Dingwall, May 1537
“Sawney!” Nora spits her husband’s name out in what is all too clearly a mixture of hurt, anger, and betrayal, “Mary was my oldest and closest friend. Christ, she was practically my
sister. How can you
possibly ask me to stay behind?”
“Nora, please…” Alexander holds out a hand to her, feeling a lump come to his own throat as Nora faces him down, her bright blue eyes swimming with tears.
As he reaches for her, she swings back away from him, shaking her head.
“I’m your
Duchess. I was Mary’s closest friend. What’s it going to look like if I’m not at your side to bury her?”
Her voice breaks, and Alexander’s heart twists as he steels himself to say the words he has not yet brought himself to tell her.
“James doesn’t want you there. He thinks it’ll be too much of a slight to Aunt Katherine and Cousin Meg if we rub our marriage in their faces at this, of all things. Too much of a slight to Mary. You don’t want that, do you? You don’t want people denying you ever really loved Mary, seeing you as nothing but a harlot I've wed for the sake of nothing but rampant lust? Surely?”
Nora blanches at Alexander’s words, but sets her jaw, choking back the sobs that threaten to swallow her whole.
“I want to be there when you bury my sister. And if you love me at all, you’d understand that. You’d fight James for me. You’d fight the whole damn Court to let me be there.”
“I will take you myself.” The words come out, heavy with the finality of a promise, “I will take you to Birgham and to Carham. When all the pomp is over, when the dust has settled, I will take you to Birgham and to Carham. You will get your chance to say goodbye to Mary. But Jamie made it very clear. You are not to be there for Mary’s formal reburial. It was the price I had to pay, to get him to agree to our marriage. To get him to support us against Uncle Henry and Cousin Louise. So, please, darling. I know your heart is breaking at the thought of not being there, but can you just…”
“We don’t
need their support! We’re both of age, we said our vows before witnesses. There’s not a ground on either Heaven or Earth they could use to annul our marriage, and we both know it. In our heart of hearts, we both
know we’re in the right. I can’t
believe you let Jamie guilt you into making me stay behind!”
Nora whirls on her heel before Alexander can even begin to fathom a response to that. She races for the door, fumbling the handle in her haste. Alexander steps towards her, but as his shadow moves, she throws a glare of poison over her shoulder, freezing him in place.
“
Mary would want me there. You know she would.”
And then she is gone, her pattens pounding on the flagstoned floor of the passage. Her tortured sobs echo through Dingwall for hours to come.
Birgham, May 1537
Trumpets blare, horses neigh, dogs bark, startled by the snapping of the banners of Ross, Wales, Tudor and Surrey in the brisk May breeze. Like any great state occasion, the meeting of the Duke of Ross, heir to Scotland, the Dowager Princess of Wales and the Countess of Surrey is a maelstrom, teetering between organised chaos and solemn pageantry depending on the moment.
Katherine’s litter draws to a grave halt and Alexander bows crisply, stepping up and holding out a hand to help the older woman down.
“Aunt Katherine,” he greets, infusing his voice with as much warmth as he can muster, given the significance of the occasion.
Katherine, too, knows this is not a day to rake over old hurts and political grievances. This is a day to show unity, to come together in honour of her beloved daughter. She nods solemnly in return, echoing Alexander’s greeting.
“Lord Ross. Nephew. How kind of you to greet me yourself.”
She places her hand in Alexander’s, leaning heavily on him as she alights. Far more heavily than she did during the celebrations for his and Mary’s wedding seven years ago. Alerted by it, Alexander appraises her discreetly.
His aunt Katherine is old, he realises. Old and worn down by grief and pain. Her once bright auburn hair is thin and as silver as a newly-minted shilling. Her face is puffy and etched with creases that are more like crevices than creases. Only her eyes, small almond-shaped sapphires, still glint with the same mix of pride and responsibility that he remembers. He saw the same light in her daughter’s eyes a thousand times.
