The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  He raises one eyebrow, his forehead furrowing doubtfully.

  “What, all that way to the other side of England? By Christ, if I stray that far from Wales, I might wither and die.”

  Dutifully, I join him in laughter, but both of us know this is a poor time for joking. He sobers, lightly places a finger on my cheek. “But, do you know, Margaret, you and that boy of yours might be worth the trouble.”

  He lets go of my hand, spins on his heel and marches toward the door, calling on his squire and manservant to make ready his horse and belongings.

  It is all over; the table is a vanquished battlefield of scattered bones and half eaten pastries. An upturned wine cup has tumbled onto a platter of apple tarts, flooding them with ruby wine that overflows, dribbling onto the cloth. A servant girl approaches with a tray, hesitates when she realises my presence. I wave a hand, instructing her to continue, and she begins to collect the plates, piling them onto her tray.

  She is totally unconcerned with the events taking place around her. She thinks only of her task, cares nothing for war, whatever the outcome of the battle. No matter who sits on the throne or governs the country, her life will continue unchanged. Whether Jasper is in command or not, she will always be a servant at Pembroke. I, on the other hand, should York have victory over the queen, have very much to lose.

  If Lancaster loses this fight, our actions will be seen as treason – as the wife of a traitor, I could forfeit everything, and Henry could be placed in danger, too.

  “Margaret.” Harry is coming toward me. He has exchanged his festive velvet for travelling clothes; his sword is strapped to his hip. He is pulling on thick gauntlets, ready to ride.

  “What are you doing?” I cry. “Surely you will not ride out straight away? At least, wait until first light.”

  He places a hand on each of my shoulders and looks affectionately into my eyes.

  “There is no time. I have to travel fast and light, Margaret. There is much to do, things to arrange. You are to stay here until it is safe to travel. Then, make straight for Bourne. I will send word to you as soon as I can.”

  A thousand questions and protests burst into my mind before exploding and dying like shooting stars. “Henry,” I manage to stutter. “What about my son, shall I take him with me?”

  “No, no, he is out of the thick of it here. It is safer at Pembroke than on the road.”

  “So, should I not stay here, if there is peril on the road? Why don’t I wait with Henry to ensure his safety?”

  He takes hold of my head, a hand over each ear, and kisses my brow.

  “Because, if the worst comes to the worst, I may have need of you at Bourne. Be on the alert, Margaret. Expect the unexpected.”

  He kisses me again and hurries away, calling to his servants.

  I raise a hand in farewell but he does not turn again. As I watch him go, Myfanwy’s warm hand slides into mine. The servants continue to clear away the remnants of the feast, the hall empties until just we two remain, still in our festive finery, but quite alone.

  Bourne, Lincolnshire - Spring 1461

  Waiting for news of the outcome of the battle is like sitting in the dark. I am blind and can see not a step into the future. A thousand possible scenarios rage in my imagination. Lancaster vanquished, the queen taken, the royal family fallen into York’s merciless hands, no one left to fight on.

  For many hours, I kneel on hard cold stone until my knees are numb, and a screaming pain stabs in the small of my back. Lit only by candles, the frigid chapel becomes a place of hope, the beads of my rosary small round bargaining counters as I make a deal with God.

  “Send Harry home safe, make us victorious, and I will be your servant.”

  Silently, I pledge my devotion. No matter where the future takes me, if He will only send us victory, I shall give my life unto Him. I bow my head, the beads press into my forehead as the chill seeps into my bony knees, and encroaches into my soul.

  The candles gutter from a colder blast at my back, and I hear a footstep behind me. Torn rudely from God’s presence, I turn my head, try to rise, but I have lost all feeling in my lower limbs. I stumble forward, but an arm reaches out and saves me from the fall.

  “Ned?”

  I cling to his sleeve and allow him to lead me on legs I cannot feel to the welcome sanctuary of a chair. “What news is there? Is there a message from my husband?”

  He nods vigorously.

