by Jean Plaidy
The King was approaching, slowly, ceremoniously, accompanied by nobles in brilliant costume. He looked so handsome that Margaret could not resist the temptation to gaze at him. The white damask and gold suited his tawny coloring; and the black velvet border of his jacket and the crimson satin slashes on his sleeves, matching his scarlet hose, gave a touch of startling color. When he saw Margaret he removed his black velvet bonnet, in which glowed a great ruby, that his head might not be covered in her presence and all could therefore see the respect in which he held her.
His eyes, as they rested on her, were above all reassuring. And she thought: This is the happiest moment of my life. I am to be married to him in very truth at last, and I know this to be but the beginning of all my joy.
They stood together before the Archbishops of York and Glasgow, and the ceremony of marriage was performed. Then the bulls from the Pope, consenting to the union, were read aloud; and when this was done the trumpets blared forth in triumph.
Margaret and James were married.
They sat side by side at the banquet and the King commanded that the Queen should be served before he was.
In spite of her ecstasy Margaret could still feel hungry, and she tackled the boar’s head, brawn and ham and all the other delicacies with a zest which seemed to amuse her husband.
When the banquet was over the company left the dining hall for another room that was hung with tapestries and cloth of gold, and here the King and Queen led the company in the dance.
And so the evening passed until it was time for the King and Queen to retire together.
Margaret was happy; the King was well content.
She was young and beautiful and, as he had guessed, had been an apt pupil in those arts in which he had long excelled. It was pleasant to find a sensuality which matched his own, and if he had not continued secretly to mourn for Margaret Drummond he could have been a happy man.
Margaret with all her Tudor egoism, never doubted for one moment that the King was as delighted with her as she was with him. He had given her on the morning after the wedding night the domains of Kilmarnock as a morrowing gift.
During the weeks which followed she devoted herself to pleasure with an energy which those who had followed her from England had only seen surpassed by her royal brother. Each day she held a council of her ladies to discuss what she should wear; she danced and sang, she hunted, practiced archery; and always she was eager for those hours when she could be alone with her bridegroom.
After some weeks of this merrymaking James intimated that the celebrations should come to an end and it was time he showed the people of Scotland their Queen. Then began the royal tour. From Edinburgh to Linlithgow and from Linlithgow to Stirling, to Falkland, Perth, Aberdeen and Elgin. Each night they would come to rest in some mansion, convent or abbey where there would be dancing, music, card-playing or religious ceremonies.
One of the greatest difficulties was the transport of Margaret’s wardrobe, for the purpose of which special carters had to be employed.
“Do you need so much?” asked James gently.
“Indeed I do,” Margaret firmly told him.
Many would have been exasperated; not so James. He merely shrugged tolerant shoulders and the carters were engaged.
By Christmas they were back in Holyrood Palace where Margaret threw herself into arrangements for Christmas festivities with all her youthful enthusiasm. Holyrood should see festivities such as it had never seen before. There should be pageantry and dancing such as she and Henry had often longed for during the Christmas celebrations which had taken place in their father’s Court. It was wonderful to escape from that miserly caution which had been a part of her early life. Margaret was determined to have gaiety, no matter what the cost. Harpers and luters, fiddlers and pipers, trumpeters and dancers filled the state apartments with their music.
And when the Christmas feasting was over, there was the New Year.
James’s present to his wife on the first day of the New Year was a heavy ducat of gold weighing an ounce, with two sapphire rings; and the second day of the New Year he gave her two crosses studded with pearls.
To Margaret’s chagrin the New Year festivities were brought to an abrupt end by the death of James’s brother, the Duke of Ross; and when the burial ceremonies were over, James told his bride that he must leave her for a while. She must understand that as King he had certain duties to his country. He would write to her and she must write to him, but for a few weeks they must be parted.
Margaret embraced him tearfully and implored him not to stay long from her side. He assured her that he would return as soon as it was possible for him to do so. The first of the King’s absences had begun.
During the periods when he was absent from his Queen, James sent her letters and gifts. He deplored the fact that they could not be together, and Margaret occupied herself in hunting and archery and sometimes in the woods she would run races with her attendants. The days passed pleasantly enough but she yearned for James.
When he returned he was as affectionate and charming as ever, but during a visit to Stirling Castle, Margaret made a discovery.
James was always eager to go to Stirling, and she had said to him: “I believe this to be the favorite of all your palaces, and this surprises me since you spent so much of your childhood there. So your memories cannot be unhappy ones.”
“Do I love Stirling best?” he mused. “I wonder. At this time I do. Next week I may love Linlithgow or Holyrood House or the castle of Edinburgh. I fear I am a fickle man.”
“As long as your fickleness is only for your castles I care not,” laughed Margaret.
She did not notice that he looked momentarily melancholy.
