The Thistle and the Rose

by Jean Plaidy

  It was like some cruel pattern. All the men she loved were unfaithful to her. She gave them passionate love; she was ready to give them devotion; but, alas, they turned elsewhere; and always they deceived her. Others knew of their infidelity before she would have deemed such infidelity possible.

  It was too much to be borne in silence; and if her love could be passionate so could her hatred.

  She hated Albany for so deceiving her. She realized now that she had been the one who had set their love affair in motion; she had invited him and he had courteously accepted her advances, when all the time doubtless he had preferred the embraces of the Fleming woman.

  She hated the whole Fleming clan. Nor could she curb that hatred. She began to refer to Lord Fleming as the murderer of his wife and sister-in-law. It was reviving an old slander which had almost been forgotten; but now it was being remembered again, how James IV had desired to marry Margaret Drummond, and she had died after taking breakfast with her two sisters, one of whom was Lord Fleming's wife.

  By whose hand did they die?

  Could it be true that Lord Fleming, wishing to poison his own wife, had mistakenly poisoned her sisters with her?

  To revive that old story was small revenge, Margaret felt, for the wrong which had been done her.

  How unhappy she was during those warm summer days.

  Never again will I put my trust in men, Margaret told herself.

  Now she would devote herself to her son's interests. The boy was in his eleventh year. He was bright, intelligent, and very fond of his mother, who since her friendship with Albany, had been a great deal in his company.

  David Lindsay was still his constant companion; the man would have died for the boy. James knew this and loved him dearly.

  David had recently married a young girl named Janet Douglas who was a seamstress of the King's household earning ten pounds a year; but his marriage had made no difference to his duties. James had inherited a love of music from his father and David fostered this, so many long hours were spent in singing and playing the lute and clavichord. David had also taught the boy to love and care for animals and it was their pleasure to play with these in Stirling Park and attempt to teach them tricks; although David would never allow the slightest cruelty, but was very anxious to make the boy understand that, while he took great pleasure in them, he must never forget that it was his duty to care for and protect them.

  It was true, Margaret decided, that he was but a boy; but he was also the King, and he was old for his years. Poor child, it seemed that since his father's death he had been in a kind of captivity, never allowed to go where he wished, nor to meet his friends unless he had the permission of others to do so. A pretty state of affairs for a king to find himself involved in!

  Why should not the King be released from this semiconfinement? Why should he not be placed at the head of a party— as a nominal head of course—and as he was so ready to trust his mother, why should she not be the real power behind that party?

  She would never trust a man again; she had done with men; she was now going to devote herself to politics and restoring herself to the Regency and her son to that life which was due to him as King of Scotland.

  She went to Stirling Castle and found James in his apartments with David Lindsay.

  When James saw her he greeted her with exclamations of delight.

  “It is my mother, Davie,” he cried. “She will be delighted with our papingo.”

  “I am sure she will,” replied David, and Margaret saw that on the boy's wrist, as though it were a falcon, was a brightly plumaged parrot.

  “She was sent to me as a gift,” James chattered. “Is she not beautiful? Have you ever seen such a bird? And Davie says that she may even learn to speak. He is teaching her to whistle.”

  “Which she does very well,” added David, as excited as the King.

  Margaret's mind was full of her plan, but her interest was caught by the parrot, for she had never seen such a bird before and the idea of its being able to whistle seemed to her fantastic.

  When she had marveled at its oddities and listened to James accompanying David's singing on the lute, she intimated that she would like to be alone with her son, and David retired.

  “Why, Jamie,” she said, when they were alone, “what a strange life it is that you live, and you a king!”

  “Strange, Mother?”

  “Why, here you are almost a prisoner. Had your father lived, how different it would have been!”

  “Then I should not be King.”

  “Oh, Jamie, how sad it was that your father should die and you become a prisoner of ambitious men.”

  “Yes,” said James slowly, “I suppose I am a prisoner…of a sort.”

  “Indeed you are, for if you wished to leave Stirling Castle you would be prevented from doing so. Poor James, you remember little else, so how can you guess what freedom means? And you a king. There are times when I feel very angry with those who cause you to live as you do. The King should be free and, although you are of no great age, still you are a king.”

  James was thoughtful. Then he said: “Who is it who insists on my being kept a prisoner?”

  “The Parliament—and the Parliament is led by the Regent.”

  “The Duke of Albany? I liked him well. I thought he was my friend.”

  “Your friend?” Margaret laughed. “He has a charming manner, has he not? Such manners are cultivated by those who plan to deceive us.”

  “So he has deceived us?”

  Margaret's eyes narrowed, and James stared at her wide-eyed.

  “He is the most deceitful man on Earth!” she muttered.

  “Indeed he must be,” answered James, “for he had led me to believe he was my friend.”

  “It is necessary to be cautious with men such as he is. But, James, I have made up my mind that you shall not be treated in this way much longer. It is my wish that you should leave this prison and take your place in the country of which you are King.”

  James's eyes sparkled with excitement. “How so, Mother?”