  “I should say there is, my lady. A messenger is taking sustenance in the hall. The battle is won. Your lord is safe and … York and his son are dead!”

  “York is dead?”

  For a moment I feel nothing, the news is like a blow to the stomach, but then feeling returns. I should not feel such joy, but suddenly it is as if a leaden weight has fallen from my shoulders. My prayers are answered! The brutal elation of victory surges through me. “The battle is won? And Harry, he is well? He is not wounded.”

  “I am sure the messenger would have mentioned that, my lady. Come, come with me, and you can question him yourself.”

  Still hobbling on numb feet, I make as fast a progress to the hall as I can.

  Harry is not wounded. Lancaster has victory. York is dead.

  The news circulates in my head, a smile stretches across my face and my heart beats fast in anticipation of further good news. God has blessed us, and I will not forget my promise.

  I burst into the hall and the room falls quiet. The messenger tries to rise from his seat, but I wave him back down.

  “No, remain seated,” I tell him, taking note of his soiled clothes, his haggard, filthy face. The sleeve of his jerkin is missing and something that looks a lot like blood soaks his linen at the elbow. “Were you in the fight?” I ask him. He shakes his head.

  “Nay lady, but I was set upon by deserters on the road. It is nothing.” He waggles his arm around to assure me his wound is light.

  “You’d better give me the message, and tell me everything.”

  A servant steps forward.

  “I have it here, my lady.”

  I snatch the parchment, unroll it and frown in the ill-light to decipher three short lines of Harry’s scrawl.

  We have the victory, my love, and I will return home soon. York is no more and we are in ascendance. My messenger will tell you all. I will be with you as soon as I may.

  Clutching the letter in my fist, I turn back to the messenger.

  “Did you see the battle? How did it go? Were many lost?”

  “There are always losses, my lady. I saw the battle only from a distance. Your lord is tired but he seemed unharmed.”

  “And York, how did he die?”

  “In the battle, I do believe, my lady, and the Earl of Salisbury has been taken prisoner. Afterwards …” He hesitates, licks his lips and turns a little pale.

  “Go on with your tale.”

  I try not to interrupt him further, but beneath the cover of my gown my knees are quaking, my toe tapping with anticipation.

  “During the battle there were many losses, and York was among them. His son, Rutland, was taken afterward, trying to escape north toward the town. After the battle, they … his … my Lord Clifford ordered that York’s head, and that of his son, be taken and placed on the Micklegate Bar; they, erm … they gave the duke a paper crown and made much mockery of him.”

  I try to make sense of his garbled tale.

  “Salisbury is dead, and Rutland too? And they mocked them, you say?”

  My elation diminishes.

  “Salisbury still lives and they have taken him to Pontefract, my lady, but Rutland is dead. The victory took us all by surprise. York was outnumbered. His other son, Edward of March, was still on the road, not yet arrived at Sandal Castle. We expected the duke to stay inside, but, instead of waiting for his son, York suddenly broke his cover and met us on the field. None can fathom why.”

  “No.”

  I am struggling to accept his grisly tale. If York took such action against us
, I would condemn them for it, but I cannot disparage my own queen. As queen consort, anointed by God, she is unassailable. I can only believe there were circumstances I know nothing of. I force a smile and turn back to the messenger.

  “Thank you. Now, there is food and a bed waiting, and perhaps you would care for a bowl of warm water.” I snap my fingers at a lurking maid servant. “See to it.”

  Turning on my heel, I hurry back to my apartment, take sanctuary again in my private chapel, and send my thanks to God along with a prayer for the souls of our departed enemies.

  I feel no sorrow. York and his family are my cousins in blood but I cannot regret their deaths, not when it means so much to our cause. This victory at Wakefield means life will once more return to an even keel. Surely, nothing can stand in our way now. We will regain possession of the king and I can go to court again. I will order new gowns, some new shoes, and Harry and I will dance beneath the gaze of our restored monarchs.