The next day she saw a little girl in the hall of the castle. The child was beautiful and in the charge of a highborn lady. Margaret called the little girl to her and asked who she was.
Her lady guardian seemed confused and said that she was lodged in the castle temporarily.
“My name is Margaret,” the child told the Queen.
“Margaret! How strange. So is mine.”
“You are Margaret too! What else? I am the Lady Margaret Stuart.”
“That is a name which arouses my interest,” answered the Queen.
“She is such a prattler, I fear, Your Grace,” said her guardian. “And, I fear, a little spoiled.”
“I am not,” answered the child. “My father says I am not.”
“And who is your father, my child?”
“My father is the King,” was the disconcerting answer.
Margaret knitted her brows and looked at the woman, who lifted her shoulders and murmured: “She is but a child, Your Grace. You know how children prattle on…without sense.”
“Then if your father is the King, who is your mother?” asked Margaret suddenly, ignoring the woman and addressing the child.
“She was Margaret too,” the child told her. “I am named for her.”
“Is the child’s mother here?” asked Margaret.
“No, Your Grace. Her mother is dead.”
“She is not,” declared the child. “My father says she is not dead, and will never die.”
“Oh come…come…you weary Her Grace.”
Margaret did not seek to detain them; she watched the woman take the child’s hand and lead her away.
She went immediately to the King, who was in his own apartments playing his lute. Imperiously she said: “James, I wish to speak to you…privately.”
James regarded her somewhat lazily and, seeing that she was truly agitated, signed to his friends to leave him.
“Well?” he said when they were alone.
“There is a child here—Margaret—who says she is your daughter. I know that this is not so, but I like not that she should proclaim herself to be. I want you to stop this.”
James was silent for a while; then he strummed a few notes on his lute. The time had come. He would have to explain.
“The c
hild speaks the truth,” he said. “She is my daughter.”
“Your daughter! But…”
“I was to have married her mother, but she…died. She was poisoned with her two sisters when at breakfast.”
Margaret’s blue eyes opened wide and the color flamed into her cheeks. He noted that the fact that his mistress had been poisoned did not shock her so much as that she had existed.
“So…you had a mistress!”
“My dear Margaret! What do you expect? Not one…but many.”
“And…a child!”
“Children,” he corrected her.
She was angry. She had been hoping for signs of her own pregnancy and there had been none. And now he…her own husband…admitted not only to having had mistresses…but children.
“I am glad you know,” he said. “I visit them often. They are after all my own flesh and blood and I have always promised myself that my children should never be treated by their father as I was by mine—perhaps in the hope that they will never have to suffer the remorse I did for the part I played in my father’s end.”
Margaret stood up and went to the door. She was so angry that she knew she must escape because she had a great desire to fly at him and fight him with all her strength. She had been cheated. She saw that she had been young and foolish and that her naïveté must have been apparent to him. She felt insulted and her Tudor pride was in revolt. She had loved him too deeply, too trustingly.
He did not attempt to detain her. He shrugged his shoulders and turned idly to his lute. He strummed without hearing; the recent scene had made him think of that other Margaret and the longing for her was almost too great to be borne.
Margaret could not rest until she discovered more about her husband’s premarital love affairs. She insisted on her Scottish ladies’ telling her all they knew. So the King had been so enamored of Margaret Drummond that he had wanted to marry her against the advice of his ministers; and she had borne him a daughter, that child, Lady Margaret Stuart, who was so petted and pampered at the King’s command. And there were two children by a certain Marian Boyd: Catherine and Alexander; and the young Earl of Moray—who had been given this title when he was scarcely two—was the King’s son by Janet Kennedy.
What a family! And he so proud of them—sneaking off to visit them on the pretense that he was engaged on state affairs! And what was worse, leaving his wife in order to do so!
All her amour propre—which was very strong in the young Tudors—was in revolt.
She now saw her husband in a new light. He was not the person who in her girlish imagination she had believed him to be. This marriage of theirs could well be one of convenience to him. She had been cheated.
Yet when he came to her again—tender and kind, yet not repentant—her wounded pride was submerged by her need of him. He had aroused in her that latent sensuality which must be appeased no matter how hurt her pride.
She was passionate in her demands; and there was a new determination within her; she must have a child; and her child must be more important to him than any of his others, for the son she bore would be the future King of Scotland.
James was sorry that his wife was hurt by her discovery of his illegitimate family, and he blamed himself for not having broken the news more gently to her. He could not be sorry that he had these children, for he doted on them and it was a matter of great disappointment to him that, so far, Margaret had shown no signs of pregnancy. When she did, he assured himself, she would be more serene.
One of his greatest pleasures was to visit his children, and he planned to have them all together in one nursery, acknowledged as his, so that he could supervise their education and give them honors which as royal Stuarts he believed should be theirs.
Meanwhile he decided to compensate Margaret for the shock she had suffered and, since she was such a child and there was nothing that pleased her more than balls, plays and ballets, there should be more of these entertainments.
