The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  He turns on his side, pulls the sheet over his shoulder, leaving me with barely anything to cover myself. I slide down the bed, angry and sore of heart, and frown into the darkness.

  Woking - Late March

  Harry is taciturn for days. He spends as much time as he can outside the hall. At meal times, he picks at his food; drinks deeply of his wine and excuses himself as soon as he may. I cannot read his face, which he purposely keeps empty; his thoughts are closed. When news filters in that Edward has landed successfully in the north, I know another battle looms. I am fearful as to the path he plans to take.

  Somerset and a retinue of forty men call again. This time, he stays for four days. On the last day, I hear raised voices issuing from Harry’s sanctum but I dare not enter. He has made it clear the decision is to be his alone. I lurk in the hall until the door is thrown open and Edmund strides across the room, hollering for his horse. His servant scuttles behind him, bearing his master’s helmet and gauntlets.

  Edmund pays me no heed but brushes rudely past, hurrying from my house, riding out through the gates a few moments later. A brisk wind whips about my skirts as I watch him go, then I spin on my heel and return to the hall.

  Harry waits, head down, by the fire. He does not look up when I go to stand before him. I clasp my hands, trying to contain my anger, my over-spilling anxiety.

  “Harry, why have you quarrelled with my cousin? I have to know what is going on.”

  He looks up; his eyes are red-rimmed, his face white, the blue veins showing on his temples, a pulse throbbing in his jaw.

  “I told him I cannot ride with him today.”

  I gesture to the pile of papers on his desk.

  “Well, surely he understands you have some business to attend to and can meet -”

  “No. You misunderstand me, Margaret. I will not ride out for King Henry; not now, not ever.”

  “You cannot ride with York! Harry, King Henry is my cousin!”

  He cuts me dead, his head swinging sadly from side to side.

  “Your cousin is a feeble king. I would fight and die for him were he able-minded, but I will not die for a French woman. I will not ride with Margaret of Anjou … or her son.”

  I move closer, poke my face close to his, keeping my voice low, anger spitting like sparks between us.

  “My Henry is but two steps from the throne. In supporting York, you condemn him to a life of obscurity.”

  “Such lives are better, Margaret. I warrant you cannot name more than a handful of kings who died peaceably in their beds.”

  He watches me while I scour my mind for a merry monarch given the grace to die in his sleep. I shake my head to dispel the thoughts as Harry continues, persuasively. “You could teach your son to accept that Lancaster’s days are done. Let him make peace with York, marry, raise a host of grandchildren for your pleasure. Teach him that, Margaret. Such a life is all I have ever longed for.”

  I cup my cheeks with my hands, tears stinging my eyes. I hate to argue with Harry, who is my dearest love. I regard him sorrowfully.

  “So you will ride with York, Harry, and once more break the ties of kinship with my family. I pray you are not making a grave error.”

  “I pray that also.”

  We are quiet now. I cannot stop him. He is a man and will do as he must. I am a woman who should do as she is bid.

  “I have letters to write.” I turn away, but as I reach the door, he calls after me.

  “Do not meddle, Margaret. Politics is not for women.”

  April 1471

  How can I keep from meddling? With Harry gone and the future uncertain, I do what I can to protect our position. If Harry must ride at the side of King Edward, then I must try to appease both my Beaufort kin … and Lancaster’s queen.

  I write to Jasper, begging to know his whereabouts and the position of my son. I write to my cousin, Somerset, temporizing over Harry’s position, pretending he will join with him as soon as he may. I send letters to Myfanwy, to Queen Margaret, to my mother-in-law, and even to my own mother. All seem precious to me in these days of uncertainty.

  Although I know not how to, or whom to pray for, I take up residence in the chapel. In begging for success for Lancaster, I must condemn my husband and his king to defeat. In praying for Harry’s safety, I condemn the rightful king. Unsteady and afraid, I make do with the middle ground and pray for all mankind, for an end to war, an end to dissent.

  I pray for peace.

