The Thistle and the Rose (22 page)

“How old were you when I went away? Was it six?”

“Well,” replied Mary, “you were about thirteen. None of us stand still.”

“And you have had adventures.”

Mary grimaced. “You too, sister,” she murmured.

Henry was impatient. He liked to see his family in amicable friendship, but he wanted them to remember that, no matter who came, or who met whom after how long an absence, there was one person who must be the center of every gathering: the dazzling King of England.

If she could have had her son James with her, if little Alexander were still alive, if Angus had been the husband she longed for, those would have been happy days for Margaret.

It was wonderful to be with her family again; Henry was eager to impress her with the superiority of the English over the Scottish Court, and one lavish banquet and ball followed another. This was a pleasure, for Margaret too loved gaiety. Katharine, kindly sympathetic, welcomed her as warmly in her way. As for Mary, she was full of high spirits, and delighted to be back in England at the gay and brilliant Court which her brother had made.

Margaret told herself that she needed rest and relaxation before she concerned herself with state matters. In good time she would impress on Henry the need for his help in regaining what was hers by right; but she understood her brother well. At this time he was bent on entertaining her; and had she tried to turn his mind to more serious matters he would have been greatly displeased.

She herself was not averse to a little lighthearted entertainment. Before she reached London she had sent messengers to Scotland to bring her dresses and jewels to her in England, for she would need them if she were to vie with the elegant ladies of Henry's Court.

Albany, evidently eager that she should withdraw her accusations about the death of little Alexander, and perhaps sorry for her, had put no obstacles in the way of her clothes being sent to her; and they arrived in London soon after she had.

Her sister, Mary, was with her on the day her clothes came, and they dismissed their attendants and examined the clothes together.

Mary shrieked with delight as she drew one glittering object after another from the trunk. She pranced round the apartment in a pair of sleeves of cloth of gold lined with crimson velvet; she put a cheveron on her head and turned this way and that to her reflection in the burnished mirror, delighting in the flash of the jewels.

“You were fine enough in Scotland, sister,” she said. “I had always believed it to be such a gloomy land.”

Margaret sat on her bed, looking at a gold collar decorated with enameled white roses. She remembered the occasion when James had given it to her.

“My husband was a great king and a fine gentleman.”

“But old,” put in Mary, and her own face darkened. She shivered, and Margaret knew she was thinking of the old King of France to whom she had been married. Poor Mary! At least Margaret had not suffered in that way.

“Not old as Louis was. He was merely older than I…and I was very young, so that he was not really very old. He was in his prime. Do you know, Mary, I believe he was the handsomest man I ever saw.”

“Do not let Henry hear you say that,” laughed Mary.

“You are happy now though, Mary?”

Her young sister clasped her hands and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Ecstatically.”

“So it was all worthwhile.”

Mary pouted. “It need not have happened. What good did the French marriage do for England?”

“It made peace between the two countries, and that is always a good thing.”

“An uneasy peace! And for it I had to endure… that.”

“Not for long.”

“Oh, no. I could not have borne it. And then he died …and Charles came to take me home.”

“And he married you.”

“I insisted, Margaret. I was determined. Henry had promised me that if I married old Louis I should marry my own choice when he died. And Charles was my choice … long before I married Louis.”

“So you got your wish.”

“Oh, those were glorious days, Margaret. I'll never forget them. Married to Charles… and both wondering what we should be called upon to pay for our boldness… and not caring!”

“It was a reckless thing to do. You might have been carrying the heir of France.”

“But I was not. And what fun I had, teasing François and his old mother that I was!”

“It seems to me that you found much to amuse you in this French marriage.”

“But only after my husband was dead, Margaret. What bold and lusty people we are. I wish I could have seen your Angus. He is very handsome?”

Margaret's face hardened. “Handsome enough.”

“Why did he not come with you?”

“He preferred to stay in Scotland.”

“I know what I should do if I had such a husband.”

“What?”

“Rid myself of him and find another.”

“Easier said than done.”

“What! And you a Tudor. Did you not know that Tudors always find a way? I said I'd marry Charles Brandon—before they sent me off to France—and I have married him. We get what we want…if circumstances do sometimes make us wait for it. We're three of a kind, Margaret—you, myself and Henry. Don't you see it?”

“We're strong, we're determined; yes, I see that.”

“Sometimes I am a little sorry for the people who marry us. I was a little sorry for poor Louis. I knew he would not live long. He tried to be young, Margaret. That was a mistake. His pursuit of youth led him to the grave. And now this Angus…I am sure you will make him sorry for what he has done to you. And sometimes I look at Henry and Katharine and say: ‘Poor Katharine.'”

“But she is devoted to him.”

“Katharine is such a virtuous woman; she'll always be devoted to him because he is her husband. Her religion tells her she must be. But there is a little friction between them already. He begins to wonder why she cannot give him a son.”

“But she has had several miscarriages, and now she has Mary.”

“Yes, but where are the boys, where are the boys?” Mary took up a silver pomander on a jeweled girdle and set it about her waist. “Nay,” she said, “I would not be the wife or husband of a Tudor… and displease them. If I were Angus, Katharine, or even Charles, I would be wary.”

Then she began to dance around the room, looking so vital, so lovely, that Margaret could well understand how the King of France in pursuit of youth had been hastened to his tomb by his desire for a Tudor.

There were pleasant hours spent with Katharine, and when they could be alone together they were two mothers fondly discussing their children.

The two little girls were so close in age that when Margaret was at Greenwich they shared a nursery; and it was the joy of the two mothers to visit them and send away their nurses and attendants that they might have the children to themselves.

