The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

By the time the king enters with my husband in tow, the chamber has grown dim. A boy comes to close the shutters and stoke the fire, light the candles. I rise to greet the king, sink low into a curtsey.

  Thomas sweeps off his hat and bows over the queen’s hand. As he does so, I notice he has mud on the sole of his shoe. He plays the part of a courtier well, but his heart is more suited to the stable, or the chase. His politics leave much to be desired; it is his instinct for survival that has got him this far, not intellect. Yet, I find myself in a political turmoil and Thomas, inadequate as he is, is the only ally I have.

  The king and Thomas settle down among us, and soon the conversation switches from the latest dance steps and new fashioned sleeves to the situation in the north. Strife has broken out afresh between our king and the king of the Scots.

  Some time ago, a treaty was drawn up between Edward and James III and, to ensure the peace lasted, a marriage was proposed between Princess Cecily and the young prince, James, with a large dowry to secure the pledge. Now, sparked by a private quarrel between the Duke of Angus and the Earl of Northumberland, strife has broken out again. The king is now preparing for a new campaign against Scotland, and Richard of Gloucester, as Lord of the North, is to command it.

  Thomas is to accompany him. Before he goes, I must waste no time in speaking with him, to glean his opinion of the queen’s proposal. I have little faith in his advice, but seek it I must.

  The forthcoming campaign monopolises the conversation, at least where the men are concerned, and the women quickly grow bored. During the first lull in the discussion, the queen claps her hands, summons the musicians to play.

  “It is hours ‘til bed,” she says. “Why don’t we dance?”

  The king, managing to disguise his impatience, obligingly leads her to the centre of the room. For a while we watch them, two beautiful people, moving in rhythm with the music.

  Never in my life have I come even close to such outward perfection. They complement one another, a perfect match, a flawless union; some people are surely blessed. I try to imagine Thomas and I rising to join them. Me, as small as a ten-year-old and with no proper grasp of the steps; Thomas, as large and blundering as an ox in a parlour. No, he is better suited to the tavern, and I to the church – no wonder our marriage is not one made in Heaven.

  Later, in the quiet of the chapel, I beg forgiveness for my vanity. I am grateful for my mind, my intellect, my position and, most of all, for my son. I am wicked to envy the queen her pretty face and elegant body, her status. I will do so no longer.

  When I am satisfied that God has heard my repentant pleas, I rise from my knees, take up my candle and make my way back to my apartments. The door squeaks as I push it open, waking my woman who has waited up for me.

  I stand quietly, listening to her chatter while she helps me from my gown and into my night shift. As she ties my hair into long thin braids, the door opens and Thomas enters.

  It is rare for him to come to my private chamber, and this is the second time in as many months. I dismiss the pink-faced girl who has clearly put the wrong interpretation on his visit.

  “What can I do for you, Thomas?”

  I keep my voice cold and unwelcoming as he eases himself into a chair, places a hand on each knee and peers at me through the gloom.

  “Has the queen spoken to you?”

  “Of what? She speaks to me daily.”

  “Ha, you know what I mean. Has she said anything particular; anything you might want to discuss with me?”

  It is clear as to what he refers but I am reluctant to be the first to speak of it.

  “Tell me what you mean, and I will answer.”

  He rubs his nose in annoyance.

  “The king suggested that … well, it seems they are considering wedding your boy to the Princess Elizabeth. I wondered what you made of it. If you knew of it …”

  “Yes, the queen did say something about it but … I was waiting for confirmation from the king.”

  “And you would agree?”

  He watches me, eyes narrowed, as if I am a spider on the chamber floor and he is uncertain which way I shall run.

  “I would need to learn the full terms first.”

  I stare unseeing into the hearth, examining my true feelings before giving voice to them. The way before me is dark. I see the hopes I have harboured for Henry piled up like gifts before me, ready for the taking … yet something makes me hesitate. How I wish for the cool clear counsel of Harry, or Jasper.

