The Thistle and the Rose

by Jean Plaidy

  Her attendants were surprised at the calm with which she accepted his desertion. She rose from her bed shortly afterward and amazingly her health began to improve.

  Through February and March letters were exchanged between Morpeth and the English Court; and with them came a warm invitation from Henry for his sister to come to London.

  So with the coming of April Margaret began her journey south.

  IN SPITE OF DESERTION BY HER HUSBAND AND THE loss of her younger son, Margaret felt excited during those April days in Morpeth when she was preparing for her journey south. Henry had written warmly; he was eagerly looking forward to seeing her at his Court, for it was good, he said, that sisters and brothers should meet even though their duties to their kingdoms must necessarily keep them apart for so much of their lives.

  His wife, Katharine of Aragon, of whom Margaret had seen little during her childhood, was as eager to welcome her as Henry was. She had heard of Margaret's difficult confinement, a matter regarding which she could offer the utmost sympathy, having suffered so much herself in that respect. The bond of motherhood united them, wrote Katharine, and she longed to see her sister's little daughter, Margaret, who was but a few months older than her own dear Mary who, as Margaret would doubtless have heard, had been born in February.

  “And as, my dear sister, you have a long journey to make, I am sending you by my equerry, Sir Thomas Parr, my favorite white palfrey with my own easy pillion which I trust will be of use to you on your way south.”

  Margaret had heard that her sister-in-law was a gentle creature, deeply in love with her handsome husband, often sorrowful because as yet she had failed to give him the male heir for which he longed, yet filled with hope because, after several failures, she had produced healthy little Mary.

  It would be comforting to talk with her sister-in-law, mused Margaret, for she knew that she was one who would understand full well her grief over the loss of Alexander and her great pride in little James.

  She was beginning to believe that she had made a great mistake when she had allowed her infatuation for Angus to overcome her common sense. She had been lonely, she had craved that sexual excitement which had been so necessary to her; and therefore she had been prepared to rush into marriage with a handsome boy.

  But experience made one wiser. If she could choose again she would not pick an impetuous boy; she would choose someone mature, a man, not a boy; someone like her first husband; for had he been faithful to her, had he treated her more as an intelligent companion, James would have been the perfect husband. She had not wanted to dominate; only to share.

  She had lost James; she had failed to hold her place in Scotland. But it was no use looking back; she must go forward to Henry's Court; she must have conferences with her brother and his ministers; she must, with their help, win back the Regency of Scotland and the right to have the care of the King, her son.

  If she had not married Angus, and Albany had not a wife… that would have been a different story. She had raged against him, called him murderer; but she thought of him often, and she would have enjoyed more than anything meeting him and abusing him to his face. The thought excited her, but that might be for later.

  Now there was nothing to be done but travel south to London.

  There was great comfort on Katharine's white palfrey, and Sir Thomas Parr was a pleasant companion, who told her that his mistress had instructed him to take good care of her sister.

  Nor was that all; as a mark of his esteem, Henry had sent her, by one of his clerks of the spicery, many silver vessels for toilet and table use during the journey.

  She was certain therefore of a good welcome, for Henry had also written a letter which accompanied the silverware to the effect that he was planning entertainments for his sister and her spouse when they reached his Court.

  The countryside was beautiful in spring; the weather was clement; and Margaret, who was by nature strong, quickly regained her good health and with it her belief that she could win what she wanted.

  They had passed through Newcastle and reached Durham, and she was resting in her bed one morning when the door of her apartment was opened and to her surprise Angus walked in.

  Taken off her guard she gave a cry of great joy and held out her arms. He embraced her and she clung to him, hugging him in her delight.

  Then she withdrew herself to look into his face. She laughed, for he had the look of a shamefaced boy.

  “I heard,” he muttered, “that my absence grieved you.”

  “And you came back because you did not wish to make me sad?”

  “I never wished to make you sad.”

  “Ah, my love,” she said, “how I have missed you! Do you not want to see your daughter?”

  “In good time. First I wish to see my wife.”

  She felt young again. It was spring and it was so long since she had seen him. They would make love and talk later, she indicated; and he was willing enough to obey.

  The word went through the castle: The Queen is not to be disturbed. Young Angus has returned. They wish to be alone together for a while.

  There were long faces among the Englishmen of the party. What did this mean? Was Angus going to try to persuade her to return to Scotland? Such an act would not please their master. They would not want to return to him and tell him what had taken place, for he had a kingly habit of blaming the bearers for the bad news they brought.

  Angus was an ally of Albany; and Albany wanted to get the Queen back into Scotland, there to make her subservient to his rule which was, after all, the rule of France, the enemy of England.

  They were right in their assumptions. Angus was saying: “Do you not see the folly of this journey to England? Come back to Scotland with me. Albany is ready to receive you.”

  Her eyes flashed in anger. “Do you think I am eager to receive Albany!”

  “Oh, come, what good can all this strife between you bring to anyone?”

  “I have no wish to go back humbly to the murderer of my son.”

