Memories come flooding back: Edmund and I riding from Caldicot to Lamphey, our newly flourishing interest in each other making us wary and shy. I never dreamed that day that I would ever like him, let alone how much he would come to mean to me, or how short a time we would have together. I was happier then, before life really began to test me, before I had loved or lost, or suffered in any way. How silly my younger self was to think that the sadness I felt at leaving Bletsoe was the worst in the world. How much more familiar I am with sorrow now.
Today, I travel alone, my present husband preferring to remain at the side of his king. This does not displease me; I feel unencumbered and ready for a few weeks respite from court in the company of my old friend, Myfanwy.
It is a long and tedious journey with few comfortable stopping places on the way. When one of my attendants informs me we are almost there, I am filled with relief. I cannot wait to alight from this horse; my buttocks are so raw I am sure the saddle must be made of burrs.
Myfanwy comes hurrying down the steps of her house to greet me. She is no longer the lithe young woman I remember. She is beautiful still, but motherhood has thickened her waist, and the arms that welcome me are soft and motherly. I hide my shock at the difference in her, but wonder how Jasper likes the changes, for the girl he fell in love with was as slim as a reed.
“You haven’t altered in the slightest,” she laughs breathlessly, and I suppose, in comparison to her, I haven’t. I am still small and slightly built, almost like a child beside her generous curves. Yet, in manner at least, she is still Myfanwy.
She hooks her arm through mine, and we climb the steps to the house where she has a light meal waiting. I look around at the home Jasper has provided for her; it is modest compared to my own properties, but warm and comfortably furnished. There are cushions and good quality hangings, an abandoned piece of needlework on the settle, and children’s toys scattered on the floor. She has done well for a woman with no husband, and has everything she requires apart from an honest reputation.
“How is Jasper, have you heard from him?” I ask.
She pulls a face.
“He says he is well, and Henry is thriving, but they are not happy in a foreign land. I can tell from his letters that they both long to come home.”
“That would not be wise. King Edward has been lenient with many of our old friends but I believe he holds a special resentment for Jasper … and Henry is too valuable to risk …”
“I know. I sometimes think that if Jasper had only surrendered and sworn fealty, the king might have looked kindlier upon him. They might both be home by now.”
She cuts a slice of bread, places it on her plate. For a moment, I allow myself the luxury of imagining them both home, forgiven by the king, embraced at court. It is a warm, happy picture. I give myself a shake.
“There is no use in wishing for the moon. Things are as they are.”
Her bosom rises and falls with the depth of her sigh.
“Life could have been so different, so … but, you are right. Let us speak of happier things. Tell me of court; what is the queen really like? I know you cannot say much in your letters.”
She offers me a pastry. I take it daintily, and break a piece off, but I do not eat it.
“She is … not so bad, once you know her. Much of the gossip against her is false. She is just a woman, fighting for her place, afraid of being usurped in the affections of her husband, resentful of his mistresses, fond of her children, faithful to her family.”
“She is a friend to you?”
“I think so … sometimes I doubt her, but it is difficult. It is easy to find one’s loyalties compromised. In this day and age, a friend is a friend only as long as it is politic to be so.”
“At least you have the compensation of all the court entertainments, the latest fashions, the new dances. Look at what I am forced to wear.”
She stands up, fans out her skirts, which are well made but modest, in the most provincial style. I smile politely and tell her she looks very well.
“I will send you some patterns if you like, then you can revolutionise local fashion; the women of Wales will thank you for it.”
Her laugh has not altered; it bounces from the walls, and my responding smile is genuine for the first time in many a day.
“In the morning, I will show you the garden. Every time I work out there, I think of you; it is as if you are with me. ‘What would Margaret do?’ I ask myself, and usually the right answer pops into my head.”
I reach out and clasp her hand.
“I miss you too. One day, if I am able, I will welcome you into my household. Things are so unsettled now …”
“What is this Thomas of yours like, is he as ferocious as he sounds?”
“No, no; he pretends to be but … he is a buffoon sometimes, unintentionally. I have to hide my disdain from him for the sake of his feelings. He is a powerful man, high in the king’s favour, and as a consequence has become overly self-important. He serves the king like a lap-dog, yet I fancy his loyalty to York is not as deep as it should be.”
“Why do you say that?”
I shrug and take a bite of the pastry, crumbly and sweet on my tongue. Honey trickles onto my chin and I dab at it with a napkin.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling I have sometimes. Thomas and his brother are very self-serving. They are loyal to Edward because it suits them … but this talk borders on treason; let us speak of other things. This apple chutney is delicious. We had an invasion of caterpillars at Woking a few years ago that almost wiped out our entire apple crop …”
We subside into the easy pleasure of mediocre things, both of us set to enjoy a few weeks of simple pleasures. It is good to forget who I am, forget that my life has been turned upside down by war. My time with Myfanwy is a glimpse of the ordinary life enjoyed by the privileged, and for a few short weeks I plan to make the most of it.
Yet, in the morning, a messenger arrives and cuts my pleasures short.
I look up from the letter.
