The Thistle and the Rose

Daisy, Marigold, Pomegranate and Rose

In spite of desertion by her husband and the loss of her younger son, Margaret felt excited during those April days in Morpeth when she was preparing for her journey south. Henry had written warmly; he was eagerly looking forward to seeing her at his Court, for it was good, he said, that sisters and brothers should meet even though their duties to their kingdoms must necessarily keep them apart for so much of their lives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I never wished to make you sad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You plead too earnestly for your friend.”

“He will be your friend too.”

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

“Margaret, I beseech you… ”

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

“We?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rode up to her, smiling.

“My King and dearest brother.”

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

“This is a great joy,” he told her.

“Henry! How happy I am to be here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mary! Why, can it be possible?”

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

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

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

“And you have had adventures.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are happy now though, Mary?”

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

“So it was all worthwhile.”

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

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

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

“Not for long.”

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

“And he married you.”

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

“So you got your wish.”

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

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

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

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

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

Margaret’s face hardened. “Handsome enough.”

“Why did he not come with you?”

“He preferred to stay in Scotland.”

“I know what I should do if I had such a husband.”

“What?”

“Rid myself of him and find another.”

“Easier said than done.”

“What! And you a Tudor. Did you not know that Tudors always find a way? I said I’d marry Charles Brandon — before they sent me off to France — and I have married him. We get what we want… if circumstances do sometimes make us wait for it. We’re three of a kind, Margaret — you, myself and Henry. Don’t you see it?”

“We’re strong, we’re determined; yes, I see that.”

“Sometimes I am a little sorry for the people who marry us. I was a little sorry for poor Louis. I knew he would not live long. He tried to be young, Margaret. That was a mistake. His pursuit of youth led him to the grave. And now this Angus… I am sure you will make him sorry for what he has done to you. And sometimes I look at Henry and Katharine and say: ‘Poor Katharine.’”

“But she is devoted to him.”

“Katharine is such a virtuous woman; she’ll always be devoted to him because he is her husband. Her religion tells her she must be. But there is a little friction between them already. He begins to wonder why she cannot give him a son.”

“But she has had several miscarriages, and now she has Mary.”

“Yes, but where are the boys, where are the boys?” Mary took up a silver pomander on a jeweled girdle and set it about her waist. “Nay,” she said, “I would not be the wife or husband of a Tudor… and displease them. If I were Angus, Katharine, or even Charles, I would be wary.”

Then she began to dance around the room, looking so vital, so lovely, that Margaret could well understand how the King of France in pursuit of youth had been hastened to his tomb by his desire for a Tudor.

There were pleasant hours spent with Katharine, and when they could be alone together they were two mothers fondly discussing their children.

The two little girls were so close in age that when Margaret was at Greenwich they shared a nursery; and it was the joy of the two mothers to visit them and send away their nurses and attendants that they might have the children to themselves.

Margaret, remembering what Mary had said about Henry’s growing uneasiness at Katharine’s inability to give him a son, felt herself drawn toward her sister-in-law, not only by affection and a common interest, but by pity.

And during those sessions in the nurseries, Katharine confided her great desire to bear a son.

“If I could but give Henry the son he so earnestly needs I should be completely happy,” she told her sister-in-law.

“You will,” Margaret assured her. “You have had bad luck, as I did in the beginning. There was my little James and my little Arthur, and they both died. Then the present James. Ah, if you could see my James! I never saw such a lovely boy.”

“I would I could see him. What a joy he must be to you.”

“If I could only have him with me.” Margaret was momentarily sad and Katharine was angry with herself for having reminded her sister-in-law that she was parted from her son. But she could not hide the envy in her eyes, and Margaret felt that it was she who should be sorry for Katharine.

“I do believe Mary has grown since we last saw her,” she said. “And my own Margaret thrives also. Poor child! When I think of her first seeing the light of day in that dreary Harbottle. So different from this little one… who was born in royal pomp in this very Palace of Greenwich.”

Katharine could not resist picking her daughter up in her arms. Mary, a solemn baby, regarded her mother serenely.

“I am sure she will be very wise,” said Katharine.

“She certainly has a look of wisdom,” answered Margaret, and she took her own daughter from her cradle; and the two mothers sat in the window seat, each holding her child in her lap.

