The Thistle and the Rose

by Jean Plaidy

  In the meantime it was well that she should enjoy her ignorance.

  Riding in her litter, Margaret was met by James on the road to the capital. She was filled with delight when she saw him approaching, because he looked magnificent. His jacket was made of cloth of gold, and it opened to show that it was lined with purple velvet; about it was a border of black otter fur; his waistcoat was of purple satin and there were pearls and precious stones about his person, while his scarlet hose added an extra touch of color; and he looked very fine on a horse whose saddle and harness were of gold, and bridle and headgear of shining silver.

  As he approached he sprang from his horse, and coming up to the litter, kissed Margaret. Then leaping onto his horse, he turned and rode beside the litter, while his gentleman-usher took out the sword of state from its scabbard of purple velvet and carried it before the King.

  James was smiling at Margaret. “Are you prepared to enter your capital city?” he asked.

  “I am longing to do so.”

  “I am going to take you in on my horse,” he told her. “It is meet and fitting that I should do so!”

  “You mean I shall ride pillion?”

  “Why not? It is what I wish, and it is what the people will wish. Will you be afraid on such a fiery horse as mine?”

  “I would never be afraid if you were there.”

  “Ah, Margaret,” he told her “you are too trusting.”

  He was frowning. “I would never forgive myself if you were thrown,” he went on. Then he shouted to one of his men to mount behind him pillion fashion to see how the horse reacted to the extra weight.

  When it was clear that the horse was not pleased with the arrangement, the King said: “Nay, I'll not risk this. Bring one of the Queen's palfreys.”

  The palfrey was brought and when the King had mounted and Margaret had been placed on the pillion, they prepared to journey into Edinburgh.

  But there was much to be seen before they reached the city, for the King had determined that his people should show his bride a royal welcome. In a meadow about half a mile from the city they must pause and watch a joust between two knights, which had been staged for their benefit; when this was over a tame deer was released and a greyhound set to chase it.

  It seemed that all the citizens of Edinburgh had come out to see the fun, for the roads were lined with people who cheered the King and Queen.

  They were met by the Gray Friars who carried with them the cross and some holy but grisly relics which the King and the Queen kissed. Then as they approached the entrance to the city the trumpeters, whom Margaret had brought with her, blew a fanfare and the Scottish minstrels and trumpeters joined in with the triumphal music.

  An “angel” appeared and presented the keys of the city to the new Queen; Margaret took these with a smile and turned to see that the precious relic, the arm of St. Giles, was being presented to her to kiss.

  When this was done they entered the city where more pageantry awaited them; Margaret felt dazzled and found the quiet of the church of Holyrood, to which James had led her, rather pleasant. Here she knelt with James at the altar and afterward was presented to the great nobles of Scotland, among whom were such famous people as Huntley, Argyle and Lennox.

  The ceremony was almost over and the King had brought his bride to his Palace of Holyrood.

  They did not dine together, but later the King came to her apartments to see if she were comfortable, and there was music and dancing.

  Margaret heard the city bells ringing; she knew that the streets were hung with tapestry and that all the nobility of Scotland were in Edinburgh because the following day she, Margaret Tudor, would be married to the King in the church of Holyrood.

  This was her wedding day.

  Margaret stood by the font, in the church of Holyrood, a dazzling figure in a gown of gold and white damask, the border of which was crimson velvet; on her head was a glittering crown, and her rippling golden hair on which she could sit with ease hung loose. About her neck was a collar of pearls. Her ladies who accompanied her were almost as richly dressed; on her right stood the Archbishop of York and on her left the Earl of Surrey.

  The King was approaching, slowly, ceremoniously, accompanied by nobles in brilliant costume. He looked so handsome that Margaret could not resist the temptation to gaze at him. The white damask and gold suited his tawny coloring; and the black velvet border of his jacket and the crimson satin slashes on his sleeves, matching his scarlet hose, gave a touch of startling color. When he saw Margaret he removed his black velvet bonnet, in which glowed a great ruby, that his head might not be covered in her presence and all could therefore see the respect in which he held her.

  His eyes, as they rested on her, were above all reassuring. And she thought: This is the happiest moment of my life. I am to be married to him in very truth at last, and I know this to be but the beginning of all my joy.

  They stood together before the Archbishops of York and Glasgow, and the ceremony of marriage was performed. Then the bulls from the Pope, consenting to the union, were read aloud; and when this was done the trumpets blared forth in triumph.

  Margaret and James were married.

  They sat side by side at the banquet and the King commanded that the Queen should be served before he was.

  In spite of her ecstasy Margaret could still feel hungry, and she tackled the boar's head, brawn and ham and all the other delicacies with a zest which seemed to amuse her husband.

  When the banquet was over the company left the dining hall for another room that was hung with tapestries and cloth of gold, and here the King and Queen led the company in the dance.

  And so the evening passed until it was time for the King and Queen to retire together.

  Margaret was happy; the King was well content.

