The Thistle and the Rose Page 8

  He never regretted building that monastery, for it had often provided his tortured conscience with the balm it needed.

  Margaret and his courtiers were never very pleased when he went into retirement. He feared his Margaret was a little pagan at heart; he had seen how her attention strayed during religious services, and he noticed that if she could gracefully avoid attending them she did so. As for his friends at Court, they were too fond of gaiety to enjoy those seasons when, out of respect for the King’s temporary monastic existence, they too must live soberly.

  He had taken with him on this pilgrimage only four of his favorite minstrels; he enjoyed traveling about his country informally, because he believed it gave him an opportunity of discovering the true state of affairs. He had always wished to see things as they really were, so that he could improve the lives of his subjects.

  He often thought ironically that he would not be a bad king but for certain failings which he found it impossible to conquer. He was never the worse for drink; he never indulged in gluttony; he would devote much of his time to the study of laws which could benefit his country; then he would meet a woman and forget duty to state, wife and all, in his pursuit of her.

  Often he said to himself: “If I could have married Margaret Drummond I would have been a satisfied husband who never strayed,” as he used to say: “If I could have known my father, talked with him, understood him, I would never have had this terrible blot on my conscience.”

  He was a man of contrasts — deeply sensual yet spiritual; logical in certain matters, extremely superstitious in others; going alternately to the monastery and the bed of one of his favorites; capable of wisdom and folly.

  Having reached the shrine, he made his offerings and asked that Margaret might be restored to health; then because he and his little band were so weary he commanded that horses be hired to carry them back to Holyrood House.

  He was noted for his friendliness to those who surrounded him, and he was always pleased to throw aside dignity whenever possible; so the minstrels rode beside him and they all chatted in an easy fashion.

  One of them said: “I hear, Sire, that Bell-the-Cat is paying court to Lady Bothwell again. They say that he is prepared to offer her marriage.”

  “Is that so?” said James.

  “Why, yes, Sire. The Earl has suffered pangs of jealousy on the lady’s account, so I’ve heard tell.”

  James was silent, thinking of Janet Kennedy — red-haired and fiery. They had had good times together and he would never forget Janet as long as he lived; his memories of her were as evergreen as those of Margaret Drummond, though for a different reason.

  He wondered if she remembered that he had given her Darnaway on condition that she did not take another lover. He had been harsh. As well imagine himself without a mistress as Janet without a lover.

  And yet… he still hankered after her; and he still visited her — to see the boy, he would say, when he set out; and he did go to see the boy; he doted on his son; but it was meet and fitting that the boy’s mother should live with him, so when he saw the boy he saw her too.

  James smiled, thinking of arriving at the door of her house, of her sweeping down the staircase to greet him — mocking, her eyes blazing with the passion they both could not help arousing in each other; the vitality sparkling in her.

  They would talk for a while of the boy’s future; the boy himself would be sent for; and after a while he would be sent away because the need to be alone together would be too much to be gainsaid.

  And now Bell-the-Cat was paying court again!

  He imagined the old fellow, who must be some twenty-five years older than himself, calling on her, bribing her with offers of land… and honorable marriage. James had to admit that there was a virility about the Earl which, in spite of his age, remained with him.

  Janet… with a lover!

  Memories surged in and out of his mind. Janet’s red hair and white naked body; Janet’s eyes that looked green in passion. No, he would not lightly let her go to Bell-the-Cat.

  He decided to make a divergence; they would not yet return to Holyrood. He had made his pilgrimage for the sake of his wife; now he must indulge himself by a visit to a mistress whom he could never entirely forget.

  Margaret’s health began to improve — so it was said — from the moment James had reached the shrine of St. Ninian, so she owed her recovery to that saint, and when she was well enough must pay him the homage he would look for.

  As the baby had been baptized with great pomp and christened James, Margaret left him to the care of his nurses while she traveled along the coast of Galloway to the shrine of St. Ninian. Her husband accompanied her, riding on horseback beside her litter; she must travel thus for, although she was no longer in danger, she had not yet regained her good health.

  She found the journey trying, and when she returned to Stirling, continued to feel weak; this was particularly alarming because James hated to see her sick and went even more often on his travels. He was seeing Janet Kennedy very frequently now as well as the Lady of A; and Margaret had learned that another woman, Isabel Stuart, daughter of Lord Buchan, had borne him a daughter whose name was Jean.

  It was true that she had her own little James now, and it was a matter of great contentment to her to remind herself that of all the King’s children, her little James in whom his father delighted was the one who was of real importance.

  But the rude health which Margaret had hitherto enjoyed seemed to have deserted her. There were days when she was obliged to keep to her bed; she felt resentful of this, but Lady Guildford assured her that the ordeal of childbirth had been so great that she must expect to take a few months to recover.

  She could not of course prevent James from taking mistresses; but Margaret was becoming wily; she was not sorry that there were several mistresses; if there were one only she would need to feel anxiety.

