“My Lord Duke,” she greets him with her radiant smile.
“Alexander, please, Your Grace. You may call me by my given name.”
She laughs, her eyes a twinkle but I know she is laughing at him. Albany may flirt as he will, she cares only for Edward.
Later, when he encounters Jane Shore, he receives a far better reception. Poor Jane can never deny the attentions of a noble man. I watch from the corner of my eye as they dally in the shadows, and the next morning, in the garden, I see him surreptitiously place a note in her sleeve. She takes her leave of him with a blush and a quick glance about the courtyard to ensure no one is watching. Jane and Albany are playing with fire; the king’s mistresses are his own, none other may sample them.
He seems quite impartial; viewing all women as fair game, whether servant or queen. The prettiest girls are reduced to giggles by his overt flirtation, but I exchange no words with him, and I notice that he seems blind to plain or elderly women; he reserves his attentions only for the fairest.
I watch this dubious duke with suspicion, suspecting he has not come to Edward’s court merely to sample the women. He has an ulterior motive and I suspect it involves the current hostilities with Scotland. Rather than a whore to warm his bed, he craves instead the reinstatement of his Scottish lands, and the downfall of his brother, King James.
There seems to be a curse upon the brothers of kings. Does he not recall the fate of Clarence, and take it as a warning? I would were I him. George’s attempt to oust his royal brother ended in failure and death, yet it does not occur to Albany that a similar fate might await him. Second sons are a trial; perhaps Henry should be glad he is my only son.
It is not long before I discover I was right to suspect Albany’s ulterior motive. Within days, the king has formed an alliance with the duke; Edward agrees to assist Albany in his efforts to unseat his brother James from the Scottish throne and rule in his stead under the suzerainty of England. In exchange, the king demands the possession of the long disputed border town of Berwick, and other holdings.
None of us fails to recognise the similarities to Warwick’s rebellion when he attempted to replace Edward with George. But the king is so eager to reinstate English dominance over the border that he does not see the irony of his new role of ‘kingmaker’.
The court follows the king north, but he calls a halt at Nottingham complaining of fatigue. I watch him closely. He is unusually pale, his face no longer the exquisite visage it once was; his flesh sagging, the skin pale, a sheen of sweat on his brow.
The royal physicians examine him and dose him with some spirit-building concoction. The king rallies, but only enough to continue conducting his war from the safety of Nottingham.
The Scottish trouble is a long running dispute; it has almost become tradition for the two crowns to wrangle over the borderlands. Our armies have been harrying King James’s coast for months, but now they prepare to set siege to the town of Berwick.
It is almost twenty years since Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou allowed Berwick to pass into Scottish hands, and King Edward has never forgotten it. It is a piece of England that he is determined to retrieve.
Armed to the teeth, Thomas and Gloucester ride forth to bear down upon the town with their combined armies, prepared to take back what belongs to our king. As our troops gather around the castle, armour glints in the sunshine, pikes bristle around the town walls. Yet we may be in for a long wait. The people of the town will either starve or surrender – Edward has little preference which.
To our initial joy, Lord Grey and the Earl of Crawford surrender and the town falls quickly, but the garrison holds out for Scotland, against the combined forces of the king, Gloucester, and my husband.
Long weeks pass, each side determined to sit it out, to hold on until the last man either surrenders or starves. In the end, with an irritating and time wasting delay, the army divides, leaving Thomas to continue the siege while Gloucester rides north toward Edinburgh.
We are shocked when news comes of anarchy among the Scots. It was not part of the plan, but the Earl of Angus turns upon his monarch, hangs a few of his king’s favourites from Lauder Bridge, and takes King James as his prisoner.
With support for Albany waning in Scotland, Gloucester brokers a truce, securing a repayment of the monies paid as part of Cecily’s dowry in the now-broken union with the Scottish prince. Leaving Albany to fight his own battles, Gloucester and his men return to court tired and frustrated. The king, however, seems content to have recouped his losses and celebrates the regaining of Berwick.