  She was young and beautiful and, as he had guessed, had been an apt pupil in those arts in which he had long excelled. It was pleasant to find a sensuality which matched his own, and if he had not continued secretly to mourn for Margaret Drummond he could have been a happy man.

  Margaret with all her Tudor egoism, never doubted for one moment that the King was as delighted with her as she was with him. He had given her on the morning after the wedding night the domains of Kilmarnock as a morrowing gift.

  During the weeks which followed she devoted herself to pleasure with an energy which those who had followed her from England had only seen surpassed by her royal brother. Each day she held a council of her ladies to discuss what she should wear; she danced and sang, she hunted, practiced archery; and always she was eager for those hours when she could be alone with her bridegroom.

  After some weeks of this merrymaking James intimated that the celebrations should come to an end and it was time he showed the people of Scotland their Queen. Then began the royal tour. From Edinburgh to Linlithgow and from Linlithgow to Stirling, to Falkland, Perth, Aberdeen and Elgin. Each night they would come to rest in some mansion, convent or abbey where there would be dancing, music, card-playing or religious ceremonies.

  One of the greatest difficulties was the transport of Margaret's wardrobe, for the purpose of which special carters had to be employed.

  “Do you need so much?” asked James gently.

  “Indeed I do,” Margaret firmly told him.

  Many would have been exasperated; not so James. He merely shrugged tolerant shoulders and the carters were engaged.

  By Christmas they were back in Holyrood Palace where Margaret threw herself into arrangements for Christmas festivities with all her youthful enthusiasm. Holyrood should see festivities such as it had never seen before. There should be pageantry and dancing such as she and Henry had often longed for during the Christmas celebrations which had taken place in their father's Court. It was wonderful to escape from that miserly caution which had been a part of her early life. Margaret was determined to have gaiety, no matter what the cost. Harpers and luters, fiddlers and pipers, trumpeters and dancers filled the state apartments w
ith their music.

  And when the Christmas feasting was over, there was the New Year.

  James's present to his wife on the first day of the New Year was a heavy ducat of gold weighing an ounce, with two sapphire rings; and the second day of the New Year he gave her two crosses studded with pearls.

  To Margaret's chagrin the New Year festivities were brought to an abrupt end by the death of James's brother, the Duke of Ross; and when the burial ceremonies were over, James told his bride that he must leave her for a while. She must understand that as King he had certain duties to his country. He would write to her and she must write to him, but for a few weeks they must be parted.

  Margaret embraced him tearfully and implored him not to stay long from her side. He assured her that he would return as soon as it was possible for him to do so. The first of the King's absences had begun.

  During the periods when he was absent from his Queen, James sent her letters and gifts. He deplored the fact that they could not be together, and Margaret occupied herself in hunting and archery and sometimes in the woods she would run races with her attendants. The days passed pleasantly enough but she yearned for James.

  When he returned he was as affectionate and charming as ever, but during a visit to Stirling Castle, Margaret made a discovery.

  James was always eager to go to Stirling, and she had said to him: “I believe this to be the favorite of all your palaces, and this surprises me since you spent so much of your childhood there. So your memories cannot be unhappy ones.”

  “Do I love Stirling best?” he mused. “I wonder. At this time I do. Next week I may love Linlithgow or Holyrood House or the castle of Edinburgh. I fear I am a fickle man.”

  “As long as your fickleness is only for your castles I care not,” laughed Margaret.

  She did not notice that he looked momentarily melancholy.

  The next day she saw a little girl in the hall of the castle. The child was beautiful and in the charge of a highborn lady. Margaret called the little girl to her and asked who she was.

  Her lady guardian seemed confused and said that she was lodged in the castle temporarily.

  “My name is Margaret,” the child told the Queen.

  “Margaret! How strange. So is mine.”

  “You are Margaret too! What else? I am the Lady Margaret Stuart.”

  “That is a name which arouses my interest,” answered the Queen.

  “She is such a prattler, I fear, Your Grace,” said her guardian. “And, I fear, a little spoiled.”

  “I am not,” answered the child. “My father says I am not.”

  “And who is your father, my child?”

  “My father is the King,” was the disconcerting answer.

  Margaret knitted her brows and looked at the woman, who lifted her shoulders and murmured: “She is but a child, Your Grace. You know how children prattle on… without sense.”

  “Then if your father is the King, who is your mother?” asked Margaret suddenly, ignoring the woman and addressing the child.

  “She was Margaret too,” the child told her. “I am named for her.”

  “Is the child's mother here?” asked Margaret.

  “No, Your Grace. Her mother is dead.”

  “She is not,” declared the child. “My father says she is not dead, and will never die.”

  “Oh come… come…you weary Her Grace.”

  Margaret did not seek to detain them; she watched the woman take the child's hand and lead her away.

  She went immediately to the King, who was in his own apartments playing his lute. Imperiously she said: “James, I wish to speak to you… privately.”

  James regarded her somewhat lazily and, seeing that she was truly agitated, signed to his friends to leave him.

  “Well?” he said when they were alone.

