The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  “I shall go to her without delay,” said the King.

  Margaret had risen and stood beside him. She laid her hand on his arm.

  “Who is this Lady Bothwell?” she asked. “And why should she send for you in this way…as though she were a queen and you her subject?”

  James looked at her coldly and said: “She may be dying.”

  Then he turned and strode from the apartment.

  Margaret had to shake the woman to get the truth from her. The foolish creature was trying to pretend she had no notion who this Lady Bothwell was.

  All the Tudor fury was in flame.

  “Who is she? Tell me that!”

  “I…I…”

  “It will be the worse for you if you do not say.”

  “Your Grace…Your Highness…she was Janet Kennedy.”

  “Janet Kennedy? And what is she?”

  “The daughter of Lord Kennedy, Your Grace.”

  “What is she to the King? That is what I mean?”

  Silence. But silence could tell so much.

  “You know!” shrieked Margaret. “And how many sons did she bear him? Tell me that.”

  “It was only the one, Your Grace…only the little Earl of Moray.”

  Margaret slapped the woman’s face in fury.

  “And he goes to see her now. He leaves me, to go to see her. The wanton creature. I hate her. I hate them both, I tell you!”

  She turned and ran to her apartments.

  And there once more she flung herself onto her bed and wept. Lady Guildford came to her. “Your Grace…Your Grace, this is not the way to behave.”

  She did not answer. Instead she raised herself and clenched her fists, pummelled her pillows, with an expression which showed that was how she would have liked to beat Janet Kennedy.

  “You must remember that you are a queen, Your Grace.”

  “A queen…ah! And a woman. A woman deserted by her husband! Do you not think I understand the meaning of those absences? And all except me knowing…I alone in ignorance. I was not enough for him. He must have these sluts. I would kill them. I will not have him in my bed again.”

  “Hush! Hush! There will be those to listen. There will be those to carry tales.”

  “I care not.”

  “But you must care. Remember, my dearest, you are the Queen of Scotland.”

  Margaret’s face crumpled suddenly and she began to cry softly. Lady Guildford put her arms about her shaking shoulders and sought to soothe her.

  “I loved him so much,” sobbed Margaret. “You could not understand how much.”

  During the months which followed, Margaret appeared to be resigned. She had lost her innocence and those about her said: “She is growing out of childhood.” A certain hardness had crept into her expression. She was no longer in love with the King; the romantic ideal had gone but the need for sexual satisfaction was as strong as ever and that side of their relationship appeared to have undergone no change. But both James and Margaret were deeply affected by the knowledge which had come to her. Margaret was on the defensive, but James was more lighthearted because he had never enjoyed deceiving his wife and could not help being glad that the need for deceit was over. He was a man whom no one woman could hope to satisfy, and the sooner his wife realized this, the better for them both.

  The absences from home were more frequent, but during them he never failed to write tender letters inquiring after his wife’s health, and these were often accompanied by some charming and costly gift.

  Margaret would say to herself with that grim cynicism which had developed since her discovery: “He must indeed be enjoying the woman to suffer such qualms of conscience.”

  It was not a situation which could be endured forever by a proud Tudor, but as yet Margaret—still so young—saw no way for her except endurance. But, that some way would be shown to her, she had no doubt.

  It was not that she wanted revenge; she wanted only to restore her pride in herself. She discovered that she did not care enough for James to desire that revenge. To her he was merely the means of satisfying a need which was becoming more and more important to her as she grew more mature. Let him then supply this need. She would use him for this purpose and wait until she knew what she must do to establish herself in her own right—as a woman, as a Tudor Queen.

  This was the time of growing into maturity. She was wise enough to understand that. Foolishly she had been prepared to adore her handsome husband; from now on she would never forget that nothing in her life could matter so much as Margaret Tudor.

  Outwardly she appeared to be a high-spirited girl, not cowed but wisely accepting what could not be prevented. James was delighted with her, and when he came home from his travels the reunions were gay and pleasant occasions. The apartments of Holyrood House rang with laughter and music—which they both enjoyed; there were occasions when James entertained in his own apartments and Margaret in hers, but if James found an entertainer of talent he would send him or her immediately along to entertain the Queen. A female minstrel who was known by the name of Wantonness was an example of this. Wantonness had amused James; therefore Margaret must enjoy her singing. It was the same with O’Donnel, an Irish harper, and a luter known as Gray Steil.

  James took advantage of his wife’s complacency to have Margaret Drummond’s daughter, Lady Margaret Stuart, brought to Edinburgh Castle, but when Margaret heard that the child was there her restraint broke down temporarily, and before her English attendants she demanded to know how she was expected to deal with such an affront.

  Lady Guildford suggested that she might remonstrate with the King, provided she remained calm enough to do so.

  “He dotes on that child,” retorted Margaret. “And I know why. He still remembers her mother. He believes that had she lived he would have been faithful to her! As if he would! As if he could ever be faithful to any woman!”

  “Your Grace should remember that it is better not to show your anger.”