On his return, Thomas boasts of his part in the fall of Berwick Castle. In the privacy of our chambers, where there are none to gainsay his prowess, he inflates his part in it.
“You should have seen it, Margaret. My men armed to the teeth, armour polished, pennants blazing. We surrounded the castle entirely. Those inside must have been shitting their hose – I will have the king’s favour now and no mistake. My achievements will surely be mentioned in parliament.”
He crows of his achievements like a small boy. I hide my amusement and smile like a doting mother, telling him he has done well. He is right about one thing; Berwick is a strategic gem, and one the king is pleased to have back in his possession.
“Does the king seem well to you?” I ask, and Thomas looks up, his brow furrowed.
“I think so; I have noticed nothing amiss.”
I shrug my shoulders.
“He seems a little jaded, less ebullient. I would have thought that given his recent successes he would have been more … vigorous in his celebration.”
“He feels his age perhaps, like the rest of us.”
Thomas stretches his legs, a hand to his aching knees as he stands up. He tugs at the lacing on his tunic, frowns at the knot he has made, and I go forward to assist him with it.
We are standing very close, closer than we have been since we were joined. I can feel his breath on my hair and for an instant I am reminded of the intimacies I once shared with Harry and Edmund. Loneliness swamps me suddenly. I free the knotted cord but do not move away.
We both become very still.
After a moment, he places a finger beneath my chin. I try to resist as he forces me to look up at him. Our eyes meet, and my heart leaps a little, my belly swimming in a way I had quite forgotten it could – oh, but … he is the wrong man!
As Harry’s face rises before me, the brief flicker of passion withers like a flame starved of fuel.
“We are man and wife, Margaret,” Thomas whispers. My throat constricts, something foreign lodged there making me choke. I step back, shaking my head to clear my head of the sudden unwarranted desire.
“Forgive me,” I croak. “I am feeling quite unwell.” I quit the chamber, leaving him there with his arousal unsated.
I spend a long time praying for guidance. Never before has Thomas made advances towards me, and he was quite, quite sober. I feel confused, bewildered. I had thought our relationship was clear. I have no desire to consummate our union. I like things as they are.
I have set my late husbands on pedestals far too high for the aspirations of Thomas Stanley. Yet the flutter of desire I felt when he almost kissed me has roused painful memories. I pray for a while longer, the cold of the chapel seeping through my summer clothes, quenching the heat of my desire.
I beseech God and all his saints to help me find the answer, but they do not reply. The confusion in my heart increases. For almost a week, I feel unsettled, my tranquil, pious path muddied and difficult to navigate. My mind wanders, wondering where he is, what he is doing. Each time I catch myself thinking in this ridiculous way, I reprimand myself sternly. I am determined not to fall for one passing act of affection from a man I barely like. In the end, after a week of poor sleep and difficult concentration, I seek out my priest, blindly confessing to a brief feeling of lust for my husband.
“There is no sin within marriage, my child. You are absolved.”
I could acc
ept his absolution, and go about my business, but I force myself to explain further.
“There can be no child from our union. We bear no love for one another. The desire can only have its root in lust. Lust is a sin, is it not, Father?”
“Carnal desire within marriage is …”
He is uncertain. Unsure how to respond.
“And is my reluctance to join with him not also a sin? As his wedded wife, am I not obliged …?”
He remains silent, scuffling in the darkness of the confessional box. He clears his throat.
“You wish to remain celibate?”
I sigh deeply, making the candles dip suddenly.
“I do, Father, with all my heart.”
I do not tell him that my desire has less to do with a love of God than the love of the man who has been taken from me.
“A vow of celibacy may be the answer. If your husband gives his consent …”
A vow of celibacy. I would be free of obligation. My desire was false, a lure set by the devil, and should I give in to it, I would swiftly come to regret it. It is not possible for a man of my husband’s ilk to live up to the tenderness of Harry … or Edmund. If I was to swear chastity, and Thomas approached me again, the sin would be his. A possible answer shines, like a far off star in a black sky.