“I have to return to court.”
Myfanwy turns from the window, her face eloquent with dismay.
“Margaret, you have gone quite pale, whatever is wrong?”
“The queen …” My voice breaks as my throat closes, my eyes misting over, a tear dropping upon my cheek. “The queen’s son, little George, has died suddenly. She is in need of comfort and bids me return as soon as I may.”
Myfanwy comes close, her hand on my shoulder as she puts her cheek next to mine to read the letter.
“Poor little mite, how old was he?”
“Not yet two years … the queen will be broken by this … and it comes so soon after little Margaret.”
So many babies are taken; Heaven must be full of motherless infants. I feel as if my heart will break for her.
“Did you not say she is about to go into confinement? Perhaps another child will help her heal, help her to forget.”
I stare into space while Myfanwy’s words register.
“Do you think so? Does the birth of one child mend the loss of another? All this is beyond the realm of my experience. I have just one son; I cannot even contemplate his loss without my chest tightening and a feeling of panic.”
“It will not mend, no, but it must go some way toward healing.”
“Or perhaps, once you realise their mortality, it just makes you value the others more. The queen will never take her children for granted as so many parents do.”
“Not me,” Myfanwy defends herself stoutly. “I love my girls more than myself. Should anything happen to them, I would not know how to draw my next breath. I want them to be successful, happy and healthy, but more than anything I want them to live.”
I cover her hand with mine. “Then we must ensure that they do.”
Our short reunion has passed too quickly. On the hasty ride back to court, I mourn the leisurely trip I took in the other direction just a few short days ago. Who knows when Myfanwy and I might m
eet again?
Now, I must brace myself and re-enter the mourning household of the queen. It is not something I relish. Elizabeth is often difficult to comfort, reluctant to forget or forgive any wrong done to her. There is no doubt she will find someone to blame; be it God, or her enemies, or her husband for endowing their son with the name of a traitor.
When the horses draw up at the steps of the royal hall, I climb stiffly from my mount, stretch my legs, put a hand to my aching back and prepare to re-enter the fray.
I have one foot on the bottom of the queen’s stairs and am about to ascend when a young girl cannons into me, almost knocking me from my feet. I grab hold of her arm, belatedly recognising one of the queen’s maids of honour.
“Lady Stanley, I am so sorry, my lady, so very sorry but it is the queen. The child is coming early; her waters have broken all over the floor of the chapel.”
*
By late afternoon, still clad in my travelling clothes, I hold the newest addition to the royal family. Elizabeth’s eleventh child is a daughter, a tiny scrap of pink fragrance, born a little too soon. She lacks the ripeness of a full-term child but appears healthy enough, and when I pass her into her mother’s keeping, she greedily searches for the breast. I run a finger over her soft red crown of hair, and know instinctively that she is a fighter. This child will survive.
“It happened so quickly,” the queen says. “One moment I was praying, the next my petticoats were soaked. But I thank God to be spared the last few weeks of waiting. In a month, I shall be churched and back at court where I belong. I won’t miss the Easter celebrations after all.”
“It is fortunate that I returned in time. Had I dallied on the road, I would have missed it.”
She looks up at me, presenting a very different picture to her usual perfect toilette. Her hair is dishevelled, her face covered in a sheen of sweat, and there is a streak of blood on one cheek.
While I sit at her side watching Elizabeth nurse the child, a girl brings a bowl of warm water to cleanse the queen’s face.
I hold out my hand.
“Let me do it,” I say, taking the soft cloth and gently wiping away the megrim of the birthing.
“Oh that is nice,” she sighs. “I am so glad you have returned. Tell me, what name do you think we should choose? Edward was hoping for a boy, I know, and favours no girl’s names.”
“You have so many daughters you have used up most of the best ones, Your Grace. Perhaps you could name her for one of your sisters?”
“Oh yes, perhaps my youngest sister, Catherine? What do you think of that, little one?”
The child smiles with a sudden bubble of wind, and the queen laughs.
“I am not sure if that was approval or not, Your Grace.”
I lean closer, the better to admire little Catherine, as she will soon be christened. As I do so, an aroma that defies description assails me. The queen lifts the child away from her body, a grimace of dismay spoiling her serenity.
“Oh lord, call the nurse, Margaret, before she covers us all in royal shit.”
I hurry to the door, laughing as I go.
By the time the king comes to admire his daughter, she has been washed and freshly bound, her red face evidence of a satisfied stomach. The queen will provide her nourishment for a few days, and then she will be passed into the care of a wet nurse; a young woman from the village with a child of a similar age. It is a sought-after position and the girl is fortunate, for who of her status would not relish the opportunity to live in the royal palace and be assured of good nourishment?
The king returns just as Catherine has just been laid to sleep, bringing a gust of good humour into the room. He examines the baby again, kisses his wife on the forehead, and tells her she has done well.
“I believe you must be under some enchantment, Lizzie,” he says. “Not many women birth as many infants as you have and still manage to look not a day over twenty.”
“Shush, Edward. Do not speak such things, not even in jest.”
