The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

The ceremony over, the company retires to Westminster Hall, where the king and queen retire from the company for a while. I help her from the heavy robe and escort her to a withdrawing room before returning to the throng.

  A babble of voices greets me as people cram into a hall hung for a banquet. Everywhere I look, I see cloth of gold and crimson; candles and torches blaze, and there are garlands of flowers, petals strewn on pristine table cloths.

  A great cry goes up, and squeals of delighted terror from the women, as the Duke of Norfolk rides a gold-trapped charger into the hall. A shiver of delight spreads across the company as he halts at the dais, the great hooves striking sparks from the floor. In a bellowing voice, he orders the spectators to quit the palace to allow the feasting to begin.

  They slowly leave, craning their necks for one last look at the grandeur of the royal palace. As the crowd thins and Norfolk nudges his horse away, I realise my hands are covering my mouth. I drop them to my sides, regain my composure and take my seat.

  When the king and queen re-join us, the company stands as one, raising their voices in welcome. Then, one by one, we take turns to swear fealty. When it is my turn to leave my kiss upon the royal ring, I summon my composure, forcing serenity into my movement.

  As I rise from my knees, the king catches my eye. “We are pleased to have you here, Lady Margaret,” he says, his voice low but resonant with meaning.

  He gives a smile, fleeting, like an arrow in flight, and then it is gone. As I return to my seat, careful not to turn my back on them, his face becomes sombre again.

  The feast begins. King Richard sits at the centre of the table, two squires prone at his feet. He is served by Norfolk and Surrey, while Lord Audeley carves his meat. The king’s closest friends, Percy, and Lovell, offer him morsels from dishes of silver and gold. It must seem strange to them to pay homage to a boyhood friend, to show dutiful obedience to one with whom they once tumbled in play.

  A procession of young men ushers in bowls of food and jugs of wine. Beside me, the king’s sister, the Duchess of Suffolk, shakes out a napkin.

  As server to the queen, I take my place at her shoulder and, as the cloth of estate is raised over her, I can see from the set of her head and the tension in her shoulders that she longs for an end to it all.

  She nibbles at each dish set before her, drinks sparingly of the wine. She has just raised a cup to her lips when the door is thrown open with a bang and a fanfare of trumpets. She jumps visibly, as if expecting an attack, and I hurry forward to dab the splash of wine from her gown. She smiles nervously.

  “Thank you, Margaret. I am such a fool to be so startled.”

  “The hall is more like a stable today, Your Grace,” I murmur as Sir Robert Dymmock, the King’s Champion spurs his red-and-white trapped steed to the foot of the dais. Sir Robert, clad in white armour, sits tall in the saddle to deliver his challenge.

  The company respond with a shattering cry. “King Richard! King Richard!”

  Anne winces, cowering a little from the din, but manages to maintain her smile. I mouth the words along with the rest, but emit no sound.

  Elizabeth, in the squalor of her chosen retreat, must surely hear it. She will picture me here, cheering for the usurper. I am torn between pity for her and compassion for this new queen, who I doubt has the heart to bear it.

  As I watch the champion drink from the golden chalice, I send up a silent prayer for them both. Having drunk his fill, Sir Robert casts the dregs of his wine cup onto the floor, bows to the king and queen, and kicks his horse into retreat, leaving the hall ringing with cheers.

  I look about at the ruddy faces, the loyal subjects of King Richard the Third. How fickle they are. I once saw many of these people swear allegiance to King Henry, and later, I witnessed their pledges of obedience to the usurping Edward of York. Now, despite Gloucester’s offences, they turn their coats again to become loyal subjects to another son of York.

  As I watch them, I wonder if all men are inconstant, if all loyalty is transient. I must remember always to be wary, to place my trust in no-one.

  *

  A few days later, the king and queen leave for a royal progress. Pleading a slight malady, I remain behind, and at the first opportunity make my way by stealth to the sanctuary at St Peter’s.

  “I heard you were there,” she says, “carrying the baggage’s train, serving her at the banquet – how could you do that?”