I take a deep breath.
“Very well, Father, thank you. I will think on it.”
For weeks, thoughts of Thomas are never far away. As soon as I realise I am thinking of him, I force myself to pray, to concentrate on something else. I ensure we are never alone – never close enough to feel the pull of temptation. I maintain a chilly, polite distance. If he enters a room, I leave it. If he summons me to his apartments, I plead a headache. When I wait upon the queen, he watches me in puzzlement from his place at the king’s side. I can feel the tension, and hope and pray that no one else senses it.
Eltham - August 1482
The merriment in the king’s hall has just begun. I sit with the queen and her other ladies, listening while Princess Elizabeth sings a song before the court. It is a cheeky song about the coming of summer; as the last notes fade away, the queen leans forward, claps her hands, and laughs at some remark of the king’s.
Thomas has slowly edged his way through the gathering and now stands a little to my right. I am aware of him, feeling his eyes upon me. I cannot help but hold my head at what I hope is an elegant angle. I lift my chin, pull back my shoulders, and pretend to myself that I want him to move farther away, to flirt with Jane Shore as William Hastings does. But I remain where I am, sensing his closeness and trying not to relish it.
Aware all the time of his eyes upon me, I clap delightedly with the others, smile dotingly at the princess as she re-joins the other children. When someone tugs my sleeve. I turn, expecting to find Thomas but instead, I discover one of the maids of honour.
“Margery, what is it?”
She points toward the door.
“A messenger, my lady: he is asking for you.”
“Oh. Excuse me.”
The crowd parts to allow me passage, and I meet the envoy at the periphery of the room. As we draw closer, I notice he wears my mother’s badge. Annoyed at the interruption in the entertainments, I frown a little as I take the letter, dropping a penny into the messenger’s hand.
Slipping into an antechamber, I tear open the seal, my heart plummeting as I read the words, written by Edith’s hand.
Oh Margaret,
After a short illness, our mother passed away this evening. She spoke of you at the end, giving you her best love; there was no time to send for you, but she asked me to ensure you received this trinket …
Enclosed in the letter is a small, simple ring, set with an emerald stone. It is one she wore every day. My eyes mist over as I recall it winking on her finger while she bent over her needlework.
I close my eyes, reeling from the irretrievable completeness of my loss. It is so easy to imagine snuggling into her arms, inhaling her scent, reliving the comforting touch of her hand in my hair. But it is far too late, she is gone from this world, and I was not there. I would give all I have for a few more moments to tell her of my love.
My cheeks are wet. Dashing them dry with the back of my hand, I turn to rejoin the queen, and beg to be excused from the celebration. As I draw back the door curtain, I find my way barred.
“Thomas!”
The hand that clutches Edith’s letter is tight against my breast. “You startled me.”
“What is the matter? Why are you weeping?”
He forces me to retreat into the chamber. I open my mouth to speak, but I cannot find the words to relate what has happened. My mouth goes out of shape, and my chin wobbles. A tear drops onto my hand. He prises the parchment from my grip.
“It is my mother,” I manage to wail. “It was very sudden … I was not with her.”
As the realisation of the finality of her death dawns, the utter misery of being alone in the world, never to hear her refer to me as ‘little Margaret’ again, my carefully guarded poise deserts me. Tears well up in my eyes, my nose tingles, and I begin to bawl like a baby.
“Hush.”
He steps forward and the jewels on his tunic cut into my cheek as he cradles me close, crooning to me as if I were an infant. It is most unexpected but, weakened by grief, I give myself up to the comfort of his arms.
I wake sometime later in a tangle of sheets. As my memory returns, I turn my head as cautiously as I can.
This is Thomas’s bed. He lies beside me, unclothed, his hairy arm thrown across my body, his head back, mouth open, his breath rasping in my ear.
