The Thistle and the Rose (21 page)

“You had better tell Her Grace what you have told me,” said Angus.

The man looked appealingly at Angus as though imploring him to help him in his difficult task.

But Angus was silent.

“Tell me quickly,” commanded Margaret. “You must not keep me in suspense.”

“Your Grace, the little Duke of Ross fell sick of a childish malady. He did not recover from it.”

There was silence in the room.

Margaret lay speechless; all the color had left her face. It was like waking to find that a hideous nightmare was no dream after all.

What she had feared had come to pass.

She was inconsolable. Her women tried to calm her.

“This is so bad for you, Your Grace. Children take these maladies… and often they die.”

“Had I brought him with me he would be alive today,” she asserted. “It is my enemies who have done this. They have murdered him as others murdered my uncles in the Tower. And my little James, what will become of him?”

“Your Grace, you have heard that he continues in fine health.”

“For how long?” she cried bitterly.

There was no consoling her. Her women reminded her of her weakness, but she took no heed of them.

She cried out: “He has done this, that black-hearted murderer. He has killed my little son. My child… dying, and his mother not with him. My little Alexander who was such a bonny child. And what of my James? Oh, this is a bitter day for me. Would I could lay my hands on that murderer. How did he do it? They say my uncles were stifled in their beds. Is that how my little Alex was murdered? You see, do you not, if he murders my little James as he has his brother, then there would be no one to stand between him and the throne.”

They were afraid that in the excess of grief she would do herself some harm, so they sent Angus to comfort her.

He sat by the bed and begged her to stop weeping, for it grieved him to see her thus.

“It is easy for you,” she cried. “He is not your son.”

“It is not easy for me to look on when you are so sad.”

That softened her. “Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “what should I do without you? But if only our plans had succeeded, if only with this dear daughter of ours I had my sons as well, I would ask nothing more. I swear I would ask nothing more.”

Angus knelt by the bed. “Return to Scotland,” he said earnestly. “Make peace with Albany.”

“Make peace with the murderer of my son!”

“You know he is no murderer. What sense does it make… murdering young Alexander while James lives? Had he wished to remove all obstacles to the throne he would have killed them both.”

“How do I know what will befall James now that his brother has been removed?”

“You must be reasonable. You are hysterical. Oh, I understand your grief… and indeed it is mine, but you know Albany has done no murder. He is not the man to commit murder, and it is my belief that he does not greatly desire the crown of Scotland.”

“It is easy for you. It is not your son who has died. Murderer! Usurper! He is another Richard III, I tell you. And my little one is in his hands.”

Angus laid his hand on her brow. He was wondering what she would say if she knew that he had written to Albany asking on what terms he could return, that Albany's reply had been very favorable, and that he had almost made up his mind that he was going to Scotland whether she would come or not.

She was soothed by his touch but she had to give vent to her anger; she had to comfort herself in some way; she could not bear to think that she would never see Alexander again, and she must give way either to sorrow or anger.

But she did not believe in her heart, any more than Angus did, that Albany had murdered her son. Albany was no murderer of children.

She remembered him when he had taken the keys of the castle from little James—tall, upright, handsome, with a kindly tolerance in his eyes. And how gracious he had been to her—so that he had reminded her of James, her husband; and there were times, although this was another thing she was not yet prepared to admit, when she compared James with Angus and thought: Ah, but he was a king.

And Albany was a king's son; he was a Stuart at that. And in his eyes there lurked that tolerance, that gallantry toward a woman which was almost irresistible.

Angus was convinced that Albany was no murderer, but although she secretly agreed with him, she continued to rail against the man because she was so sick with grief that she must relieve her feelings in some way.

Looking up at Angus, seeing the weak petulance about his handsome mouth, she found herself involuntarily comparing him with Albany and thinking: The Duke is a strong man.

After a few days it became apparent how the shock of this news had affected the Queen's health. She was stricken with a fever and there was scarcely a person in Morpeth Castle who did not believe she was on her deathbed.

Yet even when the fever was at its height and she rambled incoherently, the incessant repetition of her son's name was enough to indicate what was on her mind. She clung to the thought of that small boy as though he were a lifeline; and indeed it seemed as if he were and that Margaret would not leave this life while she believed her son needed her.

