The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  “We should help Jasper, Harry,” I mutter, keeping my voice dipped so the servants do not hear. “I owe him my life, and that of Henry.”

  “What can I do? I have my pardon now and am sworn to the king.”

  “You know the king has sent in his fleet to Pembroke to support the siege? What chance do they have?”

  “Very little, my dear, but I have faith that Henry will not be harmed. The king is not a vengeful man.”

  But how can he be sure? I have never set eyes upon King Edward, and most of the stories I have heard are the sort that are always told of rulers. None would dare describe a warrior monarch as squat or bald or ugly so, as in the legends of old, Edward is described as invincible, tall and golden-haired – like a young god. I scoff at such tales.

  At the end of September, the news I have been dreading comes. Pembroke has fallen, surrendered into the hands of William Herbert by the lack-hearted Sir John Scudamore. I leave my chamber, run to find Harry in the stables where he is tending the welfare of his horse.

  “Go to your king, Harry. Ask him for Henry’s wardship.”

  But we are too late. Those who have supported the queen who mocked and murdered the king’s father are shown no favour. Instead, when Pembroke Castle is taken, my son is given into the keeping of William Herbert.

  Harry quietly tells me of it. I bury my face in my hands, rake my skull with desperate fingers.

  “Margaret.” Harry pulls my hands away, lifts me to my feet. “Do not worry; he will be safe. Edward does not make war on children. Besides, he is too valuable to be harmed.”

  I raise my head. Our eyes meet. My passionate storm passes. My Henry is second in line to the Lancastrian throne. We know that, and so does the king. He will always be a dangerous lure, a banner of insurrection. My head spins with the realisation that, for the security of Edward IV’s crown, my Henry may never regain his freedom.

  *

  The country is bruised. All of us, regardless of our status or politics, have lost someone, or something. An all-consuming fear for my son overrides everything as I struggle to pick up the life I led before our cause was lost. In desperation, and unbeknown to Harry, I send Ned across the war-torn country in search of news of him.

  “Find Myfanwy,” I tell him. “Discover what information she has.”

  As he rides away, I hang tightly to the door frame to prevent myself from giving chase and demanding to go with him.

  Another span of lengthy days follows; I spend the hours pacing, praying, biting my nails. Jasper has escaped, fled the country; we know that much, and we know that Henry is with Herbert, but of the state of his health, his happiness, or his whereabouts, I can only guess. Myfanwy will know. I cannot imagine why she has not written.

  Waiting, I am always waiting. Ned should have returned by now. I try not to think of the misfortunes that could have befallen him on the road. I climb the twisting stairway and take a position behind the battlement, squinting across the countryside to the road that will bring Ned home with news.

  On the day I spy a lone rider, I pick up my skirts and hurry, too fast for safety, down the narrow twisting stairs. By the time the weary horse limps through the gates, I am pacing the bailey.

  “Ned …” I start forward but pull up abruptly when I realise it is not him. This messenger is a stranger, but the badge he wears on his tunic is not. I sigh with impatience when I realise he brings a message from my mother.

  My body deflates, the expectation draining away. I take the rolled parchment, jerk my head in the direction of the kitchens and tell him to ask for refreshment. He will stay until tomorrow and carry back any answer I may have for my mother.

  I have not seen her since the day I left for Wales with Edmund. As a woman, I can now see that I was nothing more than a means for her to increase her standing with the king. What other reason could she have had for selling my virginity so young?

  I carry the letter to the garden, not unrolling it until I am perched on the edge of the stone fountain. The words I read there sting my eyes. My vision blurs. John Welles; as good and as kind a stepfather as a man could be, lately perished at Towton Field, along with thousands of others. Mother is widowed again and in need of me.

  Please come, Margaret, she writes. I have need of my family about me and I have not seen you for such a long time. Edith is here, but she is great with child and will soon be entering her confinement. It would warm my heart to see you again.

  My little brother John will be Lord Welles now. I still think of him as being in long coats, his hair a mass of tawny curls, but he must be almost eleven. How long before Mother begins to arrange an advantageous marriage for him?

  With a sigh, I put the letter down. I do not even consider responding to her summons. I will not go; not now. I have other, more important things to worry about but I hurry off a quick reply, giving my condolences, and a long list of reasons why I cannot leave.

  It is almost a month later when Ned returns, and I do not miss the irony that, having spent all my days on the battlement watching for his approach, he arrives as night is falling and I have retired to bed.

  “Bring him to me,” I order when they tell me he has come at last.

  “What here, Madam, to your chamber?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  I leap from bed and wrap a loose gown about me. They do not realise he has seen me in worse straights than this. On the night I gave birth to Henry, Ned was a welcome friend in an hour of need.

  He comes in, cap in hand, his eye strategically lowered to the floor, and I speak before he can even greet me.

  “What news, Ned? Did you find her?”

  “Eventually, my lady. She has taken refuge at the priory at St Nicholas. She … she is …”

  “What? Is she unwell, is she harmed?”

  “… with child again, my lady.”

  A sigh of relief. It could be worse.

  “And what of Henry?”

