“No …”
I have heard tales of the queen’s family receiving preferment over worthier nobles, but I had not thought it would lead to this. “But Warwick? In rebellion against the king? It makes no sense. Warwick helped Edward to the throne. One might even say he put him there!”
“Exactly, and now that the king has shown he has a mind of his own, and isn’t prepared to always agree with Warwick, the earl has taken matters into his own hands.”
“Go on.”
I clasp my hands tightly in my lap, my eyes fastened on his face. I am ready for anything.
“There was a battle … at Edgecot Moor … William Herbert and his brother, Richard, were taken … and executed.”
My head feels light and fuzzy. I spring from my chair, sending it spinning across the room.
“What? Herbert is slain? Where is Henry? Where is Henry?”
My voice cracks. The room spins. I feel hands on my body, pulling me this way and that, trying to force me to sit down. Blackness swirls in from the edges of the room, their faces, white with panic, shouting words I cannot comprehend. I am engulfed.
I struggle through fog, my mind screaming, my stomach rebelling.
“Margaret, Margaret!” Harry shakes me, and my teeth clash together, my head lolling like a ragged doll. “Drink this.”
A cup. I cling to it, gulp thick, red wine. I open my eyes and discover dread is all around me.
“Where is Henry?” I repeat, my voice no more than a croak.
“We don’t know. It seems Herbert took the boy with him for his first taste of battle. He has not yet been found.”
“Oh my God.” It is not blasphemy. It is a heart-wrenching prayer. Ned’s white face swims into view.
“I searched for him, my lady. As soon as I heard the news, I diverted from the road to Raglan and rode for Banbury instead. I saw many soldiers on the road, many injured, many slaughtered, but no sign of your son.”
“No sign of Henry …”
My lips feel numb, the screeching in my head a banshee of panic. “We must go and search for him. When he is found, we must beg the king for his release into our keeping.”
“Margaret.” Harry takes my chin and turns my face to his. I refocus my eyes with difficulty. “The king has been taken. Warwick has him captive.”
My mouth falls open. Nothing makes sense any more. How did this glorious summer morning turn to this? My world is crumbling, falling apart.
Fighting free of the petticoats tangled about my legs, I scramble to rise.
“Then we must search for Henry ourselves. I will be ten minutes, no more. Have the horses made ready, Ned.”
Twenty minutes later, taking only the things we stand up in, we are riding the road to Banbury. Harry has issued orders for the steward to send men and supplies after us. Master Bray will see to it. Harry rides beside me, grim-faced, unspeaking, while Ned, still worn out from his earlier journey, droops in the saddle.
It is difficult to know where to begin searching. Henry could be anywhere. I imagine him hurt, lying in a blood-filled ditch, his eyes wide open, staring unseeing at the sky. I imagine him captured by the enemy, tortured, bullied.
He is just twelve years old! My mind screams – he is just a child; surely, even our enemies will recognise that fact. I try not to acknowledge the horrors our soldiers of Lancaster have heaped upon the young men of York.
Close to Oxford, when it grows too dark to see the way ahead, we stop for the night. I force down some food but I do not sleep. The images of Henry in dire need do not allow me to rest.
I am up at dawn, dressed and ready to move on, but Harry forces me to take a little breakfast, and insists on finding fresh horses for the rest of the journey.
Ned, who has been talking with the stable boys, comes to us just as we are making ready to leave. Straightaway, I notice his expression is more hangdog than before.
“What now?” I ask, dreading his answer. He shuffles his feet, reluctantly opens his mouth and blurts his news.
“I overheard the boys talking in the stable – just gossip, I hope, but there is a rumour that the queen’s father and brother have been executed.”
Harry emits a strange sound, something between a shout and a gasp. We exchange disbelieving looks, although neither of us doubts the story. He scratches his head, screws up his face.
“There will be no going back for Warwick now. The king will never forgive this …”
“And neither will the queen.”
