The Thistle and the Rose

The Queen's Lover

That dreary winter was over and spring had come. The physician’s comforting assurances had had some small foundation, for as Margaret’s health improved so did her appearance to some extent. Gone was the glowing skin which, with her abundant shining hair, had been one of her greatest attractions; the deformation of her eyelid remained although it had ceased to look grotesque. And as the weeks passed she became more reconciled to the lessening of her beauty. She dressed herself even more richly than before; and even when she lay in bed recovering from her illness, she would have her attendants bring out her gowns and hold them up before her. She took great pleasure in them and her jewels; and she persuaded herself that, once she was able to leave her bed, they would do much for her.

Naturally resilient she soon grew to live with her changed appearance, reminding herself that she had a great deal for which to be thankful. Albany would return to Scotland; and although his wife still lived and she herself had not yet obtained her divorce from Angus, soon they must be free. When she was well enough she would be with James again; while she was ill she had received tender messages from him, and there was no doubt that he dearly loved his mother. To be loved by husband and child could compensate for so much, and Margaret began to look forward to the future with hope.

It was inevitable that, among those who surrounded her, were spies put there by those who deplored her friendship with Albany and were in secret working for an English alliance. Angus was no longer in Scotland but the Douglases were a numerous and powerful clan with their tentacles widespread. If Albany’s wife died, if Margaret obtained her divorce, the Douglases would indeed be in decline. Therefore every effort would be made by them to turn Margaret from Albany and toward Angus.

A piece of information came to the ears of the Douglas group and they decided that it must be brought to the Queen’s notice as quickly as possible. They did not want to mention it themselves, as that would be to earn Margaret’s scornful disbelief. But if it were whispered to her as a piece of gossip, she would not rest until she had proved it to be false or true.

Thus it was one of her women who slyly passed on the information to her by introducing the Flemings into the conversation.

“Oh, the Flemings, Your Grace. They always gave themselves airs. Lord Fleming hated his wife, they say, and that was why she died at breakfast with her sisters. And now of course his sister is becoming arrogant.”

“But why so?” asked Margaret idly, thinking of James, never ceasing to mourn Margaret Drummond who had died at that same fatal breakfast with her sister, Lord Fleming’s wife.

“On account of my lord Duke, Your Grace.”

“My lord Duke?”

“My lord Duke of Albany, Your Grace.”

Margaret lowered her eyes to hide the fear in them. “And what of him?”

“Well, Your Grace, ’tis said that he is a man who has been unable to live with his wife, she being an invalid, and that it is natural that he should take a mistress. The Flemings were always a family to look to their advantages, and doubtless they persuaded her to it.”

“To what?” demanded Margaret, meaning to whisper yet finding herself breaking into a shout.

“Fleming’s sister is the mistress of the Duke of Albany, Your Grace. Well, he is an attractive man and she was nothing loath. As for her family, they could see nothing amiss in being so linked with the Regent.”

“It is idle gossip.”

“Nay, Your Grace, I… ”

“I tell you it is.”

The woman was silent; but she was satisfied that she had done her duty to the Douglases and the mischief had worked.

Margaret would not rest until she had discovered the truth, and there was no doubt at all that during his last stay in Scotland Lord Fleming’s sister had been the mistress of the Duke of Albany.

She lay in bed and held the mirror before her face. Her eyes were hard and brilliant; they were burning with the tears which her pride would not let her shed. She was no weak creature to weep and sob because once again she had been cheated.

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.

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 manner.”

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.

“So you have come back to Scotland!” she said.

“I should never have left, had it not been necessary.”

She wished that her heart would not beat so wildly, that she did not feel so absurdly glad that he had come. Yet mingling with her pleasure was a fierce anger against him. She wanted to say: And when do you propose to visit your paramour, the Fleming woman?

But their conversation was cool, as was becoming in the presence of others.

“How long will you remain in Edinburgh?” she asked him.

“For but a short while, I fear. I have matters to attend to.”

“On the Border?” she suggested, but he only smiled.

“Yet,” he went on, “I hear that my friends have prepared some entertainment for me at Holyrood. I could not enjoy it if the Queen were not present to make my joy in this return complete.”

She smiled. The desire to dance with him in the state apartments of Holyrood Palace was too great to be denied.

They led the dance as they had on previous occasions.

