She lay on her bed in agony.

So this was giving birth. How long had she lain in this state chamber at Holyrood House while the pains beset her body and the heir to Scotland refused to be born?

She was thinking of her mother who had lain in the Palace of the Tower of London, who had suffered so much pain, which had been the prelude to death.

But her mother had been twenty years older than she was; and she, Margaret, had many years before her… if she survived this ordeal.

She heard whispering; her women were talking of her in hushed, reverent tones. Were they the voices of people who knew themselves to be in the presence of death?

The pain was coming again, so fierce that she lost consciousness, and when she regained her senses it was to hear the cry of a child.

“A boy!” She heard the joyous cry throughout the apartment; and, ill as she was, a great exultation came to her.

James was delighted. He showered presents on all her women; he stared down with reverence at the boy in the cradle.

Then he came to kneel at his wife’s bedside.

Margaret looked at him dazedly. She was not sure where she was and imagined she was with her brother and sister in Richmond Palace.

“Henry… ,” she whispered, “you are not yet… ”

James was alarmed.

“The Queen is ill,” he said. “She should be rejoicing now, her ordeal over, her son in his cradle. What ails her?”

He sent for the physicians and implored them to use all their skill. He was filled with remorse for the manner in which he had neglected her. He demanded to know what ailed her and why she, who had been in such rude health before and during her pregnancy, should be so ill now that her ordeal was over.

“It is a malady which occurs often after childbirth, Sire,” said the doctors.

“And she will recover?”

They tried to reassure the King, but he saw through their pretense.

If she died he would be stricken with remorse. He remembered how he had suffered at the death of his father; he did not want to suffer so again.

He would travel to the shrine of his favorite saint at Whitehorn in Galloway, and there plead for his Queen’s restoration to health.

Footsore and weary, James arrived at the shrine of St. Ninian. The journey, made on foot, had been rough, and he was glad of this. If Margaret died he would feel some remorse for his infidelity. Poor child, she had been wounded by it in the beginning. He would begin to wonder whether her loss would be the punishment for his sins.

He remembered afresh the regret he had suffered after his father’s death. He did not want to endure the like again. If Margaret recovered, and this would be due to St. Ninian, he would go into retreat for a while with the Gray Friars at Stirling. There he would fast, pray and meditate for a few weeks, and come out feeling purged of his sins.

He never regretted building that monastery, for it had often provided his tortured conscience with the balm it needed.

Margaret and his courtiers were never very pleased when he went into retirement. He feared his Margaret was a little pagan at heart; he had seen how her attention strayed during religious services, and he noticed that if she could gracefully avoid attending them she did so. As for his friends at Court, they were too fond of gaiety to enjoy those seasons when, out of respect for the King’s temporary monastic existence, they too must live soberly.

He had taken with him on this pilgrimage only four of his favorite minstrels; he enjoyed traveling about his country informally, because he believed it gave him an opportunity of discovering the true state of affairs. He had always wished to see things as they really were, so that he could improve the lives of his subjects.

He often thought ironically that he would not be a bad king but for certain failings which he found it impossible to conquer. He was never the worse for drink; he never indulged in gluttony; he would devote much of his time to the study of laws which could benefit his country; then he would meet a woman and forget duty to state, wife and all, in his pursuit of her.

Often he said to himself: “If I could have married Margaret Drummond I would have been a satisfied husband who never strayed,” as he used to say: “If I could have known my father, talked with him, understood him, I would never have had this terrible blot on my conscience.”

He was a man of contrasts — deeply sensual yet spiritual; logical in certain matters, extremely superstitious in others; going alternately to the monastery and the bed of one of his favorites; capable of wisdom and folly.

Having reached the shrine, he made his offerings and asked that Margaret might be restored to health; then because he and his little band were so weary he commanded that horses be hired to carry them back to Holyrood House.

He was noted for his friendliness to those who surrounded him, and he was always pleased to throw aside dignity whenever possible; so the minstrels rode beside him and they all chatted in an easy fashion.

One of them said: “I hear, Sire, that Bell-the-Cat is paying court to Lady Bothwell again. They say that he is prepared to offer her marriage.”

“Is that so?” said James.

“Why, yes, Sire. The Earl has suffered pangs of jealousy on the lady’s account, so I’ve heard tell.”

James was silent, thinking of Janet Kennedy — red-haired and fiery. They had had good times together and he would never forget Janet as long as he lived; his memories of her were as evergreen as those of Margaret Drummond, though for a different reason.

He wondered if she remembered that he had given her Darnaway on condition that she did not take another lover. He had been harsh. As well imagine himself without a mistress as Janet without a lover.

And yet… he still hankered after her; and he still visited her — to see the boy, he would say, when he set out; and he did go to see the boy; he doted on his son; but it was meet and fitting that the boy’s mother should live with him, so when he saw the boy he saw her too.

James smiled, thinking of arriving at the door of her house, of her sweeping down the staircase to greet him — mocking, her eyes blazing with the passion they both could not help arousing in each other; the vitality sparkling in her.

