The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  “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.