The ghosts of those other little Princes in such similar circumstances continued to haunt her; and as she lay in her sickbed at Morpeth it seemed to her — and those about her — that she would never leave it.

Angus, with the rest of her friends who had escaped into England with her, was allowed to come to her at Morpeth; and Dacre was inclined to view Angus with tolerance because his master Henry VIII did not disapprove of the young man. Angus, however, was far from happy. Continually he wondered why he had allowed himself to be caught up in such troubles. He believed that Albany would confiscate his estates; and he had no wish to live as an exile in England.

He often thought too of Jane Stuart. His conscience had never really ceased to trouble him about her; and because she was gentle and had loved him so much, he was sure that if he could go to her and explain, she would understand the predicament he was in and how, with the Queen desiring him so ardently, and his family desiring the marriage with equal ardor, he had been in no position to refuse it.

But he had not been happy — apart from those first weeks — though he need not tell Jane about those. Each day when he went to see Margaret she seemed more wan, more exhausted. His little daughter was flourishing so he need not worry about her; she had nurses to look after her now that they were at Morpeth, and all the good things which kind Queen Katharine had sent for her were being used.

There was no need for him to remain at Morpeth. Albany had written to Margaret that if she would return to Scotland she should enjoy all the benefits of her dower lands; and might take part in the guardianship of her children, provided she did not wish to take them from Scotland. Her friends should not suffer for the part they had played in her escapade.

It was that last sentence which appealed to Angus. He wanted to go back to Scotland, to live in peace on his estates, to go to Jane Stuart and explain to her why he had done what he had.

And why should he not return?

Surely if he did he could make matters easier for Margaret. The idea tormented him so much that he began to make plans.

That was a miserable Christmas for Margaret. Not only was she ill in body and disturbed in mind, and living in Morpeth Castle when she longed to go south to her brother’s Court, but terrible news was brought to her.

She was lying in bed, feeling too weak to rise, with her little daughter lying in her cradle beside the bed, sleeping peacefully; wondering why Angus looked withdrawn as though he were occupied with his secret thoughts, why he started to the window every time he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. If he were expecting a message from her brother why did he not say so? She too was constantly expecting such messages.

He was at the window now, staring moodily out, and Margaret called him to her bedside.

She wanted to tell him that they should be happy together. They should remember how they had loved each other in the first weeks of their marriage before their troubles had started. Because the country did not approve of their match, that was no reason why they themselves should not.

Angus had come to stand by her bedside, and she noticed that a fretful look marred his handsome features.

She held out a hand. “It will soon be Christmas,” she said. “A happy season.”

“Here in this place! ’Tis like a prison. Can Christmas be celebrated in a prison?”

“It is not a prison,” she replied. “It is true there are few comforts, but that is because it is really a Border fortress. Dacre is a good host, being commanded to be so by my brother. I doubt not that letters of goodwill, from him and Katharine, will be arriving erelong. Come closer, my dearest.” He sat down and she went on: “Do you so long to be back in Scotland?”

“I would we had never left it.”

“If we could only have brought my sons with us… I would be quite happy.”

He did not answer; and then suddenly was alert. He had heard the sound of horses’ hoofs below. Immediately he had risen and gone to the window. When he turned to her she saw the excited look on his face.

“Messengers,” he said. “I will go and see what news they bring.”

She closed her eyes. Invitations from Henry, she thought. He will be impatient for me to arrive at his Court. He will want to show me how magnificent he has made it.

She smiled, thinking of ten-year-old Henry, and asked herself: Has he changed much?

Then Angus returned with the messenger, and as she looked at the man who had obviously ridden hard — for he was very travel-stained and weary — her heart began to beat faster, for she knew that he brought news which would be unwelcome. Nor did he come from England, but from Scotland.

“You had better tell Her Grace what you have told me,” said Angus.

The man looked appealingly at Angus as though imploring him to help him in his difficult task.

But Angus was silent.

“Tell me quickly,” commanded Margaret. “You must not keep me in suspense.”

“Your Grace, the little Duke of Ross fell sick of a childish malady. He did not recover from it.”

There was silence in the room.

Margaret lay speechless; all the color had left her face. It was like waking to find that a hideous nightmare was no dream after all.

What she had feared had come to pass.

She was inconsolable. Her women tried to calm her.

“This is so bad for you, Your Grace. Children take these maladies… and often they die.”

“Had I brought him with me he would be alive today,” she asserted. “It is my enemies who have done this. They have murdered him as others murdered my uncles in the Tower. And my little James, what will become of him?”

“Your Grace, you have heard that he continues in fine health.”

“For how long?” she cried bitterly.

There was no consoling her. Her women reminded her of her weakness, but she took no heed of them.

She cried out: “He has done this, that black-hearted murderer. He has killed my little son. My child… dying, and his mother not with him. My little Alexander who was such a bonny child. And what of my James? Oh, this is a bitter day for me. Would I could lay my hands on that murderer. How did he do it? They say my uncles were stifled in their beds. Is that how my little Alex was murdered? You see, do you not, if he murders my little James as he has his brother, then there would be no one to stand between him and the throne.”

They were afraid that in the excess of grief she would do herself some harm, so they sent Angus to comfort her.

He sat by the bed and begged her to stop weeping, for it grieved him to see her thus.

“It is easy for you,” she cried. “He is not your son.”

“It is not easy for me to look on when you are so sad.”

That softened her. “Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “what should I do without you? But if only our plans had succeeded, if only with this dear daughter of ours I had my sons as well, I would ask nothing more. I swear I would ask nothing more.”

Angus knelt by the bed. “Return to Scotland,” he said earnestly. “Make peace with Albany.”

“Make peace with the murderer of my son!”

“You know he is no murderer. What sense does it make… murdering young Alexander while James lives? Had he wished to remove all obstacles to the throne he would have killed them both.”

“How do I know what will befall James now that his brother has been removed?”

“You must be reasonable. You are hysterical. Oh, I understand your grief… and indeed it is mine, but you know Albany has done no murder. He is not the man to commit murder, and it is my belief that he does not greatly desire the crown of Scotland.”

“It is easy for you. It is not your son who has died. Murderer! Usurper! He is another Richard III, I tell you. And my little one is in his hands.”

Angus laid his hand on her brow. He was wondering what she would say if she knew that he had written to Albany asking on what terms he could return, that Albany’s reply had been very favorable, and that he had almost made up his mind that he was going to Scotland whether she would come or not.

She was soothed by his touch but she had to give vent to her anger; she had to comfort herself in some way; she could not bear to think that she would never see Alexander again, and she must give way either to sorrow or anger.

But she did not believe in her heart, any more than Angus did, that Albany had murdered her son. Albany was no murderer of children.

She remembered him when he had taken the keys of the castle from little James — tall, upright, handsome, with a kindly tolerance in his eyes. And how gracious he had been to her — so that he had reminded her of James, her husband; and there were times, although this was another thing she was not yet prepared to admit, when she compared James with Angus and thought: Ah, but he was a king.

And Albany was a king’s son; he was a Stuart at that. And in his eyes there lurked that tolerance, that gallantry toward a woman which was almost irresistible.

Angus was convinced that Albany was no murderer, but although she secretly agreed with him, she continued to rail against the man because she was so sick with grief that she must relieve her feelings in some way.

Looking up at Angus, seeing the weak petulance about his handsome mouth, she found herself involuntarily comparing him with Albany and thinking: The Duke is a strong man.

After a few days it became apparent how the shock of this news had affected the Queen’s health. She was stricken with a fever and there was scarcely a person in Morpeth Castle who did not believe she was on her deathbed.