“I would not go so far as to name myself a healer, Sir Thomas, but I confess I do have some skill with herbs. I attend personally to the health of my household. As to being a scholar, well … I can read and make sense of the philosophers, and I have some Greek and Latin, of course.”
I ensure my smile hovers on my lips as he makes reply.
“Then, you know more than I, Madam, but what good is philosophy to a soldier? I have no need of it on the battleground.”
From what I have heard, the skills of both Stanley brothers lie more in evading battle than valour on the field. I link my fingers in my lap.
“Some would say that life itself is a battle, and the rules apply equally. One must know one’s friends … and one’s enemies, of course …”
“Ha! I sense a ready wit, Madam, but it is lost on me. Battle is about strategy, cunning …” He turns to my mother. “Very fine malmsey, Lady Margaret, you must give me the name of your vintner.”
I keep my eyes lowered, realising I have displeased him already. Mother turns all her charm on Sir Thomas and, casting a warning frown in my direction, suggests a stroll about the garden.
As we meander through the straggling flowers, I resist the urge to untangle the roses from the passionate embrace of bindweed, pluck ragwort from beneath the hedge. My mother is unconcerned about her gardens and allows her gardeners to grow lazy; to her, it is a place to exercise the dog, or send the grandchildren when they grow too rowdy for the parlour.
Sir Thomas monopolises the conversation, which consists mostly of self-praise. He rambles on about his inherited Barony, and titular title of the King of Mann, an honour that nowadays is as empty as a drunkard’s flagon.
He boasts of his vast estates, his fine string of horses; his wine cellar, his recent appointment as steward of the king’s household. I perceive him to be a windbag, an empty, vain cockerel crowing of his assets. In terms of manliness, compared to Edmund he is nothing. In terms of honour, next to Harry he is a villain. I like him not, but … he does have the ear of the king. He is strong, he commands a great army. He is in ascendance at court, and could protect me … but is he manageable? Would his bullish ways crush me, and force me into compliance? Or could I persuade him, tease him round to my way of thinking?
It is clear he will not be ruled by feminine wiles, but since I lack those accomplishments, this bothers me little. I must look for other ways; find a chink within his armour that will allow me to quietly rule him. I need him to help me bring Henry home … the other matter can wait.
He continues to dominate the conversation until a cloud hurries in to cover the sun. He looks anxiously at the sky.
“Looks like rain,” he says. “I must take my leave before you ladies suffer a soaking.”
With promises to visit again soon, he bends over my hand, his lips this time touching the skin on my wrist. When he straightens up, he fixes me with his eye and deep within them, I detect approval. Somehow, I have managed to please him; it can only be that he has mistaken my silence for interest. While I have been inwardly yawning, he has believed me spellbound. Perhaps his vanity will provide the way forward. Is it possible to guide him with flattery?
June 1472
Thomas and I are wed at his holding, Knowsley Hall, in Lancashire. The gossips mutter at the haste, complaining that poor Harry has not yet been dead a year. They do not consider my vulnerability. If I do not act quickly and make my own choice of husband, I could find myself married off to a fortune-hunter on some whim of the king.
I may not greatly like Thomas, and there is little chance of us discovering love within our marriage, but our mutual need binds us. In exchange for the prestige of my name, and a lifetime’s interest in my properties, he offers me protection, and a boost to my annual income. Most of all, I hope against hope, he will secure me a position at court.
King Edward places his trust in Thomas, but I am increasingly hopeful that my husband’s loyalties are not set in stone. It is only two years since he welcomed back my cousin, King Henry, during his brief readeption. Now, in word and action, Thomas declares wholeheartedly for York, but I cannot help but wonder where his loyalties, if he has any, really lie.
Time will tell.
Since Edward’s victorious return, Thomas has done all in his power to win back his trust and the Stanleys’ strong northern power base is essential to any king. Without their support, Edward knows he cannot survive. I watch and I listen, and the longer I am in my husband’s company, the better I come to know him.
