She favours me, sometimes even before her close relatives, who continue to dominate the royal palace and secure for themselves the best, most prestigious appointments. Some of them are shameless in their efforts to attract the king’s favour. My motives are little different. I put myself in the way of the king and queen for the sole purpose of securing Henry a safe passage back to England, but I hope my intentions are less transparent.
Compared to the restraint of King Henry’s court, Edward’s is brash and strident, given over to pleasure. The older families, the Talbots, and the Vaughns, look down their noses at the thrusting new members at court. The displeasure on Cecily Neville’s face is eloquent, as if there is a nasty smell somewhere in the room.
This evening is no different. There are those members of the gathering who revel in the celebration, and those who clearly wish they were somewhere else. As soon as she can, the queen excuses herself, pleading a headache. The king looks up, blows her a kiss before turning back to his favourites. The last thing we hear as the doors close behind us is the laughter of Jane Shore, his favourite mistress. My back is stiff with indignation as I follow the queen to her apartment. If the king put more energy into the government of his country, and spent less time investigating the bottom of his wine cup and the intrigues beneath his mistress’s petticoats, the country would be a better place.
The next day, we are confined to the castle by a heavy fall of snow. The king, obviously suffering from the excesses of the night before, slouches on his throne. His golden face is puffy and shadowed, his outbursts of temper frequent.
Beside him, Hastings has his head close to the king’s latest fancy, Mistress Shore, who seems to be suffering no such ill effects. Jane is undoubtedly a pretty woman celebrated for her great wit. Her laughter can often be heard rising above that of the king’s, and it is not a musical gentle sound like that of Elizabeth, but a great belly laugh – a guffaw more suited to a hostelry.
The queen suffers her quietly, hoping against hope she will fast go the way of the king’s other mistresses, smuggled away to the country to give birth to a royal bastard. He usually tires of them in a few months, but so far, Jane Shore is tenacious and the king remains besotted. I have witnessed the queen’s jealousy, seen her hastily dry her eyes and don a serene smile for the sake of those watching. I am not sure I could be as controlled.
My relationship with Elizabeth perplexes me. The disdain I felt toward her when I first came to court has diminished. By living so close and witnessing her most intimate moments, I have come to know the woman beneath. Against my will, I discover similarities between us, and this endears her to me. She tries to hide her insecurities, her need to bind her husband to her but I witness it all. She has my pity and, although it hurts me to admit it, sometimes my admiration.
For all her proud, haughty manner, she is a woman like me, fighting for her place, battling to maintain her dignity, but it wins her few friends. Apart from her mother and sisters, she is quite isolated. Even I, whom she has welcomed into the bosom of her family and trusted to enter the royal nursery, am not a real friend. Pity is not liking, it is quite divorced from love, and it is not friendship that keeps me here. Every moment in her company I am aware of an ulterior motive, driving the relationship forward.
A great shout of laughter goes up; the crowd about the king explodes into applause. I look up to see a game of ninepins in progress – the king is smiling again, so it is safe to assume he is winning.
Towering above everyone else, his face is flushed, his mouth open in triumph, one arm flung casually about the plump shoulders of Jane Shore. He shouts loudly and provokingly to his opponents.
“You cannot have mastery over your king! None of you can match me!”
I shake my head in amazement and catch the eye of Jacquetta Woodville, who sits nearby. She smiles knowingly and leans back to speak to the queen who has a kerchief held to her mouth. Elizabeth closes her eyes, shakes her head.
Jacquetta sits back, looks closely at her daughter’s face. Noting the triumphant joy in her eyes, I read her lips.
“You are pregnant again.”
The knowledge sinks like a stone. Another child –and so soon! This will be … I count rapidly in my head … eight children. Elizabeth has, or will have, eight children, six of them royal, while I am blessed with only one, and he is far away.
I hate myself for the stab of unChristian envy. I bite my lip, clench my fists in my skirts until the moment passes and I can breathe again. Rising from my seat, I move to the queen’s side.
“Your Grace, you look a little pale. Would you like to retire? I am sure your mother will be happy to oversee your women for the rest of the evening.”
She lowers the kerchief and sighs with relief.
“Yes, Lady Margaret, thank you. That is very kind.”
Once in her apartments, it does not take long for her to confess her condition to me.
“I feel as sick as a dog,” she says as I help her take off her shoes and settle on the bed. “I have only felt like this four times in my life before. I will lay money on the fact I am carrying a boy.”
The envy bites deeper. If her premonition is correct, my son will be thrust a little further into obscurity. Why, oh, why must this Yorkist queen be so fruitful?
“You have barely had time to recover from last time – it is very soon …”
“Queens do not have the luxury of waiting. I must bring forth a child a year for as long as I can. The king will only be happy if I fill the royal nursery to the rafters. It is taxing, but I will do my duty – besides, I will never turn Edward from my chamber …”
She does not need to express her fear of the king growing too fond of Jane Shore. I tuck a blanket beneath her chin.
“I shall make up an infusion of ginger, Your Grace, that should settle your stomach … and,” I pause at the door. “May I offer you my good wishes on your forthcoming confinement?”