In that instant, Alexander realises
just how much it has cost the older woman to make this journey. A surge of affection fills him.
“Thank you,” he breathes sincerely, bending almost double to kiss her cheek, “Thank you for being here.”
“I would never have dreamed of being anywhere else,” Katherine answers equally softly, the strength in her voice belying her years, even as the broadness of her natal accent betrays the depth of her emotion.
Recognising how close Katherine is to breaking, but knowing it will embarrass her terribly if he draws attention to it, Alexander lets a moment pass, allowing his aunt to collect herself, before pressing her hand to his arm.
“Come. I have some people I want you to meet.”
Without any other word of explanation, he steers Katherine through the crowd, to a sheltered spot behind the rows of pavilions, which is acting as something of an oasis of calm amongst the chaos. It is there he has left his children, trusting their nurses to keep them safe and ready to meet their grandmother.
Katherine’s breath catches in her throat as she realises why Alexander has brought her here, and, for a moment, the two of them simply stand and take in the scene in front of them.
Bobby and Maggie are deeply engrossed in a game involving sticks and stones on the ground. They are crouched close together, Bobby’s fair curls brushing Maggie’s hood of pale green silk as they draw in the dirt intently, chattering like magpies to one another in that strange language they seem to share, the one no one else understands.
Several feet away, little Mary Katherine, a week away from her first birthday and newly tottering about on her own two feet, stumbles through the grass, picking wildflowers under the careful gaze of a doting nursemaid.
The sun glints off her golden hair, and Alexander chuckles affectionately.
“Little minx. We cannot get her to wear a cap. She screams all of Dingwall down if we try.”
“My sister Juana was the same,” Katherine laughs lightly, “She drove all our nurses to distraction, particularly when Maria and I tried to copy her.”
Alexander is about to respond, but, just then, Bobby glances up and sees them.
“Papa!” he cries, dropping his game instantly.
He runs to Alexander, who catches him, pretending to stagger under his weight. Little Bobby squeals with laughter and Katherine watches on, her heart melting. It’s been far too long since she heard a little one crow with such innocent delight.
“He’s grown so much since the last portrait you sent me,” she murmurs, and Alexander turns to her.
“Well, it’s been nearly a year. I’ll have another one painted for you before the summer is out,” he promises, before tapping Bobby on the cheek to get his attention.
“Bobby, this is your Grandmother Katherine. Can you say hello to her for me, the way Mama Mary would want you to?”
“Pweased to ‘eet oo, Gwand’a Kathwin. Welcome to Scotwand,” Bobby lisps obediently, bowing carefully and solemnly from his father’s arms.
Knowing how important this moment will be for the little boy, Katherine does her best to hide her mirth at his adorable lisp and nods back gravely.
“And I’m pleased to meet
you, Robert. Thank you for greeting me so nicely. You’re growing into a fine boy, aren’t you? Your Mama Mary would be very proud.”
The solemnity of the occasion dissolves in an instant, as the three-year-old scowls blackly, kicking out at Katherine angrily.
“I Bobby, not Wobet! ‘a’a ‘Ary and ‘a’a Nowa both call ‘ee Bobby!”
“Bobby!” Alexander scolds sharply, horrified that Bobby should try to kick his grandmother on their first meeting. However, before he can get any further, little Mary Katherine toddles over.
Cossetted beyond belief as the delicate baby of the Scottish nursery, the eleven-month-old doesn’t even consider for a moment that she might not be welcome in Katherine’s embrace. She simply tugs sharply on Katherine’s black and gold brocade skirts, and holds her arms up imperiously, demanding a cuddle. Katherine glances down, into Mary Katherine’s big dark eyes, and gasps.
“Maria…” The word escapes her involuntarily, and Alexander places his hand on her back.
“She’s her mother in miniature, isn’t she?” he says softly, “Not her eyes, those are Stewart to the core, but other than that…”
He trails off, stunned by what he’s seeing.
Katherine, proud, imperious Katherine, has fallen to her knees, face buried in Mary Katherine’s blonde curly hair. She is all too obviously weeping as though her heart will break.
