The Thistle and the Rose

by Jean Plaidy

  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.

  But as yet they must suspect nothing; though it was difficult to act as though she was not all impatience to rise from the table.

  There were six people besides herself in the secret…three men and three women; all her attendants. They too were alert, waiting for the signal.

  Yet she must sit there as she would at any suppertime, listening to the music of the lute and the songs of the favorite singers.

  At length she yawned and rose, and when one by one the lords took their leave of her, some of her women accompanied her to her bedchamber.

  Seeming sleepy, she bade them good night; but no sooner had the door shut and their footsteps died away than she called to those three of her women—one of them that woman who had a brother in Arran's service—and said: “Now. The time is come. Bring my riding gown and cloak; and we will escape.”

  Her eyes were shining and she looked very young, for a plan such as this could always delight her and give life a new zest.

  She had made up her mind that she had been a fool to come back to Angus, to place herself in the position of a deceived wife who must accept the vagaries of a husband. Master Chadworth could go to hell—a place with which he considered himself well acquainted by his accounts of it—for all she cared.

  She had changed her mind. She would not stay with Angus; she was going to let the whole world know that she had too much pride to remain with an unfaithful husband who had gained his power through her. She had been forced to endure the unfaithfulness of James IV; but Angus was no Scottish King.

  She was in her riding clothes and ready.

  “Come,” she whispered. “By the spiral stairway…down to the courtyard.”

  One of her women led the way; she followed; the other two came behind.

  In the courtyard the three men were waiting.

  They led the way cautiously, to where, about a quarter of a mile from the castle, dark shapes were waiting under a clump of trees; Margaret heard the neighing of horses.

  Then a voice: “Your Grace, the Queen?”

  “I am here,” she answered.

  A man had ridden forward; he was leading a horse.

  He dismounted, and taking her hand kissed it.

  “James Hamilton,” he said, “at Your Grace's service…now as ever.”

  She saw his eyes gleam in the moonlight. He was tall, handsome and so like Arran that she guessed this was the son of the Earl—the natural son of whom she had heard and who was known as the Bastard of Arran.

  He helped her mount and then, swinging himself into his saddle, brought his horse beside hers.

  “Now,” he cried. “Away!”

  It was a glorious experience to be riding through the night, a handsome man beside her, whose every look and gesture assured her of his respect for the Queen, and his admiration for a beautiful woman.

  “My father is waiting for you at Stirling,” he told her. “I begged for the honor of taking you to him.”

  “‘Twas well planned,” she told him.

  “I have thought of nothing else since I knew you would come.”

  “Then you are indeed my friend.”

  “So much so, Your Grace, that I would willingly do murder for you.”

  “Nay, do not talk of murder.”

  “Thoughts of murder will enter the mind when rumors of the ill treatment of our Queen disturb it.”

  “Ah… that is over.”

  “Nay, I shall never forgive it, even if Your Grace does.”

  She would not discuss her husband, and she was silent. Being quick to sense her mood, he too was silent and there was no sound but the padding of their horses' hoofs as they rode on to Stirling.

  Yet memories of that night stayed with her. Arran's bastard during that ride made her feel young again, desirable, so that the wounds which she had suffered from the treatment of Angus— and perhaps that of her first husband—were soothed; and she began to think that perhaps one day she might find someone who would love her as a woman, not as a queen.

  That person was not James Hamilton of course; but she would always be grateful to him for reminding her that such a person might exist.

  With the desertion of Margaret, Angus's position deteriorated, and Arran persuaded the Queen that the way in which she could best obtain her divorce was by joining her pleas to those of the lords who wished Albany to return to Scotland.

  Margaret had her own reasons for wishing to see Albany in Scotland and she fell in with Arran's proposal, so that in the letters sent to Albany were some from her, and they were very cordial.

  Angus, furious at the manner in which she had left him, and realizing that now any number of priests preaching hellfire would not be able to bring her back to him, wrote to Henry, telling him of Margaret's friendship with Albany and that she had again gone so far as to join with those who were urging him to return.

  Henry was furious; he was all for disowning a sister who was not only a friend of the French but planning to divorce her husband, but Cardinal Wolsey managed to persuade him to more diplomatic action.

