𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑾𝑵 𝑶𝑭 𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑻𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑫.

Marguerite takes no little pleasure in the indignation that passes Lennox’s countenance, in the deep scowl that creaks as it settles into the crevices of his cheek, looming at the edge of her vision. Dissuaded, but seldom thwarted, the Dowager’s delicate hand – a petal pendulous in the January wind – returns to the warmth of her furs. Without the company of his fellow governors, Arthur Stewart’s disregard goes unmentioned, unpunished; but not, she prayed, for long.

With an incline of her head, Marguerite concedes: ‘that, at least, you have proven in spades, my lord.’ She is at once nodding, though as she thinks of Lennox’s tenure at court, James creeps behind her lids: buried beneath every history, so the saying goes, another hides. Veiled in cobwebs, stinking of rot, James is grousing over another failing harvest, pawing at a beard that grows impressively thicker with each winter, brandished with threads of Stuart reddish-gold. Marguerite exhales, and the frigid ground crunches beneath her weight. James vanishes, blows away like the dust that collects in his tomb. She eyes Arthur directly now, the blackness of her gaze boring into his.

‘You have served Scotland these many years, ever faithfully. They say nothing passes our borders without your knowing. But surely, fresh blood would do good for our government.’ She speaks in charming English, in an accent that has faded markedly with time, with decades of practice. ‘We cannot rely on one man, and one man alone, when only God is sufficient. ‘Tis a folly.’

No. The word resonates upon her lips; theirs is a relationship she would not rekindle for all the gold in the Moors. ‘No one would accuse me, Lennox, after these many decades, of not being thoroughly Scottish. We are not so very different in our great lust for this realm, you for its welfare and I for its salvation.’ As if to prove her point, Marguerite reaches into the thick pleating of her skirts, shifts away an outer-layer of heavy, precious velvet, and reveals a Stuart tartan beneath (splashed, of course, with mother-of-pearl; granted to Marguerite by way of the privy purse). ‘Am I not the mother of Scotland, and you the governor?’

She must’ve thought that their coin grew on trees, that their riches remained voluptuous within the bank of the throne — for she threw herself into the room in wares he suspected that had been newly ordered from the dressmaker and her skillful hands. He wondered if she had ordered a whole new wardrobe, signing her name as Dowager for all to see, for no one to doubt.

Arthur stared at her then insistently, his brows furrowed in a flicker of madness. Scotland was not the most prosperous, nor had it really ever been fit to boast a heavy coin purse… but there were ways, if one was careful enough. Still, perhaps something had come from her own bevy of resources — she had always been a sly madame, after all. 

In a casual affair, Arthur fell backwards to lean against the awaiting wall, his arms then crossed against his chest before his gaze shifted to fall absently against the warm glean of January — if she did not look at him, then he would not look at her, as was the constant fight of pretending one was better than the other. 

“Scotland is my home,” he retorted, this time without the playful vigour that had welcomed her into the space. How many times had he heard such questions? How many times had the Dukes or Earls of Scotland made hints to his looks that were unbecoming of a true, Celtic Scotsman?

His expression turned dark, his brows falling to a frustration before he moved closer to the awaiting window, to break the space between them into longer, vaster strides. If she had been slick with her comment, perhaps he wouldn’t have reacted as such, but as it happened, Arthur felt the insistent tug of righting that wrong from within the bones of his body. “Still, it must be nice to be so near to France again — ah, perhaps you will reunite with those ladies of yours…”

No less than six ladies pirouette about her, flitting here and flashing there, presenting the Dowager with freshly-laundered bundles of fabric, new caps, glinting pearl buttons, gold tassels, linen smocks, each perfumed with pouches of lilac, an English hood, hammered into the shape of a gabled-roof and edged with precious gems. As Marguerite steps into her gown, warmed velvet sliding along her skin, the January frost breaks down in clumps, plodding noisily down the stained-glass of the windows. A frigid, colourless winterscape sprawls beyond, as morning melts into day and a blazing Spanish sun rises like an egg-yolk in the sky.

