The Thistle and the Rose

by Jean Plaidy

  As she completed those words there was a sudden burst of music from the royal trumpeters and in an adjoining chamber minstrels began to play.

  Princess Margaret of England had now become the Queen of Scotland.

  Life was exciting for Margaret—full of color, full of splendor. It was rarely that King Henry encouraged extravagance at his Court but this was, after all, the occasion his daughter's marriage and he must impress the Scottish visitors with the wealth and power of England.

  “A waste of good money,” he told his Queen. “Banquets… jousts! I did not know until this time what a feckless band of courtiers were mine. They welcome the opportunity to flaunt their wealth in senseless pageants.” His eyes narrowed and Elizabeth guessed that he was noting the spendthrifts and devising ways in which the wealth they were so eager to throw away could be diverted into the royal coffers.

  Poor fools, to spend more than was necessary. Did they not yet understand the manner in which their royal master's miserly mind worked? Constantly he was thinking of gold for his exchequer. Taxes, fines, they were good methods of swelling it. He wanted more and more gold; he would never be satisfied; just as he wanted more and more children, that he might bargain for concessions from the royal houses of Europe. The Scottish marriage… then marriages for Henry and Mary and all the others who would follow.

  Oh no, no, she thought. There could be no more. But how could she explain to him? Her duty was to provide him with children—counters for bargaining in state politics, in the same way that it was for his ministers to devise laws for diverting his subjects' wealth into the royal exchequer.

  She knew that she was looking ill; her sister Katharine had told her so. But Henry would not notice. She must go on unfalteringly doing her duty as he did his.

  “A few more days of this jousting,” she said to soothe him, “and the celebrations will be over.”

  He shook his head sadly. “We must not give the impression that we are a poor nation. There will be reports circulated as to how we celebrated our daughter's marriage. But, since her husband will be eager for her to join him in Scotland, we might cut short the merrymaking.”

  Elizabeth shivered. “She seems so young. Not much past her twelfth birthday. We shall miss her.”

  “Yet I fancy she is old for her years.” The King dismissed the matter comfortably. “And you'll soon have another to take her place. Pray God this time it is a boy.”

  “I trust it will be so.”

  The King gave her one of his rare smiles. “And if it is another girl, we'll not despair. There's time ahead of us.”

  She turned to glance out of the window. She could not trust herself to look at him lest he see the fear in her face.

  It had been a great day of jousting. Margaret had sat in a place of honor, the Earl of Bothwell beside her; she had applauded the skill of Charles Brandon and the Duke of Buckingham, while young Henry watched broodingly. In his imagination he was jousting with the knights, surprising them all with his skill. It was a great trial to be but ten years old and a looker-on.

  Margaret had become grown up since that ceremony in their mother's chamber. He noticed that she was treated with a new deference; he was envious; and when his father was not present he acted as though he were already the King. All his friends indulged his whims; after all, was he not Prince of Wales, destined one day to be King? If he wished to anticipate that day it would be a foolish man who gainsaid him.

  Little Mary was delighted with the jousting. She sat with her brother and asked eager questions while he looked after her tenderly; but all the time he was watchful of Margaret who had temporarily usurped the place of honor which he felt should rightfully be his.

  After the jousting there was a banquet, and it was Margaret who again sat in the seat of honor, who was Queen of the pageant.

  Henry could not understand his father who, in his drab garments, did not look like a king, and sat a little apart from the company with a tired expression in his eyes as though he found all the splendor and fun rather silly.

  The Queen sat beside the King and she looked as though her thoughts were far away, and although she was smiling, the smile was forced.

  Oh, how different it will be when I am King, thought young Henry.

  Margaret, with a dignity new to her, distributed the prizes to the champions of the joust. There were silver bowls and golden cups; and the victors bowed low and kissed her hand when she presented them. She looked very lovely with her young face glowing, and clearly enjoyed being a Queen.

  As soon as the prize-giving was over, the pageant began; and because such scenes were rare at the Court of Henry VII they seemed especially delightful. Never it seemed had morris dancers danced with such zest; the ballet was an enchantment, particularly as the six ladies and six gentlemen who took part were all masked and there was the fun of guessing their identities.

  And when it was over, the time had come for the King to present gifts to the Scotsmen, and there was an awed silence as the magnificence of these was revealed. For the Archbishop of Glasgow there was a cup of gold and six silver pots, twenty-four silver bowls and a basin and ewer of the same precious metal together with a receptacle for holding hot ashes for the purpose of keeping the feet warm.

  It was clear how it hurt the King to part with such treasures, but he did so with an air of resignation as though to say: This much would I do for the good of England. More cups of gold were presented together with crimson velvet bags full of golden coins; and many of the King's courtiers marveled that the King could part with what he loved best in the world.

  The Queen looked on through a haze of pain. It can't be long now, she was thinking. I never suffered like this before. What is going to become of me?

