At least he is unharmed. I hope his bewilderment does not last. He taps his right foot in time with the music, claps belatedly when prompted by Warwick, who stands sentinel at his side.
Clarence, keeping his distance from his father-in-law, sprawls in a chair and partakes of too much wine. At his side, a white-faced Isabel Neville fiddles with her jewelled girdle. Cousins or not, the company is mismatched and disaccord sits heavily upon us all, but each one of us maintains the pretence that nothing is amiss.
I watch Harry from across the room, pleased at his recovery. There is vigour in his movements now, a gleam returning to his eye. As his wife, however, I know he is unhappy. As he speaks, he nods his head, but I can see his smile is false, his body tense and ill at ease. He is dissatisfied with the turn of events, and I wonder …
A soft touch falls upon my elbow, and a familiar voice rumbles in my ear. I turn and almost drop my cup.
“Jasper!” I move into his arms, feel the roughness of his beard on my cheek. “I hoped you would come. Oh, you look so well. It is as if the years have melted away.”
I cannot conceal my delight and cling to his sleeves, afraid that if I let go, he will dissipate like a waking dream. With Jasper’s presence all the memories of my time in Wales return. My eyes grow moist but, realising I have breached the formality of court, I take a breath and offer him my hand. His lips brush the back of my fingers. His eyes are warm and friendly. I can trust this man with my life. Suddenly, I realise how vulnerable and isolated I have been.
“You look well, Margaret, and I believe you have grown. You almost reach my shoulder now.”
I laugh delightedly, drawing Harry’s attention. When he recognises my companion, he excuses himself from his company and moves toward us, his smile wide.
“Jasper. It is good to see you.” The men slap each other’s shoulders, smiles and laughter all round. My mouth stretches so wide, my jaw begins to ache.
Jasper draws back a little.
“There is someone else you might like to speak to.” He crooks his finger, beckons someone forward, and my heart leaps like a hind in the forest.
“Henry!” It is almost a shriek. People turn to smile as I behold my son emerging from the crowd. I laugh as though my heart will burst with happiness. I plant my lips on his brow, close my eyes, inhaling his scent, my hands tight on his shoulders, revelling in his solidity. Even when he pulls away, his face scarlet with embarrassment, I cannot contain my joy.
“I had no idea you would be here. Oh, I am so happy we are together again – all of us.”
I reach out, clasp Harry and Jasper’s sleeves, my smile embracing my three favourite men in the whole world.
Recovering from his embarrassment, Henry regains his usual colouring. He has grown so tall but, belatedly recalling how discomforting parental attention can be, I refrain from mentioning it. I ask gentle, harmless questions and he responds with tales of his progress with the sword and in the tilt-yard. I listen, entranced by the way his hair falls across his forehead, his large shy eyes moving to encompass all three of us in his gaze. I can see little likeness to his father, but he reminds me of someone I cannot quite place. I note the quickness of his speech, the birdlike tilt of his head, the wide narrow mouth that draws upward like a bow when he smiles. He is familiar, he is handsome, he is here, and everything in my world is now perfect.
“We are invited to meet privately with the king,” Jasper says, brightening my existence further. “He wishes to make Henry’s acquaintance; after all, he is kin.”
He smiles at Henry, who flushes with pleasure and bows slightly. “It will be an honour, sir.”
I can scarcely believe all this is true. The king restored, the Yorkist exiled, Henry back in my company and set to stay in my care for at least a week or two before returning to Jasper’s household. It is everything I have dreamed of, and a little more besides.
The only shadow at court is Warwick; his constant presence at the king’s side, his eyes ever watching, ever assessing us all. Ostensibly, he is one of us now, yet he remains apart. It is unnerving, disturbing.
Men at arms guard the door to the king’s chamber, but when we are allowed to enter, we find him alone. He has taken off his cap, his scalp showing pink through greying hair. He does not turn when we approach but remains staring into the flames.
“Your Grace.”
