“Bid him enter,” Margaret said. She was as starkly white as the snow on the trees outside. She had spoken so low, one could barely hear her.
Mary instinctively moved to her mother’s side. She put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She was growing very afraid. She should have forced Margaret to eat something at nooning.
The messenger entered, shaking the wet snow from his mantle. He was a young man, his boots covered with frozen mud, one arm bandaged, the linens black with blood. He was unsmiling and gray with exhaustion. Mary took one look at his face and went absolutely still. It was clear to her that the Scots had suffered a terrible loss that day.
“The King is dead,” he said.
Mary knew she had misheard him. She opened her mourn to protest—surely she could not have construed him correctly.
“Malcolm is dead,” the youth said, and this time his words were choked on a sob.
“No,” Mary began, disbelieving. “This cannot—”
Mary’s words were cut off. A loud thump sounded. Mary started and turned to see Margaret upon the floor. Her eyes were closed, her face lifeless and as pale as death. “Mother!”
All the women rushed to the Queen. Mary took her mother’s face in her hands and felt the faint flutter of her breath; she pressed her ear to her breast and heard the faint but steady heartbeat. Tears of relief gathered quickly. She looked up. “Bring ice-cold rags so I can revive her. Hurry! She has only fainted from the shock!”
As several maids fled to obey, Mary tried to revive her mother gently. She shook her and spoke to her, but she could not bring her to consciousness. Mary grew desperate. She was too aware of Margaret’s strange state of mind and her poor state of health. All her relief vanished. Margaret was too vulnerable in her condition. Finally Mary struck her across the face. Margaret’s eyes flew open.
“Thank God!” Mary cried.
Margaret looked at her daughter, her own eyes filling with tears. The tears poured down her cheeks in a steady stream. Her lids drifted down while the tears poured and she curled up into a ball. She did not make a sound.
Mary gathered her mother into her arms, white with fright, rocking her as she wept silently. “Bring me wine and valerian,” Mary said with a calm she did not feel. “And send for two men; we must get the Queen to her bed.”
One or two hours later, Mary could not be sure exactly, Margaret opened her eyes. She looked directly at Mary. “I knew it,” she said hoarsely. Her words were barely audible.
Mary had been so worried about her mother that she had not had time to dwell upon the news of her father’s death. Now she grasped her mother’s hands firmly, leaning urgently over her as she lay in her bed. “Mother, you must be strong. You must eat some of this gruel Jeanne made. Please.”
“I must pray,” Margaret said. “Help me up. I must pray for your father’s soul.”
Mary realized that her mother intended to go to the chapel. “No, Mother,” she said firmly. “Father Joseph will come here. He is downstairs.”
Margaret sank back upon the pillows, her eyes closing, her lips moving in silent prayer. Mary rushed to the door, outside of which all of Margaret’s ladies waited. Each and every one of them loved their Queen dearly, as did everyone who knew Margaret, and they were all now somber and pale with anxiety. At Mary’s bidding, Lady Matilda rushed downstairs to fetch the priest.
Mary returned to her mother’s bedside, sinking down onto her knees. She refused to think about Malcolm’s death at the hands of her husband’s army. She could not. She must not. She had to take care of her mother. She turned off her thoughts with an iron will.
The priest entered the room. He, too, was a lifelong friend—and mentor—of the Queen’s. Mary rose as Father Joseph rushed forward. Margaret opened her eyes. “Did he have the last rites?”
Mary saw the grim truth in the priest’s eyes as he lied to Margaret in order to ease her distress.
While Margaret prayed silently with the priest, Mary slipped from the chamber. Outside she leaned against the wall. Her mother’s women surrounded her, bombarding her with whispered questions.
Mary pushed away from them, knowing their concern was genuine, that each and every one of them was deathly afraid for their Queen, but she did not answer a single question. She did not know the answers. Somehow she ran downstairs.
The youth who had brought them news of Malcolm’s death was in the Great Hall at the table, eating ravenously. Mary sank down on the bench beside him. The sight of food nauseated her. “How can it be true?” she managed huskily. “How can Malcolm be dead?”
The youth shoved his trencher aside. His blue eyes filled with tears. “His army was attacked from behind. Then, he got cut off from his men. It should have never happened.” The messenger looked away from her.
Mary grabbed his arm with a strength she had not known she still possessed.“Which army?”
“Northumberland’s.”
Mary felt dizzy; the table swam in front of her. Had Stephen led the attack that killed Malcolm? Had he?
“Princess,” the messenger said hoarsely, “there is more.”
Mary rubbed her eyes, hoping it would help her vision to clear. The table righted itself, but her whole world had become blurry. “No,” she said, “there cannot be more.”
