The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  “I was listening on the stair; he was trying to goad you. He is not a bad man but is ever vigilant for those who might be an enemy to his king.”

  “But I am just a woman, Henry. What threat could I ever be?”

  “Margaret of Anjou is just a woman, Mother, and they are very wary of her.”

  “Well, then it is a good job she is safely in exile. Come, we should not let all this spoil our last day. Show me your hawk. Perhaps we could ride out later on and you can demonstrate your skill.”

  “I am not very skilled yet, but I will be.”

  There follows a windswept day of laughter in the park. I am proud to note that Henry is a capable horseman, his mount responsive to his command, and the hawk on his wrist on its best behaviour. The fresh air whips colour into Henry’s cheeks, his eyes shine with pleasure, and I realise I have not enjoyed myself so much for a great many years.

  Afterwards, we dine in the great hall, and I manage to successfully swallow my dislike of Herbert and join in the conversation, sharing jokes and stories as if Anne and her youngsters are long-time acquaintances.

  Henry sits beside me. Throughout the meal, he talks of his hawk, his love of dogs, his lessons, and his sword practice. I sense his frustration at not being able as yet to beat the older boys.

  Later, with our bellies replete, we play cards, just the two of us, seated a little apart from the others, who gather at the hearth as if recognising my desire to be alone with Henry on our last night. When he beats me for the third time, I reach out and trap his hand. He raises his eyes as if I am about to accuse him of cheating.

  We stare at one another while my thumb caresses the back of his fingers. “I have enjoyed my time here with you so much, Henry. I hope it won’t be long before we are together again.”

  He smiles cheerfully. “I hope so too.”

  “I shall write to you very often and send you presents.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Myfanwy said she would write, but she never has. I think she has forgotten all about me.”

  My breath catches at the stark unhappiness in his voice. His early years were spent far more in Myfanwy’s company than my own, and I know she cares for him dearly.

  “But I am your mother. I would never forget to write.”

  He shrugs and bends his head to the cards again, sorting them into pairs. I look across at the hearth, my eye caught by Herbert’s. He rubs his nose and looks away, unsmiling, unabashed at having been caught watching us. I know without a shadow of doubt what has become of Myfanwy’s letters to Henry.

  “Herbert is a great soldier.” Henry’s voice drags me back to the matter in hand as he deals out the cards and replenishes my pile of coin so we might play again.

  “So I have heard. Your father was a great man too. I have no doubt he would have easily matched Herbert … had he lived.”

  I watch him fan out the cards he has dealt himself. He bites his lip and narrows his eyes in concentration. Does he know of the role Herbert played in his father’s death? Can he be aware of the circumstances? He gives no sign of it, and it is just as well. His life would be impossible if he knew he lived at the mercy of a man instrumental in his father’s death.

  The room is lit only by the night candle and the ebbing fire. Harry’s breath in my ear is regular. Every so often he shifts to a more comfortable position, mutters a few indistinguishable words before snoring again. I envy him such oblivion.

  In the morning he will be rested and fresh for the road while I will be shadowy-eyed and irritable. My eyes hardly close all night as I fret about the necessity of leaving Henry again. I dread Herbert’s complete authority over my boy’s future.

  The only comfort I can find is in Lady Anne, who I am sure has taken him to her heart. She has almost become a friend during my stay, and assures me she loves him like her own, and will write to me should any ill befall him.

  I pray God it never does.

  At dawn, I hear my woman moving stealthily about the antechamber as she lays out my clothes. Sickness churns in my belly at the thought of leaving, but the sound of water trickling into a bowl forces me to rise. I throw back the covers and brace myself for the pain of parting and the long lonely months that will follow.

  Woking - spring 1468

  I can scarcely credit six months have passed since we rode away from Raglan. The last memory I have is of Henry waving from the top of the tallest tower, the one closest to the moat and the gatehouse. His white kerchief flapped like a banner; each time I turned it grew smaller, his wave less energetic. I wept all the way home until Harry grew impatient, stopped trying to cheer me, and kicked his mount forward to ride on ahead.

  During these six months, I have not been idle. First, there was the surprise announcement of Harry’s mother’s betrothal to Walter Blount, and the wedding that followed. She glowed with happiness on the day of their marriage, and it was not until then that I realised how hard widowhood had been for her. As they rode away to their new life with promises to visit soon, I was both glad for her joy and heavy-hearted at parting with another friend.

  While I keep myself occupied with charitable works, Harry is busy, riding back and forth, from court to home, to the West Country, to Bristol. Sometimes, when he visits our estates, I accompany him; sometimes, I stay behind to oversee the improvements taking place at Woking. I am most excited about the new solar apartment. Not quite as ostentatious as the rooms at Raglan, but when they are complete they will be bright and spacious, and hopefully allow the sun to warm us and keep our spirits raised even on the darkest days of winter.

  There are also preparations to be made for a stay in London in May. My garderobe is full of new clothes suitable for court, for the king has at last agreed that I should accompany Harry on his next visit. When I run my hands through the sumptuous silks, rub my cheek on the fur and count my numerous pairs of shoes, my whole body thrills with anticipation.

