She is not openly shunned by the other women at court, for who would dare snub the queen? But they do resent her. Elizabeth, despite her mother’s good breeding, is inferior to the very women who now have to defer to her. She takes precedence over everyone, even the king’s mother and sisters, and it goes hard with them, their rancour obvious in their sour expressions.
In-laws are never easy, but I wonder why Elizabeth does not set out to woo their good opinion, as she has mine. Instead, she seems to rub her status in their faces and delights in getting her way with the king, especially when it goes against the desires of his mother. Cecily Neville can scarcely disguise her distaste, and neither can his sisters.
The king needs little excuse to declare a night of celebration and the wedding of his youngest, favourite brother is no exception. Richard of Gloucester has made a wise choice in the widowed daughter of the traitor, Warwick. Given her experiences, I expected Anne Neville to be hardened, but she is a small, self-effacing girl who flushes each time the king addresses her.
During his defection from York, Warwick made good use of both his daughters, using Isabel to lure George of Clarence from the king’s side, and marrying Anne to his former enemy, Edward of Lancaster, as part of his alliance with Margaret of Anjou.
Even at the time, I thought the arrangement hard on Anne, despite Lancaster having my full support. It was difficult enough for me, when I was sent into Wales to marry a stranger, but at least Edmund was on the same side. Anne was bred, almost from birth, to mistrust and detest Lancaster – it must have been unimaginably hard for her.
Perhaps her meekness is the result of her experiences. Perhaps she was once bright and bonny, but she certainly is not now. Although she has known Richard of Gloucester since her youth, she makes a silent bride. I wonder if she welcomes the union. While she and her spouse sit mutely in a place of honour at the top table, the court around them descends into depravity.
Led by his favourite, William Hastings, King Edward drinks deeply, vying with Hastings for the favours of a serving maid. The queen sits with her head high, ignoring the insult but I can sense her concealed fury. She laughs a lot, claps her hands delightedly at the tumblers, her voice high and happy as she pours golden pennies into the hands of the players. All is delightful. All is bright, yet I, a newcomer to court, can smell the rancour beneath the show.
Gloucester takes no part in the revels. I have heard he is a modest, pious man, and it seems the report is true. Usually, after a wedding, the couple are escorted to bed with bawdy jokes and a rumpus of obscenity, but tonight, when it is time for the bride and groom to retire, Gloucester curtly defies anyone to see them off to bed. Anne is glad of it, her relief written clear on her face.
They are an odd couple. Gloucester, quiet and deep; Anne, shy and closed. It is impossible to tell what either of them are thinking; whether it will be a night of passion, or a curt goodnight. My mind drifts back to the night of my wedding to Edmund, the terror of what was to come, my relief when nothing happened. I was young and Edmund allowed me time, and in the end, we were happy. I hope Anne Neville is as fortunate in her husband as I was in mine.
A great laugh issues across the hall; a laugh I recognise. I turn my head to see my husband with a servant wench balanced on his knee, his hand high up on her thigh, her head thrown back in merriment. My throat closes, not with jealousy, but with shame, both for him and for myself. Tears of humiliation stab at the back of my eye.
The queen stands. “I am tired, Lady Margaret. Come; let us leave the men to their celebrations.” I stumble after her, overwhelmed with gratitude.
Her apartment is warm and comfortable with the fire burning high, the shutters closed against the night; a haven of peace after the excesses of the hall. While I remove her headdress and begin to comb her hair, a musician strums a lute. She closes her eyes, tilts back her head.
“Your touch is so soft, Margaret, I could fall asleep.”
“I am almost done, Your Grace, if you desire to go to bed.”
“No. No, I expect the king will be some time yet.”
My face goes hot at the implication of her words but I do not let my hand falter.
“You must not let it bother you, Margaret. If I were to be upset by every slut who puts herself in the king’s way …”
“It is not that, Your Grace. I am not upset. I am … dishonoured.”
She turns suddenly on her stool, and the comb falls from my fingers.
“No; you are quite wrong. We are never dishonoured by their behaviour. They dishonour themselves. We must rise above it. Men are like … small children chasing butterflies. Once they catch them, they no longer desire them and let them fly again, tainted and spoiled. Then they come humbly back to us. It is wives that matter, not whores. Wives are never dishonoured.”
She is right. I allow myself a moment to view men from this new perspective she has shown me, and I realise how ridiculous they are.
Amusement tickles the side of my mouth. She meets my eyes in the looking glass, reads my thoughts and a tinkle of laughter floats around the chamber. The musician stumbles in his playing and looks up in surprise.
We sober slowly. I wipe a tear from my eye, suddenly serious again.
“Sir Thomas and I – we – ours is a convenient arrangement. I do not mind him taking his pleasure where he can, but I dislike seeing your royal court so sullied.”
Elizabeth shrugs. “It is the king who leads them … or, perhaps I should say, it is the king who allows Hastings to take the lead.”
“Perhaps he should be found a post far from court, where his behaviour will not matter.”
She taps her fingertip to her chin.
“Perhaps, Lady Margaret; you may be right, but I doubt my influence on the king extends to severing his ties with Hastings.”