  I should defend Anne; she is not a baggage, just a woman caught up in a male game, as we all are, but defending Anne to Elizabeth would be like waving a stick at a serpent. I opt instead for appeasement.

  “I did as I was told, as I always have. Serving her does not dent my allegiance to you.”

  “You no longer address me as is my right. It used to be ‘Your Grace this – Your Grace that.’ What happened to your subservience?”

  I sigh and look across at the children, who are gathered in the light of the one small window as if hungry for freedom and air.

  “I am sure there are more important things to be discussed. Have you forgotten our plan? Do you have any news to share with me?”

  “So you can take it all to him? To your friend, the usurper?”

  I keep my eyes lowered, my temper tightly bound.

  “I would not do that. Anyway, the k-- they are on progress until the end of the summer.”

  She makes no apology for her accusation.

  “Did you hear that my brother has taken two ships of the line and a small fortune in gold and joined your son in Brittany?”

  “No, I have had no word from Henry for some time.”

  I begin to consider what this could mean, but Elizabeth interrupts me again, drawing me along another train of thought.

  “And what of my sons? Have you news of them? Are they safe? Lord, what must they make of all this?”

  “Everyone is safe in the Tower, Madam, from outside forces at least.”

  I do not miss her smug smile at my absentminded use of the title ‘Madam.’

  “We have to get them out; get them to safety overseas.”

  “But how is that possible? How can we gain access to the Tower? It will do no good asking permission to visit. We cannot come and go from the Tower as we please.”

  I make a mental list of those with the authority to enter the Tower. As each name appears in my mind, writ clear in large black letters, I strike them through with my imaginary pen. I trust none of them.

  “What about Buckingham? He is your kin is he not?”

  “And in Gloucester’s pocket!”

  “Perhaps those pockets are not as snug or as deep as we think. I have resources; we could bribe him.”

  “Elizabeth, we must be cautious. We cannot run at this like a bull at a gate. Buckingham is as rich as you and I. It would need something more, some carrot he cannot refuse …”

  “Like what? An offer of power perhaps, when we succeed in restoring my son to his throne?”

  Elizabeth leans forward and grabs my hand, her former hostility abandoned. “We can offer him the Protectorship, or something equally lucrative.”

  “He is already Lord High Constable – there is nothing higher. Oh, there must be a way. I need to think …”

  I put my face in my hands to shut out the oppression of these gloomy chambers. What would tempt a man like Buckingham?

  “We need a man of stealth, of iron will – someone we can trust.”

  “We can trust no one.”

  The light is failing and her eyes shine in the glow of the candle.

  “If only Morton were still at large. He was invaluable before; everyone trusts a man of God. If only our previous strategy had not failed.”

  I prick my ears. This is the first mention she has made of her involvement in the plot that spelled the end of William Hastings.

  “You worked with them? You and Morton were in league with Hastings … and Jane Shore?”

  She shrugs.

  “For the good it did any of us. Look at us n
ow. Hastings is dead, Morton under lock and key in Brecknock, the Shore Whore humiliated and languishing in Ludgate gaol; and me … Margaret, just look at me …”

  She breaks off, plunges her face into her hands. I watch helplessly as her back heaves. God forfend that I should ever fall so low.

  “Where is Buckingham now?”

  She raises her head, wiping away tears with the back of her hand.

  “I do not know.”

  “I wonder if he rode north with the king, or if he is planning to return to his estates in Wales …”

  She sniffs inelegantly.

  “And if he has?”

  “Then, perchance, I might be riding that way too and meet him on the road.”

  Bridgenorth - August 1483

  The day is hot, the dust of the road stifling. I long to order the steward to stop at the next inn, but if my plan to intercept Buckingham is to succeed, then I must bear the discomfort with as much grace as possible.

  I have sent most of the household ahead, and follow on with a small company of guards, my steward, and Master Bray for company. It has been necessary to take him into my confidence and he rides at my side like a spider fearful of being stepped upon. He constantly turns in the saddle to peer over his shoulder, or cranes his neck to view the road ahead.

