by Jean Plaidy
Margaret's face hardened. “Handsome enough.”
“Why did he not come with you?”
“He preferred to stay in Scotland.”
“I know what I should do if I had such a husband.”
“What?”
“Rid myself of him and find another.”
“Easier said than done.”
“What! And you a Tudor. Did you not know that Tudors always find a way? I said I'd marry Charles Brandon—before they sent me off to France—and I have married him. We get what we want…if circumstances do sometimes make us wait for it. We're three of a kind, Margaret—you, myself and Henry. Don't you see it?”
“We're strong, we're determined; yes, I see that.”
“Sometimes I am a little sorry for the people who marry us. I was a little sorry for poor Louis. I knew he would not live long. He tried to be young, Margaret. That was a mistake. His pursuit of youth led him to the grave. And now this Angus…I am sure you will make him sorry for what he has done to you. And sometimes I look at Henry and Katharine and say: ‘Poor Katharine.'”
“But she is devoted to him.”
“Katharine is such a virtuous woman; she'll always be devoted to him because he is her husband. Her religion tells her she must be. But there is a little friction between them already. He begins to wonder why she cannot give him a son.”
“But she has had several miscarriages, and now she has Mary.”
“Yes, but where are the boys, where are the boys?” Mary took up a silver pomander on a jeweled girdle and set it about her waist. “Nay,” she said, “I would not be the wife or husband of a Tudor… and displease them. If I were Angus, Katharine, or even Charles, I would be wary.”
Then she began to dance around the room, looking so vital, so lovely, that Margaret could well understand how the King of France in pursuit of youth had been hastened to his tomb by his desire for a Tudor.
There were pleasant hours spent with Katharine, and when they could be alone together they were two mothers fondly discussing their children.
The two little girls were so close in age that when Margaret was at Greenwich they shared a nursery; and it was the joy of the two mothers to visit them and send away their nurses and attendants that they might have the children to themselves.
Margaret, remembering what Mary had said about Henry's growing uneasiness at Katharine's inability to give him a son, felt herself drawn toward her sister-in-law, not only by affection and a common interest, but by pity.
And during those sessions in the nurseries, Katharine confided her great desire to bear a son.
“If I could but give Henry the son he so earnestly needs I should be completely happy,” she told her sister-in-law.
“You will,” Margaret assured her. “You have had bad luck, as I did in the beginning. There was my little James and my little Arthur, and they both died. Then the present James. Ah, if you could see my James! I never saw such a lovely boy.”
“I would I could see him. What a joy he must be to you.”
“If I could only have him with me.” Margaret was momentarily sad and Katharine was angry with herself for having reminded her sister-in-law that she was parted from her son. But she could not hide the envy in her eyes, and Margaret felt that it was she who should be sorry for Katharine.
“I do believe Mary has grown since we last saw her,” she said. “And my own Margaret thrives also. Poor child! When I think of her first seeing the light of day in that dreary Harbottle. So different from this little one… who was born in royal pomp in this very Palace of Greenwich.”
Katharine could not resist picking her daughter up in her arms. Mary, a solemn baby, regarded her mother serenely.
“I am sure she will be very wise,” said Katharine.
“She certainly has a look of wisdom,” answered Margaret, and she took her own daughter from her cradle; and the two mothers sat in the window seat, each holding her child in her lap.
Margaret asked Katharine to tell her of Mary's baptism; and Katharine was happy, recalling that ceremony. She told how carpets had been spread from the Palace to the font in the Gray Friars' church here at Greenwich; how her godmothers had been the Princess Katharine Plantagenet and the Duchess of Norfolk; how the child had been carried by the Countess of Salisbury with the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walking on either side of her, and Cardinal Wolsey himself had been her godfather.
Margaret listened and cried: “How different from my little Margaret in Harbottle!”
And as they talked together, Henry came into the nursery, all aglitter in his green velvet spattered with jewels. He greeted them boisterously.
“Ha! The mothers in council, eh! And what bonny children.” He took Mary from her mother and cradled her in his arms, smiling down into those eyes which regarded him as serenely as they had Katharine.
“This is a clever child,” cried Henry. “She knows her father!”
Katharine smiled tenderly at the two of them.
“You must spare a glance for my little Margaret,” his sister told him.
He came over to her and peered down at the child in her arms.
“A bonny girl,” he said. He put out a finger and touched the little Margaret's cheeks. “I fancy she knows her uncle,” he said.
Then he walked up and down the apartment, rocking Mary in his arms, now and then chuckling as he looked down at her.
When he had perambulated for a few minutes he came to stand at the window.
“‘Twas ill luck about your little son, Margaret,” he said.
Margaret's face clouded, and Katharine watched her anxiously. She would have liked to warn Henry not to talk of the matter, had she dared.
Henry's face darkened. “‘Twas that scoundrel Albany. By God, it would please me to see him sent back to France.”
“It is what I am hoping will happen,” Margaret replied. “If I can return, take the Regency and the guardianship of James, I shall forget past troubles and be happy again.”
“You are fortunate, Margaret, to have a son.”
