It takes longer than I imagined to travel the road leading to the castle. The way is circuitous, forcing us to circumnavigate the massive walls, the soaring crenelations. I need have no worries for Henry’s safety for no one could creep in to steal him away. The place is impregnable.
The newly constructed gatehouse is decorated with colourful badges; Herbert is not shy of boasting of his newfound status. We pass beneath the vast walls into an inner court, and are swallowed into the hubbub of castle life.
I look about the milling courtyard, the grooms, the labourers hauling stone up wooden scaffolding to further raise the half-built walls. I refuse to appear impressed at the finely dressed stone, or openly admire the way the walls are set with many windows. The building may not yet be complete and, as yet, few of the windows are glazed, but it is clear to see that when they are finished the new family apartments will be ablaze with light.
A boy appears to take my bridle and as I prepare to dismount, Harry leaps from his saddle and assists me to the ground. My knees, suddenly weak, give a little and I clutch at his sleeve while the feeling returns. My belly churns with a mixture of excitement and dread. Will Henry remember me? Will his welcome be warm?
“My Lord Stafford, Lady Margaret! How was your journey?”
I turn to find a diminutive woman with a kind face and welcoming hands. I incline my head, unwilling to respond too much to the greeting of she who has stolen my role as Henry’s mother.
“You must be Lady Herbert.”
“But you must call me Anne.” She swings an arm wide and invites us to follow her.
“The children are in the meadow, I expect. It is their usual haunt this time of day.”
I am surprised. I would not have thought a visit from an estranged mother was an ordinary day for anyone. It certainly isn’t for me. It is not easy to dislike her gentle face, her constant chatter. She links her arm through mine.
“Let us seek refreshment and I will send a servant to fetch the children. I told them to keep themselves clean but …” She raises her hands and lets them fall again, in mock despair, “… well, you know what children are.”
But I, being separated from my son, don’t know, do I? I want to point this out, stress how much I resent her easy conversation about the child who is life and breath to me. The son she has stolen.
She leads us up a flight of steps. As we move into a passage it turns suddenly dark, and then light again as we cross into a long hall with a multitude of windows. We have been in splendid rooms before, of course we have, but none as new and grand as this. I make a note to have plans drawn up for Woking as soon as we return.
I am determined not to react, or to act as if I am unaccustomed to so much light and luxury. I flick a glance at Harry who, to my extreme annoyance, is craning his head, taking in the grandeur as if he is a ditch-dweller suddenly waking in a palace.
Anne moves to the window, and beckons me to join her. She points to two figures near the fish ponds. “There they are, always together. I am glad they’ve become such friends.”
I hungrily follow the line of her finger and my heart lurches. My son is an infant no longer; he is a boy with gangly limbs and thick brown hair. My Henry. My eyes mist over, my throat grows tight.
“Who is that with him?”
Anne is close beside me. I can feel her breath on my cheek, she leans so close.
“My daughter, Maud. They are of an age.”
Henry and Maud are walking slowly toward the castle, lifting their feet high in the long grass, deep in conversation. She carries a posy of late summer flowers, and he has removed his tunic, his shirt sleeves gleaming white in the sunshine. They look … comfortable.
I am glad he has found a friend, but cannot help a stab of envy. I wonder what they speak of, what secrets they share. Will he resent being torn from the idyll of his morning to endure conversation with a mother he hardly knows?
As the children disappear into the shadow of the keep, Anne and I turn back into the room. A servant enters with refreshments. Too nervous with anticipation to drink, I clutch my cup of wine as if my life depends upon it, and wait with a labouring heart for them to climb the stairs. The latch on the door rattles, and a lifetime of waiting ensues as they pause, lingering too long with muffled giggles outside, and then it rattles again, and slowly opens.
I raise my chin, my face burning with emotion as a boy sidles into the room. Two steps in, he pauses to bow. I note the elegance and poise he has gained – the last time I saw him he still wore the plumpness of babyhood; now he is all skin and bone. I briefly wonder if they are feeding him properly.