  “That’s one lesson I’ve learned,” retorted Margaret grimly.

  Still, she could not resist talking to the King.

  They were planning a masque and were discussing the merits of English Cuddy and Scotch Dog and whether Wantonness should be summoned to sing with the other minstrels, when Margaret said suddenly: “James, do you think it wise to have Margaret Stuart at the castle?”

  “But why not?” he asked, surprised.

  “I know how devoted you are to her, but she is still a bastard.”

  James said coolly: “I have decided that she shall be acknowledged as my daughter, and I swear by St. Ninian that nothing shall deter me.”

  “But…”

  He had become a king suddenly and Margaret was aware that however courteous he was he would rule Scotland alone. Then she knew that there was one thing she wanted to do; that was rule Scotland herself. She understood in that moment of revelation that if James had taken her advice she could have readily forgiven him his philanderings. But he would not be advised; his gentle demeanor was a shield which hid a man determined to have his way. He was no husband for a strong-minded woman. She thought enviously of her brother Henry who on their father’s death—which could not be long delayed—would be absolute ruler of England.

  “I think little Margaret finds it lonely at the castle,” went on James, “and I have for some time believed that it would be an excellent idea to gather my family together under one roof. I am therefore having young Alexander Stuart brought to the castle…temporarily of course. In time I intend to send him and his brother, Moray, abroad to be educated. I have a great respect for Erasmus and I want him to take charge of their education.”

  Margaret could not remain calm. She laughed aloud suddenly. “Alexander Stuart, bastard son of Marian Boyd and the King of Scotland—a mere boy, and Primate of Scotland! Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous, James?”

  James gave his lazy smile. “One favors one’s own flesh and blood, my dear. Parents are notoriously fond and f
oolish.”

  “Such fondness and foolishness can have dangerous results when employed by kings.”

  “I see no harm done. Wait until you give me a son. For him there will be the crown of Scotland.”

  “I might have more opportunity of doing so if you did not fritter your manhood away on other women.”

  James laughed aloud and, reaching for her, held her in an embrace, which was mocking yet tender.

  “Why, my dear, I had thought we gave ourselves the opportunity many a time; but if you feel we should be more assiduous…”

  She wished that she could be aloof, make conditions; but how could she when her sensuality demanded to be assuaged?

  She felt herself laughing, growing slack in his arms; and when he made love to her she was willing herself to be fruitful.

  At last it had happened.

  The whole Court was delighted, but no one more than the King. Margaret was seventeen and healthy, and James had proved that he could sire strong children. Now he would have a legitimate child and, if it were a boy, a new prince for Scotland; and if it were a girl…well, there would be boys to follow.

  He was now spending more time with his wife; during his occasional journeys, letters came even more frequently than they had before; gifts were showered upon her, and Margaret was happier than she had been since the first weeks of her marriage.

  James had insisted that she pass the months of her pregnancy in Dunottar Castle, in the county of Kincardine, which was more like a fortress than a residence, set on a rocky plateau which jutted over the sea. He often visited her there and made sure that she was surrounded by entertainers who could keep her amused; her minstrels, luters and harpers were commanded to make her days lively; and English Cuddy and Scotch Dog were in residence to make plays for her diversion.

  There was a certain amount of unrest in Scotland at this time and some of the dissatisfied lords were contemplating rising against the King; therefore, said James, it pleased him to know that his Queen was in a safe place.

  Margaret wondered how much time he devoted to state affairs and how much to his mistresses. There was a new name which was being whispered throughout the Court: the Lady of A. Previously Margaret would have exerted her ingenuity to discover the identity behind that sobriquet. Now she did not bother. What did it matter with whom the King dallied? The Lady of A could cause her no more qualms than Janet Kennedy or the dead Margaret Drummond.

  She was longing for the birth of her child because she felt that when she was the mother of the heir of Scotland her position would be strengthened. She looked into the years ahead and saw herself making that son entirely hers. And who knew, when the time came for him to rule, he might be more ready to listen to Margaret Tudor than his father was.

  She lay on her bed in agony.

  So this was giving birth. How long had she lain in this state chamber at Holyrood House while the pains beset her body and the heir to Scotland refused to be born?

  She was thinking of her mother who had lain in the Palace of the Tower of London, who had suffered so much pain, which had been the prelude to death.

  But her mother had been twenty years older than she was; and she, Margaret, had many years before her…if she survived this ordeal.

  She heard whispering; her women were talking of her in hushed, reverent tones. Were they the voices of people who knew themselves to be in the presence of death?

  The pain was coming again, so fierce that she lost consciousness, and when she regained her senses it was to hear the cry of a child.

  “A boy!” She heard the joyous cry throughout the apartment; and, ill as she was, a great exultation came to her.

  James was delighted. He showered presents on all her women; he stared down with reverence at the boy in the cradle.

  Then he came to kneel at his wife’s bedside.

  Margaret looked at him dazedly. She was not sure where she was and imagined she was with her brother and sister in Richmond Palace.