  “There is a child here—Margaret—who says she is your daughter. I know that this is not so, but I like not that she should proclaim herself to be. I want you to stop this.”

  James was silent for a while; then he strummed a few notes on his lute. The time had come. He would have to explain.

  “The child speaks the truth,” he said. “She is my daughter.”

  “Your daughter! But…”

  “I was to have married her mother, but she… died. She was poisoned with her two sisters when at breakfast.”

  Margaret's blue eyes opened wide and the color flamed into her cheeks. He noted that the fact that his mistress had been poisoned did not shock her so much as that she had existed.

  “So…you had a mistress!”

  “My dear Margaret! What do you expect? Not one…but many.”

  “And…a child!”

  “Children,” he corrected her.

  She was angry. She had been hoping for signs of her own pregnancy and there had been none. And now he… her own husband… admitted not only to having had mistresses…but children.

  “I am glad you know,” he said. “I visit them often. They are after all my own flesh and blood and I have always promised myself that my children should never be treated by their father as I was by mine—perhaps in the hope that they will never have to suffer the remorse I did for the part I played in my father's end.”

  Margaret stood up and went to the door. She was so angry that she knew she must escape because she had a great desire to fly at him and fight him with all her strength. She had been cheated. She saw that she had been young and foolish and that her naïvet must have been apparent to him. She felt insulted and her Tudor pride was in revolt. She had loved him too deeply, too trustingly.

  He did not attempt to detain her. He shrugged his shoulders and turned idly to his lute. He strummed without hearing; the recent scene had made him think of that other Margaret and the longing for her was almost too great to be borne.

  Margaret could not rest until she discovered more about her husband's premarital love affairs. She insisted on her Scottish ladies' telling her all they knew. So the King had been so enamored of Margaret Drummond that he had wanted to marry her against the advice of his ministers; and she had borne him a daughter, that child, Lady Margaret Stuart, who was so petted and pampered at the King's command. And there were two children by a certain Marian Boyd: Catherine and Alexander; and the young Earl of Moray—who had been given this title when he was scarcely two— was the King's son by Janet Kennedy.

  What a family! And he so proud of them—sneaking off to visit them on the pretense that he was engaged on state affairs! And what was worse, leaving his wife in order to do so!

  All her amour propre—which was very strong in the young Tudors—was in revolt.

  She now saw her husband in a new light. He was not the person who in her girlish imagination she had believed him to be. This marriage of theirs could well be one of convenience to him. She had been cheated.

  Yet when he came to her again—tender and kind, yet not repentant—her wounded pride was submerged by her need of him. He had aroused in her that latent sensuality which must be appeased no matter how hurt her pride.

  She was passionate in her demands; and there was a new determination within her; she must have a child; and her child must be more important to him than any of his others, for the son she bore would be the future King of Scotland.

  James was sorry that his wife was hurt by her discovery of his illegitimate family, and he blamed himself for not having broken the news more gently to her. He could not be sorry that he had these children, for he doted on them and it was a matter of great disappointment to him that, so far, Margaret had shown no signs of pregnancy. When she did, he assured himself, she would be more serene.

  One of his greatest pleasures was to visit his children, and he planned to have them all together in one nursery, acknowledged as his, so that he could supervise their education and give them honors which as royal Stuarts he believed should be theirs.

  Meanwhile he decided to compensate Margaret for the shock she had suffered and, since she was such a child and there
was nothing that pleased her more than balls, plays and ballets, there should be more of these entertainments.

  He brought a gift of jewels—that could always delight her— and told her that he was arranging a ball in her honor and asked how she would like that.

  She clasped her hands in ecstasy and her young face lighted with pleasure.

  “And you will be there, James?” she asked eagerly.

  “Indeed I shall be there.”

  “For it would be no pleasure to me if you were not.”

  He embraced her and thought happily: She has recovered from the shock. She accepts the children as natural.

  At the same time he wondered what she would say if she knew of those lapses from fidelity which had occurred since his marriage. She was so naive in many ways. Probably it was due to the fact that her father had been a faithful husband; it was said that Henry VII was a cold man—well, James IV was not. Women were as necessary to his comfort as money was to Henry VII's.

  Margaret would have to learn this, but he trusted she would not have to make the discovery until she was ready to. In a few years' time she would become accustomed to the fact that he must have his mistresses. He would try to explain that they in no way affected his feelings for her. She was his wife and it was their duty to get children. But ever since he had been a very young man he had made no effort to curb his sexual desires; and he could not begin now. He was gentle and tolerant with her and would remain so as long as she did not attempt to restrain him.

  Then they began to plan the entertainment. There should be masked dancers because it was always such fun to watch disguised performers. And there should be a play. There was one of the Queen's attendants who was a past master at coaching players. This boy, who had come with Margaret from England, was called English Cuddy by the Scots.

  “I shall command English Cuddy to begin making arrangements at once,” declared Margaret.

  “So much energy you have, my little one,” said James. “But it is such fun to play for a masque.”

  “When you have children you will think of other things.”