Other times I am here, in the present, which is no improvement on the past. Reality stabs, a sharp reminder that I am losing my husband, my Harry who has become my dearest love.
For hours, I watch. I bathe his forehead, I pour fever remedy between his parched lips, moisten his tongue with water. And all the while, I pray to the good Lord to spare him.
It is a little after dawn when the fire slumps suddenly in the grate and I waken. My neck is stiff where my head has lolled forward. I wipe a trickle of drool from my chin and lean closer to the bed. Harry is sleeping, peacefully it seems, and my dread lessens, just a little.
I cool his brow, moisten his tongue again. The medicine is all but depleted, and I have a dire need to use the chamber pot. I rise quietly and tiptoe from the room.
When I return, for want of something to distract me, I begin to tidy up. I throw the filthy bandage onto the fire, add more wood and agitate the dying embers into flame. Then I gather the pots and phials and pile them anyhow into my basket. I am gently straightening Harry’s blankets when I become aware of his eyes upon me, eyes that are calm and clear.
“Harry!”
He fumbles for my fingers, clamps them hard in his palm.
“Where did you go? I thought …” Sickness has reduced his voice to a croak, and his head lolls against his pillow. His eyes close again.
Stroking back his thin hair, I watch him relapse into sleep, but his breath is regular now, his colour returning to normal.
I shut my eyes and send up a silent whisper of gratitude, for my prayers have been answered.
Early May 1471
Early in May, Harry is drawn home to Woking on a litter. The skin on his face is sore, peeling off like flakes of ancient whitewash, his pallor like parchment, the tremor in his hands that of an old man. I ride beside him, trying to distract him from the pain of travel with light merry conversation. It is a strain I gladly relinquish when he falls into a swoon-like slumber. Thereafter we travel in silence, only Ned breaking the peace from time to time to point out a pothole in the road, or to alert me to a fallen branch.
While my life with Harry teeters on the brink of tragedy, the battle for the crown continues. I play no part in it now; I no longer favour either side. My only concern is for Harry.
Thankfully, the journey is not a long one and we arrive home on the fifth day of May. My first thought is one of surprise to find the fruit trees are blossoming in the garden. I had not noticed the season turn; for once, I have not waited and watched for the first green leaf of spring.
I order that Harry be taken straight to his chamber where his bed has been made ready. Then, as soon as I have refreshed myself, I go to the still-room to prepare fresh remedies. I find comfort in the order there. The shelves are replete with jars and bottles, and the hanging racks are full of drying flowers that still bear the hint of last summer’s fragrance.
Selecting an array of jars, I hurry back to Harry’s chamber. I am contemplating another peep beneath his bandages when Ned appears. He hesitates at the door, shifting from one foot to the other. I know he has news to impart, and by his face I can tell it will not necessarily be welcome.
As I draw close, I notice a letter in his hand. He holds it out and, with dread looming, I wipe my hand on my apron and take it from him.
Close by the fire where the light is better, I force myself to understand the words that seem to float about the page. I frown, bite my lip as phrases like ‘report the death’, ‘ultimate defeat’ and ‘Lancaster vanquished’ rise up in a tide of despair.
I plump suddenly into a chair.
As the news seeps into my mind, the world around me turns black. I stare into the hearth. There is darkness in the depths of the flames, darkness and ice that burns like the devil in my heart.
I will never again speak the word ‘Tewkesbury’ in anything louder than a whisper. My hand shakes as I re-read the slaughter that is written there. The scribe’s pen describes an army in disarray; men fleeing for their lives, some drowning as they fought to cross the river. Two thousand Lancastrians slaughtered, our leaders dragged from sanctuary on the king’s orders to be cut down in the marketplace.
The abbey and churchyard at Tewkesbury Abbey are forever tainted with the sins of York – that vain and glorious golden prince. My heart sickens; the taste of vomit is on my tongue. Somerset is dead; our prince of Lancaster has been butchered, our queen taken prisoner, and derision heaped upon her grieving head.
Tears fall upon my hands and my shoulders shake, my heart is as hard and heavy as a leaden ball. Something touches my shoulder and I look up into Ned’s stricken face. My heart leaps as he slowly offers me a second letter.
The seal is already broken but I do not question it. I close my eyes and hold my breath as I seek the strength to read. I know without being told that the news is bad.
Sickness consumes me. I turn away and retch into the hearth. Ned’s hand is upon my back, gently rubbing. I stand up, and his hand falls away. Our eyes meet, his own horror echoing mine.
“Not the king … not that poor harmless man … oh Ned, this world is too cruel …”
He offers me a cup but I shake my head, close my eyes as the image of my good cousin, the lonely, bewildered king – the rightful king of England – faces his enemies alone in the Tower.
“They are saying he died of melancholy …”
“Melancholy!” I spit the word, the taste of hatred bitter on my tongue. “Our king died of York’s voracity, York’s lust for power. By Christ, I hope I live to witness the day God wreaks His revenge upon that man … King Henry was a saintly soul … untouched by sin … how could they?”
I sit down suddenly onto the settle. My face falls into my hands as grief takes me. The only sound in the room is the sorrow that rakes my soul.
