“Why, James,” said Margaret, “it is possible that I might persuade Henry to bestow on our little James the title of Duke of York. Poor Katharine of Aragon seems unable to give him male heirs — so why should not our child benefit?”

James was dubious. He had never trusted Henry; he never would. And every day he was receiving the French ambassadors and making excuses to avoid the English.

Margaret was doubly disturbed. News had come to her that her brother Henry had already sailed for France to make war on Louis XII, leaving his wife, Katharine, as Regent during his absence.

How like him to be so impetuous! thought Margaret. He had sought to win from James a promise of peace that he might go to France without thought of an enemy’s attacking from the North; but since he could not win this, he had acted without it.

Henry with the flower of his army in France! What would James do now?

She soon discovered. James was longing to make war on his insolent brother-in-law and naturally this was the ideal time to do so.

He was closeted with his ministers who were, Margaret was thankful to realize, not so eager to plunge the country into war as their King was.

James must be persuaded to remain at peace. He must understand that Henry was new to kingship; he had for long been subdued by his father and, now that he was King, was determined to be master. He had always seen himself as a leader of men, so it was natural that now he wanted to see himself as a conqueror. Margaret, who had known the boy Henry so well, believed that the man was not so different. Let him try his wings in France; then he might not be so eager for battle. That was what she wanted to explain to James.

But James’s chivalry was touched from an unexpected quarter.

The Queen of France, Anne of Brittany, had written to him to tell him that when her husband’s embassy had returned to France they had recounted to her and the king how they had been entertained in Scotland, and how at the jousts there had been one known as the Wild Knight who had beaten all comers. She had often thought of the Wild Knight, a great gentleman; in fact she had thought of him as her knight, and she was sending him a token of her regard.

The token was a ring of enormous value. She begged him to wear it for her sake.

She was sorely distressed at this time because the English troops under the brash young English King were on French soil, and she was, in truth, appealing to the chivalry of her Wild Knight. Would he consider helping a lady in distress?

James put the ring on his finger and thought of the French Queen who wrote to him so eloquently. He pictured her at her table writing to him, the tears in her eyes; and his heart was softened. He believed that it was in his power to bring great joy to her, and to himself, by defeating the English.

He answered this appeal immediately by sending his ships — the James and the Margaret — to the French coast, and he put the Earls of Arran and Huntley in command of them.

Then, because it was against his idea of true chivalry to declare war on a country whose King was absent, he dispatched his Lord Lyon in full herald’s dress to Henry’s camp at Terouenne to announce that he was declaring war on Henry for the following reasons:

Henry had taken Scotsmen prisoner; he had withheld the legacy of Margaret, Queen of Scotland; he had slaughtered the Scottish Admiral Andrew Barton; and by these deeds he had broken the peace existing between England and Scotland.

Margaret was dismayed. She had so longed to show her brother the influence she held over her husband. And without telling her what was afoot, he had made himself the knight of the Queen of France, giving way to her, while his beautiful young Queen was ignored.

Margaret awoke. It was night and, stretching out her hand, gently she touched the sleeping body of her husband. So near, she thought, and yet so far away.

She remembered then riding into Scotland and how she had changed her dress on the roadside because she had wanted to look her best for him; then she had fallen deeply in love with him and for a time had believed herself to be loved.

It seemed now that the whole of her married life had been an affront to her pride.

She began to weep.

“What ails you?” It was James’s voice in the darkness.

“Oh, have I awakened you? I crave pardon for that.”

“But tears! Why?”

“It was an evil dream.”

James, who was almost as superstitious as his father had been, was alarmed. He believed fervently in the significance of dreams.

“What was this dream?”

“I dreamed that you were standing at the edge of a precipice and, while I watched you, men came running. They were soldiers and they seized you and threw you down.… I saw your body mangled and battered, and I could not bear it.”

James put his arms about her. “You are overwrought,” he soothed.

