The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  A girl hands me a trio of small jars. I pull out the stopper and signal for Harry to slip from his robe. Drawing a candle closer, I apply the salve in small dots over the worst of his lesions. I pray he is not on the verge of another attack; sometimes when his skin becomes too inflamed, fever consumes him.

  I have discovered that his condition is called St Anthony’s Fire, and among the numerous remedies, none of which have proved very successful, is the recommendation to offer up prayer to St Anthony. I have lately made it my daily habit to do so.

  When he tires of my ministrations, he pulls away and wraps himself up in his robe again. He stares gloomily into the fire. Since his return, I have done all I can to cheer him, offering comfort and sustenance. During his absence, it was his light-hearted banter I missed, his cynical humour and gentle teasing, but the man who has returned home to me is morose. I am unsure if I should probe the reasons why, or go to bed and leave him to his musing. He sighs lustily, and draws his eyes from the flames.

  “I am sorry, Margaret. I am poor company tonight.”

  “You are tired. Why not go to bed now? Things will look better in the morning.”

  He sits up.

  “You might as well know it, my dear. York has persuaded the king to sign an agreement; the act of accord, they are calling it. It allows the king to rule for the remainder of his life time, but names York as his heir. King Henry is disinheriting his own son.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “Disinheriting Edward? The queen will be furious! Oh, Harry, you don’t think he has listened to the rumours York is spreading about the prince not being the king’s son? Surely he would not heed such a lie!”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know. None of us can reach the king; many have sought audience, only to be turned away with the excuse that his health will not allow it. Only York has the king’s ear.”

  I sink to my knees, place a hand on Harry’s arm, and drop my voice to a whisper.

  “You … Harry, you don’t think York is so greedy for the crown that he would harm him?”

  “How can I know the answer to that? Sometimes I think there are no limits to that man’s ambition. We must await news from the queen; have you received word from Jasper? He was with her lately in Wales.”

  “Nothing, not for ages.”

  “Things should quieten down now, for a while at least. Perhaps it is a good time to travel to Pembroke to visit your son. I can ride from there to seek out Jasper and discover how the land lies.”

  “To Pembroke! Oh, Harry, when? When can we leave?”

  Later, when we are tucked snug within our bed and have enjoyed gentle pleasure, he falls quickly asleep, leaving me wide awake, imagining little Henry’s surprise when we arrive so unexpectedly.

  I plan what gift to take with me. He is growing so fast, I have no idea what will please him. As the night wears on and daylight begins to peek between the shutters, my eyes at last grow heavy. The last thing I hear before I sleep is the cry of a cockerel heralding the morning.

  Pembroke Castle, Wales – late October 1460

  As soon as I can, I detach myself from our host, leaving him and Harry to masculine discussions of war and politics. Myfanwy puts down her needle as if to join me, but I hold up a hand.

  “Please, I’d rather go alone.”

  I try to keep my step slow and steady, but as I move along the familiar passages, my feet move faster and faster of their own accord. With a shiver of remembrance, I pass the chamber where Henry was born, go up a few steps, down a few more, and reach the nursery. A servant comes forward from the gloom and, keeping his eye on the floor, bows before opening the door.

  I pass into the antechamber, hold my finger to my lips to silence the nurse who is about to call out to my son. I do not want to alert him to my presence. Rather than meet the formal, polite child to whom I was introduced earlier, I want to observe him as he really is.

  It is a cosy scene. A fire burns in the hearth, there are thick tapestries on the walls, the shutters are closed, and shadows from the flickering torches leap on the walls. Henry is sitting on his bed, his back toward me, his head bent, intent on something in his lap. A strip of pale white skin shows between his collar and his hair, a roll of fragrant flesh that I long to kiss. Beside him on the bed, a small brindle dog is slumbering. I watch for some time. My son is peaceful, content, not missing me at all.