  “As yet I am unsure. I believe your uncle would help us—now that I have discovered the perfidy of Albany. It might be necessary for us to escape over the Border and throw ourselves on his mercy for a while. Then he would send an army and overthrow the Regent Albany and all he stands for.”

  “When, Mother?”

  “Oh, there is nothing settled yet, but it is as well to be prepared.”

  “Then one day I shall escape. I shall go to my uncle's Court, and then we will gather together an army and I shall be in truth King.”

  Margaret looked into his eager young face. “How I wish you were older,” she sighed. “But we will be patient. Say nothing to anyone of this—not even David. It is our secret. I want you to remember though that you are the King and that it is not right that you should be treated as you are.”

  “I will remember it,” replied the King.

  The parrot began to whistle suddenly, and his earnest look left him as he broke into a smile.

  “Listen, Mother,” he cried. “You see how clever she is! Is she not a wonderful papingo?”

  He was a child at heart, thought Margaret. But he should not remain so. He was, before all, the King; and she was determined to set him up, that she might the better rid Scotland of one who had poisoned the love she had given him so that it was fast turning to bitter hatred.

  The only way in which she could live through those months of bitter disappointment was by making wild plans. She must be in the thick of intrigue to stop herself brooding; so she retired to Perth, where she felt she could act more secretly, and immediately renewed her correspondence with her brother.

  In her letters she gave vent to wrath against Albany; she reported his liaison with Fleming's sister and added that she distrusted the Fleming clan, for Lord Fleming himself had murdered his own wife—a mysterious event which had taken place before she, Margaret, came to Scotland—and, with his wife, two of her sisters.<
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  Always ready to listen to attacks on Albany and his French connections, Henry was interested in his sister's change of front. He implied that if she offered to stop agitating for a divorce and became reconciled to Angus, she would have the wholehearted support of England.

  But hating her latest lover as she did, Margaret had no intention of rejoining one who had deceived her even more cruelly. That was one point on which she was adamant. Never would she go back to Angus.

  Meanwhile Albany's friends, having an inkling of what was happening, wrote to him and told him that his presence was urgently needed in Scotland and it was unwise for him to delay his return; but Albany, on account of his wife's sickness, was in no hurry to come.

  Meanwhile Margaret had succeeded in obtaining terms from the English for a truce between the two countries, and she returned to Edinburgh determined to bring forward young James and allow him to speak for himself in the Tolbooth, demanding, as Scotland's King, the right to go where he would throughout his kingdom.

  James, being a fearless boy and well coached by Margaret, entered the Tolbooth that day in a kingly fashion and even the cynical lords were impressed and a little awed. Many of them told themselves that they must have a care how they behaved toward him; he was young yet, but he would one day be King and he looked sharp enough to remember those who offended him.

  James spoke in a loud, clear voice. “I am your King and I will no longer be your prisoner. This realm is of goodly size but it will not contain both me and the Duke of Albany.”

  Several of the lords spoke, respectfully explaining to the King that he was accompanied by guards for his own safety. They had no wish but to serve him, and this they had sworn to do.

  James was looking at his mother for his next cue; but at that moment Gaultier de Malines, who had entered the Tolbooth immediately after the King was in his place, came forward to say that he had a message from his master the Duke of Albany and he believed that now was the time to deliver it.

  “My master,” he said, “thanks you for your support of his rule during his absence. He is on his way to you and he has good news for you. Sir Richard de la Pole will shortly be arriving with an army for the invasion of England; and he knows that you will recognize as enemies to Scotland those who have tried to bring about a truce between the two perennial enemies. Let the King remain in Stirling Castle with certain trusted lords as his guardians; but give him license to hunt if he so wishes.”

  Margaret, listening and watching the effect of these words on the lords, felt so frustrated that she could scarcely restrain her tears, for anger could make her weep more easily than sorrow. The King had made such a good impression and but for the coming of Gaultier de Malines she would have won James his liberty.

  She cried: “This is no way in which to treat your King. He may be young in years, but see, he is indeed a king.”

  But she knew she could not move them with her pleas, so she asked that she might choose the King's guardians and that Lords Borthwick and Erskine might be these, with help from the Abbot of Holyrood and the Bishop of Aberdeen.

  The Parliament agreed that Lord Erskine should be the King's guardian but rejected the others.

  James, seeing his mother's grief, stamped his foot and cried: “Do you forget, gentlemen, that I am your King?”

  The lords were taken aback. None of them dared meet the King's eye, but they reminded themselves that he was only a child; and they had seen how his mother changed her policy according to her whim. They remembered how she had married Angus scarcely a year after Flodden, and how honors had been heaped on him and his family; now she had nothing but bitter hatred for Angus and his clan. Then she had been friendly with Albany, and now her regard was turned to a venom almost as potent as that which she felt for Angus.

  Margaret was governed by her emotions and it was dangerous to follow such a woman.

  Still, the boy was the King and he was reminding them of that. It was proposed then that, if Albany did not return within two weeks, the King's guards should be removed and he be allowed to go wherever he wished; moreover the terms set out by the English for the truce would be again considered.

