by Jean Plaidy
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?”
She tried to rouse herself because there was so much she had to say.
“My daughter… the Lady Margaret Douglas…James must be good to her. Angus… Let James forgive Angus… Let him remember that he had suffered much…Peace…I want peace among them. Peace.”
Those about her bed exchanged glances. She had been well a short while ago. Could one be struck so suddenly?
It seemed so, for it was deemed advisable that the last rites should be administered. This was done, and when James arrived— although he had come to her bedside with the utmost haste—he was too late. Margaret, the Queen, was dead.
The Chronicles of Scotland. Robert Lindsay Pitscottie
King James IV of Scotland. R. L. Mackie.
Letters of Royal and Illustrious Ladies of Great Britain. Mary Anne Everett Green
Lives of the Princesses of England. Mary Anne Everett Green.
Lives of the Queens of Scotland and English Princesses. Agnes Strickland
Lives of the Queens of England. Agnes Strickland
A Short History of Scotland. P. Hume Brown Henry W. Meikle
Memorials of Henry VII (The Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Ages). James Gairdner
British History. John Wade
The Dictionary of National Biography. Sir Leslie Stephen Sir Sidney
The National and Domestic History of England. William Hickman
Smith Aubrey
Henry VIII. A. F. Pollard
History of England: Henry VIII. James Anthony Froude
The Political History of England (1485–1587). H. A. L. Fisher
JEAN PLAIDY is the pen name of the late English author E. A. Hibbert, who also wrote under the names Philippa Carr and Victoria Holt. Born in London in 1906, Hibbert began writing in 1947 and eventually published over two hundred novels under her three pseudonyms. The Jean Plaidy books—ninety in all—are works of historical fiction about the famous and infamous women of English and European history, from medieval times to the Victorian era. Hibbert died in 1993.
Henry VII sees his children, Margaret, Henry, and Mary, as bargaining chips in a political game. How does being used in this way affect each of them over the course of the novel? Do you agree with Mary's assessment that the siblings are “three of a kind”?
James IV is obsessed with the what-ifs in his past. About his tendency toward infidelity, he muses, “If I could have married Margaret Drummond I would have been a satisfied husband who never strayed.” In reference to his guilt over his father's death, he thinks, “If I could have known my father, talked with him, understood him, I would never have had this terrible blot on my conscience.” How does his sense of guilt and lost opportunities affect his marriage and his ability to rule? What are Margaret's what-ifs?
When Margaret requests the jewels left to her in her brother Arthur's will, Henry refuses to send them on the grounds that James is too friendly with the French. What is Henry's alleged fear about the jewels? Why does Margaret show Henry's refusal letter to James, when she knows it will only cause a rift between the two men? Why might she be interested in antagonizing her brother?
Margaret pursues Angus fewer than twelve months after King James is killed at Flodden. Not only does she fail to notice that Angus is a reluctant partner in the seduction, but she fails to consult with her own Parliament about the suitability of the match: “She did not stop to think of the consequences of this marriage. All that mattered was that this handsome boy who had long occupied her thoughts was now her husband. Her one desire was to abandon herself to the passion which obsessed her.” Why does she act so recklessly? What self-serving reason does Henry have for supporting her in this plot?
Angus reveals his cowardice and duplicity early on by forming an alliance with Albany and the Parliament behind the queen's back. Where else do you see evidence of Angus being twofaced? How does Margaret protect herself from this?
What causes Margaret to suddenly view Albany—who has always been a threat, a nuisance, and an enemy—as a potential lover? Does he recognize the shift?
Henry sabotages Margaret's first attempt at divorce by sending Henry Chadworth to Scotland to terrify the queen with tales of hellfire and eternal damnation. Why is this method successful even though Margaret has never been a religious woman? Why is Henry so irate at the idea of a divorce in the family?
Margaret, Mary Tudor, and Katherine of Aragon combine forces to convince Henry to spare a group of prisoners arrested during the revolt of Evil May Day. What is their technique and why does it work? What is each woman's motive in the scheme?
When little Alexander dies, Margaret accuses Albany of murder. What ulterior motive does Angus have for urging Margaret to return to Scotland and make peace with Albany immediately? Does she ever discover it?
Margaret's unorthodox relationship with Albany so infuriates Henry that he orders a mass exodus of Scotsmen from England, fueling a violent resurgence of border warfare between the two countries: “To Margaret this seemed only a minor irritation.” Why is this turn of events ironic? Does either Henry or Margaret recognize it as such?
When Angus is banished for his betrayal of the queen, he simply refuses to leave the country. What solution does Albany come up with to send Angus packing? How long does this solution last?
