The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  Stanley regards me for a long time. With each passing second, my agony increases. At last, he speaks, giving vent to his fury, his face softening into contempt.

  “Probably; I do not know. He wants to see you. I am to escort you to him in the morning. If I were you, Margaret, I would devise a convincing plea for mercy.”

  Woking and Westminster - November 1483

  I cannot sleep. My mind writhes with half-formed remedies, ill-considered answers. I hear every creak and groan of the palace, each toll of the bell, each fart and whimper Jane makes as she tosses on her truckle bed. I have been a fool. I have been arrogant. I have been proud. By the time the prime bell rings, I am already on my knees, praying frantically for Heavenly assistance.

  If ever I needed God’s favour, it is now. I remain there for a long time, seeking peace in the quiet piety of the chapel, yet never quite finding it. Mice scratch in the wainscot, like the worry in my mind, nibbling at my sanity, destroying my rationality with sharp yellow teeth.

  “Come on; you cannot hide in here all day. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

  Thomas’s voice echoes around the nave, tolling out my end and spelling doom. I hastily finish my prayer, make genuflection before the rood, and follow him back to the hall.

  I climb onto my horse, shivering in the frigid morning. He rides ahead, and I keep my gaze fastened to the rump of his chestnut steed. My fingers soon become frozen, the cold seeping into my joints, my knuckles groaning and stiff.

  How did I ever come to this? My dreams for my son have ended in attainder. He has no hope now of ever regaining what was stolen from him; no hope of ever returning from exile.

  I might die tomorrow and never look upon the man my son has become. I berate myself for relying on others, for placing my trust in the weak, and, most of all, for underestimating the reach of King Richard’s spies.

  Thomas’s angry back leads me along a path I have no wish to travel. As the spires of the capital come into view and the stench of the city reaches us, my heart plummets, my belly rolling with rebellion. I have never thought myself a coward before, but now I know myself to be craven.

  Had we been victorious, I would be riding into the city to a clarion of trumpets, waving banners and cheering crowds. As a traitor, I am shunted in via the backdoor, a felon’s noose turning slowly in the forefront of my mind. Dabbling in treason is only for heroes, or fools.

  *

  The king appears little different to when I saw him last: a little paler, perhaps, a little more shadowed about the eyes. I had expected rage, even vindictiveness, but he greets me with politely, and with much sorrow, making me ashamed.

  He gestures to a chair and I move toward it with shaking knees. Thomas stands behind me, his hand on my shoulder as if he fears I will flee. Richard rests his elbows on the table, presses the tips of his fingers together, and regards me gravely. One of his hounds cleans himself near the hearth, his disgusting slobbery sounds making a mockery of our solemnity.

  “I would like you to explain why, Lady Margaret.”

  I am trapped like a bee in the web of his mournful eyes. I flounder there, drowning, trying to remember the reasons why I betrayed an anointed king. I cannot find my voice. He fills the silence.

  “We had thought you our friend. My wife, the queen, was pleased to have you in her service. Tell me, was your early show of welcome just that? Merely a show?”

  “No. I – I … Your Grace, I cannot explain my reasons. Perhaps my allegiance to the quee – the dowager queen, Elizabeth Grey – conflicted my loyalty to you.”

  “So you were persuaded … Are you always so easily swayed?”

  “No. I was confused, Your Grace. I have always craved the return of my son. The late king made promises … I simply wanted justice for Henry.”

  Our eyes clash. I am determined not to look away. He wanted the truth; I might as well give it to him. I will probably die soon, anyway.

  “We would have welcomed him home.”

  His words are like a smack on the face. His expression does not alter; he maintains a blank, sorry demeanour. I cannot let myself believe him. It is easy to say that now; although … Thomas also claims the matter was in hand.

  “I beg pardon, Your Grace. I see I was misled.”

  “You must have all been so sure of victory. You, your son, your brother, the Woodvilles, Morton … and Buckingham. Yet where has it got you? Attainted for treason. Imprisonment … Death.”

  I cannot help it. When he speaks the word, I flinch, my hands trembling, my chin juddering. I should be defiant. I should shout at him, tell him plainly that I am glad I worked against him, and would do so again. He is a usurper, a bully … and worse. But I lack the courage of my conviction and lapse into guilty tears.

  Thomas clears his throat.

  “There is something else, Your Grace; something Margaret says she was told; a rumour that perhaps forced her to act against her better judgement.”

  I frown into my lap, unsure whether Thomas speaks in my defence or not.

  King Richard sighs, his breath ruffling the papers before him on the desk; papers that might be my death warrant.

  “Is that true, Lady Margaret? You heard the rumour also?”

  He continues to regard me while I search for the best answer. Suddenly, I realise what a fool I was to believe the tale Buckingham spread.

  “I – I - Yes, Your Grace, but I give the rumours no credit; not now.”

  “You do not believe them? Then why act against me?”

  I flounder beneath his steely honesty. Not sure of the truth myself, now that it is done and we have failed, I cannot imagine why I ever thought this man could be thwarted.

  “I do not know.”