Outside the castle the bleak January winds came howling from across the Border; the bitter cold penetrated the castle.

Angus was impatient. His wife was dying, and if he waited for her death, Albany would say he had accepted his terms because there was no other way out for him. He dared not wait. He must show Albany that he deplored the conduct of his wife and that he wished to serve the Regent.

So on that bleak January day, when Margaret's death was hourly expected, Angus with a few of his attendants quietly left Morpeth Castle and were soon galloping over the Border on their way to Edinburgh.

“Where is my husband?” asked the Queen. “Tell him to come to me.”

The woman went away to call him, but she did not return for a long time.

Margaret summoned another woman to her bedside. “Pray go and find the Earl of Angus and tell him that I wish to see him.”

The woman lowered her eyes and stood silent.

“What has happened?” demanded Margaret. “Why do you not do as I tell you?”

“Your Grace, the Earl of Angus is not in the castle.”

“Then where is he?”

“He returned to Scotland more than a week ago, when Your Grace lay nigh unto death.”

“Returned to Scotland!” she whispered as though to herself. Then: “I understand. Pray, leave me.”

She lay still, too numb with sorrow to weep or to rail against him.

She had lain near to death and he had deserted her; and this was the man for whom she had jeopardized the crown of Scotland.

Now she would no longer deceive herself. Her heart should accept him for what her mind had been telling her he was for so long. This is the end, she told herself. I shall never forget what he did to me in Morpeth Castle.

Her attendants were surprised at the calm with which she accepted his desertion. She rose from her bed shortly afterward and amazingly her health began to improve.

Through February and March letters were exchanged between Morpeth and the English Court; and with them came a warm invitation from Henry for his sister to come to London.

So with the coming of April Margaret began her journey south.

I
N
S
PITE OF
D
ESERTION
B
Y
H
ER
H
USBAND AND THE
loss of her younger son, Margaret felt excited during those April days in Morpeth when she was preparing for her journey south. Henry had written warmly; he was eagerly looking forward to seeing her at his Court, for it was good, he said, that sisters and brothers should meet even though their duties to their kingdoms must necessarily keep them apart for so much of their lives.

His wife, Katharine of Aragon, of whom Margaret had seen little during her childhood, was as eager to welcome her as Henry was. She had heard of Margaret's difficult confinement, a matter regarding which she could offer the utmost sympathy, having suffered so much herself in that respect. The bond of motherhood united them, wrote Katharine, and she longed to see her sister's little daughter, Margaret, who was but a few months older than her own dear Mary who, as Margaret would doubtless have heard, had been born in February.

“And as, my dear sister, you have a long journey to make, I am sending you by my equerry, Sir Thomas Parr, my favorite white palfrey with my own easy pillion which I trust will be of use to you on your way south.”

Margaret had heard that her sister-in-law was a gentle creature, deeply in love with her handsome husband, often sorrowful because as yet she had failed to give him the male heir for which he longed, yet filled with hope because, after several failures, she had produced healthy little Mary.

It would be comforting to talk with her sister-in-law, mused Margaret, for she knew that she was one who would understand full well her grief over the loss of Alexander and her great pride in little James.

She was beginning to believe that she had made a great mistake when she had allowed her infatuation for Angus to overcome her common sense. She had been lonely, she had craved that sexual excitement which had been so necessary to her; and therefore she had been prepared to rush into marriage with a handsome boy.

But experience made one wiser. If she could choose again she would not pick an impetuous boy; she would choose someone mature, a man, not a boy; someone like her first husband; for had he been faithful to her, had he treated her more as an intelligent companion, James would have been the perfect husband. She had not wanted to dominate; only to share.

She had lost James; she had failed to hold her place in Scotland. But it was no use looking back; she must go forward to Henry's Court; she must have conferences with her brother and his ministers; she must, with their help, win back the Regency of Scotland and the right to have the care of the King, her son.

If she had not married Angus, and Albany had not a wife… that would have been a different story. She had raged against him, called him murderer; but she thought of him often, and she would have enjoyed more than anything meeting him and abusing him to his face. The thought excited her, but that might be for later.