  “Henry…,” she whispered, “you are not yet…”

  James was alarmed.

  “The Queen is ill,” he said. “She should be rejoicing now, her ordeal over, her son in his cradle. What ails her?”

  He sent for the physicians and implored them to use all their skill. He was filled with remorse for the manner in which he had neglected her. He demanded to know what ailed her and why she, who had been in such rude health before and during her pregnancy, should be so ill now that her ordeal was over.

  “It is a malady which occurs often after childbirth, Sire,” said the doctors.

  “And she will recover?”

  They tried to reassure the King, but he saw through their pretense.

  If she died he would be stricken with remorse. He remembered how he had suffered at the death of his father; he did not want to suffer so again.

  He would travel to the shrine of his favorite saint at Whitehorn in Galloway, and there plead for his Queen’s restoration to health.

  Footsore and weary, James arrived at the shrine of St. Ninian. The journey, made on foot, had been rough, and he was glad of this. If Margaret died he would feel some remorse for his infidelity. Poor child, she had been wounded by it in the beginning. He would begin to wonder whether her loss would be the punishment for his sins.

  He remembered afresh the regret he had suffered after his father’s death. He did not want to endure the like again. If Margaret recovered, and this would be due to St. Ninian, he would go into retreat for a while with the Gray Friars at Stirling. There he would fast, pray and meditate for a few weeks, and come out feeling purged of his sins.

  He never regretted building that monastery, for it had often provided his tortured conscience with the balm it needed.

  Margaret and his courtiers were never very pleased when he went into retirement. He feared his Margaret was a little pagan at heart; he had seen how her attention strayed during religious services, and he noticed that if she could gracefully avoid attending them she did so. As for his friends at Court, they were too fond of gaiety to enjoy those seasons when, out of respect for the King’s temporary monastic existence, they too must live soberly.

  He had taken with him on this pilgrimage only four of his favorite minstrels; he enjoyed traveling about his country informally, because he believed it gave him an opportunity of discovering the true state of affairs. He had always wished to see things as they really were, so that he could improve the lives of his subjects.

  He often thought ironically that he would not be a bad king but for certain failings which he found it impossible to conquer. He was never the worse for drink; he never indulged in gluttony; he would devote much of his time to the study of laws which could benefit his country; then he would meet a woman and forget duty to state, wife and all, in his pursuit of her.

  Often he said to himself: “If I could have married Margaret Drummond I would have been a satisfied husband who never strayed,” as he used to say: “If I could have known my father, talked with him, understood him, I would never have had this terrible blot on my conscience.”

  He was a man of contrasts—deeply sensual yet spiritual; logical in certain matters, extremely superstitious in others; going alternately to the monastery and the bed of one of his favorites; capable of wisdom and folly.

  Having reached the shrine, he made his offerings and asked that Margaret might be restored to health; then because he and his little band were so weary he commanded that horses be hired to carry them back to Holyrood House.

  He was noted for his friendliness to those who surrounded him, and he was always pleased to throw aside dignity whenever possible; so the minstrels rode beside him and they all chatted in an easy fashion.

  One of them said: “I hear, Sire, that Bell-the-Cat is paying court to Lady Bothwell again. They say that he is prepared to offer her marriage.”

  “Is that so?” said James.

  “Why, yes, Sire. The Earl has suffered pangs of jealousy on the lady’s account, so I’ve hea
rd tell.”

  James was silent, thinking of Janet Kennedy—red-haired and fiery. They had had good times together and he would never forget Janet as long as he lived; his memories of her were as evergreen as those of Margaret Drummond, though for a different reason.

  He wondered if she remembered that he had given her Darnaway on condition that she did not take another lover. He had been harsh. As well imagine himself without a mistress as Janet without a lover.

  And yet…he still hankered after her; and he still visited her—to see the boy, he would say, when he set out; and he did go to see the boy; he doted on his son; but it was meet and fitting that the boy’s mother should live with him, so when he saw the boy he saw her too.

  James smiled, thinking of arriving at the door of her house, of her sweeping down the staircase to greet him—mocking, her eyes blazing with the passion they both could not help arousing in each other; the vitality sparkling in her.

  They would talk for a while of the boy’s future; the boy himself would be sent for; and after a while he would be sent away because the need to be alone together would be too much to be gainsaid.

  And now Bell-the-Cat was paying court again!

  He imagined the old fellow, who must be some twenty-five years older than himself, calling on her, bribing her with offers of land…and honorable marriage. James had to admit that there was a virility about the Earl which, in spite of his age, remained with him.

  Janet…with a lover!

  Memories surged in and out of his mind. Janet’s red hair and white naked body; Janet’s eyes that looked green in passion. No, he would not lightly let her go to Bell-the-Cat.

  He decided to make a divergence; they would not yet return to Holyrood. He had made his pilgrimage for the sake of his wife; now he must indulge himself by a visit to a mistress whom he could never entirely forget.