“It has seemed long,” he said.

“Doubtless you had much to occupy you in France.”

“So much — and yet it seemed long.”

“I was very sick when you left.”

“I did not know how sick, or I should never have been able to leave Scotland.”

“Nay,” she retorted “one mistress sick, what matters it? There was another to amuse your leisure hours.”

He was silent; then he gave her a remorseful look. “Alas,” was all he said, smiling wryly as he did so.

“My enemies told me,” she continued. “I would rather have heard it from you.”

“One’s flesh is weak,” he admitted.

“It seems a very hard task for a man to be faithful to one woman. I begin to believe it is an almost impossible one to fulfill.”

“That,” he said with a snap of his fingers, “is of no great moment. It is the affections, the tenderness, which are important.”

“I agree. To love would mean never to hurt the loved one by deed or word.”

“I beg you to understand that what happened in a moment of weakness need have no lasting effect on the relationship between us two.”

“Perhaps you are of a lighter mind than I, my lord. You may understand your feelings; you cannot understand mine. You gave no sign of your horror when you saw what illness had done to me… just as you gave no sign that you had another mistress. I congratulate you on your superb control. I should have liked you better had you displayed more human feelings.”

She could feel the anger rising now. She wanted to shout at him, to wound him as he had wounded her. She wanted to scream: Why do I have to love these faithless men? Why cannot I escape from my emotions as easily as they can from theirs?

He was watching her, and she wondered whether he knew how near she was coming to a hysterical outburst. He would know a great deal about a woman’s feelings, she was sure. He, with his devotion to a sick wife! Devotion indeed! No doubt he sat at her bedside and soothed her… when he was not visiting some new mistress. She believed she had the measure of him. He was a man who wanted peace; but he wanted to satisfy his lusts also. He did so in secret, keeping this from his sick wife, playing the faithful husband, as he played the passionate lover to each of his mistresses in turn.

She was praying now for calm and for courage. She must not obey the demands of her senses; she must cling to her pride; she must let Albany know that he could not treat the Queen of Scotland as one of his lights-o’-love and expect her to be willing and eager the moment he beckoned.

“I will make you understand… when we are alone,” he murmured.

She was fighting his allure with all her strength, and against her will she forced herself to say: “I do not know when that will be, my lord, for I have no wish to be alone with you.”

He looked regretful, but calm as ever. Why should he care that she would no longer have him in her bed? He would doubtless quickly seek solace with the Fleming woman.

Albany was only faintly disturbed by the Queen’s discovery of his infidelity. He believed that, if Anne should die and Margaret obtain her divorce, a marriage between them would be considered so desirable that she would succumb and marry him. Moreover he knew that she had been very loath to deny him her bed. He had read the anger in her eyes; he knew she was a passionate woman; that was jealousy he had seen tonight, and if she had not cared deeply for him she would not feel the fierce anger which she obviously did.

If it were necessary he would have no difficulty in regaining her affection.

But at the moment he had other matters which demanded his attention. He had men and arms at his disposal and he was going to wage war on the enemy of Scotland and his master, the King of France.

He spoke to the Parliament in the Tolbooth and he was very eloquent.

“Have you forgotten,” he demanded, “how your King and your fathers were slain on Flodden Field? How many Scottish towns have been destroyed; how many Scottish churches desecrated? How many Scottish homes, perilously near the Border, have been sacked? The time has come to defeat these enemies once and for all. We have the arms. What are we waiting for?”

The Parliament listened. It was true that they hated the English, and now Albany was back in Scotland with news that Sir Richard de la Pole, who called himself the Duke of Suffolk, was preparing an army which would invade England. The cockerel Tudor would be driven from his throne; there would be peace forevermore between the two kingdoms. No more fighting on the Border, no more fear throughout the land that the English were preparing to invade.

Very soon after his arrival in Scotland Albany was on the march, and when he reached the Border he sent a challenge to the Earl of Surrey to come on and fight.

Surrey however declined the invitation. He was ready to fight, he said, but he would do so on English soil. Let the Scots come to him.

But the weather had changed and the Scots were fearful of entering England. They murmured together, asking themselves why they should be living uncomfortably thus in camp when they might be at their own firesides. Albany declared his devotion to Scotland, but wasn’t he really fighting for France, and shouldn’t the French fight their own battles?