  This is his normality; the world he has grown up in. He will be fonder of his grubby-faced nurse than he is of me; he knows nothing of the raw, tearing pain that I suffer in his absence. I am glad of that, of course, but oh, how glorious it would be were he to turn and see me, his face lighting up with joy at our reunion. I long for him to rush into my arms but I know when he turns, he will show only indifference to my unprecedented appearance in his nursery.

  The moments turn into minutes. Soon, his nurse will come to put him to bed, snuff out his candles. I should speak now, for the longer I watch, the shorter our time together will be but, suddenly, I am shy, uncertain what to say to this infant who is more stranger than son.

  I draw in my breath, teetering on the edge of indecision, until the dog lifts his head, fixes me with a defensive stare and growls, low in his throat.

  A ball tumbles to the floor, bounces twice as Henry twists round on the bed. He recognises me at once, and a red flush rises from his throat as he slides from the mattress and stands staring at me, uncertain what to do.

  “Hello, Henry.”

  “Hello,” he says, uncertainly.

  I move into the room, forcing myself not to approach him directly. Instead, I pause to examine a collection of ‘treasures’ on his shelf; a small wooden sword, a few feathers, a handful of large broken seashells, a rather grubby red velvet ball.

  “How lovely,” I say, raising my head and smiling at him. He smiles in return.

  “I used to collect things when I was a girl.”

  When I was a girl? I sound like an old woman, yet I am not yet eighteen. He steps a little closer, keeping one hand on the bedpost. I decide to keep talking, retain his interest, and prove I am a friend, an ally in his world of grown-ups. “I had a red ball too, and my brother made me a wooden doll, and my sister, your aunt Edith, fashioned it some clothes from the same fabric as my best gown. That doll became my best friend.”

  “Boys don’t have dolls.”

  “No, no; of course not.”

  His dog grunts as it leaps from the bed and we both turn to watch him waddling toward me on gross short legs. I do hope he doesn’t bite. I stand warily while he sniffs at the hem of my gown and, pretending to love dogs, I bend down to let him smell my hand. “What is his name?”

  “Key.”

  “Key?” I wrinkle my brow. “What an odd name.”

  “Not key; Ci.” He emphasises the last. At first, I think he is repeating the same word, and I am puzzled for a moment before realisation dawns. I remember that Henry is being raised in Wales.

  “Oh, yes, of course. ‘Ci’ is the Welsh word for dog. How clever.”

  Hearing his name, the dog begins to bark, high ear-splitting shrieks. I stoop to ruffle the fur about his ears, more to silence him than anything else, but he bounces away, barking even louder than before.

  “Quiet.” Henry swipes his arm downward, and Ci desists, skulks away toward the hearth. “Silly dog! He gives my nurse a headache.” Henry beams, his face lit with humour, and my heart lifts.

  “Oh, poor nurse, we can’t have that.”

  I fumble in my head for something engaging to say, something that will make him smile again. I am enraptured with his smile. “Your father had a dog, did you know that?”

  He shakes his head, his wide eyes fastened on my face.

  “When your father and Uncle Jasper were boys, Edmund, your – your father – he named his dog Jasper, for a joke – only your Uncle Jasper didn’t think it very funny.”

  He is too young. The humour is lost on him, and my heart begins to sink. “It was all right, thou
gh, because your father, out of pity, shortened his dog’s name to Jay. He was a fine old fellow. We lost him a few years ago, just before …”

  The conversation lapses. Henry smiles politely and our burgeoning friendship begins to founder until, suddenly inspired, I find a way to penetrate his infantile armour.

  “I saw your friend, Ned, the other day. He was telling me of your prowess with the sword.”

  Henry, unsure if my words are genuine, yet certain his mother would never speak a mistruth, looks doubtful, his eyes sliding toward his wooden sword on the shelf. I give a light laugh, wishing I could lift him onto my lap and inhale the scent of his hair. “It is true. Poor Ned is quite black and blue; I gave him some special balm for his bruised wrist. He tells me you will make a fine knight.”

  “Like Uncle Jasper?”

  “Yes, yes, Henry; just like him, and like your father too.”

