James loved the boy — loved his shining youth, his vitality.

Oh, he thought, if I had but stood beside my father as this son of mine now stands beside me, there would have been a different story to tell of Sauchieburn.

He could see the English banner fluttering in the breeze. It would soon be over, this decisive battle which would mean the end of strife between England and Scotland forevermore. Henry would return from France to find his country lost.

He heard the roar of the cannon as the two armies met at the foot of Brankston Hill.

The Scottish army was divided into five divisions with Home and Huntley leading the vanguard; in the rear were Lennox and Argyle; while James, with Alexander, was in the center; in the rear was the reserve under the command of the Earl of Bothwell.

At four o’clock in the afternoon the battle started and at first it seemed that the English were losing ground, when Sir Edmund Howard, who led the English, lost his banner and his men were quickly in confusion; but Surrey had, on account of the time which had been allowed him, gathered together a strong army, and others were ready to step into the breach and take the place of Howard’s men.

James was in direct conflict with Surrey’s section where the fighting was at its most fierce. All about them was the noise of battle; the clash of spears, the roar of the cannon and cries of wounded men and horses.

James was conscious of Alexander beside him and for the first time wished that he had commanded him to stay at home, for he had caught a look of startled horror on the face of the boy who had so far experienced nothing but light skirmishes and had dreamed of war which had not been like the reality.

This was no joust. This was war to the death. The enemy was determined to drive the Scots back beyond the Tweed and the Cheviots; and the Scots were determined to go forward.

“Alexander, my son… ”

James felt a sob in his throat for his beautiful Alexander had fallen and there was blood where there had but a moment before been the freshness of youth.

“Oh, my son… my son… ”

Mercifully there was little time for remorse. He did not see the man who struck him. James was dressed as an ordinary soldier for he had determined to go into battle as one of his men; he had wanted no special treatment. He was a soldier just as they were.

So he fell, as men were falling all about him.

The battle raged; and it was only later when the fighting was done that the terrible truth was known. On that day of glorious victory for the English and bitter defeat for the Scots, ten thousand Scotsmen lay dead or dying on Flodden Field and among them was their King.

The Reckless Marriage

The Queen had shut herself in that turret of Linlithgow Palace which was known as Queen Margaret’s Bower. She sat alone on the stone bench which surrounded it and looked out of the window hoping and praying for the coming of the messenger.

When she had heard that James was dallying at Ford Castle with Lady Heron her anger was greater than her fear. Each night she was tormented by vague dreams; each day she came to her bower to watch and wait.

There she relived so much of her life with James. This very bower itself had been created by him for her pleasure. It was reached from his dressing room by means of a staircase, and James had had a stone table erected in the center. She remembered so well the day he had shown it to her. How charming he was, how tender! And how difficult it was to remind oneself that he had been as charming and tender to other women perhaps the day before he was showing so much solicitude to her.

News was brought to her frequently. She had learned of all the successes, until they had come to Ford Castle. She knew that Old Bell-the-Cat had left the army in disgust; and she trembled. But then she remembered James, the Wild Knight at the joust. He could not fail. Yet his success would mean disaster for her brother, and she had not known until this time how strong were the ties of blood.

What did she want? Peace, she answered. That is what I want. Peace between our two countries, and my husband at my side.

She had known before the messenger spoke that he had brought disastrous news; and as she had listened to his words a numbness took possession of her body. Dead! On Flodden Field.

She thought: So I shall never seen his handsome face again, never listen to his voice; never again shall I ask myself with what woman he is spending his time now. His beauty has gone; his virile body is but a corpse; and I, his wife, have become his widow.

She went to the nursery, where her little son, who was riding on David Lindsay’s shoulders, shouted with joy to see her.

David Lindsay lifted the boy from his shoulders and stood him down; he saw from the Queen’s expression that she had had bad news and, because he knew that the messenger had come from Flodden Field, he guessed the nature of that news. He was filled with horror and his first thoughts were of what this would mean to his young charge.

“Davie,” said Margaret, “this is a woeful day for Scotland.”

