The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  “Will I like having a wife?” Richard asks, and everyone laughs; everyone but me, who remembers too well what it is to be a child about to be joined in marriage. Ignoring the laughter, I stroke his silken hair.

  “Do not worry, Richard. Your marriage will make no difference to you just yet. You will remain here with your sisters. You will not live together until you are a man grown.”

  He turns his solemn eyes upon me, a tremulous smile on his lips.

  “And just think,” I add, with a burst of inspiration, “you will have a lovely set of new clothes, a banquet in your honour, and next week there will be a joust.”

  “A joust,” he cries, leaping up and grabbing his wooden sword. “I wish I could fight in a joust. I will one day, won’t I, Mother?”

  “You will indeed, my little one,” she answers, without looking up from the letter she is writing.

  He accompanies his sisters back to the nursery in a happier frame of mind, and I turn my thoughts back to my needle. The last row of stitches is not as neat as those that precede it and I wonder if I should unpick them or leave it as it is. Imperfection in a piece of art is a virtue, for only God is without flaws.

  Against the glorious backdrop of the royal wedding, the shadow of Clarence lingers. The hour of his death cannot be far away but the king delays, postponing the evil moment, denying all argument, even when his brother, Gloucester, travels from Yorkshire to dissuade him.

  It is a long while since I have seen Anne Neville. She rides through the palace gate at her husband’s side, looking about her with wide eyes. She is slight of frame, mousy in colouring, and it is easy to see she is also gentle natured, a curious partner for the battle hardened duke.

  Their dress is sumptuous, their manners impeccable yet something sets them apart from us. Perhaps it is their seclusion in Yorkshire that makes them mawkish, out of step with the rest of the royal court; yet it is not that, it is more a sense of disapproval, a sense of disdain, as if they are somehow superior.

  At the evening revel, Gloucester’s displeasure with the queen and her family is plain to see, and the antics of the tumblers seem not to please him at all.

  The duke takes no part when the men grow riotous. Both he and his wife drink sparingly, choose little from the extravagant dishes set before them. Anne eats like a little bird, tasting this, tasting that, rinsing her fingers in the bowl before partaking of her wine.

  When she catches me watching, her face floods with colour, but she smiles a greeting and I decide she may not be as arrogant as she seems. No doubt she is merely missing her home and her infant son. I can understand that.

  Her husband, on the other hand, offers a curt greeting and turns rudely away as if I am of no account. When I complain of it to the queen, she laughs derisively.

  “Why would he show you favour when he is openly hostile to me, his queen, and all my family? I cannot bear Gloucester. He is little better than his felon of a brother.”

  “I wonder what he has said to the king … about Clarence’s incarceration, I mean. I can sense his anger, and there seems to be no pleasure for him at court.”

  The queen leans toward me, speaks into my ear.

  “Everyone knows he has come here only to beg leniency for Clarence. He has no care for weddings, royal or not; but he is a fool to argue against Clarence’s sentence. Has he not realised that with Clarence’s demise and attainder, the entire Warwick estates will become his? Once I thought he only craved power – it is a family failing, after all; each one of them hungry for wealth and position. But perhaps I was wrong and family loyalty does have a place in his heart …”

  I raise my eyebrows. The queen could be speaking of her own family, who fight tooth and nail for the slightest preferment. Can she be so blind to their failings?

  While Gloucester broods about the palace and the queen prepares for her son’s wedding, I think often of Clarence who has languished so long in the Tower. How dismal his days must be; how long, tiresome and dark the nights. Pray God I am never imprisoned. If the king would treat his own blood so, how heavily his displeasure would fall upon an enemy.

  Since Jasper and Henry landed in Brittany all those years ago, King Edward has done all he can to lure them into a trap. He craves the added security of having my son in his possession. He has offered rewards, tried to bribe the king of France, but each time, so far, we have evaded his attempts.

  The incarceration of Clarence illustrates quite plainly that I must put aside my dreams of ever welcoming my son home while Edward of York is on the throne. Despite my longing to see him, I know it is not safe, and hope the queen has forgotten her promise to speak to the king on our behalf.