  “Master Bray,” I whisper when I can bear it no longer, “your lack of ease will give the game away.”

  He puts a finger beneath his collar and tugs at it, revealing the sheen of sweat on his neck.

  “I beg pardon, Madam. I am ill-suited to intrigue.”

  “Oh, it isn’t intrigue, Master Bray. I merely wish to pass the time of day with the duke without the eyes of court upon us.”

  “Yes, my lady,” he says, quite unconvinced.

  An hour later, one of our outriders comes cantering along the road toward us. He pulls his horse to a halt.

  “A large party is coming in the opposite direction, my lady. There will not be room for both to pass.”

  “There is an inn ahead, I believe,” Master Bray interjects.

  “Ah, most excellent. We will stop there and give the other party room to pass.”

  As the rider canters away to announce our impending arrival at the inn, I lean toward Bray and speak into his ear.

  “Ride ahead, Master Bray. If it is the Duke of Buckingham who approaches, pray bid him stop so I may greet him.”

  Bray pushes back his cap to scratch his damp forehead.

  “And if he declines?”

  “Then he declines. I can do no more.”

  In truth, I am not as calm as I pretend. My heart is hammering, my palms sticky on the reins. As best he can, Master Bray bows his head and urges his horse forward. I keep my eye on the road, looking neither left nor right until we call a halt at the small inn nestled by the side of the road.

  The proprietor, ingratiating and squat, emerges from the gloomy interior.

  “We are honoured, my lady, by such great company. I will order my best wine brought from the cellar.”

  I incline my head but do not reply. Such people are beneath my notice. I allow a groom to help me dismount, and follow my woman Jane, beneath the low lintel. I blink into the darkness, squinting around the room, and find it empty apart from a drunkard asleep in one corner. Despite the heat of the day, it is chilly inside, making me shudder. Jane steps forward to ease a wrap about my shoulders.

  “Thank you.” I smile and take a seat at a rough table, where a platter of griddle cakes and a jug of wine have been placed. Clearly, the inn is unaccustomed to people of rank calling in for refreshment.

  A few moments later, Bray appears, hot from the road. He takes off his cap and I beckon him close so he may speak unheard.

  “The duke will be delighted to break his journey for so great a lady,” he murmurs.

  I wait in trepidation, wishing I were elsewhere; back at court with Anne, or safe in sanctuary with Elizabeth.

  I have received several reports of Buckingham’s displeasure with the new king, small indications of dissatisfaction, disagreement over policies and royal appointments. But how am I to sway his loyalty, push him into rebellion? I cannot speak plainly, but neither can I leave him in any doubt as to my intention. It is a narrow path I walk, as uncertain as a dagger’s edge.

  The courtyard bustles with those of my party whom I have instructed to wait outside. When Buckingham’s company clatters into the yard, the innkeeper cannot believe his luck. He throws down the grubby cloth with which he was polishing cups, and loosens his filthy apron.

  “Gripes,” I hear him say, “we’ve had no travellers in for a week, and now two noble parties grace us on the same blimmin’ afternoon.”

  Buckingham stoops beneath the door, blocking out the light, and spies me at the scarred table. He strides forward and makes a sweeping bow, his fair hair the brightest thing in the room.

  “Lady Margaret, what a surprise.”

  “My lord. When they told me your train approached, I could not let you pass without a greeting.”

  He signals to the squirming proprietor to bring another cup.

  “Is the wine good?” he says, pouring himself a generous measure.

  “Well.” I look with some dismay into my cup. “It is wet, my lord.”

  He shouts with laughter and slaps his knee.

  “That is good enough for me,” he cries, and tilts back his head to drain it in one draught. I have never before been acclaimed for my wit.

  “How is Thomas, is he not with you?”

  “No, I ride alone, on a visit to my … sister. Where are you travelling?”

  “To my estates at Brecnock. I have neglected my own affairs since in attendance upon the king.”

