Виктория Холт - The Thistle and the Rose

There had been only time to christen the baby before she died. Melancholy brooded over Holyrood House. The lutes and harps were silent; the Queen was desolate and James the King went about with an expression of sorrow on his face.

It was Margaret who tried to comfort him.

“There will be other children, James. We have been unfortunate, but that cannot continue.” Then she burst out passionately: “I have seen the common people in the streets. Mothers with children at their skirts and at their breasts. Why should this happen to us!”

James buried his face in his hands. “Sometimes I think I am cursed,” he said. “Never shall I forget that day at Sauchieburn when I fought on one side and my father on the other. What an unnatural son I was! To go into battle against my own father.”

“James, you were but a boy.”

But he shook his head. “I was old enough to know what I did. And for this I am cursed… cursed with failure to give my country an heir.”

Margaret put her arms about his shoulders; it gave her a certain pleasure to see him thus. At least he laid no blame on her for their ill luck, as many a man would have done. And he was very eager for the comfort she could give.

“Why,” she told him gently, “we shall get ourselves an heir.”

“But see how these births affect your health. Remember how ill you were last time… and this… ”

“I am young, James, and strong; I shall soon be well.” A cunning look came into her eyes. “Perhaps it is because you squander your manhood on other women that you cannot give your lawful wife a child who will live.”

“Nay,” was the answer. “My father loved many women, yet he had sons. It is because of my ill deeds at the time of Sauchieburn. There is a curse on me.”

Margaret put her arms about his neck.

“We will defeat the curse, James. With our love for each other we will defeat it.”

He held her tightly as though he were asking for her protection. Margaret felt strong then, with an infinite faith in the future.

It was April and there was a promise of spring in the air. Margaret sat at a window of her apartments looking out on Arthur’s Seat, and she laid her hands on her body and rejoiced because once more she had conceived.

This time all would be well. She was certain it was a boy she carried. She wondered why she had been so unfortunate and why it was that her children did not live. She herself was so strong and healthy — or she had been until she had suffered so from her ordeals. James was strong and lusty. Why could they not get healthy children?

Before the birth of her daughter, who had died so soon, she had spent some months at Lochmaben Castle where Robert the Bruce had been born. James had said: “Go there, stay there for a while; it would be well if you lived during those waiting months where my noble ancestor drew his first breath.”

She had agreed to go; yet while she was there she had spent as much time wondering with whom James was dallying as she had thinking of the effect the great Bruce might have on her child.

Perhaps last time they had concerned themselves overmuch; perhaps those women, whom she saw in the streets with their children at their heels, did not fret during their pregnancies. They might even regret them. Could one long for something so fervently that fate perversely denied it?

Thus she was musing when Lady Guildford came to tell her that messengers from England were below and they brought letters from her father’s Court.

“Bring them to me without delay,” cried Margaret, and when the letters were brought to her, she read them several times before she could fully grasp their significance.

Her father… dead… and her brother King!

When she had last seen Henry he had been not much more than ten years old — a swaggering, boastful boy with the words “When I am King” continually on his lips. Well, now he was King. He was also a man. And her father, who for all his coldness had been a good father, was dead.

She put her hand over her eyes. This was real sorrow. She felt apprehensive, a little frightened and alone; and she realized that, all through the years which had been lived in Scotland as James’s wife, she had thought of her father on his throne — all-wise, all-powerful, always there in case she should need him.

Now her brother Henry was in his place. She wondered what effect this was going to have on her and James — on England and Scotland.

James came to her, for he too was excited by the news.

“What difference will this make, James?” she asked. “Who knows? Your father was a wise man — not always easy to deal with, but one respected his sound good sense.”

“And my brother?”

“He is as yet untried. You knew him. Do you think he will follow his father’s cautious ways?”

Margaret saw him clearly in her mind’s eye — rosy-faced, flushed, little mouth prim; the arrogance in his strong young body, the love of flattery and finery.

“I do not think he will be like my father,” she said. “He writes to me in most friendly fashion.”

“I am glad of that. For I could not be happy if Scotland and England were not good friends.”

“Ah,” said James lightly, “you should not grieve for such a matter. You are no longer English, remember; you are the Queen of Scots. If there are differences, you should not take them to heart.”

“I trust you will not allow your friendship for the French to stand between you and friendship with England.”

James patted her hand gently and made no answer. Instead he said: “Your brother is going to marry Katharine of Aragon, so I hear.”

“But she was my brother Arthur’s wife!”

“Henry sees no reason why she should not be his also.”

“She is older than he is and I remember she was rarely at Court. She lived aloof from us with her Spaniards. I am surprised.”

“I have heard that your brother’s ministers were not eager for the marriage, but he is a young man who will have his own way.”

Margaret smiled. That was true. In the old days people had said they were alike — not only in looks but in temperament. Lucky Henry to be able to say, “I will have this” and “I will do that” — and have none who dared gainsay him.

In October of that year Margaret’s son was born, to wild rejoicing.

With great pomp he was christened Arthur and declared Prince of Scotland and Lord of the Isles.

Margaret suffered a difficult labor as usual but because the child was alive she came through this in good spirits and quickly regained her health.

She delighted in the child who was named in memory of Arthur of Britain but also of Margaret’s favorite brother, who had died so tragically at Ludlow Castle soon after his marriage to that Katharine of Aragon who was now Henry’s wife and Queen of England.

This reminded her that Arthur had left her certain jewels in his will, for he had been as fond of her as she of him; but she had never received them. It had been exceedingly difficult to persuade her father to part with anything of value and he had always had some excuse for not sending jewels from England into Scotland; but now he was dead and Margaret did not see why she should not ask Henry to let her have what was hers. She received an affectionate letter from Henry, but he said he could not send her jewels to Scotland. He believed that her husband was very friendly with the French, and the French were no friends of the King of England. If he sent the jewels, how could he be sure that the King of Scotland might not sell them and use the money to make war?

Margaret showed the letter to James whose face darkened with anger.

“It would seem,” he said, “that we shall not live on such peaceful terms with your brother as we did with your father.”

“But Henry is eager to be friends with you,” Margaret insisted.

“My dear, you do not understand these matters. Your brother is a young king in possession of the great wealth your father amassed over long and careful years. ’Tis my belief that he intends to spend lavishly… on pleasure and mayhap war. I hear that he is already planning a campaign against the French. It is easy to see that relations between our two countries will be less cordial than they were during your father’s reign.”

“Henry is only a boy,” insisted Margaret. “He is new to kingship and anxious that everyone shall know how powerful he is.”

“Power is dangerous in the hands of boys,” was James’s comment.

Margaret ceased to think of politics, for after a few months of life little Arthur followed his brother and sister to the grave.

This was too much to be borne, and the King and Queen were prostrate with sorrow.

James was certain now that he was accursed, and he blamed himself afresh for the part he had played at the time of his father’s death.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I should go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I begin to fear that we shall never have a son who will grow up to be King after me.”

But Margaret refused to despair.

She put her arm about him. “We have been unfortunate, but has not my brother’s wife met with the same misfortune? We will try again, and this time our son will live. I know it.”

“You are right,” James told her. “It is foolish to fret.”

Hope came to them when, shortly after the death of little Arthur, Margaret was once more pregnant.

“Now,” said James, “we must take every precaution. I will go at once to St. Ninian’s shrine and there ask him to take especial care of you.”

“It might be well if you paid no visits on your way back from the shrine,” said Margaret shrewdly. “Mayhap St. Ninian feels it is disrespectful of you to go from him to your mistress.”