As if under enchantment, I find I cannot move. I watch in a daze as my husband goes forward to greet Henry first.
“Henry.” He clasps the boy’s shoulder. “It has been a long time.”
As Anne and her daughter quietly leave us, Harry and Henry turn toward me. He is smiling. I dare not blink for fear he will melt away.
“Hello, Mother.”
I stare at his outstretched hand for several moments before I remember I must offer him mine. Harry relieves me of my cup, and Henry takes hold of my fingers. His palm is warm.
As he leans forward to place his lips on my knuckles, I notice his nails still bear the signs of his playtime in the meadow.
“Henry …” My face feels as if it will split; there are tears on my cheek but I smile so widely that my jaw aches, and my heart leaps and bounces. “You have grown so tall.”
“I am almost as tall as you, Mother.”
I do not tell him I am pitifully short. I would not damage his pride, not for anything. All the worries I had for his well-being melt away. I can see he is well cared for, educated, and given the deference due to him. And, more importantly, he is happy. For the first time in his short life, he can enjoy the company of children of his own status, instead of consorting with servants.
An awkward silence settles while I search for something to say, something casual, something winning but not overly emotional. I do not want to smother him. I step closer to the window, and open my hands to the view. “I saw you walking in the meadow. It is very lovely here.”
“Yes. The parkland is big. I sometimes ride to the hunt with …with …”
“Sir William?” I prompt as his voice trails away.
“I was going to say the Earl.”
The word smacks me in the face. Herbert has been given the Earldom of Pembroke, and control over lands that rightly belong to Jasper. I glance at my son, notice that his lashes are short and sandy. I wonder if he realises that Herbert now controls the estates that once belonged to his family, people who loved and protected him. I cannot remind him, he is yet too young, but, oh, what will I do if Herbert turns Henry’s head and his loyalty shifts to York?
“I am glad you enjoy outdoor pursuits, your father did too. He and your uncle Jasper often rode out together, hunting and hawking. I do myself, when I am able.”
“I thought he was a soldier.”
“Who? Your father? Oh, he was, but that wasn’t all he was. Before the trouble came, he was young and as carefree as anyone else. He often spoke to me of his youth; his upbringing in the north of Wales, his mother and father.”
His head turns, his brow crinkled in thought. “Wasn’t his mother a queen? I think I remember Myfanwy telling me … Queen Katherine?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I resist the urge to feel the texture of his hair, test the softness of his cheek. The bridge of his nose is sprayed with small reddish freckles.
“Then, why was he not a prince?”
I suppress a laugh.
“His father was … sprung from the Welsh nobility, but he was not a king.”
“Tom - that is one of the earl’s other wards - he says Owen Tudor was the bastard son of an alehouse keeper, and that my father was a bastard too, begot while the queen was in her cups.”
I cannot hide my shock. I grow hot as blood swamps my cheeks. I open my mouth and close it again as I try to sta
mmer a few words before lapsing into confounded silence. I cast a helpless glance at Harry, who steps forward and takes Henry’s shoulder.
“You mustn’t listen to nonsense like that, lad. It is nought but wicked talk from jealous tongues. I knew both your father and your grandfather, and they were fine, upstanding men. Owen was devoted to his wife, fell in love with her on sight, and died with her name on his lips, so they say. You couldn’t come from finer stock.”
I blink moisture from my eye, swallow the lump in my throat, evoked by Harry’s kindness.
“That’s right, Henry, pay no mind to tittle-tattle. You can be proud of both your Tudor and your Beaufort blood.”
“I am.” He looks down at the toe of his shoe that is mired by mud, and then back up at me, gives an uncertain smile. “Lady Anne was telling me about your family … my Beaufort family … it is hard to follow.”
I wonder what he has been told. Of my father dying by his own hand, accused of disloyalty to his king? Of the taint of bastardy handed down from my great-grandfather’s day? I wager there has been no mention of loyalty to our deposed king, our political achievements, our noble bearing, our right to the throne stolen by a single act of Henry IV.
