“Murdered!” cried James, his face turning pale with horror.

But the lords had seized Andrew Wood and hustled him from the apartment.

Murder! pondered James, and then the remorse began.

Some days passed before he learned what had really happened to his father at Sauchieburn, and he felt sick with horror when the tale was recounted. His father had left the battlefield before the end, being advised by his generals that he should escape to the Forth where, while there was yet time, he could find shelter with Wood’s fleet. To stay would be to die in the field; to escape would be to live to fight another day.

A few miles from the battlefield, near a millstream, he met a woman with a pitcher which she had come to fill. Seeing the horse and rider making straight for her, and fearing they would trample her under foot she dropped the pitcher and ran. The pitcher rolling under the horse’s hoofs so startled the terrified animal that it shied and stumbled, its weary rider was thrown and lay unconscious in the dust while the horse went galloping on.

The story had been slowly pieced together by the people who had witnessed it. James heard how workers had come from the mill and carried the King inside, how he recovered consciousness and when the miller’s wife — a forceful woman — had asked his name, answered: “James Stuart is my name, and this morning I was your King.”

“Saints above us!” the miller’s wife had cried. “We have the King under our roof. And dying maybe. A priest! Fetch a priest for the King.”

She dashed out of the mill and began to run to the priest’s house, but before she reached it she saw a rider coming from the direction of Sauchieburn. “Stop!” she cried. “The King is in our mill. He is sorely hurt and needing a priest.”

The man drew up and said: “I am a priest. Lead me to him.”

The miller’s wife led him back to the mill, shouted for a boy to take his horse and then took him into the mill where the King was lying on the floor.

“I am a priest,” said the man, kneeling beside the King.

“Welcome,” murmured the King.

“Are you mortally wounded?”

“I think not, but I wish to confess my sins and to ask pardon for the faults of a lifetime.”

Then, so quickly that none of those about him realized what was happening until it was done, the man drew his sword and, saying, “This will give you pardon,” plunged it into the King’s body.

Withdrawing it, he walked out of the mill, took his horse from the boy who held it, mounted and rode away. And none ever knew his name.

Young James was in his apartment at Stirling Castle when the nobles came to him. He was astonished by their solemn looks.

“What news?” he asked.

Lord Drummond was kneeling before him as he heard the shout which resounded through the room: “Long live the King!”

James recoiled. “My father… ?” he began.

“Sire, you no longer have a father. Long live James IV of Scotland and the Isles.”

It was then he heard the story of his father’s end; but he could not share their joy. He could only tell himself that never again would he look into the faces of handsome strangers and wonder whether at last he was face-to-face with his father.

Already he seemed to feel the crown weighing heavily on his head. His father defeated by his enemies and murdered by them! Not until that moment had he understood how they had involved him in their treacherous conflict, and there was deep sorrow in understanding. His father had died and it might seem that he himself bore some responsibility for that death.

I believe I shall never know complete peace again, he told himself.

In the weeks that followed his accession, so great had been his remorse that he had even forgotten Margaret. Night and morning he had prayed for the soul of his father in the Chapel-Royal at Stirling Castle.

“How can I atone for my father’s death?” he demanded of his confessor.

“Pray… pray for forgiveness,” was the answer.

But he found only brief comfort in prayer, and soon afterward he took to wearing an iron belt about his doublet, which was heavy and caused him great discomfort.

But he felt happier wearing it. It was a way of doing penance for the murder of his father.

That had happened long ago and one could not grieve forever. He had quickly discovered that it was pleasant to be a king. His friends, important men such as Argyle, Hailes, Lyle and Hume, were eager for him to enjoy life and to leave tiresome state matters to them.

“Why,” they said, “you are the King; and living as you did in Stirling Castle, what chance did you have of enjoying your life?”

He changed; he was no longer retiring, but discovered himself to be a high-spirited boy, and there was hunting and hawking over the glorious countryside; there were balls and banquets to be arranged; dancing to be watched and indulged in. His father was buried in state at Cambuskenneth Abbey and lay there with his wife, so there was nothing more his son could do for him, except to wear the iron belt now and then to remind himself and the world that he still regretted the manner in which his father had died.

There had been days when pleasure had been constantly with him; he remembered the occasion when Margaret Drummond had joined him at Linlithgow Castle and he had ordered gold, azure and silver cloth to make her a gown which would dazzle all who saw it; and when she sat with him in the place of honor at the table, the masked singers, luters, and harpists performed for them alone.

Had he followed his own inclination he would have married Margaret then as he had promised to; but there were jealous men about him who were determined that the Drummonds should not become too powerful and, although Margaret and he were allowed to enjoy each other’s company in the weeks immediately following his succession, excuses were made to part them.

