The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  “It is to be a hunt, Margaret! You cannot wear that.” Harry, ignoring the kneeling woman who fiddles with the hem of my gown, examines me from head to toe, taking in the satin and velvet, the newly furred sleeves.

  “I won’t be hunting all the time. This is for afterwards. I am planning a vast celebration. How do I look?”

  I stand erect, posing regally.

  “Perfect. Like a queen.”

  Ignoring his stunned expression, I run my fingers across the fabric and strain to see myself in the looking glass.

  “Good. I am determined to prove we are every bit as good as he and his Grey widow.”

  Harry raises his eyes to Heaven, shakes his head and wanders off on an errand of his own. He will never understand the importance of living up to one’s status. Even Master Bray has a better grasp of that than Harry.

  I hold out my arms so that my seamstress may ensure that the bodice is snug yet comfortable, and there is no straining at the waist. She sits back on her knees and removes two pins from her mouth.

  “I think it needs to be taken in a nip at the waist, my lady.”

  “Taken in? I have lost weight again?” Harry, who is always saying I don’t eat enough to feed a flea, will say ‘I told you so.’

  “How quickly can it be ready?”

  “By tomorrow, my lady, it is only a small task. I shall also sew extra pearls on the bodice, as you requested.”

  “Thank you.”

  I smile at her and she bows her head, rises to her feet and begins to unlace me at the back. I pull off my veil and cap, take the pins from my hair and massage my scalp while the woman lets the gown pool around my feet. I step from it, a hand to my brow. I have the beginnings of a headache but it is hardly surprising considering the long lists of tasks I have before the king arrives.

  For days now, I have barely sat down, but today I am beaten. I summon my chamber women and ask to be helped to bed.

  It is unheard of for me to lie down during the day and the news brings Harry to my chamber. Just as I am dropping off to sleep, the door creaks open.

  “Margaret?” he whispers loudly and, with a sigh, I turn in the bed and pull back the drape. I can see only his head as he peeks around the door.

  “Yes, Harry, what do you want?”

  Ludicrously, since I am clearly awake, he tiptoes across the room and perches on the edge of the mattress.

  “Are you all right? They said you are ailing. You are never ill. I was worried.”

  Keeping my hand in his hot palm, I roll on to my back, stare at the canopy.

  “I have a head-ache; that is all. I thought a short sleep might chase it away.”

  “Oh, you have been doing too much again.” He strokes my hair from my face, feels my forehead, pulls down my bottom eyelid as my mother used to do. “Bloodshot,” he says, his brow wrinkling. “Perhaps I should join you; sleep may come quicker if you lie in my arms.”

  His ploy is not lost on me, but I allow him to climb onto the bed and gladly rest my head on his shoulder. To the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, his fingers gentle on my upper arm, I close my eyes and let contentment wash over me. I begin to drift away, the sound of his breathing like an opiate.

  “Ahh, this is nice…” His voice rumbles in my ear, but sleep is tugging me. I am safe and warm, there is no need to answer.

  It could be a moment, or maybe hours later when I realise his soft caress of my arm has shifted to my breast. His touch is more urgent, his breathing deep and slow.

  I open my eyes.

  Harry and I are nose to nose on the pillow, his pupils dark and wide. Something lurches in my belly as I begin to fall into them. My mouth tilts into a smile and we roll over together. I raise my arms, link my wrists about his neck and pull him closer, mouth on mouth.

  December 1468

  “It is raining, Harry!” My voice is full of dismay as I open the shutters. “A week of dry weather, yet the day everything hinges on dawns grey and wet.”

  He throws back the covers and joins me at the window, peering past the opposite tower to the stripe of daylight on the horizon.

  “It will not last. I swear, by the time the sun has risen, the rain will have gone with the night. Did you sleep well?”

  He kisses my forehead, then opens his mouth in a huge yawn, revealing the gap in his jaw where a couple of teeth were knocked out during horseplay with his cousins when he was a boy.

  “I barely closed my eyes. My mind is so busy with the arrangements.”