Albany was filled with rage against these Scotsmen, particularly as he had reason to know that the English were in no state to withstand an attack. They could have settled the old score; they could have healed the wounds they had suffered at Flodden.

But no, said the Scots. They were not crossing into England.

Well might he snatch off his bonnet and throw it into the camp fire.

Watching the flames curl about the velvet he felt, as ever, his anger burning out.

He was wearying of Scotland; he wanted to be at home in France. Anne needed him. He was tired of the virago Margaret, the cloying Fleming woman. What did they mean to him? Nothing compared with Anne.

He wanted to go back to her bedside, to sit with her, for he knew that the pain was less acute when he was there. He wanted to take her hands — those thin, transparent hands — and say to her: “Anne, they are nothing, those women… they satisfy the desire of an hour… and then there is the remorse. But you would understand. You know… and you have never reproached me.”

Holy Mother of God, how tired I am of this bleak land. How I long for Auvergne and the sickroom of my beloved one.

As soon as Albany had left for the Border, Margaret went to Stirling. She had made up her mind that she would not be separated from her son, and if any tried to do so they would have to use force.

Her indignation against Albany was growing. What had he cared because she had refused his advances? Any woman would serve his purpose, she told herself. And I, the Queen, demeaned myself by showing him how much he meant to me.

The only manner in which she could fight this ache in her body was to abuse him, to tell herself that she would not relent if he came begging on his knees.

“I hate him!” she told herself. “Let him go to his Fleming. What do I care?”

It was ridiculous, and if she had not been so sorry for herself she could have laughed at her foolish deception. Why could she not keep the men she desired, faithful to her? Were there no faithful men in the world? Was it because the men she chose were desirable to so many women? James, Angus, Albany! She admitted that they must be three of the most attractive men in Scotland.

What balm to be with young James who was so eager to see her. At least, she told herself, I have an affectionate son. It was the same with her daughter, Margaret. Her children returned her love, and in that she was fortunate.

Whenever she was with James she thought of her brother Henry who was growing more and more apprehensive every day because he had no son — except one bastard. Poor Henry! It was pleasant to be able to pity him when she considered her wrongs.

She talked to James again and again of her distrust of Albany.

“Why, my son,” she said, “it is a disgraceful state of affairs when you, the King of this realm, must wait upon the pleasure of your subjects!”

James listened eagerly; he was weary of restraint; he had begun to realize that as King he should not have to give way to the will of others. He longed to take what he considered to be his. This was no life for a king, and his mother assured him of this.

“Depend upon it,” she said, “we shall not long endure it.”

She was very conscious of the King’s Master Carver, and she was inclined to think that Harry Stuart was very conscious of her. Often she would look up to see his eyes fixed upon her, and there was a mixture of boldness and reverence in the glance.

She began to look for him as he did for her, and she would find her heartbeats quickening whenever he was near her. Sometimes at a meal their hands would touch and she was certain that the contact affected him as deeply as it did herself.

One day when she sat with the King, and Harry Stuart was among his attendants, she found him close to her and she bade him sit beside her.

This he did with alacrity and rather closer than he should. But she had always been attracted by his boldness.

He whispered: “Your Grace, I know your anxiety on behalf of the King’s Grace and the manner in which he is kept a prisoner. I wish to say that if there is aught I could do in the service of the King… in the service of Your Grace… willingly would I give my life.”

“Thank you,” she answered quietly.

“Your Grace, there are matters with which I would wish to acquaint you, but here… ”

“You wish to see me privately?”

“If Your Grace would grant me such an honor… ”

“Come to my apartments when I leave the King. I will arrange for you to see me alone.”

She could not entirely interpret his reception of such a favor. He looked like a young man in a dream — fearful yet ecstatic.

She caught his excitement and could scarcely wait for the moment when they should be alone. A notion had occurred to her that he was in love with her; she would have to deal with him very gently. All the same she was looking forward to listening to what he had to say.

He stood before her; then he knelt and taking both her hands kissed them.

“Well,” she asked, “what is this great secret you have to impart?”

He rose without her permission and, still keeping her hands imprisoned in his, he stood very close to her. She could see the long, dark eyelashes that set off his brilliant eyes; she saw the warm color in his cheeks. He was extremely handsome; so young and ardent.

“I dare not say it, now that I am in the presence of Your Grace, though I have rehearsed it a hundred times.”