  “Your son was not murdered. He died as young children do. It was no fault of Albany.”

  “You plead too earnestly for your friend.”

  “He will be your friend too.”

  “Never. I hate him. But what is that to you? It seems you have his cause at heart rather than your wife's.”

  “Margaret, I beseech you…”

  “Do not be foolish. The only way in which I can hope to regain what I have lost is through my brother's help. Albany is afraid of Henry…even as his master, the King of France, is, and with good reason. Stop being so foolish. We are going to England.”

  “We?”

  “You and I, my dear, for my brother is expecting you.”

  Angus turned sullenly away, but Margaret went to him and slipped her arm through his.

  “Come, my love, you are going to enjoy the English Court. Our own is a poor place compared with it, I do assure you. My brother loves to masque and dance. He will be fond of you. You will be his friend. He says in all his letters: ‘Commend me to my brother-in-law, your good husband.' And he is eager to meet you.”

  Angus did not answer. Go to England? When Albany was prepared to make good terms with him? When Jane had said she understood how he had been forced into marriage with the Queen and that it made no difference to them? Leave Jane…now that they had come together again?

  But he dared not tell Margaret all this. He stood silent, a little sullen, as though agreeing that she was right.

  She gave him a little push. “Go now. It is time for my women to come and help me dress. I will join you soon; I shall so enjoy your company, my love, on the way to London.”

  Angus was afraid. He would have to be very cautious or he would indeed find himself riding south in the Queen's cavalcade, instead of north to Jane Stuart.

  He nodded, kissed her and, when she murmured, “Soon I shall be with you,” he did not deny it.

  He went straight from her apartment to the stables where hi
s servants were waiting for him.

  He did not speak until he was in the saddle; then he said: “It was a mistake to come. Now … let us ride… with all speed to the Border and into Scotland.”

  Into Stony Stratford passed the Queen's party, and all through England the people came from their houses to watch the cavalcade. They cheered the Queen of Scots because she was their good King's sister and they knew that it was at his wish that she traveled south.

  It was May by the time she reached Enfield, and there she was welcomed to the mansion occupied by Sir William Lovel, who was her brother's Lord Treasurer.

  She was now very close to London and she believed that in a short time she would see her brother.

  It was a glorious morning when she left Enfield and, as she was coming to Tottenham Cross, she saw in the distance a brilliant cavalcade making its way toward her. Her heart leaped with pleasure for she guessed who this was and, as the party approached hers, she recognized him riding at the head of it. He was a larger, more glorious version of that young boy whom she had known. His doublet was of purple velvet; jewels flashed on his hands and garments, and there were rubies and diamonds in his feathered bonnet. He had grown so much that he appeared to be far taller than any of his companions. On his face was the flush of good health and his blue eyes were as sparkling as water in sunshine and as brilliant as flames.

  This was her brother. There was no doubt about that.

  And as she recognized him, so did he her, for the resemblance between them had not grown less with maturity.

  He rode up to her, smiling.

  “My King and dearest brother.”

  He sprang graciously from his horse which his groom hastily seized. He came to her and, taking her hand, kissed it.

  “This is a great joy,” he told her.

  “Henry! How happy I am to be here.”

  “We have long looked forward to your coming. But where is my Lord Angus?”

  Margaret's expression clouded. “He returned to Scotland.”

  “Returned to Scotland! Why so? Did he not receive my letters of invitation?”

  “He thought it wiser to make terms with Albany, I fear.”

  The pleasure faded from Henry's plump square face. His eyes narrowed, so that blue chinks shone through the folded flesh. He turned to his sister and gazed at her speculatively, and she knew that he understood full well that Angus had deserted her.

  Then he gave a loud laugh. “Done like a Scot!” he cried. “He could do without us, eh? Then, sister, I tell you we shall do very happily without him.”

  He remounted and brought his horse beside his sister's.

  “We will rest awhile at Compton's house on Tottenham Hill,” he said. “Then we will ride into my capital.”

  In the afternoon they started out from Tottenham Hill, Henry on his fine horse with its glittering trappings, a dazzling figure; and beside him Margaret rode pillion with Sir Thomas Parr on Katharine's white palfrey.

  The people now crowded the roads. Henry beamed on them, graciously and delightedly acknowledging their cheers.

  How he revels in his new state! thought Margaret. He always said that things would be different when he became King, and so they are. And how the people love this merry England he has given them. What a king! How different from our father who was also a good king. And yet it is due to Henry VII that Henry VIII is possessed of the riches which make it possible for him to live in such style.

  “To Baynard's Castle,” cried Henry, “which I have set aside for your private residence, sister. But we shall not stay there. The Queen and our good sister are waiting to see you at Greenwich.”

  So the cavalcade paused awhile at Baynard's Castle on the north bank of the Thames below St. Paul's; and Margaret, looking at those Norman towers and ramparts, was well pleased with the dwelling Henry had chosen for her.

  Here she rested and changed her costume, for Henry had arranged that they should travel the rest of the way to Greenwich by barge.