The subject of witchcraft and sorcery is unwelcome in the queen’s apartments since the accusations made against them by Clarence. Even the king should not speak of it.
“Here,” he says, taking something from beneath his tunic. “I have a gift for you.”
Elizabeth takes the package and tears away the silk wrapping to reveal a book. It is velvet bound with many pages. She opens it with a gasp as she discovers the treasure between the covers.
“My goodness, it is one of Master Caxton’s! Have you been to see him, Edward?”
“I have indeed, and saw the press at work too. When you are churched, I shall take you with me, the children will enjoy it too. It is quite astonishing. He can print books in the blink of an eye. What once took months of workmanship is now produced within hours.”
I suspect he exaggerates, but I crane my neck to see the wonder he describes. I have heard of Master Caxton and his magical press, but have not yet seen one of his works. I am sceptical that he can produce books of the same quality – surely, the piety of the monks must have some bearing on the result.
“Look, Lady Margaret, is this not wondrous? How did anyone ever imagine this could be done?”
Grateful to be drawn into their conversation, I take the book and gently turn the page. The ink is dark and clear, the woodcuts intricate and finely wrought. It lacks something I cannot quite determine, but I can see that this printing press is an invention that will change lives. Books will soon be available to everyone, the speed of production making them cheaper. Soon, even merchant’s wives will be sporting a book beneath their arms.
I hand the book back to the queen with an appreciative smile. This is a copy of Chaucer’s tales of the Pilgrims – a raucous adventure that already has her laughing. She puts a finger on the page and reads out a risqué line. Edward settles on the bed beside her, his head next to hers, joining her in merriment. They have forgotten my presence; after a moment or two of watching and waiting, I quietly slip away.
Despite myself, I am intrigued by these new printed books and order some for myself. I send some overseas to Henry, and realise that they will make ideal New Year’s gifts for Myfanwy and Harry’s mother too. To add a personal touch, I decide to embroider my own covers for them. I have little private leisure for needlework these days but when I am attending to the queen, we spend an hour or two instructing her daughters in needlework skills. Embroidery is a requirement for all women, even queens.
One such afternoon when a squall of rain has chased away the sun, the queen looks up from her needle.
“Lady Margaret, I spoke to the king about your son.”
My heart leaps, but I do not let my excitement show.
“Indeed, Your Grace, and what did you say about him?”
“I suggested that perhaps it is time we allowed him to come home.”
I have wanted to hear those words for so long, but now they have been uttered, I am engulfed by fear. I look down at my stitches, noticing that the hand that clasps the needle shakes visibly.
“And what did he say?”
She sews silently for a moment, while my anxiety increases.
“Certain conditions would have to be met, promises made, and bonds signed.”
“He would need to swear fealty, you mean? That goes without saying, Your Grace. We are all loyal to King Edward.”
She regards me steadily, both of us aware that Henry’s existence is a continual temptation to those who still yearn to overthrow York.
“We were wondering …” She stops mid-sentence to address her daughters. “Elizabeth, Mary, run out to the garden and see if the rain has ceased …”
The girls gratefully put down their needles and after curtseying politely to their mother, quit the chamber. The queen turns in her seat to face me and leans forward, her hands clasped in her lap. I feel obliged to lay aside my own work and our eyes meet. I do not know what her next words will be but I suspect they will be momentous.
“The king and
I were wondering about a betrothal between our daughter Elizabeth … and your son.”
My voice is stolen. Astonished, I gape and blather for a full minute before finally managing to speak.
“But I thought there was an arrangement … a betrothal with France …”
She waves her hand dismissively.
“That came to nothing. Edward was furious, but I suggested this match with your son; it would remove the threat he poses, and unite our houses. York and Lancaster would become one.”
I look down at my red-tipped fingers, tightly entwined in my lap.
“I do not know what to say …”
“Of course, the king will want to discuss it properly with you and your advisors. I just thought you might appreciate time to consider it before he approaches you. Margaret, just think; if it could be arranged, we would share the same grandchildren!”
A sudden image enters my mind: both of us in our dotage, she grey-haired and gracious, me wizened and wise, with a litter of small children clamouring for our attention. It is not an ill picture, but I am wary.
Elizabeth claps her hands, delight brightening her brow, and I do my best to mirror her pleasure.
Can I trust them? Is it a trick? Suppose they mean to lure Henry here, and the moment he sets foot on English soil they fall upon him, and throw him in the Tower? How would I ever live with myself?
“Thank you for forewarning me, Your Grace, I will …”
“Forewarning? You sound like a castle about to fall under siege!”
We laugh, but my humour is false, guarded. I cannot wait to escape her presence so I may examine my feelings. Can I ignore my own warning and tell him to come home? There is no one to turn to for advice. I wish Jasper were here; if only he were not so far away.
There is my mother, of course. She will give me sound counsel, but I am not certain of her wisdom. She grows old, is ailing, and her politics waver as much as her memory. After a lifetime of living off my own wits, I am at a loss. I bite my lip, and while the queen chatters on about the assets of uniting our families, I pick up my needlework again.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 22