  His face flushes, and with great daring I reach out and with one finger gently smooth his hair from his eyes. Like a nervous, shy puppy, he tolerates it, and it is all I can do not to sweep him into my arms and smother him in kisses.

  “Perhaps tomorrow, Henry, you could show me round the castle? I spent a long time here but for most of it I was confined to my chambers, waiting for you to be born.”

  He opens his mouth to answer, but at that moment his nurse arrives. She hovers uncertainly at the door, bobs a curtsey when I turn my head.

  “Pardon, my lady, but it is past Master Henry’s bed time, and he will be so tired tomorrow; there are always ructions when he is tired.”

  My happiness drains away. Of course, as his mother I should know how tiredness affects my own child; I shouldn’t need instruction on the matter. But I stand up, hold out my hand to Henry, and my heart lurches when he takes it in his hot, chubby fingers and kisses it.

  “I will see you in the morning, Henry. Sleep well.”

  He bows his head, knuckles his eye and follows his nurse to the fireside, where she is shaking out his night rail.

  I am not required here.

  I turn and leave, meander back to the hall, my emotions in turmoil. I am glad, so very glad to be with him but oh, so heartsick at the gulf between us; a gulf so wide I have no idea how to cross it.

  I rejoin the men in the hall. Myfanwy is still there, hovering in the background but taking no part in the conversation. Harry and Jasper rise when I enter, Harry looking at me questioningly.

  “Henry is well,” I say as I take my seat beside him and accept a cup of wine from Jasper. “He is growing so fast. I hope we can spend more time together over the coming week, I have a lot to make up for.”

  Harry clears his throat.

  “We, Jasper and I, were discussing the situation at court. Jasper feels the queen will not rest until she has the king back under her control. Her hatred for York is in the open now; she isn’t even pretending she wants to come to terms.”

  I swallow a mouthful of wine, and wait while it runs thick and warm to my belly.

  “I am not entirely surprised. What woman wouldn’t fight for the rights of her son? Whatever York’s feelings on the matter may be, Edward of Lancaster is the rightful heir.”

  Myfanwy leans forward in her seat, her hands clasped as if to contain her excitement.

  “You have, of course, heard the rumours?”

  I turn sharply in her direction, noting with envy how her skin glows in the firelight, her eyes shining like warm jewels. Myfanwy forgets my blood ties with the queen’s champion.

  “The slurs against Somerset, you mean? It is nothing but vicious gossip.”

  Myfanwy sits up. “Yes, I know that, but … perhaps York believes it.”

  “The slander is of his own making! No such calumny comes from our camp.”

  “Well, it is of little matter what his reasons are, the situation remains the same.” Harry interjects some peace into the simmering quarrel. “With the king under York’s control, we are rendered impotent. If we take action against York, he will waste no time in screaming ‘treason’.”

  “But we would not be riding against the king, just his gaoler!”

  Jasper gives a harsh snort of derision.

  “He would not see it like that. With the king in his hands, York holds all the cards. If we move at all, we have to be very sure of victory or be prepared to suffer the consequences. I fear we won’t have to wait very long before our queen begins mustering support. I just hope our armies are ready.”

  All eyes are on Jasper as the significance of his words sink in. Every man I know is prepared to die on the battlefield for the king, but to suffer the punishment for perceived treason against him is something else again.

  Suddenly, Death, ignominious Death is in the room with us, our loyal words for the king tainted by York’s treachery, our duty distorted into treason. As the silence stretches, Jasper becomes aware of our scrutiny. He sits up, his skin flushing a deeper shade of red. He slaps his knee, forces his face into confident lines.

  “Anyway, this is dismal talk. Let us drink to the health of the king, and damnation to York and all his adherents.”

  He raises his cup and we all do likewise.

  “To the king!” we repeat and drink deeply. No one names the Duke of York aloud, but I know that every one of us is silently calling down ill-fortune upon him.

  December 1460

  Christmas is quiet this year, the uncertainty at court reverberating across the country, even as far as Wales. We make an intimate party at the high table, looking down on the household as they devour the feast laid before them.

