The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  Each time I lean forward to select a new strand of silk from the table, Henry’s latest letter crackles against my breast. I have read it many times. His preparations to end his exile are almost complete; soon, he will be ready to come home. I allow my mind to idle, imagining how we will spend our days, where he will choose to live, what position he will be given at court.

  Sometimes, doubts beset me. I wake in the early morning and King Edward’s forgiveness seems like a dream. How can such distrust, such enmity, turn to friendship? I will never forgive myself if I am leading my son into a trap.

  Fear of betrayal leads to nightmares and I awaken with the sick feeling of loss, forcing me to rise earlier than ever to seek solace in the chapel.

  *

  The queen holds up a partlet, a small one for a child. She has sewn a ring of white roses on the black velvet.

  “How lovely, Your Grace, you have such a fair touch with the needle.”

  “It is for Anne. She showed such admiration for the one I made for Elizabeth that I decided to make one for her. She is a vain little thing.”

  “She is very pretty, Your Grace; all your daughters are.”

  “And my sons too,” she laughs, and because she is right, all the ladies join in. Edward, the Prince of Wales, is far away in Ludlow, but Richard resides with his sisters here at Westminster. Both boys are as fair as their parents. One day, they will become kings of the tiltyard and the dance floor, breaking the hearts of the court women … as their father has done.

  In the afternoon, we walk in the garden. The children, wrapped up warm against the unseasonal chill, run ahead. Their nurse-maid calls after them to come back and walk nicely, but Elizabeth stops her.

  “Let them go,” she says. “A little exercise now will make them less unruly when they return to the school room.”

  The heads of the smallest children are barely discernible above the shrubs, but the older girls, Elizabeth and Cecily, follow behind, their hands clasped decorously before them in imitation of the queen and her ladies. Eight-year-old Anne, eager to prove herself, abandons the smaller children and tries to join her elder siblings.

  “They grow so fast.” Elizabeth nods towards her daughters. “They are almost women.”

  “And very lovely women, too, Your Grace.”

  It still shocks me to see the two girls without their sister, Mary. It is difficult to think of her lying low in the vault while life continues as if she had never been.

  There is a touch of sadness on the girls now, on the whole family; especially the queen. Sorrow sits strangely upon Princess Elizabeth’s plump, pretty looks and robust health. She is a girl made for merriment, in the cast of her father. Cecily, with her mother’s colouring, is slighter than Elizabeth. She is paler, less glowing and a little more serious. She is also very stubborn. What Cecily wants, Cecily usually gets, because no one has the heart to refuse her.

  The queen and I, followed by a group of whispering women, walk slowly around the garden. My attempts to draw the queen from her sallow thoughts are unsuccessful, her heavy sighs competing with the brisk breeze.

  Cecily approaches with a handful of primroses, which the queen accepts with a smile. She places a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, and they walk on ahead, uncannily alike from behind, their gait unmistakeably the same.

  Elizabeth falls into step with me, and we exchange hesitant smiles. I am not sure whether she has been told of the marriage arrangements that are underway between her and my son. I wonder what sort of daughter-in-law she will make, how she will welcome me as the mother of her husband.

  She is subdued today. Usually, she has a bounce about her, reminding me of an enthusiastic pup that has been told to sit and stay.

  She draws her shawl about her shoulder. “It is cold,” she says. “I wish we could return to the hall.”

  I cast my experienced eye over her face, checking for signs of fever or the beginnings of a cold. Although she is pale, she otherwise seems well, but I have not forgotten how dismissive I was of Princess Mary’s fever. I can never forgive myself for that.

  When we near the far wall where the pear trees are bearing blossom, the queen halts and waits for the rest of us to catch up.

  “Shall we return to the palace now? Have you had enough air for today?”

  After a murmur of agreement, we follow Elizabeth and her daughters back to the hall. In the queen’s chambers, the warmth of the fire brings colour to our cheeks, and I grope for a kerchief to dry my nose which has begun to run.

  The queen pulls off her gloves, rubs her hands briskly together. “It is so unseasonably chilly,” she complains. “Why, I have known Easters in the past that could have been mistaken for summer.”

  “March is an unpredictable month,” I say as I signal for a girl to gather up our cloaks and take them away. “One can never be sure what it will bring. Perhaps we should all have something warm to drink?”

  For the remainder of the day, we huddle about the hearth, the conversation ebbing and flowing until we lapse into our own thoughts. I reach the end of a row of stitches, break off the thread and select a new shade of silk.

  The queen puts down her sewing.

  “It is late. I had hoped Edward would return before nightfall.”

  “They will surely be back very soon now; it is too dark to fish, even with torches.”

  “Father will not wish to miss dinner,” Cecily remarks. “I have heard it is to be eels.”

  We are still laughing when we hear a noise outside.

  “They are back.” Elizabeth hurries to the window, peering into the dark. “I can see nothing but the glare of torches.”

  “Thank goodness.” The relief in the queen’s voice is clearly discernible. “I had such a strange feeling of dread.”

  Elizabeth turns from the window to reclaim her seat among the circle of women about the fire. Cecily begins to relate a funny tale about a near tragedy between her pet finch and one of the kitchen cats.