“You had better speak,” she answered. “It would not please me to have granted this interview for no purpose.”

“Your Grace, I fear you may consider me overbold, but since you came to Stirling to be with the King I can neither eat nor sleep for thinking of you.”

“You are very young… ,” she began.

“Your Grace is young also. And if you were in truth old it would make no difference to my feeling. To me you seem without age… You are a Queen and I but the second son of a lord who is not of the first rank. But I am a man for all that, and Your Grace, you are a woman and it is not as Queen and subject that we can speak together this night.”

His emotions seemed to overcome him; he put his hand across his eyes and turned away; she thought he was about to stumble from the room, so she put out a hand to detain him.

Immediately as she touched him he swung round; he lifted her in his arms, for he was strong; she was conscious of his virility and her senses demanded that she meet his passion with her own.

With his arms about her, his lips on her throat, she could not uphold her pretense of reluctance because he could read the signs of passion as easily as she could.

“This is… f-folly,” she stammered.

“What glorious folly,” he cried. “I would willingly die on the morrow following a night of such folly.”

She was trying to remember that she was the Queen; that she was being driven by her emotions once more; but she could remember nothing but her body’s urgent need.

“Where could we be alone?” he whispered.

“Here,” she answered. “I have given orders that I am not to be disturbed.”

“Your Grace… my love… ”

“Oh, but you are a charming boy.”

“Not such a boy, as you shall discover,” he answered boastfully; and she was acquiescent to his demands, for they were her own.

And as they lay together she thought: Why not? There are some faithful men in the world. Why not this charming boy who is socially so far beneath me that he must always be grateful? He had been as passionate as any of her lovers; but a deal more reverent. He reminded her of Angus in the days at Stobhall — those days which she was longing to relive with a partner who would give love for love, fidelity for fidelity.

He said: “When can we be together again?”

“I do not know. We must be careful.”

“I feel reckless. I will take any chance rather than miss one minute of your company.”

“You are a foolish boy,” she told him fondly.

“Is it foolish then to love like this?”

“It would be if we were discovered.”

“Do you think I care what could be done to me? I would count death poor payment for the joy that has been mine.”

Such charming words from such charming lips! There should be many such meetings, she promised herself. The wounds inflicted by Albany were healing.

What did she care for Albany? Let him spend every night with the Fleming woman. She had a new lover; he was young, he was passionate, and he adored her. He betrayed it in every word and gesture.

Unsuitable? So far below her in rank? Young? Younger than she was?

What did she care?

The Queen was in love.

Albany had returned to Edinburgh and he had discovered that Margaret had become his enemy, that she was now seeking reconciliation with her brother and plotting for his, Albany’s, destruction.

He had made an enemy where he had had a friend, which was unfortunate. He longed to return home. The news of Anne was bad; he was furious with the Scots for refusing to carry war into England, and he was wasting his time here.

It was alarming that the Queen should be so often in the company of the King. He could see great danger there, for reports were constantly being brought to him that Margaret was inciting James to rebel against the restraint which was put on him.

He stood up in the Tolbooth and requested leave to go back to France where his wife was dangerously ill. This was denied him; he was told that his presence was needed in Scotland, and there lay his duty.

“Then,” he replied, “the King must be taken from the care of the Queen, for I see great trouble ahead of us if she is allowed to imbue him with ideas of rebellion against the restraint which we have been obliged to impose upon him.”

The lords of the Council agreed with this and it was arranged that Margaret should be separated from James, and his personal attendants replaced by others.

When the news was brought to Margaret, she was alarmed, and she did what was fast becoming a habit with her — she talked over her troubles with Harry.

Harry was proving himself to be more than a passionate lover; he clearly enjoyed giving her his advice and, as she wanted to please him as much as she possibly could, she always asked for it.

“What can we do?” she said. “Our enemies are so strong. I will not be parted from my son.”

“The King himself is reluctant to be parted from Your Grace; which is easily understood. We must be strong but wily. We must think about this very carefully and not act rashly.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, Harry, how good you are for me. You know that I can be a little rash at times. Yes, let us ponder this and decide together how best we can outwit that man.”

“It is said,” Harry went on, “that he intends to make Lord Fleming one of the King’s guardians.” He looked at her covertly, for he knew that not very long ago there had been scandal touching her and the Regent. “And Lord Fleming’s sister is Albany’s mistress. That seems to me a dangerous situation.”