  Westminster Abbey – 15th January 1478

  No attempt has been made to disguise the king’s greed. Such a fuss seems wasted on two children, yet for all their youth, Richard of Shrewsbury and Anne Mowbray become significant figures on their wedding day.

  The sudden death of the Duke of Norfolk two years ago left Anne heiress to an immense fortune. Unable, as a female, to inherit the title of duke, Anne instead became ‘Countess of Norfolk’ and the ward of the king himself.

  Usually, her hand would be given to the highest bidder, but King Edward desires the spoils for himself, or for his son, Richard.

  A mere betrothal was not good enough. Eager to secure her monies and titles once and for all, the king insisted on a full-blown marriage ceremony, and by the look on his face, he does not seem at all perturbed by the transparency of his motives.

  Everyone gathers for the royal wedding. Earls, dukes, foreign dignitaries … all of us crammed into Westminster Abbey to celebrate the political union of two small children. Outside, the people of London line the streets, and inside, the crush is such that the people at the back surely cannot see.

  I stand between Jacquetta Woodville and Cecily Neville; all three of us surreptitiously from time to time take our kerchiefs to dab our damp faces, for the heat in the crush is unbearable.

  The queen looks on proudly, a slight smile on her lips, her eyes every so often filling with tears that do not fall. For hours we stand. A few places down from the queen, Princess Mary shifts restlessly from foot to foot, but Elizabeth is as straight and motionless as her mother.

  For the first time, I have the leisure to observe them side by side. They are not at all alike. The queen is slim and golden haired; her daughter Elizabeth, still with the plumpness of youth, is rosier of complexion, more like her father, the king, than her mother. Yet I detect a shared determination and resilience, and a disregard for public opinion.

  Little Anne Mowbray has been reminded time and time again not on any account to put her thumb in her mouth during the ceremony, but several times during the interminable marriage rite I notice it creep back. Every so often she remembers and whips it out, looking around, fearful that somebody has noticed. As time drags on, her eyes grow heavy; she shifts from foot to foot, rubs her nose and sighs heavily.

  Beside her, Richard stands with one hand resting proudly on the hilt of the ceremonial sword at his hip. His eyes travel around the nave, hesitate when they meet mine. I see them crinkle into a smile, and feel as proud as if he were my own. Later, I shall delight him and his little bride with made-up tales about the triumph of their wedding day.

  At long last, the ceremony draws to a close. Richard and Anne are man and wife – a union assailable only by death. All of us, even the heartiest, are weary, yet many more hours of feasting still lie ahead.

  As we take our places in the hall, the chatter rises to a babble of noise. The musicians, in an attempt to be heard, play louder. I have no stomach for the rich fare but I enjoy the pageants; or at least, I enjoy the pleasure the diminutive bride and groom take in the proceedings. They lean forward, clap their hands, their faces alive with joy in the ridiculousness of the juggling tumblers.

  When the dancing begins, the king and queen outshine us all, and I have to confess they are perfect in the role. Old King Henry and Margaret, a
s much as I loved them, never held the court in such thrall as Edward and Elizabeth do. While I admire the daintiness of their steps, I almost forget that there is more to a monarch than bonhomie and elegance. There are rules that even kings must follow; political decisions and foreign diplomacy should be first and foremost. But, as always with this king, pleasure is paramount and the banquet lasts long into the night.

  Gifts are laid at the newlyweds’ feet and their health is drunk, the cheers shivering the rafters of the roof. The infant bride and groom grow weary, spilling wine down their costly velvet and knuckling their eyes, made tearful by the need for sleep.

  When the queen finally signals to their nurse and they are ushered to the nursery, Richard pauses at the door. He has done well today. Tentatively, I raise my hand, and flutter my fingers. Noticing my salute, he sends me a goodnight smile.

  With the children out of the way, the festivities become more disorderly. The king is quite obviously in his cups, his voice rising loudly above the hubbub, his laughter shared by many, but not by all.