  “Do not worry yourself so. The king will still want to hunt no matter what the weather brings, and his appetite is hearty and undemanding as long as the food is edible. He is easily pleased.”

  “I have ordered only the very best,” I answer sharply. “Swan, conger eel, his favourite lamprey pie, and almost a thousand oysters. There are to be at least twenty servers and the banqueting tent has been erected in the prettiest part of the wood.”

  “Twenty servers, Margaret? Just for the king? I rather imagined he was looking to escape all that for the day …”

  “Nonsense, he is a king. It is what he will expect.”

  Harry sighs, scratches his flaky scalp and shuffles off in search of his man. He will wait on the king at Guildford, and will escort him to the feast from there. I have ensured his clothes are of the finest cut and fabric available, and I myself will be wearing the furred velvet gown that Harry believes to be unsuitable. It is imperative that we do not waste this opportunity to impress the king. If we are ever to enter his inner circle of trusted friends, nothing must go wrong.

  As my women fuss around me, anointing my skin with fragrance, helping me into fresh linen and fine silk petticoats, I allow my mind to wander.

  By all accounts, the king is tall and handsome; a knightly figure with a golden tongue and a wayward eye for women. Yet descriptions of kings are ever so. Only a fool would describe the reigning monarch as ugly, squat and simple. I saw his father once and he was a dark-haired man of middling height, so I expect the king to be of a similar stature.

  Master Bray answers my summons and we run through a hundred issues. Is it still raining? Is the tent erected and dry? Are the braziers burning bright? Have the cooks got the food in the ovens, the meat on the spits?

  As always, he is patient, answering calmly and quietly, appeasing my nerves.

  “All is in readiness, my lady. We wait only upon you.”

  I pause, my mind rapidly running over the arrangements, my heart leaping and bouncing with nerves. I pick up my psalter.

  “I have to pray.”

  The cool, calm quiet of the chapel quickly soothes me. The hard stone is solid beneath my knees, God’s love and approval hangs thick in the air, like a comforter. I bow my head, clasp my hands, my lips moving rapidly as I beseech Him to show favour to me this day, and let me find approval with this Yorkist king.

  “The rain has stopped, my lady. I think the afternoon will be fine, after all.” I glance at my women, Elizabeth Johnson and Jane Atkins, who sit opposite me in the litter. Elizabeth clasps my riding clothes, and my spare fur-lined cloak. Jane’s nose is red and moist from the chilly air; I hope mine is not the same. For the umpteenth time, I pull back the leather curtain and peer outside.

  “This time of year, the day will be over before it has a chance to warm up, but I ordered the braziers to be kept burning overnight, so it should be warm enough in the pavilion.”

  “I doubt the men will be cold after the hunt, my lady. They invariably return with their blood up and heed the weather not at all.”

  “Hmm.”

  Having no wish to make idle conversation, I answer shortly. I want to contemplate the next few hours. In my mind, I run through likely scenarios in which I delight the king with my ready wit, my great elegance.

  “Have you met the king before, my lady?”

  “No …” I turn to look at Elizabeth. “Have you?”

  “Oh, I have not met him but I have seen him. He is a giant of a man, tall and gold
en like a great living statue.”

  “Really? I always imagined those things were fabrications, born of flattery.”

  “Oh no, he is … charming, and with an eye for the ladies.”

  “Hmm. I doubt he will have an eye for me.”

  She lapses into silence and I return to my waking dream. In this scenario I am blessed with beauty. I flutter my lashes, laugh at his jokes and the king is besotted and summons my son to court, and shows him the honour he deserves.

  We approach the hunting lodge, passing a party of horsemen who have paused at the roadside. One of their dogs runs after the litter, barking, his tongue lolling, his great tail wagging. A rough male voice calls him back. I am reminded of Edmund’s dog, Jay, as he would have been in his prime.

  When I knew him, he was elderly, his muzzle speckled grey, his hunting days over. Poor dear Jay, he expired just after his master died, as if his reason for existing had passed. I often miss him.