  But soon, terrible stories filter to me of the queen’s ire, and our glory is dimmed. The gossips are saying that after the battle, when the heads of York and Salisbury were taken to her, she mocked them. I try to reconcile the woman I met all those years ago with the harridan who reputedly slapped the face of her dead enemy before ordering his head crowned in paper and stuck upon the highest tower.

  These stories must surely be slander. The queen I knew could never stoop so low. It must be a slur, spread by York’s adherents to darken her name. If, God forbid, they are true, then Queen Margaret has indeed been tarnished by war.

  I can barely wait for Harry’s homecoming, and for the first time in months I start to make plans for the future. It doesn’t take long for the small lingering guilt at the fate of our enemies to dissipate, and life seems to open up into endless sunshine.

  On the day I receive a letter from Harry to say he is riding home, I am in high spirits. I can settle to nothing. I cast aside my needlework, leaf half-heartedly through my book of hours, change my sleeves a number of times. Even the arrival of a parcel of several pairs of new shoes does nothing to relieve my agitation. From now on, life will be very different.

  With the threat of war lifted, we can look at making improvements to our home, build the viewing point in the garden I have always desired, and best of all, we can have Henry and Jasper to stay.

  In my mind, I picture spending every summer season with my son; we can hunt and practice his archery. Harry and I can teach him how to govern his estate. As Earl of Richmond, he must move between two worlds. He must show compassion for the common people and deal fairly with his tenants yet, at the same time, perfect a courtly manner. He will learn how to address the king, the proper garb to wear at court. The future beckons, and for the first time since I left my mother’s house so many years ago, I feel free and blissfully happy.

  A cry goes up from the battlement and I sense the ripple of activity that speaks of an approaching party of horse. I leap from my chair, arrange my sleeves, straighten my bodice and ensure my cap is straight. Then I stride from the hall to stand on the steps, a cup of welcome in my hand, and prepare to greet my lord.

  He rides through the gates, pauses with one hand on the pommel while he throws up his visor, and looks down at me with tired, red-rimmed eyes. I take a step forward, wait while he swings stiffly to the ground.

  He takes the cup and drains it, passes it to his servant before turning back to me and clasping both my hands.

  “I would kiss you, sweetheart, but I am filthy. I hope you have ordered a bath made ready.”

  “I have, my lord, and fresh clothes are laid in your chamber.”

  “Come with me, wife,” he says. “I have some news you must hear.”

  I follow behind him, noticing the tautness of his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched into fists. Increasing my pace, I draw parallel, a worried frown tempering my joy.

  “What news, Harry? Can you not tell me now?”

  He stands aside as a trio of chamber boys hurry past with vast jugs of water.

  “Let me get my things off first, Margaret. I am exhausted. It was a hard ride.”

  “At least tell me whether it is good or bad news.”

  I follow, one step behind, into his chamber. He throws off his cloak, sits down on the bed and begins to struggle with his boots. Sinking to my knees, I take his boot and draw it off for him, trying not to recoil from the stench of his unwashed feet. We repeat the exercise with the other foot, and then I help him unbutton his tunic and slip it from his shoulders. His linen is soiled with sweat and dirt.

  “HARRY!” I am beginning to nag. “Please, good or bad?”

  He sighs, lets his head fall forward, his stringy hair covering his face. I notice a patch of angry red skin on his neck. He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing more sore patches that are crying out for my ointment. He dips his hand into the water, flicks his wrist twice, splattering water on my gown.

  “Bad, I’m afraid.”

  “What? Harry, please.” I cannot resist the urge to stamp my foot and he raises an eyebrow, surprised at my show of temper.

  “Calm down, Margaret. Come, sit here.”

  “I don’t want to sit.”

  “Very well, stand then.”

  He looks tired, worn out with troubles, and I am sorry for adding to his strife, but I have to know.