  I look up, ready to laugh, anticipating the twist in her tale, when the door is thrust unceremoniously open.

  “Your Grace, the king has fallen ill. We have taken him to his chamber, and the physicians have been summoned.”

  The queen’s face turns as white as her linen shift, her eyes huge dark vessels of horror. She stands slowly, gropes for my hand.

  “Your Grace,” I whisper, and she turns her head slowly towards me.

  “Oh, Lady Margaret,” she murmurs, “I fear we are in dire straits.” She takes a step forward, addresses the other women. “You must pray for us, ladies. Pray with all your heart and soul. Your king has need of God’s grace. Pray for us all.”

  She takes my arm and propels me with her, along the passage, up the stairs to Edward’s private chamber.

  The room is crowded and over-heated; the shutters closed tightly, the fire blazing. Amid the crush of attendants and physicians, I can just discern the high canopied bed, the bulk of the king’s belly pushing up the covers.

  Elizabeth gives a curt order and people part to allow her through. We halt at the bedside. Elizabeth’s hand flies to her mouth, a large tear dropping from her eye.

  The king’s face, once so mercurial, so full of vigour is now a dirty shade of grey, like much-handled putty. There is no sign of the once golden prince, the breaker of a thousand hearts. He gasps for each breath, floundering for survival. Even as the physician steps forward with his bleeding bowl, I know his intervention will be hopeless. I have seen that look before.

  The king will not live.

  They come from near and far, the passages of Westminster overflow and a great crowd gathers outside the palace. Those who loved him, those who feared him, and those who merely tolerated him for the sake of peace.

  I suppose, I am among the latter. He was not a good king; he was far too fond of feasting, too full of sin, too ready to let his underlings take on the responsibilities of state. Yet, I have to concede that Harry was right; Edward has proved more effective than my cous
in, Henry VI.

  He brought peace, and England had just begun to flourish again. What will happen now? Are we to have a child king, ruled by his elders? I am afraid not much good has ever come of that.

  Windsor - April 1483

  He lingers for three days. Unwilling to admit defeat, his physicians attempt one unlikely cure after another. In the end, William Hastings roars at them to leave the king alone, to let him die in peace, and the queen says nothing to counteract his order.

  The court gathers. The girls stand weeping in the corner, while little Prince Richard is on his knees, bewildered, as if a devil is squatting on his shoulder whispering dread into his ear.

  Elizabeth’s fingers are entwined with the king’s, her tears falling on them as thickly as her last kisses. He seems to know her, tries to speak but his tongue is thick, unmanageable, and he resorts to sign language.

  At first, no one understands, but he waves a finger in the direction of Hastings, who steps forward uncertainly. Then he summons Dorset in the same manner and the two men stand awkwardly, embarrassed at the incapacity of their once-hale king. He beckons them closer, reaches for their hands, and before all the court joins them in three-way handshake.

  Discord between Hastings and the queen’s family has been long and vigorous. Dorset, the queen’s son by her previous marriage, is Hastings’ long-time rival for both the affections of the king and the attentions of Jane Shore. Now, it seems the king wishes them to swear unity, to put aside their rancour for the sake of the realm; for the sake of his son.

  The two men stare at each other for a long time, grim faces recalling grimmer memories, harsh words and harsher actions, but at length Hastings tightens his grip. Dorset can only reciprocate. Their clasped hands seal the deal – the adversaries have become allies.

  The king makes a sound, somewhere between strangulation and a cough, and raises a shaky finger to draw Hastings close so he may speak into his ear. The court leans forward to hear the last words of their monarch.

  “My brother, Gloucester,” he croaks, “is to be Lord Protector. Serve him well. Ever an honest man…”

  His head lolls to one side, his hand falls onto the bed. Elizabeth snatches it up again, covers it with tears and kisses.

  Their children begin to cry: beside me, I hear Thomas draw in a ragged breath, and with a calloused finger he chases moisture from his eye. The ragged sound of the king’s labour slows. We wait on each breath, the gap between them increasing until it ceases altogether. Now, there is only silence, and the sound of weeping.

  *

  I expect the queen to dissolve into misery, but to my surprise she does just the opposite. Instead of relying on Dorset to oversee the council meeting on her behalf, she attends herself, taking little part but listening, eager to comprehend the organisation for her son’s arrival in the capital.

  The country is numb, reality has been suspended, and the arrangements are carried out by men who move like mummers in a play.

  On the tenth day of April, the king’s body travels to the chapel of St Stephens, where funeral rites will soon begin. Young Edward is proclaimed king in the capital; his coronation scheduled for the fourth of May. The cheers of the crowd are not spontaneous, but guarded, as uncertain as the hand of a boy king.

  Edward and his uncle, Earl Rivers, are en route to London. The queen is determined that everything should in readiness for him and orders new clothes and new furnishings for the royal apartments. She cuts a tragic figure as dowager queen; her head remains high but her eyes swim with grief. She weeps only in private, and I offer what comfort I can.

  “I wish any other than Gloucester had been named Protector,” she murmurs. “That man has a deep hatred for me.”

  “I am sure he will do you honour as the king’s mother, Your Grace.”