The lower lip jutted out bellicosely, and the face had grown suddenly sullen.
“I am very fortunate in my little James. I would you could see him, Henry. Do you know whom he resembles most closely?”
“Who?” Henry demanded.
“Yourself.”
“Is that so!” The sullenness disappeared and his face was sunny again. “What color hair?”
“Tawny. Bright complexion. Eyes blue. Those who have seen you have said ‘How like his uncle he is!'”
Henry slapped his velvet covered thigh.
“Tell me more of this little fellow. Is he bright? Is he gay?”
“Did I not say he resembles you? It is not only in his looks, I do assure you. I believe he will grow up to be exactly like you.”
“Let us hope that he does,” put in Katharine fondly.
Henry regarded her affectionately, but his moods were always transient. Margaret could see he was thinking: Why do others have sons when they are denied to me?
It was a sunny day and crowds had come to see the tournament at Greenwich.
Margaret sat with her sister and sister-in-law in the balcony which had been set up for them. It was a brilliant scene; the ladies were gaily attired, and Margaret was secretly delighted that she could make as good a show as any of them. Her gown was as gay as Mary's and as fine as Katharine's. The latter of course lacked the love of display which was so conspicuous in Margaret, Mary, and Henry; whenever those three entered an assembly the brilliance of their garments would have betrayed who they were, even if their identities were unknown.
The balcony had been elaborately decorated with their devices. The daisy for Margaret, the marigold for Mary, the pomegranate for Katharine; and dominating them all was the rose of England which was Henry's own emblem.
The shouts of the crowd, the warm sunshine, the brilliance of the knights in armor were exhilarating. It was a glorious occasion and Margaret was flattered
that it should be in her honor.
Mary's eyes were fixed on a tall figure among the combatants.
“Suffolk could be the champion of all, if he wished,” she whispered to Margaret.
“And why should he not wish so?” demanded Margaret.
“You have been away for a long time. Naturally he must not shine more brightly than one other. I said to him last night: ‘As you love me, take care in the jousts.' ‘What,' he answered, ‘do you fear that some agile adversary will slay me?' ‘Nay,' I cried, ‘but I fear you may outshine the King.'”
“So Henry still likes to be the victor, as he ever did.”
Mary laughed loudly. “It would go ill with any man who proved himself to be a more valiant knight. And we are still being punished for our marriage, you know. We have to pay Henry back for my dowry. We have to walk carefully. You should remember that, Margaret. Whatever you want from Henry, and I assume you want his help to regain your kingdom, you must always remember that, wherever he is, he must be supreme. Impress that on your mind so firmly that you believe it, and Henry will be your friend.”
“How can you speak thus of our brother?” “Because I am his sister.
Because I know him well. I love him, as he loves me; but I know him better than he knows me; indeed I know him better than he knows himself.”
Margaret thoughtfully watched the shining figures riding into the lists. There was truth in what Mary said; and if she were wise she would remember it.
“Who is the bulky knight now riding in?” she asked of Mary.
“Sir William Kingston. None could mistake his size and shape.”
“Well none will unseat him, I imagine.”
“It would depend,” replied Mary sagely.
Now the attention of the crowd was focused on two tall knights whose tabards were embroidered with golden honeysuckle, for it seemed that whomsoever these two knights tackled they were the victors.
Margaret noticed that Mary's brilliant eyes never left them, and leaning toward her she heard her whisper: “Have a care, Charles. Be good…so good that all say how good you are… and then be just not quite so good.”
Margaret thought: Her stay in France must have changed her; it had made her grow into a cynic. Could that be the influence of young François? Margaret believed that was very likely.
Mary was crying excitedly “Look, Kingston is in the lists. And the tall knight with him. Kingston is falling… horse and all. It is the first time he has been unseated.”
Then she leaned back against the embroidered marigolds on her chair and began to laugh softly.
In the great hall the knights had gathered. Queen Katharine sat on her chair of state with Mary on one side of her, Margaret on the other; and one by one the knights came forward to pay homage to her.
Into the hall came one on whom all eyes were fixed. This was because he was the knight who had overthrown Sir William Kingston; and everyone was discussing that extraordinary feat.
“Now,” said Katharine, “we will discover the identity of this strange knight, for his helmet must be removed.” She called to him: “Sir Knight, we would speak with you. We would tell you that we were delighted with your prowess. 'Twas bravely and expertly done, I doubt I have ever seen such skill in the joust.”
Mary said in a voice in which, it seemed to Margaret, the mischief lurked: “The King will wish to challenge you, I'll swear, Sir Knight. For he is proud of his own daring at the joust.”
The knight came forward, bowing before the Queen, and when his helmet was removed, Henry's flushed and laughing face was exposed.
“So I deceived you, eh. You Kate and you Mary, and you Margaret! Well, you have been away, but Kate and Mary…well, methinks they should have known their King.”
Katharine said quickly: “But now we know the truth, we wonder we did not guess, for never have we seen such skill except that of Your Grace.”
“So you have a fair opinion of my skill, eh?”
“And the greatest pleasure this joust has given me,” went on Katharine, “is to learn that my King is the champion.”