“Why so?”

“Because Fleming has a bad reputation. It is said that he murdered his own wife and her sisters with her. He would like the Regent to be King, which he might well be if the King were dead.”

“Do not speak of such a thing!” cried Margaret in horror.

“My love, such a possibility fills me with horror as it does you, but we must not ignore such possibilities. Fleming would prefer to see his sister the mistress of a king than of a regent.”

“Oh, the vile creatures!” murmured Margaret.

“It may well be,” went on Harry, “that Albany has chosen Fleming for this reason: he wishes someone to do this evil deed for him, and Fleming could be the man.”

Margaret sat listening with narrowed eyes. She knew that to be false. She knew he would never connive at murder and that he had some affection for James; that he was not a man so ambitious that he would wish to see his young kinsman murdered for the sake of a crown.

But it was pleasant to revile him with Harry, knowing herself beyond need of him, knowing that she had a young and handsome lover who adored her.

The winds of December were battering the walls of Stirling Castle when Albany arrived there.

Margaret, with James, was waiting for him. As he entered she noticed how drawn he looked. He is getting old, she thought; and she rejoiced in her Harry who had helped her to recover from that bitter love affair.

James, primed by her and always ready to do her bidding, received Albany coolly. Albany on the other hand treated the boy with the utmost reverence.

Margaret stood watching, delighted that she could do so without emotion; and when Albany came to her and bowed, she acknowledged his greeting without warmth.

“I greatly regret,” he said, “that I have displeased you.”

“You have none but yourself to blame for that regret,” she retorted.

“Cannot we come to some amicable agreement?”

“It seems unlikely,” she retorted. “The King is in no mood to brook further restrictions. He feels them to be impertinent and an insult to his crown. In this he has the support of his mother.”

“I regret that His Grace should harbor such opinions.”

“Indeed my Lord, you seem to feel nothing but regrets.”

She smiled maliciously and she thought: Oh, Harry, my beloved boy, how happy you have made me! Let Albany do his worst. Let him go to France or the Fleming… what do I care, now that I have you!

“I hoped that I could turn you once more to friendship,” murmured Albany.

She shrugged her shoulders. She felt gloriously free. He no longer had the slightest power to move her. She had finished with him as she had with Angus; and when hatred turned to indifference, then could a woman call herself no longer the prisoner of her emotions.

Albany fretted as the weeks slipped by. He had come to no decision. The King was still with his mother in Stirling; he himself had made repeated requests to leave Scotland, and each time they had been refused.

He sat in his apartment looking out over the snowy landscape, thinking of that sickroom in the château. He had written to Anne promising that he would be at her bedside as soon as he could bring some order into the troublesome affairs of this country.

He knew that she would be thinking of him as he was thinking of her, and he longed to assure her once more of his devotion.

It was while he sat thus that messengers arrived from France with the sad news that Anne had died; she had blessed him before she did so and had wished to thank him for the happy life he had given her.

Albany covered his face with his hands when he heard the news.

I failed her, he thought; even at the end I was not at her side to bid her farewell.

There was whispering throughout the Court. The Regent was a widower; it only remained now for the Queen to obtain her divorce and they would be free to marry.

It was a situation to give rise to speculation.

Margaret heard it and smiled. Harry was quite obviously alarmed. She laughed at him when they were alone. “Nay, my love, do you think I’d take Albany now!”

“It might be considered a desirable match by the Council.”

“Do you think I will allow them to make a match which would be quite distasteful to me?”

“I greatly fear they will try to persuade you.”

“Then you are a foolish boy.”

“I live in terror.”

“My poor sweet Harry!”

She was delighted with him and so touched, yet sad because she was unable to give him all she longed to.

“I have not obtained my divorce from Angus yet, you know,” she said to comfort him.

“I rejoice in that, for at least you cannot marry Albany yet.”

“I never shall, I tell you. Though when I get my divorce I may marry again.”

“Your Grace… my dearest… but whom would you marry?”

“A certain young man.” She was reckless, but it was delightful to watch his face. She loved him too much to tease him for long. She went on: “His name is Harry Stuart.”

She watched the wonder dawn slowly in his eyes.