I open my mouth to speak again but the door opens and one of the women from the prince’s nursery enters. She hesitates when she sees me, dips a clumsy curtsey to the queen.
“What is it?” Elizabeth’s face is tense, paler. I pretend to fold a wrap and put it away in the clothespress, but all the time I watch curiously.
“It is little Margaret, Your Grace. She won’t settle and I was told to ask you to come.”
Elizabeth stands up, her hair falling free to her hip. As she hurries past, I am bathed in her sweet fragrance. She pauses at the door.
“Lady Margaret, come with me.”
It is not a request. I smooth my skirts and follow her. Her legs are longer than mine, and her haste such that she soon outstrips me. She travels so quickly up the winding stairs that I am panting slightly when we reach the nursery door.
The fire is roaring, providing the main light in the room. A woman with a patch of white puke on her shoulder paces back and forth, back and forth with a bawling infant in her arms. Two small girls watch from the doorway, thumbs in their mouths. The woman turns to the queen, forgetting to curtsey, her brow creased with worry.
“I can’t make her stop, Your Grace. I have tried everything.”
“Have the physicians been summoned?”
The woman shifts the child to one arm, drags her forearm across her sweating forehead.
“They have, Your Grace, but they offered no advice I did not already know.”
The queen places a finger on her daughter’s cheek, but the child continues to scream, her face red and creased, real tears spouting.
“She’s been fed, I suppose?” the queen asks, and the nurse manages to conceal her irritation at such an inane question.
“Yes, Your Grace, and we tried her again just now.”
“Lady Margaret, what do you think? Can you help?”
I step forward reluctantly.
“I have only borne one child, Your Grace. My knowledge is not great …”
“But you know herb lore … you told me yourself.”
“I have never healed any babies, but I shall do my best.”
I feel the child’s forehead. It is hot, damp with swe
at. It might be colic, or the beginnings of a fever. “Can I take her?”
Reluctantly, the nurse passes Princess Margaret into my arms. She is tiny, almost skeletal. I tuck her into my arm and bite back the tearful memory of Henry at such an age. His infancy was such a short pleasure before he was taken from me, but I thank God he was healthy.
Margaret continues to yell. I look around for a bed, lie her down upon it and begin to loosen her swaddling.
“What are you doing?”
The queen is beside me, peering over my shoulder at her tear-drenched, snotty daughter.
“She has worked herself into a pet, Your Grace. I think she is too hot. If we loosen her bands for a while she might quieten down. It is very hot in the chamber.”
“It is.” Elizabeth signals for someone to quench the fire while I slowly untangle the child, her thrashing limbs making my task more difficult.
Unclothed, she is even smaller, her blue veins visible through transparent skin, her arms and legs like sticks.
“How old is she, Your Grace?”
“Erm. I was churched at the end of May; she must be six weeks or more.”
“Yet she has gained no fat? She feeds well?”
I address this last question to the wet nurse, who nods frantically.
“When it pleases her, but … frequently she brings back up what she has taken.”
“And does she sleep?”
“Not as much as you’d expect; she dozes in fits and starts. She cries almost every waking hour. We are at our wits end.”
I look down at the baby on the bed, and put out my hand. She grasps my finger tightly, quietens a little. She blinks and squints as her crying ceases. For many minutes, her tiny chest continues to judder with distress. Finally, she stops, and her breathing regulates. I look up at the queen.
“I think she was hot, perhaps she could be wrapped less tightly?”
Elizabeth meets my eyes. “But won’t her limbs grow misshapen?”
“I do not believe so, and if anyone is to get some rest, I think Lady Margaret’s sleep will be beneficial for all of us.”
Everyone stares down at the child as with a few whimpering sobs, she lapses into a sleep of exhaustion. I am afraid to move her now in case the wild cries begin again.
“Cover her and leave her there to sleep. Get some rest while you can and, in future, I suggest lighter wrapping, smaller but regular feeds, and maybe administer a little honey beforehand to stimulate her appetite.”
The nurse nods. The queen takes one last look at her daughter, strokes her downy hair and, beckoning me to follow, tiptoes from the room.
“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” she says as soon as we are outside the door. “You have such a way with her, such confidence. I am in your debt.”
I bow my head. “No, Your Grace. I am pleased to offer my help, although I have but little skill.”
We turn and begin to walk back toward her apartment.
“Little Margaret has had the physicians called out to her more than any of my other children. I fear for her.”
She bites her lower lip, her face quite bleak. Without thinking, I place my hand on her wrist and squeeze gently.
“I shall pray for her, Your Grace.”
December 1472
I sit in the royal nursery, where baby Margaret still clings miserably to life. I have been summoned here regularly since the day in June when I managed to soothe her.
The children are bored from being cooped up in the palace due to the heavy rain. The girls sit on the floor, threading beads onto a string, but the Prince of Wales, indifferent to his baby sister’s malady, throws a ball about the chamber, bounding after it like a puppy.
The Princess Elizabeth abandons her task and comes to watch me, as if fearful I might drop her sister. I smile, but she does not return it. Mary, who is never far from Elizabeth, follows, with Cecily close beside her, her thumb in her mouth.