  “What would you do, Thomas? Do you think they are to be trusted? Wouldn’t a sensible king take the opportunity to be rid of this rival? If he dispensed with Henry, the remnants of the Lancastrian faction would be disarmed. They would be left with no leader – the conflict over, once and for all.”

  He scratches his head.

  “It is already over. Edward is firmly on his throne, no one can take it now – not even your son.”

  “I would dearly love him to come home. We have been parted for too long.”

  “So, when the king speaks to you, agree with his terms. It is what you both want.”

  “But I am afraid, Thomas, do you not understand the gravity of the risk? If they should slay him …”

  “The queen loves you, Margaret. She will not let that happen. I would wager my head on it.”

  “I will seek the advice of Master Bray, and send word to Jasper to glean his opinion. Do you think the king will demand an instant answer?”

  Thomas does not answer right away. I speak his name impatiently. He jerks his eyes away, clears his throat in confusion. To my horror, I realise I am standing before the fire, and the outline of my legs is clearly discernible through my thin shift. I move away, my cheeks burning, and wrap myself in a mantle.

  “I want to retire now,” I inform him archly, and he heaves himself from the chair.

  “I bid you goodnight,” he says, and before he lumbers from the room, he leaves a kiss on my forehead.

  *

  I cannot truly believe Henry will be coming home. The discussion with the king and queen convinces me that they wish to put an end to his exile. To be welcomed back to court, Henry has only to swear fealty to the king. I even go so far as to suggest the pardon be stretched to encompass Jasper. At some stage in the future, I will also request the return of their lands and titles, but for now, I am content.

  Eltham - June 1480

  The queen is sickly again, and I suspect the reason. This will be her twelfth child. Since her marriage to the king barely a year has passed without her producing another. Edward, self-satisfied and growing fat with contentment, is delighted when she gives him the news. The queen may be jaded and weary, but there can never be enough royal children. Men never seem to consider the strain of regular childbirth, yet still expect their wives to be bonny and lithe, both at table, and in the marriage bed.

  I begin to see the benefits of infertility. It is better to enjoy the pleasures of other people’s children and not risk premature death.

  In the garden, where the air is sweeter, Elizabeth and I seek the shade of a bower. The children are playing at some distance, every so often some dispute with their nurse floats toward us. I watch a honey bee darting in and out of the entwined honeysuckle and roses, the tiny wings a blur, the back legs covered with pollen. When he is sated, he clambers from the depths of the blossom, and hovers in mid-air, an inch from the queen’s nose. She flaps at it with her hand.

  “It is very hot, Margaret. I dread to think how I will manage when August arrives. I will be as fat and swollen as a toad by then.”

  I cannot contain my amusement at the sudden image she presents.

  “I do not believe there is a woman on earth who resembles a toad less than you, Your Grace. A little extra weight is to be expected; it adds to your charm rather than detracts.”

  She checks her fingers for signs of swelling, flexes them, her rings winking in the sunlight.

  “As long as the king sees me as you do … but I fea
r he grows less enamoured.”

  “He will be back, Your Grace. He always is … you cannot blame a man for his appetites.”

  “Oh, I can,” she laughs ruefully. “Were it not for his strenuous desire, I would not be pregnant so often.”

  “Well, there is that, but at least you cannot be accused of not doing your duty – I have never heard of such a well-stocked royal nursery. You are a good queen, not wanting in any way.”

  “Despite the gossips,” she spits maliciously. “I well remember how they spoke against me, accusing me of lewdness when my marriage to the king was first announced. I have proved them wrong. I hope they choke on their words.”

  “I believe that ill-wishing does more harm to the ill-wisher than the ill-wished. I always strive to think kindly of a person, even if it is sometimes a struggle.”

  Her arm flops over the side of the chair and she mops her brow with her kerchief.

  “I am very hot,” she repeats with a sigh. “You are right, Margaret. I do try to be gracious, but I fail miserably when it comes to Mistress Shore. I thought he would have lost interest in her by now. What is it about her? What is the attraction, do you think?”