Warwick is an outcast now; an enemy to both York and Lancaster, but I feel no pity for him. He has ever been a thorn in Lancaster’s flesh but I do spare some pity for his wife and daughters. Women are ever the victims in our men’s wars.
My sympathy grows when we learn that he has married the elder girl to the king’s brother, George, a feckless sot who has ever hankered for his brother’s crown. Warwick is in very deep, so deep I do not doubt he will soon founder. Unless, of course, he wins.
I have never before seen a battlefield. The fighting is over, the soldiers have departed, and people have begun to take away the mangled remains of the slaughtered. But it is still a terrible place; it is as if the ghost of the carnage remains, the stench of the hatred is not yet spent. The ground is mired, the mud in places stained red, and churned like a field set for barley.
I cannot believe my Henry was here to witness this. There are great holes in the once-green meadow, dead horses, abandoned wagons, spent shot, and broken blades, pieces of harness. I think the reverberation of battle will linger here forever.
We rein in our mounts and, side by side, survey the field. There is nothing left, nobody to ask direction. I kick my horse into the centre of the ruined meadow, stand up in my stirrups, turning this way and that, desperately searching for a small frightened face, the sight of a lone brown-haired boy concealed somewhere. He must be close.
I wrench the horse’s head around and trot smartly back to Harry.
“What now, my lord?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps we should try Anne Herbert; she may have had news of him.”
“She would have sent someone to tell me were that so.”
“But you are here, Margaret; she will not imagine for one moment you would ride out in search of him.”
“She is a mother too. She would know I would not just wait at home.”
But that is a woman’s lot, is it not? To wait at home while our husbands and sons perish and maim themselves in battle. It has ever been so.
The road to Raglan is long and hard, my nether parts are chafed by the saddle, my head aches from peering into the sun-bleached horizon. With every mile we travel, I wish it were ten more, but at times I feel we are moving backwards.
Harry forces us to stop at an inn for refreshment. He questions the innkeeper who looks at us askance, as if we are not to be trusted. I doubt he even believes us when we tell him who we are and hint at the business that brings us here. In truth, I probably would not believe it either.
Our clothes are mired, our faces grubby, and we lack the vast company that usually attends those of our station. As a result, the ale he serves us is not from his choicest barrel, there are small unidentifiable things floating in it. I throw mine away.
“Come along, Harry. There is no time to waste.”
And so we journey on, lacking the energy for conversation. Even Ned’s buoyant assurances have ceased. It is almost another full day in the saddle before the highest tower of Raglan castle emerges from the hazy horizon.
As it looms larger, I dig my heels in hard and begin to pray that I will discover it is all a mistake, and Henry is here, working hard at his lessons, oblivious to the violence that has broken out afresh.
I almost fall from the saddle. Anne Herbert emerges from the hall, a different woman entirely from the serene figure I met before. When she sees me, and realises why I have come, we forget the enmity of our now-dead husbands. Her carefully contained grief overflows, and we cling together, our mutual sorrow takin
g precedence over news.
“I am so sorry, so sorry!” I cry, and she shakes her head, her mouth agape with the tragedy that has befallen her. I hold her while she shakes and moans, but as soon as she begins to calm, I have to ask her. I can hold back no longer.
“Have you news of Henry?”
She shakes her head again, her raw eyes full of pain.
“Why did he take my boy with him? What did it serve?”
She shudders, her mouth turns upside down, and her voice comes angry.
“He thought he would have the best of them. He said it would do Henry good to see what becomes of those who turn against their king.”
So, it was a lesson, a lesson to a suspected insurgent who was no more than a child. Henry’s Lancastrian blood was suspect and therefore ripe to be risked in the adult game of war.
“Come, Margaret. You will stay with me. Rest here tonight. I will send a rider to make enquiries. There are people I can ask.” She halts, takes a sorry look about the courtyard. “We will have to leave Raglan now, and we have been so happy here. William had such wonderful plans. The children and I leave for Weobley tomorrow.”
