by Jean Plaidy
She was greeted at Lammermuir by the nobles of the district and although they could not have been more loyal she noticed that their clothes lacked that magnificence which had been a feature of those of the English lords. There was no gold or tinsel on their doublets, although the material of which they were made was of a good quality velvet or camlet.
Here she received a present from her husband—fruits which he believed she would find refreshing during her journey. Margaret, who was young enough to be hungry in any circumstances, devoured them with pleasure; and although it was now necessary to say goodbye to the English nobles who had escorted her from their Northern domains across the Border, she did so without regret; and her journey continued to Fastcastle. This meant passing through wild scenery such as Margaret had never before seen; and from her apartments at Fastcastle she could look down on the bay below to St. Abb's Head, from the jagged rocks, black and unscalable, to the Wolf-Craig rising high and forbidding above the castle. It had been a slow journey, for the crossing of Lammermuir had been dangerous; Margaret had been warned of the bogs which lurked on the rough heath, and special guides had been hired to get them safely across.
Margaret felt that night that she was indeed in a strange new land in spite of the warm welcome she had received from Lord and Lady Home who lived at Fastcastle.
She spent only one night under that roof and the next morning took the road to Haddington; and before nightfall she and her cavalcade had reached the convent of Haddington where the Abbess was waiting to welcome her. Here she stayed for the night with her women, chief among whom were Lady Lyle, Lady Stanley, Lady Guildford and the Countess of Surrey; the men of the party could not, of course, stay at the convent so they were conducted to the Gray Friars.
The people of Haddington came out to watch the procession leave, and now there was an added excitement in the Queen's suite; the meeting with the King must be close at hand and, although Margaret did not believe for one moment that he would be displeased with her, she was eager to look her best for the meeting.
They were to reach the Castle of Dalkeith by midday and as this was only seven miles from Edinburgh it seemed certain that on this day the meeting of the royal bride and groom would take place.
They were within half a mile of Dalkeith Palace when Margaret suddenly felt displeased with her appearance. She brought her palfrey close to that of Lady Guildford, who was known as her ladymistress, and said: “How do I look?”
Lady Guildford answered that she must have been aware of the admiration which she had aroused; it was well deserved.
“But I think I should look my very best, and I am not pleased with this gown. Who knows what will be waiting for us at Dalkeith?”
Lady Guildford saw the point of this. The first meeting was a great occasion, and it was just possible that the King would have ridden the seven miles from Edinburgh to meet his bride informally before he must do so in public.
“What does Your Grace propose to do?” Lady Guildford asked. “Change here into my best gown and ride the rest of the way in the litter.”
“Change here on the road!”
“Why not?”
“Whoever heard of a queen changing her gown in her litter by the roadside!”
“They will after today,” said Margaret, “for that is what I propose to do, and I'll have no interference.”
Lady Guildford pressed her lips firmly together. She had seen signs of obstinacy in her young mistress since they had begun this journey. Margaret resembled her brother Henry more than ever. Like him, she had a will of her own and had only been waiting until authority was hers to use it.
There was no gainsaying her; the procession was halted; the gown was brought from her baggage and her ladies surrounded her litter while she changed her traveling gown for one of dazzling magnificence.
Thus she rode into Dalkeith in velvet and tinsel, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, the flush of health and excitement on her rounded cheeks.
The Earl and Countess of Morton, castellan and castellaine of Dalkeith, were waiting for her and, as she passed through the gateway the Earl bowed low and presented her with the keys of the castle.
Lady Morton led her to her apartments and, when Margaret had expressed her pleasure in them and the loyalty of the Countess and her husband, she was left with her ladies to prepare herself for the banquet which was to follow.
While Lady Morton was receiving Margaret's thanks there was a commotion in the courtyard below. Lady Morton turned pale and, forgetting she was in the presence of the Queen, ran to the window. Then she turned to Margaret and said: “The King is here.”
“The King…my husband!”
Margaret's eyes were wide and she trembled a little. Then she thought of the magnificent sight she must present in her dazzling gown, and she could not resist throwing a look of triumph at Lady Guildford. There! Was I not right! she seemed to be saying.
She ran to the window, but he had already entered the castle.
“He will come straight to Your Grace,” murmured Lady Morton.
Margaret smoothed the folds of her gown; she put up a hand to touch her shining hair. There was no time to ask for reassurance that she looked her best, but she did not need it because she knew she did.
The door of the apartment was opened and there he stood. Her heart began to beat fast and a sudden joy came to her, for he was so handsome in his velvet hunting clothes, although there was nothing ornate about them, for he had come straight from the hunt, without ceremony, perhaps to let her know that this was an informal visit.
He is beautiful, she thought; and she believed that she loved him, so happy was she to be in Scotland and already his wife.
He was flushed from the chase and perhaps he shared in her excitement, for after all, was he not meeting his wife for the first time even as she was meeting her husband? His eyes were hazel, his hair dark auburn, and she now believed all those who had told her that he was the handsomest King in the world.