We bow before him but he does not move. Harry and I exchange glances as Jasper clears his throat and speaks a little louder.
“Your grace, Harry; it is your brother, Jasper. I have travelled far to see you.”
The sorry head turns slowly towards us, and bleak, grey eyes confront us. The king blinks rapidly, his lips working as he fumbles for lost words.
“Jasper …?” The king shuffles forward, hands outstretched. He plucks at Jasper’s tunic before staring up into his brother’s face. “By God, is it you? Where is Edmund?”
With a gasp, I close my eyes against the sadness that name evokes. Poor King Henry, so much has happened to him, and so quickly have his fortunes changed that he has lost his grasp on the present. He looks about the room, examining each one of us.
“Where is Richmond?” he repeats. I swallow pain, and taking Henry by the hand, step forward.
“Edmund is not here, Your Grace, but his son, Henry, is here … by the grace of God.”
The king squints at me, his brow furrowed. I can almost see the mechanics of his mind as he works out who I am.
“Is it little Margaret?” His face stretches in joy, his arms open, and I am engulfed in the noxious fumes of an ailing man. “Little Margaret, little Margaret.” He touches my face, his hands fall on my shoulders. Hands that I wish had a firmer grip.
“I am so pleased to see you, Your Grace. I have brought my son, Henry, to meet you.” I drag Henry forward and watch him execute a perfect bow.
“Henry … Margaret …” The king looks from my son to me as he tries to understand the length of years dividing our last meeting. “But you have grown so fast. I expected a babe … just a small infant, but look at you!”
My son flushes. I can see he is tongue-tied, so I speak for him. “Henry is fourteen, Your Grace. Almost a man grown.”
The king looks him up and down. “I thought you would be taller.”
Criticism of my son always raises my hackles, but I force them down, run a hand down Henry’s sleeve and look up at him.
“There is time for him to grow, Your Grace. By the time he is twenty, he will be as tall as … as you.”
I almost said ‘as a king’, but that could be misconstrued. King Henry is nodding, a smile playing on his lips.
“He would make a fine king, little Margaret, a fine king.”
Jasper, who has been lounging on the back of a chair, straightens up and raises his brows eloquently in my direction, but I make no response, although I agree wholeheartedly with the king.
Afterwards, we dine with the king’s chamberlain, Sir Richard Tunstall. Sir Richard has been a long-time supporter of our cause, fighting at Wakefield and Towton, personally escorting the king to safety after the failed battle at Hexham. When Harlech Castle fell, he was taken and imprisoned by Edward, but pardoned soon after. Like many others, he pretended allegiance, but did not hesitate to switch his loyalty back to Henry as soon as the opportunity arose.
Jasper raises his cup. “To friends reunited.”
We all drink deeply before talk reverts to the old topic of war and allegiance. I remain silent. Women are not supposed to discuss strategy and warfare, but I can listen. I can learn.
I pick at the food on my plate. Jasper, having sated his hunger, pushes his away and leans back in his seat.
“What do you make of Warwick? Do you trust him?”
Tunstall puts down his knife and dabs his lips with a napkin, the candlelight reflected in his eyes as they slide from face to face.
“I trust he will remain loyal to the king for as long as it pays him to do so. It is power he craves. Edward ha
s severed Warwick’s influence over the rule of the country, and as long as that continues and Warwick believes he is best served by Lancaster, he will be our man. But should that change …”
He shrugs and takes another draught of wine.
“And what are the queen’s thoughts on it?” Jasper does not ask of the king’s thoughts. We all know Henry’s opinions are worthless. He is nothing but a puppet, a means to an end. Just as York sought to rule him, now his wife and Warwick do the same. Tunstall tilts his head back and looks down the length of his nose before letting it fall forward again.
“The queen trusts no one; not even those closest to her. She holds everything to her chest. She has been betrayed too often. She tolerates Warwick … and his daughters … but only for the assets they bring.”
I lean forward into the candle’s glow.