  When I leave the chapel, I pace the floors until my ankles ache, and my lower back screams for respite. I walk back and forth, take a seat by the window for a few moments and then I am on my feet again, back and forth, back and forth.

  My servants whisper tales of foreboding. I do not want to hear, but I cannot help but strain my ears as they prepare my bed, where I know I shall find no rest at all.

  Just as the day is over, and I have dismissed all but one of my women, a knock comes upon the chamber door. Ned is outside, twisting his cap in his hands, his face anxious.

  “Master Davy is here, my lady, with a missive from your husband.”

  I climb from bed and wrap a shawl about my shoulders. Descending to the hall, I take the message from Harry’s man.

  “How is he?” I ask before I break the seal.

  John Davy’s long pause before he replies tells me more than his words.

  “My lord is well, and preparing for the morrow. I left him with the king, in a meadow near Barnet where they plan to do battle in the morning.”

  “Dear God, have mercy …” I murmur as I unfold his letter and quickly scan the page. Harry, in his present health, has little hope of surviving the fray. I look down at the letter, the words dissolving in my tears.

  He has enclosed his will, bequeathing his soul to the lady Mary and the blessed company of Heaven, and leaving most of his land and possessions to ‘my most entire beloved wife, Margaret.’

  My hand flies to my mouth. I have been a poor wife to Harry, making his life difficult, plaguing him to act against his better judgement. He has ever been a good and loving husband to me; all he wishes for is peace, and I have given him nought but conflict. I do not deserve him.

  Leaving the document amid the remains of my supper on the table, I make haste to the stone cold chapel and fall upon my knees again. This time, I beg for forgiveness, repenting of my former headstrong ways and asking for time to make reparation. Harry’s life is suddenly more important to me than any other matter in this world.

  If I had been born a boy, I would be fighting on the opposite side, facing death or victory, but since I am a woman, the only weapon I possess is the power of prayer. My cold lips brush my entwined fingers, my whitened knuckles press hard against my mouth, my pleading words flying as thick and fast as arrows.

  At first, the news is garbled. Messages come that the battle has gone badly for Edward, and his men are fleeing in disarray. Frantically, I pray for Harry’s survival. Beseech God to give him the sense to keep from the thick of the fight. Do not play the hero, Harry …

  “I do not care in what state you send him home, but please God, send him back to me.”

  Then a message comes that states the opposite. York has victory, but now the lines between factions are blurred. Montagu and Warwick, lately of York, have been slain by their former allies. Oxford’s army has been routed by Montagu, who now … I am confused, reality has flown, exploded into a maelstrom of uncertainty and doubt.

  I fly about the palace, ordering messengers to ride out to secure more solid information. I must have clarification. I have to know the hand that fate has dealt us. I have to know if Harry is still among the living, or if he … I cannot frame the words.

  I climb to the highest tower and watch the messengers ride out, fanning in different directions, taking separate roads to discover what they can. But, as I stand there, with fear churning in my belly, I realise I can wait no longer. The only way to ascertain the truth is to ride out and discover it for myself.


  I lift my skirts and make haste down the twisting stair, calling for Ned as I go. He meets me at the bottom.

  “Ned.” Breathlessly, I hang on to his arm, a hand to the pain in my side. “Make ready my horse. You must ride with me to London. Only there can I ascertain the truth.”

  London - 16th April 1471

  The capital is very different from the last time I saw it. Just a few weeks ago, the city celebrated the return of King Henry. Now, the Yorkist king is back and the people rejoice again, each man hoping his previous welcome for Henry has gone unnoticed.

  The air rings with uncertainty, with suspicion. Neighbours are wary of one another, brother mistrusts brother, cousin suspects cousin. Our horses push a way through the crowd toward Westminster, where men are hastening to offer allegiance to Edward, fearful of punishment for their wavering loyalty.

  A crush of people fills the courtyard; some coming, some going, a crowd of supplicants at the door. Not one of us is sure of what is happening, or what will happen next.

  Ned dismounts, and helps me from my horse. I look around in growing panic.