Margaret asked Katharine to tell her of Mary’s baptism; and Katharine was happy, recalling that ceremony. She told how carpets had been spread from the Palace to the font in the Gray Friars’ church here at Greenwich; how her godmothers had been the Princess Katharine Plantagenet and the Duchess of Norfolk; how the child had been carried by the Countess of Salisbury with the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walking on either side of her, and Cardinal Wolsey himself had been her godfather.

Margaret listened and cried: “How different from my little Margaret in Harbottle!”

And as they talked together, Henry came into the nursery, all aglitter in his green velvet spattered with jewels. He greeted them boisterously.

“Ha! The mothers in council, eh! And what bonny children.” He took Mary from her mother and cradled her in his arms, smiling down into those eyes which regarded him as serenely as they had Katharine.

“This is a clever child,” cried Henry. “She knows her father!”

Katharine smiled tenderly at the two of them.

“You must spare a glance for my little Margaret,” his sister told him.

He came over to her and peered down at the child in her arms.

“A bonny girl,” he said. He put out a finger and touched the little Margaret’s cheeks. “I fancy she knows her uncle,” he said.

Then he walked up and down the apartment, rocking Mary in his arms, now and then chuckling as he looked down at her.

When he had perambulated for a few minutes he came to stand at the window.

“’Twas ill luck about your little son, Margaret,” he said.

Margaret’s face clouded, and Katharine watched her anxiously. She would have liked to warn Henry not to talk of the matter, had she dared.

Henry’s face darkened. “’Twas that scoundrel Albany. By God, it would please me to see him sent back to France.”

“It is what I am hoping will happen,” Margaret replied. “If I can return, take the Regency and the guardianship of James, I shall forget past troubles and be happy again.”

“You are fortunate, Margaret, to have a son.”

The lower lip jutted out bellicosely, and the face had grown suddenly sullen.

“I am very fortunate in my little James. I would you could see him, Henry. Do you know whom he resembles most closely?”

“Who?” Henry demanded.

“Yourself.”

“Is that so!” The sullenness disappeared and his face was sunny again. “What color hair?”

“Tawny. Bright complexion. Eyes blue. Those who have seen you have said ‘How like his uncle he is!’”

Henry slapped his velvet covered thigh.

“Tell me more of this little fellow. Is he bright? Is he gay?”

“Did I not say he resembles you? It is not only in his looks, I do assure you. I believe he will grow up to be exactly like you.”

“Let us hope that he does,” put in Katharine fondly.

Henry regarded her affectionately, but his moods were always transient. Margaret could see he was thinking: Why do others have sons when they are denied to me?

It was a sunny day and crowds had come to see the tournament at Greenwich.

Margaret sat with her sister and sister-in-law in the balcony which had been set up for them. It was a brilliant scene; the ladies were gaily attired, and Margaret was secretly delighted that she could make as good a show as any of them. Her gown was as gay as Mary’s and as fine as Katharine’s. The latter of course lacked the love of display which was so conspicuous in Margaret, Mary, and Henry; whenever those three entered an assembly the brilliance of their garments would have betrayed who they were, even if their identities were unknown.

The balcony had been elaborately decorated with their devices. The daisy for Margaret, the marigold for Mary, the pomegranate for Katharine; and dominating them all was the rose of England which was Henry’s own emblem.

The shouts of the crowd, the warm sunshine, the brilliance of the knights in armor were exhilarating. It was a glorious occasion and Margaret was flattered that it should be in her honor.

Mary’s eyes were fixed on a tall figure among the combatants.

“Suffolk could be the champion of all, if he wished,” she whispered to Margaret.

“And why should he not wish so?” demanded Margaret.

“You have been away for a long time. Naturally he must not shine more brightly than one other. I said to him last night: ‘As you love me, take care in the jousts.’ ‘What,’ he answered, ‘do you fear that some agile adversary will slay me?’ ‘Nay,’ I cried, ‘but I fear you may outshine the King.’”

“So Henry still likes to be the victor, as he ever did.”

Mary laughed loudly. “It would go ill with any man who proved himself to be a more valiant knight. And we are still being punished for our marriage, you know. We have to pay Henry back for my dowry. We have to walk carefully. You should remember that, Margaret. Whatever you want from Henry, and I assume you want his help to regain your kingdom, you must always remember that, wherever he is, he must be supreme. Impress that on your mind so firmly that you believe it, and Henry will be your friend.”

“How can you speak thus of our brother?”