We spend our first summer quietly at his holding at Lathom in Lancashire. While my personal staff organise the chambers set aside for me, Thomas guides me around the warren of rooms, apologising for the draughts, the damp, and the lack of facilities.
“I have great plans for this place,” he says, looking around dispiritedly at the chamber we are to share. “It will be done some day, probably when I am in my dotage.”
“It is very nice,” I lie, “very comfortable.”
His roar of laughter surprises me.
“How will I ever believe a word you say now?” he splutters. I feel my face grow pink, unsure how to respond at being caught out in a mistruth.
“I was only trying to be polite.”
“Relax, Margaret.” His hand falls heavy on my shoulder. “I am not going to eat you. You may do as you please, think as you please, as long as it brings no trouble on my head. You need not fear that I will bother you for the delights of your body either. I have heirs enough to please a king, and I fancy you not at all.”
My face grows hotter as fury gathers in my heart. My fists clench, and I close my lips tight against a rude tirade. I have no desire to lie with him, but … to be told … so directly, that I hold no attraction for him is like a blow to the face. I am offended that he does not wish to share my bed.
For a few moments I am paralysed by his insult. Frozen with indecision, I stare at him until his smirking, coarse face clarifies the matter, and I remember how much I dislike him. I am far, far better than he is.
“Good,” I say, looking him squarely in the eye. “I have no wish to lie with you either. I am tired now. Ask my women to come and help me disrobe. I am in need of a long sleep.”
I sit on the bed, bouncing on the mattress to test the softness. My shoes are tight. I kick them off, lift my skirts and begin to roll down my stockings to let him see what he can never have. His eyes linger on my naked legs as I flex my feet and wiggle my toes.
“Ooh, I need new shoes; these ones have been made too small.”
He hesitates, looks at me sideways. For a moment I think he is about to speak, but he thinks better of it and stomps away. He throws open the door, bellowing for my women and, when he is gone, I clench my fist and vent my fury on his musty pillows.
I learn afterwards that he spends the night, and every night thereafter, in a guest chamber, and good riddance to him. In the morning, I dress my best and greet him cordially before embarking as I mean to go on – as mistress of his household.
As he promised, my husband gives me a free hand to organise the domestic matters, and from his manner I glean that he approves of the new furnishings I bring in, and the changes I propose to the gardens.
I have no idea how my husband occupies his days. As Reginald Bray and I spend hours taking care of my own estates, we also keep check that the alterations taking place at Woking are progressing well.
Thomas and I seldom meet during the day-to-day running of the household, and when we do, our conversation is polite and cold. Before the summer is out, we have come to an understanding – we both share a common cause, the desire for mutual promotion beneath the rule of York, but there are boundaries and we both know where they lie.
In September, we plan to travel to his holdings at Chester and Harwarden, and thereafter to London and the royal court. I waste no time in ordering velvet, some gorgeous tawny-coloured chamlet for a new kirtle, and fur to trim my winter gowns. I also purchase new harness for my favourit
e horse, so I may travel in style and comfort.
My excitement at finally being welcomed at court is so great I can scarcely conceal it, but I am determined not to appear gauche before my husband. When Thomas discusses it, I pretend indifference; on one occasion, I even yawn behind my hand. Only my women, Elizabeth and Jane, know the fever with which I plan my wardrobe.
This is my chance to make an impression on the king and queen, and secure a position in the royal household. I practice my deportment, which is already perfect. I work on my curtsey until, to the amusement of my women, I can manage to show deference with a cup of wine balanced on my head.
Mother always said that the condition of one’s petticoats reflects in one’s deportment. “It is a matter of confidence,” she said and it is a lesson I have never forgotten. One should strive to be as flawless as possible, like a precious jewel. From the skin out, I must be perfect.
Each afternoon, my women and I embroider embellishments on my shifts, even though nobody but myself and the laundry maids will ever set eyes upon them. My kirtle and petticoats are new, and my shift and stockings of the finest silk. I am ready; as perfect as it is possible for me to be.