Now there was nothing to be done but travel south to London.

There was great comfort on Katharine's white palfrey, and Sir Thomas Parr was a pleasant companion, who told her that his mistress had instructed him to take good care of her sister.

Nor was that all; as a mark of
his
esteem, Henry had sent her, by one of his clerks of the spicery, many silver vessels for toilet and table use during the journey.

She was certain therefore of a good welcome, for Henry had also written a letter which accompanied the silverware to the effect that he was planning entertainments for his sister and her spouse when they reached his Court.

The countryside was beautiful in spring; the weather was clement; and Margaret, who was by nature strong, quickly regained her good health and with it her belief that she could win what she wanted.

They had passed through Newcastle and reached Durham, and she was resting in her bed one morning when the door of her apartment was opened and to her surprise Angus walked in.

Taken off her guard she gave a cry of great joy and held out her arms. He embraced her and she clung to him, hugging him in her delight.

Then she withdrew herself to look into his face. She laughed, for he had the look of a shamefaced boy.

“I heard,” he muttered, “that my absence grieved you.”

“And you came back because you did not wish to make me sad?”

“I never wished to make you sad.”

“Ah, my love,” she said, “how I have missed you! Do you not want to see your daughter?”

“In good time. First I wish to see my wife.”

She felt young again. It was spring and it was so long since she had seen him. They would make love and talk later, she indicated; and he was willing enough to obey.

The word went through the castle: The Queen is not to be disturbed. Young Angus has returned. They wish to be alone together for a while.

There were long faces among the Englishmen of the party. What did this mean? Was Angus going to try to persuade her to return to Scotland? Such an act would not please their master. They would not want to return to him and tell him what had taken place, for he had a kingly habit of blaming the bearers for the bad news they brought.

Angus was an ally of Albany; and Albany wanted to get the Queen back into Scotland, there to make her subservient to his rule which was, after all, the rule of France, the enemy of England.

They were right in their assumptions. Angus was saying: “Do you not see the folly of this journey to England? Come back to Scotland with me. Albany is ready to receive you.”

Her eyes flashed in anger. “Do you think
I
am eager to receive Albany!”

“Oh, come, what good can all this strife between you bring to anyone?”

“I have no wish to go back humbly to the murderer of my son.”

“Your son was not murdered. He died as young children do. It was no fault of Albany.”

“You plead too earnestly for your friend.”

“He will be your friend too.”

“Never. I hate him. But what is that to you? It seems you have his cause at heart rather than your wife's.”

“Margaret, I beseech you…”

“Do not be foolish. The only way in which I can hope to regain what I have lost is through my brother's help. Albany is afraid of Henry…even as his master, the King of France, is, and with good reason. Stop being so foolish. We are going to England.”

“We?”

“You and I, my dear, for my brother is expecting you.”

Angus turned sullenly away, but Margaret went to him and slipped her arm through his.

“Come, my love, you are going to enjoy the English Court. Our own is a poor place compared with it, I do assure you. My brother loves to masque and dance. He will be fond of you. You will be his friend. He says in all his letters: ‘Commend me to my brother-in-law, your good husband.' And he is eager to meet you.”

Angus did not answer. Go to England? When Albany was prepared to make good terms with him? When Jane had said she understood how he had been forced into marriage with the Queen and that it made no difference to them? Leave Jane…now that they had come together again?

But he dared not tell Margaret all this. He stood silent, a little sullen, as though agreeing that she was right.

She gave him a little push. “Go now. It is time for my women to come and help me dress. I will join you soon; I shall so enjoy your company, my love, on the way to London.”

Angus was afraid. He would have to be very cautious or he would indeed find himself riding south in the Queen's cavalcade, instead of north to Jane Stuart.

He nodded, kissed her and, when she murmured, “Soon I shall be with you,” he did not deny it.

He went straight from her apartment to the stables where his servants were waiting for him.

He did not speak until he was in the saddle; then he said: “It was a mistake to come. Now … let us ride… with all speed to the Border and into Scotland.”

Into Stony Stratford passed the Queen's party, and all through England the people came from their houses to watch the cavalcade. They cheered the Queen of Scots because she was their good King's sister and they knew that it was at his wish that she traveled south.

