Death! He knew it happened to traitors. He had seen their heads on poles. He used to count them when he rode through the streets from Eltham to Westminster or Shene. But that death should come to the royal nursery, that was different.
There were physicians everywhere. His father and his mother were in the nursery together. The rest of the children were sent out. They waited in an ante room; and then Arthur was called in.
“She is dying,” said Margaret. “We shall have no sister now.”
“I have one,” said Henry.
“I haven’t,” she said. “But I have two brothers. You only have one.”
“I don’t want two brothers.”
“You’re only a baby yet.”
How she liked to taunt him with that. It was because she knew it was what he hated more than anything.
“I don’t want any sisters either,” said Henry ominously.
“And I only want one brother . . . dear Arthur who is the nicest brother. I don’t want a silly baby brother. . . .”
Henry flew at her. He already showed signs of possessing a quick temper, which alarmed Anne Oxenbrigge.
It was Anne who came in now.
“For shame!” she said. “Fighting when your little sister is dying. What do you think the King and Queen would say to that?”
“They won’t know,” said Margaret slyly.
“God will,” Anne reminded her.
Both children were silent, contemplating the awfulness of God’s watching them.
“So,” went on Anne, having made her point, “you should be very careful.”
They were subdued. Henry whispered a prayer: “I didn’t mean it, God. It wasn’t my fault. It was Margaret. You know what a silly girl she is.”
He had made up his mind that he was always going to do what God would like, for he had heard it said that a king needed good allies and Henry had reasoned that God was the best ally any man could have.
The Queen had come out of the nursery. She came to the children and embraced them solemnly. They knew what that meant. Then Arthur came out with the King, and the King said very quietly: “My children, you have no sister Elizabeth now. She has gone to live with God and His angels.”
Elizabeth was buried in the new chapel her father had built in Westminster Abbey.
The Scottish Court
James was cynical. How could he be otherwise? His countrymen must be the most quarrelsome in the world—with the exception of the Irish who might be said to be even worse; and another thing they had in common was perpetual hatred of the English. No matter what truces they made, no matter how many treaties were signed, how often they exchanged the kiss of peace, the antipathy was always there. It was as natural as breathing. The people below the Border were regarded as enemies by every Scotsman living above it.
He twirled a lock of Marion’s hair. She was pregnant. That was pleasing. He liked children; and it was comforting to know how virile he was. He had several bastards for he was a man who found feminine society irresistible, and it had been so ever since he had come to the throne as a boy of fifteen seven years ago. He wondered whether the child would be a girl or boy. He wouldn’t mind. He would be proud of a boy, but he had a greater fondness for the girls.
“Perhaps we’ll call in Damian,” he remarked.
“What to tell us?” asked Marion idly.
He touched her protrusion playfully. “A little girl or a little boy?” he said.
She took his hand and kissed it. “Let’s wait and see,” she said.
“I should like to see the fellow. He says very soon he shall be able to fly.”
Marion laughed. She did not trust the wily Abbot of Tungsland, who had leaped into favor with the King when he had declared that he possessed supernatural powers. James was intrigued. He had always listened to soothsayers—and relied on them perhaps too much.
Marion would not complain. James had been faithful in a way. That was if one did not mind his dallying now and then with other women. He could not help that. It was the nature of James. But his best-loved mistress could hold her place. None of them had ever had reason to complain of his meanness for he was very generous with those who pleased him—and beautiful Marion did that.
She had of late seen his eyes stray to Janet Kennedy. There was a beautiful woman if ever there was one. However she was the mistress of Archibald Douglas, and even James would think twice about upsetting the great earl.
Round the table several of the men had fallen asleep—they had slumped forward in their chairs, some snoring. Others sat with their women caressing them, perhaps rather too intimately for polite society. Not that James cared. They were Scots and would act in the Scottish way. The English who came to the Scottish Court were shocked by what they called the coarseness of the manners there. As for the elegant French they were amazed.
Let them be. It was Scotland for the Scots, said James.
George Gordon, Earl of Huntly was present with his eldest daughter Katharine—a very beautiful girl, James thought her. Her mother had been a daughter of James the First so there was a family connection. If he had not been so deeply involved with Marion—and Katharine was not the kind of girl with whom he could carry on a light intrigue—he might have been tempted. Perhaps it was better as it was. There was a puritanical streak about Katharine—young as she obviously was—and James had never been attracted by puritans. Connoisseur that he was, he had discovered that hot-blooded women were the most satisfactory partners.
Marion followed his gaze round the table and said: “It is different at Westminster, I’ll be bound.”
“You’re right, my love. Henry is a very virtuous man. I have never heard one whisper that he is unfaithful to his Queen.”
“Perhaps people are afraid to whisper.”
“I think not. They whisper of other things. They say that his heart beats faster when he tots up a column of figures and sees what profits he has made than it ever could in the most appealing bedchamber in the world.”
“I see he has not your tastes, James.”
“You should thank Heaven for that, Madam.”
“I do . . . I do. But you are a little afraid of Henry Tudor, are you not?”
“Dear Marion, my ancestors have been afraid of the rulers on the other side of the Border since the beginning of time. Trouble in England therefore means rejoicing in Scotland.”
“And the other way round?” suggested Marion.
“Don’t upset me, woman. I have trouble enough as you know. I wonder how many of these who call themselves my friends, snoring and eating here at my tables, fornicating or committing adultery in the rooms of my castles . . . would as lief thrust a knife in my back as kneel to me in homage.”
“You must keep them in order, my King.”
“One thing is sure: they will always follow me when I make war on the English. That is the common enemy. We can all be friends hating them, but when the English are not coming against us then forsooth we must go against each other.”
“So it is in your interests to preserve your old enemy,” said Marion lightly.
“I hear that he is in a state of panic at this time.”
“Which pleases you mightily?”
“How did you guess? His throne trembles under him, you know.”