He was smiling—and it was the kindest and most tender of smiles—as he came toward here. She made a low curtsy and he raised her with both his hands, and drawing her to him, kissed her.
She could not take her eyes from him. He appealed to her senses in a way which was entirely new to her; it did not occur to her that there was scarcely a woman who came into contact with him who did not share her feeling in greater or less degree. She was inexperienced and had received so much adulation that she believed he shared every emotion she herself felt. She did not stop to ask herself whether a man past thirty—and such a man—might have had many adventures in love.
James, whose years of kingship had taught him that it was always wise outwardly to observe convention, turned from his bride to greet her attendants. He took all the ladies by the hand and kissed them and then accepted the greetings of the men with the utmost courtesy.
And all the time he was thinking: She is but a child. Poor little girl! So eager. So determined to do her duty. Little Margaret Tudor! Oh, why could it not have been that other Margaret? My Margaret!
Having greeted the company, it was now fitting for him to give his attention to his bride, and he returned to her, took her hand and drew her apart. Seeing his desire to talk with her, the rest of the company kept their distance, and James, smiling down at her, said: “But you are beautiful…more beautiful than I dared hope.”
“And all they said of you is true.”
“What did they say of me?”
“That you were the handsomest King in the world.”
He laughed. “I should have been afraid, had I known, that after such a glowing description I might disappoint you.”
“You do not disappoint me.”
Her eyes were glowing, her lips slightly parted. James—connoisseur of women—knew the signs. She would be no prude. It would be no hardship to do his duty. He was glad to discover in her a sensuality which might match his own.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will be happy in Scotland
.”
“I know I shall…now that I have met my lord.”
“Do you always make up your mind on such a short acquaintance?”
“Always.”
“Is that wise?”
“I can only trust my inclinations, which rarely betray me,” she answered.
He took her hand and kissed it.
By sweet Saint Ninian! he thought. We must join the others, lest we come to the lovemaking before we have time to get abed.
He compared her with that other Margaret. This one would never be serene. He was uneasily reminded of Janet Kennedy, for he sensed a certain wild passion in this young girl—although it was not yet full awakened—which might equal Janet's. That made him think of his Margaret, sitting down to her last breakfast with her sisters. Was it possible that Janet had had a hand in that? If he really believed that, he would never see her again. But this was not the time to think of that—nor was any time, for it was past and done with. But he did feel a little uneasy to be reminded of Janet by this little Tudor girl whom he had been obliged to marry for the sake of his country's peace.
“Come,” he said, “we must not neglect our friends. And I'll swear there is food and wine waiting for us.”
She sat beside him at the table, which was laden with good food and wine, and all the time she was conscious of him beside her.
“I must return to Edinburgh for the night,” he said, “and you must retire early to prepare yourself for the ceremonial entry into our capital.”
“I am sorry you must return to Edinburgh without me.”
He laughed and touched her hand lightly. This was in the nature of a caress. His hazel eyes were bright with tenderness; she did not know that this expression was invariably in his eyes when he looked at a woman—even though she were a fishwife in the market or a tavern girl.
“It was a little unseemly of me to come in this way,” he told her, “but I was so eager to see my bride. I wanted to assure her that she had nothing to fear.”
“I should never be afraid of you,” she told him. “You are kind and good, and the happiest woman in Scotland is the Queen.”
He smiled again and said: “You make prettier speeches in England than we do in Scotland. I trust our rough manners will not offend you.”
“You…rough?”
“You will see,” he warned her, but there was mockery in his gaze, and she was more deeply in love than ever.
She danced for him, taking Lady Surrey as her partner; she was eager to show him how accomplished she was. She remembered the occasion when she and Henry had danced together at the marriage of their brother Arthur and Katharine of Aragon, and how all present had said none danced in such a sprightly manner as they did. She remembered how her father and mother had watched them, with smiles of contentment on their faces, so grateful were they for their good health and spirits.
But then she had danced as a child, trying to outleap Henry; now she danced as a woman, gracefully, seductively.
The King applauded her and, when she returned to his side, told her he was charmed with his bride.
“But the hour grows late,” he said, “and I must return to Edinburgh; for remember we have not yet sworn our marriage vows to each other except by proxy. Until we have done so, alas, we must part.”
“Soon,” she answered, “we shall make those vows.”
“I am glad that you look forward to that occasion even as I do,” he replied.
When he said farewell, Lady Guildford wanted to warn her charge that she should not show her feelings so frankly, but that lady realized that it was not so easy to advise the Queen of Scotland as the Princess of England.
Margaret lay dreaming of the future. She was dancing before him with Lady Surrey, and suddenly he rose and partnered her himself, holding her tightly. His handsome eyes were ardent; he was telling her that he had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. Willingly she submitted herself to his embrace; she was growing very warm; she felt that she was suffocating.
Then she was awakened by a flickering light in her apartment and she was coughing because of the smoke.