“Because I am his sister. Because I know him well. I love him, as he loves me; but I know him better than he knows me; indeed I know him better than he knows himself.”

Margaret thoughtfully watched the shining figures riding into the lists. There was truth in what Mary said; and if she were wise she would remember it.

“Who is the bulky knight now riding in?” she asked of Mary.

“Sir William Kingston. None could mistake his size and shape.”

“Well none will unseat him, I imagine.”

“It would depend,” replied Mary sagely.

Now the attention of the crowd was focused on two tall knights whose tabards were embroidered with golden honeysuckle, for it seemed that whomsoever these two knights tackled they were the victors.

Margaret noticed that Mary’s brilliant eyes never left them, and leaning toward her she heard her whisper: “Have a care, Charles. Be good… so good that all say how good you are… and then be just not quite so good.”

Margaret thought: Her stay in France must have changed her; it had made her grow into a cynic. Could that be the influence of young François? Margaret believed that was very likely.

Mary was crying excitedly “Look, Kingston is in the lists. And the tall knight with him. Kingston is falling… horse and all. It is the first time he has been unseated.”

Then she leaned back against the embroidered marigolds on her chair and began to laugh softly.

In the great hall the knights had gathered. Queen Katharine sat on her chair of state with Mary on one side of her, Margaret on the other; and one by one the knights came forward to pay homage to her.

Into the hall came one on whom all eyes were fixed. This was because he was the knight who had overthrown Sir William Kingston; and everyone was discussing that extraordinary feat.

“Now,” said Katharine, “we will discover the identity of this strange knight, for his helmet must be removed.” She called to him: “Sir Knight, we would speak with you. We would tell you that we were delighted with your prowess. ’Twas bravely and expertly done, I doubt I have ever seen such skill in the joust.”

Mary said in a voice in which, it seemed to Margaret, the mischief lurked: “The King will wish to challenge you, I’ll swear, Sir Knight. For he is proud of his own daring at the joust.”

The knight came forward, bowing before the Queen, and when his helmet was removed, Henry’s flushed and laughing face was exposed.

“So I deceived you, eh. You Kate and you Mary, and you Margaret! Well, you have been away, but Kate and Mary… well, methinks they should have known their King.”

Katharine said quickly: “But now we know the truth, we wonder we did not guess, for never have we seen such skill except that of Your Grace.”

“So you have a fair opinion of my skill, eh?”

“And the greatest pleasure this joust has given me,” went on Katharine, “is to learn that my King is the champion.”

“Well, well, ’twas done in your honor.”

And so the masquerade was played as it had been many times before and would be again and again.

Henry was in high spirits. At the banquet he drank freely and his voice could be heard above all others. He called for music and played the lute himself; and one of the singers sang a song of his composing.

How he loves his life, thought Margaret. How lucky he is. How different his fate from mine. And yet he lacks that for which he most longs; and although I am parted from him at this time, I still have my little James. And though he be in Stirling and I in Greenwich, he is still my beloved son.

The summer had come and Margaret was anxious, although she could never have enough gaiety, and the entertainment to be enjoyed at her brother’s Court delighted her. She missed Angus, and she believed that if he had come to her in England she would have been ready to forgive his desertion; she was longing to see little James; and she reminded herself that her reason for coming to Henry’s Court was not to pass the time in pleasure.

Henry, she had discovered, was not eager for friendship with Scotland; he knew full well that while Albany remained Regent, Scotland would be the close ally of France; he hated François as much as ever, being jealous of his successes in war and the reports he heard of his adventures both at home and abroad. His little mouth would grow prim at the mention of the French King’s amorous conduct; he often remarked that he did not believe God would long favor such a man. He was now seeking friendship with the Emperor Maximilian, for he believed that if the two of them stood together they could foil François’s ambitious dream of bringing Europe under his rule.

He was however deeply desirous of removing Albany from the Regency; and he wrote to the Scottish Parliament telling them that he did not care to see his nephew in peril; and that if any harm were to come to the King — as he regretted it had to his little brother — all men would suspect Albany. Therefore it was imperative that Albany should be sent back to France without delay.

The Parliament’s reply that the King was well, healthy, and in no danger, and that they had no intention of removing Albany, filled Henry with rage.

But Albany, whose great desire was for peace, wrote to Henry saying he believed that if he came to England he could convince Henry of his honest intentions.