  For a few seconds the great hall faded from her sight; she moved forward in her chair; but everyone present was too intent on the magnificent gifts which the King was bestowing to notice the Queen. And when these were all presented she was sitting upright once more, very pale and exhausted—but she had looked ill for some time and her looks surprised none who happened to glance her way.

  It was late January when the Queen's barge was rowed along the river to the Tower of London. She was determined to have her lying-in at the palace there, and eagerly she awaited the birth of her child.

  Her sister Katharine was with her; this was the one person who could give her most comfort.

  “Stay with me, Kate,” she said. “You remember the days when we were young. They are not really so very long ago, are they, and yet how distant they seem! I shall shortly be thirty-seven—not a great age, and yet when I think of the days when our father fought for his throne, and of how our little brothers disappeared in the Tower and Uncle Richard took the throne, it seems as though I have lived a hundred years.”

  “You should not brood on the past, dear sister,” Katharine told her. “Think of the future. When your little son is born he will bring you great delight. You are fortunate in your children.”

  “I often wonder what their lives will be like. My little Margaret…how will she fare in Scotland, with a husband who is twice her age and already an experienced lover by all accounts?”

  “His age, although twice that of Margaret, is not great…she being so young.”

  “That's why I tremble for her. She is so young and headstrong.”

  “I do not think you need fear for your children, Elizabeth. They are all strong-willed and well able to care for themselves. Margaret…Henry… and even little Mary. They remind me so much of our father.”

  “I am glad of that.”

  “And the new child…I wonder if he will resemble them.”

  Elizabeth caught her breath in sudden pain. “I think we shall soon be able to judge,” she said. “Kate, my time has come.”

  It was Candlemas and the Queen lay in her state apartments in the Palace of the Tower of London. The King was at her bedside; he was disappointed. He had been certain that this time they would get a boy. But at least the child
was alive, and that was a good augury for the future.

  “A girl,” he mused, “and we have two girls already. Pray God the next will be a boy.”

  And I still abed with this one! thought the Queen. But she did not protest; she had never protested against the King's desires. He had been a faithful husband and, if he had rarely shown her the warmth of affection, he had never shown her the coldness of cruelty.

  “I should like to call her Katharine after my sister,” she said.

  “Katharine let it be,” murmured the King. “It is as good a name as any.”

  She looked up into his shrewd face. What did a name matter? Elizabeth, Jane, or Katharine—whatever she was called the little girl would have to play her part in the destiny of England when she was called.

  Margaret had ceased to be the center of attraction. The jousts were over; there were no more banquets. A gloom hung over the royal palace.

  From a window of her apartments at Richmond she had watched the barges sailing along the river; many sailed down to the Palace of the Tower.

  Henry came and stood at her side; even he was subdued. “Is she very ill, do you think?” he asked his sister.

  Margaret nodded.

  “Skelton told me that Dr. Hallyswurth is now at her bedside.”

  Margaret was suddenly afraid. Her mother was grievously ill and her illness was due to the birth of their little sister; and the bearing of children was the direct result of marriage.

  First came the jousting, the banquets, the feasts and the dancing; and then the nuptial rites; and if one were fruitful—and one must pray that one might be—this terrible ordeal, which often resulted in death, was the next step. Not once only must it be faced… but again and again.

  Her mother was very ill—many believed she was dying—and it was because she too had had a wedding, as Margaret had, and because it was her duty to give her husband children.

  It was a sad thought when one was twelve years old and just married.

  She felt envious of her brash young brother, who would one day be King in his own right—not because of a marriage he had happened to contract—and who would not have to suffer as their mother had.

  “I wish I were a man,” she said vehemently; and she watched the slow satisfied smile spread across her brother's face.

  A barge stopping by the stairs caught her attention and she said: “Look! Someone is alighting. He may bring news from the Tower.”

  They ran from the room and down to meet the messenger, but when Margaret saw the expression on his face she felt sick and wished that she had stayed in her apartments, because before he spoke she knew.

  “My mother is dead,” she said in a whisper.

  The messenger did not answer, but bowing, stood humbly before her; and in that moment Margaret was too filled with sorrow for the loss of her kindly mother to harbor fears for her own future.

  So the Queen was dead and it seemed that the little Katharine would not long survive her. The King had shut himself away to be alone with his sorrow, but those who knew him believed he would already be making plans for a new marriage. It was not that he did not appreciate his Queen who had been a good and docile wife to him; he would never forget that through their marriage the White Rose of York and the Red Rose of Lancaster had mingled harmoniously. It had been a good marriage, but it was over, while the need to provide England with sons was still present. Young Henry was a fine healthy boy—but now that Arthur was gone he was the only boy; and death could strike quickly and suddenly as he knew well.

  There was mourning throughout the Court where there had been gay wedding celebrations; and on the day when Elizabeth of York was laid in her grave the scene was in sad and bitter contrast to that of a few weeks before.