It had been necessary for Margaret to leave her son in Stirling Castle while she came to Edinburgh. She was restless and unhappy because this meant that not only did she have to say a temporary farewell to James, but to Harry also.

She was determined that it was a state of affairs which she would not endure and, when Albany invited her to meet him at the Gatehouse of Holyrood Palace, she went there eager to hear what he had to say to her.

Theirs was a private meeting which she found to her satisfaction, but when she heard the news he had to tell her, she was alarmed.

“I am afraid,” he warned her, “this will prove a shock to Your Grace. Angus has escaped from France and is on his way to England to seek refuge in your brother’s Court.”

Margaret was horrified. Since she had fallen in love with Harry she had been agitating more determinedly than ever for her divorce. She knew how delighted Harry would be, as she would, if she could openly claim him as her husband. She hated the present separation and all the subterfuge which, even when they were under the same roof, had to be put in motion before they could spend a night together. She, as much as he, longed to regularize their union. There would be great opposition to their marriage, she knew; but they would face that afterward. She had acted before on impulse and taken the consequences. If Angus had proved to be the husband she knew her dear Harry would be, she would have had no regrets. It was Angus’s perfidy which had caused her such sorrow, not her own impulsive action.

It had been pleasant to believe Angus to be well out of the way, and the thought of his return and all the trouble it could mean was alarming.

Albany watched her closely. “And your brother will offer him sanctuary and help.”

“I fear so,” she answered.

“Margaret, your brother is no friend to you.”

“I shall agree with you if he is ready to make Angus his friend.”

“That he is eager to do. Moreover, he would give Angus the help he needs to come back to Scotland and form a party to work for English interests and plot the downfall of the King. So you see, he is working against you.”

She was silent. There was so much truth in what he was saying.

“France would be a better friend to you,” went on Albany. “The King of France would grant you a pension; and if at any time Angus returned, and he made life difficult for you in Scotland, honors would be waiting for you in France.”

“Could I be sure of this?”

“I promise you it would be so, upon mine honor.”

“Your honor, my lord?”

“Come, I do not break my word. When did I ever swear to you that I had loved no other woman?”

“’Tis true enough,” she answered.

“We must be reasonable, Margaret. A marriage between us would doubtless do much to bring peace into Scotland. I am now a widower, and if you obtained your divorce you would be free.”

She did not speak; she was thinking how much she would have given such a short time ago to hear him say those words. Now she could listen to them calmly; and she was thinking: Never would I marry you. I have no wish to marry you. You are aging and jaded, and my Harry is so young and tender. He thinks it the most wonderful thing in his life that a queen should love him. When I am free, it is Harry who shall be my husband.

She pretended however to be persuaded. She would let him think that she would marry him; then she would show him how much he meant to her, in the same way as he had shown her.

Revenge was still sweet, so perhaps even now, with Harry’s caresses fresh in her memory, she still had some feeling toward this man.

She would go along with him, hide her true feelings; for if her brother was going to be the friend of Angus so that he regained his power in Scotland, her divorce might be delayed still further, and it would be well to see what France had to offer her.

“There shall be a bond between us,” said Albany. “I will have it drawn up and you will see what advantages will come to you through friendship with France.”

“Yes,” she answered, “let there be such a bond for me to see.”

Now that she was on friendly terms with the Regent, Margaret returned to Stirling to her son and lover. Albany had impressed upon her the need to obey the Council’s injunctions, which were that the King should be kept under restraint for his own safety. She listened quietly and had appeared to acquiesce, but she and Harry together discussed their plans, which were that as soon as the opportunity offered itself the King should be nominal head of the party which they themselves would lead.

That was an uneasy winter.

A quarrel flared up between Margaret and her brother, for her enemies arranged that a copy of the bond to which she had agreed with Albany should be sent among her papers to England.

Henry was furious. Whom could he trust, he stormed, if not his own sister? To think that she was considering making terms with France after all he had done for her.

Margaret shrewdly replied that she herself had had the bond sent to Henry in order that he might understand Albany’s intentions; but Henry was not mollified, because he did not believe her. He guessed that she had heard of his invitation to Angus and because of this was seeking friendship with France. It was a sorry state of affairs when brother and sister must quarrel, grumbled Henry, but he had done all he could to keep his sister from losing her kingdom and her soul; he saw that he might be forced to abandon her if she did not mend her ways.

