The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  I realise I have spoken too sharply, but she lets it pass.

  “Yet … he got you with child when you were but half grown. That must have been hard …”

  Heat rushes to my head, my cheeks begin to burn. Her sympathy comes too late. Edmund was slain by the henchmen of her husband. I can only be honest.

  “I did not find it so, Your Grace. Not after the first few times … as I said, he was a good man, a good husband. I was content to do my duty.”

  “We must all do that.” She stares pensively into the fire.

  “Yes, we must, no matter how discomforting it may be.”

  She stretches, places both hands on her belly. I can see the movement of the child through the thin stuff of her gown.

  “If only it wasn’t so damnably hot.”

  “The weeks will pass quickly. Once the child is here, your confinement will be as nothing.”

  In a few days, the queen will take to her apartments. The rooms will be sealed, no male visitors admitted, not even the king. For the sake of the child, she will be allowed no stimulation – all will be tranquil, all will be calm. She will not be permitted to lay her eye on anything violent, anything cruel, even the tapestries in her chamber will show floral scenes of peace. It was very different for me.

  I wonder how the turmoil I suffered prior to Henry’s birth affected him. The wild ride to Carmarthen, my overriding grief at Edmund’s death, the wilder journey to Pembroke, the discomforts of the cramped quarters provided for us. It should never have been so. He should have been brought forth with honour in a palace, not torn from my body in a frigid, damp fortress. There was no velvet-draped crib awaiting Henry – he made do with a rough wooden cot hammered together by the castle carpenters. He is my only child, the culmination of all my passion … he deserved more, so much more.

  By August, the wet summer gives way to extreme temperatures, and the queen’s apartments become stifling. Even though sleep is impossible, I am relieved I do not have to attend her at night.

  The room I have been allocated is small. I do not share the old belief that night air is harmful – if that were the case, we would all have perished long ago. I throw open the windows and sleep beneath just one thin sheet. It is pleasant to wake in the morning to the scents of summer, and hear birdsong float in through the open casement.

  In the morning, after I have seen to my toilette and visited the chapel, I report to the queen. She is tetchy today, and before noon has reduced her sister to tears and threatened to send half her ladies back to London.

  To distract her, I show her the tiny cap I have fashioned for the new prince; an elaborate embroidered scrap of silk dressed with swansdown. She takes it, runs a long fingertip over the feathery surface and holds it to her cheek, testing the softness and inhaling the scent of lavender.

  “How lovely, Lady Margaret. I pray even more earnestly for a son now, so that he shall wear it.”

  Her mother turns from the window to cast her critical eye over it.

  “Very fine,” she says. “I never realised you were so skilled. You always seem to have your nose in a book.”

  I smile my bland smile.

  “Books are invaluable for learning, but I have other pleasures too. I like to garden, and as you know, have some proficiency in herb lore – embroidery is not my first love but my mother was keen to ensure I was endowed with all the skills necessary for a woman of my station. She was keen to secure me a good husband.”

  “How is your mother? I heard she was ailing.”

  “Her letters speak of some improvement. I think she will be up and about again by now.”

  Jacquetta bows her head stiffly.

  “You must send her my regards.”

  “I will indeed …”

  A sound from the queen cuts my words short. Jacquetta and I both turn toward her. She is bent forward, a hand to her side, her lips parted, a sheen of sweat on her high clear forehead.

  “Your Grace …” I hurry to her side, supporting her elbow, helping her to sit again.

  “I am all right. I got up too quickly, that is all, I think.”

  “I will fetch something to ease you …” I am about to the leave the room when she clutches my arm.

  “No, please, Margaret, you stay. Send someone else, the pain is beginning again. I think it is the child …”

  After three hours of watching her struggle, I begin to think it is easier to labour oneself than to witness suffering in another. The royal physician has been sent for, but the labour appears to be swift and sharp. There is nothing more I can do to ease her, but she seems to think I have some magic, some supernatural skill to erase the pain. She clings to my arm, begging me to help her, swearing her child will die if I refuse.

