Виктория Холт: The Thistle and the Rose

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.

Harry should be made to suffer though. All his honors should be stripped from him.

“You will be sorry for this, my Lord Muffin,” she said, using the contemptuous term which her brother Henry had bestowed on her third husband when he had first heard of the marriage, and had indeed persisted in calling him ever since.

There was one word which kept hammering in her brain: divorce.

Was there no end to trouble? News came from England that her daughter, the Lady Margaret Douglas, had incurred the King’s displeasure by betrothing herself, without his consent, to Lord Thomas Howard, the uncle of Anne Boleyn.

Young Margaret’s position had changed when the King had declared his marriage to Katharine of Aragon invalid. It had altered once more now that Anne Boleyn was disgraced. Since both the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were declared illegitimate, Margaret Douglas was heir to the throne if Henry did not beget legitimate children. It was true that King James of Scotland came before her; but Margaret had been brought up at the Court of England and had until now enjoyed the favor of her uncle.

Therefore to betroth herself to Lord Thomas Howard without the consent of Henry would be to bring his wrath down upon her.

Her mother’s fears were not without foundation.

Deeply wounded from the knowledge of Harry’s treachery, Margaret was distracted when the news came from England that her daughter and the girl’s lover were in the Tower of London, the King’s prisoners.

A little while ago she would have gone to Harry for solace. Now there was no one to whom she could turn. James had lost some of his affection for her when she had not helped him to win a divorce for Margaret Erskine that he might marry the woman he loved; moreover James was in France.

She paced up and down her apartment. She longed to have her daughter with her. She wept, remembering the girl’s birth in Harbottle Castle, which now seemed so many weary years away.

She stopped by her writing table and, taking up her pen, wrote to her brother imploring him not to be harsh with her daughter. “If you will send her to me in Scotland,” she wrote, “I will answer to you that my child shall never trouble my brother more.”

She did not seal the letter when it was written; she sat with her head in her hands, while a feeling of utter desolation swept over her.

Harry, whom she had loved and trusted, had betrayed her as he others had. And now she was no longer young and beautiful. Still, she was vigorous; she was a queen.

She began to think of young James Stuart who was so like his brother Harry and, she told herself now, of a less sly countenance. No, she could not marry her husband’s brother. She thought of Angus, whom when she had last seen him had changed from the callow boy she had married. Angus had been most reluctant to be divorced.

Suppose she went to England. Suppose she married Angus there and brought him back to Scotland. Then my Lord Muffin would so tremble in his shoes that his Mistress of Sutherland would be hard put to it to comfort him.

She picked up her pen and wrote once more.

“Dearest brother, I suffer much misery at this time. I have been very evilly used by Lord Methven and I am seeking now to put an end to my marriage… ”

She put down her pen and found that she was weeping, for suddenly, sitting there, the full force of her desolation swept over her, because she realized that the peace and happiness had never truly existed outside her imagination. The complacent years were revealed to her for what they were.