“Warwick’s daughters. Anne, is it not? And Isabel? What do they make of this abrupt reversal of loyalties?”
“I know not. Isabel and George seem content with each other, but I understand they have both had enough of the situation. Warwick may have made a mistake there; promising Clarence much, yet delivering nothing.”
“And the prince. What does he think of his wife? I’ll warrant he had not bargained on her.”
“The queen hasn’t taken me into her confidence and neither has the prince, but I have seen the lady Anne – and for a newly-wed bride she weeps a great deal.”
“So, it is not a happy match.”
“At my guess, my lady, it is not one made in Heaven.”
Jasper takes a handful of nuts, pops two in his mouth. “She will come round. She is a Neville. The reward of a crown will soon salve any dislike she has for her spouse.”
A ripple of laughter runs around the table. I feel a sudden joy to be here with my family, my son. I reach for Henry’s hand and, as if infected by my mood, he looks up and smiles. I tilt my head to one side.
“What do you think, Henry? Will the match between them thrive?”
“I cannot say for sure, Madam. I am unversed in such things, but it seems to me that if enemies are matched for the sake of peace then each should do their duty. Beget some heirs quickly, and to the devil with enmity.”
Jasper throws back his head.
“In other words, they should shut up and rut.”
Another laugh; louder this time. I am shocked at their coarseness, but at the same time flattered that they are unhampered by my female presence. I feel like one of the men, party to their troop.
Woking - March 1471
For a brief spell, gaiety returns to England. We dance at court, we feast and make merry. Even in November, when we hear that Elizabeth Woodville has birthed a son in the sanctuary at Westminster, we are not concerned. What possible threat can the mewling infant son of an exiled usurping king be to us now?
Edward is in Holland, so my sources say. He and his brother, Gloucester, and his close companion in crime, William Hastings, are no doubt plotting revenge in some meagre tavern. I care not. My spirits are high and indomitable.
Christmas is the best for years. Harry’s megrim seems to be passing, and Henry and Jasper join us at Woking. Anne and Harry’s brother arrive in time for the exchange of New Year’s gifts. I sit back in my chair after the feast, feeling as fat and complacent as a farm cat. When it is time for them to leave, parting will not be so hard, for I know they will soon return.
“Bring Myfanwy with you next time, Jasper,” I whisper as he takes his leave of me. He doubtfully raises one eyebrow.
“I will try,” he promises, and I have to make the best of that. It is many years since I saw Myfanwy, and so much has changed. I wonder if our bond will be as strong.
I hold my son close, whisper my blessing, but I do not weep. Before the spring arrives, I will see him again. We have planned a visit to Wales in February if the roads are passable; that is not long to wait. Harry and I stand on the hall steps and watch them ride away. After a while, he drops his hand and returns to the hall, but I wave until even the dust on the road has settled.
When February blows in cold, and snow defeats all my plans, I am disappointed but not unduly so. I know the winter cannot last forever; there will be other visits, more good times. The years stretch ahead in an unspoiled vista. I envisage Henry grown and married, raising children of his own. All that is far away in the future, but it is a hope I cling to. Grandchildren will compensate for my lack of daughters, and all the years I missed with Henry.
As February melts into a windy March, I turn my attention to the garden once more, organising my men to see the borders are cleared. Like a miser in a strong room, I check over my store of seed, consider the things that failed to thrive last season, where to plant them that they might do better this year.
I am surprised when Ned comes to tell me my cousin, Somerset, has called to see Harry. I wipe my hands, remove my apron and hurry to the parlour where he has been asked to wait.
“Edmund, how nice to see you.”
I hold out my hand for his salute, look down on his dark hair as his lips graze my wrist. In truth, I am not as pleased to see him as my words imply; his presence stirs a feeling of unease deep in my belly.
“You look well, Margaret,” he says in his rough way. I smile, barely preventing myself from refuting the compliment.
“Harry is out on the estate, but he should not be long. I hope you are able to stay. It is long since we saw you last.”
