As Christmas approaches, I prepare for another season without my son. I am to spend the holy day at court but, with the help of Reginald Bray, I ensure that my affairs at Woking and my other holdings are in order. I make provision so that they celebrate the Yule as fully as if I were present, but they have no real need of me. My husband will be, as always, at court, on hand for the king, and the queen has specifically requested that I attend her.
I have not yet decided if she shows me such favour because she values me as a person, or if she prefers to keep those she mistrusts within arm’s length. I suspect the latter for, were I in her position, I would keep my enemies close, and confuse them with my kindness.
Five days before Christmas and the day is cold, a hard frost solidifying the winter mire and making the roads treacherous. I have just returned from a walk and am about to climb the hall stairs when I hear someone call my name. I turn, my face breaking into a smile when I recognise the figure dismounting from a tired horse.
Ned stands tall before me and, for the first time, I realise he is a man now. Although I should treat him as such, I am so pleased to see his familiar face that, breaking convention, I grasp both his hands and invite him straight to the apartments I share with Thomas.
He reaches out to the blazing fire before gratefully accepting the mulled wine I offer. He cups it as if it is a handful of gold. While he sips, his usual colour returns to his face, and I begin to plague him with questions. The letter he bears is from Myfanwy who, never sure where she may find me, directs all her messages to Woking.
She sends seasonal greetings and thanks for the package I sent a month or so ago. She tells me of her daughters’ delight at their gifts, and thanks me for my generosity. Well aware that I could be far more generous, I frown a little.
It is my greatest regret that I cannot invite her into my household, but I know, without asking, that Thomas would never countenance it. I may be as independent as it is possible for a wife to be, but there are limits.
One day, I tell myself, I will visit her in person and we will spend a whole summer reliving the past, pretending the present has never come. But for now, I must be content with a misspelled letter, and the provincial-style kerchief she has sewn for my New Year’s gift.
Her daughters must be well-grown by now, and she will soon be casting about for likely husbands for them. Under usual circumstances, it is easy to secure a decent marriage for the bastard child of an earl, but when that earl is wanted for treason and living in exile, that task becomes more difficult. I make up my mind to do what I can to help. Myfanwy was there for me when I needed her most, it is the least I can do to return the favour.
Ned sits forward in his seat, waiting for me to break from my reverie, his face earnest for news.
“Have you news from my Lord Pembroke, and Henry?”
Grateful for the chance to give full rein to the pride I have for my son, I reach for Jasper’s latest letter and read it aloud. The firelight dances on Ned’s face, once or twice he laughs, the sound reminding me of harsher days; days that, with the passage of time, somehow now seem rosy.
In hindsight, it is clear to see that for all the suffering and hardship of my early years, my friends made up for it. They kept me safe, kept me warm. Now, in these uncertain days, in this lonely place, unsure of whom to trust, although materially richer, I am somehow colder and almost entirely bereft of love.
*
The hall is set for Christmas Eve and the royal children are overflowing with excitement. Even the little ones will be allowed to attend the feast. A great Yule log burns in the hearth, the tables are laid, the gleaming plates interlaced with ropes of greenery, berries of holly and mistletoe glistening in the light of a thousand candles.
We enter the hall where I look down upon the lower tables. They are already full, a host of glowing faces cheering as we take our places on the dais. The children exclaim with delight at the festive array, even the castle dogs are wagging their tails, tongues lolling benignly.
The hall is so warm, so inviting, it reminds me of the Christmastides of my youth; those happy days at Bletsoe before I was parted from my siblings. I remember my mother smiling at the head of the table, our stepfather paying too much attention to his wine cup. We were so secure, so smug in our safe little world. None of us could ever have guessed that our king would one day be murdered, his throne passed so completely into the hands of York. Suddenly, I feel alien, an interloper at an enemy feast.
My stepfather’s ghost seems to rise before me now, accusing me of dining with his foe. How can I have forsaken the cause of Lancaster when my own son is the head of that fallen house? I have forsaken his future, and taken the easy route by seeking service to the wife of a usurping king.
“Lady Margaret, are you quite well?”
I shake my head, dispelling the dismal thoughts, and find Princess Elizabeth waiting for me to move so she may take her seat beside her father.
I step back at once. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I was day dreaming.”
“I know. Were you seeing demons? Our nurse says you can always tell by a person’s face if they are, and you looked quite horror struck.”
“No, no. I was just hoping my son is having such a good time.”
“Your son; Henry, isn’t it? I hope he is. Everyone should be happy at Christmas, don’t you think?”
With Mary and Cecily close behind, Elizabeth takes her place beside the king, tugging at her father’s sleeve for his attention.
The royal children are given too much licence. At least in public they should show deference to their parents, but King Edward openly encourages them, roaring with laughter at their misdemeanours instead of offering a reprimand.
Halfway through the first course, the king stands suddenly and demands we all drink to the health of his brother, Gloucester, whose wife has this year been brought to bed of a son, named in the king’s honour.