  It was not utter defeat, thought Margaret, as she and the King left the Tolbooth.

  Albany had arrived at Dumbarton.

  When Margaret received the news she dismissed all her women so that she might be alone to think. She took up her mirror and studied her face. She had grown used to the change now, but it would strike him forcibly. She thought of all the gowns she possessed and which became her most. But since she hated him, why should she care what he thought of her? Yet, she told herself, I must curb my feelings; never must he know how he has wounded me. If I have shown my interest in him, it must be believed that I considered him a worthy match for me—when we both became free—which he would be.

  It was important that she should see the King immediately to discuss with him what the return of Albany could mean, to coach him in what he must do and say; and she was thankful that at least her son had such a regard for her that he was ready to obey her in all she asked of him.

  She set out for Stirling, and there was warmly welcomed by James. She saw that he had changed; he was no longer malleable; she had made him realize the power which could be his and already he was surrounded by companions who were eager to humor and flatter him. But he was as affectionate toward his mother as ever and she was delighted with him.

  David Lindsay however was disturbed and sought to speak to her in private, but she had little time for David Lindsay now; she was grateful to him for his past care of the boy, but he was essentially a companion for a child. James, however, had not changed toward his old friend, although he spent less time with him, there being so many new interests in his life. He liked to hunt with companions a little older than himself, though seeming the same age since he was old for his years.

  He had taken the opportunity to hunt every day, and was clearly going to be a great lover of the chase. He had grieved a little because his beloved papingo had escaped into the park where it had been attacked and killed by the wild birds there; but that event had made him throw himself more eagerly into his new pastimes that he might forget his precious bird; and when he was with David he always remembered.

  Margaret told him that Albany was in Scotland and they must be wary.

  “He will doubtless come to you with soft words, but we must remember he is a very deceitful man.”

  James listened carefully, and she rejoiced because his regard for her was so apparent.

  He wanted to show her his new household; many of his old servants had been replaced, and when they sat down to a banquet she made the acquaintance of a merry young man, handsome in a brash way, who was the King's Master Carver.

  He was very bold, this young man, and he did not seem overawed by the presence of the King or Queen. In his livery of silk, his doublet of crimson satin and his red hose which were furred with black budge he was quite a dazzling figure.

  He carved for the King and the Queen on that occasion, and kept them amused by his merry wit.

  “Tell me,” said Margaret to her son, “who is this young man who seems so pleased with himself and life?”

  “I will get him to speak to you himself,” answered James, and beckoning the young man, added, “Her Grace the Queen would speak with you.”

  The young man bowed low and opened his eyes wide with pleasure. He murmured: “The Queen wishes to speak with me! This is the happiest day of my life.”

  “Tell me your name,” said Margaret.

  “It is Henry Stuart, Your Grace.”

  Margaret smiled. “A goodly name and one which is not unfamiliar to me. Tell me to which branch of the family you belong.”

  “My father is Lord Avondale, Your Grace, and I am his second son. My brother James is in the service of the King with me. We count ourselves fortunate to be in such good service.”

  “And it would seem to me that you perform your duties in a commendable mann
er.”

  He raised his eyes to the ceiling and murmured: “Your Grace, who could fail to… when serving the King? And now to enjoy the additional pleasure of serving the Queen…!”

  There was something in the boldness of his looks which she found amusing. She signed for him to carve for her, which he did with alacrity and, when he held the meat for her to take, his eyes were on her in a manner which, though bold, she did not find offensive. He was young and he had made her feel young.

  When she retired that night she felt more lighthearted than she had for a long time.

  Albany was on his way to see her and she could not restrain her excitement. The fact that she knew he had had a mistress while he was making love to her could only grieve her, she supposed; it could not make her hate him. She had chosen her gown with the utmost care; her hair at least had lost none of its beauty, it was carefully dressed and she was adorned with jewels. But she could not completely hide the ravages of the smallpox, and he would notice how changed she was. Yet when she was at the height of her beauty he could not be faithful; neither could James, her first husband, nor Angus her second.

  She had left the King at Stirling and returned to her lodgings in Edinburgh, for she knew that Albany was on his way to the King and she thought it fitting that she should not greet him in James's presence. Her friends had told her how Albany had knelt before young James and sworn that he had returned to Scotland to lay down his life, if need be, for his sake.

  And now he was on his way to Edinburgh and Holyrood Palace which he would make his headquarters.

  She could hear the sounds of acclamation in the streets; he was immediately popular even though he did seem like a foreigner to the citizens of Edinburgh. It was the Stuart charm which was so irresistible and seemed to be possessed by everyone who bore the name. That young Master Carver of James's had it. He was a bold fellow and perhaps she had encouraged him overmuch; but he had so pleased her; he had made her feel that she was young again and that her women were right when they assured her that the pox had made little difference to her looks.

  Albany paused on his way to Holyrood to call on the Queen. She waited, her head held high, until he came and stood before her. He bowed and, when his eyes met hers, there was no sign that he noticed any difference in her appearance.