“Oh, my God, not Harry’s father? Not Buckingham?”
The messenger pulls off his cap and hangs his head.
“I am afraid it is true, my lady. The Duke of Buckingham and several of our best men: Beaumont, Egremont, Shrewsbury and Sir William Lucy were slain in defence of the king, but … the king himself … the king has been taken …”
“Taken? York has dared to lay hands on the king? Where has he been taken to?”
“I do not know, but you should take some comfort from the news that the queen and the prince rode north to safety before the battle commenced. We will fight another day, my lady. It is not over yet.”
My mind darts hither and thither, one thought falling quickly on the heels of another. The queen may be safe, but how can we fight on when the king is in enemy hands? Without our king, we are disempowered.
I wish Harry were here so I could comfort him. Poor bereaved Harry! What will we do without his father’s support? I try to calm myself, imagine Harry’s measured voice reasoning that, although the losses are grievous and we are faced with a greater challenge than ever before, of course, Lancaster will never be vanquished.
Rather than putting my mind at rest, the message has thrown me into deep turmoil. The days drag by so slowly, yet I can settle at nothing. I tug half-heartedly at the weeds, deal with the household matters as perfunctorily as I can before taking myself off to pray in the cool, dark chapel. It is my only comfort. The only action I can take.
On my knees for many hours, I pray for my late father-in-law, I pray for Harry, I pray for the king in the hands of his enemy, and I pray for the queen and her infant son, exiled in the north.
The future is a bleak blank wall. Here, in the relative safety of Bourne Castle, I cannot see beyond my next meal, my next prayer, so how much worse must Queen Margaret feel with her husband taken and his country in the hands of the foe?
The world has gone mad; all that I have been bred to take for granted is overturned.
Bourne, Lincolnshire – August 1460
The summer I had so longed for drags on. I walk the garden path alone; the sun casts shadows through palmate leaves, the spring flowers wither and die, replaced by lush, green foliage, thick stalked daisies, and dark nettles that clamour against the fence.
With just the household for company, I feel like an exile, cast adrift from the rest of the world with only letters from my mother and my sister Edith to break the monotony.
Mother, blinkered to the troubled world around her, is full of advice on how to conceive a child. She has never quite accepted the fact that Henry’s birth left me barren, and fails to see that, even if I were fertile, the absence of my husband would make conception impossible.
With a stifled snarl of impatience, I toss her letter aside and turn to Edith’s but soon let it fall into my lap. It is full of gossipy, housewifely tips, and questions about Henry’s constitution that I have no hope of answering. For while I am here, breaking my heart over our separation, my son remains in Wales, bonding with whichever woman has the luxury of caring for him.
Why have I heard nothing?
Why has Myfanwy not written?
It is my nature to fear the worst and, as the weeks of silence stretch into months, I cannot rid myself of the idea that Henry is ailing, so sick and malnourished that they are too afraid to tell me of it. When night falls, I can find no peace. I pace the floor of my chamber, growing hotter and more distressed with every turn of the room. In the end, I snatch up my pen and write; just nine words scrawled across the page.
For the love of God, Myfanwy, send me news.
Without wasting another minute, I call for a messenger who, when he appears, is yawning, his hair looking as if he has been out in a high wind.
“This message is of vital importance, and is to reach Pembroke Castle as quickly as you can get it there. Do not spare your horse.”
“Yes, my lady.”
He bows awkwardly and repeatedly, as if I am the queen herself, and I realise he is new here. I have not seen his face before. I hope he can be relied upon. As he rides away into the gathering dusk, I bite my lip, willing him to reach Pembroke unscathed.
He has been gone just one hour when I hear the sound of a horse returning, and realise he must have run into trouble on the road. I stretch my neck, peering from the window into the ill-lit yard. His horse is grey and dusty, foaming with sweat and, with a twist of my stomach, I realise it is not my messenger returned at all. This is a different man, and he bears the livery of Jasper Tudor.
With a cry of relief, I dart across the room, throw open the chamber door. My shawl catches on the latch and, in my haste, I trip over my skirts, almost falling, but I manage to save myself, skittering down the stairs and arriving dishevelled and breathless in the bailey below.
The messenger has just dismounted. He reaches for his saddlebag, delves into it and retrieves a rolled parchment before turning, his eyes scanning the walls of the castle and the numerous windows of the lord’s apartments.
Barely containing my impatience, I wait while he makes his slow approach. There is something familiar about the set of his head on his shoulders, the way his hair falls across his brow.
“Ned?”
I step from the shadow of the keep, put up a hand to shield my eyes from the glaring torches. “Ned? It is you? Oh, I am so glad to see you! You have grown so tall!”
I grab his hand, preventing myself from kissing him just in time. It has been three, nay, almost four years since I saw him last and he has grown from a gangling lad into a young man. His grin is as crooked and wide as ever.
“My lady.” He sweeps off his cap and bows as he has been taught.
“You have news, Ned? From Jasper? How is Henry? Have you seen him? Is he well?”
“Very well, my lady. I have the marks to prove it.” He draws back his sleeve to reveal a yellowing bruise on his bony wrist.”
