by Jean Plaidy
“T-That a sister of mine,” he stuttered, “could so far forget her duty…her honor…to suggest such an action!”
“Your Grace, Mary…”
“Nay, not Mary. Margaret. Listen to this: ‘I am sore troubled with my lord Angus, since my last coming into Scotland, and every day more and more so. We have not been together these last months…’” Henry stopped; it was as though the words choked him.
Katharine said gently: “Alas, so she is not happy in her marriage. Poor Margaret! I am sorry for her.”
“Whether she be happy or not, it is not for her to talk of…divorce!”
“Divorce!” cried Katharine, and she began to tremble with horror.
“I said divorce. Angus does not please her so, look you, she plans to divorce him. She will dishonor her marriage vows. She will disgrace us all. A sister of mine to talk of divorce!”
“Oh, Henry, we must persuade her how wrong this is.”
“Persuade her! I shall forbid her. I shall make her see her duty to her family—if she has so far forgotten her duty to God and the Church. I’ll not have divorce in my family, I do assure you. No, Kate, you will sit down and write to her at once. And so shall I. You will tell her how she has wounded you, shocked you beyond belief. While I…I will remind her that I am the King of a great country, and not only that, the head of a great House. There shall be no divorce in my family. I’ll not stomach the disgrace.”
“Henry, how right you are…as always. Divorce! It is too dishonorable to be thought of.”
“Go to, Kate. Write to her, and I will do the same. Then our letters shall be sent by special messenger, that she may profit from them and put an end to this disgraceful plan before it goes too far.”
When Margaret read the letters from her brother and sister-in-law she shrugged aside their advice. It was all very well for them to be so self-righteous; they did not know what it meant to be entangled in an undesirable alliance.
She was surprised that she could hate anyone as fiercely as she now hated Angus. There was anger against herself in that hatred. How could she have been so foolish as to lose all sense of proportion merely because of a momentary infatuation for a handsome boy?
How different had been her first marriage. James had at times humiliated her, but in public he had constantly shown her respect. She remembered how he had always uncovered his head in her presence. He only asked that she accept his infidelities which, being the sensual man he was, he could not curb. He would never have deserted her when she was dying. And he had conducted his love affairs with a certain dignity. He had tried to make up for his shortcomings by giving her extra pleasure; Angus had stolen her rents.
She hated Angus and, even if she had to admit that this was largely because he was a living reminder of her own folly and the source of all her troubles, that did not make her hate him less.
There was one who reminded her a little of her first husband; that was Albany. They had some quality, these Stuarts, which was unique. No, she had never seen others with quite the same charm of manner. James had had it to a large degree; Albany slightly less; but he was certainly a charming, courteous man.
If one were a queen it was necessary to marry wisely. Suppose she and Albany were free to marry—there could not be a wiser match in Scotland, for marriages were often the links which bound countries together, and made friends of enemies. A marriage between herself and Albany—and there would have been no conflict in Scotland; she would never have been cut off from her son; she and Albany would have been joint guardians of the young King. What a happy state of affairs compared with what now confronted her!
And was not too late to put matters right.
She was determined to divorce Angus no matter what difficulties were put in her way; and she was sure there would be difficulties. She could imagine her brother Henry sending off deputations to the Pope, asking him not to grant a divorce to his erring sister, for the sake of the honor of the Tudors. She would have to fight for her divorce; but she would get it in the end. And then if Albany’s wife died—for how could she live long; the poor woman had been ailing for some time—he would be free too.
She closed her eyes and pictured him. Black eyes alive with passion. Poor man, married to a woman who for so long had been an invalid.
Arran was persuading her to join with those who were urging Albany to return, because Arran had long decided that when the Duke came to Scotland he would favor the Hamiltons and become the enemy of the Douglases.
She had listened thoughtfully to what Arran had to say; she had nodded when he enumerated the reasons why the return of Albany would be good for Scotland. And all the time she had been thinking of him—black-eyed, black-bearded, the courteous knight with all the charm of his Stuart ancestors.
She said: “I will write to Albany and join my pleas to yours. I think that he might be willing to help me in my divorce. He should stand well with Rome, as I believe his master does. Yes, my lord, I am convinced that you are right. Scotland needs Albany at this time.”
She thought: And it may be that Scotland’s Queen does too.
It was not easy to obtain a divorce. There were too many people of influence who were against it. Time passed and still Margaret remained unsatisfactorily married to Angus.
Henry and Katharine had crossed the Channel and had had a meeting with the King of France in circumstances of most reckless extravagance, with each King trying to outdazzle the other.
François, mischievous in the extreme, using every means at his disposal to disconcert the King of England, having in his possession at this time the letter which Margaret had written to Albany, thought it would be amusing to show Henry how his sister was working against his wishes and was warmly inviting Albany back to Scotland.
Henry read the letter and quietly handed it back to the King, but when he was alone his choleric anger broke forth.