  I am seated between Harry and Henry, enjoying my son’s presence, noting what pleases and displeases him. His delight is contagious. He laughs aloud at the tumblers but grows restive during the course of a long dreary poem about a boy on a knight’s quest.

  The food is definitely to his liking. He insists on sampling every dish, and consumes spoonful after spoonful, even when he has clearly eaten his fill. Next to him, his grandfather, Owain, ruffles Henry’s hair and looks over the boy’s head into my eyes.

  “He is the living image of his father, Margaret,” he tells me. To save an argument, I agree, but it is not true. Henry is not at all like Edmund, or any of the Tudors. He has my eyes, sometimes a likeness to my uncle. Henry is Beaufort, through and through.

  From Jasper’s side, farther down the table, Myfanwy leans forward and points at Henry’s drooping head.

  “He has had enough, Margaret. You should send him to bed.”

  Myfanwy, of course, having birthed two of Jasper’s illegitimate daughters, is an expert on raising children. I bite my lips against a tart reply, and take a closer look at Henry. His face is flushed, his eyes heavy and ringed with shadows, but he is valiantly fighting defeat. I should have realised and sent him away sooner, instead of selfishly keeping him at my side.

  “I am not tired, Mother,” he protests, as I summon his nurse.

  “If you go to bed now, you will be fresh for tomorrow. I am not planning to join the hunt in the morning, but you and I could climb up to the top of the tower and watch them leave. We will have a good view from there, you can see for miles.”

  Usually nothing could keep me from the hunt, but Henry’s pull is greater than that of the chase. He scrambles from his seat.

  “Very well, Mother. Goodnight.” As he has been taught, he takes my hand and stoops to kiss it but, weakened by the wine and the levity of the evening, I swoop down and take him in my arms, clamp him to my breast.

  I feel the breath rush from his little body, and to my joy, his hands slide up about my neck. The feather in his cap tickles my nose as I close my eyes and inhale the sweet young scent of him.

  “Goodnight, Henry,” I say, as I release him so suddenly that he staggers, grabs at his nurse to steady himself. He tugs at the bottom of his jerkin, straightens his cap, and gives a small bow before allowing himself to be led away. At the door, he turns again and rewards me with a shy smile, raises his hand.

  Once he
has left the company, I grow bored. I have eaten more than enough, and since I have no interest in wine or dancing, and the topic of war is forbidden at Christmas, I begin to count the minutes until it is time to retire.

  Another tray of wine is brought to the table, and a woman takes her position before the dais. She places a low stool on the floor, and runs her fingers across the strings of her harp. Instantly, the sound relaxes me, the music making my eyes sting as it flows like water about the hall. I rest my chin on my hand, begin to drift happily …

  Bang! Bang! Bang! A great rumpus at the door, and abruptly the music stops. I open my eyes, sit up straight and twist my head toward the disturbance.

  “My lord!”

  A messenger pushes his way through the huddle of servants who had gathered to listen to the singing. A little way from the dais, he pauses. His clothes are sodden, his legs muddied to the knee, and it is evident he has ridden hard.

  The hall falls silent as Owain and Jasper stand to receive the message. Myfanwy reaches out to clasp the hem of Jasper’s robe. Harry and I exchange glances. His face has turned quite pale.

  Everyone knows the significance of the messenger at the Christmas feast; even in stories, they seldom bring good tidings. Jasper clears his throat and reads out the contents of the letter.

  It is a call to arms, summoning the men to muster beneath the royal banner. The time has come. The queen has called all loyal Lancastrians to the fight, and the celebration is spoiled.

  Jasper, shaking off the somnolence of too much wine, begins to issues orders in harsh tones. Owain shakes his grey head, drains his glass, and turns to me.

  “So, unfortunately, our visit is to be cut short, Margaret. A pity, I was just getting to know little Henry.”

  His hand, large, warm and dry, swamps mine. He doesn’t kiss it but instead draws me closer to place a kiss on my brow. I flush scarlet and bob a curtsey.

  “When it is all over,” I hear myself saying, “you must come to us in Lincolnshire.”