  “I do not know; I have never spoken with her. People say that for all her commonness, she is kind. I doubt she would be able to hold the king in thrall were she otherwise. Perhaps you can be glad she holds no spite against you, Your Grace. She seeks no preferment, nothing more than simple trinkets.”

  “She can keep her trinkets; it is his affection I deplore. When I first knew Edward, he barely realised other women existed. It is hard. I know I am losing my looks, losing his interest. I had thought he would grow out of his infatuation with her, he himself is no longer young …”

  “Now, now, Your Grace; don’t be maudlin. He will be back by Christmas tide, I guarantee it.”

  *

  A long six months follows. Most of my time is taken up with seeing to Elizabeth’s comfort. The pregnancy takes its toll, but when the time comes, the child is born promptly and efficiently, as is her habit.

  She names her Bridget – a tiny scrap of a thing with white-gold hair like her father. She settles in quickly, an addition to the overflowing nursery.

  “I hope she is the last,” Elizabeth whispers. “Although I love them all, I am tired. I need some respite.”

  “Then you should demand it.” I frown as I tuck the covers around her. “Speak to the king; he will not want to wear you out.”

  Elizabeth sighs, snuggles into the pillow. “It is her. I cannot bear the thought of him spending all his nights with her.”

  “Go to sleep,” I say. “I will pray little Bridget is your last, if that is your wish.”

  She catches my hand as I move away.

  “Do that, Margaret, and may all your prayers be answered.”

  Fotheringhay - 1481

  As the summer slips into autumn, the king turns his attention to the problems on the border. Messengers ride back and forth between the king and Gloucester who, like the king, desires a diplomatic end. Soon, however, it becomes clear the situation will not be resolved without a fight.

  King Edward, feeling the need to be closer at hand, moves the court north to Fotheringhay, near Peterborough. It is a long hard ride for the queen, and we are forced to take to a litter; a mode of transport I abhor from my days in Wales.

  Thomas, already ensconced in the castle for several weeks, greets me on our arrival. He gives me good welcome, grasping my shoulders and kissing me on both cheeks. I have not missed him, did not mourn his departure. Our relationship is so formal and so little do I know him that I experience no regretful pangs or fear for his safety, as I did whenever I was parted from Harry or Edmund. My marriage to Stanley is entirely different to the relationships I had with them; his loss would not be a great thing. The only thing we share is our ambition; our desire to rise as high as we can in Edward’s England.

  Greenwich - May 1482

  The queen’s screams jerk me from sleep. I leap from my bed and burst, unannounced, into her chamber. The king is there, his legs bare and hairy beneath his night shirt. He kneels before Elizabeth, shaking her by the shoulders, yelling at her to be quiet.

  “Your Grace, what is the matter? What has happened?”

  The king does not look up; he wraps one arm tightly about his wife and waves me away. I back out of the room. I do not know the cause of their weeping, but I am already full of grief for them. Something truly awful has happened. In a daze, I look around the antechamber, where a cluster of weeping women in sleeping robes stand, their hair in braids.

  “Does anyone know what has happened? It – it is not Bridget?”

  They push forward a young woman. I recognise her as one of the Lady Mary’s women. Her eyes are red raw and she cuffs her nose on her sleeve. When she speaks, a drool of dribble clings to her lips.

  “The Lady Mary is dead.”

  Horror drenches me, and my head clashes with the shock of her words. I must still be asleep and dreaming. Oh God, wake me from this nightmare!

  “What? Lady Mary? No, you are wrong. She had a chill, just a little chill. I - I saw her myself!”

  I push through the crowd in search of a more mature member of the household. In the next room, two physicians, close to the hearth, are shaking their heads, their faces bleak, blank flags of horror. I do not have to ask for their confirmation.

  Hurrying along the passage, I hasten up the stairs to the princesses’ chamber. It is empty apart from the three eldest Plantagenet sisters.

