’s daring, and he weaves his fingers through hers, not sure if he is seeking reassurance or giving it.
“I’m sorry,
mo nighean dubh,” he whispers into her rich black hair, tilting their heads together, so that no one can hear but her, “I don’t know why he’s done this, but there’s nothing we can do now. Play the gracious Queen, my darling, and I will tear Sawney apart later.”
Louise glowers, but nods, just fractionally. And then there is no more time for talking. Sawney and Mary are before them, Sawney sweeping into a flamboyant bow, Mary dropping into a gracefully deep curtsy at his side.
“Sire. Queen Louise.”
James nods in acknowledgement of his brother’s greeting, but neither returns it nor tells the young couple to rise. Instead, he lets Louise tug her hand free of his and walk down off the dais, stopping just short of Sawney and Mary.
“Lord Ross,” she says softly, “It pleases us to have you back at Court at last.”
She holds out her hand to him, helping him rise from his bow, but when Mary goes to rise beside him, as she usually does, she freezes the older girl in her tracks with a sharp flick of her hand.
The gaze she turns on Mary, after Alexander has kissed her hand, is cool, and her tone, when she speaks, is as frosty as Arthur’s Seat on a winter morning.
“Lady Ross. How nice of you to finally honour Us with your presence at Court. Why, We might be forgiven for thinking that you were loth to be considered Our sister, so long has it taken you to come and visit Us.”
A heartbeat of shocked silence follows Louise’s pronouncement, not least her blatant adoption of the Royal Plural, which is normally reserved for James alone. Alexander glances at his brother, expecting him to be incandescent with rage that his wife has overreached herself so. However, he is wrong. James is far from angry. If anything, he has an amused smirk on his face at his young wife’s daring.
Alexander, on the other hand, is not quite so equitable. Neither is Nora. Their words jump over each other’s as they both leap to Mary’s defence.
“Cousin Louise!”
“Your Grace, please!”
“Mary has been ill!”
“Carrying and childbirth was very hard on her!”
If the look Louise gave Mary was cool, then the glare she turns on Nora at the older girl’s outburst is pure burning ice.
“No one asked your opinion, Mistress Boleyn. You may be used to being the be all and end all of Dingwall, but I’ll stand for no such airs here at Holyrood. Is that clear?”
Nora flushes and drops a curtsy, “Yes, My Lady.”
“Your Grace,” Louise corrects instantly, “The correct form of address for a Queen here in Scotland is Your Grace.”
At that, Nora flushes even deeper. She goes silent and stares at her feet until Louise huffs and turns her attention back to Mary, who is still bent in her curtsy.
The young Duchess’s legs, still weak after her months of bed rest, are trembling at the effort of maintaining such a deep obeisance for so long, but no one dares move to help her. No one dares even breathe, for fear Louise might turn her affronted ire on them next.
Louise draws the moment out, mulling over her next words. She can’t deny she’s enjoying the sense of power that’s filling her as she faces her older cousin. She’s never been the most important woman in the room before, and it’s a delicious feeling.
“I’ll see you for the banquet tonight, Lady Ross. But not in that green and white. I’ll have no murderer’s colours at my court, not even for his daughter. Are we clear?”
The colour drains from Mary’s face at the clear barb against her father. Anger sparks in Alexander. How dare Louise blame Mary for the actions of her father’s army? She wasn’t even in England when Lord Suffolk and Lord Southampton invaded France!
Mind made up by his indignation, he reaches out and catches Mary by the waist, pulling her up from her curtsy in flagrant defiance of Louise’s command that she remain subservient.
Mary leans against him gratefully, even as she nods meekly to Louise.
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll change before tonight.”
“See that you do.”
Louise’s voice is iron and, again, Alexander turns his gaze to his brother, silently pleading with him to intervene. Louise is his wife, yes, but he’s always been fond of Mary. Is he really going to stand by and watch her be scorned for something she can’t help, by her own much younger cousin, no less?
James, however, refuses to meet his eye. His face is blank and shuttered, and when Louise turns from Mary and stalks back up to the dais, he merely leans across and kisses her cheek soothingly.
He murmurs something in her ear, something Alexander can’t catch, but his tone is more laughing than scolding, and he doesn’t even notice as Alexander sketches him a bow and leads Mary from the room, still supporting her by the waist.
Alexander, for his part, steers Mary from the room almost blind, sour fear filling his throat.
He and Jamie have always been so close. Are their marriages really going to be the thing that tears them apart?
He doesn’t want them to be, but right now, with James so utterly adoring of Louise, it looks like they might be.