Читать онлайн «The Thistle and the Rose»

Jean Plaidy

The Thistle and the Rose

The Betrothal

In an apartment of that royal palace which recently, by the command of the King, had had its name changed from Shene to Richmond, three children were ranged about a blazing fire. Outside the January wind buffeted the octagonal and circular towers, threatening to sweep away the little chimneys which looked like inverted pears.

The eldest of the three — a girl just past her twelfth birthday — had taken off the net which held her beautiful reddish golden hair, so that she could have the joy of letting it fall over her shoulders and down to her waist. The boy, who had the same rosy complexion and bright gold hair, watched her sullenly. She was delighted with herself; he was displeased. As for the other child, a little girl not quite six, she was intent on watching the pair of them, very conscious of the fact that on account of her age she was of small account in the eyes of her twelve-year-old sister, Margaret, and ten-year-old brother, Henry.

“The fact is,” Margaret was saying, “that you are angry because I am to have a marriage and because I shall be a queen before you are a king. ”

“Queen of Scotland!” sneered Henry. “That barbarous land! Nay, my sister, I tell you this: I am displeased because it seems to me unfitting that my sister should so demean herself by such a marriage. ”

Margaret burst out laughing. “What airs you give yourself, Henry. I declare that since you became Prince of Wales you believe you are a king already. And think of this, brother: Had our dear Arthur lived you would never have been a king at all. ”

Henry scowled. It was like Margaret to take an unfair advantage. She was telling him that he showed too much pleasure in his new state and not enough sorrow for the death of their brother.

“It matters not how or why a man wears a crown,” he muttered. “It only matters that he does. ”

“So you are glad Arthur is dead!”

“I did not say that. ”

“You imply it.

“You lie. ”

“I do not lie. ”

Mary began to whimper. She hated quarrels between her brother and sister; they were always threatening to arise, partly because Margaret and Henry were so much alike. If Margaret’s hair were cut off — which she would never allow because it was her greatest beauty and she was very proud of it — and she were dressed like a boy, there would be Henry all over again. And it was not only in appearance that they resembled each other. They were both headstrong, willful, loving to indulge themselves, furious with any who opposed them. Mary secretly took Henry’s side because he made much of her. He often told her how pretty she was and that she was his favorite sister.

“Now you see what you have done,” complained Henry. “You have frightened Mary. Come here, Mary. I will sing to you if you like. I will play my lute. ”

“Oh yes, please. ”

Margaret regarded them scornfully.

“And you must say none sings like he does, none plays the lute to compare with him, and you are the luckiest girl in the world to have such a brother. That is the payment which will be asked of you for his attentions, little sister. ”