The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  Harry is cautious. He urges me to bide my time, wait until things have settled, but I cannot ignore this opportunity to have Henry back in my care. He gives meaning to my life and without him, even on the fairest of days, the sun never shines quite brightly enough.

  I pray, as I always do, for success, for a reunion with Henry, for Harry’s complete return to health, for this new peace in England to be lasting. It is about time fortune smiled on me.

  Since I was eight years old, I have been buffeted by fate, scarce given time to breathe, or know the comfort of real security. This time, however, I am hopeful. This time, I am certain, all will be well.

  Over supper, Harry and I speak in low voices, neither of us sure how to live beneath this enforced rule of Warwick. Even if the earl allows Edward to resume his role as king, it does not mean he will be allowed to rule. In reality, it is Warwick who will be in control. Edward will be nothing but a puppet.

  Harry toys with his supper.

  “How can we ever trust anyone? There is not a soul at court who speaks their mind, all of them on the alert, saying only what is expected. Oh, for a world when a man’s thoughts were his own.”

  “I have no care for court. If I can only get Henry back …”

  “He would be better in the household of some great lord. A boy needs a strong guardian; it is the way of the world.”

  I sigh, fiddle with my wine cup, twirling it so it catches the firelight, and the jewels on the rim send myriad colours to dance on the ceiling.

  I have long dreamed of Henry living beneath my roof, taking lessons from me, walking with me in the parks, riding to the hunt. Yet Harry is right. I know he is, although, for the life of me, I cannot see the justice in the separation of a mother from her child.

  After everything I went through to give birth to him and keep him safe, it seems only just that I should be allowed his company. Harry coughs, the phlegm thick in his throat, and in response my nursing instincts temporarily overcome the maternal. Without seeming too, I assess his appearance.

  He is pale, ringed about the eyes, and seems older than his years. I make a mental note to prepare a restorative for him to take each morning and night. He needs rest and relaxation, nourishment and plenty of sleep, but it seems that is as much to ask as having the care of my only child.

  Harry puts down his cup. “I think somebody has arrived.” He moves to the door, opens it and cocks his head, listening. “Yes, somebody is coming up the stairs, and they seem to be in haste …”

  I stand up, my thoughts, as usual, rushing to Henry. A quick double knock and, without waiting for a reply, the door is thrust open.

  “Master Bray?” Harry and I speak at once. Our faces are questioning as Reginald Bray launches into an explanation.

  “My lord, my lady, I have news. Edward of … the king, King Edward, has been freed and is returning to London.”

  My hopes of winning back the Richmond estates for Henry dwindle like water down a rain pipe. Harry turns to look at me; he doesn’t say it but I know he is thinking: ‘I told you so.’

  April 1470

  Trouble besets us. While Harry rides with King Edward’s army, I pray for my family, for peace, as my kin fall further from the king’s graces. My stepbrother Richard and his son Robert have fallen into dispute with Sir Thomas Burgh, and they foolishly attacked Gainsborough Hall. Considerable damage was done to the property; they stole some plate and drove the king’s hapless servant from his newly acquired lands.

  Sir Thomas is a ‘new’ man, a favourite of the Yorkist king, who has profited from estates confiscated from Lancastrian lords. My Welles kin now find themselves in considerable trouble.

  Summoned by the king, my brother rides to court to plead his case. They forget that honour is sometimes dispensed with in time of war. Despite issuing Richard and his brother-in-law, Sir Thomas Dymoke, with pardons, King Edward, who has sworn to stamp such insurrection from the land of England, declares that if Sir Robert does not lay down his arms, his father and uncle will be executed.

  Is there no end to this eternal conflict? Will England ever be consumed by hate?

  I think of my stepbrother Richard as I first knew him; a young man. My mother’s son. For the first time in years, I feel I should go to my mother, put aside our differences. She is a woman whose son is in peril. I know how that feels.

