Виктория Холт: The Thistle and the Rose

Mary turned solemn eyes to Margaret. “Oh, Margaret, is it indeed so?”

“Do you doubt me then?” roared Henry.

“Oh no, Henry. You are always right!”

“He is not,” snapped Margaret. “And that is all ancient history. Perkin Warbeck deceived James Stuart as he did others. It is over and nothing to do with my marriage.”

“I beg leave to say that it has a great deal to do with your marriage.”

“Then I am surprised you do not forbid our father to consent to it,” Margaret mocked.

Henry’s face flushed scarlet. “When I am King… ,” he muttered.

It was unfortunate for Henry that at this moment the door was flung open and his words were overheard by the last person he wanted to hear them.

The King had entered the room with his wife and a few attendants. King Henry VII was no lover of ceremony; his clothes were a good deal plainer than those of many of his courtiers; his face was pale and shrewd, and no one would have suspected he was the father of those pink and gold children who were clearly disconcerted to be so interrupted.

Henry thought scornfully that a king should make his entrance to a fanfare of trumpets; his garments should dazzle with their magnificence; he should tower above his followers. When I am King… , his thoughts went on, for that was their persistent theme since the news of Arthur’s death had been brought to him.

He bowed to his parents, and the girls curtsied.

“That time is not yet, my son,” said the King coldly, “though it would seem you are unbecomingly eager for it.”

“Sire,” began Henry, embarrassed, “I was but explaining to my sisters… ”

The King lifted a hand. “I rejoice in your healthy looks,” he said, “and would that your mind kept pace with your body. You should pray that the time will not be yet for, my son, you are an infant in princedom and have much to learn of kingship.”

“I know this, Sire,” murmured Henry, “and I will endeavor to learn quickly — so to please you.”

“My daughter,” said the King; and Margaret came forward.

Her father did not smile — he had rarely been seen to do so — but his glance was approving.

The vitality of these children of his never failed to delight while it surprised him. He had lost Arthur and Edmund, it was true, but the ruddy looks of these three reassured him. If the child the Queen now carried had this same blooming health, and it were a boy, he would cease to mourn for the death of Arthur. There was, of course, no reason why there should not be more and more. Both he and the Queen were young enough to add to their brood.

He went on: “The Scottish nobles are now arriving at the Palace. You should be ready to receive them. This is no time for nursery games.”

“No, Sire,” murmured Margaret.

The Queen stepped forward and took her daughter’s hand. Elizabeth of York tried to hide the apprehension she was feeling. It was only a little more than twelve years ago that this bright girl had been born to her in the Palace of Westminster; she remembered the November mists which hung over the river and seeped into the room; she remembered holding the tiny child in her arms and rejoicing in her, forgetting the disappointment in her sex which it seemed must overshadow all female royal births. A sister for Arthur — a healthier baby than her little brother.

And now soon there would be another. The present pregnancy worried the Queen. She was filled with foreboding perhaps because she, more than any, knew the weakness of her own body. Childbearing had taken its toll and, although she could remain fruitful for several years to come, she thought with dread of future pregnancies.

There was none to whom she could confide this fear. Her daughter was too young to understand; moreover could she complain to her of a fate to which, by very nature of her own position, Margaret could herself be condemned? It was a great responsibility to be a royal princess, one whose duty it was to provide sons — a task which seemed extremely difficult for royal princesses and amazingly simple for humble subjects. Could she explain to her husband? Henry would never understand that anything could be of importance except the piling up of wealth, the strengthening of the country, so that the Tudor, who sat somewhat uneasily on his throne, should maintain his place. There was reason for disquiet. The recent affairs of Lambert Simnel and Perkin Warbeck had shown that; but with his usual sound good sense Henry had dealt with those impostors in a manner befitting his kingship. But such matters were disturbing to him.

And now… a match with Scotland. An excellent proposition. Perhaps that would mean an end to the senseless border warfare which harried their peoples. Perhaps the Alliance would so strengthen the friendship of the two countries that they would live amicably together during the years ahead.

And my daughter Margaret would be responsible, pondered the Queen. Pray God that she may be a wise counselor to her husband.

She would speak with Margaret, try to impress upon her the importance of her duty.

“Come and prepare yourself to meet the envoys from the Scottish Court,” she said.

“The Prince of Wales should also grace the assembly with his presence,” said the King with a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth to imply mockery.

Margaret glanced at her brother. Now was the time for him to declare his dislike of the match, to state boldly before his father what he had told his sisters.

Henry’s lower lip jutted out slightly. He opened his mouth as though to speak; but when he looked up into his father’s stern face, he changed his mind. He was not yet King of England.

In the Queen’s great chamber in Richmond Palace a dazzling company of men and women had assembled.

With the Queen were her daughters, the Princess Margaret and the little Princess Mary. Margaret, in her state robes, looked slightly older than her twelve years; her naturally rosy complexion seemed even more dazzling than usual and her eyes shone with excitement. Everyone in this assembly was aware of her, for in the ceremony which was about to take place she would be the central figure.

A fanfare of trumpets sounded as the King, accompanied by the Prince of Wales, entered the chamber. Such a fanfare must have satisfied even young Henry. He looked smug, Margaret thought, and well pleased with himself. Had he already forgotten how much he disapproved of the Scottish match, or was he going to make a formal protest? No, he never would. There was one person at Court of whom Henry went in great fear, and that was his father. He might strut like a young bantam before his sisters and his friends — but in the presence of Henry VII he never forgot for one moment that he was but a ten-year-old boy who must mind his manners.

With Henry and his father were the Archbishops of Canterbury and York; and they were immediately followed by the Scottish lords who also had their parts to play on this occasion.

Margaret’s gaze rested on Patrick Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell, who was to stand beside her and take the vows; for he had been chosen to act as proxy for his master. There he stood, accompanied by the Archbishop of Glasgow and the Bishop Elect of Murray, a poor substitute, she was sure, for the King of Scotland, who she had heard was possessed of great charm and handsome looks.

Now that they were all gathered together, the purpose of their meeting was ceremonially announced and the Archbishop of Glasgow opened the proceedings by turning to Henry VII and asking: “Does Your Grace know any impediment on your part to this wedlock, other than is here dispensed withal?”

The King replied that he did not.

Then the same question was asked of the Queen who gave similar answer.