  My belly dips; I am in a cleft stick. Should I administer pain relief or not? If she loses this child, blame may be laid upon me, and if I refuse to dose her, she will berate me for insolence when she recovers. Desperately, I face her mother.

  “Did she suffer like this in her previous confinements? Is there something wrong?”

  I have overseen few pregnancies, and have never claimed expertise. Her mother snorts, flicks her eyes heavenward. She takes my arm, leads me away, out of earshot of the queen.

  “My daughter is not as stout of heart as she would have you believe. She makes a song and dance of every birthing – in a day, she will have forgotten it. Let us just bring this child forth safely. Leave her to the midwives, I say.”

  But the queen will not hear of my leaving. She refuses to release my hand. I sit beside her while she all but breaks my fingers. While the midwife presses her knees apart, I keep my eyes upon her face, from which all beauty has fled.

  She is pale, a sheen of sweat covering her body, her hair darkened and damp, and there is blood on her lip where she has bitten it in her travail. With my free hand, I take a sponge and try to cool her brow, murmuring comfort.

  “The head is crowning,” the midwife announces. “You can push now, Your Grace. When the next pain comes, push with all your strength.”

  Elizabeth raises her knees to her chest, grits her teeth and bears down with a great scream of determination. I watch in wonder at the animalistic nature of birth as our usually serene queen grimaces like a monkey, baring her teeth in her effort to rid herself of her burden.

  A minute of straining, yet still it is not over. When the pain lessens, she flops back on the pillows. I dribble water between her lips, stroke her hair from her face.

  “You are doing well, Your Grace, your son will soon be here.”

  It has been hours now and her strength is failing. She pushes the cup away, spilling liquid on the bed, grabs her knees and begins to push again.

  “It’s now or never, my lady…” The midwife, with a look of helplessness, reaches forward, places her fingers about the child’s head. The queen screams again, bares her teeth, strains with all her might and, with a gush of water, the head is born.

  “Don’t push for a minute, just pant, if you can, Your Grace, while I deal with this cord.”

  The queen glares at me with wild eyes as she puffs and pants. Later, when she recalls it, she will resent me for witnessing her indignity.

  The midwife straightens up with a groan, a hand to her back.

  “Very well, Madam, you can go again.”

  The queen raises her knees, blows out her cheeks and strains; I cannot help but look toward her nethers to see the bulging, bloodied head of the infant as it thrusts into the world. The child falls onto the sheet, floppy and wet, like something washed in from the ocean. While the queen falls backwards onto the bed, everyone fusses around the infant. The midwife rubs it vigorously with a towel. Then I hear the sound of flesh on flesh, a hiccup and a lusty cry.

  I grab the queen’s hand, excited beyond measure, despite myself.

  “The child lives, Your Grace, and oh … oh, it is a boy, just as you said it would be!”

  Laughing and crying, I take the child from the midwife, place my lips upon
his damp hair, and pass the prince into his mother’s arms. As I relinquish him into her care, pain stirs deep in my heart.

  Windsor - autumn 1475

  The letter I hold in my hand fills me with terror. While I have been here, ingratiating myself with the king and queen, my son has been in peril. How could I not have sensed it? With shaking hands, I cast my eyes over Henry’s quickly scrawled message.

  Do not worry, mother, should a rumour reach you of my capture by the emissaries sent by Edward. When Duke Francis assured me that it was safe for me to leave exile and be joined in matrimony with the Princess Elizabeth, some strange precognition warned me against it. Although I had little option but to go with them, I could hear your words of warning, and those of Jasper too. I sensed it was a trap, and knew that if I set foot on the ship I would be in Edward’s hands, and that he would show me no mercy.