  “Wait here, my lady,” he says as he leads both animals to the stables, but I dismiss his advice and wend a path through the throng toward the steps of the great hall.

  Usually, a crowd would part to make way for me, but today I am unrecognised. I push through the crush, fighting my way to the entrance, but the way is blocked.

  Foolishly, I elbow and shove until I find myself wedged between a stout lady and a middle-aged man whose stench suggests he has not bathed in a month.

  I realise the danger too late. They tower above me, as my nose is crushed too close to the man’s armpit, I try to turn. I fight for footing but my legs are taken from beneath me. I cry out, grab at the man’s coat. My veil is pulled from my head, lost beneath our feet, and my knees weaken, begin to give way. I am falling, soon to be trampled, but then a strong hand takes hold of my elbow, hoisting me up so my feet no longer touch ground. I cannot breathe. I open my mouth to gulp in stale air. Blackness rushes in. I am going to faint.

  “Lady Margaret? It is Lady Stafford!” someone calls from far away. “Make way there, make way!”

  Everyone is shouting. I hear my name, coupled with curses and obscenities as I am lifted bodily from the fray, carried through the outer door and past the men at arms who guard the inner sanctum of the newly restored king.

  Someone puts me in a seat. I sprawl like a drunkard, my skirts in disarray, my cap slipping sideways, revealing my hair. My head sinks into my hands, my body judders, and tears drip down between my fingers, to run along my wrist.

  “Lady Margaret?”

  A cultured voice pulls me from the brink of oblivion, and I look up to find the king leaning over me. His brow is creased, his eyes concerned. “Are you quite recovered? Here, take a sip of this.”

  He holds out a cup and I take it gratefully, drinking deeply, the wine fruity and revitalising. As my composure returns, I remember where I am, realise the state of my attire and try to straighten my skirts. When I attempt to rise, his hand falls, large and warm, on my shoulder, pushing me back down.

  “Sit still,” he says, “until you are mended. I understand you wished to see me.”

  “Yes.” I look up into clear blue eyes. “I wanted to know the outcome of the battle, the whereabouts of Harry …”

  “Ah, we were victorious, but Harry … Harry was wounded, I think …”

  His face seems to waver, one minute close, the next far away, his voice fluctuating like the sound of rushing water in my ears.

  “Edward, have a heart. Lady Margaret, come closer to the fire. We cannot discuss such a matter on the door step.”

  She comes upon me unaware, a breath of sweet scent, a gentle touch on my arm, her voice soft as a baby’s. I look up into wide eyes, an upturned mouth. My fogged mind acknowledges that the stories were right; she is very fair. “Come,” she says, “let me help you.”

  Her hand is firm beneath my elbow as the queen and I cross the floor, where she settles me in a seat close to hers.

  “Now, Lady Margaret. As I understand it, the news of your husband is not good. But remember, neither is it the worst. Edward, tell the lady of her husband’s fate.”

  The king clears his throat.

  “Stafford was wounded, but not seriously so. We left him at an inn near Barnet. I am sure he has sent word to you by now.”

  He is right. Harry would have sent word to Woking, expecting me to be there. Once again I have acted rashly, making a difficult situation worse. I stand up too quickly, my head swimming again; I clasp the back of a chair and force my vision to comply. The room settles. I blink at the king.

  “I must go to him. Thank you, thank you so much, Your Grace.”

  Belatedly remembering I am in the presence of my monarch, I curtsey as deeply as my unsteady head will allow.

  “We will order up a carriage,” the queen announces. “You are not well enough to ride.”

  “I will be well enough, Your Grace, now that I can breathe again. I thank you for your concern but … a horse will be faster. I must make haste …”

  I sink to the floor in an extravagant curtsey, and the queen offers her hand, her laugh like a set of tiny bells. As I rise again and turn to leave, a door at the end of the hall opens and a weary-looking woman enters, followed by a posy of little girls.