  I am not in any way keen to meet the king. My opinion of him has not altered at all, but I am very eager to return to court. I have never properly attended as a woman grown; I was just a child when I was introduced to King Henry and Queen Margaret all those years ago. Now, there is a different king, a new set of courtiers, and I wonder who else will be present. Will I be able to learn the new dances in time? Is the queen quite as beautiful as they pretend?

  The Mitre Inn, Cheapside - May 1468

  Although The Mitre is one of the most renowned establishments in London, it is not the royal court and I chafe at the confinement while Harry goes to London alone. Calling my women, I decide to go shopping, and trying very hard not to envy Harry sampling the delights of Westminster, I soothe myself at the best goldsmiths. When Harry comes home, full of talk of the king’s intention to invade France, I pretend indifference, although in truth I am dying to hear it.

  “You could come to Westminster,” he says in an attempt to appease me, “but I cannot force the king to receive you.”

  “You expect me to kick my heels waiting in some outer chamber until he sees fit to receive me? I think not. No, I will do some visiting in your absence. I may even write to my sister Edith; her home is not too far away.”

  I keep my nose tilted toward the ceiling, knowing my pride hurts no one but myself. He gives a deep sigh before he walks away – and I bite my lip. Perhaps I am hurting Harry too; he had such hopes for this trip. How very like this damned Yorkist king to spoil it for us. The teasing invitation to London, and the subsequent lack of royal summons is the king’s way of further punishing me, but I refuse to wait outside like some pet dog while Harry is invited to the royal presence.

  *

  The picture of Edith I have treasured in my mind all these years is quite flawed. She has changed, and is no longer a pink-cheeked maid but a full grown, one might say matronly, woman. But when she opens her arms, the distance between us closes, and I receive her kiss with pleasure. The strangeness is only skin deep.

  We seat ourselves in the gardens where she is full of praise f
or her brood of children, and I see she does not resent the thickening of her body, for she has compensations. As she speaks, her hands perform a dance of their own, in a way I had quite forgotten.

  “Tell me about Henry, Margaret. How often do you see him?”

  I need no further prompting. Praise for Henry is never far from my tongue. The picture I paint is a glorious one; there is no fairer child this side of Heaven, no one better in the tiltyard, or in the schoolroom.

  “I would do anything for him, anything,” I end, my eyes misting with tears.

  “That is part of being a mother, Margaret. I would do anything for my children too. Have … have you written to our mother, you know she has been very ill?”

  “No, I didn’t know, and I haven’t written. There is too much …” I lower my head and she reaches out and grasps my hands.

  “What happened between you? I know there is something, but she will never say …”

  I sigh, looking back along the years to the woman I idolised in the nursery, and shrug my shoulders.

  “Nothing happened. No harsh words were spoken but I suppose I just grew up and realised certain things that made her become well … tarnished.”

  “Tarnished? How?”

  “I – I don’t know …”

  I stand up and move away along the path. Edith follows, catching my arm.

  “You might feel better if you tell me, Margaret. You shouldn’t keep things buried inside.”

  I sigh again, close my eyes and tilt my face up toward the sky.

  “I feel as if she sold me, Edith. I was a child. She promised the marriage to Edmund would not be consummated, she promised me I would see her regularly, and then …” My voice grows louder, tears spout from my eyes, surprising even myself. I almost shout. “And then she let them take me into Wales, far away from all I knew, and Edmund …”

  “Was he so bad, Margaret? Oh, my poor sis…”

  “NO! He wasn’t bad at all. After a while, I even came to love him, and had he lived, we would have been happy. But I was a child, in a strange place with strange customs. Surrounded by adults, every one of them telling me what I should do, what I should say… She knew, Edith, she knew he would bed me, and I was not ready. Edmund made the clauses of our marriage quite clear to her before we were betrothed. He told me it was so, and he would not have lied to me.”

  She stares at me, her double chins gathered in concern, her eyes full of trouble as I continue. “Her haste to marry me off to the highest bidder robbed me of the big brood of children I always wanted.”

  “It was a very good match.” Edith wallows helplessly, trying to comfort me. “And you do have Henry; it could have been so much worse. I think she was just trying to get the best for you, as she has for all of us.”

  While Edith’s words eat into my mind, the world pauses, the birds stop singing. It was not the marriage that hurt me, or the things that took place within it. They are just part of life, nothing to shy away from, nothing to fear. It was the way I was given away, traded, as if I were a sack of corn or a bale of wool. As a grown woman perhaps Mother had forgotten I was just a little girl, and how strange the world would seem to me. I have almost forgotten how young I was myself.

  Edith’s words force me, for the first time, to see that the position Mother sought for me was not for her benefit. It was for mine. All at once, her ambition for me does not seem so calculated, or so cold. What she did for me, I would do for Henry. I would climb a ladder to the moon to secure a good marriage for my son, and I doubt it would be different had I a daughter.

  I watch Edith dab at her tears. She sniffs, licks her lips, and when eye contact is resumed, she gently continues. “She didn’t know what would happen; all she could do was hope for the best. She had no control; none of us have control over the fate of our children once they leave our nurseries.”

