by Jean Plaidy
“I see you have a tender heart,” he said.
“I loved him once,” she answered. “He is a foolish, reckless boy… nothing more. He does not deserve death. I long to be free from him, but I should never rest in peace if I thought I had a hand in causing his death. Help me to divorce him and you will make me a happy woman.”
“Have I made it clear that I would do all in my power to make you a happy woman?”
She lifted her eyes to his. “I have longed to hear you say that.”
He realized that she was taking his compliments with the utmost seriousness. He shrugged his shoulders. Why not? The wine and the dance had excited him; she was a very beautiful woman, and who could say what the future held for them? When they were free, as he doubted not they must be erelong, a match between them would be a good political move, one which he knew would delight his master, François, and probably put her brother Henry in such a rage as he had rarely known before.
“We will send him to France as an exile,” he said. “Never fear. I will give orders that he is well treated there, but go he shall.”
“And you will help me in Rome?”
“You may depend upon it; I shall do all in my power to help you in that direction.”
“Oh, how I long to be free of that man!”
“You soon will be. I am sure of this. As for myself…”
She moved nearer to him. “Soon we shall both be free,” she whispered. “But there is now …”
It was an invitation which it would be churlish to refuse.
That night they were lovers.
Those were happy months. There was scandal concerning them, but she did not care. She wrote glowingly to her brother; she wanted to make peace between Henry and Albany, as she had once tried to reconcile the two countries during the lifetime of James.
Henry was furious when he read the letters. He growled that she was shameless and that it mortified him because he had a sister who could so forget all decent behavior.
He wanted to write to her, ordering her to abandon the Regent and return to Angus. Angus was his protégé and he was ready to make that young man the head of a faction working for England in Scotland. He was even more angry concerning the divorce than he had been when he had first heard of it. He was beginning to believe that he would never get sons from Katharine and that there was a curse on their marriage. As he could not imagine how he could have offended God, he looked for some fault in his Queen and was reminded that she had been his brother's wife before she had been his. His conscience concerning his marriage began to worry him and he too was thinking of divorce.
A pretty state of affairs, he thought, for a brother and a sister to be asking Rome for a divorce at the same time. Therefore Margaret must stop her importuning; she must return to Angus.
That was the very thing Margaret was determined not to do.
Since her friendship with Albany had begun to bloom she was permitted to see a great deal of her son. James was affectionate by nature and fascinated by his lively mother; as she understood that he was as contented with their reunion as she was, her happiness was complete.
So each day she saw James; soon she would be divorced from Angus and she was constantly in Albany's company. When she and Albany were free their union would be legalized to the glory of Scotland and the delight of its Queen.
Angus, having made his promise to leave for exile, was granted freedom to do so; but once free he snapped his fingers at Albany and continued to stay in Edinburgh.
There could be no peace while Angus was in Scotland, and Albany was certainly not the man to see his orders disobeyed.
When he was told that Angus still lingered in Edinburgh he took off his bonnet and threw it into the fire—a habit of his when enraged. No one ever made any attempt to withdraw the bonnet from the fire and Albany would stand glaring at it, watching flames curl about fine velvet. It was thus that he managed to curb his anger against those who offended him; and by the time the bonnet was consumed he was his equable self again. His friends had seen many a good bonnet destroyed in this way.
All the same he had no intention of allowing Angus to flout his authority.
Knowing that Angus frequented a certain wine shop, he sent for the owner of the shop, and said to him: “My Lord Angus is a patron of your shop, I believe.”
“That is so, my lord. When his lordship is in Edinburgh he often comes in with a member of his clan. They're fond of the wine, my lord.”
“Hmm,” said Albany. “Now listen carefully. When next he comes in, I want you to send a message to my guards. Then you are to slip a potion which will be given to you into the wine of my Lord Angus and any companions he may have with him. Is that clear?”
The man said he understood full well and the Regent's orders should be carried out.
It was some nights later when Angus entered the wine shop in the company of his brother George, and called imperiously for wine which was immediately brought to him—but not before the potion had been slipped into it and a message sent to the guards.
While Angus and George sat drinking, Angus was boasting that neither his wife nor the Regent would get him to leave Edinburgh. He had as much right in Edinburgh as they had—and more so, for Albany was half French and Margaret was an Englishwoman.
George applauded his brother. George was faithful, although the more sober members of the family had deplored the conduct of the head of their House. Gavin Douglas had called him “a witless fool, running on his own mischief by the persuasion of wily and subtle men.”
Their uncle, who had died of the plague in London, had been an old man, Angus told George now. Such men were well enough in their day, but times changed and it was young men who knew how best to live in modern times.
George agreed with his brother, as always; and they drank freely of the drugged wine.
“Why, George,” said Angus at length, “you seem to have grown witless indeed. I declare you have drunk too well.”
George nodded slowly as he slumped forward over the table.