  Harry returns home a few weeks later. He seems to have shrunk; his shoulders are bowed, his eyes reduced to grey holes, sunken and wizened. Sorrow sits heavily upon him, and when he looks at me, I take on the burden too and begin to weep before he can impart his news.

  “I am sick of war.”

  He throws down his gloves, runs his fingers through his hair. When I can breathe again, I clutch his travel stained fingers in my palm, and listen to the news I would rather not hear.

  “Surely not, Harry. My brother and nephew were pardoned. What happened? Does the king have no pity?”

  “They would have been spared had Robert laid down his weapons when the king ordered it, but .... he had to play the hero. He probably thought he could best the king’s army, save his father and restore the throne to King Henry in one move.”

  “But life isn’t a game of chess.”

  “No, Margaret, and it seems that Warwick and Clarence are behind it all.”

  I scowl, my mind running over the events of the last months.

  “I hoped they had given up their meddling.”

  “The king is convinced of it. At the battle after … after he ordered the execution, the main cry of our opponents was ‘A Warwick, A Clarence’, although neither man had the gall to show up on the field.”

  Harry goes on to tell me of the fiasco that was the fight near Stamford. He tries to make light of the horror of it, but I can see through his words to the gruesome reality. Ten thousand more Englishmen now lie slaughtered and this time the fault is entirely Warwick’s.

  “Where is Warwick? Surely he cannot survive this second insurrection.”

  “I rode with the king as he trailed them across country. There is no doubt that both he and Clarence have fled. Only time will tell where. The suspicion is that they have gone to Flanders, or perhaps France.”

  I stare into the fire, the crackling flames like a marauding army or a pestilence, consuming all in their path. When it is obvious I have no further comment, Harry clears his throat again.

  “On my way home, I called in at Maxley to see your mother. I told her the news …”

  I look up sharply, and my grip on his hand tightens.

  “That was kind of you, Harry. Thank you. How did she take it? What did she say?”

  He sighs heavily. “As you would expect. She wept, of course, and cursed the king … She asked for you, Margaret, begged me to take you to visit her. She is growing old. I think her death bed beckons and she has things she wishes to say to you before it is too late.”

  “Yes.”

  I turn my face toward the fire again; feel the force of its destructive heat. How must it feel to lose a son, a child you have carried in your body, brought forth in great pain?

  I pray to God I never know.

  Although she has many children, I am sure my mother’s heart is sore. I know from Edith’s letters that she and Richard had recently been in dispute over the possession of land. How futile that must now seem. How ridiculous to fall foul of one’s own kin over a parcel of barren land. Yet, in these horrid times, when cousin fights cousin, it is a common enough thing. I rouse myself, try to formulate a smile.

  “I will go to her soon.”

  On my knees in the chapel, I pray for the souls of my murdered kin. It is not easy to forgive myself for knuckling down beneath the king they sought to displace. If I were a man I would stand and fight, unite the great lords of England to reinstate the old peace of Lancastrian rule, but I would never fight for Warwick. England is not his to rule.

  I end my prayer that has been more of a tirade, and go about my business as if the world outside our door is
not disintegrating.

  Woking - October 1470

  The summer is long and uncertain. King Edward has changed since his return. Harry says he is wary now, less ready to trust and more willing to punish. Where once the king would throw an arm about a man’s neck and welcome him as friend on their first meeting, now he is cautious and vigilant for hidden enemies. Those around him tread with greater care.

  News of the latest battle seeps back to Woking. People refer to it as Loosecoat Field because the army, wearing the badges of Warwick and Clarence, cast off their coats and fled before King Edward’s fury. There was great slaughter, and afterwards, no one, not even those from the discontented north, is prepared to fight beneath Warwick’s banner. Now that the earl and his hapless son-in-law have fled, an uneasy peace has resumed.

  To add to our apparent joy at Edward’s return, we celebrate the news that the queen is pregnant again. This time, everyone is sure it will be a prince. I hope they are wrong.