  He leans back in his chair with a humourless laugh. “You do not know? You organise a wide-scale uprising involving half the men of my court; you send money abroad; you fraternize with traitors to the crown – yet you do not know why?”

  He leans forward, so close I can see the hairs growing on his upper lip. “I say you do know. I say you are a liar and a traitor, and should suffer a traitor’s punishment.”

  A cry escapes me. The pressure of Thomas’s fingers increases on my shoulder. My hand creeps up to find his and remains there, squeezing, seeking his strength. Momentarily, my mind clarifies. If I am to die, I am determined to do it well.

  “I would like to know if Prince Edward and Richard are safe, Your Grace.”

  He laughs humourlessly.

  “They are secure, Lady Margaret. Since the failed attempt to free them in July, they have been moved to a place of greater safety.”

  Relief floods through me, but I will not allow myself to unbend. Drawing all my strength, I release Thomas’s hand and keep my back stiff, my face expressionless. I cannot let Gloucester see my terror.

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  While he takes up his quill and scratches some words on a document, I keep my eyes on my fingers wrestling in my lap. Somewhere nearby, a door opens, followed by running footsteps, and farther away, another door slams. Thomas drums his fingers on my shoulder as the moments drag slowly by. At last, the king looks up from his parchment.

  “You will, of course, realise that I cannot allow you to go unpunished.”

  My mouth forms the words but no sound comes as he passes the document into my hands. I look down, the words he has written dancing and leaping until I blink to bring order to my vision.

  Forasmuch as Margaret, Countess of Richmond, Mother to the king’s great rebel and traitor, Henry, Earl of Richmond, hath of late conspired, confedered, and committed high treason against our sovereign lord the king, Richard the third, in diverse and sundry ways, and in especial in sending messages, writings and tokens to the said Henry …

  My eyes skim across the page where my name is writ large, condemned as a traitor of the commonest degree, my disgrace made solid in law, the impact of my actions made real. I am a traitor. I deserve a traitor’s death. I continue to read, absorbin
g his pleasure in my punishment, but as his looped script nears the end of the page, my breath stalls. I travel back, read the passage again.

  Remembering the good and faithful service that Thomas, Lord Stanley, hath done, and intends to do to our said Sovereign lord, and for the good love and trust that the king hath in him, and for his sake, remit and will forbear the great punishment of attainder of the said countess …

  My hand flies to my throat and my eyes begin to sting. Blinking rapidly, overwhelmed with relief, I gape at the king.

  “You intend to show me mercy, Your Grace?”

  He regards me dispassionately, replacing his quill in the ink pot.

  “It is a virtue, I am told.”

  I do not deserve this. If our roles were reversed, I do not think I would be so generous. All at once, I have no care for the lands and goods that he orders confiscated. I have no care for the taint that will forever rest upon the name of Beaufort.

  I am not to die.

  This man, whom I have sinned against, commutes the sentence of death to one of life imprisonment. And life is suddenly very, very sweet.

  Lathom - December 1483

  December is cold, but my heart is colder. Early in the month, King Richard orders the execution of the conspirators in the October plot; a plot that was mostly of my making.

  When word comes of the deaths of George Brown, William Clifford, William Knight, Richard Cruse, William Frost, Richard Potter, Richard Fischer, John Boutayne, Roger Kelsale, and William Strode, the names become branded on my heart. Long hours spent in the chapel praying for their souls do nothing to alleviate my sense of culpability.

  I can never make penance enough.

  I look about my comfortable room, the pretty view across the garden. It is a gentle punishment indeed, although I can never leave. My household has been disbanded, and I am served by strangers now. My day is divided between prayer, sewing, and walking but my world is small. The perimeter garden wall is the extent of my prison.

  In a week’s time, it will be Christmas, and while the royal court spends it in extravagant celebration, I will be here in isolation. I have never before seen my path ahead so clearly. This week and the years that will follow stretch before me, a yawning chasm of boredom and discontentment.

  *

  It is only the third time I have seen Thomas since I was brought here. He clumps up the stairs and bursts into my chamber without preamble. Ordinarily I would let my irritation show but I am learning that solitude turns even his limited company into a boon.

  I put down my sewing and turn meek eyes upon him, touched in spite of myself that he has come.

  “How are you, Margaret?” He lowers himself into a chair. “Keeping out of trouble, I hope.”

  “Of course. I am hardly able to do otherwise.”

  He glares at me from beneath his brows.

  “And if you were able?”

  “I have told you before; I will obey you as my husband. I am grateful for your intervention with the king.”

  “See that you do.”

  He gets up and pours wine, brings me a cup.

  “I suppose you will be attending the Christmas court?”

  Thomas yawns without hiding it.

  “Yes, I will.” He looks about the room, the cosy fire, the scattering of cushions, and my sewing on the table at my knee. “And you will be here.”

  “As I am every day. I already feel I have been in this house forever.”

  “Hmm. Perhaps, sometime in the future, we can persuade the king to let you move from house to house, if I promise to guard you well.”

  Such a small concession now seems like a gift. The freedom to move from here to Woking, to the Stanley estates in Lancashire, will be as wings to a snail.

  “Oh, Thomas, if you only could!”

  When he takes his leave of me, he draws a small package from his tunic.

