Almost a week later, news comes that Warwick and Edward of March have arrived in London. This time when an army arrives at the gates, the people throw them open, and give hearty welcome to Warwick and his new-made king, Edward IV.
*
“You cannot go, Harry. You are too sick.”
“I have to go. There is no …”
He sways on his feet, closes his eyes and grips the bedpost.
“There, you see. Just as I said. Now, lie back down and let me tend you. A sick man will only be a hindrance to the cause, not a help.”
As easily as if he were a child, I push him down and try to tug the blankets to his chin. He pushes my hand away. His face is as white as the linen he lies upon, but he hauls himself up again.
“Bring me something to stop the dizziness.”
“No, I won’t; and the king wouldn’t ask me to.”
By all accounts, the king is too far gone in madness to care one way or the other who rides with him into battle. It is the queen we heed now.
Despite London and most of England having turned against her in support of the Yorkist king, she refuses to surrender her cause. It is for her son, of course, and if I were in her position, I would do the same. But by all accounts, many of my fellow Lancastrian supporters are wary of young Edward of Lancaster. They whisper of cruelty and the mistreatment and bullying of his servants. He is also accused of hiding behind his mother’s skirts, manipulating her love for him.
After the battle at St Albans, when his father the king was discovered in the company of two Yorkist knights, Margaret let Edward decide how the men, who had done no more than follow York’s orders, should die. The boy could have chosen to show them mercy, yet instead, he chose beheading. I suppose battle hardens the best of us, and in his short life, Edward of Lancaster has known nothing but war. Yet I would hope that in similar circumstances, my own son would show mercy.
Now, refusing to give up the fight, the queen is summoning supporters for yet another battle. Everyone is sick of war. Our men are depleted and sickening, our women have been tested to the utmost. We live on a knife’s edge, afraid that each day will bring new disasters. More than anything, England needs peace. Sometimes, I think, for the sake of peace, perhaps it might be better if York wore the crown. But I do not speak that thought aloud; it is a brief and fleeting thing.
I close my eyes, send up an earnest prayer to atone for even contemplating such treason, and turn back to my husband, who is trying to struggle out of his nightshirt.
“No, no, no! Harry, you are sick. Let me at least fetch you a remedy to bring down the fever. Perhaps you will be fit to ride out by morning.”
“It will be too late by then.”
“Then you will have to ride harder and faster to make up for it. You will not set one foot from this house until you are fit enough to do so.”
His capitulation illustrates just how ill he really feels. He crawls back into bed.
“Very well, Margaret. I am beaten. Do your worst.”
I spin on my heel and hurry to the still-room to prepare a posset. Sending my serving girl away, I take down an old book of recipes, drawing the candle closer so that I can read the close-written text. I run my index finger down the page, carefully noting the correct ingredient. It will not do to give him too much.
With great care, I pour an infusion of cherry bark and coriander to treat his recurrent fevers, but after some hesitation and soul searching, I add three drops of poppy juice. I stare for a long moment at the innocuous looking cup before hastily crossing myself and hurrying back with it to his chamber.
He tips it back, drains the cup and hands it to me. I kiss his brow.
He slides down the bed, turns onto his side and hauls the covers over his shoulder.
“See they make my horse ready. I will leave at dawn. Tell them to … wake me …”
Harry will not wake at dawn. If my calculations are correct, he will not wake until the battle is done and the fate of York and Lancaster decided.
“Harry, NO!” I break out of the daydream. He pauses, the cup half way to his mouth. I snatch it away.
“I am sorry. I made a mistake. I will mix you another.”
“Margaret.” He struggles from the bed, his voice halting me in my tracks. I pause and wait for him to confront me at the hearth. He narrows his eyes, twitches his head, silently questioning.
“What do you mean … a mistake? You never make mistakes. I have seen you myself, double checking, making sure before you even dose the dogs for worms. What are you up to?”
