Margaret made an impatient gesture. “I am sorry for Katharine, but I always knew she was too meek. And she was very condemnatory of my divorce. It is all such nonsense. When a marriage is finished, it is finished and that should be an end to it.”

“As you proved with Angus. Mother, I am in agreement with you. I shall write to congratulate Henry on his marriage and to wish him and his Queen a fruitful union.”

“Do so, my son, but with discretion. There are too many people in Scotland who imagine divorce to be a major sin, and it is better not to offend them.”

“They will have to change their minds.” He hesitated for a few seconds then hurried on: “Mother, I have made up my mind to marry.”

“It is time, my son. Do you plan to visit France yourself to claim your bride?”

“No, I do not intend to go to France because I have no intention of marrying into France. I have chosen my wife and she is Scottish.”

Margaret stared at him in astonishment. “But you have been promised to the daughter of the Duke of Vendôme. What are you saying, James?”

“That I have decided to marry where I please, and I have chosen my own bride.”

“James! This cannot be so. Whom have you chosen?”

“Margaret Erskine. She has already borne me a son and I would make him legitimate if that were possible. He is a fine healthy boy and I love his mother as I could love no other.”

“But is she not married to Douglas of Lochleven?”

“We have just agreed that when a marriage is irksome it should be dissolved, have we not?”

“James, this is madness!”

“Was it madness when you divorced Angus?”

“I was only the mother of the King. You are the King.”

“Nevertheless I am determined to marry whom I will.”

“So it is for this reason that you congratulate my brother and his new Queen.”

James was silent, and Margaret felt peace slipping away from her. She tried to look dispassionately at that handsome face which was almost womanish. The aquiline nose could not altogether disguise the weakness of the chin. James was weak where women were concerned, as his father had been.

He must not make the mistakes that she had made. Looking back she saw that hasty marriage with Angus as the beginning of all her troubles.

In that moment she wanted to help James achieve his desire, but she believed that by arranging a divorce for his mistress, marrying her himself and by attempting to legitimize his bastard, he was, at the beginning of his reign, making trouble for himself. What of the French? How would he placate them for the insult done to them?

No, she must make a firm stand.

“It is impossible,” she said.

His brow had darkened, his lips tightened. He turned on her in a rage.

“It was well enough when you wished for divorce. So there is one law for you and another for me?”

“James… you are the King.”

“And you were the Queen. What did you care? So you will stand against me now. I had not believed it of you.”

She tried to explain but his impetuous nature was in revolt. All those who would not help him in this matter were his enemies.

It was the first quarrel they had had; and it was a bitter one.

Margaret was filled with grief; and that was the end of the peaceful years.

James did not marry his mistress. When the Parliament stood firmly against him he was wise enough to realize that he could only court disaster by doing so.

So he gave way and went to France, in the role of romantic lover, to court the lady who had been chosen for him. He was received with warmth in the Duke’s household, but he did not fall deeply in love with Mademoiselle de Vendôme. His thoughts were still with the mother of his son James on whom he doted although he had put aside his desire to marry her, for the sake of duty. It was not surprising therefore that he lacked enthusiasm for this woman who had been chosen to be his bride.

Traveling through France he was entertained at the Court of François, and there he met the young Princess Magdalene who had at one time been suggested as a bride for him. She was a delicate child who, no sooner had she set eyes on him, adored him.

As for James, all his chivalry was aroused by her fragility and her admiration of himself; and he confessed to her father that she was the lady whom it would delight him to marry.

The King of Scotland was a worthy parti. So the proposed marriage with Vendôme was put aside for the more desirable one with the daughter of the King of France.

James was delighted. Only this fragile child could compensate him for his inability to marry his dear Margaret and legitimize his bonny James. The Parliament of Scotland had no objections. A French marriage was what it desired, and a daughter of the King of France was more suitable than one of the Duke of Vendôme.

Margaret sighed with relief. Once James was safely married, all would be peaceful again.

News came from England that Henry, tiring of his second wife, had accused her of adultery and she had lost her head on Tower Green. He was now married to Lady Jane Seymour.

“He cannot blame me for having had three husbands,” commented Margaret, “now that he has had three wives.”

She was a little anxious about her daughter Margaret who by this time had become a prominent member of the English Court. In those days of intrigue one could never be sure who was going to arouse the King’s anger next. Henry VIII was a fickle man; his anger was terrible, and he had supreme power with which to make it felt. Who would have believed that the vital and dazzling Anne, for whom he had fought desperately over so many years, could in three short ones have passed from glory to dishonor and death? It was ironical that glory, honor, disaster and death had been dealt by the same hand.

And there, in the center of intrigue, was young Margaret. Her mother’s anxiety had increased because the girl had been favored by Anne Boleyn, which doubtless meant she had lost favor with her original benefactress, the Princess Mary. It must be impossible to live at the English Court and not take sides.

It seemed that no sooner was the anxiety concerning one child lessened than that concerning another must distress her.

She often lay awake at night, thinking of the dangers which could beset her daughter at the Court of her terrible brother. It was true that Angus, as a pensioner of Henry, was at that Court and, whatever else he was, he was fond of his daughter and would do his best to protect her.

Without doubt the peaceful era had come to an end.

But she was not prepared for the greatest blow of all.

During one of the rare journeys she made, she visited the home of the Earl of Atholl. A splendid banquet was prepared for her and she took great pleasure in wearing her most dazzling gown; her person sparkled with jewels as she sat at the table which was laden with beef, mutton, venison, goose, capon, swan, partridge, plover, moorfowls and every kind of food that could be thought of; with Malmsey and muscatel, white and red wine, beer and aqua vitae with which to wash it down. It was rarely, said Atholl, that he had the honor of entertaining the Queen.

Harry had been with her as usual and, as they sat together at the places of honor, a woman caught her eye. This was Janet, widow of the Master of Sutherland, and eldest daughter of the Earl of Atholl; in that moment it was as though some extra sense warned her to take especial note of Janet; and when she met Janet’s young son, a most engaging boy, she kept him at her side. There was something in the lad which appealed to her strongly.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

“It is Henry, Your Grace,” he told her.

She smiled at Harry. “A goodly name,” she commented, “and one which I like well.”

Harry laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder and it was almost as though a secret message passed between them.

Margaret turned her eyes to the Mistress of Sutherland who was watching them, and she noticed that the woman’s hands were slightly trembling.

She remembered then that she had heard of the death of the Master of Sutherland some years before. Could he have had a son of Henry’s age?

She mentioned the matter to her women when they were undressing her that night, but strangely they seemed reluctant to speak of the matter.

Then it was almost as though she had gone back in years and was reliving certain episodes, as though her life was a vast tapestry, the essential point of which was that the pattern should be repeated again and again. A stupid fancy, she told herself; and tried to dismiss the matter from her mind.

But the evil suspicions persisted, and she found herself watching Harry as she never had before. Emotions which she had long forgotten seemed to be stirring within her.

One evening when they were alone together in her apartments at Methven Castle she burst out: “What is the Mistress of Sutherland to you, Harry?”

As she watched the blood drain from his face, she knew. Had she not lived it all before?

So her life was shattered. She was no longer young, being nearly fifty. The pain was as great as it had been when she had discovered the infidelity of James and of Angus. Why, she demanded, was she called upon to bear this yet again? Why was it that her marriages always ended in this way?

Ended?

Yes, this was going to be the end of her third marriage. She was not going to be deceived and deluded again. She supposed that all the Court knew of her husband’s treachery as they had known of that of Angus and James before she did. Then she had given way to passionate weeping. But she was older now; her emotions were no longer so easily stirred.