by Jean Plaidy
At last help came from England. Henry had sent a command to Lord Dacre to go to Coldstream and from there to escort his sister to his Castle of Morpeth, where she should remain for her confinement.
When Lord Dacre arrived at the Priory the birth was clearly very near, and it was deliberated which was the more dangerous: to face the strenuous journey in her state, or to remain and risk capture by Albany’s forces.
Margaret herself made the decision. “I would rather put myself at my brother’s mercy than that of my enemies in Scotland,” she said.
So the tedious and dangerous journey began.
Lord Dacre, as one of the lords of the North of England who, so far from the Court often made their own laws, was an arrogant man with a profound distrust and hatred of the Scots. He implied that he was ready to serve the Queen because she was an Englishwoman, but he was going to be very wary of her Scottish companions.
He told the Queen that Queen Katharine had sent comforts for her—clothes and goods which she would need for her confinement—to Morpeth, and these were awaiting her there; there were also letters from her sister-in-law who, having herself suffered the rigors of childbearing, was anxious that Margaret should face the ordeal as comfortably as possible.
So Margaret set out from Coldstream but, before she had gone very far, it became clear that she would not be able to complete the journey to Morpeth.
Dacre made a quick decision. They were not far from the Border fortress of Harbottle, and he decided they must halt there. Harbottle, being one of the English fortresses immediately on the Border, Dacre was determined no Scotsman should enter it. Therefore the Queen must say goodbye to her husband and all her friends who had accompanied her while she stayed in the fortress.
Fainting with exhaustion and already beginning to feel the first pains, Margaret knew that for the sake of the child she must have immediate shelter; so she allowed herself to be taken in, there to be tended by strangers.
She was scarcely aware of this for her agony had begun and, as was usual with her, her labor was long and painful.
Two days later, on October 5, she gave birth to a daughter whom she decided to call after herself. The Lady Margaret Douglas was a healthy child and, in spite of the trials which had preceded her birth, seemed as if she would survive.
For days Margaret was too ill to understand where she was; and when a gentleman of her brother’s bedchamber, Sir Christopher Gargrave, called at the castle with letters from Queen Katharine, Margaret could only hold them in her hands, for she was too ill to read them.
“I could not bring the stuffs Her Grace the Queen sent to Your Grace,” Sir Christopher told her. “There are too many robbers in the Border country, and the articles would never have made the journey from Morpeth to Harbottle in safety. But when Your Grace is well enough to leave Harbottle for Morpeth, you will find them waiting for you there.”
Margaret smiled her thanks, but she was too weak to care.
At that time she believed she would never leave Harbottle.
Slowly she began to recover, but then suffered so painfully from sciatica that she was unable to move from her apartment, and it was not until November was nearing its end that she left Harbottle for Morpeth.
When she arrived at Morpeth Castle Margaret suffered a relapse. All the excitement and uncertainty which had been hers at this difficult time had been too much for her; not only had she suffered from a difficult confinement but continually she worried as to the fate of her little sons.
She believed that, had they escaped with her, her high spirits would have helped her to regain her health; as it was she was sunk in wretchedness and forebodings of evil.
The ghosts of those other little Princes in such similar circumstances continued to haunt her; and as she lay in her sickbed at Morpeth it seemed to her—and those about her—that she would never leave it.
Angus, with the rest of her friends who had escaped into England with her, was allowed to come to her at Morpeth; and Dacre was inclined to view Angus with tolerance because his master Henry VIII did not disapprove of the young man. Angus, however, was far from happy. Continually he wondered why he had allowed himself to be caught up in such troubles. He believed that Albany would confiscate his estates; and he had no wish to live as an exile in England.
He often thought too of Jane Stuart. His conscience had never really ceased to trouble him about her; and because she was gentle and had loved him so much, he was sure that if he could go to her and explain, she would understand the predicament he was in and how, with the Queen desiring him so ardently, and his family desiring the marriage with equal ardor, he had been in no position to refuse it.
But he had not been happy—apart from those first weeks—though he need not tell Jane about those. Each day when he went to see Margaret she seemed more wan, more exhausted. His little daughter was flourishing so he need not worry about her; she had nurses to look after her now that they were at Morpeth, and all the good things which kind Queen Katharine had sent for her were being used.