  Through the city, from the Tower to Westminster, rode the melancholy cortege, and the newly wed Queen of Scotland knew that many of her father's courtiers watched her furtively and asked themselves whether this was not an ill augury for her wedding. On the other hand, was that a certain relish—equally furtive—which she detected in the eyes of the Scottish lords? Were they telling each other that only young Henry stood between Margaret and the crown of England now? And since Elizabeth of York could no longer give the King of England sons, that was a matter of some moment for those who had the good of Scotland at heart.

  Was there a little extra deference in their demeanor toward her?

  If so, Margaret did not notice. During those sad days she forgot that she was a newly created Queen; she was merely a twelve-yearold girl sorrowing for a mother who had never shown her anything but kindness.

  One could not mourn forever. That long winter was passing and with the coming of May the King sent for his eldest daughter.

  “Your husband grows impatient for his bride,” he told her. “It is time you joined him.”

  “Yes, Sire,” answered Margaret.

  “Preparations shall begin,” the King told her. “Make yourself ready. In June we will leave Richmond together, for I plan to accompany you on the first stages of your journey.”

  Fear showed itself briefly in Margaret's eyes. Now that the time of departure was coming near she did not want to go. It was pleasant being a queen in her father's Court where she had spent her childhood, teasing Henry, flaunting her new importance before little Mary; but to go away to a foreign land was a different matter.

  The King did not notice her fear. His mind was on other matters. He wanted a new wife, more children for whom advantageous marriages should be arranged. When he looked at his daughter he did not see a tender young girl so much as a means of keeping the peace with the tiresome warlike people who had made trouble at the Border for as long as any could remember.

  The marriage pleased him; therefore Margaret pleased him.

  “You may go now,” he told her gently. “Remember what I have told you.”

  She curtsied and left him; then she hurried to her bedchamber.

  She told her attendants that she had a headache and wished to rest, and when she was alone she began to weep silently.

  “I want my mother,” she murmured into her pillows, for now, when she would never see the Queen again, she realized that from her alone could she have received the comfort and understanding of which she was in such need.

  So Margaret, remembering that she was a bereaved little girl, forgot that she was also Queen of Scotland; and for a long time she lay sobbing because she had lost her mother.

  To the Court, however, she showed a brave face, and on the sixteenth day of June, riding beside her father, acknowledging the cheers of the people who had come to watch her pass, she left Richmond Palace on the first stage of her journey to Scotland.

  JAMES IV OF SCOTLAND WAS NOT AWAITING HIS bride with any great excitement. His counselors had advised him that the marriage was for the good of Scotland and he must needs agree to it.

  And so, he thought, I must take this child to wife.

  Not so long ago he would have refused to do so, no matter that she was the daughter of the King of England and peace between the two countries was desirable. He had been in love and had made up his mind whom he would marry; and so deep had been his feelings that he would have insisted on having his will.

  But passions ran high in Scotland and lives were cheap.

  I should have taken greater care of her, he told himself again as he had a hundred times before. Then he would have been the husband of another Margaret.

  But the deed had been done and there was no going back. He had now to think of greeting this child whom they were sending him from over the Border, for it was no fault of hers.

  They were saying that England and Scotland were united at last; and the Rose and the Thistle could now grow happily side by side. But could that ever be achieved? Was even the union of Tudor and Stuart capable of working such a miracle?

  James stroked his auburn curling beard, and his hazel eyes were momentarily melancholy.

  He had lost the Margaret he loved, and now must endeavor to
make a success of union with her namesake.

  And even as he prepared himself for the journey which would end in his meeting with his bride, he was thinking of his first meeting with that other Margaret at Stobhall, her father's mansion on the banks of the Tay.

  The banks of the Tay! The wild water cascading over the rocks; the sound of birdsong, and the trees in bud! And beside him, Margaret. Never had he believed such happiness existed in the world.

  To be fifteen again… and in love for the first time. For the first and last time, he had told her; for she was the only one he would ever love.

  She had listened earnestly, believing him. Then he had been a handsome youth. Not dark like his father; not yellow-haired like his Danish mother. It was said that he had inherited the good points of each, and the result was auburn hair which shone as gold in the sunshine; and hazel eyes that could be serious but more often merry; the sensitive mouth of a poet, sensual as a lover's; and a hint of recklessness in the expression which hinted he would be brave in battle.

  Margaret was tall and golden-haired and all the world seemed as beautiful as the banks of the Tay to the lovers.

  In the beginning they strolled among the trees while he talked to her of his childhood which had been a strange one. He tried to explain to her how he and his brothers had lived almost like prisoners in the Castle of Stirling.

  “Whenever I see Stirling I shall remember. What a prison! There it stands on that precipitous hill, and my brothers and I used to look down from our windows on to the Forth. We were always expecting our father to come. We talked continually of him. I remember so well that whenever a stranger came to the castle and he was tall and handsome we would run to him and ask him if he were our father. ‘Please, please, sir,' I used to say, ‘tell me you are my father.' And always I was assured that he was not.”

  “Poor James. How strange it must have been.”

  “My mother tried to console us. We were fortunate in her.”