Виктория Холт - The Thistle and the Rose

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 that 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.

It was like some cruel pattern. All the men she loved were unfaithful to her. She gave them passionate love; she was ready to give them devotion; but, alas, they turned elsewhere; and always they deceived her. Others knew of their infidelity before she would have deemed such infidelity possible.

It was too much to be borne in silence; and if her love could be passionate so could her hatred.

She hated Albany for so deceiving her. She realized now that she had been the one who had set their love affair in motion; she had invited him and he had courteously accepted her advances, when all the time doubtless he had preferred the embraces of the Fleming woman.

She hated the whole Fleming clan. Nor could she curb that hatred. She began to refer to Lord Fleming as the murderer of his wife and sister-in-law. It was reviving an old slander which had almost been forgotten; but now it was being remembered again, how James IV had desired to marry Margaret Drummond, and she had died after taking breakfast with her two sisters, one of whom was Lord Fleming’s wife.

By whose hand did they die?

Could it be true that Lord Fleming, wishing to poison his own wife, had mistakenly poisoned her sisters with her?

To revive that old story was small revenge, Margaret felt, for the wrong which had been done her.

How unhappy she was during those warm summer days.

Never again will I put my trust in men, Margaret told herself.

Now she would devote herself to her son’s interests. The boy was in his eleventh year. He was bright, intelligent, and very fond of his mother, who since her friendship with Albany, had been a great deal in his company.

David Lindsay was still his constant companion; the man would have died for the boy. James knew this and loved him dearly.

David had recently married a young girl named Janet Douglas who was a seamstress of the King’s household earning ten pounds a year; but his marriage had made no difference to his duties. James had inherited a love of music from his father and David fostered this, so many long hours were spent in singing and playing the lute and clavichord. David had also taught the boy to love and care for animals and it was their pleasure to play with these in Stirling Park and attempt to teach them tricks; although David would never allow the slightest cruelty, but was very anxious to make the boy understand that, while he took great pleasure in them, he must never forget that it was his duty to care for and protect them.

It was true, Margaret decided, that he was but a boy; but he was also the King, and he was old for his years. Poor child, it seemed that since his father’s death he had been in a kind of captivity, never allowed to go where he wished, nor to meet his friends unless he had the permission of others to do so. A pretty state of affairs for a king to find himself involved in!

Why should not the King be released from this semiconfinement? Why should he not be placed at the head of a party — as a nominal head of course — and as he was so ready to trust his mother, why should she not be the real power behind that party?

She would never trust a man again; she had done with men; she was now going to devote herself to politics and restoring herself to the Regency and her son to that life which was due to him as King of Scotland.

She went to Stirling Castle and found James in his apartments with David Lindsay.

When James saw her he greeted her with exclamations of delight.

“It is my mother, Davie,” he cried. “She will be delighted with our papingo.”

“I am sure she will,” replied David, and Margaret saw that on the boy’s wrist, as though it were a falcon, was a brightly plumaged parrot.

“She was sent to me as a gift,” James chattered. “Is she not beautiful? Have you ever seen such a bird? And Davie says that she may even learn to speak. He is teaching her to whistle.”

“Which she does very well,” added David, as excited as the King.

Margaret’s mind was full of her plan, but her interest was caught by the parrot, for she had never seen such a bird before and the idea of its being able to whistle seemed to her fantastic.

When she had marveled at its oddities and listened to James accompanying David’s singing on the lute, she intimated that she would like to be alone with her son, and David retired.

“Why, Jamie,” she said, when they were alone, “what a strange life it is that you live, and you a king!”

“Strange, Mother?”

“Why, here you are almost a prisoner. Had your father lived, how different it would have been!”

“Then I should not be King.”

“Oh, Jamie, how sad it was that your father should die and you become a prisoner of ambitious men.”

“Yes,” said James slowly, “I suppose I am a prisoner… of a sort.”

“Indeed you are, for if you wished to leave Stirling Castle you would be prevented from doing so. Poor James, you remember little else, so how can you guess what freedom means? And you a king. There are times when I feel very angry with those who cause you to live as you do. The King should be free and, although you are of no great age, still you are a king.”