by Jean Plaidy
“James, this is madness!”
“Was it madness when you divorced Angus?”
“I was only the mother of the King. You are the King.”
“Nevertheless I am determined to marry whom I will.”
“So it is for this reason that you congratulate my brother and his new Queen.”
James was silent, and Margaret felt peace slipping away from her. She tried to look dispassionately at that handsome face which was almost womanish. The aquiline nose could not altogether disguise the weakness of the chin. James was weak where women were concerned, as his father had been.
He must not make the mistakes that she had made. Looking back she saw that hasty marriage with Angus as the beginning of all her troubles.
In that moment she wanted to help James achieve his desire, but she believed that by arranging a divorce for his mistress, marrying her himself and by attempting to legitimize his bastard, he was, at the beginning of his reign, making trouble for himself. What of the French? How would he placate them for the insult done to them?
No, she must make a firm stand.
“It is impossible,” she said.
His brow had darkened, his lips tightened. He turned on her in a rage.
“It was well enough when you wished for divorce. So there is one law for you and another for me?”
“James…you are the King.”
“And you were the Queen. What did you care? So you will stand against me now. I had not believed it of you.”
She tried to explain but his impetuous nature was in revolt. All those who would not help him in this matter were his enemies.
It was the first quarrel they had had; and it was a bitter one.
Margaret was filled with grief; and that was the end of the peaceful years.
James did not marry his mistress. When the Parliament stood firmly against him he was wise enough to realize that he could only court disaster by doing so.
So he gave way and went to France, in the role of romantic lover, to court the lady who had been chosen for him. He was received with warmth in the Duke’s household, but he did not fall deeply in love with Mademoiselle de Vendôme. His thoughts were still with the mother of his son James on whom he doted although he had put aside his desire to marry her, for the sake of duty. It was not surprising therefore that he lacked enthusiasm for this woman who had been chosen to be his bride.
Traveling through France he was entertained at the Court of François, and there he met the young Princess Magdalene who had at one time been suggested as a bride for him. She was a delicate child who, no sooner had she set eyes on him, adored him.
As for James, all his chivalry was aroused by her fragility and her admiration of himself; and he confessed to her father that she was the lady whom it would delight him to marry.
The King of Scotland was a worthy parti. So the proposed marriage with Vendôme was put aside for the more desirable one with the daughter of the King of France.
James was delighted. Only this fragile child could compensate him for his inability to marry his dear Margaret and legitimize his bonny James. The Parliament of Scotland had no objections. A French marriage was what it desired, and a daughter of the King of France was more suitable than one of the Duke of Vendôme.
Margaret sighed with relief. Once James was safely married, all would be peaceful again.
News came from England that Henry, tiring of his second wife, had accused her of adultery and she had lost her head on Tower Green. He was now married to Lady Jane Seymour.
“He cannot blame me for having had three husbands,” commented Margaret, “now that he has had three wives.”
She was a little anxious about her daughter Margaret who by this time had become a prominent member of the English Court. In those days of intrigue one could never be sure who was going to arouse the King’s anger next. Henry VIII was a fickle man; his anger was terrible, and he had supreme power with which to make it felt. Who would have believed that the vital and dazzling Anne, for whom he had fought desperately over so many years, could in three short ones have passed from glory to dishonor and death? It was ironical that glory, honor, disaster and death had been dealt by the same hand.
And there, in the center of intrigue, was young Margaret. Her mother’s anxiety had increased because the girl had been favored by Anne Boleyn, which doubtless meant she had lost favor with her original benefactress, the Princess Mary. It must be impossible to live at the English Court and not take sides.
It seemed that no sooner was the anxiety concerning one child lessened than that concerning another must distress her.
She often lay awake at night, thinking of the dangers which could beset her daughter at the Court of her terrible brother. It was true that Angus, as a pensioner of Henry, was at that Court and, whatever else he was, he was fond of his daughter and would do his best to protect her.
Without doubt the peaceful era had come to an end.
But she was not prepared for the greatest blow of all.
During one of the rare journeys she made, she visited the home of the Earl of Atholl. A splendid banquet was prepared for her and she took great pleasure in wearing her most dazzling gown; her person sparkled with jewels as she sat at the table which was laden with beef, mutton, venison, goose, capon, swan, partridge, plover, moorfowls and every kind of food that could be thought of; with Malmsey and muscatel, white and red wine, beer and aqua vitae with which to wash it down. It was rarely, said Atholl, that he had the honor of entertaining the Queen.
Harry had been with her as usual and, as they sat together at the places of honor, a woman caught her eye. This was Janet, widow of the Master of Sutherland, and eldest daughter of the Earl of Atholl; in that moment it was as though some extra sense warned her to take especial note of Janet; and when she met Janet’s young son, a most engaging boy, she kept him at her side. There was something in the lad which appealed to her strongly.
“What is your name?” she asked him.
“It is Henry, Your Grace,” he told her.