  I stare at her without really seeing her. My mind is far away, in another world where I have a daughter about to enter marriage. I would want a powerful match for her, too.

  “Yes, perhaps you are right. I have never looked at it that way before.”

  Mother should not have lied to me, but I can see now that her lie may have been her way of protecting me. I should have spoken with Edith a long time ago.

  Woking - 1468

  I return to Woking disgruntled, most of my fine new clothes still unworn. Try as I might, I cannot hide my resentment at Harry’s acceptance at court and my own exclusion. I know he can sense it, but he avoids any discussion. He rides at my side, trying to distract me into a better humour by pointing out landmarks on the way.

  In the end, he succeeds, and by the time we are half way home, I begin to feel better. Harry is right, I am too impatient, and there are so many things I have to be grateful for. I love Harry; when he is absent I miss his silly sense of humour, our camaraderie that is so rare in marriage. He is with me now, and I would be foolish to waste time sulking because of the king’s vindictive behaviour.

  I have no intention of letting the king’s continuing punishment spoil my life. While I wait for his pardon and welcome to court, I turn my attention to improving the accommodation at Woking and attending to the physic garden.

  As always in times of stress, Harry’s skin is inflamed, the sores on his neck weeping again. The salve I usually administer is becoming ineffective, and I have a new recipe I wish to try. I also intend to force myself to sit down and write to Mother; it will not be an easy letter to write but I have a better understanding of her now and think I can find it within myself to forgive. It is time to move on from the past. As Edith stressed, I would not have Henry had Mother not arranged my union with Edmund.

  It is a fine summer. We entertain a lot this year. Edith, her husband and their brood of children spend a week with us in July, and Harry’s mother comes in August with her new husband in tow. A few days later his brother John arrives.

  It is a happy time. We shut out all thoughts of the king and the happenings at court to relax with our family, and take joy in them. Only Henry is missing.

  At the end of the month, Harry attends the Grand Tournament with his nephew, the Duke of Buckingham. He tentatively suggests I go with him, but I decline, claiming a megrim, and he rides away alone. I spend my time writing letters; to Henry, to Myfanwy, to Mother, to Anne Herbert. When I write to Anne, I enclose a package of new shirts I have embroidered for my son, who I am told is growing fast.

  News filters to me of Jasper’s continuing harassment of the king’s forces on the border, eluding capture and angering the Yorkist leaders. I am torn. In my heart, I applaud Jasper’s refusal to submit, and secretly long for his one-man campaign to reinstate Henry VI to succeed. If it was so, with the true king restored, my son could return to our care. But I am conscious that Jasper’s actions could also place my son in real peril, for Henry is in their hands, a hostage to our good behaviour.

  *

  I always mourn the end of summertime. I look glumly on the lank dead growth in the garden, the yellowing leaves on the trees, soon to be swept away by the vast storms of autumn.

  Indoors, at the fireside, although it is many weeks away, I sew New Year presents for the household; fine linen for Harry, a nightshirt for Henry, a partlet to send to Myfanwy, who is still living as Jasper’s concubine in the far north of Wales. I also fashion caps for her daughters, Ellen and Joan. I pray more too, asking God’s mercy for the needy, for Henry’s health and happiness, and for a continuation of peace in England.

  As the cold of winter begins to bite, my knees grow bruised, and the small of my back aches from kneeling. With a hand to my side, I rise and make a painful journey back to the newly refurbished solar.

  In the daytime, the light pours in through the thick green glass, but this evening the shutters are closed, the chairs pulled up before the hearth with a screen erected to shut out the draughts.

  “Harry!” I exclaim when I see him holding his hands to the flames. “When did you get home?”

  We meet
and embrace in the centre of the room.

  “An hour since. You were praying, I suppose? I didn’t like to disturb you.”

  “I wasn’t praying for long,” I lie, and turn to the table, which is piled high with food. “I am glad I ordered supper here in our rooms.”

  I take my seat at the table and Harry joins me, signalling to the servers to begin.

  Harry often nags me to eat more. He says I fast too much and too often, but I have no great interest in food and eat only until I am satisfied. Because his appetite resembles a donkey’s, I appear half-starved in comparison. I watch him take a big bite of pie, wash it down with a slurp of ale. He dabs his mouth with a napkin.

  “I have some news.” He chews again, swallows, and leans toward me across the table. “From the king.”

  I raise my brows, my interest piqued, and urge him to continue. “At last, the king has accepted our invitation and promises to hunt with us … quite soon, in fact.”

  “Soon?” I throw down my napkin and rise to my feet, as if the king and his company will arrive any moment.

  “Well, not that soon, but sooner than I expected. He will arrive in December – just before the Christmas celebrations begin.

  “He is coming here … to Woking?”

  “Where else? I know no better hunting … apart from Windsor. I thought we could ride out to Brockwood, entertain him there. ”

  The hunting lodge at Brockwood will be perfect. I smile with satisfaction and snap my fingers to send a page to fetch Master Bray. Between us, we will make the king’s visit something he will never forget.

  For the first time since the disappointment of May, I am glad the new clothes I ordered for court still hang pristine in the garderobe. All I need do is decide which gown to wear, and hope and pray they still fit.

  *