  “Taken to Raglan, as I understand it, my lady.”

  “Raglan? As a prisoner?”

  He shrugs, helplessness in his eyes.

  “I don’t know for sure, but Myfanwy said he was treated with honour when they were discovered. She wept as she spoke of their parting and begs me to tell you there was nothing she could have done to prevent it.”

  Had I been with him I would have stopped it. I would have laid down my life to stop my poor child being taken into the hands of those villains.

  “Myfanwy is travelling back to the north, to be with her daughters for the birth.”

  “She didn’t want to come here?”

  He shrugs again. “I think she wants to be where the Earl can reach her, if he needs to.”

  Of course; as long as Jasper is in Wales she will wish to be as close to him as possible, but that doesn’t help me.

  I sag, the strain of the last months suddenly overwhelming. If I thought it would help, I would give into the grief that is constricted in my heart, pressing on my throat, making me choke. A tentative hand falls on my shoulder.

  “Are you all right, my lady? Let me help you to a chair.”

  Not for the first time in our acquaintance, Ned aids me bodily. I remember to whisper my thanks.

  “You are a good fellow, Ned. You will be well rewarded for your trouble.”

  “I need no reward, my lady. Shall I summon your woman?”

  I nod and he moves toward the door, where he hesitates.

  “I am certain young Henry will be fine, my lady, so I beg you not to worry.”

  Not to worry. Yes. I must remember not to worry. I wave him away with a flutter of my hand.

  By the time Harry comes to find me, I have been put to bed. By the light of one candle, all conflict between us forgotten, he climbs in beside me and grasps my hands.

  “Ned told you?”

  He nods, a restorative smile on his face.

  “The boy will be safe at Raglan. Herbert may be a violent man but he has ambition too. The price of Henry’s wardship wil
l be too much for him to forfeit lightly. You remember his wife, Anne Deveraux?”

  I narrow my eyes, trying to picture her.

  “I think so …”

  “She is a good woman; she will cherish Henry and ensure he lacks nothing.”

  Only a mother can know the pain of another woman nurturing the child from whom she is separated, but I seek and find some comfort in his words.

  His fingers play with my hair. I turn my face into his shoulder, hoping he will not expect me to lie with him tonight. I love him dearly and am glad of our reconciliation, but just now my heart and head are full of other matters.

  My body relaxes, and, more comforted and warm than I have been in many weeks, I slowly edge toward sleep. Just when I reach the floaty stage between waking and dreaming, Harry speaks again.

  “Perhaps we can bypass Herbert and write to Anne herself. I will ask permission for you to visit Henry at Raglan. That would put your mind at rest, wouldn’t it?”

  I am instantly awake again, my mind alert and calculating. I struggle from his arms, turn to his shadowy face on the pillow.

  “Oh yes, Harry. It would indeed. Come; let us compose a letter now!”

  Bourne Castle - 1465

  After four years of Edward’s rule, I look back on my early optimism with scorn. How could I have ever thought it would be so easy to win the favour of the new king? We write letter after letter, but although Anne Deveraux’s replies are courteous and full of news of Henry, she makes no mention of our request to visit him.

  I try to picture him, but can only visualise the baby I left behind, the toddler I visited at Pembroke. I cannot visualise my Henry as an eight-year-old boy. And how will he remember me? Without Myfanwy to remind him of me, I will be forgotten. He will grow up as part of the Herbert family, with no notion of his own bloodline, his own worth.

  News from Myfanwy arrives intermittently, but reading between her words, I discern that Jasper is no longer in Scotland with the queen but in Brittany, seeking support to raise an army to bring back to Wales.

  The queen and those who have followed her into Scotland never cease harrying the borders, creating as much trouble as they can for the man now styling himself king of England.

  I am unsure of my own loyalty. Although I love and honour the old king, Harry’s consistent argument that he was never an effective ruler is wearing me down. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps this Edward will prove the better man. If he would only allow me access to my son, I would swear fealty to the devil.

  I cross myself at the thought, send up a repentant prayer, for, of course, I would never do such a thing. But Edward of York is not the devil and oh, how I wish I could spend just an hour in the company of my son.

  Harry assures me the only way to achieve that is to gain the favour of the king, and I swear I will try, but my family and connections make it difficult. Their behaviour constantly throws my own loyalty into doubt.

  A few years ago, after several failed skirmishes in the north, my uncle Somerset made his peace with King Edward. For months, we were astounded by reports from court that he and the king were the best of friends; drinking together, whoring together, sharing the same bed. His actions were regarded with suspicion by the Yorkists, while those of us loyal to the old king, labelled him a turncoat. Things became so bad that he was attacked by a mob in Northampton.

  For a little while, it seemed my uncle had changed his colours completely. The Beaufort family was in favour again; my mother pardoned and all her lands restored. Harry and I were sure I would soon find favour too, and I would be allowed to see my son. But then Somerset defected again, and early last year joined his forces with the queen’s at Hexham against the king, where they suffered a humiliating defeat.

