Mary McGrigor - The Other Tudor Princess: Margaret Douglas, Henry VIII’s Niece

To my darling daughters, Lorna and Kirsty.

My deepest thanks to all those who have helped me with the book, including: Roy Summers for his beautiful photographs of the Scottish castles known to Lady Margaret in her day; Michael and Charlotte Wemyss; my godson, Adrian Gibbs, Deputy CEO at the Bridgeman Art Library Ltd; Elizabeth L. Taylor, Rights and Images Officer at the National Portrait Gallery; Ryan Clee, Photography and Licensing Assistant at the National Galleries of Scotland and Manju Nair, Finance Assistant of the gallery. Thanks also to Agata Rutkowska, Picture Library Assistant, Royal Collection Trust; Brigadier Henry Wilson; Sophie Bradshaw, General History Publisher, and Juanita Zo Hall, Managing Editor, at The History Press. I am indepted to Archie Mackenzie for his valuable advice.

L ate one evening in August 1515, darkness was falling on Linlithgow Palace, shading the sides of the courtyard from the naked eye. Within it a small group was gathered, a party of well-armed men and several women. One of the women was obviously with child, evident despite the cloak she wore. The party moved quietly from the courtyard barely visible in the deepening dusk. Outside horses were waiting, one with a pillion behind the saddle onto which the pregnant woman was lifted. A tall young man stood beside her as she was helped from the ground, then quickly mounted himself to lead the party from the castle. The sentries stood aside to let him pass, well briefed on what was about to happen.

Riding hard, they had covered a scant 3 miles towards the City of Edinburgh when the Lord Chamberlain, Lord Home, met them with a party Queen Margaret later described as hardy, well-striking fellows. The men were to escort her to her husband, the Earl of Angus castle of Tantallon, who was waiting for her on the east coast of Scotland, near what was then the ferry port of North Berwick.

Twenty-six-year-old Margaret, the daughter of Henry VII of England, had married nineteen-year-old Angus just a year after her first husband, King James IV, had died in the dreadful scrimmage of Flodden. The marriage in itself had been one reason why the leaders of the Scottish nobility had summoned John, Duke of Albany, to come to Scotland as regent.

John was the son of Alexander, brother of James III, who had become domiciled in France after his exile from Scotland. When Alexander was killed in an accident, his French wife Anne de la Tour dAuvergne raised their only child alone. More French than Scottish, John was nonetheless heir to the throne of Scotland after James IVs two sons.

Albany, as he was always entitled, landed at Dumbarton in May 1515. He was at first on good terms with Margaret but held the opinion that her husband was an incompetent youth. Having immured herself with the two little princes of her previous marriage, Margaret surrendered them to the care of Albany before publicly announcing that she was taking her chamber and entering confinement until the birth of her child by Angus was born.

The subterfuge had been clever. Playing on the fact that she was known to have suffered greatly during the births of her previous children, she had managed to convince her attendants that she was now so ill that Angus had to be summoned to her side. It was he who had asked Lord Home to help them, knowing as he did that Albany, having accused Home of being responsible for the death of James IV at Flodden, was now an avowed enemy.

Escorted by Lord Home and his men, Margaret and Angus reached Tantallon, the red sandstone fortress of the Red Douglasses, dominating the cliffs above the North Sea opposite the Bass Rock.

There they waited with ever increasing impatience for a rider bringing a summons from King Henry VIII, Margarets brother, to come to his court in England.

The summons never came. Home, seizing the chance to raid some of Albanys property in the Queens name, was declared an outlaw. He too fled to Tantallon, joining Margaret and Angus until they all fled for his own land on 23 September. There, in Coldstream Nunnery, Homes mother came to Margarets aid for she was now genuinely exhausted and seriously ill.

At last King Henrys invitation arrived. A message was sent to Lord Dacre who at once sent an escort to take Margaret across the Border to his family home of Morpeth Castle. Fires were lit and comforts of every kind prepared by members of the household who were told of her imminent arrival. The distance to Morpeth was some 50 miles. Margaret was carried in a litter, which although most carefully handled, jolted her arthritic hip. Towards the end of their journey, when they were only 14 miles from the town of Rothbury, Margaret felt a familiar pain. Her bearers, hearing her cry out that she could go no farther, turned to their mounted escort for advice. It was plain they could not reach Morpeth, another 20 miles on from Rothbury. In such a state of emergency there was only one alternative: Lord Dacre owned the outlying fortress of Harbottle, a medieval castle strategically built on a mound overlooking the River Coquet. A stark stone building, used primarily as a prison, it had long needed repair. The roof leaked above walls running with damp. It was certainly no place for any woman, particularly one of royal blood, to give birth.

But it was at least shelter from the wind and the driving rain. In the present situation there was no alternative other than to carry Margaret, now shrieking in agony, into the cold bare tower.

W omen! A plague to mankind and the royal ones the worst of the lot. Thomas, Lord Dacre, Warden of the Marches on the English side and terror of all those in his thrall, was driven to desperation by the screaming within his castle walls. Queen Margaret was bad enough. The agony of her long labour combined with the pain in her hip had kept her yelling for three days or more; now, on top of Margarets screams, the furious bawling of a hungry infant was driving him out of his mind.

For Gods sake find a wet-nurse, he roared at his terrified servants, one of whom had the temerity to remind him that the commotion upstairs in the draughty, mouse-infested castle with its leaking roof, was partly his own fault. On the fugitive queens arrival, he had forbidden her ladies to come within its walls.

Lord Dacre was at his wits end, faced with an unexpected emergency such as he had never met before. War had just broken out again between England and Scotland and now, in early October, taking advantage of the ensuing confusion, rustlers were lifting cattle, fat on summer grass. He had just come in from a hard days riding trying to track them down, and had been looking forward to an evenings rest before the fire in his castle of Morpeth when a man on a horse, streaked with sweat from hard galloping, had appeared with the news that the Queen of Scots had arrived at the Border fort of Harbottle. Obviously in labour, she seemed on the point of death.