By God, he thought, this shall be the end of the help she gets from me. What has become of my sister! She shows herself to the world as a wanton. Divorce indeed! She disgraces the name of Tudor and then…she deceives her own brother by inviting his enemy to Scotland!
The Scottish matter rankled in his mind during all the balls and banquets, jousts and wrestling matches of that brilliant excursion.
He confided to his wife: “When we return to England, you shall send a priest to Scotland. Choose him with care for I want him to impress upon my sister that if she persists in attempting to obtain this divorce from her lawful husband, she places her immortal soul in danger.”
Katharine replied that Henry as usual was right. There were few matters which could be so dishonorable, so lamentable as divorce.
It was a summer’s day when Father Bonaventura arrived in Scotland.
Margaret was then in Perth, and he traveled to her there. He was a gentle priest who had lived away from the world, and Margaret received him kindly when she heard that he had come from her sister-in-law, Queen Katharine.
“It is good of you to have made this long journey,” she told him. And when they were alone together she tried to impress on him that though she appreciated his good services, he was wasting his time if he thought to divert her from her purpose.
“I have come to pray with you,” he told her. “Your Grace will find the answer to your problem in prayer.”
Margaret, who had never been deeply religious, was a little impatient; but she was courteous to the priest and told him gently that her mind was already made up.
Father Bonaventura tried to reason with her and she continued to listen patiently, but he realized that he was making no headway and eventually, disappointed and reluctant, he prepared to leave.
Father Bonaventura had no sooner returned to London than Henry decided to send a man of his choosing. No gentle priest this, but a man whose preaching had often set sinners shivering with fear.
Henry Chadworth, Minister General of the Friar’s Minor, was summoned to Henry’s presence.
“You will go to the Q
ueen of Scotland,” Henry told him, “and not return until you have wrought in her a change of mind. Tell her that I shall not look on in silence and see a sister of mine lose her immortal soul. Tell her too that I shall hinder her cause in Rome and I shall let all know that those who help the Queen of Scotland to her divorce, help themselves to the enmity of the King of England. Now away with you, and…as you value my friendship, let nothing stand between you and your duty.”
Henry Chadworth set out for Scotland, fiery phrases revolving in his mind, determined that he would return in triumph to the English Court. Indeed, how dare he do otherwise?
How the man ranted! Yet Margaret dared not further incense her brother by sending him away. There was a certain magnetism about him; perhaps this was because he appeared fervently to believe in the horrors which he said awaited the damned.
He stood before her, his eyes burning with fanaticism. “Your immortal soul is in peril. Repent before it is too late. Take this step, and you have bought eternal damnation. It is the Devil himself who is whispering in your ear.”
At first she closed her ears and thought of other things while he ranted on; but his picturesque descriptions of the fires of hell caught her imagination and she found herself involuntarily giving him her attention.
“Life on Earth is short,” he thundered. “It is the trial through which we all must pass to show ourselves worthy of eternal bliss or eternal damnation. Madam, your reputation is in danger; your soul is in danger. Think on these things before you are past redemption.”
She dreamed of the friar; his words haunted her nights. “I come to warn you,” he had told her. “For the sake of your comfort in this life and the next, pay heed to my words.”
And she found that she was paying heed to his words.
She dreaded his coming and yet found herself looking forward to it. She dreaded hearing his account of the torments which had been devised for the punishment of sinners; and she could not resist listening.
A month passed and still Henry Chadworth visited her each day; indeed his visits grew longer; and she did not seek to curtail them.
Two months after Henry Chadworth had come to Scotland he had achieved his end. Margaret agreed to return to Angus.
The Douglases were triumphant, the Hamiltons furious.
The Bishops of Galloway and Argyle came to Margaret accompanied by the Earls of Arran and Lennox.
“Your Grace cannot mean that you will so demean yourself by returning to Angus,” cried Arran.
“I have been persuaded that it is my duty to return to him,” answered Margaret.
It was difficult for Arran to restrain his wrath.
“Madam, this is the most foolish thing you ever did. Depend upon it, if you return to Angus you will never gain the guardianship of the King.”
“He is my husband,” was Margaret’s retort. “My duty lies with him. I must try to bear my troubles; and I have sent word to him that if he will give up his light behavior and be a good husband to me, I will return to him.”
She appeared to be as fanatical as her brother’s priest, who had already returned in triumph to his master.
Arran and his friends left her presence, cursing the folly of women and the power a priest could have over them. They would wage even fiercer warfare against the Douglases who, they knew, were now chortling with glee while Angus wrote to his dear brother-in-law thanking him for his timely intervention in his matrimonial affairs.
As Margaret was riding toward Edinburgh, which was in the possession of the Douglas faction, the words of Henry Chadworth were still ringing through her mind. She must be reconciled with the man she had married because, whatever he had done, he was still her husband and they were bound together until death parted them. She was apprehensive, wondering how they would greet each other, what their life could be together after all the wrong he had done her, after the abuse she had flung at him.