There was no need for him to remain at Morpeth. Albany had written to Margaret that if she would return to Scotland she should enjoy all the benefits of her dower lands; and might take part in the guardianship of her children, provided she did not wish to take them from Scotland. Her friends should not suffer for the part they had played in her escapade.
It was that last sentence which appealed to Angus. He wanted to go back to Scotland, to live in peace on his estates, to go to Jane Stuart and explain to her why he had done what he had.
And why should he not return?
Surely if he did he could make matters easier for Margaret. The idea tormented him so much that he began to make plans.
That was a miserable Christmas for Margaret. Not only was she ill in body and disturbed in mind, and living in Morpeth Castle when she longed to go south to her brother’s Court, but terrible news was brought to her.
She was lying in bed, feeling too weak to rise, with her little daughter lying in her cradle beside the bed, sleeping peacefully; wondering why Angus looked withdrawn as though he were occupied with his secret thoughts, why he started to the window every time he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. If he were expecting a message from her brother why did he not say so? She too was constantly expecting such messages.
He was at the window now, staring moodily out, and Margaret called him to her bedside.
She wanted to tell him that they should be happy together. They should remember how they had loved each other in the first weeks of their marriage before their troubles had started. Because the country did not approve of their match, that was no reason why they themselves should not.
Angus had come to stand by her bedside, and she noticed that a fretful look marred his handsome features.
She held out a hand. “It will soon be Christmas,” she said. “A happy season.”
“Here in this place! ’Tis like a prison. Can Christmas be celebrated in a prison?”
“It is not a prison,” she replied. “It is true there are few comforts, but that is because it is really a Border fortress. Dacre is a good host, being commanded to be so by my brother. I doubt not that letters of goodwill, from him and Katharine, will be arriving erelong. Come closer, my dearest.” He sat down and she went on: “Do you so long to be back in Scotland?”
“I would we had never left it.”
“If we could only have brought my sons with us…I would be quite happy.”
He did not answer; and then suddenly was alert. He had heard the sound of horses’ hoofs below. Immediately he had risen and gone to the window. When he turned to her she saw the excited look on his face.
“Messengers,” he said. “I will go and see what news they bring.”
She closed her eyes. Invitations from Henry, she thought. He will be impatient for me to arrive at his Court. He will want to show me how magnificent he has made it.
She smiled, thinking of ten-year-old Henry, and asked herself: Has h
e changed much?
Then Angus returned with the messenger, and as she looked at the man who had obviously ridden hard—for he was very travel-stained and weary—her heart began to beat faster, for she knew that he brought news which would be unwelcome. Nor did he come from England, but from Scotland.
“You had better tell Her Grace what you have told me,” said Angus.
The man looked appealingly at Angus as though imploring him to help him in his difficult task.
But Angus was silent.
“Tell me quickly,” commanded Margaret. “You must not keep me in suspense.”
“Your Grace, the little Duke of Ross fell sick of a childish malady. He did not recover from it.”
There was silence in the room.
Margaret lay speechless; all the color had left her face. It was like waking to find that a hideous nightmare was no dream after all.
What she had feared had come to pass.
She was inconsolable. Her women tried to calm her.
“This is so bad for you, Your Grace. Children take these maladies…and often they die.”
“Had I brought him with me he would be alive today,” she asserted. “It is my enemies who have done this. They have murdered him as others murdered my uncles in the Tower. And my little James, what will become of him?”
“Your Grace, you have heard that he continues in fine health.”
“For how long?” she cried bitterly.
There was no consoling her. Her women reminded her of her weakness, but she took no heed of them.
She cried out: “He has done this, that black-hearted murderer. He has killed my little son. My child…dying, and his mother not with him. My little Alexander who was such a bonny child. And what of my James? Oh, this is a bitter day for me. Would I could lay my hands on that murderer. How did he do it? They say my uncles were stifled in their beds. Is that how my little Alex was murdered? You see, do you not, if he murders my little James as he has his brother, then there would be no one to stand between him and the throne.”
They were afraid that in the excess of grief she would do herself some harm, so they sent Angus to comfort her.
He sat by the bed and begged her to stop weeping, for it grieved him to see her thus.
“It is easy for you,” she cried. “He is not your son.”
“It is not easy for me to look on when you are so sad.”