And the Beauforts would have made such great kings.
A voice outside gives warning of the approach of our hostess. The door opens and Anne Herbert enters with a huddle of children in tow: a child of perhaps two or three sits on her hip and another, a boy I think, clings to her skirts. Her daughter, Maud, holds the hand of another girl, slightly younger than herself. Anne Herbert has been more fortunate than I – I try not to feel barren as the room erupts with noisy introductions.
Henry is swamped by tow-headed Herberts; they treat him as if he is one of their own. Anne orders him to carry over a tray of drinks and dainties, and he does so without demur, as if long accustomed to doing her bidding.
We sit close to the window, the sun warm through the thick, green glass, and while the children exchange pleasantries, we sample the fayre until Anne breaks the silence.
“I am so glad you came, Lady Margaret. I have wanted to invite you for so long. I think Henry is happy with us.”
I continue to chew, swallow as soon as I am able. I dab a crumb from my lips.
“I am sure he is. I can see he is very well, and he seems settled.”
“He is one of the family.” She smiles at Henry who returns it before ducking his head to take another bite of his pastry.
“Yes.”
Doesn’t she have enough children of her own? Can she not see the pain of having to sit by while my child is taken from me? Can she not imagine the torture of our separation?
“I know how you feel.” She leans forward, puts her cup on the table. “When my elder sons left here to be trained in the art of war, I thought I should die without them. If I were unable to visit them regularly, I don’t think I could bear it, so please, Margaret, do come often, won’t you?”
Her own sons? I hadn’t realised she had more, but surely a large number of offspring must offset some of the pain of losing one or two of them. She will never know the misery of having just one son who is her only font of love, her only hope of the future. But I smile, and promise to come.
“Perhaps you could visit us in turn. I should like to show Henry our home at Woking, where his grandfather lived.”
She smiles widely, and Henry does too.
“As soon as the country is more settled, we will arrange it. We have every hope of a long lingering peace now that King Edward has restored order.”
Is it a direct taunt, I wonder, or is she just oblivious to my past, my family connections? Perhaps she is just stupid.
I watch her wrap an arm about one of her daughters, pick a few crumbs from the child’s skirts and flick them from her fingers into a dish. She is motherly, I have no doubt of that, and I am glad that such a woman has care of Henry. She will watch him, make sure he is happy. I decide to make a friend of Anne Herbert, and ensure that she keeps her promise to me.
“May I show you the gardens? I have heard you are very skilled, perhaps you can offer me some advice …” At her suggestion, the children, too long constrained indoors, leap from their seats and skip toward the stairway. While Harry helps me with my cloak, and Anne fusses about the cleanliness of her daughters’ skirts, Henry stands and waits for me, warming me with his wish for my company.
A glorious week follows, filled with hawking, feasting, and quiet walks in the gardens. Never has time passed so swiftly, and I wake on our last day with great regret. I have taken to rising early so as to be ready by the time Henry is released from his lessons. Leaving Harry snoring, I slide from bed and into the antechamber where my woman has laid out my clothes for the day. I wait impatiently as she sponges my body, anoints me with fragrance and helps me into my clothes; then I am forced to sit while she teases the knots from my hair before binding it tightly and hiding it beneath a fresh, crisp coif.
At last, I am free to venture to the hall to discover if anyone else is abroad. I push open a low door and step into an empty room. The fire has been set, the flames not yet properly taken hold, and smoke belches up the vast chimney. I move toward it but am prevented from drawing too close because of the dogs sprawled on the hearth. Over the past few days they have become accustomed to my presence, and most of them pay me no heed. But this morning, one I have not seen before raises his head and growls menacingly.
My body freezes, certain he is going to attack. I dare not move, cannot move as he lumbers to his feet, his head low, the fur on his neck bristling. My breath stops, my eye mesmerized by his yellow teeth, the thick strings of drool hanging from his mouth.