“I know, Anne. I know how it feels to be widowed. I know that your future seems bleak but I urge you to have faith. Believe that happiness will return and you will be glad of it. Although it may not seem that way at this time.”
She shakes her head once more in disbelief, and I remember that I once felt I could not go on. Only Henry gave me cause. Anne has a large brood of children. I am confident she will recover soon enough. Time will draw a cloak over her pain; they may have been brought low, but her day will come again.
For now, all I can do is accept her hospitality for the night. I soak in a warm bath; Anne’s women wash the dust from my hair, rub moist fragrant salves into my tender bruises, and clothe me in a borrowed nightgown.
As I lie in the same high-canopied bed that cradled me in happier times, I concentrate on the messenger who is riding through the night with a letter to Jasper, to inform him of Henry’s disappearance.
I do not sleep at all. Listening to Harry’s exhausted snores, I grope for the comfort I once found here. But the joy of my last visit has gone; the warmth has fled. I stare wide-eyed into the darkness and fret about tomorrow, worry about Henry, about England. Damn Warwick for casting us all once more into disarray.
Dawn is breaking when I become aware that Harry is burning hot. I put a hand to his forehead and he pulls away, muttering fretfully as he kicks off the covers. The fever has returned.
It has been months, almost a year, since he was last afflicted. I swing my legs from the bed and fumble in the gloom for a wrap. In my haste to leave Woking, I did not think to bring his salves, let alone a remedy for fever.
In the antechamber, the woman assigned to serve me is sleeping with her head back, her mouth open. I shake her awake and she blinks at me blearily, wipes drool from her chin.
“What is it, my lady? Are you ill?”
“No, it is my husband. He has a fever. Find whoever has the key to the still-room. We will need willow bark tea …” I search my brain frantically for a likely cure. “St John’s Wort … feverfew … anything. Just be as quick as you can.”
She pulls on a loose gown, her long braids swinging as she hurries from the room. Snatching up a jug of water, a cloth, and a bowl, I return to the bedchamber.
Harry is still sleeping. He has kicked off the covers, his bare limbs unconsciously seeking escape from the heat consuming him. I wring out the cloth in tepid water and hold it to his brow. He startles awake, stares at me unseeing and yells a profanity. My normally mild-mannered husband is often rude during these raving attacks.
“Hush, hush,” I murmur, as if he were a child. “You will soon feel better. Hush now, Harry, go back to sleep.”
He makes an unintelligible sound and I draw back from the waft of foul breath. He is parched. I reach for the cup on his nightstand, and cradling his head try to ease some water into his mouth. Most of it flows down his chin, drenching his nightshirt, so I take a clean kerchief from my pocket and soak it in water, trickle a few drops onto his lips. His tongue emerges to lick it up. I continue to dribble water into him and after a while, he grows a little calmer, but remains hot. For the rest of the morning I encourage as much liquid down him as he will allow, placing cold cloths on his forehead and wrists in an attempt to cool him.
By noon, I am still in my night clothes, and have not even taken time to pray. When Anne puts her head round the chamber door, I am more grateful than I can express. She is pale and her eyes are ringed with shadows, yet still she thinks of me in my need.
“Margaret, let me take over. Go and get dressed, have some food, take some fresh air. I will see that Harry is properly cared for.”
I look from her to Harry, who seems to be resting more peacefully now.
“The fever has broken, I think. He is … often like this. I do not know why. There is a cup here, if you can try to get him to drink. I will return as quickly as I can.”
I try not to show my impatience as the woman helps me dress. I put on borrowed linen and my own gown that has been brushed and sponged during the night. Once my hair is tucked away and my lacings are tight, I feel more like myself, more in control of the ruin my life has become.
“Thank you.”
The woman bobs a curtsey and leaves me in peace. I shake my sleeves, arrange my veil, and make haste to the chapel that lies close to the old hall.