All this seemed unimportant to Margaret, because of her love for Harry Stuart.

Meanwhile Albany was getting desperate because he was not allowed to return to France. He had written to his friends there, assuring them that it was impossible to persuade the Scots to fight against England. He could no longer serve France, and he begged permission to return.

At last he was allowed by France and Scotland to do so and, before departing for Dumbarton where his ship was waiting for him, he went to Stirling Castle for a last interview with Margaret and her son.

He asked to be alone with Margaret for a few moments so that he could say goodbye to her. She granted this request, exultantly recalling the last time he had left and the sorrow she had felt then.

“This is not goodbye,” he said to her, and he held out his hands.

Margaret pretended not to notice the gesture, and walking to the window, looked out.

“We are sorry to see you go, my lord,” she answered.

“I hope that soon you will be free,” he went on.

“I too hope, as I have for so long.”

“And then,” he added, coming to her and standing close, “we shall be able to make our plans.”

She inclined her head. Her plans were already made, but she was not going to tell him what they were. It would give her some pleasure to refuse his offer of marriage when it came, because, she realized now, she would never really feel indifferent to him.

“Margaret, my dear… ”

She turned and smiled at him vaguely. “I must wait until I am free before I can make my plans,” she replied, and moved away from him.

“How you have changed toward me,” he said sadly.

“Time never stands still for any of us, my lord.”

He sighed and, realizing that it was no use talking to her as a lover, said: “Margaret, the state of a country is always uneasy when the King is not of an age to govern. There are too many ambitious men waiting to seize power. I pray you have a care.”

“The care of my son has always been my first and most important task.”

“That I know well, but it is necessary to act with the greatest caution. I beg of you, do not attempt to bring him out of his boyhood too soon.”

“You must trust me to study his welfare in every way.”

“Margaret.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. It was the gesture of a lover toward his mistress. “Let us part as friends.”

She smiled and, gently disengaging herself, offered him her hands.

“Farewell, my friend,” was all she said.

He drew her to him and kissed her with passion. He still had a slight power to move her. But she was thinking of Harry and their plan to make the young King head of a party which they would lead. All this would be possible, once the Regent had left for France.

Let him think that the kiss she gave him was the kiss of a friend. She could feel little rancor toward him now. Let him go. What did it matter? She was happy with her Harry; and thus she intended to remain for the rest of her life.

Now that Albany had left Scotland, the time had come to carry out that plan which Margaret had cherished for so long.

Closeted with her son and Harry Stuart she told them what they must do. “The King is coming into his own,” she declared. “I, no less than he, am weary of this delay. We must seize our opportunity, and as we have many friends it will soon come.”

Young James and Harry were enthusiastic, and their eyes shone with anticipation, because both saw through this a change in their present situation. James had his eyes on a future when he should be King in more than name. Harry was dreaming of the day when Margaret would keep her promise to make him Treasurer of Scotland, and give the Great Seal into his charge. Nor would that be all; as husband of the Queen great titles as well as honors would be his.

“When?” cried young James.

“As soon as I am sure that we can act with safety,” was the answer. “Now I propose to go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Ninian when in truth I shall be mustering the lords of Galloway whom I have reason to think will be faithful to our cause.”

“And soon,” cried James, “I shall leave this prison. Soon I shall show my subjects that I am in truth the King.”

There was a wildness in the tawny eyes that might have alarmed Margaret if she had not been so elated. She looked from her beloved son to her lover and put an arm about each of them.

“We are together in this,” she murmured, “and we cannot fail.”

There were many to rally to the Queen’s cause. Albany was gone and loyalty to him was waning as it always did when he was no longer in Scotland.

Moreover it was obvious that James would be a King who, in maturity, would make up his own mind and would not thank those who stood against him now. There was the future to think of. James was determined on freedom and would remember those who helped him to it. So there was very little opposition when the King decided to break through his guard at Stirling Castle. When he rode in triumph to Edinburgh his people came running from their houses as he entered the capital city.

“Long live the King!” they shouted. “We have a king to rule us once more.”

And indeed James had the look of a king. What did it matter that he was so young? Youth passed all too quickly. The boy would soon be a man. Another such, they said, as his father. And they remembered the bonny man; remembered how his eyes would gladden at the sight of fair maidens, and his handsome looks and the show he gave them at the jousts when he was always champion. They forgot that he had led their men into unnecessary battle; they forgot that he had died before his time on Flodden Field.

