Margaret herself went from the Castle to Holyrood House to plead for the release of Lord Drummond, an old man, she explained, who had acted impulsively when he had struck the Lyon King. Albany, eager not to alienate Margaret too strongly, at length agreed to pardon Drummond; this was done, and his estates were restored to him.

But Margaret was growing more and more uneasy because, when his powerful grandfather and uncle had been imprisoned, Angus had become really perturbed. He often thought with remorse of the way in which he had treated Jane Stuart; and he longed to see her, to explain how he had been carried away by his powerful family and the Queen’s insistence. Margaret sensed his lack of ease, and although not aware of his thoughts about Jane, she wondered how strong he would be in a dire emergency. She excused him on account of his youth — the very quality which so appealed to her. She comforted him and told him that all would be well for them if they were loyal to each other.

“As I shall always be to you,” she told him tenderly.

But the Regent and his Council were determined to take her sons from her care, and it was arranged in the Tolbooth that four peers should be chosen to go to the Castle and demand that the children be handed to them.

Margaret’s castle spy brought this information to her and, being warned, she was determined not to let the children go without a struggle.

She went to the nursery where young James was being amused by David Lindsay who was singing one of the old Scotch ballads known as “Ginkerton.” The young Duke of Ross was sleeping in his cot in a nearby room.

“My son,” she cried, “come here to me.”

“But Davie’s singing,” James told her.

“I know, my darling, but we’re going to play a game… you and I and your little brother. So David shall stop singing now.”

“I like ‘Ginkerton’ best.”

“Your Grace,” began David, who could see that she was in a state of tension, “is there aught I can do?”

“Yes, David. Go and tell the nurse to bring little Alexander from his cot.”

“It is his hour for sleep.”

“I know. I know. But this is important.” She drew him aside and whispered: “Albany is sending certain peers to the Castle for the children.”

David turned pale. “Your Grace… ”

“Go and tell the child’s nurse to bring him to me. I am going to try to hold them off.”

“Why cannot Davie sing ‘Ginkerton’?” demanded three-yearold James.

“Because it is not part of this game.”

“I like ‘Ginkerton’ better than this game.”

“Never mind that now, my darling. We are going down to the portcullis. You will see a lot of people. You like seeing the people.”

James nodded and began to hum “Ginkerton.”

When the nurse had appeared, carrying the little Duke of Ross in her arms, Margaret said: “Follow me.” And she took James’s hand in hers and led the way down to the Castle gates.

She could hear the noises in the streets, for the four peers had set out from the Tolbooth and the townsfolk, guessing what was afoot, had followed them. On the way she was joined by Angus, looking very pale, and some of the ladies and gentlemen of her household. When they reached the portcullis Margaret demanded that it be raised, and when this was done, the four peers and all the people who had followed them saw the Queen holding the little King by the hand. A few paces behind her was the nurse holding the baby, while Angus and the members of her household formed a semicircle about her.

It was a charming and startling picture, and for a few seconds there was a breathless silence before the people of Edinburgh began to cheer wildly.

Margaret, her eyes seeming more brilliant than usual because of her high color, looked completely regal — but a mother as well; and as such she had on her side every woman in that crowd which had assembled, and almost every man. It was what she had hoped for.

The four peers were approaching, and she called to them to halt.

“I command you to state the cause of your coming before you take one step nearer to your sovereign,” she cried in a loud voice.

“Your Grace,” replied the spokesman of the four, “we come in the name of the Parliament to receive the King and his infant brother.”

There was absolute silence in the crowd as it watched the conflict of wills, as it speculated as to who would win this first round of a mighty battle — the Queen or the new Regent and his Parliament.

Margaret commanded: “Drop the portcullis.”

The great iron gate rumbled down between the royal group and the parliamentary representatives.

“The King, my husband, made me governess of this castle,” she cried in a ringing voice, “and I shall not yield it. But the Parliament of this country I must respect, and I ask that I be given six days in which to consider what they ask of me.”

Then turning, with her train following her, she walked back into the castle.

Angus was alarmed. The scene had been effective in the eyes of the spectators, but he was sure it had been an empty victory. When his grandfather and uncles had persuaded him to marry the Queen he had not visualized such alarming events. He had thought it was going to be all Court pleasures with himself at the Queen’s right hand.

He thought of the power which was massed against them, for it seemed to him that the only supporters the Queen had were the Douglases and the unreliable Lord Home. His grandfather seemed broken by what had happened to him, and well he might be, for he had come very near to losing all he possessed.

The thought of losing all his possessions alarmed Angus, so on an impulse he wrote to Albany telling him that it had not been his wish to take part in that affecting scene at the portcullis. He had wished to obey the Parliament’s mandate, and indeed had advised his wife to do so.

Sweating with fear, he called for a messenger and ordered him to take the letter to the Regent Albany with all speed.

Margaret could not rest. Her thoughts kept going back to an event in her family which suggested a parallel with the position in which she now found herself.