“Henry did that?” I open my eyes wide, relieved when he answers my query with a laugh.
“Your son plays rough, my lady. Before he left for the fight, my Lord Pembroke gave him a wooden sword and young Henry has elected that I should be his enemy. You can imagine who the victor might be.”
The parchment is in my hand but I am so enrapt in the picture Ned is painting that I do not open it at once.
“And how are you, Ned? You look well. You will soon be joining Jasper’s troop?”
He looks downhearted.
“Nay, Lady. My chest … I, I am short of breath and have not the stamina for a fight although I do not lack the heart.”
“I am sure you do not. Come, come inside. I will order refreshments brought to my chambers, and you can tell me more about my son. He thrives, you say?”
I spend the next hour reconciling this tall fellow with the boy I had last seen at Pembroke. He had been wounded in Edmund’s service, receiving an arrow in the chest after a skirmish with our old enemy, ap Nicholas. I had seen to his injuries and, to facilitate a full recovery, taken him into my household until he healed enough to re-join my husband’s troop. On the day Edmund rode to his death, Ned stayed behind with me.
He proved a more than loyal servant, supporting me in my early widowhood, aiding me when I was all alone and my birth pangs began, but somehow, when I left Pembroke to begin my marriage to Harry, he was left behind. His sudden reappearance in my life, the familiar grin, the quirk of his brow, brings those days rushing back. I had been so young, and so afraid. It now all seems … well, a long time ago.
“And Myfanwy; has she returned to Pembroke?”
Poor Ned has just taken a bite of pie. He struggles to chew and swallow before replying, wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
“Yes, my lady. She is well.” He takes another bite, licks crumbs from his lips, and speaks with his mouth half-full. “Why don’t you read the letter?”
I get up and move away, leaving him in peace with his pie and ale. The parchment is smooth beneath my fingers; I shiver, anxious of what lies with
in. With a deep breath, I move closer to the window and roll it out, squinting at Myfanwy’s spidery scrawl.
Do forgive me for not writing sooner. Every day I had hoped for some word from Jasper so that my news to you might be more positive. I know you must be worried, about Henry, about your husband, and about Jasper and the king and queen too. I shall do my best to relate all I know, which I am sorry to say, is not much.
Henry is thriving. That is good news to your ears, I know. Of Jasper I am not so sure. I have had messages but the news in them is so extraordinary I am not sure I have understood it correctly. It seems that Queen Margaret has been in dire straits. Half her retinue has deserted her and one of her own servants took her prisoner, threatening to kill her and the prince. While he was in the process of stealing all her jewels, she had the wit to escape and fled to Jasper at Harlech. The messenger who brought the news claimed she rode pillion with some young commoner. I have it on good authority that Jasper plans to move her to Denbigh as soon as he can arrange it.
The times we live in are so extraordinary, Margaret. I do hope there is an end to it soon. I long for stability but we must be strong like the queen who, although she lives in daily fear of assassination, is already mustering another army. Jasper says her one aim is to regain custody of the king and send York and his cronies packing, back where they belong. Lancaster is not beaten yet.
As for Henry, all these troubles pass over his head. He practices daily with a little wooden sword, attacking the legs of the servants and lording it over his playmates. God-willing, peace will come soon and you can visit us here, or perhaps we can travel to England to spend some time with you. I speak of you every day so that he will keep you in his memory and he sends his blessings and love.
Oh, one last thing, Margaret. I am concerned about Ned and wonder if you know a tonic that will aid him. He droops every time Jasper rides off without him and his chest shows no improvement. He has a dry, nasty cough that no amount of remedies will cure; perhaps you have more knowledge than I. Do you think you can make him well enough to return to soldiery, or should he seek another path?
And so Ned stays with me. At first, he resists the cup of medicine I bid him drink each night at bedtime. I tell him he must nurture his cough if he wants to ever be fit enough to fight or to win his spurs. I can see by his scathing look that he recognises my lie and, with a twist of guilt at misleading him, I try to convince him there are other paths he could follow.
“Life isn’t all about war, Ned,” I tell him, but even to my own ears, my words do not ring true. All my brothers were raised to be knights; it is the way of the world. Young boys are sent to the households of great lords to be trained in the skills of warfare. What else is there?
“What else is there?” Ned asks, as if reading my mind.
“Oh … lots of things. You could be a politician, a statesman, a scholar.”
He looks at me darkly. “No, I couldn’t. I don’t have the mind for that, but I have the heart for battle. I should ride in defence of my king. I should cut York down and put another in his place.”
My laugh is tinged with bitterness. If only that were possible, but Ned is as useless as I am. I also long to put right the wrongs of this sorry world. I pour the brew into his cup.
“Drink it and go to bed now. We will think more of your future in the morning.”
He looks ruefully at the thick brown liquid.
“If this doesn’t kill me,” he says with a grimace before tipping it down his throat.
When I was a child, I pictured myself in charge of a great household as I am now but, in my dreams, there was feasting, music and dancing, fine clothes and regular trips to court. I never imagined endless days of solitude and anxiety for an absent husband. I am tired of my workaday gown, the monotony of my household duties, and resent my exclusion from the events surrounding the crown.