They only remembered his charm and beauty and they said: “James V is another such as James IV. Long live the Stuart. Long live the King!”

So James with his mother rode through his capital and came to the Palace of Holyrood; here they stayed because they had decided to use it as their residence while they remained in the city.

Harry Stuart swaggered about Edinburgh. Rarely had a young man risen so rapidly to power, and many were asking why.

What had this Harry Stuart to bring him such posts as Treasurer and Lord Chancellor? What of those able lords whose experience and rank entitled them to these honors? Why should these be given to a younger son of an obscure nobleman, who had only just begun to be noticed about the Court?

Of course he was handsome; he gave himself airs; he had a knowing look.

They remembered the rise of Angus, and asked themselves if this was an old story repeating itself.

So just as Margaret was beginning to win the respect of the lords she was doomed to lose it. Scotland was prepared to accept the boy King as their ruler; and since he was devoted to his mother and desired her to act as Regent, they were ready to acquiesce. But to set up this nobody — simply because he had a handsome face and a bragging manner — was unendurable.

There was not a lord at Court who was ready to knuckle under to the Queen’s paramour. They complained together of the Queen’s loose living and told themselves that they had not supported her that she might rule Scotland with the help of Harry Stuart.

Margaret was unaware of the grumblings. She was so happy to have her son and lover contented. They were three happy conspirators — all certain of success.

She wrote to Henry in England telling him that she had successfully flouted the restrictions placed on James by Albany, and that the boy was now in Edinburgh recognized as King. She thought that James should be turning his thoughts to marriage, for although he was as yet young, his betrothal was of great importance to him and to Scotland. Nothing would delight Margaret more than to accept her dear niece, the Princess Mary, as her daughter; and knowing her dearest brother’s affection for his nephew (who bore such a striking resemblance to himself) she felt that he would not be averse to accepting him as his son.

Thomas Magnus, Henry’s ambassador, arrived in Scotland with Henry’s reply to this proposal, and when Margaret heard that he was in Edinburgh she was eager to see him without delay.

James and Harry were with her when she received Magnus, who told her that his master was pleased to hear that James had freed himself from the restraint put on him by Albany and that he hoped that now there would be an end to the strife between their two countries.

“My brother must be assured that this will come to pass,” Margaret replied. “Pray tell me what was his comment on my proposal concerning the Princess Mary.”

Magnus glanced at Harry, but Margaret waved an imperious hand. “All that you have to say may be said before the Lord Chancellor.”

Magnus was clearly surprised that such a young man should hold the office, but he said: “My master, the King of England, declares himself to be overjoyed at the prospect of the match you propose. At this time a marriage alliance exists between the Princess Mary and the Emperor Charles; but this is a match which my master would be happy to see abandoned for the sake of one with Scotland.”

“This is news I have longed to hear!” Margaret told him.

“But,” interjected Magnus, “it would be necessary to keep the proposed alliance between Scotland and England a secret until that between England and the Emperor has been officially abandoned.”

Margaret nodded; she turned to James and Harry.

“I am so happy,” she said. “I have always longed for this. My son the true King of Scotland, and friendship between my native land and that of my adoption.” The glance she gave Harry was warm and secret. She wanted to say: And I love and am loved.

But of course he understood.

“I know,” she went on, “that my brother has my welfare at heart. He has not understood my desire for a divorce and has opposed me in this matter, but I feel sure, now that there is this understanding between us, he will no longer put obstacles in my way. I do not forget how he keeps the troublesome Angus in England, knowing how it would embarrass me if he returned to Scotland.”

And then, my love, her loving glances told Harry, there will be an end to this secrecy. I shall let the whole world know how matters stand between us two.

Magnus took out the letters and gave them to her.

She sat at the table with James on one side of her, Harry on the other; and while they were thus engaged there was a knock on the door.

Margaret looked up startled; she had given orders that she was not to be disturbed except in an emergency. She could not believe that she had been disobeyed.

“You may enter,” she called.

One of her pages opened the door, and a man with the stains of travel on his clothes stood there.

“You have news?” asked Margaret, rising.

“Yes, Your Grace, and I thought it should be brought to you without delay. The Earl of Angus crossed the Border this day and is now in Scotland.”