  I smile with what I hope is warmth.

  “I must congratulate you on your new appointments. You are a powerful man now - deservedly so.”

  He leans back in his chair and regards me down the length of his nose.

  “Thank you. What are your plans now, Lady Margaret? Have you been invited to attend the queen? I know she speaks well of you.”

  “Yes, but she hopes to travel north shortly. I will remain in London and attend her when she returns. I wonder …” I break off; look at my clasped hands, hesitating. It is unfortunate that I am not the sort of woman to turn prettily pink at will.

  He leans closer. “What is it that you wonder, Lady Margaret?”

  “I – I … since you are so close to the king, I wondered whether you would speak to him on my behalf.”

  “Of course … what is the matter you wish to raise?”

  “Well, before the late king grew sick, negotiations were in hand for the pardon and return of my son. I would be so glad were King Richard to honour his brother’s promise.”

  He blows out his cheeks, pouring himself a second cup of wine. When the jug hovers above my own, I cover it with my hand and shake my head.

  “No, thank you. I do not think I could bear another.”

  “You have a delicate palate, Madam; I fear mine has been jaded by many years of abuse.”

  I make a sympathetic noise as he relaxes into his seat. He takes a long draught and pulls a face as the acrid taste bites his tongue.

  “I will see what I can do for you, Lady Margaret. I have never met your son, but I’ve heard no ill of him. If he swears fealty to Richard, I see no reason to deny him the chance to make recompense.”

  Recompense for what? I want to scream. For being born? But I maintain my serenity and lean forward, my hands clasped with gratitude.

  “I am in your debt, my lord.”

  While he continues to talk of trivial things, I search for a way to bring Morton into the conversation. I wish I could dispense with stealth and speak plainly. At length, he stands up.

  “I must be on my way, or I will be on the road all night.”

  I allow him to take my hand. I have to speak now. I must say something or it will be too late and all this will have been for nothing.

  “You are ho
ping to reach Brecknock this evening?”

  “I was, but the day is waning.”

  “I believe Bishop Morton is … enjoying your hospitality.”

  He picks up his riding gloves and begins to pull; them on.

  “He is, yes.” His look is piercing; I can feel the blood rushing to my face as my heartbeat increases.

  “Would you tell him we met on the road, and give him my best regards?”

  “I can see no harm in that.”

  “Oh no, my lord, no harm intended.”

  I have not spoken plainly. He is not subtle enough to have gleaned meaning from my pathetic hints. He bows, spins on his heel and exits the inn, calling for his groom.

  I can do no more. I can only pray Morton can persuade him to our cause. Tension leaches from my body and my head is suddenly light. I fall into the chair, fumble for my cup and take a large swig of wine. As it hits the back of my throat, I splutter and cough, spitting it down my front.

  “Christ and his saints, that is foul!” I cry, as Jane hurries from the shadows to mop my stained bodice.

  *

  The king’s men are very much in evidence. On my return to London, my train is forced more than once to make way. The populace seems edgy; nobody looks the other in the eye. It is a little over a month since the coronation and the king remains on his progress north, yet the city boils with unease and distrust. Can our plans have been discovered when they have barely been formed?

  My interview with Buckingham has probably gained little. I rebuke myself for not making my intentions clearer. My oblique message to Morton will never be passed on. I am a fool. Elizabeth will berate me when she learns how I wasted the opportunity to win the duke’s support.

  When I dismount and hurry to our apartment, all I can think of is divesting myself of these travel-blemished clothes and ordering a hot bath. As I climb the stairs, I draw off my gloves and flex my fingers that are tight and aching from gripping the reins.

  “My lady, welcome back.” My women swarm around me, following me to my chamber where they help me into a loose robe.

  A pile of letters waits on the table. Taking a cup of wine, I sit and sift through them while a troop of chamberers brings pails of hot water. There is nothing but bills and receipts so I get up and pace about the room, pausing to trail my finger across my embroidery, left abandoned when I embarked upon my travels.