Виктория Холт: The Thistle and the Rose

And when it was over, the time had come for the King to present gifts to the Scotsmen, and there was an awed silence as the magnificence of these was revealed. For the Archbishop of Glasgow there was a cup of gold and six silver pots, twenty-four silver bowls and a basin and ewer of the same precious metal together with a receptacle for holding hot ashes for the purpose of keeping the feet warm.

It was clear how it hurt the King to part with such treasures, but he did so with an air of resignation as though to say: This much would I do for the good of England. More cups of gold were presented together with crimson velvet bags full of golden coins; and many of the King’s courtiers marveled that the King could part with what he loved best in the world.

The Queen looked on through a haze of pain. It can’t be long now, she was thinking. I never suffered like this before. What is going to become of me?

For a few seconds the great hall faded from her sight; she moved forward in her chair; but everyone present was too intent on the magnificent gifts which the King was bestowing to notice the Queen. And when these were all presented she was sitting upright once more, very pale and exhausted — but she had looked ill for some time and her looks surprised none who happened to glance her way.

It was late January when the Queen’s barge was rowed along the river to the Tower of London. She was determined to have her lying-in at the palace there, and eagerly she awaited the birth of her child.

Her sister Katharine was with her; this was the one person who could give her most comfort.

“Stay with me, Kate,” she said. “You remember the days when we were young. They are not really so very long ago, are they, and yet how distant they seem! I shall shortly be thirty-seven — not a great age, and yet when I think of the days when our father fought for his throne, and of how our little brothers disappeared in the Tower and Uncle Richard took the throne, it seems as though I have lived a hundred years.”

“You should not brood on the past, dear sister,” Katharine told her. “Think of the future. When your little son is born he will bring you great delight. You are fortunate in your children.”

“I often wonder what their lives will be like. My little Margaret… how will she fare in Scotland, with a husband who is twice her age and already an experienced lover by all accounts?”

“His age, although twice that of Margaret, is not great… she being so young.”

“That’s why I tremble for her. She is so young and headstrong.”

“I do not think you need fear for your children, Elizabeth. They are all strong-willed and well able to care for themselves. Margaret… Henry… and even little Mary. They remind me so much of our father.”

“I am glad of that.”

“And the new child… I wonder if he will resemble them.”

Elizabeth caught her breath in sudden pain. “I think we shall soon be able to judge,” she said. “Kate, my time has come.”

It was Candlemas and the Queen lay in her state apartments in the Palace of the Tower of London. The King was at her bedside; he was disappointed. He had been certain that this time they would get a boy. But at least the child was alive, and that was a good augury for the future.

“A girl,” he mused, “and we have two girls already. Pray God the next will be a boy.”

And I still abed with this one! thought the Queen. But she did not protest; she had never protested against the King’s desires. He had been a faithful husband and, if he had rarely shown her the warmth of affection, he had never shown her the coldness of cruelty.

“I should like to call her Katharine after my sister,” she said.

“Katharine let it be,” murmured the King. “It is as good a name as any.”

She looked up into his shrewd face. What did a name matter? Elizabeth, Jane, or Katharine — whatever she was called the little girl would have to play her part in the destiny of England when she was called.

Margaret had ceased to be the center of attraction. The jousts were over; there were no more banquets. A gloom hung over the royal palace.

From a window of her apartments at Richmond she had watched the barges sailing along the river; many sailed down to the Palace of the Tower.

Henry came and stood at her side; even he was subdued. “Is she very ill, do you think?” he asked his sister.

Margaret nodded.

“Skelton told me that Dr. Hallyswurth is now at her bedside.”

Margaret was suddenly afraid. Her mother was grievously ill and her illness was due to the birth of their little sister; and the bearing of children was the direct result of marriage.

First came the jousting, the banquets, the feasts and the dancing; and then the nuptial rites; and if one were fruitful — and one must pray that one might be — this terrible ordeal, which often resulted in death, was the next step. Not once only must it be faced… but again and again.

Her mother was very ill — many believed she was dying — and it was because she too had had a wedding, as Margaret had, and because it was her duty to give her husband children.

It was a sad thought when one was twelve years old and just married.

She felt envious of her brash young brother, who would one day be King in his own right — not because of a marriage he had happened to contract — and who would not have to suffer as their mother had.

“I wish I were a man,” she said vehemently; and she watched the slow satisfied smile spread across her brother’s face.

A barge stopping by the stairs caught her attention and she said: “Look! Someone is alighting. He may bring news from the Tower.”

They ran from the room and down to meet the messenger, but when Margaret saw the expression on his face she felt sick and wished that she had stayed in her apartments, because before he spoke she knew.

“My mother is dead,” she said in a whisper.

The messenger did not answer, but bowing, stood humbly before her; and in that moment Margaret was too filled with sorrow for the loss of her kindly mother to harbor fears for her own future.

So the Queen was dead and it seemed that the little Katharine would not long survive her. The King had shut himself away to be alone with his sorrow, but those who knew him believed he would already be making plans for a new marriage. It was not that he did not appreciate his Queen who had been a good and docile wife to him; he would never forget that through their marriage the White Rose of York and the Red Rose of Lancaster had mingled harmoniously. It had been a good marriage, but it was over, while the need to provide England with sons was still present. Young Henry was a fine healthy boy — but now that Arthur was gone he was the only boy; and death could strike quickly and suddenly as he knew well.

There was mourning throughout the Court where there had been gay wedding celebrations; and on the day when Elizabeth of York was laid in her grave the scene was in sad and bitter contrast to that of a few weeks before.

Through the city, from the Tower to Westminster, rode the melancholy cortege, and the newly wed Queen of Scotland knew that many of her father’s courtiers watched her furtively and asked themselves whether this was not an ill augury for her wedding. On the other hand, was that a certain relish — equally furtive — which she detected in the eyes of the Scottish lords? Were they telling each other that only young Henry stood between Margaret and the crown of England now? And since Elizabeth of York could no longer give the King of England sons, that was a matter of some moment for those who had the good of Scotland at heart.

Was there a little extra deference in their demeanor toward her?

If so, Margaret did not notice. During those sad days she forgot that she was a newly created Queen; she was merely a twelve-year-old girl sorrowing for a mother who had never shown her anything but kindness.