Dressed, and having broken her fast, the Dowager treks into the cool corridors of the palace – which she finds to be mercifully empty, the courtyard devoid of its usual courtly congestion – and breathes in the gusts of wintry wind clobbering the walls of the castle. Under her breath Marguerite utters a prayer, or perhaps a curse, as she basks under the January sunlight. She lifts her head, allowing its plucky heat a rare opportunity to warm her face: to thaw the sharp, snow-white contours of her cheek, to caress the marble edges of her collarbone with a pink flush. Irritation twitches in her brow as Lennox speak – his voice, deep, a familiar baritone, dripping with authority – cutting a knife through her placid meditations.

‘An astute observation, my lord regent,’ Marguerite utters derisively, glancing at the Earl sideways. ‘But not so very far from your ancestral lands in Castile, I gather. Perhaps you long for a taste of home?’

The Dowager delivers her quip with a gracious smile, a hand extended for the Earl to bow to, to adorn with a pass of his cold lips. One would not miss him, mused Marguerite, and Scotland would be the better for it – if I could raise Arabella up, as God intended. But of course, dear, darling, dead James had never prepared for his crown to fall to a lass, such as their daughter, and here was the Earl to swoop over the carcass of Scotland left in his wake. Stewart's timing was, as ever, impeccable. 'Walk with me, Lennox, it is too cold to remain stagnant. I wish to discuss the matter of the Young King in Portugal. If you will spare a humble queen a moment of your time.'

Location:  Royal Alcázar of Seville, Scottish Quarters Tagging: Dowager Queen Marguerite of France @scotsdowager

When the late King passed, no one could’ve been prepared for the resistance met between the Dowager and the heir — caught with their antlers tangled together like warring deer, Arthur had always stood his ground in defiance. The thing was that Marguerite was not unliked nor even worthy of his malice. She was French, a long-time ally of his family and country, a nation that had once been his home and every father and grandfather before him — for they had fought in their war, acting as French as they were Scottish.

Secondly, Marguerite was not hard to look at, though it was an unsaid history that remained cold and vast between them. For most of his thoughts were observed for some plot of selling her off to the highest bidder. She was still, maybe, off child-bearing age and could make a fine addition to any court. But, really, he simply needed her out of the way if he was to usurp her daughter, the young Queen. 

Standing in the shade of the courtyard, Arthur waited with the utmost patience, his dark brows knotted with concentration  as his ears twitched for any noise that’d make note of the passing peasant’s gossip to the humble tune of some courtyard musician. This world, the one of his mother’s, was so very different to the Scottish lochs that Arthur almost thought he was dreaming.

It was her blood that allowed him to simmer in the sun, to enjoy the heat and bask amongst its shine when compared to the sun-lacked Scotsmen who lingered inside whenever the sun hit its highest point. Indeed, these two different worlds were forced to meet again, but it was Arthur who thought it a fate worth his notice — he had been made of this union, and here they were again. Surely something was bound to happen, something curated by God himself. The question was, when. 

As soon as the Dowager was announced by guards, Arthur picked himself back up, eyeing Marguerite from the corner of his eye. He bowed his head slightly, his eyes still longing onto hers in some look that suggested an offer of another bawdy fight. Perhaps he enjoyed her a  little too much, for that’d have to end. “My lady… A fine day, is it not?” He asked,  before averting his eyes to the sky, watching the fluffy clouds spaced above them. “We are a long way from Scotland… A long way indeed.”

marguerite d'anjou, dowager queen of scotland / timeline.

21 december 1452: born, marguerite d’anjou, at the château de blois, kingdom of france; first-born daughter of thebold d’anjou, duke of anjou, and christina valois, a royal french duchess.

c. 1458, aged 6: sister, agnes d’anjou, is born.

c. 1461, aged 9: betrothed to james, future king of scots.

20 july 1462, aged 10: marriage of marguerite d’anou and james stuart takes place by proxy in paris.