She turns her face toward me, holds out her hand and I return to the bed and take it. Her long, slim fingers clasp mine.
“I am so glad to have you as my friend, Lady Margaret, so very grateful.”
I drop to my knees and leave a Judas kiss on her knuckle.
“I am glad to be of service, Your Grace.”
May 1473
The king has been closeted with his advisors all day and the queen is growing restless. She throws down her needlework.
“Oh, what can be keeping them? They have been in conference all day, and now it is almost time to retire. He has had no supper, you may be sure.”
I look up with a ready reply, but Elizabeth Tilney forestalls me.
“Refreshments were taken into them some time ago. I saw a troop of servers leaving when I was returning from the gardens.”
“Well, at least he shall not starve.”
The queen sighs, shifts her position in her chair.
“Are you quite comfortable, Your Grace? Shall I fetch you another cushion?”
She looks up, smiles quickly.
“No, no, Lady Margaret. I am just restless … and very bored.”
I put down my work and snap my fingers to gain the minstrel’s attention.
“Play a merrier tune, the queen needs cheering.”
Immediately, he pauses in the quiet lullaby he was playing and begins a lighter yet louder melody. The mood in the room instantly lifts.
The queen’s sister, Anne, Lady Bouchier, rises from her chair. “Bess, why don’t we dance? We don’t need men, we can partner each other.”
“I am queasy.” The queen runs a hand across the globe of her belly. “But, please, you ladies go ahead. It will amuse me to watch you.”
To oblige them, I take a turn or two, but I am not a dancer. I am never sure what step comes next, always afraid I will stumble and spoil it for everyone. With relief when my turn is done, I take my place close to the queen again. She leans toward me, waves a kerchief in the direction of the women.
“I am not familiar yet
with the steps of this dance. I will have to learn it before Mistress Shore; I will not have her outshine me on the dance floor as well as in the king’s bed.”
I feel her fear. She is not so much jealous of the king as of her proper place being usurped.
“Your Grace, the king will never tire of you. Perhaps you should be glad of some respite from his attention, given your condition.”
“I would be, were it with anyone but her. There is something about her I cannot like. I do not know how Edward can trust her for she is as free with her favours as a street harlot. I have even seen her smiling and winking her eyes at my son, Thomas, and he is not yet eighteen.”
“I am surprised she dares risk the king’s anger.
I am sure he will soon tire of her, and she will be gone from court, forgotten in a moment whereas nobody is ever likely to forget you, Your Grace.”
“I am queen.” She speaks the words as if to remind herself of it, her eyes flashing around the hall to ensure there are none to gainsay it.
“And a much beloved one, too.”
We exchange smiles. I let my pity show and hope she mistakes it for love. In truth, I do not dislike her as I thought I would. I can sense her vulnerability, her lack of ease and her pretended arrogance, and I cannot help but offer what comfort I can. Elizabeth and I are akin, one to the other, and women in our position are never safe from a fall.
There are those who hate her. She may be queen, but no women, not even queens, are safe. She can never overlook the danger of her position – there are the rigours of childbirth, pestilence, and there is always the chance of a vindictive dagger concealed behind a smiling face.
I summon a boy to bring us refreshment, raise my cup to toast her health and continued happiness. I should drink to the health of her sons, but my Judas heart is too loyal to my own blood for that. Were it not for her boys, then Henry …
I thrust the thought away, take her empty cup and place it on a tray. As I do so, a door opens and the king enters. He is alone, and I notice straight away that his usually laughing face is dark with worry. The queen struggles from her chair.
“Edward, where have you been? You’ve been gone all day!”
The women drift away, taking their places in the shadows at the periphery of the room. I make myself busy plumping the cushions on the window seat and arranging the queen’s books on her favourite reading table, pausing to run my finger across the fine tooled covers. All the while, I keep one ear tuned to their conversation. I hear a word, a phrase here and there, and the name ‘Oxford’ crops up again and again. It is clear the earl must be up to his tricks again.
John de Vere is the only Lancastrian leader to persist in actively tormenting the Yorkist king. Early in Edward’s reign, he was pardoned but he defected with Warwick in ’71, finally fleeing the country after the battle at Barnet. Now, despite his actions having exposed his impoverished wife to the displeasure of the king, Oxford is not content to live in exile. He continues harassing the western coast, even when the king accuses him of piracy and puts a price on his head. I wonder what new mischief John de Vere is brewing now.
The king takes Elizabeth’s arm and guides her into her chamber, their voices rising and falling, their words indistinguishable. I hurry after them, my petticoats rustling, and reach out to draw the heavy doors closed. As I do so, I hear the king cry, “If he sets one foot in my kingdom, I will have his head!”
*
It is much later when the queen calls for my company. I slip into a loose gown and hurry to her chamber. She is seated on the edge of her bed, her hair flowing, her face pale.
“I feel queasy,” she says.
A glance around the room informs me that the king is absent. I procure her a cup of ginger and lemon to settle her stomach. She lies back on the pillows.
“The king and his men will ride away in an hour or so.”