“Your Grace… Your Grace… ”

She knelt down and with tears in her eyes embraced her son.

“He is now your King, Davie.”

“This cannot be!”

“Alas, it is so. James IV has died at Flodden and now this little one is King of Scotland and the Isles.”

“So young… and tender,” murmured David.

“I trust all will remember it,” Margaret answered bitterly. “David,” she went on, “in a few months’ time he will have a brother or sister.”

David nodded slowly.

Young James was impatient of this solemnity. He wanted to play.

“Carry me, David,” he cried imperiously.

And solemnly David Lindsay lifted the King of Scotland onto his shoulder.

The whole of Scotland mourned the King. Nor did it mourn him only, for the flower of Scottish manhood had fallen at Flodden and there was scarcely a noble family in the land which was not touched with sorrow. James had won the hearts of his people as few kings had ever done before him. His handsome looks, his great charm, his sympathy with the troubles of all, his chivalry and brilliant performances at the jousts had made of him a public hero. It was forgotten that he was to blame for this terrible defeat against which so many of his advisers had warned him, that it had been unnecessary to fight at all and, having embarked upon the campaign, it had been criminally negligent to jeopardize the lives of so many and the cause of Scotland while he tarried with Lady Heron. They remembered only the hero who had delighted them with the entertainments he had given and in which they had had their share; they remembered only that he whom they had loved was dead.

Old Bell-the-Cat was a brokenhearted man. He had lost two sons at Flodden — his eldest, George, Master of Douglas, and Sir William of Glenbervie; with them had fallen two hundred gentlemen of the name of Douglas. There could rarely have been a disaster to Scotland and the Douglases to compare with that of Flodden. He no longer had the heart to join in public affairs; he was too old, too sad. All his vast possessions would now go to his grandson Archibald, son of George; and Bell-the-Cat retired to his Priory of Whitehorn in Wigtownshire to set his affairs in order, for he did not think he had long to live — nor did he wish it otherwise.

But there was no time to waste. Scotland was defeated; and she had left the flower of her army rotting on Flodden Field. What next? asked those who were left.

The days following the defeat were some of the most anxious the country had ever passed through, until it was realized that Surrey was in no position to march on Scotland; the main army of England was abroad with the King, and the battle of Flodden had been one of defense for England. The Regent, Queen Katharine, was very loath to conduct a war against her husband’s sister; all she wished to do was preserve England from invasion during her husband’s absence. This had been magnificently done; and Katharine was ready to offer Margaret a truce.

As her numbness left her, Margaret realized that she was now in possession of a certain power — and power was something she had always wished for. James had made her Regent and guardian of their son before he went away, and the nobles of Scotland were anxious to respect his wishes.

First she removed the little King to the strong fortress of Stirling Castle; then she called Parliament, that the will of James IV might be read. There was some murmuring concerning the passing of the Regency into the Queen’s hands, for the tradition of Scotland was that this should be a masculine prerogative, yet because the King was so recently dead, none raised a voice against his wishes. A Council was to assist her, and this was made up of old Bell-the-Cat, the Earls of Arran, Huntley, Glencairn, Argyle, Lennox, Eglington, Drummond and Morton; with Beaton, the Archbishop of Glasgow and Elphinstone, Bishop of Aberdeen.

Only twenty days after the death of his father, little James was taken to Scone where, what was called throughout the land, the Mourning Coronation took place. Over the brow of the child was held the crown of Scotland and he was solemnly declared King.

It was the most extraordinary coronation ever witnessed for, as the trumpets sounded, those about the young King burst into loud lamentations; and James was proclaimed King of Scotland and the Isles to the accompaniment of tears and sobbing.

Thus the power for which Margaret had longed was to some extent hers. Jealousy, the most persistent emotion of her life, had been removed. What did all those women who had tempted James from her side matter now? She had heard that Anne of Brittany, who had roused her anger as much as any, had died a few days after the defeat at Flodden. So, thought Margaret, she did not live long to gloat over what she had persuaded him to do.