When Henry received this note he came to Margaret’s apartments in Greenwich Palace and laid it before her.

“Ha!” he cried. “Once the fellow comes to England he will be at our mercy. Then I shall insist on his obeying my will.”

“You think the King of France will allow that, Henry?”

“The King of France!” Henry’s face grew a shade more scarlet. There was no name in Christendom that angered him more than that one. “Nay, sister,” he went on, giving her a baleful look which was alarming when she considered how much she hoped for from him, “I do not consider the wishes of the King of France. I will instruct my Lord Cardinal how he is to treat Master Albany when he sets foot in my realm.”

“You will act with your usual wisdom, Henry,” answered Margaret, “but I do not think that, when Albany considers this matter, he will come to your Court. He is a shrewd man.”

“I shall couch my invitation in honeyed words,” retorted Henry.

Margaret was right and Albany did not come to England. Instead he sent as his emissary a certain François de la Fayette, who promised that if Margaret would return to Scotland she should have her dowry returned to her, and that her husband, Angus, and his clan should retain their privileges as Scottish subjects — providing they did not revolt against the government.

The terms seemed fair enough, thought Margaret; and as that year passed she began to feel homesick for Scotland. She wanted to see her son; she was anxious to be with Angus again; she was not sure of her feelings for him and although she did not think of him very tenderly, she wanted to be in his company again so that she could analyze her emotions. Moreover, Albany would be there; she told herself that she hated that man, but she thought of him often and had a great desire to come face-to-face with him. Often when his name was mentioned she would abuse him, calling him the murderer of her child; but secretly she did not believe this.

Albany was a Royal Stuart; and ever since she had met her first husband, she had been fascinated by that clan. She wanted to see Albany again, to live close to him; perhaps to discover her true feelings regarding him.

Henry had put at Margaret’s service that palace known as Scotland Yard, which was the residential quarters of the Kings of Scotland when visiting London. From the bay windows of the Queen’s Treasury she could look out on the river. Not far away was Charing Cross and the Palace of Westminster where the Court was in residence.

Christmas was almost upon her and it was more than a year since she had left Scotland. Young Margaret, now over a year old, was a lively little girl with a personality of her own; it seemed long to be away from home.

Moreover she was in financial distress. She needed money for servants and for gowns since Henry still insisted that the entertainments he gave were in her honor, and she could not attend them wearing garments which had been seen many times before.

She had no recourse but to turn to Cardinal Wolsey and plead for money, which she found very humiliating; but she pointed out that if she could not get it from the Cardinal she must needs approach the King, and that she asked only for loans as, when she regained what was hers, she would pay back all that she had borrowed.

And although she did succeed in getting a portion of the money for which she asked, and that meant that she had more fine gowns which could always put her in good spirits, still she thought with nostalgia of Scotland.

“James will forget his mother,” she told her friends, “if he does not see her soon. He is over-young for such a long separation.”

She did not mention Angus but she wondered what he was doing during her absence. She did hear that he had entered into an alliance with Albany and was working with him.

There was news too of Albany himself. His wife’s health had grown worse since her husband’s stay in Scotland and she was said to be dying. Albany, who wanted to be with her, had stood up in the Tolbooth when Parliament was assembled there and explained with anguish his desire to be at the bedside of his wife.

“There is a husband a woman would be glad to have!” sighed Margaret, for how could she help comparing such devotion with the desertion of Angus who had left her when he thought her to be on the point of death?

But the Scots could not let Albany go at this point and, although it was agreed that he should return to France, it was pointed out that he must only go when the affairs of Scotland permitted.

So Albany remained in Scotland and Margaret continued to think yearningly of that land.

Christmas had come and was celebrated at Greenwich.

There must be entertainments in honor of his sister, declared Henry, for it seemed she would not be with them much longer.

So Margaret sat in state with her brother, sister, and sister-in-law while an artificial garden was wheeled into the great hall. It was, Henry whispered to them, keeping his eyes on Margaret all the time to make sure she was suitably impressed “the Garden of Esperance.”

At each of the four corners of this contraption was a tower, and the banks of the “garden” were covered with artificial flowers made of colored silks and brocades and leaves of green satin. In the center was a pillar set with jewels, and above it was a gilded arch of red and white roses. In the center of the arch was a huge posy combined of roses, marguerites, marigolds, and pomegranates. And in the garden sat twelve beautifully attired men with twelve women; and when the garden had been wheeled before the dais on which sat the King with his Queen and sisters, the men and women stepped from the garden and danced a ballet.

