The Thistle and the Rose by Jean Plaidy Page A

was trying to pretend she had no notion who this Lady Bothwell was.
    All the Tudor fury was in flame.
    “Who is she? Tell me that!”
    “I…I…”
    “It will be the worse for you if you do not say.”
    “Your Grace…Your Highness…she was Janet Kennedy.”
    “Janet Kennedy? And what is she?”
    “The daughter of Lord Kennedy, Your Grace.”
    “What is she to the King? That is what I mean?”
    Silence. But silence could tell so much.
    “You know!” shrieked Margaret. “And how many sons did she bear him? Tell me that.”
    “It was only the one, Your Grace… only the little Earl of Moray.”
    Margaret slapped the woman's face in fury. “And he goes to see her now. He leaves me, to go to see her. The wanton creature. I hate her. I hate them both, I tell you!”
    She turned and ran to her apartments.
    And there once more she flung herself onto her bed and wept. Lady Guildford came to her. “Your Grace…Your Grace, this is not the way to behave.”
    She did not answer. Instead she raised herself and clenched her fists, pummelled her pillows, with an expression which showed that was how she would have liked to beat Janet Kennedy.
    “You must remember that you are a queen, Your Grace.”
    “A queen… ah! And a woman. A woman deserted by her husband! Do you not think I understand the meaning of those absences? And all except me knowing…I alone in ignorance. I was not enough for him. He must have these sluts. I would kill them. I will not have him in my bed again.”
    “Hush! Hush! There will be those to listen. There will be those to carry tales.”
    “I care not.”
    “But you must care. Remember, my dearest, you are the Queen of Scotland.”
    Margaret's face crumpled suddenly and she began to cry softly. Lady Guildford put her arms about her shaking shoulders and sought to soothe her.
    “I loved him so much,” sobbed Margaret. “You could not understand how much.”

D URING THE M ONTHS W HICH F OLLOWED , M ARGARET appeared to be resigned. She had lost her innocence and those about her said: “She is growing out of childhood.” A certain hardness had crept into her expression. She was no longer in love with the King; the romantic ideal had gone but the need for sexual satisfaction was as strong as ever and that side of their relationship appeared to have undergone no change. But both James and Margaret were deeply affected by the knowledge which had come to her. Margaret was on the defensive, but James was more lighthearted because he had never enjoyed deceiving his wife and could not help being glad that the need for deceit was over. He was a man whom no one woman could hope to satisfy, and the sooner his wife realized this, the better for them both.
    The absences from home were more frequent, but during them he never failed to write tender letters inquiring after his wife's health, and these were often accompanied by some charming and costly gift.
    Margaret would say to herself with that grim cynicism which had developed since her discovery: “He must indeed be enjoying the woman to suffer such qualms of conscience.”
    It was not a situation which could be endured forever by a proud Tudor, but as yet Margaret—still so young—saw no way for her except endurance. But, that some way would be shown to her, she had no doubt.
    It was not that she wanted revenge; she wanted only to restore her pride in herself. She discovered that she did not care enough for James to desire that revenge. To her he was merely the means of satisfying a need which was becoming more and more important to her as she grew more mature. Let him then supply this need. Shewould use him for this purpose and wait until she knew what she must do to establish herself in her own right—as a woman, as a Tudor Queen.
    This was the time of growing into maturity. She was wise enough to understand that. Foolishly she had been prepared to adore her handsome husband; from now on she would never forget that nothing in her life could matter