Виктория Холт - The Thistle and the Rose

Memories of his own childhood were often with him. He was not going to let his little James suffer as he had. Therefore he must pay visits to his son, and it was natural that the boy would be with his mother; so during those years of indecision, both Janet and Margaret continued to hold sway over him — Janet by the violence of her emotion, Margaret by the serenity of hers.

But it was Margaret whom he loved; and he decided that before his marriage with her he would make a clean break with Janet.

When he visited her and told her of his proposed marriage she veiled her heavy-lidded eyes and threw back her flaming hair, but she did not look at him.

“I am determined,” he told her. “And this must be the end between us.”

“And our son?”

“Do not think I shall ever forget him. He shall be created Earl of Moray; and you shall not be forgotten either. I shall bestow on you the Castle of Darnaway and the forests surrounding it. It shall be yours unless you marry or live with any other man. In which case it would revert to me.”

Janet closed her eyes and nodded. The Earldom of Moray. The Castle of Darnaway. It was a good reward.

She said quietly: “I believe there is good hunting in the forests of Darnaway.”

He smiled. Let her believe that he intended to hunt there and visit her when he did so. Better not to say he intended never to see her again when he was married to Margaret Drummond.

“It is indeed good.”

Then she threw her arms about him and laughed in her wild way. Well, there had to be a last time and he had been prepared for this. What was one more night among all the rest that were left to him?

Farewell Janet, he had said to himself when he had ridden away next morning.

He often wondered afterward what part Janet and her family played in the tragedy that followed. But he could not be sure and Janet might have been guiltless, for there were others to oppose the marriage.

When the news was brought to him he remembered the long-ago occasion when he had heard of his father’s death.

Margaret was at Drummond Castle, making preparations for her wedding. Her four-year-old little daughter, Lady Margaret Stuart, was with her there; so were two of her sisters — the two youngest: Eupheme who was married, not very happily, to Lord Fleming, and Sibylla who was unmarried.

The three sisters sat down to breakfast one morning; a few hours later all three were dead. One of the dishes which had been served to them contained a deadly poison.

So grief struck him for the second time. I shall never forget Margaret, he mourned; as once before he had told himself he would never forget his father’s death. He was distracted by his grief, but his first thought was for his child, and impetuously he set off for Drummond Castle and took the little girl to Edinburgh Castle. He himself would watch over her.

He often wondered who had done this foul murder, but there was no means of knowing. There were some who declared that Lord Fleming, heartily sick of his wife Eupheme, had intended to dispose of her and had carried off her two sisters at the same time.

No one really believed that. There were so many who were opposed to the King’s union with the Drummonds. Already there was a faction who believed that Scotland could best be served by a marriage with Margaret Tudor, the daughter of the King of England. Such ruthless nobles would not care that in killing Margaret they had to kill her two sisters also.

Lurking in James’s mind was the thought of the Kennedys. Was it possible that wild Janet and her family had found some means of destroying the woman who had displaced her? Did they plan to put Janet in her place?

He did not care; he was not a vindictive man. Nothing he did now could bring back Margaret.

He listened with indifference to the arguments which were put before him. A political marriage was the duty of a king. He must contemplate the good which could come to Scotland if there were means of making peace with the old enemy across the Border.

Nothing brought peace between countries as easily as marriage in the royal houses.

He knew they were right. Let the negotiations with Henry VII go forward.

This had been done and now, mourning Margaret Drummond as he believed he would do all his life, he prepared himself to meet that other Margaret who was journeying north to share his throne.

On a sunny June day, four months after the death of her mother, Margaret, Queen of Scots, set out from Richmond Palace accompanied by her father. Crowds had gathered in the countryside through which the cavalcade was expected to pass, and Margaret could not hide her delight to find herself the center of such pageantry.

She was young and beautiful. She still mourned her gentle mother, but she had seen little of her during her lifetime and it seemed to her quite a long time ago that Elizabeth of York had died. So much had happened in between; there had been all the excitement of preparing her wardrobe — and how she loved those silks and damasks, those purple and crimson velvets! How she enjoyed the homage which was paid to her! Life was too good for mourning.

Let young Henry purse his little mouth and tell her she was frivolous; she could not care. He would have been equally excited if all the pother was for him.

She had heard stories of her husband and she liked what she had heard. She was longing to be with him. He was handsome and fearless; he loved hunting and the tournament; he was devoted to music.

“He has everything that I would ask of a husband,” she told her friends.

Riding out of Richmond, she did not look back once, nor did she ask herself when she would see those towers and turrets again. She was certain that life in Scotland was going to please her, and that she was going to feel no regrets for the past.

She was a charming figure in her riding dress of green velvet edged with purple tinsel; and when the people saw her on her white palfrey they cheered heartily for their lovely young Princess who was already a queen and whose marriage was going to bring peace to the country. Margaret smiled, acknowledging the cheers. Like Henry she was never bashful but delighted to hear the applause of the people.