  King Edward, furious at the betrayal of a man he had cultivated as a friend, ordered Somerset’s immediate execution. His death was a stunning blow for Lancaster, and meant real disgrace for the Beauforts. Now, with my chances of pacifying the king in ashes, my only hope is to do as Harry suggests and sever my ties with my own family, for the sake of my son.

  The setting sun tinges the blue sky pink, soft-hued like the petals of a flower. I wait in the garden until the last of the light has faded and the bushes become unidentifiable humps of deeper darkness. My book falls from my lap as I stand and when I stoop to retrieve it, I hear someone entering the garden.

  “Margaret, are you never coming in?”

  I turn and smile at the sound of his voice. Harry’s face is shrouded in darkness.

  “It has been so pleasant, so warm. I was reluctant to say farewell to such a lovely day. Tomorrow it will rain again.”

  He takes my elbow, and I walk with him toward the hall.

  “You can’t know that.” I hear amusement in his voice.

  “Yes I can. Can’t you smell it in the air; a sort of damp, fresh tang?”

  “No, and neither should you claim to, or they will take you as a witch.”

  We laugh together, as is our habit. We could spend our days in maudlin gloom, but we refuse to allow that to happen. Our cause may be lost but I try to be optimistic. I try to look to the future. If a sorrowful tear leaks from my eye, I cuff it away, lift my chin and tell myself that tomorrow the king will relent. He will welcome Harry and I to his court, and the longed-for letter will arrive from Anne Deveraux, inviting me to Raglan.

  “Supper will be cold by now.”

  Harry opens the door, and as I sneak past him, I steal a kiss before hurrying away. He darts after me, his arm sliding about my waist.

  It is an intimate supper of capon and pickles, and venison pie. I have just shaken out my napkin and am taking stock of what lies before me when a servant scratches at the door and hands Harry a message. I put down my knife again.

  “It is late in the day for a messenger. Is everything all right?”

  “It is from my brother, John.” He looks up, his forehead furrowed, his mouth falling open in surprise. “The king is married!”

  “Married? I thought you said Warwick was negotiating a marriage with the Duke of Savoy’s daughter? … I misremember her name.” I frown, trying to recall it.

  “No, this is something else. Warwick will be furious. It seems our hot-blooded young king has married a commoner, and one of us, too …”

  “Who? What do you mean ‘one of us?’”

  I snatch the letter away and frown at it before looking up at Harry.

  “Oh my, Harry, what I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when Warwick learns of this.”

  “I am not sure I’ve even met her. I know her parents, of course, but not well.”

  “Elizabeth Grey; her husband John was killed at St Albans, I believe.”

  “There have been so many deaths, Margaret. I don’t know how you remember them all. It says here he left her with two sons to raise.”

  Two sons.

  Silence falls, both of us deep in thought.

  “So, she is fertile, and she must be a remarkable woman to rise from the spouse of a renegade knight to the wife of a king.”

  “A beautiful one, by all accounts.”

  “Well, I hope for her sake her looks do not fade too soon. I have heard King Edward is a fickle man.”

  I link my fingers primly in my lap and watch Harry reach for a slice of pie. He sinks his teeth into it. He will grow a paunch if he is not careful. He chews quickly, speaks before his mouth is properly empty.

  “He is a young man, and his blood is hot. Perhaps he will stick to his fireside more now that he has a wife to warm him.”

  “Perhaps.”

  My mind is racing, imagining this beautiful queen filling the royal nursery with heirs. With each child she births, my son will slide farther down the ladder, farther from the throne. I can only pray she is suddenly barren, or produces only girls.

  “John suggests that while the king’s new wife lulls the king into good humour, I should petition again for the reinstatement of your lands.”

  “Do that, Harry. There sh
ould be no delay, for there is no telling how long his good mood will last.”

  “If we can regain some of your properties and perhaps purchase a few pockets closer to Windsor, I can be more active at court.”

  Harry has no real interest in politics; his newfound desire to serve the king can only be due to his interest in my son. I am touched by his thoughtfulness.

  “After dinner,” I say, turning back to the meal, “we shall write to the king and compliment him on his marriage. He will be glad of our support. I am sure he cannot relish Warwick’s displeasure.”

  “Well, Warwick is not the king.”

  “Do you think he realises that?”

  Harry laughs as he watches me chew daintily on a portion of pie.

  “You are incorrigible.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In the nicest possible way, of course.”

  I rip a slither of meat from the capon and pop it into my mouth. I am not ‘incorrigible’, I am realistic. I may not have met Warwick, but we have all heard the tales of his vanity and greed, his lust for power. Edward is a young man and by all accounts an indolent one. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Warwick exploits the king’s laziness to ensure his own political agenda.

  “We are very far from things here in Lincolnshire. It would be better to be nearer the hub of the country, and a little closer to Wales too.”

  Harry pours more wine into my cup and I pick it up, salute him before tasting it. The liquid flows, warm and rosy, to my belly.

  “You won’t be kept away from Henry for much longer, I am certain of that.”

  I hope he is right. Dear God, I hope he is right.

  March 1467

  Harry unrolls the parchment, holds it to the light, his eyes scanning the king’s message.