Ned’s comforting hand remains on my shoulder. I turn my head slightly and notice how grimy his fingernails are.
“Take heart, lady,” he says. “At least Jasper is safe. We can fight again …”
“Fight for whom? We have no leader now …” But then something shifts in my mind and realisation dawns. Lancaster still has a leader. My despair lightens, just a little. We are not vanquished yet … not until the last day, when the last man falls.
October 1471
It is the darkest summer I can remember. Although the sun shines, the flowers bloom, the birds procreate and sing their gayest song, my heart is bleak, and the future bleaker still.
In just one year, everything has changed, and our security has plummeted. Our king has been murdered, my Beaufort cousins are dead, our cause lost. Any thought of coming to terms with the Yorkist king has flown. In the gloomy days after Tewkesbury, Jasper, who failed to reach the battle in time, turns tail and flees back to Wales, collecting my son and taking the boy into exile in France, out of the reach of the vengeful king of York.
I feel as if my heart has been torn from my body, my lungs perforated. Only grief remains. When word comes that they have been blown off course and arrive instead on the shores of Brittany, I bid them stay there.
Trust no one (I write) especially Edward of York. Never be tempted to return, my son, never try to make terms with that man, never agree to a betrothal with his daughter. He will stoop to any level to trap you into returning to these shores but pay no heed. Our day will come again …
Thereafter, I walk in shadow. With no hope of seeing Henry, my future without him is as bleak as the emptiest wasteland. At dusk, I stand atop the highest tower, looking without seeing, into the darkness.
“I don’t believe a woman has ever been more desolate,” I murmur to myself, taking some comfort that my situation cannot become any worse.
Then I hear a hesitant step behind me and I turn to find my woman, Elizabeth Denham there. She hesitates, afraid to come forward but the look on her face gives the lie to my last thought.
“My lady,” she says at last, “I think you should come … it is Sir Harry …”
*
As soon as I see him, I know there is nothing to be done. I can only ease his passing. He holds my hand as he slips away. I stroke his limp white fingers and watch as his breath slows, and the rattle in his throat obliterates every other sound.
I am destined to be left behind, to mourn, to lose or be parted from the people I love. Perhaps I am cursed; perhaps I should love no more. Perhaps my future lies in a nunnery – I could make my vow to God and retire from this dreadful world, surrounding myself with prayer.
The sound of Harry’s breathing halts. Slowly, I raise my head and see that he has gone. My throat closes with pain and a tear drops from the end of my nose. As I look upon his beloved face, the burning spear of grief plunges deep into my chest … and remains there.
There is no more Margaret.
Life has beaten her.
Part Two
Lady Stanley
Le Ryall, London - May 1472
For a little while, I am quite mad with grief. Unable to take control of the simplest of matters, I leave all arrangements to Reginald Bray, whose silent capability provides me with the luxury of total despair.
I pray all day and all night, but God is slow to send relief. Why? Why does he take everyone I love? My husbands, my son, my king?
I am alone. My marriage bed is empty once again, and Harry is no more. How can so much warmth and love become nothing but a corpse in a winding sheet? Where does all that vitality go? His death defeats me. I feel betrayed, routed.
*
I cannot be sure what instinct draws me to my mother’s house but within a few weeks of Harry’s death, I find myself here. Mother has changed, grown older, less preoccupied, more inclined to listen until I have reached the end of my sentence.
She does not judge my long absence, does not question my unannounced visit. Calmly, she orders her servants to make ready the guest apartments, and does not bat an eyelid at the extensive household staff I bring with me. I have been cared for by Reginald Bray, Ned, and my chief women, Jane and the two Elizabeths, for too long to do without them now.
Mother’s parlour is dimly lit and stifling hot, yet she clutches a shawl about her chest as if the day is freezing. I can feel my cheeks glowing in the heat of the flames, and discreetly move to a chair a little farther from the hearth.
“What will you do with yourself now, Margaret … once you have had time to grieve?”
I have been here for less than a week; her words suggest she has already had enough of my dismal company.
“It is not yet six months since I lost Harry. I have not given it much thought, Mother.”
She plucks a handful of nuts from a bowl and pops a few into her mouth, chewing carefully before speaking.
“Well, you should think about it. A woman in your position will not be left in peace for long. Your fortune and title will soon bring the wolves down from the hills.”
The shadows lighten a little as the sun peeks from beneath the white blanket of cloud. I can see her face, drawn and lined, her eyes watching in anticipation of my reply. She is right, of course. In this world of power hungry men, my fortune will outweigh my barren state and allow me little respite from suitors. If I am not careful, the king will sell my hand to his nearest and dearest.
I have no desire to be wed into the Woodville family – not that there are many left unwed. As soon as she was made queen, Elizabeth Woodville secured the most profitable alliances available for her relatives. Many eyebrows were raised when the marriage was announced between her twenty-year-old brother John and the elderly Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. No doubt the old lady was happy enough to trade her social standing for the pleasure of a handsome young man at her board. Despite the horrified gossip of my mother’s friends, I cannot image they also share a marriage bed.