  As we neared St Malo, I feigned sickness, obliging my escort to allow me some respite. Fortunately, in the meantime, Duke Francis remembered his oath to keep me safe and reconsidered his dubious dealings with England. He sent M. Pierre Landais to intercept us and stop the ship from embarking. He escorted me to the sanctuary of a nearby church where I was ‘nursed back to health.’ The ambassadors, irate that we proved so elusive, tried to lure me from sanctuary but Landais refused, and the people of the town came out in force, protecting me from English ire. I am in their debt. I have no doubt King Edward’s fury will be great, and I hope it does not reflect on you. I am watched now, every waking hour, and I cannot allow myself to trust anyone. But the main thing is, I am safe, Mother, and you need not fear …

  I need have no fear? Henry and Jasper are now at the chateau l’Hermine, virtual prisoners, valuable pawns in the politics of kings. They are hounded by Edward’s thugs, at the mercy of spies and scoundrels. Yet he tells me to have no fear. Oh Henry, you have no idea what it means to be a mother, when every moment is an anxious one.

  I haunt the palace chapel, beseeching God and all his saints to keep them both safe; to calm the rocky ocean that is Edward’s reign and bring us all safely to shore.

  Windsor - October 1476

  The royal children are practising a song to amuse the king. Their voices are strident rather than melodic, but the queen seems satisfied. To her, as with any mother, each one is an angel and they are certainly angelic in appearance.

  Little Richard, whose birth I oversaw three years ago, is as plump and pink as the cherubs in the cathedral, but when it comes to behaviour, the likeness is less apparent. He is naughty, spending every waking moment in search of mischief, and if he does not go looking for it, then it seems to come to him. And, of course, being the only boy in the company of girls, he can do no wrong. He is pampered, spoiled and made over-much of, and I am as guilty of this as any one.

  After his birth, the queen returned straight to the king’s bed and as a result, there is a new baby already in the royal cradle. The latest child is a girl they named Anne. She is pink and perfect, and very content, but since those days at Shrewsbury, when I helped Elizabeth latch him to her breast, Richard has held a special place in my heart.

  Of course, he comes nowhere close to the love I have for Henry, but although I grumble when he misbehaves, I am never really too busy to tell him a story or play ‘peepo’ from behind my psalter. Sometimes, I forget that my friendship with the king’s family is supposed to be feigned, and have to remind myself that these people stand between me and my heart’s desire.

  The song dwindles to a tuneless end and the queen sits up and claps delightedly.

  “Oh, Lady Margaret, wasn’t that fine? The king will be delighted.”

  Young Elizabeth detaches herself from the children and comes to her mother.

  “I would like to sing on my own, I am too old to sing with the children.”

  The queen’s laughter tinkles.

  “You are seven years old, Bess. There will be time for you to grow up, but it is not yet.”

  Bess proves her mother’s words by lowering her chin to her chest and pouting. The queen and I exchange glances, trying not to laugh.

  “Our prince is lucky to have a big sister to look up to,” I say, trying to lift her spirits. “Such bonds are never broken. I myself came from a big family; my little brother John and I …” My words trail off as I remember my brother can never enjoy his barony because his father was attainted for fighting against the king. The damned struggle for the crown continues to stain everything, even now we are all at peace.

  “Bess, go ask the nurse to fetch the children’s wraps, you should all take some air before it grows dark.” She rises from her seat. “There is nothing like a little fresh air to help a child sleep, Lady Margaret.”

  I collect a shawl and hurry downstairs ahead of the children. As I turn the corner at the bottom, I run headlong into a tall figure. Drawing hastily away, I stammer an apology and look up into the face of the king’s brother.

  “A thousand pardons, Lady Margaret.” He bows mockingly, a smile on his face that speaks of false admiration, intrigue. He takes my hand and draws me closer, laying his lips upon it. “A happy meeting,” he slurs, swamping me with the aroma of stale wine.

  “My Lord of Clarence. Please forgive me, I am on an errand for the queen.”

  He steps aside, sweeps another bow.