And he had allowed it to happen — just as he had allowed his father’s enemies to place him at their head. He could always make the excuse: “I was but a boy.” To become a king would naturally overwhelm one so young; it was understandable that he should find life more absorbing than it had been in Stirling Castle or at Stobhall. He became interested in the governing of his country; and the lords of Scotland were too quarrelsome ever to live in peace with one another, so there was continual strife. Was it for that reason that he allowed himself to drift away from Margaret? Or was it because he had discovered that the longings she had aroused within him could be stimulated — though not with the same tenderness or delight — by any pretty woman? Now that he was King there were so many to smile on him.

Women — more knowledgeable than Margaret — beckoned him continually. He hesitated for a while, remembering his first love; then he hesitated no longer and he knew that, of all the sports and pastimes which delighted him, nothing would appeal to him quite so strongly as making love to women.

His advisers laughed at him. They would not have it otherwise. Let him chase women who would keep him occupied, preventing him from dabbling in state affairs. What could better suit their purpose?

“’Tis kingly in a man to love women,” they told him. “A habit of all good kings — and a custom the Stuarts ever observed.”

So there need be no remorse. He forgot to sigh for Margaret; he even forgot his remorse for his father’s death. Those were the carefree years.

Women! A succession of women — highborn ladies and tavern wenches. He had changed from that inexperienced boy who had dallied with Margaret Drummond on the banks of the Tay.

Yet being sentimental, he looked for one particular woman. Women there would always be, but among them he sought always the perfect mistress. He thought he had found her in Marian Boyd, the daughter of the Lord of Bonshaw — comely, witty, a charming mistress. He had been faithful to Marian for months, and she had borne him two children of whom he was very proud. He gave Alexander and Catherine the name of Stuart, for he was not ashamed to recognize them as his own. He took time from his state duties to visit them often, for he loved playing with children and he was determined that his children should never be treated by their father as he had been by his.

Marian might have remained his chief mistress had it not been for Janet Kennedy.

Janet was different from any other woman he had ever known. Redheaded and tempestuous, already she had been the mistress of Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, known as the Great Earl and Bell-the-Cat, one of the most notorious of all Scottish lords. It had been an achievement therefore for James to take her from Angus, even though he was a king and Angus a mere earl.

Angus had always been a leader in the country’s affairs, and had earned the nickname Bell-the-Cat, by which he was always known, some years before when the English had threatened to attack Scotland and certain of the nobles refused to stand with James III to repel this enemy. When James had been preparing to march to the Border, certain of his own countrymen such as Huntley, Angus, Lennox, Gray and Lyle were gathering together an army to pursue the King’s and present certain demands to him before they joined forces with him against the English. When they were deciding who should present the demands, Lord Gray told the fable of the mice who planned to put a bell about the cat’s neck to warn them of its approach. All very well, was the answer, but who should bell the cat? It was Angus who spoke up: “I will bell the cat,” and forever after he was known by that name. Shrewd, brilliant, Angus never failed to seize an opportunity which would advance the Douglases.

After the death of his wife he became enamored of redheaded Janet, daughter of Lord Kennedy, and she remained his mistress until she became the King’s.

They were thrilling days and nights James spent in Janet’s company. She combined ambition with passion, and her possessiveness was a little alarming, for James was a man who liked to live on good terms with all about him. He wanted his own way and where women were concerned there was a compulsion within him to take it, but he continually endeavored to extricate himself from a difficult situation by diplomacy rather than by quarrels.

He was deep in his love affair with Janet Kennedy when Margaret Drummond came back into his life.

It was some twelve years since they had dallied on the banks of the Tay, and Margaret had grown into a serene and beautiful woman. She had never married, she told him, but there were no reproaches; she understood perfectly that a king could not marry where he wished, but the boy who had made his promises at Stobhall had not. She had never ceased to love him. “Why,” she said, “I shall always remember that I once had your love… your first love, and that is enough to make me happy for the rest of my life.”

Now James saw what he had lost, and that Margaret could make him happy as neither Marian nor Janet ever could. Serene, disinterested, she could be passionate, giving wholeheartedly of her love and never demanding any favors in return; which was, he saw now, the only way to love. It had taken him years of experience to discover this. They were no longer very young, since they were both approaching their twenty-seventh birthdays.

“Nothing shall ever separate us again,” declared James vehemently. “I am King now and shall not be diverted from my purpose.”

It was Janet who temporarily diverted him. When he tried to explain to her, she faced him with a blazing desire which he was unable to resist and that which was meant to be a brief farewell was a night of such wild passion that he began to wonder whether even Margaret could free him from the spell Janet Kennedy had cast over him.

“Can she love like this?” demanded Janet.

Janet was wily. That night their son was conceived. A lover of children could not be indifferent to his own child.

He continued to see Janet, and Margaret did not complain. She was the perfect mistress; always kind, always understanding.

I will keep that promise I made all those years ago, James told himself. I will marry Margaret.

And so they had moved slowly toward that tragic climax. He was going to marry Margaret Drummond. She had already borne him a daughter who was named after her and who James insisted should be known as the Lady Margaret Stuart. Janet’s son was born two years after Margaret’s, and James loved these two children so dearly that it was difficult for him to say which he loved the more. And if he could not discard a mistress, how could he discard a child?