  Today, I move among the flowerbeds beneath trees turning golden in the autumn sunshine. The garden is replete with seeds and berries. I harvest some for medicine, and some to sow again in the spring to raise new plants.

  Running a great household is rather like ruling a country; you must look after the lower orders to ensure the nobility thrive. Our tenants are the base upon which we flourish. Our estates prosper under my care. Unlike many other great houses, our people are well nourished and their ailments attended to as soon as they appear. Good health and care makes for prosperity, just as good shoes help a body stand straight and tall.

  The only member of the household not to fully benefit from my medicinal skill is its master. Too often he comes home exhausted, and it takes all my skill to nurse him back to health before the king summons him again. Sometimes, it seems like a punishment, as if the king cannot bear to let him be or allow him to stay home and be content. One day his summons will be the last straw.

  Harry rides home from court. I watch him hand the reins to a groom and climb wearily up the steps to the hall. He stands before me, grasps my arms and kisses my forehead. Although his eyes are tired, I can see he is happy to be home. I turn in his embrace and we walk slowly into the house, the darkness swallowing us. There is a pile of messages and issues he must deal with, but I distract him with a roaring fire and a cup of warm wine.

  “How was court?” I kneel at his feet to help him remove his boots. He crosses his ankles, lies back in the chair.

  “A little tense.” He sips from his cup. “The king suspects everyone, and you cannot blame him. Rumour is rife that Warwick is in France and has joined forces with Margaret of Anjou. Some say he has wed his youngest daughter to the prince.”

  I sit back on my heels in astonishment.

  “Prince Edward? Warwick has wed his daughter to … that cannot be!”

  This rumour must be false. It is hard enough to believe Warwick is so desperate and determined that he would ally himself with Margaret, but to wed his daughter to the son of the man he has fought so hard to overthrow! What can he be thinking?

  “I am surprised Margaret let go of her hatred for him long enough to accept his terms.”

  “They are laughing about it at court, saying she made him grovel. Kept him on his knees for a full quarter of an hour.”

  I allow my mind to dwell upon the satisfying image of the great Earl of Warwick brought so low.

  “I still don’t believe it.”

  Harry yawns. I see a coating of yellow on his tongue and make mental note to dose him with rhubarb twice a day for a fortnight.

  “Edward’s spies say that Warwick has abandoned his plan to replace King Edward with Clarence, and now intends to crown Edward of Lancaster and rule through him as his father-in-law.”

  Suddenly, Margaret’s reasons for her alliance with Warwick are clear. She would do anything for her son, just as I would. My eyes meet Harry’s. It is so long before I blink again that mine begin to smart. I think rapidly, run through all the possible scenarios.

  “He would have to contend with Margaret first. And where would that leave us? I am content for Prince Edward to rule, but I would find it hard to lie down quietly beneath Warwick’s jurisdiction.”

  “He has not succeeded yet …”

  “But he is strong, wily. A few years ago, we would never have thought he would succeed in deposing King Henry and replacing him with King Edward. Yet he did it. The crown is not to be his but he hungers for it anyway, and just as he once thought to rule through Edward of March, he now imagines he can rule through Lancaster. He is taking a second shot at the same target. His ambition knows no bounds.”

  “The king is raising arms as we speak. That is why I have returned. I am to gather every man I can and ride north with the king by the end of the week.”

  “But you are not well!”

  He wags his hand. “I am well enough. Don’t fuss.”

  A few days later, he rides away again. I watch him go, raise my hand in dutiful farewell, but inside I am fuming. He should be in bed, he should be resting. I can see no reason why he should risk life and limb for a man whose grip on the crown is slipping through his fingers.

  If he has to fight, it should be on the other side, although with Warwick now involved, the line between the two sides is blurred, confusing. Even I am not clear where my loyalty should really lie.