“Nothing.” I make to move away, but his hand snakes out and pinions me. He takes the cup, waves it beneath his nose.
“What is in it?”
I swallow, turn my face away.
“Cherry bark, coriander, and something to sweeten it.”
“What else? Have you tried to poison me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. As if I would ever dream of doing such a thing.”
I am facing him now, hating the suspicion, the disappointment in his eye.
“What then? Tell me.”
He forces me back to the bed, grabs my wrists and makes me sit.
In my mind, I invent a hundred reasons for wanting to prevent him leaving. To me, each one is a viable excuse but I know he will hate me for it. I have spoiled our perfect marriage, possibly forever. A sob is bottled up in my chest; suddenly it releases, an ugly noise marking an ugly deed.
The mattress dips as he sits beside me. Gentle now, he picks up my hand.
“What was in it?”
I sniff and wipe a tear away.
“A little poppy juice to make you sleep.”
The hammer of his condemnation hovers just above my head. His voice when it comes is thick with suppressed anger.
“So I would be spared the battle? You think I am not man enough?”
Shame floods me. I let my head fall backward and look upon the smoke-blackened timbers of the roof. They are stark and threatening, hanging over us like a curse.
“No, don’t be silly. You are ill, Harry. My instinct was to protect you.”
“At whatever cost?”
“At whatever cost.”
A long silence. Only the rapid sound of my breath, the rasp of Harry’s congested chest. I feel I am waiting on God’s judgement. I probably am. At last, Harry emits a long breath.
“You are headstrong and … and … devious, Margaret. I feel I hardly know you, as if I have lived these last years with a stranger. How could you do that to me? Have you no care for the king, for the country?”
I sit ramrod straight, enveloped in shame, my hands clenched in my lap. I know my expression is mulish. I know I have done a terrible thing. I wish I could say I am sorry, but I am not. I am only sorry I lacked the courage to carry it through. I will never make him understand.
How can I describe the terror of my last weeks with Edmund, my fear of reliving them? His face blurs beneath my tears. He gets up and strides about the room. I have never seen him lose his temper before. He has always been calm and mild – mistakenly, I also thought him meek … and manageable. Perhaps he is right and we have never really known each other.
“Well? Explain yourself. Why did you do it?”
“You were sick, Harry. I was afraid …”
“Afraid I would die? What of all the men, our friends, our allies, who also risk their lives for our king? Did you think of them?”
I shake my head, remorse and misery washing over me.
“I am sorry, Harry. I thought only of you … of myself. I cannot bear the thought of losing you. I didn’t think, until the last moment. Can you not forgive an action I did not carry through?”
“What hour is it?”
“It must be a little after three.”
“Call for my horse to be made ready.”
“Yes, Harry.”
Miserably, I get up and cross the room to do my husband’s bidding. This battle will be a test. If Harry comes safely home and Lancas
ter has the victory, I will know God forgives me, but if we lose, I will know that I am by Heaven condemned.
*
When the news comes, I cannot quite believe it is all over. I cannot comprehend that God has given victory to York’s son while our own rightful king is vanquished, and bundled for safety over the border into Scotland.
We have suffered heavy losses and my first thought is for the queen and her son, now exiled. Already, people are referring to the battlefield as The Bloody Meadow. Messengers bring news of a mass slaughter, the river known as the Cock Beck running red with blood. Ned, carrying a message from Harry, weeps when he tells me how, after the battle and the slaughter that followed, the exhausted survivors slept where they fell, among the corpses of their comrades.
He describes the devastation caused by Warwick and his king, and tells me that a few Lancastrians managed to flee into exile. Only Jasper, the guardian of my son, is left at large, alone and unsupported in Wales.
So many of our friends have fallen, or faced execution at the hands of the victorious new king. His vengeance knows no bounds. It is with great fear that I remember our queen’s lack of mercy in her short-lived days of victory, and I understand that York’s son is playing the old game of tit for tat.