  Harry doesn’t keep dogs in the house, only in the stable for hunting. Perhaps I should get one for myself. Not one of those ridiculous little things women tend to adore, but a proper dog, with silky ears and a tail like a banner.

  Jane leans forward, peers beneath the curtain.

  “I think we are here, my lady.”

  “Are my cap and veil straight?”

  “Yes, my lady. We can ensure you are tidy once we are inside.”

  All is in readiness for the king. I am dressed; the tables are set, the servants all in their places, and the delicious aroma of roast swan wafts about the pavilion. The only thing lacking is the king himself.

  I curse beneath my breath as I am beset with the sudden need for the close stool. I have been suffering with nervousness all day and now they are late. If Harry has allowed himself to be distracted on the road, I will never forgive him.

  My stomach churns sickeningly, and my palms are clammy. It will never do to greet the king with sticky hands. I summon Jane and she assists me behind the screen, holding my skirts and supporting my arm as I rise, ensuring my petticoats are straight. On my return to the hall, a ewer steps forward with a bowl. I rinse my fingers in cool water, dab them dry on a towel.

  Master Bray steps close beside me.

  “Sir Harry and the king have been sighted on the road, my lady.”

  I reach out, grasp his sleeve.

  “Thank you, Master Bray. Oh, pray that this day goes well.”

  His smile is warm and reassuring.

  “It will, my lady, if there is any justice in this world.”

  If there is any justice? So far, in my experience, that has seldom been the case. But I cannot dwell upon that now. The time is almost here.

  “Come along,” I call to my women, and they cluster around me, checking the folds of my veil, the fall of my skirts. With my chin high, I lead them outside, and we arrange ourselves in a pretty manner to meet the king.

  My head feels light and there is a sharp ringing in my ears. It could be nerves, or it could be that I have eaten little since supper last night, and the aroma of the feast is taunting my appetite.

  Horse hooves thump in the wood, a rider swerves into view, a boy dismounts, scurries toward us.

  “They are coming, my lady. Prepare to greet the king.”

  “As if we haven’t been prepared for hours,” I grumble, swatting at some imagined stain on my sleeve.

  The day is darkening, the wood misty and moist as I spy a splash of colour among the dank greenery. A host of men ride into the clearing, and I recognise Harry riding beside a stranger. A stranger with bright, golden hair.

  They heave their horses to a halt. Harry leaps from his mount, lets go of the reins and hurries to the king’s stirrup to help him alight.

  The king gestures him away and leaps to the ground, light on his feet, a vibrant, youthful splash of grandeur. His hair is bright as he looks about him; his smile, despite the dullness of the afternoon, is like the sun. My heart plummets.

  For once, the gossips spoke the truth. He is like a golden god. The tallest, most striking man I have ever met. I feel short and ungainly, like a child, like a dwarf. I stand as tall as I can and hope with all my heart that he does not mistake me for one of the entertainers.

  As he strides toward me, I sink to the ground in obeisance. I stare at his well-turned shoes, his strongly formed calf muscles, and think only one thing. How on God’s earth am I ever to impress this man?

  “Lady Margaret, we are delighted to meet you.”

  I struggle for my voice, find it just in time.

  “And I, you, Your Grace.”

  He looks at the purple sarcenet banqueting tent, the pristine tablecloths, the high table laden with shining pewter dishes, and the throne-like chair calling a welcome.

  “You have gone to a lot of trouble.”

  “It is my pleasure, Your Grace. Nothing is too much. I have waited so long to meet you.”

  He ignores the veiled rebuke, takes a cup of wine from a server and gulps it down in one draught. A little trickles down his chin and he traps it with his finger before a servant has time to fetch a napkin.

  “Shall we take our places, Your Grace?” Harry steps forward, ushers the king to his seat. Once he is settled, we take our places either side of him.

  Although I am famished I can eat very little, for my stomach is overtaken with nerves. The king, on the other hand, clearly does not suffer the same complaint. He partakes heartily of everything put before him, nodding and congratulating me before he has even swallowed.

  I nibble a slice of lamprey pie.

