Section CXLVII: June 1537
Stirling, June 1537
“It appears Cousin Mary’s reburial went off well,” James comments, lowering his brother’s letter to his lap and glancing at Louise, who is sewing placidly in the window seat, “Aunt Katherine was Chief Mourner, and they had all the maidens in white carrying tapers and everything else Sawney and Meg wanted to give Mary.”
“It all sounds frightfully English to me,” Louise grumbles, and James cuts her a sharp glance.
“Mary was an English Princess, mo nighean dubh. I’d give you as French a funeral as I could manage, if it came to it. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t want one. I know how proud you are of that ceremony you designed for your father.”
“That was for his month mind, not for his funeral. And besides, he was a sovereign King, not just a Duchess,” Louise retorts, but even she, who cared little and less for her older cousin, the only woman who could rival her for influence at the Scottish Court, knows her words are inappropriately graceless in the circumstances. She sighs.
“I’m sorry, Jamie. That was unchristian of me. It’s no excuse, but I’m feeling out of sorts today.”
Instantly, James is all solicitousness, leaping to his feet to massage Louise’s shoulders tenderly.
“Are you quite well, my darling? Do I need to call the physicians?”
Louise laughs lowly, “Not in the slightest, Jamie. I spoke to them only this morning, and they are quite satisfied that I am in splendid health. No, I’m afraid there is another reason for me to be feeling out of sorts…and it may last several months.”
“Several months!” James exclaims worriedly, before he registers how tiny the cap in Louise’s lap is…and the delighted glint in her eye.
His mouth falls open and he reaches round her to wrap an arm around her belly protectively.
“If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Louise, after her beautiful mother,” he promises, kissing Louise’s temple.
“No,” Louise shakes her head, “We can name a boy for you, if you want, but I don’t want our eldest daughter to be named after me. Our second, yes, but I already know what I want to call my eldest daughter. I’ve always known.”
“Oh?” James hums quietly, waiting for Louise to answer. This is new. He’s never known this of his young wife before. But then, the matter has never really arisen before.
“Isobel.”
Louise’s voice is so firm when she speaks that James knows, deep in his bones, that he’ll never be able to change her mind, even if he wants to.
Which he doesn’t. Louise is his darling wife, the best Queen he could ever have asked for, all things considered, and, even if he might have assumed he’d name his eldest daughter for his mother, if not his wife, the name is a small enough matter to give way over.
“Isobel Stewart is a beautiful name. Your Mama Isabelle would be honoured, mo nighean dubh.”
He nuzzles Louise’s rich black hair as he speaks and she tilts her head back, seeking more contact with him, as she always does. She likes having her hair played with.
“It’ll be a boy, though,” she says, voice ringing with the kind of confidence that only a cossetted Queen of sixteen can pull off with even a semblance of dignity, “I’ll give you a boy at the first time of trying, Jamie, you see if I don’t. And, given enough time, I’ll give you a whole quiver full of sons, just like my Lady Mother gave my father. You have my word.”
Unbeknownst to Louise, her brash confidence misses the mark with her older, more sanguine, husband. With a string of mistresses and seven acknowledged illegitimate children to his name, James knows how important it is that Louise doesn’t set her heart on their coming child being a Duke of Rothesay. After all, the greater the disappointment a young mother suffers over her child’s sex, the more likely it is that the birth will throw her humours out of balance. As such, he decides it behoves him to sound a note of caution.
“Well, be they James, Duke of Rothesay or Princess Isobel of Scotland, our child will the most loved in all of Scotland,” he promises, kissing her again, long, hard and deep, putting his whole heart into the display of affection.
Porto, June 1537
“Margot?”
The question is quiet, tentative, and Margot somehow just knows that it is going to lead to a deep, profound conversation. She sets down her sewing immediately, sharing a look with Nanette.
Her old friend leaps to her feet, shooing the other ladies out of the room even before Bella has fully risen from her curtsy and taken her seat.
The eighteen-year-old is pale and shaking, chewing at her bottom lip quite as convulsively as a dog worries a bone. One look at her is enough to convince Margot that she was right to send her ladies away. Whatever Bella wants to talk to her about, it has to be done in a private conversation.
“What can I do for you, Bella?”
She reaches out, taking the younger woman’s hand and rubbing her thumb soothingly across the clenched knuckles. It takes a few moments, but Bella eventually calms down enough to ask one halting question.
“Do I – Do I have to – Must I – Must I truly go to Brazil when Jean sails next week? Can’t I – Can’t I stay here with you?”
Margot’s heart clenches at the plaintive note in her younger sister’s voice. She’s only known Bella six short months, but even in that space of time, it has become only too clear that the Prince and Princess of France’s marriage is a rocky one, to put it mildly. Bella is a meek, dutiful creature, ill-equipped to deal with Jean’s sulks and bitter mood swings. However, if even half of Jean’s boasting is to be believed, there is no doubt that their marriage has been consummated. Jean might only be rising fifteen, but that doesn’t mean he’s not more than happy to brag about his various conquests now that he has discovered the opposite sex…and that includes the nights he spends in his wife’s bed. For all he is three years younger than Bella, he most definitely holds the power in their unhappy relationship.
And many would say that that’s how it should be. After all, Bella did promise to obey Jean when they exchanged their vows.
Margot swallows hard and steels herself to remind Bella of her duty.
“You’re his wife. Convicted traitor or not, your place is at my brother’s side. You never know, Brazil may be a fresh start between you. Give it a chance.”
“But I never wanted to be his wife!” The words burst from Bella with such vehemence that Margot physically sits up, taken aback, “I never wanted to be his Duchess! I never wanted to marry at all! I wanted to be a bride of Christ, but Mama didn’t want me to. I’m her eldest daughter, she wanted me to marry someone who could give our family Milan back, who could put our blood back on the ducal throne. She raised me to know that that was my duty, and the Bible tells us to ‘Honour thy father and thy mother’, so that’s what I did. But I never wanted to, and now we’ve lost Milan, so it was useless anyway, and…”
Her self-control finally deserting herself completely, Bella breaks down into uncontrollable sobs. Her jewel-encrusted bodice heaves with anguish, and Margot instinctively rubs her back as one would to soothe a fractious baby, while she thinks furiously.
At first, she’d assumed, that since the match has all too obviously been consummated, it would be impossible to get Bella out of her hated marriage, but if Bella is claiming that she’s always wanted to be a nun, that she only wed due to familial pressure…
At last, Bella has cried herself out, and Margot wraps her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders, pulling her against her as she thinks how best to phrase the question.
“Bella?”
“Yes?”
“Would you be willing to swear, on oath, that you never wanted to marry Jean, that you only took the vows under duress?”
The hope that leaps in Bella’s face is so pathetically eager, it is almost painful.
“Oh, yes, Margot! If it gets me out of my marriage, out of going to Brazil, I’ll do anything!”
Margot gulps, praying that her next words aren’t going to plunge her into a morass she can’t find a way out of, and hands Bella a scrap of rough linen, patting her shoulder consolingly.
“Then dry your eyes, little sister, and come with me. We’ll go and talk to Joao and our brother the Bishop. I make no promises that it will be either easy or quick, but there may be something we can do for you.”