We all raise our glasses and drink obediently, waiting for the king to raise the next toast, which we know without being told will be for the health of his other nephew, the newly-born son of George of Clarence.
As he orders his glass be refilled, the babble of voices resumes, masking the opening of the door. When a messenger stumbles forward and kneels before the high table, we are all taken by surprise.
The king’s empty cup is still raised when all heads turn toward the travel-stained boy. He does not smile as he holds out the rolled parchment. Slowly, the king moistens his lips and reaches out to take it.
The king puts down his cup, breaks the seal. The court watches as Edward turns pale, an effigy of himself, the parchment in his hand trembling slightly.
He runs a hand across his face before he looks up, his eyes searching out and finding those of his mother, Cecily. When he speaks, his quiet words reach every corner of the hall.
“It is from George. His wife … Isabel, has died …God rest her soul.”
As if in sympathy, the candles flicker at the in drawn breath of the courtiers. Isabel gave birth to her child in October last. We had all assumed she was churched, and had resumed her place in the household by now.
My thoughts turn straightway to her children, Margaret and Edward, who will now grow up without a mother; and little Richard, who will now be forced to suckle more than just nourishment from the teat of a stranger.
Isabel’s mother who, since Warwick’s defection, has been stripped of her vast inheritance, lands and possessions, and who has taken refuge at Beaulieu Abbey, will be further bereft, her future starker now with the loss of her daughter.
The news dampens our celebration. We continue with the meal but few of us have the appetite, and the musicians tune their instruments to a more sombre melody. There can be no more gaiety, for everyone knows full well that any sign of levity will be taken by George as disrespect. George is like a serpent beneath a rock, nobody wants to poke sticks at him; least of all the king.
A few moments ago, the company was gay. The children addressed their trenchers wit
h glee, and spoke excitedly of the mummery to follow. Now we eat in silence.
Little Cecily puts down her spoon.
“When will the pageant begin?” she asks, her voice intrusive in the quiet solemnity of the hall.
The king does not seem to hear, his thoughts are far away, and he chews his food as if it tastes of ashes. Princess Cecily pulls impatiently at his sleeve.
“Father, Father; when are the tumblers to begin?”
Edward thumps his fist on the board and leaps to his feet, turning on his beloved child as if she has a dagger to his back.
“There will be no fucking tumblers! Not now …”
A short shocked silence and then Cecily’s face crumples, and she falls backwards into her chair. The king storms from the hall, leaving us strangled into silence.
*
“Why was Father so angry?” Cecily asks, as her nurse leads her to bed.
“Bless me, child, I don’t know. I wasn’t even there.”
I watch them go, absentmindedly folding the strewn clothing, although it is not my place to do so. I find my hands will not be still but search for a task to distract me. Realising I should be with the queen, I turn on my heel and hurry to her apartment with Cecily’s question still burning my ears.
Why was he so angry? Women die in childbed every day; there is nothing strange about it. Nothing to be so furious about.
The look on his face when he stormed from the hall made it quite clear that something about this death has unsettled him. As if he is in possession of some secret knowledge we do not share.
The queen is not in her chamber, where a few women loiter in case they should be summoned.
“Where is the queen?”
“She is with the king, Lady Margaret. They are … having a discussion …”
She nods pointedly toward the door. I cock my ear and, although I cannot hear their words, the tone of their voices is sharp and edged with fear. It is none of my business so I quietly withdraw.
“I will retire. Should the queen request my presence, come and inform me at once.”
“I will do, Lady Margaret. I wish you good night.”
Gratefully, I hurry to my chamber, the thought of my high warm bed welcome after the travails of the day. I embrace the idea of solitude and before I even reach the door have made up my mind to dismiss my women as soon as I am disrobed.
A peaceful evening with my books, some quiet prayer and contemplation is all I desire. When I enter my chamber and find my husband sprawled in my favourite chair, a cup of my best Madeira in his fist, it is no welcome surprise.
“Ah, there you are,” he says, as if his presence in my private quarters is an everyday occurrence. “Bit of a shock, the king turning on little Cecily like that.”
“Yes, she was quite distraught. It took a long time to get her settled.”
I draw off my gloves, throw them on the table.
“Lord knows what will happen now.” Thomas yawns, revealing a yellow tongue. He never does take enough rhubarb. “But you can expect Clarence to see his wife’s death as a personal affront.”
“There is something … different about Clarence. As if he isn’t of the same mould as his brothers …”
“A bastard, you mean? That label is usually applied to his brother, but you would be wiser not to speak of it.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that. I was merely observing that he seems to feel himself to be … lacking somehow. His behaviour is that of a man who has something to prove. The king, and even Gloucester, have no such insecurity. Clarence reminds me of a child in the nursery, jealous of his other siblings – always trying to prove he can jump higher, run faster, shoot straighter … you know what I mean.”
Thomas frowns, looks at me through his heavy eyebrows.
“You’re an odd one, Margaret. I am never quite sure of your meaning.”
“I speak plainly.”
“Maybe, my dear, but not in any language I know.”