  “I am not so sure, Margaret … there are things …” She pauses, the silence stretching into minutes.

  “Things?”

  She stumbles, her face creasing with confusion, revealing a fleeting expression of terror before she recovers.

  “There are certain stories about me that Gloucester may well believe, things about the king he must never discover. Oh, I wish he would remain in Yorkshire.”

  “Perhaps he will return, once he has settled the king safely on his throne.”

  “Oh no, he will not do that. Richard of Gloucester hates me and all my family. He will not want us to have a hand in governing the country.”

  “I am sure he bears no hatred for the prince,” I say, forgetting the boy is now to be addressed as ‘king.’

  “No, not him, perhaps, but he resents our influence. He sees me as an upstart, and will do all in his power to put my family down. You watch him take away their offices and replace them with his own creatures.”

  “Surely, Madam, you are distraught. I warrant it is the strain of the last few weeks that makes you see demons in the dark.”

  I have never seen a monstrous side to Gloucester. He is more sombre than the late king, damning of sin and sinners, yet that is surely not a thing to be detested. His reputation is good, a just and able man, always a credit to his king.

  “No, you are quite wrong. Me and my children are about to fall under the control of a man who is my enemy, and I will need to be strong, Margaret,” she says. “Although I long to throw myself into a pit of misery, I cannot afford to do so. I must put aside grief, remain wary at all times, and express only joy in my son’s accession. During these interminable days, all I have to look forward to is privacy so I may weep.”

  “Once the king is here, you will feel better, Madam,” I say, taking a seat closer to her. “You will see.”

  “I am so tired. I feel I am at the end of my tether.”

  “Then, tomorrow I shall make you a restorative; you will soon feel better.”

  “You are so good, Lady Margaret.”

  Like the queen, I too crave a return to normality. I would like to take up the matter of Henry’s return, but now is not the time.

  He will miss the coronation, but I feel it is safer for him to return to England after the new king is crowned. I am more confident now, for young Edward is a far less dangerous prospect than his unpredictable father.

  We will all feel better once the shock of the past few weeks has passed, and we have become accustomed to the suddenness of the king’s demise. Change is always a difficult thing, but the world, and everything in it, will soon be normal again.

  The queen lapses into silence. I take up my sewing and set a row of red stitches alongside the white and the green.

  Westminster - May 1483

  A crash wakens me. I start up in the bed. My woman, Jane, sits up beside me, sleepily knuckling her eye.

  “What was that, my lady?”

  “I don’t know. Go and find out.”

  I swing my legs from the bed, throw open the shutter, and crane my neck to see if I can discover the cause of the uproar. When the chamber door is thrown furiously open, the last person I expect to see is the queen.

  “Your Grace?” I flush, embarrassed by my unclothed state, but she is not inclined to be concerned about the sight of me in my shift.

  “Margaret. You must move fast. There is no time to waste; just collect what you need, essentials only, and follow me.”

  “Follow you where, Your Grace?”

  “Sanctuary.”

  “What?”

  Still half asleep, I gape at her, wondering if I am dreaming. “Sanctuary? Why? What has happened?”

  “Gloucester has happened. He has intercepted and taken possession of my son on the road to London. He has placed my brother under arrest, and now marches on London. By God, Margaret, we must hurry. He will show me no mercy should he lay hands on me.”

  Her panic is contagious. I can feel its breath on the back of my neck, making my skin prickle. I shudder.

  “Why, Your Grace? Explain, please!”

  I take hold of her arm, and force her down onto the bed, pushing my face close to hers
. There is a film of sweat on her upper lip, madness in her eye. She clutches at me as she repeats her words, enunciating as if I am deaf rather than ill-informed.

  “Gloucester, who hates me, has taken control of the king, and marches on London. We must get to sanctuary, to safety, before he lays hands on my other children. By God, I never did trust him, or any of them. Cecily Neville’s sons are all monsters – every one, bar Edward.”

  She is unhinged. Briefly, she buries her face in her hands, her storm of weeping interrupted when one of her women rushes in, a coffer of jewels beneath her arm.

  “We are ready, Your Grace. The servants are packing up your clothes and hangings, and will follow on after. You must come now.”

  The queen stands up.

  “Hurry up, Margaret.”

  “But …” I hesitate, trying to think clearly, trying to make sense of the gibberish she speaks. “Why do I need to come? Gloucester is not my enemy. He will not harm me.”

  She looks at me as if I am a snake in her path.

  “Oh, you jade! Looking to yourself in my time of dire need! I thought you were on my side.”

  “I did not mean that, Your Grace. Listen to me. If you closet yourself away in sanctuary with all your friends about you, you will be blind to what is happening in the world. If I remain here at court, I can discover Gloucester’s intentions, and keep you informed of his movements …”

  “Like a spy?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Like a spy. And I can work toward finding a way to reconcile you with the Protector.”

  “He will not be Protector for long. My brothers and sons will see to that. My brother Edward has control of the fleet, the treasury has been breached, and so we have funds, the makings of an army …”

  Her woman darts back into the chamber, hopping from one foot to the other.

  “We must go, Your Grace.”