He met her, riding at the head of four hundred horses, and never had he looked so handsome. He had changed since she had seen him on the loch before Linlithgow Palace and had been struck by his beauty. He had become a man; and he was still the most handsome man in Scotland.
With him rode the Archbishop of St. Andrews and the Bishops of Dunkeld, Aberdeen and Murray. The Earls Argyle, Huntley, Ruthven, Morton and Glencairn were also there with Lord Glamis who was Earl Marshal. A distinguished assembly, and she had to admit that none bore himself so well nor looked so fine a man as Angus.
He rode ahead of the party and she did the same. When they met he took her hand and kissed it.
“So, Margaret, we are to have another chance.”
“I have decided that we should make an effort to live happily together, since we are man and wife,” she answered.
“It shall be so,” he replied; and their two parties joined and followed them into the city.
For a week she believed she had recaptured to some extent the ecstasy of the honeymoon which they spent at Stobhall. How wrong she was, how easily deluded! Then she had believed in an ideal; there had been no doubts in her mind. She had believed then that his devotion to her had been as undivided as hers to him. After the first passionate days of reunion she began to picture him, indulging in similar passion with Jane Stuart. When their daughter was with them she pictured him with Jane and her little Jean. No, it was not possible to go back. She quickly began to realize that.
She soon discovered that he did not intend to alter his way of life, and was as devoted to Jane Stuart as he had ever been. He was not going to be denied her company. The inevitable scenes followed.
“I dare swear you have been visiting your mistress,” she taunted him, after one of his absences which hurt her the more because they reminded her of the deficiencies of her first husband.
“And if I have?” He was insolent, believing himself to be in command of her. He knew how the hellfire preacher had played upon her superstitions. She had returned to him because she was afraid of jeopardizing her soul if she continued with her plan to divorce him.
“I came back to you on condition that you gave up your light living,” she answered.
He smiled. “You came back because you feared to put your soul in danger by not doing so.”
“I could change my mind.”
“Your brother would not forgive you if you did.”
“I do not have to obey my brother.”
“You do not have to, but your wisdom tells you that it would be folly not to.”
“So you will not give up this woman?”
“Come, you take these matters too seriously. How many men in Scotland do you think there are who have a mistress or two besides a wife?”
“That may be so, but they are not married to the Queen of Scotland.”
“Should a man be penalized for marrying the Queen of Scotland?”
She saw that he had grown cynical.
She did not answer him, but she thought; I was a fool to take him back, and we cannot go on like this.
There were spies from the Arran faction in the Queen’s household who watched how matters went, who listened at keyholes and secreted themselves in the Queen’s apartment to discover how the reunion of Margaret and her husband was shaping. They had good news to send to their masters.
Arran laughed to himself. The reconciliation would not last. He knew Margaret well enough to realize that; she had been momentarily alarmed by the prophecies of the preacher, but she had never been superstitious, at heart, and she was tired of Angus.
One of the women said to the Queen when she was helping her dress: “Your Grace, I heard from my brother who is with my Lord Arran, that his lordship is sorely grieved that he can no longer serve you.”
The woman had spoken so low that no one else in the apartment heard, and Margaret looked at her swiftly. She had not been long in her service and indeed had joined at that time when Margaret had been friendly with the Arran faction. Margaret wondered if this woman was a servant of Arran, as she admitted her brother was.
“He could serve if he wished,” she retorted. “Alas, I fear he is my enemy.”
“He is ready to be your friend.”
“He has not always been a loyal servant,” Margaret retorted, turning away.
Margaret wondered how many of her servants carried news of her affairs to her enemies, and later that day she sent for the woman and made sure that when she came no one else was in the apartment but the two of them.
“Have you a message for me?” asked Margaret.
The woman looked surprised. “Your Grace?”
“You spoke of a brother in the service of my Lord Arran.”
The woman flushed and murmured: “Nay, Your Grace, I have no message.”
“Yet you brought one to me, this day.”
“I, Your Grace?”
“From your brother who is with the Earl of Arran.”
“Oh…’twas naught, Your Grace. It was merely that…”
“Pray continue.”
“That I have seen the manner in which Your Grace is treated by my Lord Angus, and methought it was no way in which to treat a queen.”
Margaret’s lips tightened a little and her eyes hardened. She was angry, but not with the woman. It was true; she was humiliated again and again. There was not a servant at her Court who did not know of her husband’s intrigue with Jane Stuart, of the manner in which he ignored her wish that it should be discontinued.
She said impulsively: “You have a brother in the service of the Earl of Arran. Doubtless you could pass a message to him which he in his turn could place in the Earl’s hands.”
The woman caught her breath. “I could do that, Your Grace.”
“Very well.” She went to her desk and wrote.
It was suppertime in Edinburgh Castle and Margaret sat with the lords of the Douglas faction while they were served, and the minstrels played softly as they ate.
She was trying to appear serene, but she felt far from that, as she looked about the table at those ambitious men. They were smug because they believed they had triumphed over their enemies, led by the Hamiltons; they were going to have a rude shock before the night was out.