When Edward IV had died his widow, Elizabeth Woodville, had been asked to surrender the young King and his brother. This she had most reluctantly done and they had been lodged in the Tower of London. In that tower of many secrets they had disappeared, and none knew what their fate had been.

How could she give up her little James and Alexander? They were so young and tender. If they died, Albany could claim the throne. She had seen this man; his looks were noble, his manner chivalrous. Yet whom could one trust?

Six days to keep them while she pretended to consider handing them over. During those six days she forgot everything but the desire to keep her children with her.

On the fifth day she wrote to the Parliament telling them that if they would allow her to keep the little King and his brother in her care she would maintain them on her dowry, and that she would allow certain noblemen to share in their guardianship. She guessed of course that the Parliament would not agree to this and, on the fifth day, she told Angus that she dared remain in Edinburgh Castle no longer. “For they will come and take the children,” she said. “I know they will not accept my conditions.”

“Then there is only one thing you can do,” Angus insisted. “Give up the children.”

“Give up the children! I remember what happened in the case of other princes lodged in the Tower of London.”

“I believe Albany to be an honorable man.”

“I trust no man,” retorted Margaret, and she looked at him appealingly as though imploring him to allow her at least to keep her trust in him.

“You daren’t go against the wishes of the Parliament.”

“I dare!” said Margaret firmly. “We are going to leave for Stirling Castle tonight.”

Angus was now really alarmed. “What good will that do?”

“I do not know, except that I shall have a little respite in which to think. I have told my attendants to make ready. We should leave soon after dusk.”

“W-we… ?” stammered Angus. “I would not come.”

“Would you not?” replied Margaret, her disappointment wounding her so bitterly that it subdued the fire of her anger.

“Nay,” said Angus, “’twill do no good and only anger the Parliament. I shall return to my estates until this trouble has blown over. I’d rather hear the lark sing in the open country than the mouse cheep in prison walls.”

“I see,” said Margaret, “that I must go without you.”

“’Tis better so,” answered Angus with a sigh of relief. “You have no chance against Albany, mark my words. He has the backing of the Parliament. He’ll be less harsh with a woman — being a Frenchman — than he’d be toward me. Do as you wish, but it would not be well if he thought I had any part in this.”

“Then goodbye… till we meet again,” replied Margaret.

That evening she and her attendants, with the children, came stealthily out of Edinburgh Castle; and as she rode through the night she was a frightened woman. What will become of my little ones? she asked herself. And she tried to forget that, in this desperate need, the man who should have stood beside her had deserted her lest through remaining with her he might hear the cheep of a mouse within prison walls.

He had been right, of course. What chance had she against a great military leader such as Albany? The flight to Stirling had been the one move left open to a desperate woman, and it could only mean delaying the inevitable climax for a few days — at best a few weeks.

On receiving Angus’s communication, Albany had been disgusted.

Poor woman, he thought, and a brave one too. How did she come to choose such a spouse, so childishly young, so ready to desert her side at the first sign of danger?

But for all his sympathy he had his duty to do; while Margaret kept the custody of the King she would be a formidable power; without him hers would be an empty title. Moreover he had to keep his word to the King of France whom he looked upon as his sovereign.

So he prepared to march to Stirling and slyly sent word to Angus that, as he wished to serve the Parliament, he should accompany the army which was about to leave for Stirling, its object being to secure the persons of the young King and his brother.

He felt a little less contemptuous when he received Angus’s reply that, although he wished to serve the Parliament, he could not join an army which was marching against his wife.

So Angus stayed on his estates while Albany marched on Stirling.

Margaret, deserted by her husband, knowing that she could not withstand a siege, decided that the only thing she could do was surrender to Albany; and then trust to her wits to bring her children back to her.

Thus, when Albany and his army arrived at the castle, Margaret ordered that the gates be thrown open, and she was revealed standing there with James beside her.

In his little hand he held the big keys of the castle and, walking up to the Regent Albany, as he had been told to do, he solemnly presented them to him.

Margaret’s sense of showmanship was superb; and as before the portcullis of Edinburgh Castle, all the spectators were moved to tears at the sight of that small and handsome boy, handing over the keys of the castle.

Albany knelt and took the keys, then he kissed the boy’s hand; and as though overcome by emotion he took him into his arms and embraced him while the watchers cheered.

James extricated himself and studied Albany intently. Then he said in his high, piping voice: “Can you sing ‘Ginkerton’?”

“I doubt that,” answered Albany with a smile.

“Davie can and so can I,” answered the young James, with the faintest sign of contempt; but he evidently liked the look of Albany, for he allowed his hand to remain in his as they walked to the Queen, when Albany bowed with all the respect that she could wish for.

Margaret was smiling, but she was thinking: I have surrendered my children. Shall I ever take them away from him?

Margaret had handed her children over to Albany in August, and she was expecting Angus’s child in October. As always during such times she suffered a great deal, and she was impatient with herself because she felt so weak.

While she planned for the arrival of the new baby she yearned for her sons and at times, frustrated as she was, she cried hysterically for them.

Again and again she recalled the fate of the Princes who had disappeared while in the Tower of London.