“Down, Demon!”
At the harsh voice, the beast subsides to the hearth, and begins to lick his paw as if he had never contemplated killing me. Almost swooning, I turn toward my saviour as he steps from the shadow, a sheaf of letters in his fist. “Lady Margaret, I presume. I hope you weren’t alarmed by my dog.”
A tall, thick-set man, unshaven and, judging by his mired clothes only recently dismounted from his horse. He looks tired, unkempt, his eyes red from lack of sleep. Belatedly, I notice a helmet and gauntlets on the table, a pile of saddlebags on a chair that speak of a new arrival. I can tell who he is by the stolen crest upon his coat.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Sir,” I lie, clasping my hands behind me and raising my chin as imperiously as I can manage. He views me down his long nose, hawks unpleasantly and spits into the fire.
“The Earl of Pembroke, Madam … at your service. You can call me Herbert, everybody else does.”
“Then, I must thank you for your hospitality, Sir. Our stay here has been most enjoyable. Your wife cares for my son as if he is one of her own.”
“Hmm. Anne mothers everyone, she would take in every waif and stray that passes the castle if I allowed it.”
I bite my tongue, refusing to respond to his deliberate goad. His comparison of my son to a vagrant is clearly intended as an insult. The wardship of Henry can only be to his benefit. It certainly isn’t to mine.
“And you have done so well with the improvements to the castle.” One would almost think you were born to such grandeur, I add silently but, for Henry’s sake, I do not speak aloud. “You are a lucky man.”
His eyes do not flicker but remain fastened on my face. I hope my expression does not betray my rapidly beating heart.
“I chose to follow the true king, if that is what you mean by luck.”
“Yes, my husband was in the company of the king a short time ago, and agrees he has all the makings of a good ruler.”
If he notices I do not share the sentiment, he does not say so. He yawns rudely without covering his mouth. His tongue is vast and coated with something yellow and gruesome. I try not to flinch.
“And you have not yet been summoned to court, Lady Margaret?”
“Not yet, no.” I close my lips tightly over my teeth, contain my annoyance within my clasped hands.<
br />
“Well, you can’t blame the king for being choosy as to whom he invites. Now that Stafford has his foot in the door, it won’t be long before you wiggle your way in.”
I cannot believe his discourtesy, his lack of finesse. He has no care for my thoughts or feelings, and displays not the slightest hint of fear that his foot will ever slip from the high rung of the ladder he is balanced upon.
His ill-manner breaks my resolve. I open my mouth to fling the insults right back into his ugly, crude face. My voice emerges in a squeak, my tirade halted by quick footsteps coming helter-skelter down the stair. Herbert and I both turn as Henry tumbles into the room.
My son bows quickly and, without properly regaining his breath, gasps a good morning.
“Mother; my Lord. How are you both today?”
My son is staring at me intently, his eyes boring into mine, and I realise he is warning me to keep a rein on my temper. I let my anger go, and instead revel in the pleasure of his company.
“I am well, Henry,” I say, regaining my equilibrium and moving toward him to receive his kiss. “Are you going to show me your hawk again this morning?”
“Yes. Shall we go now, before we break our fast?” With an elegant bow to Herbert, he grabs my hand and all but drags me from the hall.
We pass quickly through the inner court, already teeming with life, and hurry toward the gatehouse. Thankfully, the drawbridge is lowered. We step aside to make room for a cart; its wheels make a rumbling sound as it crosses over and passes into the keep.
On the other side, Henry slows his pace, drops my hand and allows me to catch my breath. He squats at the side of the moat, throws a small stone into the deep dark water and watches the circles that radiate from it. He glances up at me through his fringe. “Sorry, Mother, but I thought you were going to argue with him. You must never do that, not if you are to be allowed to continue to visit me here. I hope I have not made you angry.”
“No, no. I could never be angry with you.” I move close and crouch at his side, sweep his hair from his eyes with my finger. “You were right. I was about to be unforgivably rude.”
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 8