“Nay, but this dream was vivid. And it did not stop there. I was sitting in my chamber looking at my jewels — my coronet of diamonds and my rings; and as I watched, my diamonds and my rubies all turned to pearls. And pearls are the sign of widowhood and tears.”

Being aware of her desire to turn him from his purpose, James was not as impressed by this dream as she had hoped he would be. “It is clearly a meaningless nightmare. Go to sleep and forget it.”

Margaret withdrew herself from his arms and sat up in bed.

“What I tell you is of course of no account,” she cried bitterly. “Now if I were the Queen of France you would listen to me. Alas, I am but the Queen of Scotland… your own wife whom you have constantly deceived and ignored.”

James was tired; he disliked such scenes at any time but at night they were doubly distressing. He lay down and began breathing as though he were sleeping.

“Oh, you can pretend to sleep,” stormed Margaret. “Let us hope you have pleasanter dreams than I. Let us hope that you dream you are reading love letters from the Queen of France… fighting her battles for her like her own true knight.”

“Margaret, be silent. You will arouse our attendants.”

“What matters it? They will only hear me say what they know already. Do you deny that you have made yourself the knight of the Queen of France? I wonder you did not go to France instead of Lyon. Then you might have had a chance of sharing her bed.”

James did not answer, but Margaret was not going to be silenced.

“The Queen of France!” she cried scornfully. “Twice married by means of divorces! A fine lady to arouse the chivalry of her Scottish knight. But she must be served while the mother of your son is cast aside.”

James rose quickly and seizing her pulled her down beside him.

“Be silent!” he commanded, and there was an angry note in his voice.

“I will not! I will not!” she sobbed.

“You are being foolish,” said James gently.

“Why? Because I have loved you too well? Because I have wanted to have a share in your life?”

“Have you not had a share in my life?”

“I have had my moments… and then I have been forgotten. I have been here merely to bear your children. Your mistresses have had more of you than I. And now this woman… this Queen of France… beckons you and against the advice of your ministers you are ready to do her bidding. This old woman — and everyone knows she is in a decline — says, ‘Be my Knight,’ and you are ready to serve her.”

“Surely you cannot be jealous of an old woman who is in a decline?”

“I can be jealous of all who take you from me.”

“Oh, Margaret, why cannot you be calm… serene… ?”

She cried out: “Like that other Margaret. She was always so calm, was she not? She was so understanding! Well she might be! Grateful for the attentions of a king. But I was the daughter of a king before I was the wife of one… and I demand… I demand… ”

She was choking on her sobs again; he stroked her hair and laid his lips on her forehead, and for some minutes they lay silent.

Then at length she said: “James, you are really going to march across the Border?”

“Yes.”

“My sister-in-law, Katharine of Aragon, will gather together an army to meet you.”

“That is very likely.”

“James, when you go south, let me come with you. Let me meet my sister-in-law. Together we will talk and make peace. There is no need for war.”

James remained silent.

“James,” she went on, “will you let me come with you? Will you let me talk to Katharine? She will not want war any more than I do.”

“Nay,” agreed James, “she will not want war. Nor will your brother. They would prefer to wait until he returns from France with the full strength of his army. Then, wife, they will not hesitate to march across the Border. By sweet St. Ninian, have you forgotten that he has declared he will take the best of our towns for himself if we break not our alliance with France?”

“You should have broken your alliance with France. You should never have sent ships there.”

“I see,” he said ruefully, “that you are an Englishwoman still, and the English were always enemies of the Scots.”

“Should I be an enemy of my husband… of my son?”

“Poor Margaret! It is sad that your brother and your husband should be at war. But for this you must blame your brother.”

She was angry again. “Nay,” she cried, “I blame my husband. My husband who, because the French Queen flatters him into becoming her Wild Knight, turns from his true wedded wife to give her pleasure.”

“Nay, Margaret, this is not so. Never should I have taken up arms against your brother if he had treated me as a friend.”