She smiled at Harry. “A goodly name,” she commented, “and one which I like well.”
Harry laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and it was almost as though a secret message passed between them.
Margaret turned her eyes to the Mistress of Sutherland who was watching them, and she noticed that the woman’s hands were slightly trembling.
She remembered then that she had heard of the death of the Master of Sutherland some years before. Could he have had a son of Henry’s age?
She mentioned the matter to her women when they were undressing her that night, but strangely they seemed reluctant to speak of the matter.
Then it was almost as though she had gone back in years and was reliving certain episodes, as though her life was a vast tapestry, the essential point of which was that the pattern should be repeated again and again. A stupid fancy, she told herself; and tried to dismiss the matter from her mind.
But the evil suspicions persisted, and she found herself watching Harry as she never had before. Emotions which she had long forgotten seemed to be stirring within her.
One evening when they were alone together in her apartments at Methven Castle she burst out: “What is the Mistress of Sutherland to you, Harry?”
As she watched the blood drain from his face, she knew. Had she not lived it all before?
So her life was shattered. She was no longer young, being nearly fifty. The pain was as great as it had been when she had discovered the infidelity of James and of Angus. Why, she demanded, was she called upon to bear this yet again? Why was it that her marriages always ended in this way?
Ended?
Yes, this was going to be the end of her third marriage. She was not going to be deceived and deluded again. She supposed that all the Court knew of her husband’s treachery as they had known of that of Angus and James before she did. Then she had given way to passionate weeping. But she was older now; her emotions were no longer so easily
stirred.
Harry should be made to suffer though. All his honors should be stripped from him.
“You will be sorry for this, my Lord Muffin,” she said, using the contemptuous term which her brother Henry had bestowed on her third husband when he had first heard of the marriage, and had indeed persisted in calling him ever since.
There was one word which kept hammering in her brain: divorce.
Was there no end to trouble? News came from England that her daughter, the Lady Margaret Douglas, had incurred the King’s displeasure by betrothing herself, without his consent, to Lord Thomas Howard, the uncle of Anne Boleyn.
Young Margaret’s position had changed when the King had declared his marriage to Katharine of Aragon invalid. It had altered once more now that Anne Boleyn was disgraced. Since both the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were declared illegitimate, Margaret Douglas was heir to the throne if Henry did not beget legitimate children. It was true that King James of Scotland came before her; but Margaret had been brought up at the Court of England and had until now enjoyed the favor of her uncle.
Therefore to betroth herself to Lord Thomas Howard without the consent of Henry would be to bring his wrath down upon her.
Her mother’s fears were not without foundation.
Deeply wounded from the knowledge of Harry’s treachery, Margaret was distracted when the news came from England that her daughter and the girl’s lover were in the Tower of London, the King’s prisoners.
A little while ago she would have gone to Harry for solace. Now there was no one to whom she could turn. James had lost some of his affection for her when she had not helped him to win a divorce for Margaret Erskine that he might marry the woman he loved; moreover James was in France.
She paced up and down her apartment. She longed to have her daughter with her. She wept, remembering the girl’s birth in Harbottle Castle, which now seemed so many weary years away.
She stopped by her writing table and, taking up her pen, wrote to her brother imploring him not to be harsh with her daughter. “If you will send her to me in Scotland,” she wrote, “I will answer to you that my child shall never trouble my brother more.”
She did not seal the letter when it was written; she sat with her head in her hands, while a feeling of utter desolation swept over her.
Harry, whom she had loved and trusted, had betrayed her as he others had. And now she was no longer young and beautiful. Still, she was vigorous; she was a queen.
She began to think of young James Stuart who was so like his brother Harry and, she told herself now, of a less sly countenance. No, she could not marry her husband’s brother. She thought of Angus, whom when she had last seen him had changed from the callow boy she had married. Angus had been most reluctant to be divorced.
Suppose she went to England. Suppose she married Angus there and brought him back to Scotland. Then my Lord Muffin would so tremble in his shoes that his Mistress of Sutherland would be hard put to it to comfort him.
She picked up her pen and wrote once more.
“Dearest brother, I suffer much misery at this time. I have been very evilly used by Lord Methven and I am seeking now to put an end to my marriage…”
She put down her pen and found that she was weeping, for suddenly, sitting there, the full force of her desolation swept over her, because she realized that the peace and happiness had never truly existed outside her imagination. The complacent years were revealed to her for what they were.
No happy married life; all lies; all deceit.
Why has Fate set me this tragic pattern? she asked herself. Is there a reason?
James brought home his little Magdalene—a dainty creature, looking too fragile to be real. He adored her, which was comforting. Poor James, he needed to be happy for he had been denied the bride he had wished for and he constantly grieved because his bonny James must remain a bastard.
But he was happy for a while with the delicate child. How pretty she was in her closely fitting gown of white damask embroidered with gold, and the small round cap made of pearls and jewels set on her light brown curls. A fairy child, too delicate for the winds of Scotland.