“Well, well, 'twas done in your honor.”
And so the masquerade was played as it had been many times before and would be again and again.
Henry was in high spirits. At the banquet he drank freely and his voice could be heard above all others. He called for music and played the lute himself; and one of the singers sang a song of his composing.
How he loves his life, thought Margaret. How lucky he is. How different his fate from mine. And yet he lacks that for which he most longs; and although I am parted from him at this time, I still have my little James. And though he be in Stirling and I in Greenwich, he is still my beloved son.
The summer had come and Margaret was anxious, although she could never have enough gaiety, and the entertainment to be enjoyed at her brother's Court delighted her. She missed Angus, and she believed that if he had come to her in England she would have been ready to forgive his desertion; she was longing to see little James; and she reminded herself that her reason for coming to Henry's Court was not to pass the time in pleasure.
Henry, she had discovered, was not eager for friendship with Scotland; he knew full well that while Albany remained Regent, Scotland would be the close ally of France; he hated François as much as ever, being jealous of his successes in war and the reports he heard of his adventures both at home and abroad. His little mouth would grow prim at the mention of the French King's amorous conduct; he often remarked that he did not believe God would long favor such a man. He was now seeking friendship with the Emperor Maximilian, for he believed that if the two of them stood together they could foil François's ambitious dream of bringing Europe under his rule.
He was however deeply desirous of removing Albany from the Regency; and he wrote to the Scottish Parliament telling them that he did not care to see his nephew in peril; and that if any harm were to come to the King—as he regretted it had to his little brother—all men would suspect Albany. Therefore it was imperative that Albany should be sent back to France without delay.
The Parliament's reply that the King was well, healthy, and in no danger, and that they had no intention of removing Albany, filled Henry with rage.
But Albany, whose great desire was for peace, wrote to Henry saying he believed that if he came to England he could convince Henry of his honest intentions.
When Henry received this note he came to Margaret's apartments in Greenwich Palace and laid it before her.
“Ha!” he cried. “Once the fellow comes to England he will be at our mercy. Then I shall insist on his obeying my will.”
“You think the King of France will allow that, Henry?”
“The King of France!” Henry's face grew a shade more scarlet. There was no name in Christendom that angered him more than that one. “Nay, sister,” he went on, giving her a baleful look which was alarming when she considered how much she hoped for from him, “I do not consider the wishes of the King of France. I will instruct my Lord Cardinal how he is to treat Master Albany when he sets foot in my realm.”
“You will act with your usual wisdom, Henry,” answered Margaret, “but I do not think that, when Albany considers this matter, he will come to your Court. He is a shrewd man.”
“I shall couch my invitation in honeyed words,” retorted Henry.
Margaret was right and Albany did not come to England. Instead he sent as his emissary a certain François de la Fayette, who promised that if Margaret would return to Scotland she should have her dowry returned to her, and that her husband, Angus, and his clan should retain their privileges as Scottish subjects— providing they did not revolt against the government.
The terms seemed fair enough, thought Margaret; and as that year passed she began to feel homesick for Scotland. She wanted to see her son; she was anxious to be with Angus again; she was not sure of her feelings for him and although she did not think of him very tenderly, she wanted to be in his company again so th
at she could analyze her emotions. Moreover, Albany would be there; she told herself that she hated that man, but she thought of him often and had a great desire to come face-to-face with him. Often when his name was mentioned she would abuse him, calling him the murderer of her child; but secretly she did not believe this.
Albany was a Royal Stuart; and ever since she had met her first husband, she had been fascinated by that clan. She wanted to see Albany again, to live close to him; perhaps to discover her true feelings regarding him.
Henry had put at Margaret's service that palace known as Scotland Yard, which was the residential quarters of the Kings of Scotland when visiting London. From the bay windows of the Queen's Treasury she could look out on the river. Not far away was Charing Cross and the Palace of Westminster where the Court was in residence.
Christmas was almost upon her and it was more than a year since she had left Scotland. Young Margaret, now over a year old, was a lively little girl with a personality of her own; it seemed long to be away from home.
Moreover she was in financial distress. She needed money for servants and for gowns since Henry still insisted that the entertainments he gave were in her honor, and she could not attend them wearing garments which had been seen many times before.
She had no recourse but to turn to Cardinal Wolsey and plead for money, which she found very humiliating; but she pointed out that if she could not get it from the Cardinal she must needs approach the King, and that she asked only for loans as, when she regained what was hers, she would pay back all that she had borrowed.
And although she did succeed in getting a portion of the money for which she asked, and that meant that she had more fine gowns which could always put her in good spirits, still she thought with nostalgia of Scotland.
“James will forget his mother,” she told her friends, “if he does not see her soon. He is over-young for such a long separation.”
She did not mention Angus but she wondered what he was doing during her absence. She did hear that he had entered into an alliance with Albany and was working with him.
There was news too of Albany himself. His wife's health had grown worse since her husband's stay in Scotland and she was said to be dying. Albany, who wanted to be with her, had stood up in the Tolbooth when Parliament was assembled there and explained with anguish his desire to be at the bedside of his wife.