The Thistle and the Rose (36 page)

Therefore to betroth herself to Lord Thomas Howard without the consent of Henry would be to bring his wrath down upon her.

Her mother's fears were not without foundation.

Deeply wounded from the knowledge of Harry's treachery, Margaret was distracted when the news came from England that her daughter and the girl's lover were in the Tower of London, the King's prisoners.

A little while ago she would have gone to Harry for solace. Now there was no one to whom she could turn. James had lost some of his affection for her when she had not helped him to win a
divorce for Margaret Erskine that he might marry the woman he loved; moreover James was in France.

She paced up and down her apartment. She longed to have her daughter with her. She wept, remembering the girl's birth in Harbottle Castle, which now seemed so many weary years away.

She stopped by her writing table and, taking up her pen, wrote to her brother imploring him not to be harsh with her daughter. “If you will send her to me in Scotland,” she wrote, “I will answer to you that my child shall never trouble my brother more.”

She did not seal the letter when it was written; she sat with her head in her hands, while a feeling of utter desolation swept over her.

Harry, whom she had loved and trusted, had betrayed her as he others had. And now she was no longer young and beautiful. Still, she was vigorous; she was a queen.

She began to think of young James Stuart who was so like his brother Harry and, she told herself now, of a less sly countenance. No, she could not marry her husband's brother. She thought of Angus, whom when she had last seen him had changed from the callow boy she had married. Angus had been most reluctant to be divorced.

Suppose she went to England. Suppose she married Angus there and brought him back to Scotland. Then my Lord Muffin would so tremble in his shoes that his Mistress of Sutherland would be hard put to it to comfort him.

She picked up her pen and wrote once more.

She put down her pen and found that she was weeping, for suddenly, sitting there, the full force of her desolation swept over her, because she realized that the peace and happiness had never truly existed outside her imagination. The complacent years were revealed to her for what they were.

No happy married life; all lies; all deceit.

Why has Fate set me this tragic pattern? she asked herself. Is there a reason?

James brought home his little Magdalene—a dainty creature, looking too fragile to be real. He adored her, which was comforting. Poor James, he needed to be happy for he had been denied the bride he had wished for and he constantly grieved because his bonny James must remain a bastard.

But he was happy for a while with the delicate child. How pretty she was in her closely fitting gown of white damask embroidered with gold, and the small round cap made of pearls and jewels set on her light brown curls. A fairy child, too delicate for the winds of Scotland.

She coughed and after coughing there was blood on her kerchief which she tried to conceal, and did for a while. It was soon discovered that Holyrood was too damp and low-lying for her comfort; she coughed a great deal there. But the Castle was too bleak and she coughed there for that reason.

Will this delicate creature bear Scotland heirs? asked the brawny Highlanders. Magdalene of France was the daughter of a great king, but would she give James of Scotland a son to compare with Margaret Erskine's bastard?

James worried about the health of his bride, and was irritable when his mother told him that she intended to divorce his stepfather.

“A divorce at your time of life!” he cried. “Why, you would be a laughingstock.”

“You would take your revenge because I could not help you obtain a divorce for Margaret Erskine?”

What a tragedy that she and James were no longer the friends they once had been.

Magdalene had landed in Scotland in May; by July she was dead. Had she lived a few more days she would have reached her seventeenth birthday.

Scotland mourned her; but none more deeply than her young husband.

The Queen's depression lifted a little when she heard that her daughter Margaret had been moved from the Tower to Sion Abbey. She had caught a fever while in prison and evidently the King did not wish her to die since he had agreed to her removal to a more comfortable place of confinement.

Margaret had written again to her brother imploring him to allow her daughter to return to her. If she came back to me, she told herself, I should have her future to plan. I would live again through her.

Occasionally she thought of Harry's brother James. Dared she risk a fourth marriage? Sometimes she said no; at others she asked herself, Why not? The old pattern could not go on repeating itself. There must be a man somewhere who would be her faithful husband. James was handsome, but so young. And there would be an outcry if she married her husband's brother.

Angus?