She hurried out of bed as Lady Guildford ran into the room.
“Your Grace! Rise quickly. There is not a moment to lose.”
“Is the castle on fire?”
“I fear so.”
She was hurried into a gown and out of the apartment; there she was joined by her ladies, and she saw the Countess of Morton was with them.
“Come quickly down to the hall, Your Grace,” said the Countess. “Something terrible has happened. The castle is in danger.”
As they hurried down to the hall they heard shouts from without. Now the angry glow seemed all about them and they could hear the crackle of flames.
They were joined by the Earl and some of his men.
“It started in the stables,” he said. “I'm afraid they're completely burned. But I believe we have saved the castle. There is no need to fear. We can remain here. The fire is under control.”
It was a wretched night, for although she returned to her apartment she did not sleep; she stood for a long time with her ladies at the window watching the smoldering remains of the stables, and when news was brought to her that her two white palfreys had been burned to death, Margaret threw herself onto her bed and wept like a child.
Her dear palfreys whom she had loved so much, who had carried her so far!
“I shall never have palfreys that I love so much,” she mourned.
But in the morning there came a tender message from the King. He had heard of the disaster which had befallen his bride and was much concerned. He was coming to see her that very day but first he suggested that, as Dalkeith had been unlucky for her and she could not be as comfortable there as it was his desire she should be, he wanted her to leave at once for Newbattle Castle which was not far off; and there she would stay until her entry into Edinburgh and their true marriage. “Only a few days it will be, long enough for me to court you in a fitting manner.”
She brightened up when she heard that message and immediately she and her train set out for Newbattle.
She was so far composed as to have settled into the new residence and was playing cards—which she loved to do—in her apartments when a visitor was announced.
She started up and cried out in delight to see him. Now he looked more like a king, in black velvet jacket with a crimson velvet border and an edge of white fur.
Margaret returned his kiss, and he sat down with her and commiserated with her over last night's unfortunate occurrence.
She told him about her white palfreys and wept. “For they were dear beasts,” she said, “and I loved them.”
“My Margaret has a tender heart,” said the King. “But do not weep, for it grieves me to see you do so. There will be other palfreys and we should rejoice that you are safe.”
She blinked away her tears and said that he made her happy.
“Why,” he answered, “you know nothing of happiness yet. Only wait until we are married in the sight of my people.” He clapped his hands. “Could we not have a little music? I fancy, my love, that you like it, even as I do.”
The minstrels began to play and the King asked Margaret to dance for him with Lady Surrey as she had at Dalkeith, which Margaret was happy to do; and watching her radiant face, which such a short while before had been so sad, the King told himself that she was only a child after all.
Being a lover of music, he himself must perform, and this he did with great skill on the clavichord. Margaret clapped her hands and declared that she had never heard such playing. Then he took a lute and played to her so sweetly that she was completely charmed.
“I am sure,” said James, “that there are others in the company who can amuse us.” And Margaret signed to Sir Edward Stanley to play the clavichord and sing.
“A wonderful English ballad,” commented the King, and called one of the gentlemen who had accompanied him from Edinburgh to Newbattle. “The two of you sing toget
her,” he commanded.
And they did so, harmonizing so perfectly that everyone present applauded with enthusiasm—not only for the singing but because that was a symbol of the new friendship between the two countries.
But once again James must take his leave. As he left he whispered to Margaret: “Would I could stay this night with you.” He almost meant it. She was so young and fresh, and he was tiring of the mistress he had taken since the death of Margaret Drummond. “Alas, kings and queens must conform to the rules laid down for them … much as they would wish otherwise.”
Margaret's flushed cheeks and shining eyes told him that she shared his wish.
“A few more days…,” he murmured.
And she repeated: “A few more days.”
She insisted on accompanying him out to his horse, and he with his followers and she with hers left the apartment together.
He embraced her once more and then leaped onto his horse without putting his foot into the stirrup—a feat which everyone applauded. He turned, pulling off his hat, and bowed his head to Margaret before he galloped away.
These pleasant days of courtship were the happiest Margaret had ever known. The King would ride out to Newbattle; she would play for him on the lute and clavichord as he had for her; and everyone noticed how attentive he was, and how he always remained with his head uncovered in her presence.
Always there was conversation and music, and at last came that August day when she was to make her ceremonial entry into Edinburgh.
Her women were dressing Margaret in a gown of cloth of gold edged with black velvet; they were placing about her neck pearls and precious stones, when the Countess of Surrey came in to tell her that a gift from the King had arrived. This was two palfreys to replace those which she had lost in the Dalkeith fire.
Margaret clasped her hands in pleasure.
“Do you know,” she said, “I believe I have the best husband in the world.”
The ladies exchanged glances. It was true James was handsome, charming, courteous and kind; but they had heard certain scandalous gossip and they were inclined to believe it was true; and they did wonder how their high-spirited and headstrong little princess would act if and when she discovered there was truth in this gossip.