  Gloucester, seated opposite me, watches the proceedings darkly, his wife hiding a yawn behind her hand. Everyone is tiring, our finery wilting, our carefully applied grace sagging, yet our king does not tire. He calls for more wine, raising toast after toast, drinking to everyone’s health; his cheeks ruddy and his doublet open to the waist.

  Jane Shore, as uproarious as her monarch, leans over him. He slides an arm about her waist as she whispers something in his ear that makes them both throw back their heads, mouths open, their shrieks reaching far across the hall.

  I turn toward a sudden movement to my right and notice Gloucester whispering something furiously into his wife’s ear. He rises from his seat but she grabs his sleeve, dragging him back down beside her. I watch the mummery of their silent disagreement, until, throwing off her constraining hands, Gloucester gets up and fights his way through the crowd surrounding the king’s chair.

  The king pushes Jane away and throws a drunken arm about his brother’s shoulder, his smile of welcome fading to disappointment at Richard’s whispered words. Edward shakes his head, his joy dissipating. He puts down his cup. I read his lips.

  “It is too late.”

  Gloucester’s face could be set in stone as the brothers share a long, fury-filled look. I hold my breath, wishing I were closer that I may hear their words.

  What is too late? What has happened to upset Gloucester now?

  In Edward’s early days as king, the two brothers were united, Gloucester as loyal as a brother can be, but his dislike for the queen and her prestige-hungry family came between them. As soon as he secured Anne Neville as his wife, the pair seldom came to court, preferring their refuge in the north. Always loyal, Richard kept silent, hiding his distrust of the queen, careful to show respect when duty demanded it. The dispute with France a few years ago, and the ignoble treaty the king agreed to at Picquigny in ’75, strained his loyalty even further. The breach widened, yet their love endured. On his recent return, I saw how gladly Edward received his brother, yet clearly, Gloucester is not reassured by his visit at all.

  As I watch, the king’s face infuses with blood, their faces contrasting sharply as Gloucester’s pallor deepens. They stare at each other, Edward silently daring Richard to speak.

  Gloucester’s anger and disappointment is contained in his curled fists, his words clamped tight behind compressed lips. I would give up my back teeth to hear their words, and know the reason for the dispute.

  As other people in the hall begin to notice the discord, the chatter lessens and all heads turn toward the dais in time to witness Gloucester shrug off the king’s placating arm. Ignoring the ceremony due to the king, the duke storms from the hall. Beneath the eye of the assembly Anne also stands, makes a shaky curtsey to the royal table and patters in her husband’s wake.

  That night, the queen dismisses me early. In the small room adjoining her chamber, I listen to the rise and fall of her and Edward’s angry voices; I would give all I have to clearly discern their words. There is something going on that I am not party too, some secret worry they share.

  As I stare into the dark, trying to calculate what it might be, my eyes grow heavy and I realise it is very late. I roll onto my belly, put my head beneath the blankets and force my mind to ignore the thoughts that plague me.

  I wake again at dawn, as is my unbreakable habit. Heavy-eyed, I make my way to chapel, pausing at the window to look into the courtyard below, where a cavalcade prepares to leave. Curiosity piqued, I peer closer through the gloom. Richard of Gloucester, dressed in travelling clothes, takes a lingering look at the king’s apartment window before turning to help his wife into a litter. The Duke and Duchess of Gloucester are returning to the north.

  “They didn’t even bid goodbye to the king,” the queen complains as I assist at her toilette. “But good riddance, I say. They can take their long, displeasing faces back to Yorkshire. I don’t want them cluttering up our court.”

  Spring 1478

  The English court is made up of light and darkness. Shortly after the grandiose celebration of the royal wedding, comes a scandal that reveals the house of York in a loathsome light.

  In February, we learn that the king has at last carried out his threat, and George of Clarence has been put to death in his cell at the Tower. When I first hear whispered details of his end, I am dubious. I cannot comprehend that the king should stoop to so dishonourable a thing. Tales of such ignominy always pass swiftly into public knowledge, and within days, rumour is rife about the court.