It has been dry for weeks, but now the spell of summer weather has broken. On the morning that Thomas and I ride to Westminster, a steady rain falls, blanketing the world in a veil of light mist. In the court apartments allocated to us, my ladies tut as they flick moisture from my hair, and offer me a soft cloth to dry my face. I stand before the hearth and take refreshment with my clothes steaming.
My skirts are damp, my fingers chilled from holding the reins. I wish now I had agreed to travel by litter, for it will take an age for my clothes to dry. Thomas removes his dripping cloak and pours himself a cup of wine.
“You look fine, Margaret. How can you bear them fussing you like that?”
I wave my women away, and take the cup he offers.
“I just want to look my best.”
Thomas is a man. He is tall and imposing to look at. He will never understand the insecurities of being only five feet tall. Everyone, even juvenile boys, looks down upon me, even though I am their superior in age, status and intellect. I live in the constant fear of being told to go and stand with the children. I refuse to let this make me feel inferior, constantly reminding myself of who I am, where I came from … and where I am going.
The wine is thick and fruity on my tongue. Unlike my husband, I drink sparingly, unwilling to greet the king and queen with a light head. I frown as he pours another glass and tips it down his throat. He smacks his lips, sets the cup on the table and grins at me defiantly.
“Come then, Madam, are you ready?”
Stifling my annoyance, I take his arm, loop my train about my wrist, and allow him to lead me through the halls of the palace to the presence chamber. Guards snap to attention as we draw near, someone throws open the doors, and our names are called.
On the dais, the king of York waits with his queen, their children prominently displayed around them. Their heads are high, their eyes welcoming yet wary; the perfect portrait of a royal family.
A victorious king and his fertile queen, together with three perfect golden princesses, political pawns in the marriage game, and the jewel in their crown; little Edward, Prince of Wales. Another child, a girl of just a few months old, remains in the nursery. With a deep breath I bury my envy, and greet them with a deferent smile.
Prince Edward is only two years old, but he will soon be sent from the comfort of the royal nursery and the doting company of his sisters to his own establishment at Ludlow on the Welsh border. The queen will then learn what it means to be parted from a beloved son.
At least she has the compensation of other boys; two sons from her first marriage, Richard and Thomas Grey. She also has a riot of little girls.
In Wales, the prince will be cared for by the queen’s brother Anthony, Earl Rivers, and he, together with my husband’s brother, William, will head the prince’s royal council. It is a great honour for William to be chosen and, since Thomas and his brother are close, the honour of one reflects well upon the other.
We draw closer to the dais, prostrate ourselves before them. My damp skirts spread around me, the weight of my headdress resisting as I strive to bend my head. Beside me, Thomas’s breath labours as he forces his large frame into submission. He suppresses a belch.
“Lady Margaret, My Lord Stanley, we are glad to welcome you to our court on such a dismal day.” The king snaps his fingers for wine and a page goes running.
Thomas and I straighten up, my eyes meeting those of the queen. Her lips tilt into a smile, increasing her already radiant beauty. She murmurs a greeting and holds out her hand so that I might kiss it. While I do so, I strain my ears to hear Thomas’s conversation with the king. The queen’s voice intrudes, her questions falling thick and fast.
“My brother tells me it is a beastly day, Lady Margaret. I hope you didn’t get too wet.”
“Only my cloak, Your Grace. I came properly prepared.”
Why can I not admit to a soaking? It is no dishonour. I begin to worry she will notice the hem of my gown is damp, and catch me out in my futile lie. I must do all in my power to appear honest.
“Well,” I add, before she can speak again, “perhaps my skirts did get a little damp.”
“Our English rain respects no one, no matter our rank. Tell me, Lady Margaret, I have heard you are very learned in healing, give me your judgement on my Cecily’s rash. The royal physician says it is nothing; do you agree?”
She beckons a child forward and the girl daws back her sleeve to show me a cluster of red spots on her inner elbow, some of them raw and weepy.