Oh, dear God, what have I done?
As I recollect the inelegant pushing and shoving that was Thomas’s love making, my cheeks grow hot with shame. My skin smarts from the roughness of his beard, my inner thighs ache from bearing his weight.
I move slightly and he snuffles, rolls over, turning his back on me, taking the sheet with him and exposing my naked state. I look down with a shudder at the marks made by his mouth on my breast, but my biggest shame lies not in his sin but the recollection of the joy I took from it.
The loathsome memory of squirming and juddering beneath him like a harlot rears like a beast in my mind.
I despise myself.
Lifting my head, I look about for my shift. Stretching out an arm, I try to hook it onto my finger. Without leaving the bed, I struggle into it, concealing my nudity, hiding my indignity from my own eyes. Thomas snores on.
I do not summon my women. I will never be able to face them again. Instead, in the antechamber, I pour water into a bowl and wash the sweat from my face, the traces of his seed from my thighs. I am struggling to lace the side of my gown when I hear his approaching footstep.
I find I cannot move. It is as if he has cast some spell upon me from which I cannot wake.
He comes close behind me and I stiffen as he slides his arms beneath mine, cupping my tiny breasts, nuzzling the side of my neck. Revulsion churns in my belly. I thrust myself away from him, taking a position near the opposite wall, as far from him as I can get.
“Thomas - I ...”
I cannot look at him, cannot bear to see his triumph, the expression of conquest on his face. Indignation begins to replace disgust.
I am not Berwick Castle; I am not his for the taking.
He slops wine into a cup and hands it to me, but with a brief shake of my head, I step past him, halting at the door. With one hand on the frame, I lower my head and speak quietly, but with finality.
“This is not going to happen again, Thomas. On that, you have my word.”
He tries to speak but I do not wait to argue. Hastening from his presence, I quit the chamber, heading, incompletely attired as I am, for the sanctuary of the chapel.
Windsor - March 28th 1483
“Should we not cancel the trip, my lord?” The queen tilts her head to one side, looking plaintively at her husband.
“I will be fine, Lizzie;
do not fuss so.”
The king pushes her away as she tries to button his tunic, and she bites her lower lip as she watches him leave. She turns to me, her usual arrogant expression tempered with worry.
“Oh, Margaret. He was so ill again in the night, yet this morning seems quite recovered. The physicians advise rest, but I cannot force him – nobody can force him to do anything.”
“Perhaps it was just a chill; sometimes, they come upon us swiftly and are gone just as fast.”
I hope she does not recall that Princess Mary went to bed suffering from a mere chill. I put down my sewing and join her at the window.
Below in the courtyard, the king is surrounded by the male members of his court as they prepare for a fishing trip. It is a chilly day. I am glad to remain at Westminster where the fires are banked high.
The men hurry toward the wharf, their cloaks making a splash of colour on this dismal day. The royal barge waits at the stairs; it dips and sways as the king lowers his bulk on board and his men take their places around him. Thomas looks up briefly at the window. It is unlikely that he can see me from the distance that parts us, yet still I take an involuntarily step backwards.
The queen turns from the window and I follow her, joining the other ladies who sit in a ring about the fire. The musician picks up his harp and begins to play, his music leaping and dancing about the chamber. I bend my head over my needle, finding solace in the roses that bloom beneath my hand. I set tiny stitches close together to form one beauteous flower.
From time to time, I glance at the queen. She shows no sign of pregnancy yet, and I am beginning to suspect that she will bear no child this year. My prayers for her are working. She will welcome the respite and benefit from it.
I wonder whether she is nearing the end of her fertile years, or whether the king’s ailments keep him from her bed. His sickness has not affected his doting on Jane Shore; she is ever-present at court, like a blemish on a fair face, a speck of dirt on a pristine gown. The royal court should be spotless; the likes of Jane Shore have no place within it. And then I recall that, beneath my prim ways, I am little different.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 24
