She ran to the window, but he had already entered the castle.
“He will come straight to Your Grace,” murmured Lady Morton.
Margaret smoothed the folds of her gown; she put up a hand to touch her shining hair. There was no time to ask for reassurance that she looked her best, but she did not need it because she knew she did.
The door of the apartment was opened and there he stood. Her heart began to beat fast and a sudden joy came to her, for he was so handsome in his velvet hunting clothes, although there was nothing ornate about them, for he had come straight from the hunt, without ceremony, perhaps to let her know that this was an informal visit.
He is beautiful, she thought; and she believed that she loved him, so happy was she to be in Scotland and already his wife.
He was flushed from the chase and perhaps he shared in her excitement, for after all, was he not meeting his wife for the first time even as she was meeting her husband? His eyes were hazel, his hair dark auburn, and she now believed all those who had told her that he was the handsomest King in the world.
He was smiling — and it was the kindest and most tender of smiles — as he came toward here. She made a low curtsy and he raised her with both his hands, and drawing her to him, kissed her.
She could not take her eyes from him. He appealed to her senses in a way which was entirely new to her; it did not occur to her that there was scarcely a woman who came into contact with him who did not share her feeling in greater or less degree. She was inexperienced and had received so much adulation that she believed he shared every emotion she herself felt. She did not stop to ask herself whether a man past thirty — and such a man — might have had many adventures in love.
James, whose years of kingship had taught him that it was always wise outwardly to observe convention, turned from his bride to greet her attendants. He took all the ladies by the hand and kissed them and then accepted the greetings of the men with the utmost courtesy.
And all the time he was thinking: She is but a child. Poor little girl! So eager. So determined to do her duty. Little Margaret Tudor! Oh, why could it not have been that other Margaret? My Margaret!
Having greeted the company, it was now fitting for him to give his attention to his bride, and he returned to her, took her hand and drew her apart. Seeing his desire to talk with her, the rest of the company kept their distance, and James, smiling down at her, said: “But you are beautiful… more beautiful than I dared hope.”
“And all they said of you is true.”
“What did they say of me?”
“That you were the handsomest King in the world.”
He laughed. “I should have been afraid, had I known, that after such a glowing description I might disappoint you.”
“You do not disappoint me.”
Her eyes were glowing, her lips slightly parted. James — connoisseur of women — knew the signs. She would be no prude. It would be no hardship to do his duty. He was glad to discover in her a sensuality which might match his own.
“I trust,” he said, “that you will be happy in Scotland.”
“I know I shall… now that I have met my lord.”
“Do you always make up your mind on such a short acquaintance?”
“Always.”
“Is that wise?”
“I can only trust my inclinations, which rarely betray me,” she answered.
He took her hand and kissed it.
By sweet Saint Ninian! he thought. We must join the others, lest we come to the lovemaking before we have time to get abed.
He compared her with that other Margaret. This one would never be serene. He was uneasily reminded of Janet Kennedy, for he sensed a certain wild passion in this young girl — although it was not yet full awakened — which might equal Janet’s. That made him think of his Margaret, sitting down to her last breakfast with her sisters. Was it possible that Janet had had a hand in that? If he really believed that, he would never see her again. But this was not the time to think of that — nor was any time, for it was past and done with. But he did feel a little uneasy to be reminded of Janet by this little Tudor girl whom he had been obliged to marry for the sake of his country’s peace.
“Come,” he said, “we must not neglect our friends. And I’ll swear there is food and wine waiting for us.”
She sat beside him at the table, which was laden with good food and wine, and all the time she was conscious of him beside her.
“I must return to Edinburgh for the night,” he said, “and you must retire early to prepare yourself for the ceremonial entry into our capital.”
“I am sorry you must return to Edinburgh without me.”
He laughed and touched her hand lightly. This was in the nature of a caress. His hazel eyes were bright with tenderness; she did not know that this expression was invariably in his eyes when he looked at a woman — even though she were a fishwife in the market or a tavern girl.
“It was a little unseemly of me to come in this way,” he told her, “but I was so eager to see my bride. I wanted to assure her that she had nothing to fear.”
“I should never be afraid of you,” she told him. “You are kind and good, and the happiest woman in Scotland is the Queen.”
He smiled again and said: “You make prettier speeches in England than we do in Scotland. I trust our rough manners will not offend you.”
“You… rough?”
“You will see,” he warned her, but there was mockery in his gaze, and she was more deeply in love than ever.
She danced for him, taking Lady Surrey as her partner; she was eager to show him how accomplished she was. She remembered the occasion when she and Henry had danced together at the marriage of their brother Arthur and Katharine of Aragon, and how all present had said none danced in such a sprightly manner as they did. She remembered how her father and mother had watched them, with smiles of contentment on their faces, so grateful were they for their good health and spirits.
But then she had danced as a child, trying to outleap Henry; now she danced as a woman, gracefully, seductively.
The King applauded her and, when she returned to his side, told her he was charmed with his bride.
“But the hour grows late,” he said, “and I must return to Edinburgh; for remember we have not yet sworn our marriage vows to each other except by proxy. Until we have done so, alas, we must part.”
“Soon,” she answered, “we shall make those vows.”
“I am glad that you look forward to that occasion even as I do,” he replied.
When he said farewell, Lady Guildford wanted to warn her charge that she should not show her feelings so frankly, but that lady realized that it was not so easy to advise the Queen of Scotland as the Princess of England.
Margaret lay dreaming of the future. She was dancing before him with Lady Surrey, and suddenly he rose and partnered her himself, holding her tightly. His handsome eyes were ardent; he was telling her that he had never dreamed she could be so beautiful. Willingly she submitted herself to his embrace; she was growing very warm; she felt that she was suffocating.
Then she was awakened by a flickering light in her apartment and she was coughing because of the smoke.
She hurried out of bed as Lady Guildford ran into the room.
“Your Grace! Rise quickly. There is not a moment to lose.”
“Is the castle on fire?”
“I fear so.”
She was hurried into a gown and out of the apartment; there she was joined by her ladies, and she saw the Countess of Morton was with them.
“Come quickly down to the hall, Your Grace,” said the Countess. “Something terrible has happened. The castle is in danger.”