Margaret clapped her hands with glee and declared that she had never seen anything so exquisite!

“Nor will you in Scotland,” Henry told her with deep satisfaction.

No, she thought, but for all that I would as lief be there. I wonder how James has grown. I wonder what Angus is doing. I wonder if Albany is preparing to depart.

The winter had passed in revelries and the spring had now arrived.

Margaret had decided that in clement May she would set out on her journey to Scotland.

“Then,” cried Henry, “we must have some entertainments as a farewell. I would like them to be elegant and brilliant, so that when you are in Scotland you will remember how we manage such matters here in England.”

“You are very good to me,” Margaret told him.

“Ah, and ready to be more so, my dear sister. When you are back in Scotland you must see that that villain Albany is sent back where he belongs. He’s a servant of the French King, and it’s a scandal to have him there where you should be.”

Margaret feigned agreement which she did not feel. She was hoping now that when she returned to Scotland she would have an opportunity of speaking with Albany, of trying to make some terms with him.

It was while she was preparing to leave that the riot of the apprentices broke out in London. This was a revolt of Londoners against the foreign workers in their city; and houses were sacked and burned. The attack was particularly vicious against Spanish merchants living in London; it was said that since there had been a Spanish queen sharing the throne, these people had been particularly favored, and in such a manner as to jeopardize the livelihood of the English. The foreigners seemed to want to do nothing but work; the English like to work for a while and then enjoy themselves. Thus the foreigners prospered more than the natives, which caused great irritation that came to a head on that day which was afterward known as Evil May Day.

The Duke of Norfolk came to London to quell the revolt. Thomas More, who had been undersheriff of the city, risked his life to plead with the mob for tolerance toward the foreigners, pointing out that they could only bring trouble on themselves. Henry kept away from London; he hated any show of disapproval among his subjects; and although he was ready to take off the head of any member of his Court who did such a thing, he quailed before the mob. On that sad day 278 youths were taken prisoner, some mere boys of twelve or fourteen, and throughout the city gibbets were erected as a dreadful warning to any other subjects who were considering revolt against the King’s peace.

This put an end to the festivities for Margaret’s departure; she heartily wished that she had left London before she had had to encounter the sight of those gallows and the wailing women who called in the streets for mercy on their young sons.

She guessed that in his wrath Henry would be terrible; and she was right.

Katharine and Mary came to her apartments, and they could talk of nothing but this melancholy event.

Katharine, the gentler of the two, was very upset. “Mothers are sending petitions to me imploring me to plead with the King. It saddens me so. But what can I do? Henry will not listen to me.”

Mary shook her head sadly. “Henry is determined on vengeance. He has said that an example must be made and he is not inclined to show mercy.”

“Is there nothing we can do?” asked Margaret. “What if we three went together and pleaded for those boys? Henry loves to grant such requests.”

Yes, she thought, it reminds him of his power over us all.

“If it were in public… ,” mused Mary, who understood her brother even better than Margaret. She stood up suddenly and laughed. “I have a plan. He will come to Westminster Hall to pass judgment; it will be a ceremonious occasion. The Cardinal, the Council, the Mayor and Aldermen will be with him; and so shall we, for you know how he likes to have us with him. Now if, when all are assembled, we take off our headdresses, let our hair fall about our shoulders and throw ourselves on our knees… Why, don’t you see… ?”

“It would be as effective as a masque,” agreed Margaret.

On the high dais in the hall of Westminster sat the King; with him was the great Cardinal Wolsey whose magnificence and pomp rivaled that of Henry; there were the Council, the Mayor, and the Aldermen; and seated with the King and his family — his wife and two sisters.

Then into the hall the prisoners were brought — they were mostly youths, but there were some old men among them and even a few women. They looked wretched, dirty, and hopeless, bound by ropes with halters about their necks. Outside their families clustered, and the sounds of their weeping could be heard within. The ringleaders of the revolt had already been punished and were at this time hanging by their necks from the signposts outside their master’s dwellings; it seemed more than likely that the miserable prisoners would have met the same end before nightfall.

Henry stared angrily at the prisoners, his face scarlet, his frown so deep that his blue eyes were almost lost in the plump flesh about them.