Angus tried to rise, but his legs had become woolly.
“Landlord,” he began, “this wine of yours is potent stuff…” Then he too fell back.
It was time for the guards to enter the wine shop. This they did and, with the ropes which they had brought with them, they bound the Douglases and carried them away.
Outside the shop, horses were waiting and the bodies of the two men were slung across these; the guards mounted and, taking the drugged men with them, they made off with as much speed as possible to Leith.
When Angus and his brother opened their eyes, they were on a boat, bound for France.
When he heard how Angus had been banished from Scotland and that his sister continued to live in the utmost amity with Albany, Henry was furious. His own marriage was causing him great concern, and that affair which was becoming known as the King's Secret Matter was already being whispered about, not only in England but abroad.
It seemed to him an act of unfriendliness on Margaret's part to allow Angus to be banished and to continue to sue for a divorce, a relief which he himself now craved.
His fury broke out and without consulting Wolsey he ordered that every Scotsman living in England was to have a white cross marked on his top garment and leave England on foot without delay. The distress this caused was terrible, particularly as the Border barons, who never needed much excuse, immediately engaged in savage warfare against each other.
To Margaret this seemed only a minor irritation. She was now in residence at Stirling Castle, and the young King was with her. She herself supervised his lessons and each day marveled at his intelligence, declaring again and again that here was his father all over again.
The Regent had matters of state to attend to but they spent much time together and, despite her brother's efforts to prevent the divorce being granted, Margaret had great hopes that she would succeed.
It was pleasant to think that Angus was out of Scotland and that he
was not being ill treated in France. Quite the contrary, Albany assured her, for he had given orders that Angus and his brother were to be given honors in accordance with their rank.
The coming of Albany and the banishment of Angus naturally restored internal peace to Scotland; and this, thought Margaret, is a foretaste of what life here would be like if he and I were married and ruled together until James is of an age to do so.
Then one day as she was passing from her apartments to the great dining hall, and noticing that one of the pages was lying on the stairs in a state of collapse, Margaret went to him and asked what ailed him. The poor boy was too ill to rise and Margaret laid a hand on his hot forehead.
“I will send some of your companions to take you to your apartments,” she told him.
Next day the alarming news was brought to her. There was smallpox in the castle.
Margaret's one thought was for the King.
She was on her way to his apartment when she remembered that she had seen the page on the staircase, that she had touched his brow.
She stood still with horror. It might be so. How could she tell?
She went back to her apartments and summoned one of her women.
She gave orders that the King was to be removed to Dalkeith Palace without delay. She herself intended to follow but not until she knew it was safe to do so.
How glad she was a few days later that she had acted as she did.
The King was safe and well; but Margaret had fallen victim to the dread smallpox.
During the weeks which followed, once more she faced death, and those who cared for her were certain that this time she could not survive.
Margaret, tossing on her bed, often falling into unconsciousness, was not always aware of what was happening about her; when her mind was lucid she asked about her children. Reassuring voices told her that they were well and happy and she had nothing to fear. The King had escaped the smallpox; the Regent sent her friendly messages; and all she must do was concentrate on getting well again.
There were letters from Wolsey written on behalf of Henry, pointing out the desirability of bringing Angus back to Scotland, and there were hints of an almost threatening nature in these letters. Henry wanted her to know that in becoming Albany's friend she had become her brother's enemy.
She did not care. Henry was far away. Let him rule his own country and leave her alone. When she and Albany were married they would live happily together, and because Albany was a wise man, and a strong one, there would be peace in Scotland and the English would be obliged to look to their own affairs on the other side of the Border.
At last, she assured herself, I have come to peace and happiness; and this was the thought which was helping her to live through these terrible weeks. She had the love of her son; she had her dear little daughter; and when she married Albany there would be more children.
She was moving near to that for which she had always longed: the happy family life. The husband on whom she could lavish her passionate devotion; her children whom she could guide, comfort and love.
It has been long in coming, she thought. I had to live through two marriages to reach it. But it is waiting for me now. Albany's life with Anne de la Tour is almost over; he has been devoted to her and would never cause her unhappiness by attempting to divorce her, and I honor him for that. But she cannot live long. As for Angus, the divorce cannot long be withheld and then … to contentment.
A letter came from Albany. He must return to France to collect men and ammunition, as Henry was becoming more and more aggressive and the Border warfare was threatening to break out more seriously than hitherto.
He asked for an audience before he left; he wanted to assure her that he would soon return.
She immediately felt better.
“Bring me a mirror,” she cried. “I must see how I look after this long illness.”
The woman whom she had asked looked at her in dismay; through her illness she had been too sick and feeble to care for her appearance.
“Why do you stand there?” demanded Margaret. “Did you not hear my command?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then go and fetch me a mirror.”
The woman stammered: “Y-Your Grace…I have received orders…”
“What orders? Who gives orders here…?”