I can only hope this son of York, King Edward, will never lay hands on the king he deposed. Momentarily, I am swamped with anxiety for my cousin, King Henry, but it is quickly replaced by a greater terror for my son.
“Bring me a pen and parchment,” I call, and sit down to scrawl a hasty note to Myfanwy, urging her to send all the news she has. Her reply is many anguished days in coming.
I am forbidden to write of Jasper’s whereabouts but I know he is safe. We, at Pembroke, are in grave danger. Herbert has been given jurisdiction over south Wales, and even now the custodian here is under orders from Jasper to prepare for siege. The steward assures me we can hold out for many months. There is time yet for the queen and Jasper to turn this war around. Jasper refuses to submit to York or relinquish his title and lay down the banner of Lancaster; he says he must fight to the bitter end.
I am afraid, Margaret. How far are we from the end? How long can we resist them? I don’t know whether it is safer to attempt to send Henry to you, or keep him here with me. If you decide he is better with you, send for him and I will try to get him away, but the roads are perilous …
I don’t know what to do. Even in peaceful times, the roads are fraught with danger. Travel is always risky, even in a large group with an armed guard. I know Pembroke can withstand anything, I have seen it myself. The walls are impenetrable, the storehouses and armoury stocked high. Surely it will be merely a matter of waiting for Herbert to grow bored; once he realises the futility, he will ride away. If they can only hold firm against him, Henry may well be safer under siege.
Bourne Castle – Summer 1461
Harry and I share a private supper in his chamber. I toy with my food, picking it up and putting it back on the plate untasted. My innards are churning with suppressed panic and I can barely wait for the meal to be over so I may return to the chapel to pray for Henry’s safety.
I fear I am being punished, perhaps for my attempt to keep Harry from the battle, or perhaps for my wavering support of the queen. Slowly, tales filter from Scotland of her penury, her charitable status at the Scottish court. She has my pity but I find it so difficult now to support her, even in my heart, for I fear she has now become as mad as the king.
At least, Henry’s malady renders him harmless but Queen Margaret has become a bitter and vicious enemy to King Edward, and her reckless pursuit of victory endangers us all. With most of her supporters scattered and only Jasper continuing to harry the Herberts in Wales, she still refuses to acknowledge her cause is lost. All I can do is pray for her, but most of my pleas to God have to be for my son.
“Margaret.” Harry breaks the silence. He pulls a piece of bread apart, uses it as a sop for his gravy and pokes it into his mouth, chewing quickly before swallowing. “You know I must make peace with the king?”
“Edward, you mean?”
He puts down his knife, wags a finger.
“You must face it, Margaret, Lancaster is lost. All we can do is come to terms with the new regime, preserve ourselves … and your son.”
“My son!” A morsel of bread spits from my lips. “My son, who is even now besieged by the servants of this man you expect me to embrace as king.”
“He does not make war on children. Even Herbert wouldn’t dare to harm Henry. Had Jasper not ordered the castle into a state of siege, he would probably be living here with us, right now.”
“No.” I shake my head violently. “I do not believe that. Hasn’t this king of yours given Henry’s lands and titles to his brother, George?”
“He has bestowed Henry’s lands on Clarence, yes, but not his title. Your son is still the Earl of Richmond.”
“For how long?”
I push my plate away, lean back in my chair, fold my arms and stare moodily into the flames.
Harry sighs. “Why do you judge him without giving him a chance? He may make a fair king. Face it, Margaret, King Henry was hardly viable; he was ruled by his power-hungry advisors.”
“My uncle, you mean? Or do you refer to York, your king’s father?”
Reaching for his wine cup, Harry takes a long draught, bangs it on the table.
“Just lately, Margaret, you make everything a war. I know you are worried for your son …”
“Of course I am worried. Even now, while you try to court me with intimate dinners, my son is imprisoned in a castle where Herbert’s men prowl like wolves outside the walls.”