  Christmas came and was celebrated with music and dancing at Holyrood House; and if the Queen was less energetic than before, the King was more assiduous in his desire for her comfort. Wantonness, Gray Steil, English Cuddy and Scotch Dog were at their best, and the King’s fool, Currie, with his wife Daft Ann, set the King and Queen laughing uproariously.

  Thus time passed until that February when the little Prince James was one year old.

  The Court was at Linlithgow Palace. James had returned from hawking and was ready for the feast which lay waiting for him in the great hall.

  Margaret, with her women, greeting him and his companions on their return, was a little sad because she no longer felt well enough to accompany him on such expeditions.

  The great hall looked magnificent, prepared as it was for the evening’s entertainment. Tapestries from Holyrood had been hung on the walls, and the logs blazing in the huge fireplace crackled and spat comfortingly. The silver platters, the goblets and bowls on the table shone in the firelight, and in the minstrels’ gallery sweet music — which was never lacking in the King’s presence — was being softly played by his favorite minstrels.

  The table was placed on a dais at one end of the hall exactly opposite the minstrels’ gallery, and under the place where the King and Queen would sit was a carpet, although the rest of the hall was strewn with rushes. Servants were scurrying in and out of that door which led to the kitchens and butteries, and the smell of appetizing foods was everywhere.

  James looked with appreciation at the Queen, who greeted him so warmly and asked him how he had fared at the hunt. He took her hand and led her to the table where one of his servants was waiting with a bowl that he might wash his hands.

  Margaret and he seated themselves and the feast began.

  One of the noblest of James’s courtiers carved for the royal pair. Margaret ate heartily but James, sitting there taking the pieces of meat in his fingers as his carver handed them to him seemed more interested in the minstrels’ music than in food.

  It was always thus at table; James was no great trencherman; nor did
he show much interest in the wine which was placed before him.

  Wantonness began to sing, and it was clear that her song charmed him; he turned to Margaret and asked her opinion.

  Margaret replied that Wantonness never failed to please; she was wondering whether during the hunt he had paid a visit to one of his women.

  They were washing their hands after the meal when a messenger from Stirling Castle, where the little Prince was staying, came into the hall and made his way immediately to the King and Queen.

  Margaret and James grew immediately grave when they heard what he had to say. The little boy had become fretful and his nurses could not comfort him. Now it seemed that he had a fever.

  James said: “We will leave at once for Stirling.” Within an hour they were on the road.

  Margaret was brokenhearted.

  “Why,” she demanded angrily, “should this happen to me! His bastards flourish and my son must die. Why should I be unfortunate?”

  Lady Guildford tried to soothe her. “Your Grace, many children die in Scotland and England. The little Prince had every care. And you are young. You will have other children.”

  During the weeks that followed the death of the little heir of Scotland, Margaret refused to be comforted. It was so unfair, she kept proclaiming. The children of his mistresses were full of health and vigor, and the thought of them was a continual torment to her; and when her own son had been born she had found some comfort… but that was no more.

  James mourned the loss of his son with her, but reminded her that no railing against fate could bring him back to them. They would have more children and in time they would forget this unhappiness.

  He sought to comfort her in every way he could; he spent time in her company; he suggested that she should arrange entertainments to divert her. Let her call together Cuddy and Dog; let Gray Steil write a new song for Wantonness to sing.

  Margaret could only shake her head and mourn; but she clung to him and within her was a faint exultation. At least she was keeping him away from his women.

  Political affairs were taking up a great deal of the King’s attention. The King of France was anxious for his friendship and, since the marriage between Scotland and England, had tried to woo James with prophecies of the advantages a friendship between their two countries could mean. James knew that Louis was eager to break the Scottish alliance with England; and, because France and England were perennial enemies, that put Scotland in the enviable position of being of great importance to both these countries.

  Louis had written that he was sending an embassy to Scotland which would bring certain plans to lay before the King.

  James had left the Court to go on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Ninian; this was becoming a habit and, although it was known that St. Ninian was the King’s favorite saint, it was also known that he made a habit of combining this practice with a visit to Janet Kennedy.

  Margaret was delighted to find that she was pregnant again; at the same time her being in such a state meant that she saw less of the King, which did not please her.

  It was while she was with her women, listening to their chatter but picturing all the time what James and Janet Kennedy were doing, that a messenger came to tell her a certain English gentleman, who had come from her father, was below and asking if he might have audience with her.

  Margaret, always eager to have news from home, commanded that the man be brought to her without delay.

  The Englishman accordingly appeared, and Margaret dismissed her attendants because she felt that what he had to tell her might be of some secrecy.

  “I am Dr. Nicholas West, Your Grace,” she was told when they were alone. “I come on instructions from your most noble father.”

  “To see me?”

  “To see Your Grace and the King. Alas, I have been waiting long at Berwick for a safe conduct, but since this was not granted me I have taken the risk of coming to Edinburgh and presenting myself to you.”