  Why not offer to support her with an army so that she might regain the Regency and the care of her son? For that was clearly what she wanted. Offer her this on condition that she returned to Angus and gave up all plans for a divorce.

  When Margaret read Wolsey's letter and understood all it contained she shut herself up alone in her apartments and thought about it.

  To be the guardian of young James. That was what she deeply desired. To regain the Regency, which would mean that she would be in a position to gu
ide James and teach him to rule wisely. What more could she ask?

  But the price was high. Return to Angus! Accept his infidelity! To feel again the desire for him which she had never been able to curb. It was too humiliating. It was asking too much.

  But how she longed to have young James living with her!

  The offer was tempting; but the price was too humiliating.

  “Nay,” she said aloud, “I shall not demean myself by returning to a husband whom I despise. And I shall go on fighting for my son.”

  In the château of Auvergne, Albany sat at the bedside of his sick wife. She could not live many more weeks, he told himself, yet he had been saying that for a long time. She had grown frail in her infirmity and it was astonishing that a woman in her condition could go on living.

  “Jehan,” she murmured, and stretched out a hand. He took the hand and looked down at it. It was like the hand of a skeleton.

  Poor Anne! It was long since she had been a wife to him and on the rare occasions when he had been unfaithful to her it had grieved him. He had had a happy life with her until this sickness had come upon her, this lingering sickness which would not let her live the life of a normal woman, yet would not release her from a life grown irksome.

  She was gentle and patient in sickness as she had been in health; and he would sit with her each day and tell her where he had hunted that day and what game he had brought home.

  But she knew that he could not stay with her forever. He was a man of action with duties at Court and perhaps far away across the sea.

  Scotland! It was never far from her mind, nor from his. They were importuning him now to return, and Margaret the Queen was now adding her pleas to those of the lords who had been his supporters; and that was an astonishing thing, because previously they had been enemies, rivals for the Regency.

  He often thought of her—a fine woman, handsome, perhaps overproud, too much like that brother of hers who caused so much trouble in Europe.

  He would not tell Anne, but he guessed that erelong a summons would come from François; then he could delay no longer. There had been a time when François had not wished him to go to Scotland, but that was when he was feigning a certain friendship with England, when the Kings had had that uneasy meeting, which had proved both costly and meaningless to them both, when the Princess Mary was betrothed to the Dauphin. But the political scene had changed. The new Emperor, Charles V, had visited his aunt Katharine in England, and England was inclined to friendship with the Emperor; which must mean that the brief amity Henry had professed with France was at an end. Wolsey was responsible for English foreign policy, and he undoubtedly had his eye on the Papal crown; doubtless he believed that the Emperor would now have more influence in that quarter than François. Thus France would need to court Scotland again.

  Anne turned to him and said: “Jehan, are you thinking of Scotland?”

  He nodded. “Every time I hear the sound of a horse's hooves in the courtyard I wonder whether it it a summons.”

  “And you will go?”

  “I fear Francois will command it.”

  She was silent, thinking of herself, a helpless invalid, and of him—tall, strong, vital. We have become an incongruous pair, she thought. He is not a man who should spend his time at a sickbed. Nor would he for long. The messenger would come; she was certain of it.

  She was right. Within a week the summons came from the Court of France. Albany's presence was needed in Scotland. He should prepare to leave without delay.

  When Albany rode toward Stirling the people had come out of their houses to line the roadside and cheer him. They looked to him to put an end to the petty strife between the Douglas and the Hamilton factions which continually threatened to break into civil war. Only the Douglases and their friends had no welcome to offer. They feared the great soldier and his men, for they knew that not only had he come at Arran's invitation but the Queen's.

  Margaret was waiting to greet him at Stirling Castle, dressed in her state robes of purple velvet lined with ermine, and she wore her golden hair loose, because in that way it was most becoming.

  Albany bowed over her hand and his eyes told her that she was beautiful.

  What a man! she thought. Why was I ever impressed by the looks of Angus? He is like a pretty boy compared with Albany.

  This was a man who had been victorious in battle; a strong man, a man who was born to govern. He had the blood of kings in his veins even as she herself had. He was a king in all but name—a fitting mate for a queen.

