The Thistle and the Rose by Jean Plaidy

with her women, greeting him and his companions on their return, was a little sad because she no longer felt well enough to accompany him on such expeditions.
    The great hall looked magnificent, prepared as it was for the evening's entertainment. Tapestries from Holyrood had been hung on the walls, and the logs blazing in the huge fireplace crackled and spat comfortingly. The silver platters, the goblets and bowls on the table shone in the firelight, and in the minstrels' gallery sweet music—which was never lacking in the King's presence—was being softly played by his favorite minstrels.
    The table was placed on a dais at one end of the hall exactly opposite the minstrels' gallery, and under the place where the King and Queen would sit was a carpet, although the rest of the hall was strewn with rushes. Servants were scurrying in and out of that door which led to the kitchens and butteries, and the smell of appetizing foods was everywhere.
    James looked with appreciation at the Queen, who greeted him so warmly and asked him how he had fared at the hunt. He took her hand and led her to the table where one of his servants was waiting with a bowl that he might wash his hands.
    Margaret and he seated themselves and the feast began.
    One of the noblest of James's courtiers carved for the royal pair. Margaret ate heartily but James, sitting there taking the pieces of meat in his fingers as his carver handed them to him seemed more interested in the minstrels' music than in food.
    It was always thus at table; James was no great trencherman; nor did he show much interest in the wine which was placed before him.
    Wantonness began to sing, and it was clear that her song charmed him; he turned to Margaret and asked her opinion.
    Margaret replied that Wantonness never failed to please; she was wondering whether during the hunt he had paid a visit to one of his women.
    They were washing their hands after the meal when a messenger from Stirling Castle, where the little Prince was staying, came into the hall and made his way immediately to the King and Queen.
    Margaret and James grew immediately grave when they heard what he had to say. The little boy had become fretful and his nurses could not comfort him. Now it seemed that he had a fever.
    James said: “We will leave at once for Stirling.”
Within an hour they were on the road.
    Margaret was brokenhearted.
    “Why,” she demanded angrily, “should this happen to me! His bastards flourish and my son must die. Why should
I
be unfortunate?”
    Lady Guildford tried to soothe her. “Your Grace, many children die in Scotland and England. The little Prince had every care. And you are young. You will have other children.”
    During the weeks that followed the death of the little heir of Scotland, Margaret refused to be comforted. It was so unfair, she kept proclaiming. The children of his mistresses were full of health and vigor, and the thought of them was a continual torment to her; and when her own son had been born she had found some comfort … but that was no more.
    James mourned the loss of his son with her, but reminded her that no railing against fate could bring him back to them. They would have more children and in time they would forget this unhappiness.
    He sought to comfort her in every way he could; he spent time in her company; he suggested that she should arrange entertainments to divert her. Let her call together Cuddy and Dog; let Gray Steil write a new song for Wantonness to sing.
    Margaret could only shake her head and mourn; but she clung to him and within her was a faint exultation. At least she was keeping him away from his women.
    Political affairs were taking up a great deal of the King's attention. The King of France was anxious for his friendship and, since the marriage between Scotland and England, had tried to woo James with prophecies of the advantages a friendship between their two countries could mean. James knew that Louis was eager to break the Scottish