There was a litter for her when she should tire of riding; it was magnificent, being covered with cloth of gold and trimmed with gold fringe; on it were embroidered the royal arms of England. She also had a chariot which brought gasps of admiration from all who saw it. It was lined with bearskins and painted with the arms of England, and the trappings of the horses and the hammer-cloths were of black and crimson velvet. Her litter-men wore the Tudor colors, green and white, and painted on them were the combined arms of England and Scotland.

They came by easy stages to Colleweston in Northamptonshire where the King planned to take leave of his daughter. This was the seat of Margaret’s grandmother, the Countess of Richmond, after whom she had been named.

The Countess had prepared a great banquet to celebrate the arrival of her beloved son and granddaughter; and here there was revelry for over a week.

But it was soon time to continue the journey and there, in the hall of Colleweston, Margaret bade farewell to her father and grandmother. All the nobility who had accompanied them, and those who had assembled for the occasion, watched the ceremony of farewell.

The King embraced his daughter and gave her words of advice; he also gave her an illuminated book of prayers in which he wrote: “Remember your kind and loving father in your good prayers. Henry R.”

Margaret was moved by this gesture, and in that moment she remembered that she was leaving her home and, in spite of all the pomp and pageantry which surrounded her and the fineness of her wardrobe, she felt apprehensive.

How could she know what this new land to which she was going would be like? Her father and family would be far away and she would be at the mercy of her Scottish husband.

But when they had left Colleweston and the journey began again she found that, now that her father was not present, she was treated with even more respect, and, her fears being dispersed, her spirits quickly rose.

All through England she was given homage. In every town and village the bells rang out as she approached. The lords of the districts greeted her and bade her welcome, and everywhere she went she was treated as a queen.

All marveled at her beauty and her charm, her brilliant Tudor coloring, her vitality, good health and high spirits. On through Lincolnshire to Yorkshire, here to be greeted by the High Sheriff, Sir William Conyers, by Sir Edward Savage, Sir Ralph Rider, Sir John Milton, Sir John Savile and Lord Scrope — all the worthies of the district who must come and pay homage to the daughter of their King. When she reached the City of York the gates were thrown open and the Lord Mayor marched at the head of the citizens to greet her, while the Earl of Northumberland magnificently attired in crimson velvet, with jewels glistening at his collar and on his sleeves, led the nobility. The trumpets sounded and minstrels sang to welcome her.

She reveled in the ceremonies which awaited her in that ancient city. In cloth of gold, wearing a girdle encrusted with precious stones, not only encircling her waist but falling to the hem of her gown, she visited the Archbishop of York in his palace where she heard mass; and afterward the nobility was presented to her. She would have liked to linger in the beautiful city, but she had to remember that her bridegroom was waiting for her.

It was a wonderful journey with homage all the way; a perfect horsewoman, she could ride for hours without feeling the least tired; and if she wished for a change there was her splendid litter or her even more sumptuous carriage ready for her.

And at last they reached the Border.

This was an important moment. The people here cheered more wildly than anywhere else, for it was comforting to see sparkling processions instead of ravaging hordes of savage men determined on destruction.

“Peace forevermore!” That was the cry. And this beautiful girl — no more than a child — with her round, rosy face and her glittering, golden hair, was the reason for it.

“Long live the Princess Margaret,” they cried. “Long live Margaret, Queen of Scots!”

She had learned how to receive the acclamation of the crowd, for she was a gracious lady now, not a shy young princess.

Lady Darcy, whose husband was the Captain of Berwick, received her at the gates; she was feted and flattered and a banquet was prepared for her. There was music and dancing for her entertainment; there was sport, and wild dogs were brought out to fight great bears. Later Margaret prepared herself for her entry into her husband’s country.

Sparkling with jewels, her eyes as brilliant as any gems, her cheeks scarlet with excitement, she was a lovely sight on her white palfrey; and the ceremonial moment had come; the gates were flung wide and Margaret passed out of England into Scotland.

She looked about her eagerly. The country of which I am Queen! she told herself. It was exciting to see it for the first time. This was the scene of many a bitter fight. How wonderful to contemplate that now it was a scene of rejoicing.

The first halt was at Lammermuir, and the curious people came out to look at their Queen and gasp with admiration at her youth, beauty and finery.

She was greeted at Lammermuir by the nobles of the district and although they could not have been more loyal she noticed that their clothes lacked that magnificence which had been a feature of those of the English lords. There was no gold or tinsel on their doublets, although the material of which they were made was of a good quality velvet or camlet.

Here she received a present from her husband — fruits which he believed she would find refreshing during her journey. Margaret, who was young enough to be hungry in any circumstances, devoured them with pleasure; and although it was now necessary to say goodbye to the English nobles who had escorted her from their Northern domains across the Border, she did so without regret; and her journey continued to Fastcastle. This meant passing through wild scenery such as Margaret had never before seen; and from her apartments at Fastcastle she could look down on the bay below to St. Abb’s Head, from the jagged rocks, black and unscalable, to the Wolf-Craig rising high and forbidding above the castle. It had been a slow journey, for the crossing of Lammermuir had been dangerous; Margaret had been warned of the bogs which lurked on the rough heath, and special guides had been hired to get them safely across.