The Thistle and the Rose

by Jean Plaidy

  “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 farewel
ls 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.

  IT WAS OF PARAMOUNT IMPORTANCE TO MARGARET that she should see her son as soon as possible, and she lost no time in making her intentions clear.

  This had been expected and the lords of the Council had prepared themselves for it. It had been arranged that young James should be well guarded in Edinburgh Castle and that three Lords—Erskine, Ruthven, and Borthwick—were to take it in turns to live with him there as his guardian, each doing this service for four months of the year. The castellan, Sir Patrick Crichton, ordered twelve guards to watch each night outside the King's bedchamber; and there were guards placed at all salient points, while a master gunner with six cannons was stationed on the walls. The Abbot of Holyrood had his quarters in the outer castle as an added precaution; and before anyone was allowed to enter the King's apartments he or she had first to receive permission from the castellan to do so.

  Thus when Margaret arrived at Edinburgh she was at first denied admittance. This infuriated her but, longing as she did to see her son, she restrained her anger and pleaded with his guardians that she was his mother and had been long without a sight of him.

  “Take me at once to the castellan,” she pleaded.

  She was taken to Sir Patrick Crichton, who was very uneasy.

  “Your Grace,” he said, “I have my orders. I regret that they must be enforced even against you, but I fear I must do my duty.”

  “I am the King's mother,” Margaret retorted, “and I demand to see him.”

  “Your Grace, I cannot allow you to enter the castle accompanied by so many attendants. Only twelve may enter and only four of those accompany you to the King's apartments.”

  Margaret flushed with anger but, determined to see her son, she again forced herself to control her feelings.

  “Very well then,” she said, “it shall be as you say. Now, I pray you, take me to my son.”

  She stood on the threshold of the apartment looking at him. He was sitting with David Lindsay and David was instructing him in playing the lute.

  James stared at her for a few moments while David Lindsay rose to his feet.

  “Your Grace…,” he began.

  But James had dashed at her. “Davie,” he cried, “it is my mother. At last she has come.”

  Then he threw himself into her arms.

  She embraced him, kissing and holding him as though she would never let him go, while the tears fell from her eyes onto his tawny curls.

  She saw David Lindsay wipe a tear from his eye and she smiled up at him.

  “Oh, Davie,” she cried, “it is good to be here.”

  Although Margaret was allowed to see her son, she was not permitted to spend a night in the castle. These were uneasy days made pleasant only by the company of her son and little daughter. She was beginning to notice a change in Angus and, guessing that his conscience troubled him for some reason, she believed this to be due to the friendship he had shown to Albany during her absence. Of course that created a rift between them; how could it be otherwise?

  But the days spent at the castle brought her great contentment. James was a son of whom any mother would be proud. Every day she saw his father in him. There was intelligence in the blue-gray eyes; his abundant hair with more than a dash of red in it framed a face that was pleasant to look at; his nose would be aquiline when he grew up, Margaret decided, and it seemed likely that he would be another such as his father. She smiled to think of the jealousy his wife would feel; she would sympathize with her when the time came. Who could understand more than one who had suffered it all before? His tutors were delighted with his sharp wits; and besides David Lindsay, Gavin Dunbar, John Bellenden, and James Inglis all supervised his education.

  But it was David Lindsay whom the young King loved more than any of his other tutors; this was probably because David was more of a playfellow than a tutor. David made himself the most exciting of companions; and to see them together was to be given the illusion that they were of an age.

  David's one idea was to make a man of the King and, even when James had been little more than a baby, he had
dressed up as a grisly ghost to teach him never to be afraid, but to investigate any strange phenomenon and so discover the truth beneath it.

  David was succeeding admirably.

  But although she was allowed to see her son frequently, Margaret greatly desired to take part in his upbringing. David commiserated with her.

  “They'll always suspect Your Grace of trying to take him away from Scotland, down to your brother's Court,” he told her. “You tried once, and they think you'll try again.”

  Margaret agreed; and she thought: Aye and I would, given the opportunity.

  One day when Margaret arrived at the Castle, she was met at the outer gate by the Abbot of Holyrood.

  “Your Grace,” he cried, “you must not enter the Castle.”

  “Why not?” she demanded.

  “A child belonging to one of the attendants has the botch.”

  “The botch!” Margaret cried in horror, visualizing the beautiful skin of her son covered in unsightly boils and swellings. “Not… James?”

  “Nay, Your Grace, as soon as it was discovered that there was a case of botch in the Castle he was taken at once to Craigmillar Castle where he is now under the guardianship of Lord Erskine.”

  Margaret turned to her companions.

  “We are going at once to Craigmillar,” she said.

  Lord Erskine made no attempt to prevent the Queen from visiting James at Craigmillar, which was only three miles from Edinburgh. It was strongly fortified but by no means the fortress that the Castle was. As she rode toward it and studied the lofty square keep,

  Margaret could not help thinking that it would be easier to bring James out of Craigmillar than out of Edinburgh Castle.

  James was delighted with the move, as he was growing tired of living so long in David's Tower at the Castle; and Lord Erskine was a lenient guardian.