  I spin on my heel and re-enter the hall, but I can settle to nothing. The autumnal garden holds no fascination; the pages on the books in our vast library contain no mystery. I pick up my sewing, set a few stitches that are too large and uneven. I cast it aside, get up and go to the window, throw open the shutter and look down upon the darkening garden.

  This sense of unease continues for almost a week. Each minute of the day, my belly bubbles with unease. I try to write letters. It is an age since I heard from Myfanwy, and Jasper is still in France. I would dearly like to know his opinion of recent events, but I dare not contact him for fear my message will be intercepted and misconstrued as treasonous correspondence.

  In the end, I sit down and write to Henry. A brief instructional letter to ensure he is working hard at his lessons and remembering his prayers. I am just warming the wax and preparing to seal it when I hear a great commotion outside. The door is thrown open and Ned stumbles in, waving his arm behind him.

  “A messenger, my lady, from Sir Harry.”

  I know it is bad news before I even leave my chair. I somehow move toward the door, my knees trembling, my legs turned to string. I hold out my hand and a travel-stained messenger places a rolled parchment into my palm.

  As I read the first line, my hand flies to my mouth. I let out a cry of rage. I knew he should have made an excuse to stay at home.

  “The king has fled.” My voice croaks, I cough to clear my throat. “He has taken ship, exiled with his brother, Gloucester. Sir Harry is in the custody of Warwick.”

  “Warwick?”

  Ned is close by my side. Suddenly in need of some solidity, I hang on to his coat. “Come inside, my lady. I will call your women.”

  I do not cry. I do not rant or rail. Like a sleepwalker, I allow Ned to sit me in my favourite chair. I stare at the floor, my mind teeming with different options.

  Jane and Elizabeth come; they fuss about me, fetching drinks and restoratives, urging me to take to my bed. The fog in my mind swirls, like wraiths in a burial ground. I cannot think. I cannot decide what is best, and then Ned steps from the corner where he has taken refuge.

  “Shall I ride to discover where he has been taken, my lady? That way we might better know what steps to take to free him.”

  The fog clears. I stand up too suddenly, sway on my feet and grab the back of a chair.

  “Free him. Yes. That is what we must do. I will ride with you, Ned. Fetch Master Bray, call for a few men at arms to escort me. Have them saddle my horse; we will travel faster that way.”

  “Travel faster, my lady? Where are we going?”

  “To see the Earl of
Warwick. Once we pledge ourselves to his cause, my husband will be freed.”

  *

  The world has turned upside down again. King Edward is in exile, his pregnant queen has fled with her daughters into sanctuary at Westminster, and our own dear King Henry has been restored to his rightful place.

  As soon as I explain to Warwick that Harry and I pledged allegiance to Edward for the sole purpose of protecting the interests of my son, he promises to think about releasing him. I want to grab him by the throat, shake the living breath from him, but he is a giant of a man. I am a gnat beside him.

  Instead, I try to smile as I gently remind him that Harry’s health is precarious and, as an ardent supporter of King Henry, our contacts may prove valuable in the coming months.

  After a few weeks Harry is restored to me. He is ailing but relieved to be free. Thanking God, I insist he return to Woking so I can set about the long healing process. But it is not long before duty calls, and we are summoned back to London for an audience with the restored king.

  The court of Lancaster is gay. Even the Earl of Warwick is courteous, although I do detect some lack of ease. Clarence skulks in corners, clearly unhappy to see my wavering cousin, Henry, wearing the crown he expected to claim for himself.

  It is satisfying to don my best court clothes and converse with people from whom I have been estranged for years. I meet cousins I have never seen before. The Lancastrian court, so long exiled in France, is glad to be back in England and is not afraid to show it. The celebrations are long and loud; loud enough to drown the punishment of those who dared support the Yorkist king.

  At the head of all this gaiety sits King Henry. He looks older than his years, and is clearly bewildered to be back in the glittering court after such a long captivity in the Tower. He smiles vacantly, raises a wavering hand when we applaud his return and drink to his health.