The Forgotten Queen by D. L. Bogdan Page B

children who could mean anything to Scotland.

6
    Margaret the Queen
    M y English court, my English friends and family, left me. I was alone in this country, an English princess made a Scots queen. I watched the procession depart with all their pomp and fanfare, tears grown cold upon my wind-chapped cheeks. Jamie’s arm was about my waist; he squeezed me to him, holding me upright. I was glad of it. I was weighed down by the finery.
    “You will make new friends,” he reassured me.
    I was too numb with sorrow to nod. The procession grew smaller and smaller till it became a distant snake, slithering down the Scottish countryside and out of Edinburgh, out of my life. They returned to my home, to my father, to the places and the people I would not see, not ever again.
    I had my adopted country to acquaint myself with. I was given Scottish ladies and as time passed I not only found myself understanding their harsh dialect but also heard myself slipping into it.
    I was becoming a Scot.
    My husband came to me now and again to repeat the obligatory act we were avowed to perform for the good of our country. But as yet there was no pleasure to be found in it. It did not happen often enough and when it did it was always in the dark. We had been married nigh on two years and I had yet to see my husband as God made him and he had yet to see me.
    Yet he was as attentive as he could be. Gifts were showered upon me; we hawked and hunted together and he praised my skill with the bow. As promised we frolicked in the loch; Jamie held me and taught me the forbidden art of the swim, but I found the most pleasure hanging on to his neck while he cut through the water like an eel.
    Music was another of our favorite pastimes and we played together. I strummed my lute while his slim fingers danced upon his favorite organ. I adored hearing him sing; at times he talked through the songs as much as sang them and bubbles of laughter collected at the base of my throat as I took him in, enchanted. I sang out in a voice strong and clear and Jamie smiled in genuine appreciation. He was nothing if not genuine.
    And ever generous, allowing me to have as many new gowns as I desired. I loved to order costumes for masques. Anything I wanted was brought to me; I lacked nothing. I needed nothing. And yet there was this loneliness, profound and persistent even through the lavish entertainments I hosted for my new friends and family. Scotland was littered with Stewarts and I tried to learn every name. They fussed over me, calling me a pretty thing, but no one demonstrated a genuine love of me yet. Jamie said that was nonsense, everyone loved me. It would be impossible not to. Though I believed this should be the way of it, it remained untrue nonetheless. I felt it. I was tolerated because I was securing peace with their longtime enemy.
    There were some I had grown fond of, however, though I could not say they were close to me. The poet William Dunbar, who composed many a verse praising my beauty or simply to entertain, served as a worthy companion and courtier and was always quick to bring a smile to my face. Another was the privateer Sir Robert Barton, a straightforward man with a rather captivating gift for storytelling, and I was always thrilled to be regaled with his adventures on the high seas, and, even better, by the many exotic gifts bestowed upon me as tribute.
    None of the women impressed me much, however. Though I conversed and danced with my ladies, I could call none of them friend, not really. My dearest friend was my husband and I spent as much time enjoying him as I did being jealous of him, jealous of his experience, of his age, of those who admired him with as much conviction as I.
    I had even grown jealous of God, for Jamie spent a great deal of time with Him, going on pilgrimages to the shrines of Saint Niniane and Saint Duthlac. I hated when Jamie left me and was not shy about making him aware of my displeasure.
    “Going to have another