He brought a gift of jewels—that could always delight her—and told her that he was arranging a ball in her honor and asked how she would like that.
She clasped her hands in ecstasy and her young face lighted with pleasure.
“And you will be there, James?” she asked eagerly.
“Indeed I shall be there.”
“For it would be no pleasure to me if you were not.”
He embraced her and thought happily: She has recovered from the shock. She accepts the children as natural.
At the same time he wondered what she would say if she knew of those lapses from fidelity which had occurred since his marriage. She was so naive in many ways. Probably it was due to the fact that her father had been a faithful husband; it was said that Henry VII was a cold man—well, James IV was not. Women were as necessary to his comfort as money was to Henry VII’s.
Margaret would have to learn this, but he trusted she would not have to make the discovery until she was ready to. In a few years’ time she would become accustomed to the fact that he must have his mistresses. He would try to explain that they in no way affected his feelings for her. She was his wife and it was their duty to get children. But ever since he had been a very young man he had made no effort to curb his sexual desires; and he could not begin now. He was gentle and tolerant with her and would remain so as long as she did not attempt to restrain him.
Then they began to plan the entertainment. There should be masked dancers because it was always such fun to watch disguised performers. And there should be a play. There was one of the Queen’s attendants who was a past master at coaching players. This boy, who had come with Margaret from England, was called English Cuddy by the Scots.
“I shall command English Cuddy to begin making arrangements at once,” declared Margaret.
“So much energy you have, my little one,” said James. “But it is such fun to play for a masque.”
“When you have children you will think of other things.”
He looked at her searchingly. Was there no sign? Her face darkened because she was thinking of those other children and how she would like to banish the Lady Margaret Stuart from the Court.
“I intend to have many children,” she said. “And when my son is born I am going to ask a favor of you. Will you grant it?”
“I think I should be ready to grant you any favor when you give me the heir to the throne.”
“I shall want him to have all that is best in Scotland.”
“That is easy. So he shall.”
“And I do not think he should have to meet the children of…harlots.”
James looked puzzled. “What mean you?”
“Margaret Stuart for one…and I know there are others who might try to force themselves into his company.”
James’s face was a dull red; for the first time in her life Margaret saw that he was angry.
“Do not dare to say that again,” he said. “The Lady Margaret Stuart’s mother was a great lady. She was possessed of many qualities which are lacking in the daughters of kings.”
Then he left her.
Margaret went into her bedchamber and threw herself onto her bed where she wept violently, for her emotions were invariably violent.
Her fit of sobbing did not last long; she roused herself and tried to remove the stains of weeping. Tears were futile; one day she would have her own way, but first she must learn how.
When next she was in the company of her husband, Margaret behaved as though the scene had not taken place. James was relieved and ready to meet her more than halfway. He reminded himself again and again that she was but a child and he expected too much of her.
He gave her more presents; rich damasks and velvets to make the clothes with which she enjoyed adorning her person—and the result was enchanting, he had to admit. He should congratulate himself on his good luck, for he had a beautiful young wife who was overflowing with love for him while so many kings had to marry plain and even deformed women for the sake of their kingdoms. He merel
y had to remind himself that she was a self-willed child and that he was some seventeen years older than she was, which should make him tolerant.
So those celebrations were particularly gay, James playing the clavichord with his wife and singing with her as they played their lutes. They led the dancing together; they laughed uproariously over English Cuddy’s play; and when at last they retired they made passionate love; and Margaret was so happy that she forgot to be jealous of those children.
Wait, she told herself. Surely soon I shall be pregnant. Then I shall not care how many illegitimate children he may have had in the past.
There was no reason why the fun should not continue. English Cuddy and Scotch Dog (a certain James Dog whose talents were similar to Cuddy’s) put their heads together and devised more original and brilliant entertainments.
It was during one of these days when entertainment followed entertainment that a messenger arrived at the Palace and asked to be taken to the King.
The man was brought to James when he was playing the lute to the Queen, and seeing how travel-stained and agitated the messenger was, James immediately laid aside his lute. One of his most endearing characteristics was his immediate sympathy with any in distress, however humble they were, and his concern to do all in his power to help them. It was this quality which had made him the most popular of the Stuart Kings.
He therefore made the man sit in his presence, and sent for wine to refresh him.
“And while it is being brought, tell me what brings you here.”
“I come from Darnaway, Sire,” said the messenger. “My mistress, the Lady Bothwell, commanded me to come and tell you that she is sick unto death and begs that you visit her on her death bed.”
James gasped with dismay. The Lady Bothwell was his fiery Janet Kennedy on whom the Bothwell estate had been bestowed in exchange for all the lands her lover Angus had given her. Janet…who had been so vital…sick unto death! It was unthinkable, and what of little James, their son?