“Have you been scratching them?” I ask.
She pulls a face. “They are itchy.”
“I agree with the physician, Your Grace, and suspect it is nothing serious but I can make up a salve that should soothe it as well as preventing her from scratching and making it sore.”
“That is good of you. My mother said you would know.”
Jacquetta, Duchess of Bedford, hovers behind the queen’s chair. We bow our heads in cool acknowledgement.
“I knew your mother, Lady Margaret. We were very good friends at one time. I hope she is well.”
That was before the feuding. Before the wars came, when Lancaster was in control, and she and my mother were prominent members in the household of Margaret of Anjou.
I smile warmly.
“I am glad to see you here, Your Grace.” I bow my head and when I raise it again, I notice her eyes are soft with friendship.
Of the three of the women gathered here, Jacquetta has perhaps suffered the most. When Warwick fell foul of the king and fled overseas, the queen took sanctuary with her children at Westminster. I was exiled in Wales, where I lost a husband and came close to losing my son. But Jacquetta bore the brunt of Warwick’s hatred for the entire Woodville family.
After he ordered the execution of her husband and son, he accused Jacquetta of witchcraft. The thought of such a thing strikes terror into every woman’s heart. During the French wars, it was Jacquetta’s first husband who ordered the burning of the Maid of Orleans. The experience touched all women deeply, for every one of us knew the Maid was no witch. And later, well – none of us can forget Eleanor of Cobham …
When it was Jacquetta’s turn to be accused, all minds turned to the Maid and Eleanor, and the roaring of the hungry flames grew loud in all ears.
Jacquetta was taken from her home, kept in chains, away from the world. Her daughter, the fallen queen, was unable to countermand it. Specious evidence was raised against her, her trial set to follow. How she must have trembled in those dark, forsaken days. How she must have despaired.
Looking at her now, I detect the shadow of that time, lurking deep within her eyes. Every one of us gathered here is marked by the trials of our past, but the stain of Warwick’s accusation will never leave her – no matter how hard she scrubs at it.
Elizabeth is secure again. She has borne an heir, York will never fall now, and even I can see a way forward beginning to emerge. But Jacquetta is marked, the accusation against her indelible; witchcraft is a slur that sticks, and she of all people cannot forget the consequences.
The queen rises suddenly from her chair, pulling me from reverie.
“Come, Lady Margaret, walk with me. I have been sitting too long. You can tell me what herbs make up this soothing ointment of yours. I am sure we will have it in the physic garden.”
She takes my arm and, her tall elegant frame dwarfing mine, we parade around the hall as if we are the best of friends. Her conversation consists largely of gossip, sometimes she even speaks behind her hand so that those nearby may not hear. I answer yay or nay as required, aware that Thomas and the king are watching every step we take.
She is fragrant and amusing. I am almost charmed, and certainly jealous of the way fortune smiles upon her. What I wouldn’t give to be her. She is pretty, queen of all England, married to a powerful man whose royal nursery she has filled with children. Her future is assured, her destiny unblemished.
Who would not want to be her?
Yet, although she is surrounded by women, she seems lonely - isolated. The noble women of England despise her for her common blood; they are waiting for her to trip up, to reveal a dirty petticoat. I feel the stirring of pity, remembering my early days in Wales when I was a foreigner in a strange land.
Elizabeth is no foreigner, but she is set apart from the noble women of England who form a faction of contempt against her. Even so, I am suspicious of her friendship. She is warm where I had expected hostility; she is candid where I had expected deceit.
Her reception has unbalanced me. I came here prepared as to how to behave, but now … I am unsure. I can hardly refuse her company, and she does not seem so bad. All I can do is follow her lead.
*
Within weeks, I am firmly ensconced in the royal court. The queen includes me in every event, invites me to the nursery to admire her son, and consults me on everything from which shade of silk suits her best to the suitability of the royal nursemaid. I can detect no rancour, no duplicity, just a genuine need to be liked.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 16