Time and again, Tudor egotism prevents Margaret from seeing her devotion to a man outweigh his devotion to her. Thus, her partners' extracurricular dalliances come as a fresh shock every time. Does her myopia in this area provoke sympathy in the reader? Why or why not? Which character from more recent literature or television does Margaret bring to mind?
The only male in Margaret's life with whom she enjoys a dependable, loving relationship is her son, James V. What event finally breaks the bond between mother and son?
Margaret has a macabre talent for reaping the benefits of disaster. When her one-year-old son dies, she feels a “faint exultation” that the tragedy keeps James at her side. And when James is unstrung with emotion and guilt over memories of his father, “it gave her a certain pleasure to see him thus.” Are there other examples of this dark side of her personality? What do you make of Margaret in these instances?
Margaret tells herself that “when hatred turned to indifference, then could a woman call herself no longer the prisoner of her emotions.” Does she ever get there?
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The Passing of a King
WHEN I LOOK BACK OVER THE FIRST TWENTY-FIVE years of my life and consider the number of times I was in danger of losing it, I believe—as I have since that wonderful day when I rode into my capital city in a riding dress of purple velvet, beside me my Master of Horse, Robert Dudley, the most handsome man in England, and listened to the guns of the Tower greeting me, and saw the flowers strewn in my path—yes, I fervently believe that my destiny was to be a great queen. I swore to God then that nothing should ever stand in the way of my fulfilling it. And I have kept that vow.
I could rejoice in those early twenty-five years—and indeed all through my life have done so—because during them I learned many a bitter lesson and it has been my endeavor never to forget one of them. I was young, lacking experience in the ways of men and women, and over my defenseless head—as dangerously as it ever did over that of Damocles—hung the sword of destruction. One false step, one thoughtless word, even a smile or a frown and down would come that sword depriving me of my life.
I was not quite three years old when I had my first encounter with adversity and my fortunes changed drastically. I cannot say with truth that I remember a great deal about my mother though sometimes I fancy I do. In my mind I see the most brilliantly fascinating person I have ever known. I sense the soft touch of velvet and the rustle of silk, long perfumed dark hair, and a wild sort of gaiety born of desperation. But there is one image of her which remains vividly in my mind; as long as I live I will never forget it. I am in a courtyard and my fascinating mother is holding me in her arms. At one of the windows there appears a glittering figure— large, imposing, red-bearded. It is the King and she is trying to say something to him through me. She is holding my hand and waving it at him, appealingly, desperately. For a brief second he regards us with exasperated indifference before he turns away. That actually happened. Later I discovered it took place three or four days before she was arrested and taken to the Tower. The memory of her desperation and his cruel indifference stays with me forever, and I vowed that no man should ever do to me what my father did to my mother.
Before that she had been a presence of power, and my governess, Lady Bryan, who was kinswoman of hers, was overwhelmingly anxious to please her, as was Mr. Shelton, who was also a family connection. My mother looked after her own when she had the power to do so. But there came that bewildering sadness … the end of her visits … the days when I asked for her, and Lady Bryan turned away to hide her emotion.
My father was a more tangible presence. I thought he was the most powerful man in the world. He certainly was in England. I was fourteen when he died so I could say I knew him fairly well. He was one who inspired fear and yet affection with it, and despite all his cruelty and all his ruthlessness, he never lost the love of his people. That was one way in which I intended to emulate him. I learned from my studies of our history that it is a foolish monarch who loses the esteem of the common people.
Lady Bryan told me that my father had once been very proud of me and used to stroll in the gardens at Hampton Court or Windsor—wherever the Court happened to be—holding me in his arms. I liked that picture—myself magnificently attired, swinging high in the arms of a splendid king as his courtiers walked with him exclaiming at my perfections.
That ended with an executioner's sword, which severed my mother's beautiful head from her willowy body.
What I do remember clearly is catching Lady Bryan by the skirts and demanding, “Where is my mother? Why does she never come now?”
And when she tried to run away to weep in silence, I refused to relinquish her and insisted she tell me. She took me onto her knee and said, “My Lady Princess, you have no mother now.”
“Everybody has a mother,” I said, for I was logical as soon as I was old enough to reason.
“Your mother has gone to Heaven,” she said.
“When will she come back?”
“People do not come back from Heaven.”
“She will come to see me.”
Lady Bryan held me to her and wept so bitterly that she bewildered me. Then I began to realize that something terrible had happened, but it was a long time before I gave up hope of seeing my mother again. I talked of her with Lady Bryan and made her tell me about my birth.
“It was in Greenwich Palace,” she said. “A beautiful palace and one of the favorites of the King and Queen. You first saw the light of day in the Chamber of Virgins. It was given that name afterwards, but before you arrived it was just a chamber, the walls of which were lined with tapestry and this tapestry depicted the lives of the holy virgins.”