9 september 1466, aged 14: james, aged nineteen, becomes james v of scotland. marguerite commands her servants to refer to her as queen of scots.

c. 1467, aged 15: birth of james’ illegitimate son, archibald douglas.

c. 1468, aged 15: birth of james’ illegitimate daughter, marjorie douglas.

c. 1468, aged 16: marguerite’s party begins its journey from paris to edinburgh; their arrival is delayed by inclement weather, whereupon they are forced to dock in dover and make the trip to scotland on horseback.

17 february 1469, aged 16: unable to adjust to the harsh scottish climes, marguerite is indisposed between november 1468 and february 1469; her illness becomes so severe that james delays their marriage in the fear that she should die. finally, marguerite musters enough of her former strength (with ample pressure from her father to seal the deal) and the two marry in a private chapel at holyrood palace, attended by only a few guests (including james’ mistress, jane douglas). 

27 december 1469, aged 17: having finally recovered from her prolonged illness, marguerite is crowned queen of scotland – six days after her seventeenth birthday.

24 november 1473, aged 21: birth of a daughter, arabella (future queen of scots) at holyrood palace, the queen’s principal (and favoured) royal abode.

c. 1473–1478, aged 21–26: marguerite begins an affair with thomas hepburn, earl of bothwell; he is killed in a skirmish against the english in 1478. at the time of bothwell’s death, there are whispers at holyrood that the queen may be with child; though these rumours are empty, james strains his relationship with marguerite by accusing her of having fathering arabella with bothwell.

28 august 1484, aged 32: over a decade since the birth of arabella, marguerite miscarries of a son. from this point on, james and marguerite live in separate households; marguerite must vacate holyrood and set up camp at stirling castle.

19 may 1494, aged 42: death of james v, following a prolonged illness.

c. 1494, aged 42: succession of her daughter, arabella, to the throne.

♱ @queen-of-scots

Great flares and flecks of colour, a stampede of feet, throngs of swarming bodies, oiled with precious scents, a web of fine silks, costly furs, and flame-coloured velvets, all gathered in the anteroom of the palace.  Each royal, each maker of the universe, only a whisper, a breath, a shove, a feather’s touch away. The Dowager Queen gathers an ermine-furred shawl in the cradle of her arms – protection against the obstinate gusts leaking through the palace’s walls, and the careless bumping of nearby courtiers – as she foists a tight smile, a gracious hand, into the dazzling crowd.  A look, a prepensed glance, is then shot in her daughter’s direction, ensuring that Arabella is still bobbing along at her side: in that careful, practised, utterly guileless way of hers, each step a little prance, like a fresh colt.  ‘You comport yourself very well, darling,’  Marguerite reminds, one raven-head bent to another’s gilded.

‘I wonder, have you yet caught sight of our Portuguese allies?' The Dowager queries, stifling a snigger. 'I imagine Lennox must already be preparing the introduction.'  Marguerite, head-bent and in suitably French fashion, then fishes in the lining of her gown for a small, velvet pouch; inside, a crush of perfumed evergreens.  She draws it to her nose, and breathes deeply – the stench of the public usurped by the heady fumes of rosemary and lavender, starched into the warm, silken layers of her kirtle.  In the next breath, she muses: ‘it is in his nature to dig his heels into matters he cannot control, isn’t it? We'll simply have to take it upon ourselves, I should think, if the Earl takes much longer. Shouldn't be tricky.' 

Marguerite's sharp gaze scans Arabella's face for an indication of displeasure, her mind always in transit. The smoothness of her plotting replaced by something earnest, something deep, and graveled, the Dowager beckons: 'besides, it shall give us an opportunity to spend some time with one another – your advisers take you away from me, Belle.'

♱ [marguerite of anjou – jessica raine – 44 – dowager queen of scotland] ♱ bienvenidos MARGUERITE. you hail from FRANCE / SCOTLAND and have been risen to the position of a DOWAGER QUEEN. you are a member of the house of ANJOU / STEWART and will go down in history as the STOUT-HEARTED. though you are ABRASIVE & CONTROLLING, you are blessed with being SYMPATHETIC and MATERNAL. ♱ [di – she/her]

dossier / discord available upon request.

JESSICA RAINE as JANE BOLEYN, VISCOUNTESS ROCHFORD WOLF HALL (2015)