“I am sure she will be very wise,” said Katharine.
“She certainly has a look of wisdom,” answered Margaret, and she took her own daughter from her cradle; and the two mothers sat in the window seat, each holding her child in her lap.
Margaret asked Katharine to tell her of Mary’s baptism; and Katharine was happy, recalling that ceremony. She told how carpets had been spread from the Palace to the font in the Gray Friars’ church here at Greenwich; how her godmothers had been the Princess Katharine Plantagenet and the Duchess of Norfolk; how the child had been carried by the Countess of Salisbury with the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk walking on either side of her, and Cardinal Wolsey himself had been her godfather.
Margaret listened and cried: “How different from my little Margaret in Harbottle!”
And as they talked together, Henry came into the nursery, all aglitter in his green velvet spattered with jewels. He greeted them boisterously.
“Ha! The mothers in council, eh! And what bonny children.” He took Mary from her mother and cradled her in his arms, smiling down into those eyes which regarded him as serenely as they had Katharine.
“This is a clever child,” cried Henry. “She knows her father!”
Katharine smiled tenderly at the two of them.
“You must spare a glance for my little Margaret,” his sister told him.
He came over to her and peered down at the child in her arms.
“A bonny girl,” he said. He put out a finger and touched the little Margaret’s cheeks. “I fancy she knows her uncle,” he said.
Then he walked up and down the apartment, rocking Mary in his arms, now and then chuckling as he looked down at her.
When he had perambulated for a few minutes he came to stand at the window.
“’Twas ill luck about your little son, Margaret,” he said.
Margaret’s face clouded, and Katharine watched her anxiously. She would have liked to warn Henry not to talk of the matter, had she dared.
Henry’s face darkened. “’Twas that scoundrel Albany. By God, it would please me to see him sent back to France.”
“It is what I am hoping will happen,” Margaret replied. “If I can return, take the Regency and the guardianship of James, I shall forget past troubles and be happy again.”
“You are fortunate, Margaret, to have a son.”
The lower lip jutted out bellicosely, and the face had grown suddenly sullen.
“I am very fortunate in my little James. I would you could see him, Henry. Do you know whom he resembles most closely?”
“Who?” Henry demanded.
“Yourself.”
“Is that so!” The sullenness disappeared and his face was sunny again. “What color hair?”
“Tawny. Bright complexion. Eyes blue. Those who have seen you have said ‘How like his uncle he is!’”
Henry slapped his velvet covered thigh.
“Tell me more of this little fellow. Is he bright? Is he gay?”
“Did I not say he resembles you? It is not only in his looks, I do assure you. I believe he will grow up to be exactly like you.”
“Let us hope that he does,” put in Katharine fondly.
Henry regarded her affectionately, but his moods were always transient. Margaret could see he was thinking: Why do others have sons when they are denied to me?
It was a sunny day and crowds had come to see the tournament at Greenwich.
Margaret sat with her sister and sister-in-law in the balcony which had been set up for them. It was a brilliant scene; the ladies were gaily attired, and Margaret was secretly delighted that she could make as good a show as any of them. Her gown was as gay as Mary’s and as fine as Katharine’s. The latter of course lacked the love of display which was so conspicuous in Margaret, Mary, and Henry; whenever those three entered an assembly the brilliance of their garments would have betrayed who they were, even if their identities were unknown.
The balcony had been elaborately decorated with their devices. The daisy for Margaret, the marigold for Mary, the pomegranate for Katharine; and dominating them all was the rose of England which was Henry’s own emblem.
The shouts of the crowd, the warm sunshine, the brilliance of the knights in armor were exhilarating. It was a glorious occasion and Margaret was flattered that it should be in her honor.
Mary’s eyes were fixed on a tall figure among the combatants.
“Suffolk could be the champion of all, if he wished,” she whispered to Margaret.
“And why should he not wish so?” demanded Margaret.
“You have been away for a long time. Naturally he must not shine more brightly than one other. I said to him last night: ‘As you love me, take care in the jousts.’ ‘What,’ he answered, ‘do you fear that some agile adversary will slay me?’ ‘Nay,’ I cried, ‘but I fear you may outshine the King.’”
“So Henry still likes to be the victor, as he ever did.”
Mary laughed loudly. “It would go ill with any man who proved himself to be a more valiant knight. And we are still being punished for our marriage, you know. We have to pay Henry back for my dowry. We have to walk carefully. You should remember that, Margaret. Whatever you want from Henry, and I assume you want his help to regain your kingdom, you must always remember that, wherever he is, he must be supreme. Impress that on your mind so firmly that you believe it, and Henry will be your friend.”
“How can you speak thus of our brother?”
“Because I am his sister. Because I know him well. I love him, as he loves me; but I know him better than he knows me; indeed I know him better than he knows himself.”
Margaret thoughtfully watched the shining figures riding into the lists. There was truth in what Mary said; and if she were wise she would remember it.
“Who is the bulky knight now riding in?” she asked of Mary.
“Sir William Kingston. None could mistake his size and shape.”
“Well none will unseat him, I imagine.”
“It would depend,” replied Mary sagely.
Now the attention of the crowd was focused on two tall knights whose tabards were embroidered with golden honeysuckle, for it seemed that whomsoever these two knights tackled they were the victors.
Margaret noticed that Mary’s brilliant eyes never left them, and leaning toward her she heard her whisper: “Have a care, Charles. Be good… so good that all say how good you are… and then be just not quite so good.”
Margaret thought: Her stay in France must have changed her; it had made her grow into a cynic. Could that be the influence of young François? Margaret believed that was very likely.
Mary was crying excitedly “Look, Kingston is in the lists. And the tall knight with him. Kingston is falling… horse and all. It is the first time he has been unseated.”
Then she leaned back against the embroidered marigolds on her chair and began to laugh softly.
In the great hall the knights had gathered. Queen Katharine sat on her chair of state with Mary on one side of her, Margaret on the other; and one by one the knights came forward to pay homage to her.
Into the hall came one on whom all eyes were fixed. This was because he was the knight who had overthrown Sir William Kingston; and everyone was discussing that extraordinary feat.
“Now,” said Katharine, “we will discover the identity of this strange knight, for his helmet must be removed.” She called to him: “Sir Knight, we would speak with you. We would tell you that we were delighted with your prowess. ’Twas bravely and expertly done, I doubt I have ever seen such skill in the joust.”
Mary said in a voice in which, it seemed to Margaret, the mischief lurked: “The King will wish to challenge you, I’ll swear, Sir Knight. For he is proud of his own daring at the joust.”
The knight came forward, bowing before the Queen, and when his helmet was removed, Henry’s flushed and laughing face was exposed.