  The banquet she had ordered to be prepared was sumptuous; he sat at her right hand at the table on the dais, with his feet resting on the carpet. She noticed his gracious manners, his courteous smiles, the way in which he took his meat from the carvers, eating with a delicacy never seen in Scotland, so that he spilt no fat on his garments and only his fingers were greasy. These he delicately washed in the bowl halfway through the meal instead of waiting until the end.

  French manners! thought Margaret. And I like them well when they are combined with manly strength.

  He gave her his full attention; he behaved as though she and only she was of real importance to him. He told her that he had indeed been happy to come to Scotland when he received her letters of invitation.

  “My lord,” she answered, “I see full well that since you are come we shall have peace in the land.”

  “My one desire is to keep the King secure and happy.”

  “Then we share the same desire.”

  Margaret's eyes were shining. He would allow her to be with her son; he would understand how important a mother could be to a growing boy. Oh, how glad she was that he had come! His proximity excited her.

  She said in a low voice which was faintly hoarse with emotion: “I see that there will be friendship between us.”

  “It is my earnest hope,” he answered.

  The musicians played and they talked of music; they discovered similar tastes. Later he and she led the dancers and, although they talked no more of the purpose of his visit but gave themselves up to the joys of the dance and the masque, she believed that a bond had been established between them.

  And when she retired that night she found it difficult to sleep. She was like a young girl who had been to her first ball.

  What has happened to me? she asked herself. And she knew that she felt thus because hope had come back into her life.

  They left Stirling together and set out for Linlithgow. Here Albany was entertained royally; there was more feasting, more dancing, and Margaret was like a young girl in her newly found happiness.

  Albany was thinking: Why not? It would be a solution. Yet he was glad that as yet no decision could be reached. Neither of them was free. He had a wife who was sick and could certainly not live much longer; she had a husband from whom she was trying to obtain a divorce.

  She was a beautiful woman; Albany was a lusty man. None would blame him for a little dalliance. He was fond of his wife, but he was far from home and even Anne was realist enough not to expect complete fidelity in the circumstances. All that she would ask was that he should never desert her while she lived; and that he would never do.

  So he allowed himself to follow whither Margaret beckoned and if people were watching them and spies were taking an account of their conduct to the English Court, what did that matter? It was his duty to sow discord between the Scottish and English Courts.

  As they danced in the hall of Linlithgow Palace he said to her: “We will go together to visit the King at Edinburgh. If I come with his mother he will know I come as his friend.”

  “That will give me great pleasure.”

  “Then I shall fulfill two desired objects at the same time… See the King and please his mother.”

  She lowered her eyes that he might not see the desire for him which she could not hide. It was long since she had been so happy.

  The next day they set out for Edinburgh and, as they rode into the city to the cheers of the people, their e
yes fixed on the Castle rising ahead of them, Margaret said: “I wonder if James is at a window watching for us. He will be so excited, but not more so than I.”

  “He must be yearning to see his mother.”

  “I believe he is, but not more so than she is to see him.”

  As they rode up to the Castle gates the Captain of the Castle came out and kneeling presented the keys to Albany.

  He took them, and turning to Margaret, gave them to her.

  This was a moment of great triumph because it was tantamount to saying: The freedom of the Castle is yours.

  She did not know how to thank him; she wanted to tell him what a difference his coming had made to her; so she made the gesture which could imply her full trust in him. She shook her head and answered: “Nay, it is you who should hold the keys of the Castle.”

  He took them and they entered.

  Margaret stood by with tears in her eyes while Albany paid homage to her little son. Then she knelt down and embraced James and he put his arms about her hugging her, telling her that he had long waited for her coming.

  “This is indeed a happy day,” said Margaret.

  They danced late into the night.

  Margaret said to him: “I fear we cause some comment.”

  “There will always be comments directed against people who are placed as we are.”

  “You understand that I cannot live with Angus.”

  “I understand full well.”

  “He has not been a good husband to me, and in some ways a traitor to Scotland.”

  “We have a way of dealing with traitors. He is already under arrest.”

  Margaret caught her breath. For an instant she had a picture of Angus going to his death. She shuddered; she would be haunted forevermore by his beautiful body stark and dead. There had been times, following Flodden, when she had had bad dreams of James. It was a divorce from Angus she wanted; not his death. She had always hated the thought of death, and she hoped never to have the death of any man or woman on her conscience.

  She explained this to Albany who listened thoughtfully.