That softened her. “Oh, my dearest,” she cried, “what should I do without you? But if only our plans had succeeded, if only with this dear daughter of ours I had my sons as well, I would ask nothing more. I swear I would ask nothing more.”
Angus knelt by the bed. “Return to Scotland,” he said earnestly. “Make peace with Albany.”
“Make peace with the murderer of my son!”
“You know he is no murderer. What sense does it make…murdering young Alexander while James lives? Had he wished to remove all obstacles to the throne he would have killed them both.”
“How do I know what will befall James now that his brother has been removed?”
“You must be reasonable. You are hysterical. Oh, I understand your grief…and indeed it is mine, but you know Albany has done no murder. He is not the man to commit murder, and it is my belief that he does not greatly desire the crown of Scotland.”
“It is easy for you. It is not your son who has died. Murderer! Usurper! He is another Richard III, I tell you. And my little one is in his hands.”
Angus laid his hand on her brow. He was wondering what she would say if she knew that he had written to Albany asking on what terms he could return, that Albany’s reply had been very favorable, and that he had almost made up his mind that he was going to Scotland whether she would come or not.
She was soothed by his touch but she had to give vent to her anger; she had to comfort herself in some way; she could not bear to think that she would never see Alexander again, and she must give way either to sorrow or anger.
But she did not believe in her heart, any more than Angus did, that Albany had murdered her son. Albany was no murderer of children.
She remembered him when he had taken the keys of the castle from little James—tall, upright, handsome, with a kindly tolerance in his eyes. And how gracious he had been to her—so that he had reminded her of James, her husband; and there were times, although this was another thing she was not yet prepared to admit, when she compared James with Angus and thought: Ah, but he was a king.
And Albany was a king’s son; he was a Stuart at that. And in his eyes there lurked that tolerance, that gallantry toward a woman which was almost irresistible.
Angus was convinced that Albany was no murderer, but although she secretly agreed with him, she continued to rail against the man because she was so sick with grief that she must relieve her feelings in some way.
Looking up at Angus, seeing the weak petulance about his handsome mouth, she found herself involuntarily comparing him with Albany and thinking: The Duke is a strong man.
After a few days it became apparent how the shock of this news had affected the Queen’s health. She was stricken with a fever and there was scarcely a person in Morpeth Castle who did not believe she was on her deathbed.
Yet even when the fever was at its height and she rambled incoherently, the incessant repetition of her son’s name was enough to indicate what was on her mind. She clung to the thought of that small boy as though he were a lifeline; and indeed it seemed as if he were and that Margaret would not leave this life while she believed her son needed her.
Outside the castle the bleak January winds came howling from across the Border; the bitter cold penetrated the castle.
Angus was impatient. His wife was dying, and if he waited for her death, Albany would say he had accepted his terms because there was no other way out for him. He dared not wait. He must show Albany that he deplored the conduct of his wife and that he wished to serve the Regent.
So on that bleak January day, when Margaret’s death was hourly expected, Angus with a few of his attendants quietly left Morpeth Castle and were soon galloping over the Border on their way to Edinburgh.
“Where is my husband?” asked the Queen. “Tell him to come to me.”
The woman went away to call him, but she did not return for a long time.
Margaret summoned another woman to her bedside. “Pray go and find the Earl of Angus and tell him that I wish to see him.”
The woman lowered her eyes and stood silent.
“What has happened?” demanded Margaret. “Why do you not do as I tell you?”
“Your Grace, the Earl of Angus is not in the castle.”
“Then where is he?”
“He returned to Scotland more than a week ago, when Your Grace lay nigh unto death.”
“Returned to Scotland!” she whispered as though to herself. Then: “I understand. Pray, leave me.”
She lay still, too numb with sorrow to weep or to rail against him.
She had lain near to death and he had deserted her; and this was the man for whom she had jeopardized the crown of Scotland.
Now she would no longer deceive herself. Her heart should accept him for what her mind had been telling her he was for so long. This is the end, she told herself. I shall never forget what he did to me in Morpeth Castle.
Her attendants were surprised at the calm with which she accepted his desertion. She rose from her bed shortly afterward and amazingly her health began to improve.
Through February and March letters were exchanged between Morpeth and the English Court; and with them came a warm invitation from Henry for his sister to come to London.
So with the coming of April Margaret began her journey south.
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 sho
uld 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.