  Margaret looked about her eagerly; now and then her memory stirred. It was so many years since she had passed down this river on the way to Greenwich, and how wonderful it was to see and hear the people on the banks cheering the royal barge, to listen to the sweet music of the minstrels who played as they went along.

  Now she saw the Palace with the brick front facing the river; she saw the tower in the park and the convent which adjoined the Palace.

  “We have arranged good sport for you here at Greenwich, sister,” Henry told her gleefully; and she was conscious that all the time he was watching her to see how she marveled at the splendor of his realm.

  They alighted at the stairs, and at the gates of the Palace the Queen was waiting to greet them.

  Margaret was warmly embraced by her sister-in-law and the first questions Katharine asked, when she had ascertained that Margaret was well and had suffered no harm from her journey, were concerning the welfare of the little Margaret.

  But there was another who came forward to embrace Margaret; this was a dazzling, beautiful young woman who was so like Henry that Margaret knew at once that this was her young sister, Mary, now grown to womanhood.

  Margaret kissed her warmly; then drew away from her and looked into that radiant, laughing face.

  “Mary! Why, can it be possible?”

  “Would you have me remain a baby forever?” demanded Mary.

  “How old were you when I went away? Was it six?”

  “Well,” replied Mary, “you were about thirteen. None of us stand still.”

  “And you have had adventures.”

  Mary grimaced. “You too, sister,” she murmured.

  Henry was impatient. He liked to see his family in amicable friendship, but he wanted them to remember that, no matter who came, or who met whom after how long an absence, there was one person who must be the center of every gathering: the dazzling King of England.

  If she could have had her son James with her, if little Alexander were still alive, if Angus had been the husband she longed for, those would have been happy days for Margaret.

  It was wonderful to be with her family again; Henry was eager to impress her with the superiority of the English over the Scottish Court, and one lavish banquet and ball followed another. This was a pleasure, for Margaret too loved gaiety. Katharine, kindly sympathetic, welcomed her as warmly in her way. As for Mary, she was full of high spirits, and delighted to be back in England at the gay and brilliant Court which her brother had made.

  Margaret told herself that she needed rest and relaxation before she concerned herself with state matters. In good time she would impress on Henry the need for his help in regaining what was hers by right; but she understood her brother well. At this time he was bent on entertaining her; and had she tried to turn his mind to more serious matters he would have been greatly displeased.

  She herself was not averse to a little lighthearted entertainment. Before she reached London she had sent messengers to Scotland to bring her dresses and jewels to her in England, for she would need them if she were to vie with the elegant ladies of Henry's Court.

  Albany, evidently eager that she should withdraw her accusations about the death of little Alexander, and perhaps sorry for her, had put no obstacles in the way of her clothes being sent to her; and they arrived in London soon after she had.

  Her sister, Mary, was with her on the day her clothes came, and they dismissed their attendants and examined the clothes together.

  Mary shrieked with delight as she drew one glittering object after another from the trunk. She pranced round the apartment in a pair of sleeves of cloth of gold lined with crimson velvet; she put a cheveron on her head and turned this way and that to her reflection in the burnished mirror, delighting in the flash of the jewels.

  “You were fine enough in Scotland, sister,” she said. “I had always believed it to be such a gloomy land.”

  Margaret sat on her bed, looking at a gold collar decorated with enameled white roses. She rem
embered the occasion when James had given it to her.

  “My husband was a great king and a fine gentleman.”

  “But old,” put in Mary, and her own face darkened. She shivered, and Margaret knew she was thinking of the old King of France to whom she had been married. Poor Mary! At least Margaret had not suffered in that way.

  “Not old as Louis was. He was merely older than I…and I was very young, so that he was not really very old. He was in his prime. Do you know, Mary, I believe he was the handsomest man I ever saw.”

  “Do not let Henry hear you say that,” laughed Mary.

  “You are happy now though, Mary?”

  Her young sister clasped her hands and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Ecstatically.”

  “So it was all worthwhile.”

  Mary pouted. “It need not have happened. What good did the French marriage do for England?”

  “It made peace between the two countries, and that is always a good thing.”

  “An uneasy peace! And for it I had to endure… that.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Oh, no. I could not have borne it. And then he died …and Charles came to take me home.”

  “And he married you.”

  “I insisted, Margaret. I was determined. Henry had promised me that if I married old Louis I should marry my own choice when he died. And Charles was my choice … long before I married Louis.”

  “So you got your wish.”

  “Oh, those were glorious days, Margaret. I'll never forget them. Married to Charles… and both wondering what we should be called upon to pay for our boldness… and not caring!”

  “It was a reckless thing to do. You might have been carrying the heir of France.”

  “But I was not. And what fun I had, teasing François and his old mother that I was!”

  “It seems to me that you found much to amuse you in this French marriage.”

  “But only after my husband was dead, Margaret. What bold and lusty people we are. I wish I could have seen your Angus. He is very handsome?”