“Your thumb will drop off if you keep sucking it,” I tell her and she whips it out, hides it behind her back, her eyes wide.
“No, it won’t, Cecily. That is just a tale to make you stop sucking it.”
Young Elizabeth is old for her years; she is as golden as her father, and promises to be just as tall. I am never sure whether she regards me as friend or foe, although I strive to be the former.
“But you can never be sure of that,” I tease. “Suppose Cecily dismisses my warning and wakes one day to find it has dropped onto her pillow, then you will both wish you had listened.”
A shadow falls between us and we look up to find the king has entered unawares.
“Besides,” he says, sweeping his daughter into his arms, “even if your thumb doesn’t drop off, sucking it will spoil the shape of your mouth. You would not want buck teeth – like a rabbit.”
He makes a face like a rabbit and waggles two fingers like ears behind his head. The girls collapse into giggles, Cecily wrapping her short arms around her father’s neck and planting a kiss on his nose.
“I like wabbits.”
“So do I;” the king exclaims, “but I’d not want to be one!”
He lets the child slide from his arms and turns to me.
“How is our royal babe this morning, Lady Margaret?”
I bow my head, dip my knees and look down into the child’s face.
“I wish I could say she is well, Your Grace, but she is sickly again. There always seems to be something.”
He touches her head, runs his finger across her downy hair.
“The physicians are useless. We have had the best in the land, yet she makes no improvement. One suggested it is something to do with her heart … not strong enough to …” His voice breaks, his eyes filling with tears as he clears his throat. “But please, Lady Margaret, do not mention that to the queen, I am not sure she would be able to bear it.”
His words make her infinitely more precious. I hold the child closer, place a kiss on her head, inhaling the fragrance of her hair.
“Neither could I … neither could any of us.”
He turns away, taking his time to circumnavigate the nursery, taking time to share a word or joke with each of the children. This room is the treasury of all his hopes and dreams. I curtsey as he leaves, respect fermenting reluctantly in my heart.
For the next three days, I spend every waking hour in the nursery until, almost dropping for want of sleep, the king orders me to rest. I retire gratefully to a small chamber close to the queen’s and, without removing my clothes, I curl upon a small truckle bed and fall instantly asleep.
In my dream, I am given the task of forbidding the ravens to settle on the battlements. I have a yellow cloth in my hand and each time they fly too close to the castle, I run at them, waving my flag, and shout at them to go away. They drift up in a great black cloud, their caws akin to laughter, but they do not go far. I know they will be back. I can barely stand, can wave my arms no longer, I need to rest. And then one bird, larger than the rest, defies my efforts and settles on the wall. He cocks his head and fixes me with his bright eye.
“Fool,” he says. “You cannot beat me.” At his voice, his companions cackle, their laughter high and shrill … like a woman’s scream.
I spring up in bed, flinging off the blanket. Someone is screaming. I throw open the door and rush into the queen’s chamber. Her face is white, her mouth wide open, her anguished cries, making me wince.
“Your Grace? What is the matter?” Then I see the nursery maid; she hovers by the door, tears streaking her grey face.
I shake my head from side to side. I do not want to hear it. She wipes her nose with her cuff.
“It is the baby.” Her mouth goes a funny shape, she swings her head slowly from side to side. There is no need for her to say more.
I am frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to imagine the horrid grief the queen suffers. Tears clog my eyes, pressure builds in my nose, and my throat closes with pain. No child should have to die; no parent should have to suffer this.
The queen stands unmoving in the centre of the room; no one dares approach her. Everyone is stock still, entranced by the spectacle of her grief. Forcing myself into action, I move forward and place a hand on her arm. It restores her to life; painful, unbearable life. For one short moment, she locks her wild eye on mine before thrusting me away.
Released from paralysis, she runs from the chamber, her footsteps fading as she speeds along the passages that lead to the nursery. The other women and I exchange glances, unsure if we should follow, uncertain how far we can intervene in her pain. They all look to me, electing me as their leader, but I am ill equipped to deal with this. I cannot begin to imagine what she must be feeling; if my own son were to die …
I shake my head, dispelling the thought.
“I will fetch her mother; she will know what to do.”
With a whisk of my skirts, I hurry in the queen’s wake, taking the quickest route to the apartments of Jacquetta. Her mother will know; mothers always do.
February 1473
I miss Harry. My bed seems vast and cold without the familiar body slumbering beside me, the touch of his hand on my hip. I never recognised how much his loving meant; never realised I would ever come to miss the indignity of our coupling.
It is not only when night falls that I realise his lack; I miss his conversation at supper, our strolls about the garden at dusk. I miss his friendliness, his sincerity, his – oh, I miss everything. There is no-one to advise me now. I may be married but Stanley leads his life as a single man. I live mine as a nun.
When I am away from court, despite the new furnishings, the improvements I have introduced to the solar and the gardens, I feel like a visitor in his home. He is a busy man, always away on the king’s business or in attendance on the king. As a result, when the queen requests me to return early to my duties, I am relieved to go.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 17