She coughed and after coughing there was blood on her kerchief which she tried to conceal, and did for a while. It was soon discovered that Holyrood was too damp and low-lying for her comfort; she coughed a great deal there. But the Castle was too bleak and she coughed there for that reason.
Will this delicate creature bear Scotland heirs? asked the brawny Highlanders. Magdalene of France was the daughter of a great king, but would she give James of Scotland a son to compare with Margaret Erskine’s bastard?
James worried about the health of his bride, and was irritable when his mother told him that she intended to divorce his stepfather.
“A divorce at your time of life!” he cried. “Why, you would be a laughingstock.”
“You would take your revenge because I could not help you obtain a divorce for Margaret Erskine?”
What a tragedy that she and James were no longer the friends they once had been.
Magdalene had landed in Scotland in May; by July she was dead. Had she lived a few more days she would have reached her seventeenth birthday.
Scotland mourned her; but none more deeply than her young husband.
The Queen’s depression lifted a little when she heard that her daughter Margaret had been moved from the Tower to Sion Abbey. She had caught a fever while in prison and evidently the King did not wish her to die since he had agreed to her removal to a more comfortable place of confinement.
Margaret had written again to her brother imploring him to allow her daughter to return to her. If she came back to me, she told herself, I should have her future to plan. I would live again through her.
Occasionally she thought of Harry’s brother James. Dared she risk a fourth marriage? Sometimes she said no; at others she asked herself, Why not? The old pattern could not go on repeating itself. There must be a man somewhere who would be her faithful husband. James was handsome, but so young. And there would be an outcry if she married her husband’s brother.
Angus?
She thought often of Angus as he had been in the days of his youth. Scenes from the honeymoon at Stobhall often came back to her mind and made her feel young again.
But James continued to ridicule the idea of another divorce, and she could not marry again without one.
Take a lover? She craved for a happy and legitimate union. She was so lonely nowadays; and she found that she could not feel as angry with Harry as she had with Angus. Her pride had been wounded more than her emotions. Was this a sign that she was growing old?
Life went on about her. Her brother wrote jubilantly that he now had a son: Prince Edward. True, the child had cost his mother, Jane Seymour, her life; but he found it more difficult to get sons than wives.
Young Margaret’s lover had died in the Tower and she was freed because, with the birth of a prince, she was no longer of the same importance. In fact, Henry VIII did not care to have about him young people who might be said to have a claim to his throne, so he declared her illegitimate, adding that the marriage between her mother and Angus had been no lawful one.
Margaret’s rage was great when she heard this, and once more she planned a remarriage with Angus that they might fight together for her daughter’s legitimacy and for her place in the succession to the throne of England.
Yet nothing came of these plans. She no longer found intense excitement in plotting as she once had; and, looking into her mirror, she told herself that she was growing old.
“I am growing old,” she said one day.
She sat at her table, her pen in her hand, writing letters, a habit of hers.
She was very tired and felt vaguely unwell. Words would not come easily to her mind as they used to, so she laid down her pen and thought; and as usual at such times her mind went back to the past.
Her daughter Margaret was happy in England, she supposed, now that Henry h
ad given her a place in the household of Anne of Cleves. James had married a French widow, Mary of Lorraine, and although the two children whom they had had, both died, they would have others.
Poor James! How hard it was for royal people to beget healthy legitimate children. His illegitimate ones were bonny creatures, in particular that young James whom he loved so dearly. What a pity that the boy had Margaret Erskine for a mother instead of a Queen of Scotland!
Her own children by Harry were not strong and their health gave her cause for concern, but there were so many anxieties, and she felt too tired to think of them anymore.
Instead she thought of her youth, of coming into Scotland and riding on the palfrey James had sent. She could see him now, so handsome, so beloved by his people, riding into his capital with his bride on the pillion behind him.
Her hands had begun to shake and she could not stop them. She stared at them in dismay and called for her attendants, but when they came running to her side, she could not see them clearly.
“Help me to my bed,” she said. “I feel ill.”
As they undressed her the palsy intensified; and when she lay on her bed she said: “I have never felt so ill before. Send to Falkland Palace for the King. Tell him of my state and that I should like to see him.”
Her orders were obeyed and she lay on her bed, waiting.
Soon he would come—her beautiful son whom she had loved so dearly. She would see him come striding into her chamber. But when she thought of him it was that other James she saw—the laughing, handsome husband with whom on her first coming to Scotland she had fallen violently in love.
She had forgotten that she was in Methven Castle, imagining herself to be in Holyrood with James standing before her while she accused him of deserting her for his mistresses. Then it was Angus who stood there…or was it Albany…or Harry? She was not sure. They were as one now. The men whom she had loved; the men who had deceived her.
She murmured so quietly that none heard: “If I had not been the daughter of a King should I have been loved for myself?”