I glance at Harry’s face and find it set and hard, not at all like the Harry I used to know. My heart sinks. I strongly desire a return to our former good fellowship, but there is so much between us. He sits on one side of the gorge and I on the other, the gulf between us wide and deep. Both of us lack the means to cross it.
He picks up his knife and stabs a chunk of cheese.
“In a few days I am travelling to Eltham, where I will pledge my allegiance to King Edward. Will you come with me?”
We stare at one another across the table. My jaw is clenched so hard I feel my teeth will break.
“No.”
His eyes are sorrowful, as if he has lost something dear to him. He swallows, turns his face away.
“I had hoped for a different answer. You disappoint me, Margaret. I thought you would see the sense of self-preservation.”
“What about loyalty, sir? Have you forgotten that?”
“No.”
He relaxes. Keeping his eye on the spoon he toys with, he presses his finger on the tip of the handle, making the bowl bounce on the cloth. “I have much time for loyalty, but not when it is misplaced.”
“Misplaced …? “
He leans forward, suddenly angry again, suddenly intense.
“You say you want your son to be safe, Madam. Perhaps he will be better placed with a strong leader on the throne.”
He waves an arm in the air; I follow his index finger as it punctuates his words. “Edward of March, KING Edward is not so bad. He is not evil. YORK was not evil. They are driven by politics and trade, and want what is best for their country. They are no different to us; or different only in the fact that they can provide a solid, dependable ruler, when all we have is a loose cannon; the choice between a bemused king and a-a-a-an evil child.”
For a moment I think he means Henry, but then I remember Edward of Lancaster, a boy described unvaryingly as arrogant and cruel.
“How can you be sure he would keep my son safe?”
Our eyes meet, a long moment of contemplation in which I can almost see half-formed sentences entering his mind before being dismissed. In the end, he puffs out his cheeks.
“I can’t be sure, but I am convinced Edward can make the crown secure. England is sick of war, all of us, rich and poor alike, are suffering. All the reasonable men I know cr
ave a united front. When I meet with the king, I promise I will plead your son’s innocence. He knows as much as anyone the vulnerability of children in time of war.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“How? Why? He has no sons …”
“He has brothers. His mother took George and the younger one, Richard, into exile, fleeing the path of our queen when she marched into war. For months, he would not have known if they lived or died. We are all equal in war, Margaret. We all hate it, no matter whose badge we wear. Give the man a chance.”
He stares at me, waiting for my capitulation but, although my banner is flagging, I cannot relinquish the sulky stand I have taken.
“You can go speak to your king, give him your allegiance if you will, but do not ask me to do so until my son is here, safe and sound, with me.”
Harry gets up so suddenly his chair falls backwards, skidding across the floor.
“Very well,” he says formally. “I bid you goodnight, Madam.”
I miss him. I had not realised how much I had come to value his warm presence in my bed, his gentle lovemaking, his humour and affection. I roll over and bury my head beneath the covers. Perhaps I am a fool.
The queen would not make self-sacrifice for my benefit, and King Henry, God bless him, is so far gone in madness as to have forgotten my existence, let alone which banner I follow. Perhaps for the sake of marital harmony, I should do as my husband bids. It is my duty, after all.
But in the morning, when the sun is high in the sky and Harry stands coldly and bids me goodbye, I have forgotten the lonely hours of the night. I keep my face blank, offer him my frigid cheek. When he ignores it and takes my hand instead, it is as if he has punched me, low in the stomach.
September 1461
For months, I hear nothing. My days and nights are spent worrying and praying. All I know is that the king has lost patience with the insurrection across the border and has shared the administrative power of Wales among his own men. Only a few Lancastrians remain at large; Jasper among them. Herbert, now to be known as Lord Herbert of Raglan, is like the leader of a pack of dogs, determined to sniff him out, and King Edward himself has left his capital and is camped in the Welsh Marches.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 5