  “Then I shall not keep you, but I live in the hope that our next meeting will not be long away.”

  I do not trust George of Clarence. He smiles when there is nothing to smile about, laughs when nothing is funny. I know instinctively that his bonhomie is false, and each word he speaks is perjury.

  Since he betrayed the king by siding with Warwick and fell out with Gloucester over Warwick’s daughters, there are few who trust him. He is a dangerous friend. There are whispers that even now he plots against the king. The old rumour that the king is the result of Cecily Neville’s illicit affair with a French archer will not die down, and we all know it is Clarence who keeps it alive.

  We at court see little of his wife, Isabel, who, after giving George a daughter in ’73 and a son in February last, is now soon to bring forth another child. Without her steadying influence, George grows ever more ungovernable. We all watch, and wonder at the king’s patience.

  The king’s younger brother, Richard of Gloucester, is seldom at court. His duties keep him in the north of England, where he and Anne Neville rule in Edward’s stead. The king, who sees nothing worth having north of the Humber, is happy for them to do so. The trust he places in his youngest brother, and the responsibilities entrusted to him, damage his relations with Clarence even further.

  I wrap my shawl tighter about my chest, watching as George saunters away. Then I open the doors into the queen’s private garden. A boy is at work, clipping the grass around the foot of the fountain. At my nod, he abandons his task and makes himself scarce. Five minutes later, when the queen and the children tumble into the open air, the garden is deserted.

  The girls fan out like brightly-coloured ribbons tossed into the air. As is his habit, Richard heads straight to the fountain, climbs up to splash his fingers in the water, wetting his velvet sleeve.

  “Oh, Richard, look, now you are wet. You will get cold.”

  As I wag his hands in the air to dry them, his fat baby laugh tugs at my heart. I haul him onto my knee and attempt to dry his fingers with my kerchief. Of all the York children, I love Richard the best. Before I let him go, I place a surreptitious kiss on the side of his head, and watch as he runs from me, his blond head nodding among the last of the marguerites.

  The queen and I, with her ladies just behind, stroll amid the flowers until a messenger arrives. He catches up with us, makes his bow and offers me a package. Quickly, I scan the salutation and my heart leaps; it is from Henry. I glance at the queen, who smiles her permission for me to retire.

  I do not return to my chamber but find a quiet spot in an arbour before I tear open the seal. Henry’s handwriting is small and full of loops, the words close to
gether as if he is afraid they may run away with him should he give them full rein. I bring the page close to my face as I drink in every word. He is well, he seems happy, and he sends me his love and respect.

  A second letter from Jasper informs me that Henry’s health is good. He is excelling in his martial training, and has recently become friends with a young woman. That news halts me in my tracks with a twinge of jealousy.

  Henry is nineteen; of course, there will be women. I close my eyes, try to imagine his face, superimposing a beard on the well-remembered silken cheeks of the child I knew. I fail dreadfully, summoning a mask more suitable for the visage of a mummer. I must ask that a likeness be made of him, so that I can carry it with me always.

  The letter leaves me sad. Henry’s childhood has passed, I shared so little of it, and now I must remain here while his adulthood passes too. Since we were parted, my life and my happiness have been on hold, but I have always been certain of our eventual reunion. But, as I sit here with his letter in my hand, my faith in that reunion dwindles with the dying of the day.

  A footstep sounds on the path before me. I look up, leap to my feet, dabbing my eye with the corner of my glove.

  “Your Grace. I am finished now.”

  I thrust the letters into my pocket and join her for the remainder of her walk. With every step, I can feel the edge of the parchment against my leg, the crackle of Henry’s absence reminding me of who it is that keeps us apart.

  That evening, word comes that Isabel Neville, lying at Tewkesbury, has borne a son whom they have named Richard. I wonder at the irony of this. Perhaps it is some joke, George and Isabel’s eldest son is named Edward for the king, but everyone knows there is no love lost between George and his brother, Richard of Gloucester.

  December 1476