  Clarence, like his brother the king, was always too fond of wine. It seems that the day before he was to die he asked the king to send him a butt or two of malmsey to ease him. The king, in his kindness, complied.

  The next morning, when the men arrived to carry out the sentence, they found Clarence drunk – obnoxiously so. He greeted them with curses, struggled against them when they tried to quiet him, and his feeble quest for life degenerated into a drunken brawl.

  Rumour has it, that he was stabbed. He fought back until overwhelmed and finally drowned in the last dregs of the one remaining butt of malmsey wine.

  A scandalous death for anyone, let alone a duke and the brother of a king.

  These events leave a bad taste in the mouth. I had no love for Clarence but the king’s methods were despicable. Only Elizabeth seeks to defend him. After a loathsome hour of listening to her counting off on her fingers the reasons why George is better off dead, my head is pounding.

  The same morning, I encounter his mother, Cecily, on her way back from chapel. I acknowledge her presence and as we pass, she is as upright and composed as ever. Reluctant respect for her rises within me, and the smile I give her is warm with empathy.

  Although the king tries to stifle the truth, the story spreads. It spills into the street and across the city; it travels overseas until every royal house, every stew in Europe knows the tale. Everyone laughs at England; everyone scorns us.

  The death of Clarence leaves the court stunned. Few had cause to love him, yet all are appalled at the violence of his end. Cecily Neville leaves the court, hurt and bewildered by the whole affair. Yet life carries on. I continue to attend the queen, who chooses to pretend nothing has happened. She plans summer entertainments, the redecoration of the royal nursery, and orders a new wardrobe of clothes to be made both for herself and for her elder daughters.

  Elizabeth, Mary and Cecily giggle as they stand in their shifts to be measured. Elizabeth balances on a stool while a woman measures her bust and the length of her arms. Mary pulls faces from behind the seamstress’s back, making Elizabeth giggle, her body shaking with mirth. The seamstress pulls back, a measuring tape in her mouth, and waits for the joke to play out.

  I am fascinated by Elizabeth. Already she is as tall as I am, although not yet as tall as her mother. There is no doubt she is going to be beautiful, and with her parentage, beauty was inevitable. Her figure is undeveloped as yet, still
very much that of a child, and the ink stains on the sleeve of her otherwise pristine linen prove she is not yet out of the school room. It is scarcely credible that I was her age when I wed with Edmund.

  The seamstress stands up, puffing a little at the effort, and announces that Elizabeth has grown two inches in height and an inch all round.

  “You will be as fat as Dame Nell, soon,” Mary laughs, and Elizabeth tosses a cushion at her sister. Dame Nell is the girls’ old nurse, almost as wide as she is tall. Her continuing presence in the royal nursery is due more to the queen’s loyalty than to her usefulness. She attends to light duties now, leaving the heavier work to a troop of young women who work beneath her. And with the queen producing a child a year, there is plenty of work to go around.

  Mary takes her turn on the stool. The seamstress tuts over the measurements that have remained static, and Mary pouts because she won’t benefit from as many new clothes as her sisters.

  A summer of fun follows. Many a royal picnic is spoiled by either blustery wind or sudden showers. The sun seems to show its head the moment we retreat indoors. Summer never really takes hold and come autumn there is no need to alter how many layers we wear. Lacking the benefits of a hot summer, none of us is ready for the winter, and I predict that this year we shall all suffer more than our share of colds and chills.

  March 1479

  “Very well, Margaret,” the queen says when I beg leave to visit our Welsh estates. “As long as you return in time for my confinement. I would like you to attend me again.”

  That gives me just three weeks. I wonder if it will be time enough for me to find the inner peace I seek, but I recklessly make a promise to return in plenty of time.

  Taking only my favourite women, I journey into Wales. As soon as we cross the border and the soft green scenery embraces me, I realise how much I have missed it.