How I long for the meaningful conversations I shared with Edmund, and Harry. Thomas is shallow, one dimensional, and sometimes I wonder how he has risen so high.
“What did you want, anyway, Thomas? I am tired and eager to retire.”
“I want to know what the queen said about it. She must have spoken to the king. I will be better placed if I know his mood.”
“They were still closeted when I left her apartments. She will call if she needs me.”
“Hmm …”
“What is it? What is so troubling?”
“You know Clarence is the hub of the rumours against the king? You know how he covets his power, thinks he should be on the throne in Edward’s place?”
“Well, it is not something I have taken seriously … nobody would fight for George.”
Thomas leans forward, his face suddenly dark, and lowers his voice to a whisper, sending shivers through my body.
“George knows that, and so seeks other ways.”
I lean closer.
“What ways? What do you mean?”
“Wait and see.” Thomas places a finger alongside his nose. “Wait and see. I suspect things are about to happen, and I would advise you to watch and listen when you attend on the queen. See if she will confide in you, and then let me know.”
“About what? Why are you being so mysterious?”
He stands up, tugs the bottom of his doublet.
“Because, Margaret, I value my neck, and you should value yours.”
For once, Thomas is right. Things do indeed begin to happen. Within a few weeks of Isabel’s death, her poor baby son, Richard, follows her to the grave.
George kicks out against it, setting up a hue and cry of conspiracy and poison. He does not stop to think what would be achieved by the murder of a sweet young woman and an innocent babe.
George has always been the thorn in Edward’s flesh; the trouble maker. George is the one who whispers damaging slander against the king. If anyone should be dispensed with, it is George himself.
January – June 1477
A year has passed; a terrible year for the king, and one he clearly saw coming. Within a month of Isabel’s death, George dispenses with mourning and pesters for a marriage with Mary of Burgundy. The king closes his ears to the plea, just as he pretends deafness to many other of George’s requests.
Isabel’s death seems to have destroyed the last vestige of reason George possessed. He speaks openly against the queen and her family, and the persistent rumour of the king’s bastardy is easily traced back to him. I cannot help but admire the way proud Cecily keeps her head high as her favourite son drags her name through the mud. She quietly entreats the king to show his brother leniency, while the queen argues that a wise man would cut off the foot that plagues him.
“It is clear that Clarence was behind Oxford’s rebellion; that alone is reason enough! And look at the things he accuses me of – hanging is too good for him! ” The queen rages, careless of who should hear, and I think she is right. For the sake of their position, for the future security of her children, she is right to plea for the destruction of Clarence, who has always been her enemy.
The king resists. He is torn. With love in his heart for both his brother and his mother, he turns the other cheek, offers leniency in exchange for loyalty. But still, Clarence does not listen.
In May, the court is startled to learn that George, still convinced of Isabel’s murder, has ordered the arrest, trial and execution of two people in his employ. Ankarette Twynyho, one of Isabel’s women, is accused of having used poison against her mistress. George hangs her, and a man blamed of murdering his new born son hangs with her.
Clearly, Clarence is insane. He accuses the king of using witchcraft to rule England, of using magic against his enemies. And he declares Queen Elizabeth to be the foulest witch. Jacquetta, who well remembers the days when Warwick levelled such a crime against her, turns pale and wrings her hands but her daughter grows angry.
I am morbidly curious, and cannot help bu
t watch the queen closely. She is shaken, consumed with hatred for her brother-in-law; and who can blame her? Filled with fear for the safety of her children, she renews her efforts to persuade the king to be rid of his brother. Yet the king bears with Clarence, patiently making excuses, assuring her that time will heal the breach. George will recover from his malady, and all will be well again.
Even her forthcoming child does not take the queen’s mind from the threat posed by her brother-in-law.
“What will he accuse us of next?” she wails. I urge her to stop thinking of it for the sake of the child in her womb, but she is consumed by her hatred of George. She speaks of him day and night, constantly urging the king to act before it is too late.
On a snowy day in early spring, she gives birth to a boy, whom despite the current ill will, the king desires to name George. Elizabeth swears it is to honour our patron saint, St George, but we all suspect differently. It is the king’s way of reminding the queen that George of Clarence is, despite his behaviour, the king’s brother. Blood is blood, whether Clarence believes it or not.
In June, Clarence, made irate by what he sees as injustices against him, breaks into a council meeting, protesting against the king, and declaring him unfit to rule. At this outward breach of loyalty, Edward’s patience wears too thin and he orders Clarence’s arrest and committal to the Tower of London.
A charge is drawn up against him, accusing him of plotting to usurp the throne and do damage to the king and his family. Everyone holds their breath and waits. The sentence of death is inevitable.
January -1478
The only relief from the darkness surrounding the king and his brothers is the preparations that are under way for the wedding of my favourite royal child. At just four years old, Richard of Shrewsbury is to be joined in matrimony with the five-year-old heiress of the Norfolk estates, Anne Mowbray.
The royal tailors are summoned to measure the fast-growing boy for new clothes, and of course, his sisters must be suitably attired too.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 20
