It was wonderful to be with her family again; Henry was eager to impress her with the superiority of the English over the Scottish Court, and one lavish banquet and ball followed another. This was a pleasure, for Margaret too loved gaiety. Katharine, kindly sympathetic, welcomed her as warmly in her way. As for Mary, she was full of high spirits, and delighted to be back in England at the gay and brilliant Court which her brother had made.
Margaret told herself that she needed rest and relaxation before she concerned herself with state matters. In good time she would impress on Henry the need for his help in regaining what was hers by right; but she understood her brother well. At this time he was bent on entertaining her; and had she tried to turn his mind to more serious matters he would have been greatly displeased.
She herself was not averse to a little lighthearted entertainment. Before she reached London she had sent messengers to Scotland to bring her dresses and jewels to her in England, for she would need them if she were to vie with the elegant ladies of Henry’s Court.
Albany, evidently eager that she should withdraw her accusations about the death of little Alexander, and perhaps sorry for her, had put no obstacles in the way of her clothes being sent to her; and they arrived in London soon after she had.
Her sister, Mary, was with her on the day her clothes came, and they dismissed their attendants and examined the clothes together.
Mary shrieked with delight as she drew one glittering object after another from the trunk. She pranced round the apartment in a pair of sleeves of cloth of gold lined with crimson velvet; she put a cheveron on her head and turned this way and that to her reflection in the burnished mirror, delighting in the flash of the jewels.
“You were fine enough in Scotland, sister,” she said. “I had always believed it to be such a gloomy land.”
Margaret sat on her bed, looking at a gold collar decorated with enameled white roses. She remembered the occasion when James had given it to her.
“My husband was a great king and a fine gentleman.”
“But old,” put in Mary, and her own face darkened. She shivered, and Margaret knew she was thinking of the old King of France to whom she had been married. Poor Mary! At least Margaret had not suffered in that way.
“Not old as Louis was. He was merely older than I… and I was very young, so that he was not really very old. He was in his prime. Do you know, Mary, I believe he was the handsomest man I ever saw.”
“Do not let Henry hear you say that,” laughed Mary.
“You are happy now though, Mary?”
Her young sister clasped her hands and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Ecstatically.”
“So it was all worthwhile.”
Mary pouted. “It need not have happened. What good did the French marriage do for England?”
“It made peace between the two countries, and that is always a good thing.”
“An uneasy peace! And for it I had to endure… that.”
“Not for long.”
“Oh, no. I could not have borne it. And then he died… and Charles came to take me home.”
“And he married you.”
“I insisted, Margaret. I was determined. Henry had promised me that if I married old Louis I should marry my own choice when he died. And Charles was my choice… long before I married Louis.”
“So you got your wish.”
“Oh, those were glorious days, Margaret. I’ll never forget them. Married to Charles… and both wondering what we should be called upon to pay for our boldness… and not caring!”
“It was a reckless thing to do. You might have been carrying the heir of France.”
“But I was not. And what fun I had, teasing François and his old mother that I was!”
“It seems to me that you found much to amuse you in this French marriage.”
“But only after my husband was dead, Margaret. What bold and lusty people we are. I wish I could have seen your Angus. He is very handsome?”
Margaret’s face hardened. “Handsome enough.”
“Why did he not come with you?”
“He preferred to stay in Scotland.”
“I know what I should do if I had such a husband.”
“What?”
“Rid myself of him and find another.”
“Easier said than done.”
“What! And you a Tudor. Did you not know that Tudors always find a way? I said I’d marry Charles Brandon — before they sent me off to France — and I have married him. We get what we want… if circumstances do sometimes make us wait for it. We’re three of a kind, Margaret — you, myself and Henry. Don’t you see it?”
“We’re strong, we’re determined; yes, I see that.”
“Sometimes I am a little sorry for the people who marry us. I was a little sorry for poor Louis. I knew he would not live long. He tried to be young, Margaret. That was a mistake. His pursuit of youth led him to the grave. And now this Angus… I am sure you will make him sorry for what he has done to you. And sometimes I look at Henry and Katharine and say: ‘Poor Katharine.’”
“But she is devoted to him.”
“Katharine is such a virtuous woman; she’ll always be devoted to him because he is her husband. Her religion tells her she must be. But there is a little friction between them already. He begins to wonder why she cannot give him a son.”
“But she has had several miscarriages, and now she has Mary.”
“Yes, but where are the boys, where are the boys?” Mary took up a silver pomander on a jeweled girdle and set it about her waist. “Nay,” she said, “I would not be the wife or husband of a Tudor… and displease them. If I were Angus, Katharine, or even Charles, I would be wary.”
Then she began to dance around the room, looking so vital, so lovely, that Margaret could well understand how the King of France in pursuit of youth had been hastened to his tomb by his desire for a Tudor.
There were pleasant hours spent with Katharine, and when they could be alone together they were two mothers fondly discussing their children.
The two little girls were so close in age that when Margaret was at Greenwich they shared a nursery; and it was the joy of the two mothers to visit them and send away their nurses and attendants that they might have the children to themselves.
Margaret, remembering what Mary had said about Henry’s growing uneasiness at Katharine’s inability to give him a son, felt herself drawn toward her sister-in-law, not only by affection and a common interest, but by pity.
And during those sessions in the nurseries, Katharine confided her great desire to bear a son.
“If I could but give Henry the son he so earnestly needs I should be completely happy,” she told her sister-in-law.
“You will,” Margaret assured her. “You have had bad luck, as I did in the beginning. There was my little James and my little Arthur, and they both died. Then the present James. Ah, if you could see my James! I never saw such a lovely boy.”
“I would I could see him. What a joy he must be to you.”
“If I could only have him with me.” Margaret was momentarily sad and Katharine was angry with herself for having reminded her sister-in-law that she was parted from her son. But she could not hide the envy in her eyes, and Margaret felt that it was she who should be sorry for Katharine.
“I do believe Mary has grown since we last saw her,” she said. “And my own Margaret thrives also. Poor child! When I think of her first seeing the light of day in that dreary Harbottle. So different from this little one… who was born in royal pomp in this very Palace of Greenwich.”
Katharine could not resist picking her daughter up in her arms. Mary, a solemn baby, regarded her mother serenely.