Returning to the main point of arrival, Alexander sees his sister alighting from a litter and raises a hand in greeting.
“Sister Meg!”
She is at his side in two strides. Without warning, her hand flies through the air, hitting his cheek with an audible crack.
“That’s for marrying before your year of mourning was over! Mary deserved better than that!” she snarls, pretty face distorted in fury.
No sooner has the storm broken over Alexander’s head, however, than it passes. Even as he reels backward, clutching his cheek, Meg softens, reaching out to pull him into a bone-crushing embrace.
“And that’s for marrying Nora and giving Bobby, Maggie and Mary Katherine the one woman in Scotland I would trust with Mary’s children as their mother. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
“Well, that went better than expected,” Alexander comments dryly, once he feels safe enough to do so, “You’ve taken the news of my remarriage remarkably well. I thought I’d be in for more of a bollocking than a single slap.”
Meg snorts, “Please, Sawney. Unlike my darling sister-cousin, I am neither blind nor utterly sheltered. You’ve been head over heels for Nora since the very first time you laid eyes on her, when you thought she was Mary. And Nora’s equally besotted with you, bless her. Bollocking you wouldn’t do any good. Just…Just don’t let the children forget their mother, all right? Promise me that. Mary deserves to be remembered.”
“You have my word,” Alexander promises, kissing his sister’s cheek, “Now, would you like to meet the children?”
“Of course I would!” Meg cries, linking her arm comfortably through his in the way that only a sister can, “Indeed, if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m fairly confident they’re with Katherine right now, I’d be mortally offended that you don’t already have them standing in a neat little receiving line for me. I’d have Hal and Mary in the yard to greet you, if you ever bothered to come south to Kenninghall, you know.”
“Aye, but I’m a royal Duke, heir to Scotland. You’re just a Countess,” Alexander teases, and Meg shoves him playfully in retort.
“Give over, will you? You’re only seventeen months older than me!”
Laughing, they weave their way back through the crowd jocularly, seeking Katherine and the children.
Thomas Boleyn watches the Countess of Surrey push her brother and growls under his breath. How dare the hussy forget her place so? She’s become far too bold since Lady Ross died, clearly. If only the King were here – he wouldn’t stand for such nonsense at what is supposed to be a grave occasion.
Speaking of hussies, he has yet to lay eyes on his wayward youngest daughter. Someone said Eleanor wouldn’t be here, that she’d been asked to stay away out of respect for Princess Mary’s memory, but Thomas can’t see that. Lord Ross is clearly mad with lust for her, or he wouldn’t have married her in such indecent haste.
Which means she has to be here somewhere. A man mad with lust won’t be able to go weeks without seeing the object of his desires. Eleanor
will be here, even if she is currently keeping an uncharacteristically low profile. He just needs to find her.
And when he does, he’s going to remind her of her duty. Her duty, not to Scotland, or to her husband, or God Forbid, her ‘sister’, Lady Ross.
No, no, no. He’s going to remind her of her duty to the Boleyns and Howards. The one she seems to have forgotten, all the way up here in the barbaric North. Oh, he might have scorned her for playing the whore to Lord Ross, but things are different now. She’s a married woman, a royal Duchess. Her sons will be in line for the throne of Scotland. Her daughters will be Queens.
Girls with Boleyn blood will be Queens, sought after all over Europe as consorts.
As their grandfather, he deserves a higher title than a Viscountcy, surely. Earl of Mar, now, that has a ring to it, even if it is a Scottish title rather than an English one.
Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Mar…
Thomas’s heart speeds up at the mere thought of it. He can almost see the Earl’s coronet glittering in front of him.
But he has to find Eleanor first. He has to find her and inform her that, in light of the great change in her circumstances, he can deign to forgive her for her previous conduct and welcome her back into the bosom of the Boleyn and Howard family.
Shoulders set with determination. Thomas dives into the milling crowd in search of his daughter.
