The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  I look about my enclosure - the books, the sewing, all of which now bore me to tears.

  “I do not know. I never thought I would miss the idle chatter of my women but I would give all I possess to have Jane or Elizabeth back in my service. The women you have set to serve me are ill-bred and uneducated. I am starved of intelligent conversation.”

  “And all you have is me.” He reaches out to touch my shoulder and I feel the heat of his hand burn through my clothes. I join him in laughter at his self-effacing comment.

  “You are most welcome, my lord. You have proved yourself a good husband, a good man. I owe you my life, and I thank you for it.”

  “Well, I cannot return that compliment I fear. You have been nothing but trouble.”

  “Nothing but trouble? Surely some good has come of it?”

  “Hush.” He places his finger on my lips. “I was teasing. Do you not understand what teasing is?”

  My mind rushes back to the nursery, where I was the butt of my brother Oliver’s taunting. My eyes fill with unexpected tears. I try to look away, lower my eyes, but his finger moves beneath my chin and he forces me to look at him.

  “I am not teasing now,” he says.

  My loneliness rushes in; I can feel it all round me. When he leaves, my solitary existence will continue. I crave the touch of another human being, even if it is only Thomas. I forget my former pledge to deny him my body and do not move away as his lips press against mine.

  Thomas’s love making is as wild and rough as his unskilled courtship. Tomorrow, I will regret it, I will hate myself, but for now, it is an escape from the confines of my gaol.

  His touch frees my mind from care. When he finally rolls away from me, I snuggle to his side and watch him drift off to sleep. Perhaps, the last sound he is conscious of is my whispering voice speculating on how grand it might be to be the step-father of a king.

  Late March 1484

  Thomas stays for a week or more. We spend our days riding in the park, walking in the garden, and sometimes, when the April showers come rushing in, we retire to our shadowy chamber where I set the inner Margaret free.

  It is Thomas’s joke that another Margaret lurks deep within me, a persona brought into being only by his kisses. I let him think it, and if he wishes to label our relationship as love, then I let him do that also. For me, Thomas is my lifeline.

  I know that he will soon leave again, and I will be plunged once more into isolation. While he lords it at court, I will be here, held captive behind invisible bars, with silken cushions that are stuffed with barbs.

  He leaves tomorrow to re-join the king, who is holding court at Nottingham. Thomas says the queen has left the north and is with her husband.

  “She sends you her good wishes,” he says, and I widen my eyes, astounded and touched that she should do so after my betrayal.

  “Is she well?” I ask him. “I thought, when I was with her, that I detected a sallowness that spoke of ailment.”

  “She is one of those pallid creatures, I think,” he replies, lifting my hair from my shoulder so that he may kiss my neck. I close my eyes as my innards shift at his caress. I am a fool and a wanton to be so easily distracted. I pull away.

  “I have a headache.”

  “But I will be gone tomorrow,” he complains, sounding like a small boy refused an outing. “Will you not miss me just a little?”

  He takes me in his arms, and I crane my neck to look up at him.

  “That letter you gave me, Thomas. How did you come by it?”

  “Letter?” He nuzzles my neck again, his left hand creeping to my breast.

  “From Henry. Will there – can you bring me more?”

  “I might.” He pulls back, looks teasingly into my eyes. “If the tithe is paid.”

  My arms slide up around his neck, my body limply compliant in his arms.

  April 1484

  I knew I would be lonely when Thomas left, but I had not expected to be assailed by such misery as this. He said he would return by summer’s end, or as soon as his duties at court allowed. That is a long time away.

  The early spring days drip like cold honey, the sweetness replaced by bitterness. When his letters come, I snatch them up as eagerly as I once did Henry’s; I tear them open and drink in his words, my mind racing across the page without fully comprehending the contents. I stop, falter, a hand to my throat as I absorb the news.

  Oh no! Poor Anne; poor, poor Anne. She now lives through my worst nightmare; the thing every mother fears has happened. How she must berate herself for leaving him behind.

  Her son, Edward, the Prince of Wales and King Richard’s only heir has died at the age of just ten years while both his parents were away at Nottingham. I close my eyes and send up a hasty prayer before sitting down to write to her.

  I can only hope that Princess Elizabeth offers her what comfort she can … unless, of course, she finds ways to exacerbate her suffering. If she is indeed her mother’s daughter, then Elizabeth will not forgive, or forget, easily. Poor, poor Anne.

  I am halfway through my condolence before I pause. Looking down at the page, I realise she will think my words false. She will not believe my pity is genuine. I gain too much from it.

  The death of her son, and the disappearance of Elizabeth’s boys, leaves the path open for mine. Henry is a direct threat to her husband. They know he waits overseas, ready to come and claim what is theirs. I put down the pen and instead of writing to her, I pray for Henry.

  Summer 1484

  A horrible season, with few visits from Thomas to leaven my ennui. With little else to do, my mind returns constantly to matters at court. It is like a never-ending game of hoodman blind. I can imagine the key players but cannot see them, cannot quite grasp their next move. Something tells me it will not be long before trouble begins brew.

  Early in the summer, my ageing chaplain falls sick and another is appointed. I resign myself to admitting a new member to my restricted household. I am so starved of company that when he arrives, I watch from the window as he dismounts. He fumbles with the harness, detaching a pack from the saddle, and turns toward the hall. I cannot see his features, for although the day is bright, a cloak swaddles him from head to toe. I take my place at the hearth and wait for him to be shown into my presence.

  The door opens slowly and the figure ambles toward me. There is something … familiar …

  “Dr Lewis? What are you doing here? I thought you were overseas!”

  “I am, Lady Margaret, to all intents and purposes. I have news for you.”

  I look around the chamber to ensure we are alone.