  “Such a shame the queen could not accompany you, Your Grace. I hope she is well, and your daughters too.”

  “The princesses Elizabeth and Mary are growing apace, and the queen is big with child again, which is why she could not join me. The physicians say we can expect the birth sometime around March. We hope for a son this time.”

  His eyes focus on my face, as if searching for an ill-wish upon his longed-for son and heir.

  “Oh, so do we all,” I lie, with a wide indulgent smile. “There is no blessing quite like a son.”

  He regards me from the corner of his eye, one side of his mouth downturned. He chews thoughtfully for a while.

  “Remind me, Lady Margaret, you have a child, don’t you? Richmond’s son.”

  “I do, yes, Your Grace. He is called Henry …” My voice trails away as I recall he was named after the king deposed by this man. He keeps his bright blue eyes on me but says nothing as I continue. “My son is in Wales, with his guardian, William Herbert.”

  “Ah, yes. That’s right. He is in good hands, good loyal hands.”

  “I should hope so, Your Grace.”

  I keep my eye on my trencher, taking dainty bites, trying not to let either my nerves or my dislike of the king show. For Henry’s sake, I must make a friend of him.

  As the plates empty and Edward pushes his away, I clap my hands, summoning the servants and giving the signal for the entertainments to begin.

  The minstrels come first. Three players singing of misfortune and lost love. The king, mellowed by wine and replete with food, leans back in his seat. As the last notes die away, he looks at me and wipes away a tear.

  I lean a little closer, risk a smile. His head lolls until he drinks again, watching me over the rim of his cup. “You must accompany your husband next time he comes to court,” he says. “The queen would be pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe her mother and yours were friends?”

  Trapped in his wide, unblinking gaze, I smile and blush, praying he will not see my terror. Moments pass while he assesses me, then he licks his lips, his tongue red and moist.

  I try not to think of all the women he has kissed and discarded. And then he speaks, sending a cold spark of fear to the base of my spine.

  “Your eyes are very much like those of the doe I shot this morning, Lady Margaret.”

  Woking - July 1469

  We are lately returned from hunting at Windsor. My bo
dy is stiff, but it is the sort of tiredness that feels good. After a long restful sleep, I venture into the garden while the dew is still on the ground.

  So far, the summer has been all I could wish for; the beds in the garden are abundant, the stores in the still-room flourishing. Every day, as soon as I have prayed and broken my fast, I make my way outside and spend as long as I can dead-heading the spent blooms and pulling up stray weeds.

  I prefer to garden alone, so I can let my thoughts wander without disturbance. I pick up my trug basket, brimming with clippings. As I approach the medicinal bed, the gate squeaks and I hear Harry’s rapid footfall on the path. I turn to greet him, my smile withering the moment I notice his grim expression.

  “There is news, Margaret. Come.”

  He turns on his heel. I drop my basket and run after him, grabbing at the back of his cloak, but he eludes me. I follow to his private chamber, the place he likes to go over his books and write his letters.

  He throws open the door.

  “Ned!” He is sprawled in a chair, the mire of the road still upon him. “What has happened? Is Henry ill?”

  “Not ill, no, my lady …”

  Harry steps forward, takes my arm, leads me to a seat.

  “I want you to stay calm, Margaret. There has been another battle.”

  “Another battle? When? Why? Who is …?”

  His raised hand silences me. I lick my lips, look earnestly from Harry to Ned and back again. It seems an hour before Harry speaks.

  “You have heard the rumours of the recent uprising in the north?”

  “You mean the one led by Robin of Redesdale? Is that what you mean?”

  “It was a lure, a trap, set by Warwick.”

  “Warwick?”

  “Let me finish!”

  I shrink back from the reprimand and allow him to explain, although my mind teems with questions.

  “We think Warwick instigated the uprising and when King Edward rode north, he – Warwick - rode into London and took possession of the capital.”

  “But why …?”

  “He has been at odds with the king ever since he married Elizabeth Grey. Warwick has come to hate the queen and her family … He is not alone in that.”