“Henry, how right you are… as always. Divorce! It is too dishonorable to be thought of.”
“Go to, Kate. Write to her, and I will do the same. Then our letters shall be sent by special messenger, that she may profit from them and put an end to this disgraceful plan before it goes too far.”
When Margaret read the letters from her brother and sister-in-law she shrugged aside their advice. It was all very well for them to be so self-righteous; they did not know what it meant to be entangled in an undesirable alliance.
She was surprised that she could hate anyone as fiercely as she now hated Angus. There was anger against herself in that hatred. How could she have been so foolish as to lose all sense of proportion merely because of a momentary infatuation for a handsome boy?
How different had been her first marriage. James had at times humiliated her, but in public he had constantly shown her respect. She remembered how he had always uncovered his head in her presence. He only asked that she accept his infidelities which, being the sensual man he was, he could not curb. He would never have deserted her when she was dying. And he had conducted his love affairs with a certain dignity. He had tried to make up for his shortcomings by giving her extra pleasure; Angus had stolen her rents.
She hated Angus and, even if she had to admit that this was largely because he was a living reminder of her own folly and the source of all her troubles, that did not make her hate him less.
There was one who reminded her a little of her first husband; that was Albany. They had some quality, these Stuarts, which was unique. No, she had never seen others with quite the same charm of manner. James had had it to a large degree; Albany slightly less; but he was certainly a charming, courteous man.
If one were a queen it was necessary to marry wisely. Suppose she and Albany were free to marry — there could not be a wiser match in Scotland, for marriages were often the links which bound countries together, and made friends of enemies. A marriage between herself and Albany — and there would have been no conflict in Scotland; she would never have been cut off from her son; she and Albany would have been joint guardians of the young King. What a happy state of affairs compared with what now confronted her!
And was not too late to put matters right.
She was determined to divorce Angus no matter what difficulties were put in her way; and she was sure there would be difficulties. She could imagine her brother Henry sending off deputations to the Pope, asking him not to grant a divorce to his erring sister, for the sake of the honor of the Tudors. She would have to fight for her divorce; but she would get it in the end. And then if Albany’s wife died — for how could she live long; the poor woman had been ailing for some time — he would be free too.
She closed her eyes and pictured him. Black eyes alive with passion. Poor man, married to a woman who for so long had been an invalid.
Arran was persuading her to join with those who were urging Albany to return, because Arran had long decided that when the Duke came to Scotland he would favor the Hamiltons and become the enemy of the Douglases.
She had listened thoughtfully to what Arran had to say; she had nodded when he enumerated the reasons why the return of Albany would be good for Scotland. And all the time she had been thinking of him — black-eyed, black-bearded, the courteous knight with all the charm of his Stuart ancestors.
She said: “I will write to Albany and join my pleas to yours. I think that he might be willing to help me in my divorce. He should stand well with Rome, as I believe his master does. Yes, my lord, I am convinced that you are right. Scotland needs Albany at this time.”
She thought: And it may be that Scotland’s Queen does too.
It was not easy to obtain a divorce. There were too many people of influence who were against it. Time passed and still Margaret remained unsatisfactorily married to Angus.
Henry and Katharine had crossed the Channel and had had a meeting with the King of France in circumstances of most reckless extravagance, with each King trying to outdazzle the other.
François, mischievous in the extreme, using every means at his disposal to disconcert the King of England, having in his possession at this time the letter which Margaret had written to Albany, thought it would be amusing to show Henry how his sister was working against his wishes and was warmly inviting Albany back to Scotland.
Henry read the letter and quietly handed it back to the King, but when he was alone his choleric anger broke forth.
By God, he thought, this shall be the end of the help she gets from me. What has become of my sister! She shows herself to the world as a wanton. Divorce indeed! She disgraces the name of Tudor and then… she deceives her own brother by inviting his enemy to Scotland!
The Scottish matter rankled in his mind during all the balls and banquets, jousts and wrestling matches of that brilliant excursion.
He confided to his wife: “When we return to England, you shall send a priest to Scotland. Choose him with care for I want him to impress upon my sister that if she persists in attempting to obtain this divorce from her lawful husband, she places her immortal soul in danger.”
Katharine replied that Henry as usual was right. There were few matters which could be so dishonorable, so lamentable as divorce.
It was a summer’s day when Father Bonaventura arrived in Scotland.
Margaret was then in Perth, and he traveled to her there. He was a gentle priest who had lived away from the world, and Margaret received him kindly when she heard that he had come from her sister-in-law, Queen Katharine.
“It is good of you to have made this long journey,” she told him. And when they were alone together she tried to impress on him that though she appreciated his good services, he was wasting his time if he thought to divert her from her purpose.
“I have come to pray with you,” he told her. “Your Grace will find the answer to your problem in prayer.”
Margaret, who had never been deeply religious, was a little impatient; but she was courteous to the priest and told him gently that her mind was already made up.
Father Bonaventura tried to reason with her and she continued to listen patiently, but he realized that he was making no headway and eventually, disappointed and reluctant, he prepared to leave.
Father Bonaventura had no sooner returned to London than Henry decided to send a man of his choosing. No gentle priest this, but a man whose preaching had often set sinners shivering with fear.
Henry Chadworth, Minister General of the Friar’s Minor, was summoned to Henry’s presence.
“You will go to the Queen of Scotland,” Henry told him, “and not return until you have wrought in her a change of mind. Tell her that I shall not look on in silence and see a sister of mine lose her immortal soul. Tell her too that I shall hinder her cause in Rome and I shall let all know that those who help the Queen of Scotland to her divorce, help themselves to the enmity of the King of England. Now away with you, and… as you value my friendship, let nothing stand between you and your duty.”
Henry Chadworth set out for Scotland, fiery phrases revolving in his mind, determined that he would return in triumph to the English Court. Indeed, how dare he do otherwise?
How the man ranted! Yet Margaret dared not further incense her brother by sending him away. There was a certain magnetism about him; perhaps this was because he appeared fervently to believe in the horrors which he said awaited the damned.