  Elizabeth sits on a stool, hands clasped between her knees, her face an effigy of shock. Cecily, her face buried in the bed hanging, weeps loudly and without restraint. On the bed, beneath a white sheet drawn up to cover her face, lies her elder sister, Mary.

  I stand motionless in the centre of the room, unable to believe this is not some awful dream. I cannot take my eyes from the body beneath the sheet. It is so slight, and so small.

  I cannot bear to look on her, yet I have lost the power to force my eyes away. I try to swallow something hard and painful that prevents me from speaking.

  Elizabeth shudders suddenly, and my instinct to protect them takes over.

  “Come,” I say, taking a wrap from the chair and draping it over her shoulders. “I will take you to your mother; she will have need of you.”

  I take Cecily’s hand to lead her from the room, but as I do so, Elizabeth begins to weep at last; loud, ugly sobs that speak more of terror than of sorrow.

  “Hush, Elizabeth, do not cry. Try to be brave for your mother’s sake.”

  Releasing Cecily’s hand, I grasp Elizabeth’s shoulders. Her head lolls horribly, her eyes rolling.

  “The wrap,” she screams, tearing at her clothes. “Take it off me. I cannot bear it.”

  She casts the garment away, and we watch as it floats like a wraith to the hearth where it lies, forlorn among the ashes. We all stand staring at it. I look at Cecily, who is quieter now. Our eyes meet.

  “The wrap belongs to Mary,” she says, “but you were not to know.”

  Westminster - June 1482

  The royal court mourns. No one dares speak louder than a whisper. There are so many subjects we cannot discuss. Bereavement has never broken the queen before; it is not the first time a child has been snatched from her. Yet Mary was almost fifteen years old, on the cusp of womanhood. She was a lady of the garter, with a position, a role at court; she will be missed, and is mourned by us all.

  But life goes on. While the queen sits pale and unhappy in her apartments, the king continues with his obligations. With the queen wrapped tightly in her own sorrow, he turns at the day’s end to Jane Shore for comfort. His laugh is less raucous and not as frequent, yet the silly strumpet sits on his knee, sharing bawdy jokes and feeding him sweetmeats as if the solace of food and ribaldry can compensate for the loss of a beloved child.

  In June, he summons me to his presence. I approach the privy chamber, curious yet afraid. What can he want of m
e?

  An usher opens the door and I slip inside, finding to my great relief that Thomas is there, and Master Bray also. All but the king stand up when I enter and make my bow.

  What has happened? What have I done? A thousand possible ways I may have offended the king teem in my mind, but then Thomas takes my arm and leads me to the table.

  The king pushes a document toward me. Master Bray proceeds to read it and, as my brain makes sense of the words, I am filled with achievement. Yet, as the implications of the document become clear, doubt tinges my triumph.

  The document has been drawn up in the king’s presence. It states, among other less important financial details, that Henry Tudor, called Earl of Richmond, is invited to return to England to be in the grace and favour of the king’s highness.

  I tremble as Edward presses his ring into the wax to seal the deal. Thomas signs also and, when he beckons me forward, I make my signature with a shaky scrawl. The deed is done.

  The pledge is made.

  “Since they are close kin, I shall seek dispensation from the Pope, Lady Margaret, to allow Henry and Elizabeth to be wed.”

  I am surely dreaming; or tucked deep in my bed in one of my happy imaginings. I cannot believe it, yet it is writ large on the parchment in my hand. My son can return home – where he belongs. Our days of exile are almost done; he shall soon be restored his fortune, his properties, and his proper place at the English court. I send copious thanks to God, who has brought this to pass.

  Fotheringhay - August 1482

  On a hot afternoon in August, a stranger rides through the gates of Fotheringhay, and the Duke of Albany, the estranged brother of the king of Scots, takes the English court by storm. Each time he enters a room, a ripple of excitement issues from the younger, unmarried women. He regards the queen with undisguised admiration as he bends over her hand.