Seeming sleepy, she bade them good night; but no sooner had the door shut and their footsteps died away than she called to those three of her women — one of them that woman who had a brother in Arran’s service — and said: “Now. The time is come. Bring my riding gown and cloak; and we will escape.”

Her eyes were shining and she looked very young, for a plan such as this could always delight her and give life a new zest.

She had made up her mind that she had been a fool to come back to Angus, to place herself in the position of a deceived wife who must accept the vagaries of a husband. Master Chadworth could go to hell — a place with which he considered himself well acquainted by his accounts of it — for all she cared.

She had changed her mind. She would not stay with Angus; she was going to let the whole world know that she had too much pride to remain with an unfaithful husband who had gained his power through her. She had been forced to endure the unfaithfulness of James IV; but Angus was no Scottish King.

She was in her riding clothes and ready.

“Come,” she whispered. “By the spiral stairway… down to the courtyard.”

One of her women led the way; she followed; the other two came behind.

In the courtyard the three men were waiting.

They led the way cautiously, to where, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, dark shapes were waiting under a clump of trees; Margaret heard the neighing of horses.

Then a voice: “Your Grace, the Queen?”

“I am here,” she answered.

A man had ridden forward; he was leading a horse.

He dismounted, and taking her hand kissed it.

“James Hamilton,” he said, “at Your Grace’s service… now as ever.”

She saw his eyes gleam in the moonlight. He was tall, handsome and so like Arran that she guessed this was the son of the Earl — the natural son of whom she had heard and who was known as the Bastard of Arran.

He helped her mount and then, swinging himself into his saddle, brought his horse beside hers.

“Now,” he cried. “Away!”

It was a glorious experience to be riding through the night, a handsome man beside her, whose every look and gesture assured her of his respect for the Queen, and his admiration for a beautiful woman.

“My father is waiting for you at Stirling,” he told her. “I begged for the honor of taking you to him.”

“’Twas well planned,” she told him.

“I have thought of nothing else since I knew you would come.”

“Then you are indeed my friend.”

“So much so, Your Grace, that I would willingly do murder for you.”

“Nay, do not talk of murder.”

“Thoughts of murder will enter the mind when rumors of the ill treatment of our Queen disturb it.”

“Ah… that is over.”

“Nay, I shall never forgive it, even if Your Grace does.”

She would not discuss her husband, and she was silent. Being quick to sense her mood, he too was silent and there was no sound but the padding of their horses’ hoofs as they rode on to Stirling.

Yet memories of that night stayed with her. Arran’s bastard during that ride made her feel young again, desirable, so that the wounds which she had suffered from the treatment of Angus — and perhaps that of her first husband — were soothed; and she began to think that perhaps one day she might find someone who would love her as a woman, not as a queen.

That person was not James Hamilton of course; but she would always be grateful to him for reminding her that such a person might exist.

With the desertion of Margaret, Angus’s position deteriorated, and Arran persuaded the Queen that the way in which she could best obtain her divorce was by joining her pleas to those of the lords who wished Albany to return to Scotland.

Margaret had her own reasons for wishing to see Albany in Scotland and she fell in with Arran’s proposal, so that in the letters sent to Albany were some from her, and they were very cordial.

Angus, furious at the manner in which she had left him, and realizing that now any number of priests preaching hellfire would not be able to bring her back to him, wrote to Henry, telling him of Margaret’s friendship with Albany and that she had again gone so far as to join with those who were urging him to return.

Henry was furious; he was all for disowning a sister who was not only a friend of the French but planning to divorce her husband, but Cardinal Wolsey managed to persuade him to more diplomatic action.

Why not offer to support her with an army so that she might regain the Regency and the care of her son? For that was clearly what she wanted. Offer her this on condition that she returned to Angus and gave up all plans for a divorce.

When Margaret read Wolsey’s letter and understood all it contained she shut herself up alone in her apartments and thought about it.

To be the guardian of young James. That was what she deeply desired. To regain the Regency, which would mean that she would be in a position to guide James and teach him to rule wisely. What more could she ask?

But the price was high. Return to Angus! Accept his infidelity! To feel again the desire for him which she had never been able to curb. It was too humiliating. It was asking too much.

But how she longed to have young James living with her!

The offer was tempting; but the price was too humiliating.

“Nay,” she said aloud, “I shall not demean myself by returning to a husband whom I despise. And I shall go on fighting for my son.”

In the château of Auvergne, Albany sat at the bedside of his sick wife. She could not live many more weeks, he told himself, yet he had been saying that for a long time. She had grown frail in her infirmity and it was astonishing that a woman in her condition could go on living.

“Jehan,” she murmured, and stretched out a hand. He took the hand and looked down at it. It was like the hand of a skeleton.

Poor Anne! It was long since she had been a wife to him and on the rare occasions when he had been unfaithful to her it had grieved him. He had had a happy life with her until this sickness had come upon her, this lingering sickness which would not let her live the life of a normal woman, yet would not release her from a life grown irksome.

She was gentle and patient in sickness as she had been in health; and he would sit with her each day and tell her where he had hunted that day and what game he had brought home.

But she knew that he could not stay with her forever. He was a man of action with duties at Court and perhaps far away across the sea.

Scotland! It was never far from her mind, nor from his. They were importuning him now to return, and Margaret the Queen was now adding her pleas to those of the lords who had been his supporters; and that was an astonishing thing, because previously they had been enemies, rivals for the Regency.

He often thought of her — a fine woman, handsome, perhaps overproud, too much like that brother of hers who caused so much trouble in Europe.

He would not tell Anne, but he guessed that erelong a summons would come from François; then he could delay no longer. There had been a time when François had not wished him to go to Scotland, but that was when he was feigning a certain friendship with England, when the Kings had had that uneasy meeting, which had proved both costly and meaningless to them both, when the Princess Mary was betrothed to the Dauphin. But the political scene had changed. The new Emperor, Charles V, had visited his aunt Katharine in England, and England was inclined to friendship with the Emperor; which must mean that the brief amity Henry had professed with France was at an end. Wolsey was responsible for English foreign policy, and he undoubtedly had his eye on the Papal crown; doubtless he believed that the Emperor would now have more influence in that quarter than François. Thus France would need to court Scotland again.

Anne turned to him and said: “Jehan, are you thinking of Scotland?”

He nodded. “Every time I hear the sound of a horse’s hooves in the courtyard I wonder whether it it a summons.”

“And you will go?”

“I fear François will command it.”

She was silent, thinking of herself, a helpless invalid, and of him — tall, strong, vital. We have become an incongruous pair, she thought. He is not a man who should spend his time at a sickbed. Nor would he for long. The messenger would come; she was certain of it.

She was right. Within a week the summons came from the Court of France. Albany’s presence was needed in Scotland. He should prepare to leave without delay.

When Albany rode toward Stirling the people had come out of their houses to line the roadside and cheer him. They looked to him to put an end to the petty strife between the Douglas and the Hamilton factions which continually threatened to break into civil war. Only the Douglases and their friends had no welcome to offer. They feared the great soldier and his men, for they knew that not only had he come at Arran’s invitation but the Queen’s.

Margaret was waiting to greet him at Stirling Castle, dressed in her state robes of purple velvet lined with ermine, and she wore her golden hair loose, because in that way it was most becoming.

Albany bowed over her hand and his eyes told her that she was beautiful.

What a man! she thought. Why was I ever impressed by the looks of Angus? He is like a pretty boy compared with Albany.

This was a man who had been victorious in battle; a strong man, a man who was born to govern. He had the blood of kings in his veins even as she herself had. He was a king in all but name — a fitting mate for a queen.