“Why? Where are they going?”
“John de Vere launched an attack on St Osyth; he was driven off by the locals but the king is riding to defending the shore.”
She winces and rubs her hand over her belly, kicks off the blanket and shows me her swollen ankles.
“Let me rub them, Your Grace.” I take her hot feet in my cool hands and begin to gently rub as if I can dispel the poisons that have gathered there.
“Ahh, that is nice.” She lays her head down again.
“The capital is on high alert. All night, preparations have been taking place, and men are in position upon the city walls. Edward assures me we are safe.”
“Of course, we are, Your Grace.”
My soothing words are at odds with the pictures in my head. I imagine soldiers watching long into the night, or marching with their king, ready to protect the capital should they be required. Across the country, veterans are cleaning their old weapons, ready to defend us with their lives. De Vere’s insurrection will be short-lived for the king, and his most trusted lords, including my own husband, are riding to defend the shores.
Shrewsbury - June 1473
For a while, it seems as if the old uncertain days might return, but as the weeks pass without Oxford being apprehended, the king orders a siege to be laid upon St Michel’s Mount where de Vere has taken hold. He returns to London, and with his presence and a return to normality, the sense of immediate threat lessens. Although the situation is unresolved, life goes on as before. Soon, the additional guards, and the watchers at the castle gate become commonplace, and we forget it has ever been any different. It is strange how one becomes accustomed even to uncertainty.
We visit the young prince at Ludlow, and once the king and queen are satisfied that he is comfortable and well looked after, with several physicians in case of illness, the king sets off on a progress of Coventry, Kenilworth and Leicester. The queen remains behind, reluctant to leave little Edward alone in the draughty castle.
“He is too small,” she weeps, “too vulnerable,” and her tears bring memories of my own parting with Henry. My throat closes in empathy.
To appease her fears, she prevaricates; deferring her departure from the area and announcing that her household will lodge with the Dominican friars at the abbey in Shrewsbury, some thirty miles north of Ludlow. She looks around at the pretty spot, overlooking the River Severn.
“Here, I am far enough away to appease the king yet close enough should Edward need me. It is only for a little while. If I leave him by small degrees, it will not be such a wrench.”
Yet, despite her proximity, the queen continues to mourn the separation from her son. We ladies do all we can for her comfort, but it is as if she relishes the pain. Even I, who can understand her suffering better than anyone, grow impatient with her. I cannot show it. I have to hide all sign of my disdain at her behaviour. Never once in the years Henry and I have been separated have I allowed myself to wallow in grief.
With the men away, the younger ladies no longer compete for the attention of the eligible bachelors and our days pass more peaceably than before. The pile of baby linen on the table grows as we pass our time stitching earnestly for the forthcoming addition to the royal nursery.
But pregnancy is hard, even on queens, and she grows tetchy when I make myself absent, even if it is only to pray.
“Why are you always in the chapel, Margaret? Are you a great sinner that you must constantly ask for absolution? I sent a girl in search of you ages ago.”
“I pray for peace in England, Your Grace, and for an easy birthing when your time comes … and I pray for my son.”
She stares at me for a long moment before turning her head away.
“You must miss him.”
“Yes.” I bite my lip. “My son and I were forced to part far too soon. He was just a babe in arms; not even properly weaned. One does not grow accustomed to that, Your Grace. It is as if his walking-strings are stretched tight – so tight that it pains me still, even though he is almost a man now.”
“He writes to you, though? I have often seen you with a messag
e clasped to your heart. I assumed they were from him.”
“The letters cannot come often enough, not for me.”
“Perhaps he could come home … were he to make certain promises, it might be possible. I shall speak to the king.”
I will never trust Edward of York. Since the day my son landed in Brittany, he has tried to lure him to England with false promises, offering bribes for the return of Henry’s person. I have little doubt that while Edward is in power, should Henry ever set foot on England’s shore he would not remain free for long. Exile in Brittany is preferable to the inside of an English gaol, but I cannot voice that opinion here.
“Oh, Your Grace, that is my dearest wish. I long to have him in my home, help him find a good woman to take to wife, see his children, share his happiness.”
I turn away. I have revealed too much, even surprising myself as to how deeply I desire those simple things. I wipe a tear from my eye and smile sheepishly. How easily I am cheated into honesty.
The queen sighs and turns the conversation back to herself.
“I will be glad when this child is born. He kicks relentlessly, and I have another six weeks to bear it.”
“Perhaps a walk in the garden will quieten him. You should take the opportunity before your confinement begins. I always found Henry seemed more peaceful when I was active. At – at Lamphey I walked quite far and even attended to the garden for the first six months … until I was forced to leave.”
“Leave?”
She falls silent while I try to formulate the story in my head.
“Edmund was injured during a skirmish. I rode out to tend him …”
She is quiet for a long moment, her thoughts far away.
“What was he like, your first husband, Edmund Tudor? One hears such tales of him.”
I curl my fingers into a fist.
“A good man, despite the gossip. He was loyal to his king, strong principled, kind to me, and eager for the birth of his child. Fate was cruel to take him from us.”
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 18