They would talk for a while of the boy’s future; the boy himself would be sent for; and after a while he would be sent away because the need to be alone together would be too much to be gainsaid.

And now Bell-the-Cat was paying court again!

He imagined the old fellow, who must be some twenty-five years older than himself, calling on her, bribing her with offers of land… and honorable marriage. James had to admit that there was a virility about the Earl which, in spite of his age, remained with him.

Janet… with a lover!

Memories surged in and out of his mind. Janet’s red hair and white naked body; Janet’s eyes that looked green in passion. No, he would not lightly let her go to Bell-the-Cat.

He decided to make a divergence; they would not yet return to Holyrood. He had made his pilgrimage for the sake of his wife; now he must indulge himself by a visit to a mistress whom he could never entirely forget.

Margaret’s health began to improve — so it was said — from the moment James had reached the shrine of St. Ninian, so she owed her recovery to that saint, and when she was well enough must pay him the homage he would look for.

As the baby had been baptized with great pomp and christened James, Margaret left him to the care of his nurses while she traveled along the coast of Galloway to the shrine of St. Ninian. Her husband accompanied her, riding on horseback beside her litter; she must travel thus for, although she was no longer in danger, she had not yet regained her good health.

She found the journey trying, and when she returned to Stirling, continued to feel weak; this was particularly alarming because James hated to see her sick and went even more often on his travels. He was seeing Janet Kennedy very frequently now as well as the Lady of A; and Margaret had learned that another woman, Isabel Stuart, daughter of Lord Buchan, had borne him a daughter whose name was Jean.

It was true that she had her own little James now, and it was a matter of great contentment to her to remind herself that of all the King’s children, her little James in whom his father delighted was the one who was of real importance.

But the rude health which Margaret had hitherto enjoyed seemed to have deserted her. There were days when she was obliged to keep to her bed; she felt resentful of this, but Lady Guildford assured her that the ordeal of childbirth had been so great that she must expect to take a few months to recover.

She could not of course prevent James from taking mistresses; but Margaret was becoming wily; she was not sorry that there were several mistresses; if there were one only she would need to feel anxiety.

Christmas came and was celebrated with music and dancing at Holyrood House; and if the Queen was less energetic than before, the King was more assiduous in his desire for her comfort. Wantonness, Gray Steil, English Cuddy and Scotch Dog were at their best, and the King’s fool, Currie, with his wife Daft Ann, set the King and Queen laughing uproariously.

Thus time passed until that February when the little Prince James was one year old.

The Court was at Linlithgow Palace. James had returned from hawking and was ready for the feast which lay waiting for him in the great hall.

Margaret, with her women, greeting him and his companions on their return, was a little sad because she no longer felt well enough to accompany him on such expeditions.

The great hall looked magnificent, prepared as it was for the evening’s entertainment. Tapestries from Holyrood had been hung on the walls, and the logs blazing in the huge fireplace crackled and spat comfortingly. The silver platters, the goblets and bowls on the table shone in the firelight, and in the minstrels’ gallery sweet music — which was never lacking in the King’s presence — was being softly played by his favorite minstrels.

The table was placed on a dais at one end of the hall exactly opposite the minstrels’ gallery, and under the place where the King and Queen would sit was a carpet, although the rest of the hall was strewn with rushes. Servants were scurrying in and out of that door which led to the kitchens and butteries, and the smell of appetizing foods was everywhere.

James looked with appreciation at the Queen, who greeted him so warmly and asked him how he had fared at the hunt. He took her hand and led her to the table where one of his servants was waiting with a bowl that he might wash his hands.

Margaret and he seated themselves and the feast began.

One of the noblest of James’s courtiers carved for the royal pair. Margaret ate heartily but James, sitting there taking the pieces of meat in his fingers as his carver handed them to him seemed more interested in the minstrels’ music than in food.

It was always thus at table; James was no great trencherman; nor did he show much interest in the wine which was placed before him.

Wantonness began to sing, and it was clear that her song charmed him; he turned to Margaret and asked her opinion.

Margaret replied that Wantonness never failed to please; she was wondering whether during the hunt he had paid a visit to one of his women.

They were washing their hands after the meal when a messenger from Stirling Castle, where the little Prince was staying, came into the hall and made his way immediately to the King and Queen.

Margaret and James grew immediately grave when they heard what he had to say. The little boy had become fretful and his nurses could not comfort him. Now it seemed that he had a fever.

James said: “We will leave at once for Stirling.” Within an hour they were on the road.

Margaret was brokenhearted.

“Why,” she demanded angrily, “should this happen to me! His bastards flourish and my son must die. Why should I be unfortunate?”

Lady Guildford tried to soothe her. “Your Grace, many children die in Scotland and England. The little Prince had every care. And you are young. You will have other children.”

During the weeks that followed the death of the little heir of Scotland, Margaret refused to be comforted. It was so unfair, she kept proclaiming. The children of his mistresses were full of health and vigor, and the thought of them was a continual torment to her; and when her own son had been born she had found some comfort… but that was no more.