As I hurry from one sumptuous chamber to another, I pity Anne afresh. It will be hard for her to relinquish her role as mistress of Raglan. The Herberts have made a splendid home here; the richly carved beds, the tapestries, the plate are all as exquisite as those of a king. Now, they are no use at all.
It is quiet in the chapel. As I move forward into the soft-hued light, a kind of peace descends upon me. My feet pass over golden brown and yellow tiles, toward the altar where I prostrate myself and make obeisance to God.
For an hour I pray for Harry to be released from the fever, for Henry to be safe from our enemies, and for peace to be restored to England. I do not plead victory for one side or the other but leave that in God’s hands. All I ask for is guidance. It is a perilous path we tread in this time of uncertainty. The wrong decision now could mean the end of everything.
Time does not remove my anxiety for Henry, but the human mind cannot accommodate constant panic. After a day or so, the terror turns to something very much like despair. I am sure I have lost him, but I can scream and rail against it no more. My imagination leaves me in no doubt as to his possible danger, his fear at being alone in a hostile land, but if I am to retrieve him, I must be rational. I must think clearly and not give in to the hysteria that threatens to overwhelm me. I find solace in action and send messengers to every possible place he may have taken refuge.
I am exhausted and worn by constant prayer and nursing my husband. I need to return home, but Harry’s malaise delays our departure by a few days. Even then, he is not fully recovered, and we are forced to travel slowly and make many stops. It is with great relief that I eventually spy the towers of the old hall of Woking through the trees.
When Elizabeth and Jane come hurrying down the steps to meet me, the pity in their eyes undermines my pretended strength and I collapse into their arms. They half-carry me up the steps, past Master Bray who waits, hands clasped, near the door. As I am ushered inside, I pause and pull away from my women.
“Master Bray, Sir Harry has been very ill, please make sure he goes straight to bed. Do not detain him with estate matters. As soon as I am refreshed, I will summon you. There are many matters to attend to.”
“There is no hurry, my lady. I am just glad you are returned safely. I believe there is a letter waiting for you in your apartments.”
I jerk my head, open my eyes wide. “From whom?”
“From your son, I believe.”
For a moment, I am held by the twinkle in his eye. Henry is alive!
/> I do not wait for refreshment, nor hurry to disrobe from my mired clothes. While maid servants run back and forth with hot water for my bath, I break the seal on Henry’s letter, plump down on the bed to read it.
To my lady mother …
I quickly scan the page then, once I am assured he has come to no harm, I read it again, more slowly, my indignation growing with each carefully spelled word.
Lord Herbert took Henry with him to the battle because it would be ‘instructional. A boy needs to learn about warfare.’ When things took a turn for the worse, he cried to Henry to flee, and Henry did just that.
The letter falls to my lap. I stare without seeing, while, in my mind’s eye, Henry rides as if chased by the devil, through hostile countryside, hounded by his enemies. It is cold, it is growing dark … I pick up the letter again.
I rode all day before taking refuge in a small wood where I chanced upon a party of horsemen. One of them was Sir Richard Corbet, a kinsman of Lady Anne, who knew me at once. He took me under his wing and to the house of his brother-in-law at Weobley. They are taking good care of me and you can imagine my surprise when Lady Anne arrived soon afterwards with Maud, and the other children.
I suppose things will be different now, and I will be given another guardian. I would like to stay with Lady Herbert but if that is not possible then my hope is to return to the care of Uncle Jasper…
I close my eyes. Henry is safe and unharmed, he is well. I am still thanking God for it when my eye slides to the postscript.
I left my bow and quiver at Raglan. Could you send me a new one please, if it is not too much trouble?
My mouth tilts into a smile. With a hand to my mouth, I laugh aloud and clasp the letter to my bosom. Thank God, thank God, thank God!
London - October 1469
All afternoon, our people have been in council with those of Anne Herbert, wrangling over my son’s future. I have high hopes of Henry being returned to my custody. I am determined, once a resolution has been agreed with the Herberts, to approach George of Clarence to negotiate a return of the lands and properties of Richmond.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 11