  “The King has had much to occupy him,” said Margaret. “It may be that your plea has not reached him.”

  Dr. West bowed his head. He did not believe that. He knew that the French were sending an embassy to Scotland and that the King of Scotland was eager to welcome it.

  “My master, your most noble father, is not pleased with the way in which matters stand between this country and his.”

  “Is that so?” said Margaret, who had never bothered herself with political matters.

  “Your Grace will know that His Grace, your royal father, arrested the Earl of Arran and his brother, Sir Patrick Hamilton, when they attempted to pass through England on their way to France without first having obtained a safe conduct.”

  “I did not know,” said Margaret.

  “This matter has incensed the King of Scotland.”

  Margaret thought resentfully: He never tells me anything. Am I not the Queen? He treats me as he does one of his mistresses. He forgets that I am the daughter of the King of England.

  “But,” went on Dr. West, “there was naught else to be done. When these gentlemen passed through our country without first having asked for a safe conduct, and we knew they were on their way to France, naturally we arrested them. If I could have an audience with the King and explain this matter to him, I feel sure I could make him see the justice of what we have done.”

  “I am sure the King would understand.”

  “But, Your Grace, I cannot obtain an audience with the King. I come to ask you to plead my cause — and that of your royal father — for me. Your father has asked me to tell you that he knows you will remember you are his daughter and do all in your power to work for the good of your native land, and seek to dissuade your husband from accepting the friendship of your father’s enemies.”

  This was a new role for Margaret — political adviser to the King. Why not? She was after all the Queen. She must show James that she was not as one of his light-o’-loves — there to enjoy a night or two of passion. She was the Queen.

  She said: “You may tell my father when you see him that he can trust me to remember that I am an English Princess and the daughter of the King of England.”

  Dr. West looked about him a little uneasily.

  “Speak low,” said Margaret. “I understand what you have to say is for my ears alone.”

  “It is important, Your Grace, that the embassy which the King of France is sending, should not succeed. I come to ask you to use your influence in every way in order to make it fail.”

  Margaret nodded slowly.

  James came riding back to Edinburgh. Exuberantly he came to his Queen. He had brought velvet and damask for new gowns, and jewels for her to wear with them.

  Margaret expressed her delight, while the King gently stroked her swollen body.

  “And how is my Queen and her little bairn?”

  “Your Queen has been a little sick and very lonely.”

  James embraced her, determined to banish self-pity. “Then she shall be so no longer. I want you to help me plan entertainments such as we have never had before. We have visitors coming to see us and they pride themselves on their skill at the joust. We shall have to show them that in Scotland we are no mean performers.”

  “The French?” she asked.

  “The French. You will be amused. Such handsome men; and such charming manners!”

  “Is it fitting that you should receive the French,” asked Margaret, “when my father’s ambassador has been waiting a long time for an audience with you?”

  James raised his brows in a puzzled way. “Do not tell me that my Queen is turning her attention to politics!”

  “Why should she not?”

  “For many reasons, one of which is that dancing and music and showing my Court how elegant and beautiful she is, becomes her better.”

  “I am no longer a child, James.”

  He laughed. “You grow old. Eighteen, is it?”

  She shrugged impatiently. “You must realize that I am not merely a wom
an with whom you may amuse yourself, and who has the privilege of giving you legitimate children. I am the Queen.”

  He rubbed his finger along her cheek. “A charming queen of whom any king would be proud.”

  “Therefore you should talk to me of more serious matters than the plays Cuddy and Dog devise.”

  “But are these not serious matters?”

  “James, you know they are not. Why cannot you receive my father’s ambassador and mend this silly quarrel with England?”

  He was at once withdrawn and the obstinacy showed in his face. He would be gentle and kind, he seemed to imply, but always he would be the ruler. She must understand that.

  “My dear Margaret, this pretty head of yours must not be troubled with such tiresome matters. I have no wish to see Dr. West.”

  “Why?”

  “Other matters occupy me.”

  “You are ready to dance and joust, to hunt and hawk. Why cannot you meet the ambassador sent by the King of England?”

  His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “I do not care that my subjects should be arrested and made prisoner. It is an unfriendly action.”

  “Dr. West wishes to explain this matter to you.”

  “I will tell you this much,” he said. “Sir Patrick Hamilton has escaped out of England, though his brother Arran remains there. They have not been well treated in your father’s domains. That does not please me. And if your Dr. West is here to attempt to persuade me not to receive the French embassy, you may tell him he is wasting his time. I understand he has seen you. Now let him return to his master and tell him that in Scotland it is the King who decides what shall be done; and when his subjects have been maltreated he is not to be won over with soft words.”

  “You are cruel to me,” cried Margaret. “And I in my present condition!”

  James laughed softly. “Nay, when was I ever cruel to you? Everything in reason that you ask for is yours. You shall have pleasure, fine clothes, precious jewels. But you must not meddle, my love, in matters which do not concern you.”