Margaret, remembering what Mary had said about Henry's growing uneasiness at Katharine's inability to give him a son, felt herself drawn toward her sister-in-law, not only by affection and a common interest, but by pity.

And during those sessions in the nurseries, Katharine confided her great desire to bear a son.

“If I could but give Henry the son he so earnestly needs I should be completely happy,” she told her sister-in-law.

“You will,” Margaret assured her. “You have had bad luck, as I did in the beginning. There was my little James and my little Arthur, and they both died. Then the present James. Ah, if you could see my James! I never saw such a lovely boy.”

“I would I could see him. What a joy he must be to you.”

“If I could only have him with me.” Margaret was momentarily sad and Katharine was angry with herself for having reminded her sister-in-law that she was parted from her son. But she could not hide the envy in her eyes, and Margaret felt that it was she who should be sorry for Katharine.

“I do believe Mary has grown since we last saw her,” she said. “And my own Margaret thrives also. Poor child! When I think of her first seeing the light of day in that dreary Harbottle. So different from this little one… who was born in royal pomp in this very Palace of Greenwich.”

Katharine could not resist picking her daughter up in her arms. Mary, a solemn baby, regarded her mother serenely.

“I am sure she will be very wise,” said Katharine.

“She certainly has a look of wisdom,” answered Margaret, and she took her own daughter from her cradle; and the two mothers sat in the window seat, each holding her child in her lap.

Margaret asked Katharine to tell her of Mary's baptism; and Katharine was happy, recalling that ceremony. She told how carpets had been spread from the Palace to the font in the Gray Friars' church here at Greenwich; how her godmothers had been the Princess Katharine Plantagenet and the Duchess of Norfolk; how
the child had been carried by the Countess of Salisbury with the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walking on either side of her, and Cardinal Wolsey himself had been her godfather.

Margaret listened and cried: “How different from my little Margaret in Harbottle!”

And as they talked together, Henry came into the nursery, all aglitter in his green velvet spattered with jewels. He greeted them boisterously.

“Ha! The mothers in council, eh! And what bonny children.” He took Mary from her mother and cradled her in his arms, smiling down into those eyes which regarded him as serenely as they had Katharine.

“This is a clever child,” cried Henry. “She knows her father!”

Katharine smiled tenderly at the two of them.

“You must spare a glance for my little Margaret,” his sister told him.

He came over to her and peered down at the child in her arms.

“A bonny girl,” he said. He put out a finger and touched the little Margaret's cheeks. “I fancy she knows her uncle,” he said.

Then he walked up and down the apartment, rocking Mary in his arms, now and then chuckling as he looked down at her.

When he had perambulated for a few minutes he came to stand at the window.

“‘Twas ill luck about your little son, Margaret,” he said.

Margaret's face clouded, and Katharine watched her anxiously. She would have liked to warn Henry not to talk of the matter, had she dared.

Henry's face darkened. “‘Twas that scoundrel Albany. By God, it would please me to see him sent back to France.”

“It is what I am hoping will happen,” Margaret replied. “If I can return, take the Regency and the guardianship of James, I shall forget past troubles and be happy again.”

“You are fortunate, Margaret, to have a son.”

The lower lip jutted out bellicosely, and the face had grown suddenly sullen.

“I am very fortunate in my little James. I would you could see him, Henry. Do you know whom he resembles most closely?”

“Who?” Henry demanded.

“Yourself.”

“Is that so!” The sullenness disappeared and his face was sunny again. “What color hair?”

“Tawny. Bright complexion. Eyes blue. Those who have seen you have said ‘How like his uncle he is!'”

Henry slapped his velvet covered thigh.

“Tell me more of this little fellow. Is he bright? Is he gay?”

“Did I not say he resembles you? It is not only in his looks, I do assure you. I believe he will grow up to be exactly like you.”

“Let us hope that he does,” put in Katharine fondly.

Henry regarded her affectionately, but his moods were always transient. Margaret could see he was thinking: Why do others have sons when they are denied to me?

It was a sunny day and crowds had come to see the tournament at Greenwich.

Margaret sat with her sister and sister-in-law in the balcony which had been set up for them. It was a brilliant scene; the ladies were gaily attired, and Margaret was secretly delighted that she could make as good a show as any of them. Her gown was as gay as Mary's and as fine as Katharine's. The latter of course lacked the love of display which was so conspicuous in Margaret, Mary, and Henry; whenever those three entered an assembly the brilliance of their garments would have betrayed who they were, even if their identities were unknown.

The balcony had been elaborately decorated with their devices. The daisy for Margaret, the marigold for Mary, the pomegranate for Katharine; and dominating them all was the rose of England which was Henry's own emblem.

The shouts of the crowd, the warm sunshine, the brilliance of the knights in armor were exhilarating. It was a glorious occasion and Margaret was flattered that it should be in her honor.

Mary's eyes were fixed on a tall figure among the combatants.

“Suffolk could be the champion of all, if he wished,” she whispered to Margaret.

“And why should he not wish so?” demanded Margaret.

“You have been away for a long time. Naturally he must not shine more brightly than one other. I said to him last night: ‘As you
love me, take care in the jousts.' ‘What,' he answered, ‘do you fear that some agile adversary will slay me?' ‘Nay,' I cried, ‘but I fear you may outshine the King.'”

“So Henry still likes to be the victor, as he ever did.”

Mary laughed loudly. “It would go ill with any man who proved himself to be a more valiant knight. And we are still being punished for our marriage, you know. We have to pay Henry back for my dowry. We have to walk carefully. You should remember that, Margaret. Whatever you want from Henry, and I assume you want his help to regain your kingdom, you must always remember that, wherever he is, he must be supreme. Impress that on your mind so firmly that you believe it, and Henry will be your friend.”