  “Open it on Christmas morning,” he says, “and not a day sooner.”

  I place the package on a small table beside my bed. Every day upon waking, my eyes fall upon it, and a shrim of excitement runs through me. It cannot be a gift of great value, probably some token of his growing affection but I am cast so low that just the knowledge that someone thinks of me is now precious.

  Christmas morning dawns bright. Still unused to waking alone, I sit up in bed and take up the package. I clutch it to my breast for a while, closing my eyes, imagining the glories it might contain. To prolong the pleasure, I slip on a wrap and go to the window, throwing open the shutters to allow the wintry sunshine to stream into the chamber.

  At last, I draw in my breath and tear the outer wrapping from the package. It contains a letter. My heart begins to thump, loud and slow.

  Henry! It is from Henry. Had I imagined for one moment that it contained news from my son, I would have ignored Thomas’s order and opened it right away. My former reluctance forgotten, I break the seal and unfold the parchment with fumbling fingers.

  My eyes absorb the beloved script.

  My dear lady mother, he writes

  I have heard of your current straits and will do all I can to bring your suffering to an end. In the mean time I hope this finds you well, in body if not in spirit. As another Christmas season comes upon us, I find myself regretting those we have missed together.

  On Christmas morning, I am determined to pledge myself before God to Elizabeth of York. This, I trust, will bring hope to those who still hold a desire to put an end to Gloucester’s usurpation, and bring justice once more to England.

  I look up from my letter, close my eyes and give thanks to God who has, after all, not deserted me, or my cause.

  Outside, the church bells begin to peal. It is a bright blue morning, spelling joy on this day of days. I fall to my knees and beseech the Lord for his continuing favour.

  March 1484

  Even the advent of spring cannot leaven the interminable days of solitude. I am bored with sewing, I have read all my books four or five times, and the garden is too wet to work. All I have is prayer, and I am sure God grows tired of my repetitive pleas.

  The mirror shows me a face that is pale and peaked, but I lack the vigour to dose myself. My still-room lies neglected; the stitches on the chair covers I have been working are irregular and ugly. In my plainest gown, I wait at the window watching the rain. Even the sound of a horse arriving fails to spark my interest; it is probably a delivery of grain, or a man come to mend the broken casement. When the door opens and Thomas enters, I am taken by surprise.

  I leap up, wipe my tears on the back of my hand and flap at my drab skirts.

  “Thomas, I had not expected …”

  He comes toward me, kisses my brow.

  “You look dreadful, Margaret. If you do not keep yourself tidy, I will not want to ride all this way to see you.”

  My ire piqued, I frown but the expression dissolves as his last words distract me.

  “Why do you come?”

  “I told the king I would keep an eye on you.”

  “Are your servants not doing a good enough job? I can barely shit without someone making note of it.”

  I had intended my vulgarity to offend him, but instead he throws back his head in a burst of laughter. I watch with displeasure as he wipes his eyes.

  “Ah, Margaret, let us not fight. Come down off your high horse and admit you are glad to see me.”

  “I have no other company. I would be glad to see the devil.”

  “Well, maybe I should go. Perhaps you do not want to hear the news I bring.”

  “What news? Is it Henry? Have you heard something from overseas?”

  “No. He may be my stepson but he is not likely to write to me of his news. No, it is Dame Grey …”

  “The queen? Is she ill?”

  He holds up his hand, silencing me.

  “Just listen and I will tell you. And she is not the queen; she is merely Dame Elizabeth Grey. You would do well to remember that.”

  I swallow, nodding my head l
ike a naughty child.

  “She has relented at last and come to an agreement with the king to release her daughters into his custody.”

  “What? Are you certain?”

  “Of course I am certain. I would not bring you rumours.”

  “But – but how can she trust him? The last time I spoke to her, she blamed him for the death of her sons.”

  “But the boys still live; perhaps he has provided evidence of that. I do not know the details. I just know they are leaving sanctuary.”

  “Elizabeth too?”

  “So I believe, to some secret house with someone Richard trusts to keep a wary eye on her. The girls will be a welcome addition to Queen Anne’s household, the elder ones at least. They are beauties …”

  “I cannot understand … why would she surrender to him now? What has changed?”

  “Nothing I know of. Now, I have in my saddle bag a choice bottle of Rhenish I bought from London. Would you care to share it with me?”

  I have little taste for wine, but can hardly refuse. I nod my head absentmindedly while I contemplate possible reasons for Elizabeth’s change of heart.

  Thomas goes on to tell me that Richard swore an oath before the lords spiritual and temporal promising that if Elizabeth and her daughters left sanctuary, he would stand surety for their lives. He swore not to imprison them but to ensure the girls were married to gentlemen born.

  “He has also promised them seven hundred marks a year.”

  “And Elizabeth agreed? She must have something up her sleeve.”

  Thomas shrugs.

  “Maybe so, but she will be watched. Richard has set John Nesfield to keep an eye on her, so at the least hint of treason, he will fall on her like a cat on a mouse.”

  After three glasses of wine, Thomas unfastens his tunic and loosens his collar.

  “You must be lonely, Margaret. How do you stand it?”