“The physicians have said to wait until you were stronger.”
Fear touched Margaret then. She was to wait until she was stronger before she was allowed to look into a mirror. What can this mean? she asked herself. But she could guess.
She must know the truth… whatever it was.
“Bring me a mirror,” she again commanded. “I order you to do so, no matter what the physicians have told you.”
The woman went away and, in a short time, came back holding the mirror, which Margaret snatched from her hand.
“Oh…no!” The words escaped her as she stared in horror. That was not Margaret Tudor who looked back at her. The lovely skin, pitted, the eyelid drawn down over one eye. “It cannot be!” she whispered.
But there was no evading the truth. Gone were her glowing good looks. The face which looked back at her seemed hideous and repulsive.
The woman threw herself by the bed, her arms outstretched for the mirror, which Margaret would not relinquish.
“Your Grace, it is early yet. The physicians say you will recover…”
Margaret did not answer; she continued to stare at the wreck of her beauty.
“The Queen is too ill to see the Duke of Albany before he leaves.”
That was the message she sent to him.
So he sailed away and she was almost glad that he had gone, because she could not have borne that he should see her as she was.
Her physicians assured her that when she recovered her health the effects of the pox would be less disfiguring; her women comforted her that she was growing more like her old self every day.
But in her heart she knew that she would never again be desired for her beauty; and she wondered apprehensively what would happen when Albany returned to Scotland.
THAT DREARY WINTER WAS OVER AND SPRING HAD come. The physician's comforting assurances had had some small foundation, for as Margaret's health improved so did her appearance to some extent. Gone was the glowing skin which, with her abundant shining hair, had been one of her greatest attractions; the deformation of her eyelid remained although it had ceased to look grotesque. And as the weeks passed she became more reconciled to the lessening of her beauty. She dressed herself even more richly than before; and even when she lay in bed recovering from her illness, she would have her attendants bring out her gowns and hold them up before her. She took great pleasure in them and her jewels; and she persuaded herself that, once she was able to leave her bed, they would do much for her.
Naturally resilient she soon grew to live with her changed appearance, reminding herself that she had a great deal for which to be thankful. Albany would return to Scotland; and although his wife still lived and she herself had not yet obtained her divorce from Angus, soon they must be free. When she was well enough she would be with James again; while she was ill she had received tender messages from him, and there was no doubt that he dearly loved his mother. To be loved by husband and child could compensate for so much, and Margaret began to look forward to the future with hope.
It was inevitable that, among those who surrounded her, were spies put there by those who deplored her friendship with Albany and were in secret working for an English alliance. Angus was no longer in Scotland but the Douglases were a numerous and powerful clan with their tentacles widespread. If Albany's wife died, if Margaret obtained her divorce, the Douglases would indeed be in decline. Therefore every effort would be made by them to turn Margaret from Albany and toward Angus.
A piece of information came to the ears of the Douglas group and they decided that it must be brought to the Queen's notice as quickly as possible. They did not want to mention it themselves, as t
hat would be to earn Margaret's scornful disbelief. But if it were whispered to her as a piece of gossip, she would not rest until she had proved it to be false or true.
Thus it was one of her women who slyly passed on the information to her by introducing the Flemings into the conversation.
“Oh, the Flemings, Your Grace. They always gave themselves airs. Lord Fleming hated his wife, they say, and that was why she died at breakfast with her sisters. And now of course his sister is becoming arrogant.”
“But why so?” asked Margaret idly, thinking of James, never ceasing to mourn Margaret Drummond who had died at that same fatal breakfast with her sister, Lord Fleming's wife.
“On account of my lord Duke, Your Grace.”
“My lord Duke?”
“My lord Duke of Albany, Your Grace.”
Margaret lowered her eyes to hide the fear in them. “And what of him?”
“Well, Your Grace, 'tis said that he is a man who has been unable to live with his wife, she being an invalid, and that it is natural that he should take a mistress. The Flemings were always a family to look to their advantages, and doubtless they persuaded her to it.”
“To what?” demanded Margaret, meaning to whisper yet finding herself breaking into a shout.
“Fleming's sister is the mistress of the Duke of Albany, Your Grace. Well, he is an attractive man and she was nothing loath. As for her family, they could see nothing amiss in being so linked with the Regent.”
“It is idle gossip.”
“Nay, Your Grace, I…”
“I tell you it is.”
The woman was silent; but she was satisfied that she had done her duty to the Douglases and the mischief had worked.
Margaret would not rest until she had discovered the truth, and there was no doubt at all that during his last stay in Scotland Lord Fleming's sister had been the mistress of the Duke of Albany.
She lay in bed and held the mirror before her face. Her eyes were hard and brilliant; they were burning with the tears which her pride would not let her shed. She was no weak creature to weep and sob because once again she had been cheated.