It was May by the time she reached Enfield, and there she was welcomed to the mansion occupied by Sir William Lovel, who was her brother's Lord Treasurer.

She was now very close to London and she believed that in a short time she would see her brother.

It was a glorious morning when she left Enfield and, as she was coming to Tottenham Cross, she saw in the distance a brilliant cavalcade making its way toward her. Her heart leaped with pleasure for she guessed who this was and, as the party approached hers, she recognized him riding at the head of it. He was a larger, more glorious version of that young boy whom she had known. His doublet was of purple velvet; jewels flashed on his hands and garments, and there were rubies and diamonds in his feathered bonnet. He had grown so much that he appeared to be far taller than any of his companions. On his face was the flush of good health and his blue eyes were as sparkling as water in sunshine and as brilliant as flames.

This was her brother. There was no doubt about that.

And as she recognized him, so did he her, for the resemblance between them had not grown less with maturity.

He rode up to her, smiling.

“My King and dearest brother.”

He sprang graciously from his horse which his groom hastily seized. He came to her and, taking her hand, kissed it.

“This is a great joy,” he told her.

“Henry! How happy I am to be here.”

“We have long looked forward to your coming. But where is my Lord Angus?”

Margaret's expression clouded. “He returned to Scotland.”

“Returned to Scotland! Why so? Did he not receive my letters of invitation?”

“He thought it wiser to make terms with Albany, I fear.”

The pleasure faded from Henry's plump square face. His eyes narrowed, so that blue chinks shone through the folded flesh. He turned to his sister and gazed at her speculatively, and she knew that he understood full well that Angus had deserted her.

Then he gave a loud laugh. “Done like a Scot!” he cried. “He could do without us, eh? Then, sister, I tell you we shall do very happily without him.”

He remounted and brought his horse beside his sister's.

“We will rest awhile at Compton's house on Tottenham Hill,” he said. “Then we will ride into my capital.”

In the afternoon they started out from Tottenham Hill, Henry on his fine horse with its glittering trappings, a dazzling figure; and beside him Margaret rode pillion with Sir Thomas Parr on Katharine's white palfrey.

The people now crowded the roads. Henry beamed on them, graciously and delightedly acknowledging their cheers.

How he revels in his new state! thought Margaret. He always said that things would be different when he became King, and so they are. And how the people love this merry England he has given them. What a king! How different from our father who was also a good king. And yet it is due to Henry VII that Henry VIII is possessed of the riches which make it possible for him to live in such style.

“To Baynard's Castle,” cried Henry, “which I have set aside for your private residence, sister. But we shall not stay there. The Queen and our good sister are waiting to see you at Greenwich.”

So the cavalcade paused awhile at Baynard's Castle on the north bank of the Thames below St. Paul's; and Margaret, looking at those Norman towers and ramparts, was well pleased with the dwelling Henry had chosen for her.

Here she rested and changed her costume, for Henry had arranged that they should travel the rest of the way to Greenwich by barge.

Margaret looked about her eagerly; now and then her memory stirred. It was so many years since she had passed down this river on the way to Greenwich, and how wonderful it was to see and hear the people on the banks cheering the royal barge, to listen to the sweet music of the minstrels who played as they went along.

Now she saw the Palace with the brick front facing the river; she saw the tower in the park and the convent which adjoined the Palace.

“We have arranged good sport for you here at Greenwich, sister,” Henry told her gleefully; and she was conscious that all the time he was watching her to see how she marveled at the splendor of his realm.

They alighted at the stairs, and at the gates of the Palace the Queen was waiting to greet them.

Margaret was warmly embraced by her sister-in-law and the first questions Katharine asked, when she had ascertained that Margaret was well and had suffered no harm from her journey, were concerning the welfare of the little Margaret.

But there was another who came forward to embrace Margaret; this was a dazzling, beautiful young woman who was so like Henry that Margaret knew at once that this was her young sister, Mary, now grown to womanhood.

Margaret kissed her warmly; then drew away from her and looked into that radiant, laughing face.

“Mary! Why, can it be possible?”

“Would you have me remain a baby forever?” demanded Mary.