The Cardinal had asked the King to show mercy on these prisoners, the majority of whom were little more than children, but Henry sullenly replied that the peace of his city had been violated and he could not tolerate such conduct; example must be made; he would have the citizens see what happened to those who defied the King’s law.

But it was clear to Margaret watching, that Henry was not as angry as he wished it to be believed; he was playing a part now as he loved to do in the masques: the great King, all powerful and terrible… yet ready to be moved to mercy.

Mary met her eye. It was the signal. They took off the headdresses which confined their hair, and it fell about their shoulders. The three of them were noted for their beautiful hair.

The King looked startled as they threw themselves at his feet and weeping asked him to show mercy on the prisoners. He stared sternly at those beautiful bowed heads for some seconds before he allowed his face to soften. Then the frown left his face and the little eyes shone bright blue.

“Aye,” he murmured, “they are indeed young. And how could I refuse to tender mercy when beseeched in such a manner?”

There was a silence in the hall, but it only lasted for a few seconds. Then the prisoners, understanding, took their halters from their necks and tossed them into the air.

The three Queens rose to their feet. Margaret and Mary were smiling at each other; but Katherine was weeping.

It is true, thought Margaret, that it is like a masque!

The farewells had been said and Margaret had started on her journey north. It was pleasant traveling through the green English country in the early summer days, and Margaret would have been in no hurry had she not so longed to see her son. She was excited too at the prospect of reunion with Angus; her feelings had changed toward him; she had often told herself during the last year that had he been with her she might not have passed such carefree days; but all the same she could not suppress her excitement as she came nearer to the Border. She was thinking too of Albany and wondering whether she might not make some terms with him; and contemplating such interviews gave the same lifting of her spirits as she felt at the prospect of meeting her husband again.

When she reached the city of York which greeted her with as much pomp on her return from the English Court as it had when she had passed through on her journey toward it, she found that a servant of Albany’s was staying there. This was Gaultier de Malines, and Margaret sent for him and asked him if he had news of his master.

“Yes, Your Grace, my master has departed for France after a long delay. He sailed from Dumbarton on the eighth day of June.”

“And my son the King?”

“He is well and happy, Your Grace; and since it was known that you were returning to Scotland he has been moved from Stirling to Edinburgh where he has his apartments in David Tower.”

“Ah! So he is well and happy. I rejoice. I hope soon to see him.”

It was good news; but she was a little sorry that Albany had returned to France. Not that she would betray this to anyone, for indeed, she only half admitted it to herself.

She learned that, before leaving, Albany had appointed a Regency which consisted of the Archbishops of St. Andrews and Glasgow and the Earls of Angus, Arran, Huntley, and Argyle with the Sieur de la Bastie who would of course guard his, Albany’s, interests.

Margaret was glad that Angus formed part of that company although it did mean that after her departure to England he had thrown in his lot with Albany. Perhaps it would have been foolish of him to have accompanied her to England; perhaps he was growing up to wisdom. But how much more contented she would have been if he had thrown aside everything to be with her, as she had when she had chosen to marry him.

And when she passed over the Border, there was Angus waiting to greet her — as he had been ordered to do by the Council — and when she saw him she forgot her disappointment. He was as handsome as ever, although he had aged a little. He was no longer a boy, having lost some of his innocent looks, but he was her Angus and still the most handsome man in Scotland.

Impulsive and warmhearted as she was, she thrust aside all rancor. Let them have done with the past. There he was, come to meet her, to welcome her back to Scotland.

He rode away from his men toward her, and she too advanced ahead of her party.

“Margaret — ” he began.

But she interrupted: “Oh, my dearest, how long it has seemed without you!”

The smile that touched his lips was one of relief, but she did not notice this; she only saw that he was smiling at her, that his eyes were warm with admiration, for the year of luxury had restored all her vitality and she was young and beautiful again.

She held out her hand; he took it and his lips were warm against her skin.

“You are pleased to see me?” she asked.

He lifted his eyes to her face and it seemed to her that words were unnecessary.

So together they began the journey to the capital, and in those first days of reunion she did not notice that there was something sheepish in his manner; that often he failed to meet her eye.

She was happy to be back, for soon, she promised herself, she would see her little son. Angus was with her, her dear husband who had made his mistakes and was sorry for them.

Her friends wondered how long it would be before she discovered Angus’s secret; and those who loved her, trembled for her, because they knew how great her grief would be.