The summer drags on. Slowly, the fields begin to turn colour, the wheat in the meadows waves softly in the wind like a warm yellow sea. At the end of the month of October, the crops are harvested and stored in the vast barns in readiness for winter. The apple store smells of summer, the fruit bulging with goodness, and in the dairy the shelves are lined with round cheeses, all neatly wrapped in cloth. The surplus livestock has been slaughtered, cut and salted, great hams hang from the ceiling of the kitchen storeroom, and barrels of herring are ranked along the walls. Winter may do its worst and we will not starve. We are ready.
I begin to plan projects for the long cold nights; an altar cloth for the chapel, new covers for the chairs in the hall. Knowing the weather will soon turn for the worse, I have taken to spending an hour or so each evening on the parapet walk of the outer wall. I drink in the last dregs of the dying sun and dream rich warm dreams of the day when civil unrest will cease, Harry will come home, and I can be reunited with my son.
Far below me, our tenants are collecting the last vestiges of wheat from the field. They have been there since supper time, their figures nothing more than shadows on the bright landscape. I close my mind against worry, rest my cheek against sun-warmed stone, and watch them at their toil.
There are six men and three women, their aprons swollen with their gleanings. Every so often, the light evening wind wafts their voices toward me, high, sing-song sounds of the day’s end.
As I watch, one man stands, puts a hand to his aching back and the other to his brow. Then he points into the distance and calls to his companions, who straighten up, their gaze following the line of his finger. I also turn and squint into the setting sun and discover a cloud of dust betokening the approach of a small party of horse.
Placing both hands on the parapet, I strain my neck forward and narrow my eyes, trying to discover whose badge the horsemen wear. Is it a message from Harry, or from Myfanwy?
As the tiny dots on the horizon gain shape and become discernible figures, I catch my breath and look again, wishing I were blessed with long sight.
The rider at the fore is mounted on a bay horse but they are as common as sparrows, it could be anybody. As I watch, my heart begins to beat just a little faster. I keep my eye on the man in front and, as he draws nearer, I see he has taken off his helm, his balding head glinting in the dying light.
My breath catches in my throat. I lean perilously forward over the battlement, hardly daring to believe it is truly Harry come home at last.
Soon, he is close enough to return my wave. Unheeding of the tears that have leached unnoticed from my eyes, I climb down the winding stair. I have to force myself to tread carefully. I take deep breaths, grip the hand rail with shaking fingers, taking one step at a time, unwilling that my husband should be greeted by a frantic, dishevelled wife.
By the time Harry’s small troop rides beneath the gate, I am waiting calmly at the door, my hands decorously clasped before me, my heart thumping so wildly in my chest, I fear I may be sick. As he swings from the saddle and turns to face me, I take mental note of the weight he has lost, the dark circles that ring his eyes, the new creases above his nose.
“Harry,” I say, taking one step closer, waiting impatiently while he frees himself from his gauntlets and tosses them to his squire.
“Margaret!”
He holds out his arms and, although he is filthy from the road, stinks of sweat, horse and wood smoke, and his skin is as red and sore as a leper’s, I move into the circle of his embrace.
Two hours later, Harry has been fed and is sitting in a tub while the filth of the road leaches into warm, scented water. He has sent his man away and gladly I play the part of a servant, pouring jugs of water over his head and kneeling to scrub his nails with a stiff brush.
“You don’t need to do this, Margaret.”
I look up at him, smile because it is so good that he is here with me again.
“I know, but it pleases me.”
I plunge his hand back into the water, watch the suds dissipate. “I am so sorry about your father. He was very good to both of us … he never once reproac
hed me for not giving him a grandson.”
A surge of water slops onto the floor as Harry hauls himself up, splashing me as he reaches for a towel. He steps from the tub, leaving large wet puddles as he hurries to sit naked at the hearth. He rubs his hair, emerging red-faced.
“He had a grandson already. The vacant dukedom will now be filled by a six year old ...”
“Yes, I know little Henry – he is my cousin Margaret’s son, although I have not met him. My mother makes certain I am kept abreast of family matters. Poor little mite, his wardship will no doubt now be in the hands of the king.”
“No doubt; or that of York - in all but name.”
I fetch another towel and begin to rub his back, noting the red wheals left by his scratching. When he is dry, I hold out a loose gown.
“Put this on and wait a while. I will send a girl to fetch some salve from the still-room. You really shouldn’t scratch so.”
“It itches like the devil.”
“I know, but scratching will only make it worse.” I let out a sigh. “We had gone so far in treating it, and now we are back where we started.”
I pour a cup of wine and hand it to him. “If you are not too tired, perhaps you can tell me all you know of what is happening. Where is the queen? And the king, is he well cared for? Is York allowing his physicians access? I should imagine it suits them for the king to remain in madness.”
Harry stretches and lies back in his chair, flicks the ends of the cloak over his legs.
“The last I heard, the king was quite well; just over-eager for peace and too obliging to those he should know by now are his enemies. They have only to swear fealty to him and he forgives their sins against him.”
“He is a good man. It should not be seen as a failing.”
“Kings have no business being so virtuous. Especially when the country is on its knees.”
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 2