“Did my mother want a boy?” I must have heard some whisper of a servant to put that into my head. It was important, I knew, for Lady Bryan turned pale and for a moment or so did not answer.
Then she said, “She wanted a boy. The King wanted a boy. But as soon as you were born, they knew that you were just what they wanted.”
I was soon to discover how false that was, but I loved Lady Bryan for telling the lie. My mother's life had depended on her giving birth to a boy. If I had been a son, they would not have sent to France for that sword that cut off her head. She would have been an honored queen instead of a corpse lying in her grave in the Church of St. Peter ad Vincula.
“The Queen said,” Lady Bryan went on, “people will now with reason call this room the Chamber of Virgins, for a virgin is now born in it on the vigil of this auspicious day on which the Church commemorates the nativity of the Holy Virgin.”
“Was that what she said?” I asked wonderingly.
“It was. You were born on the eve of the Virgin Mary's birth. Just think of that.”
My dear governess did so much to comfort me, but even she could not keep the truth from me. I could not but know that I, who had been the important Lady Princess, was now of no consequence and few cared what became of me. My mother was dead, executed for treason against the King because she was accused of taking five lovers—one her own brother, my uncle George Boleyn. Her marriage to the King had been proven by Thomas Cromwell—the King's influential minister—to have been no marriage at all, and because of this, I was branded illegitimate. And naturally bastards of the King were not of the same importance as his legitimate offspring.
I began to notice the change when my gowns and kirtles grew thin and threadbare and Lady Bryan spent long hours trying to patch them.
“I don't like this old dress,” I grumbled. “Why cannot I have a new one?”
At which the good Lady Bryan turned away to hide her anger against somebody—certainly not me, for she took me in her arms and said I was her Lady Princess and always would be.
She was very angry with Mr. Shelton, who had a high place in my household, because he insisted that I should sit at the table in some ceremony and would give me wine and help to highly seasoned dishes. I heard Lady Bryan quarreling with him. “It is unsuitable to let the child eat such foods,” she said.
Mr. Shelton replied, “This is no ordinary child. Remember, she is the King's daughter.”
“Oh, he still acknowledges her as that, does he?” Lady Bryan spoke angrily. “I am glad of that! Do you know, Mr. Shelton, it is months since that child had new garments. I cannot go on patching forever.”
“I repeat, she is the King's daughter and we should never forget that. Who knows—”
“Just what is your implication, Mr. Shelton?”
He did not reply. I kept my eyes and ears open and, because I knew strange matters were being decided upon outside my nursery, I began to realize that for some reason Mr. Shelton was trying hard to win my good graces and wean my affection from Lady Bryan. He never denied me anything that he could and he was always most obsequious.
At first I thought what a nice man he was and then, when I discovered that Lady Bryan restricted me and meted out her little punishments because she felt it was her duty to do so, I did not like Mr. Shelton so much; and whatever disagreement there was between us, I always turned back
to Lady Bryan when I was in need of comfort.
Mr. Shelton, like Lady Bryan, was related to my mother, and that was the reason why they were at Hunsdon in my household. Those two were in constant conflict. Once I heard Lady Bryan declare to him, “You want to keep my Lady in royal state as long as you can, do you not, Master Sheldon? But I tell you this: it will avail you little. There has been a new Queen now ever since the death of Queen Anne, and she is with child, and if that child should prove to be a boy … what of our lady then?”
“But what if it is not a boy, eh?” demanded Mr. Shelton. “What if Queen Jane goes the way of Queen Anne?”
“Hush,” said Lady Bryan. “Such words are treason and should never be spoken. All I ask of you is not to indulge the child. Do you not understand that these highly seasoned foods are bad for her digestion? I believe you give her sweetmeats outside meals, and if you do not desist from such, I shall be forced to make complaints where they could come to the ears of the King.”
Mr. Shelton was unimpressed and I learned later that she did write to Thomas Cromwell himself, telling him that I had neither gown nor kirtle, nor any manner of linen, and begged him to send something for me to wear. She also complained of Mr. Shelton's insistence that I sit at the table where spiced foods were served and suggested that I have plain wholesome food served in a way suitable for a child of my age.
I did get some new clothes, but I think that may have been due to the intervention of my sister Mary. She was twenty years of age at that time, which seemed very old to me. She was pleasant-looking and very serious, spending a great deal of time on her knees. An example to me, said Lady Bryan, for I was far less dedicated to my religious studies than Mary had been as a child. (Lady Bryan had been her governess, too, so she could speak with conviction.) I was interested in so many things and asked too many questions, I was told.