He tosses his riding gloves onto the table.
“You heard the Woodville woman spawned another brat for Edward? A boy this time.”
He looks at me, his expression grim.
“Yes, we heard some time ago, before Christmas. It is of little matter, I think.”
“Edward plainly thinks otherwise. I have had word he is preparing to take ship to England to claim back his crown.”
I cannot prevent my eyes from opening wide. Will strife in England never be over?
“I had hoped he would realise he was beaten. England can stand little more of this interminable war.”
To hide my annoyance, I move to a table by the window and pour wine into two cups. I hand one to Edmund. As I do so, the door opens and Harry comes in, his lips parted in mid-conversation with someone behind him. He comes farther into the room, Reginald Bray a step behind. Harry stops when he sees I have company, his face darkening a little.
“Edmund. I did not realise you were here.”
Harry is dressed in his favourite clothes. His tunic bears the aroma of horse, a smear of green froth on his sleeve. I hand him a cup of wine, which he takes with a nod of thanks. Edmund wastes no time in coming to the point of his visit.
“You heard Edward is on the move?”
Harry is immediately wary. He lowers his cup.
“No, I had not heard; and you, I suppose, are mustering men to ensure he does not set foot on our shores.”
“Something like that. We need to know you are with us.”
Harry pales and licks his lips. I hope Edmund does not notice his lack of ease.
“Harry has been ill,” I interject before my husband can reply. “He is only recently recovered enough to leave his bed.”
Edmund looks Harry up and down, taking in his casual clothes, the healthy hue the March wind has left on his cheek.
“You look well enough to me.”
Harry opens his hands, palm up.
“I am fine. Margaret fusses.” He drains his cup. “The problem will be determining where Edward of March is likely to land.”
I hope Somerset marks the fact that Harry has given Edward his old title of the Earl of March instead of king.
“We have men on the alert, up and down the country. If he lands we need to be ready to deal with him swiftly.”
“Of course; of course.”
Harry frowns at the hearth. I can see thoughts running through his mind as he quickly assesses his situation, deciding how he should act. Edmund, ever an impatient soul, grows tired of waiting.
> “So, we can rely on you?”
“I should think so, if his crossing is successful.”
Even to my ears Harry sounds distant, unconvinced of the looming crisis. I break the tension.
“You will stay to supper, of course, Edmund. I have ordered salmon and eel.” I stretch my mouth wide in what I hope is a winning smile, and he relaxes.
“How can I resist such an offer?”
All through supper, my eyes keep straying to my husband, who is pensive, his thoughts elsewhere. I wonder if he frets over some matter of business, or if his promise to ride against Edward was given lightly.
Later, in the privacy of our chamber when our servants have left us, he can avoid the question no longer.
“Tell me, Harry, what is on your mind? Did you mean it when you said you would ride with Somerset?”
He sighs, his shoulders drooping.
“I think so. I am not convinced the k… Edward will make a successful landing. The north sea is treacherous.”
I climb on to the bed and cover my legs with the blanket.
“But if he is successful, what will you do?”
He looks up at me, his brow furrowed.
“Why are you so persistent? Why is my answer so necessary just now when I am ready for sleep?”
“I want to know if you are with us, or against us.”
Our eyes meet. His look injured and, sensing we are on opposing sides, I feel my jaw tighten. If he supports Edward, he will be denying Henry any hope of ever having his rights restored. With my cousin Henry on the throne, my son’s hopes are raised.
Harry makes no reply.
“I would have your support, Harry. If not for the king’s sake, then for my son’s.”
“Perhaps I have more care for the country. King Henry is old and ineffectual. In fighting for him, we are really fighting for Margaret, and do we really want her son on the throne? A boy like that would be little better than his father – others would rule through him. King Edward has at least proven by his treatment of Warwick that he will be ruled by no one. England needs a king, Margaret, a man who will rule, not a puppet who will be led. Now, let us have no more of this. Go to sleep, I am tired.”
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 13