So, whom should I marry? Marriage is not something I relish. I have been lucky twice – such fortune is not likely to fall on me again. I will never replace Harry, I know that, but even so, there are few to choose from. I have been so long away from court that I am acquainted with few eligible men, and so many have perished in the wars. The thought of an alliance with a brute or a bully shrinks my courage. I push the idea away, yet it might be best to appear to contemplate it. I raise my eyes from my lap.
“It is too soon to even contemplate marriage yet, Mother, but ... if I were to remarry, where would you advise me to cast my eye?”
She straightens in her chair, clutching her shawl tighter. Mother is good at match-making; she studies the marriage market as I study herb lore and Latin. I am confident she will suggest only a good, lucrative match.
If I must link my life to a man, then I fancy a widower, an old fellow who might endow a large legacy; an ageing soul long past any hopes of an heir. Since a child is out of the question, I will never again go willingly into a man’s bed – and I will never love again.
Mother taps her chin with her forefinger as she consults a mental list of eligible men.
“You need someone powerful in his own right; someone with influence at court. You have been away for too long; it is time you stopped pining over your lost son and made your mark on the world. No more second born sons for you …”
“Henry isn’t lost, Mother; he will never be lost. I will fight to my last breath to make it safe for him to come home.”
“Then you need a man who will assist you, a man with the king’s trust …”
“Or someone strong enough to overthrow him …”
Silence pulses in my ears. My hand falls like a clamp across my mouth. My last words are astounding, even to me. Until I spoke the words, I had not realised such a thing was in my mind.
Mother clears her throat, breaking the silence.
“Yes, well, as I said, I will give it some thought.”
“Very well, but please, Mother, if I have to share my life with a stranger, at least let him be tolerable. Do not saddle me with a monster.”
“Do not be too squeamish, daughter,” she laughs, and with a wry smile I rise from my chair, her gentle chuckles following me to the door.
Any thoughts of loving the Yorkist king or his low-born wife died a violent death when King Henry was murdered. During the days that follow, treasonous thoughts continue to dance in the wings of my mind.
England is run by murderous traitors; if only there was a way to depose them. Why should a Beaufort not take his turn at wearing the crown? At least my son would not sully himself with rascals and strumpets as Edward does.
But since Elizabeth produced a son, Edward walks with more confidence. He sits securely on the throne now, he is unshakeable. The people love him, and the old king is all but forgotten, by everyone but me.
As I go about my duties, helping mother’s women in the still-room, receiving guests, consulting with Reginald Bray as to the drawing of my will, my inner thoughts linger on Edward’s right to the throne he has stolen. I flirt precariously with treason.
I have had much time for reflection lately. Hard as it is to think of it, I keep returning to my widowed state. I am not yet thirty yet have married three times; one annulment and twice being widowed. I wonder if I am cursed, or if God is punishing me for some long-forgotten sin. I pray almost constantly. Even when I am not in the chapel, a prayer for guidance chants in my head. If ever I needed direction, it is now.
I know I must consider another match, but I do not want another husband. I had not relished the idea of marriage to Harry before I met him, but as luck would have it, he was a worthy man, and it was a good and happy match. I pray it might be so again, although in truth I hold little hope of it.
Master Bray helps me draw up a will. With some defiance against this unknown man I am to marry, I make my wish clear that I am to be buried with Edmund, the father of my son. I arrange for his body be brought from Grey Friars to Bourne Abbey, so that, when the far off day comes, I may be interred with him. I also bid Master Bray to speak to my trustees, to arrange a sum of monies from my own estates be set aside for Henry.
With so much death
around me, who knows what would become of him were he to be left motherless. Should he ever wish to return to England, he will need the funds to do so and I cannot forever guarantee that I will be here. With a shiver of foreboding, I sign the papers providing him with independence; it is all I can do.
These maudlin thoughts of my own death send me to the chapel even more frequently than is my usual habit. Mother complains that I am growing pale and wan.
“You will never catch a man if you don’t get a little colour in your cheeks,” she says. To appease her, I pray early, take a long walk in the garden before dinner, and another before bed. The long hours of exercise bring the required roses to my face, but also leave me exhausted.
One afternoon when I return from a walk, I find mother entertaining a gentleman in her private parlour. This in itself is unusual, since guests are usually greeted in the great hall. I pause on the threshold, and they both turn, their faces opening in greeting. I curtsey before moving forward to join them at the solar. Mother bustles to meet me, places a hand on my arm.
“Sir Thomas, you know my daughter, Margaret?”
He bows elegantly, takes my hand and leaves his greeting upon my wrist.
“Sir Thomas,” I murmur, and as the first stirrings of suspicion bubble in my belly, I wish I had thought to wear a better gown. As we take our seats, I tuck my workaday shoes out of sight beneath my skirts.
“Lady Margaret, I have heard so much about you. You are a scholar, and something of a healer, so I’ve heard.”
His eyebrows are raised, waiting for my reply. I am aware of mother watching us. She is tense, expectant. I catch her eye and her expression of innocence informs me that Sir Thomas Stanley has indeed come here today as a suitor.
I put on my best smile and, trying to forget that I am small and plain, I adopt the air of a graceful lady.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 15