She thought often of Angus as he had been in the days of his youth. Scenes from the honeymoon at Stobhall often came back to her mind and made her feel young again.

But James continued to ridicule the idea of another divorce, and she could not marry again without one.

Take a lover? She craved for a happy and legitimate union. She was so lonely nowadays; and she found that she could not feel as angry with Harry as she had with Angus. Her pride had been wounded more than her emotions. Was this a sign that she was growing old?

Life went on about her. Her brother wrote jubilantly that he now had a son: Prince Edward. True, the child had cost his mother, Jane Seymour, her life; but he found it more difficult to get sons than wives.

Young Margaret's lover had died in the Tower and she was freed because, with the birth of a prince, she was no longer of the same importance. In fact, Henry VIII did not care to have about him young people who might be said to have a claim to his throne, so he declared her illegitimate, adding that the marriage between her mother and Angus had been no lawful one.

Margaret's rage was great when she heard this, and once more
she planned a remarriage with Angus that they might fight together for her daughter's legitimacy and for her place in the succession to the throne of England.

Yet nothing came of these plans. She no longer found intense excitement in plotting as she once had; and, looking into her mirror, she told herself that she was growing old.

“I am growing old,” she said one day.

She sat at her table, her pen in her hand, writing letters, a habit of hers.

She was very tired and felt vaguely unwell. Words would not come easily to her mind as they used to, so she laid down her pen and thought; and as usual at such times her mind went back to the past.

Her daughter Margaret was happy in England, she supposed, now that Henry had given her a place in the household of Anne of Cleves. James had married a French widow, Mary of Lorraine, and although the two children whom they had had, both died, they would have others.

Poor James! How hard it was for royal people to beget healthy legitimate children. His illegitimate ones were bonny creatures, in particular that young James whom he loved so dearly. What a pity that the boy had Margaret Erskine for a mother instead of a Queen of Scotland!

Her own children by Harry were not strong and their health gave her cause for concern, but there were so many anxieties, and she felt too tired to think of them anymore.

Instead she thought of her youth, of coming into Scotland and riding on the palfrey James had sent. She could see him now, so handsome, so beloved by his people, riding into his capital with his bride on the pillion behind him.

Her hands had begun to shake and she could not stop them. She stared at them in dismay and called for her attendants, but when they came running to her side, she could not see them clearly.

“Help me to my bed,” she said. “I feel ill.”

As they undressed her the palsy intensified; and when she lay
on her bed she said: “I have never felt so ill before. Send to Falkland Palace for the King. Tell him of my state and that I should like to see him.”

Her orders were obeyed and she lay on her bed, waiting.

Soon he would come—her beautiful son whom she had loved so dearly. She would see him come striding into her chamber. But when she thought of him it was that other James she saw—the laughing, handsome husband with whom on her first coming to Scotland she had fallen violently in love.

She had forgotten that she was in Methven Castle, imagining herself to be in Holyrood with James standing before her while she accused him of deserting her for his mistresses. Then it was Angus who stood there…or was it Albany…or Harry? She was not sure. They were as one now. The men whom she had loved; the men who had deceived her.

She murmured so quietly that none heard: “If I had not been the daughter of a King should I have been loved for myself?”

She tried to rouse herself because there was so much she had to say.

“My daughter… the Lady Margaret Douglas…James must be good to her. Angus… Let James forgive Angus… Let him remember that he had suffered much…Peace…I want peace among them. Peace.”

Those about her bed exchanged glances. She had been well a short while ago. Could one be struck so suddenly?

It seemed so, for it was deemed advisable that the last rites should be administered. This was done, and when James arrived— although he had come to her bedside with the utmost haste—he was too late. Margaret, the Queen, was dead.

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J
EAN
P
LAIDY
is the pen name of the late English author E. A. Hibbert, who also wrote under the names Philippa Carr and Victoria Holt. Born in London in 1906, Hibbert began writing in 1947 and eventually published over two hundred novels under her three pseudonyms. The Jean Plaidy books—ninety in all—are works of historical fiction about the famous and infamous women of English and European history, from medieval times to the Victorian era. Hibbert died in 1993.