  They run into the room, chattering like sparrows, and the king hurries forward, sweeps his son from the nurse’s arms and thrusts him beneath my nose.

  Dutifully, I peep at the red face amid the swaddling, and make the appropriate sounds of admiration.

  “A handsome child, Your Grace, and such pretty daughters too.”

  Their time in sanctuary seems to have done them no harm. I try to squash the pang of envy as I watch the girls cluster about their mother’s skirts. Her gentle hand runs across a small girl’s hair; a girl with the upright stance and direct stare of her father.

  The king perches on the arm of the queen’s chair, and she leans forward to inspect her son before turning her beaming face toward me.

  “You are among the first to see our son, Lady Margaret, our little Edward, Prince of Wales.”

  Her voice is doting. She has everything. I must live apart from my son while she enjoys the company of hers. They present the perfect picture of unity – just the sort of royal family the country needs. They are young, strong and fertile, and suddenly I have a vision of England years from now, ruled over by this infant’s grandchildren, their names written in stone, their as yet untold stories becoming history while my son’s name fades into obscurity. Envy, one of the deadliest of sins, weighs heavily on my soul.

  I shake myself.

  “I should make haste, Your Grace, if you will allow.”

  Edward stands up, offers me his hand.

  “Of course, Lady Margaret, we must not keep you.”

  “But come to court again soon,” the queen calls after me. “We welcome your friendship, Lady Margaret.”

  I turn and bow my head, and when I rise, her smile has slipped a little. Behind the royal welcome I sense wariness, their shared mistrust of me, and all my ilk.

  *

  Just outside the town of Barnet, I duck beneath the inn’s low lintel and blink, adjusting my eyes to the dark interior. The inn-keeper bows and scrapes, offering mead, offering food, offering the comfort of a private parlour. I brush his gratuities aside.

  “Where is my husband? Where is Sir Henry Stafford?”

  “He will be above, my lady. I laid my best room at his disposal.”

  For a fee, I think, as I hurry toward the stairs. The rickety rail moves at the touch of my hand, the treads creak beneath my feet. I open the first chamber door I come to and a couple leaps in their bed; a young girl hastily covering her nakedness. Red-faced, I retreat and, more cautiously this time, try the next room.

  The shutters are closed, the room as dark as night. I can just detect the outline of a figure upon th
e bed, recognise the discarded mail, the bloodstained doublet on the floor.

  Carmarthen castle and the last moments of Edmund’s life loom from the past; the stench of the squalid tower room in which he died, assaults my nose. For a moment it seems history does repeat itself.

  I will not allow it.

  Gathering all my strength, I step into the room, drop my basket and hurry to the bed where Harry sweats and groans. The hand that grasps mine is hot; when I draw my fingers across his brow, I find it fevered. Dread gathers like a handful of stones in my belly. Without relinquishing my husband’s hand, I yell over my shoulder for Ned to bring my basket.

  “There is a package of herbs,” I tell him. “Angelica, chamomile and coriander for the fever, and yarrow salve for the wound.”

  My eyes flinch from the bloodstained bindings on the injury I have not yet examined.

  He groans aloud as I draw back the covers and lift the filthy bandage. A deep, dark gash, mud and debris mixed with blood all congealing into a scab. I stare at it, transfixed by its dreadfulness, and know that we will need to tarry here at Barnet for some time.

  I lean over and sniff the wound, breathe a little easier when I find it is as yet free of taint. I bite my lip, considering how to treat it. If I probe it, try to clean it, I might just make things worse.

  After a long moment while Harry mutters and curses on the bed, I decide not to disturb the wound too much. With as little interference as I can manage, I daub some salve on a fresh bandage and dress it. Then I dose him with the fever remedy, wash some of the battle filth from his torso, cover him with clean blankets and sit down to wait for him to wake … or die, as the Lord directs.

  The longest night follows. I do not sleep but grow so tired that my tormented mind confuses me. Sometimes, I fancy I am with Edmund, my fingers entwined in Jay’s wiry coat, watching again as the plague and battle wounds take him.