  “My stay here will be necessarily short. The dreams of peace you spoke of in your letters are just that, Margaret. Dreams. York may be dead, and Salisbury too, but their cause is very much alive in the form of their sons, Edward of March and Richard of Warwick. The cousins have reunited and even now they march, fully armed, on London. It will be a race to see who gets there first; the queen or Warwick.”

  “But if we can just recapture the king …”

  “The king will be no use to us if Warwick gains control of London.”

  My hopes of a return to normality were short lived indeed.

  March 1461

  The letter looks harmless. Expecting the usual news of Henry’s progress, I break the seal, unroll the parchment and frown at Myfanwy’s unruly handwriting.

  Oh Margaret, she begins and my heart contracts, my eyes moving quickly across the paper.

  I am sorry my letter is so tardy, but I have only just had news of it myself. Owain Tudor is dead. As far as I can gather, on Candlemas last, Jasper and his father were attempting to link up with the main part of our forces on the border but were intercepted by Edward of March and there was a short skirmish.

  Our army was scattered. Jasper fled, I know not where, but his message assures me he is safe and unharmed. But when Owain’s men put to flight, March pursued and captured them. They do say that four thousand men were slaughtered that day. Afterwards, they took Owain, Throckmorton, and Scudamore captive and imprisoned them in Hereford.

  Oh, Margaret, Sir William Vaughan who, as you know hated Owain, wasted no time in condemning him to a traitor’s death. They say he died well, with Queen Katherine’s name upon his lips … but that is little comfort to us. I wish I could be with Jasper; it is hard to lose a father when he still mourns the loss of his brother …

  I let the letter drop, my mind reliving memories of Edmund’s father. I recall his stories; his ascent from the strongholds of north Wales to the royal court of England, and the bed of the dowager queen. I had always loved the way his face softened when he spoke of his dead wife, Katherine.

  Owain, although of common stock, was a knight of the old school, valiant, brave and chivalrous. Now, my Henry, already bereft of a father, will never know his grandfather either. A tear drops onto my lap. Owain’s grizzled face swims in my mind’s eye.

  One day, we will have vengeance upon Vaughan. Jasper will see to that. He is Henry’s one surviving champion. I thank God that he is safe. Jasper is not one to give up and will already be rallying new support. I pick up the letter again, my eyes darting across the page.

  I have told Henry nothing of this. He is too young to understand, but I now
include stories of his grandfather in the tales I tell him at bedtime. Rest assured, Owain Tudor will never be forgotten in this household; not as long as I am here to keep his name alive.

  “Nor will he be forgotten in all Wales.”

  I speak aloud, and the resilience of my own words brings a watery smile to my face. I know that, just like everything else, I will find the strength to overcome this.

  *

  The angry tide encroaches, destroying everything in its path. As Warwick marches north toward London, Jasper approaches from the west, and the royal Lancastrian army, made up of mercenaries from the north, travels south, scorching a swathe of terror across the land.

  While the common folk shiver beneath a mantle of snow and ice, their plight is worsened by the queen’s supporters, who steal and pillage, and murder. Unable to control them, the queen can do nothing but watch as the marauding Scots devastate Grantham, Stamford and Northampton.

  When battle is joined, the warring nobles of England fight for the second time up and down the cramped streets of St Albans’ town. Warwick, taken by surprise, is defeated and flees. He rides away fast, forgetting the prisoner in his care, and when our men take possession of the town, they find the bewildered king sitting beneath a tree.

  At least he is safe in our care again.

  But our victory is stained, our triumph tainted as whispers reach me of the common people’s detestation for the queen. Her recent sacking of St Albans fills them with fear that she means to destroy London too.

  As her army draws closer to the capital, in the minds of the populace she becomes the ‘vengeful queen,’ and their hearts overspill with terror. Behind the stout defences of the city walls, the townsfolk take refuge, barring the gates against her, and refusing her entry.

  Furious but futile against such determined hate, the queen and her army reluctantly retreat. They traverse the devastated roads back to Yorkshire, scattering chaos and misery in their wake. Darker days have never been known in England.