  “You are taking an enormous risk. I hope your news is good; I am in need of cheer.” I hold out my hand for a letter, but he shakes his head.

  “I have nothing writ down; it is all here.”

  He taps a fingertip against his temple. I grasp my hands together tightly and hold my breath as I wait for him to speak.

  “The queen has not forgotten us. Preparations are underway across the channel; your son is ready to move, as soon as the time is right.”

  “Move? He still plans to invade? To contest the throne? Is he properly prepared?”

  I am sure that without my advice he will have overlooked some vital detail. Dr Lewis smiles slowly and nods his head.

  “I think it is safe to say so. My lord Jasper is at his side. I am sent to tell you and the queen to be on your guard for news.”

  If Henry fails this time, my life will be forfeit. The thought fills me with fear, but I have always said I would lay down my life for my son.

  Now I am in possession of the facts, I cannot keep still. Time must pass more quickly, for if I am incarcerated here much longer, I will surely go mad. I walk in the garden as if marching to battle, my pace too quick for the girl who watches me. She pants along in my wake, and I take satisfaction from knowing that I tire my gaoler.

  Life is a round of prayer and reading; I eat, I sleep, I pray, I walk and then I eat again. Tho
mas comes at the end of the month and we sit until late in the golden sunshine of the dying day before retiring for the night.

  “How are Princess Elizabeth and her sisters settling at court?”

  Thomas stretches out his legs to balance his feet on a stool.

  “I would not say they settle. They are flighty, like butterflies, teasing all the young men and antagonising the women with their beauty.”

  I can imagine them. So recently released from the dark recesses of Westminster, their freedom would rush to their heads. I can almost hear the squeals of their laughter. I wonder how their bright splash of youthful joy grates upon the sorrowing queen.

  “I imagine court is sombre while the king and queen mourn the loss of their son.”

  “The king will not have it so. He was mad with grief for a while, but now he plans a lavish Christmas, inviting all and sundry to the feast.”

  “All but me. I will remain here.”

  I cannot help the wistfulness that creeps into my voice.

  “That is no one’s fault but your own. It is too soon to seek the king’s leniency. We must wait and let the punishment run a while longer.”

  “But you will speak for me when the time is right.”

  “I will. Now, come and sit here and tell me what you do all day.”

  “Nothing!” I cry, getting up and doing as I am told. “There is nothing to do. I am out of my mind with boredom.”

  He hands me a cup and I drink, although I am not thirsty.

  “Well, see you keep out of trouble, or nothing I can do will save you.”

  I do not reply, the guilty secret of Dr Lewis’s stealthy visit like a bell in my mind.

  “Margaret. You are not embroiled in any …”

  “No. Nothing. I am sure there is nothing to be embroiled in at all.”

  I am a bad liar; I can feel my cheeks beginning to burn. He puts his hand on my chin, turns my face up to his.

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  “Because you are a disbelieving bully,” I retort, summoning as much indignation as I can.

  “Hmm. I had hoped I could trust you, but I see I cannot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stands up, catching hold of my upper arm.

  “Come to bed. It will be harder for you to lie when I have divested you of your shift.”

  As he hauls me off to the bedchamber, I sputter with indignation, determined to deny him. He picks me up and tosses me onto the mattress, and I scramble up the bed, taking refuge among the pillows. He loosens his belt and I cannot take my eye from the gleaming buckle.

  “I had a visit from my brother, William.” His words draw my eyes to his.

  “Did you? And how - how is he?”

  “Very well. Up to his neck in treason, by all accounts.”

  “Treason? You mean he hatches a plot?”

  My evasion is as clear as a crystal glass.

  “As you very well know. He urges me to join you.”

  My heart beat increases, and my palms are damp with sweat. Can I trust him? It could be a trap. My husband is a loyal man. Had his brother really revealed the details of a plot against the king, Thomas would betray him. I have no doubt about that.

  “What is the plot?” I ask in a small voice.

  “You mean you know nothing about the fact that your son and his uncle Jasper have raised an army and are preparing to sail?”

  “No.” I do not want to lie to him. I wish I could explain, persuade him of the validity of my son’s claim. He pulls his shirt over his head and discards it on the floor.

  “My brother has sworn his support, and so have many other powerful men. William is trying to tempt me; persuading me of the many virtues of being step-father to the king of England.”

  I let my breath go suddenly, unaware I had been holding it.

  “And what was your reply?”

  “No, of course. What would you expect it to be?”

  He leans toward me, pulls off my cap and begins to play with my hair. He reeks of wine and wood smoke, and there is a gleam in his eye that I have not seen before. It is not lust, it is not humour. As his fingers creep up and gently squeeze my throat, I realise his expression is one of greed.

  March 1485

  I swear I will go mad. Each moment is a year, each month a decade, each year a lifetime. When I count back the days, I can scarce believe it has not yet been sixteen months. Sometimes, it seems as if I was born here and have never set foot outside the gates of Lathom. My previous life feels like a dream. The child who rode to Wales, birthed a son, and wed four husbands, danced at court and served two queens, has almost ceased to exist. She has become nothing more than a story I read a long time ago.

  I am Margaret the forgotten.

  Margaret the restless.

  Margaret the very ill used.

  Thomas refuses to enlighten me as to his intentions. He refuses to commit to Henry’s cause, yet his failure to reveal our plot to King Richard speaks loudly of wavering loyalty.

  If there were a risk-free way to tempt him to our side, I would do it. If only I could confide in him how deeply I am involved in the invasion plan, but I am too afraid. The jeopardy is too great, and I am not ignorant of the fact that this will be our final attempt. Should Henry fail in his mission, Richard will show no mercy. Already stripped of my assets, I will, without doubt, face death and dishonour.

  On the day that Thomas rides back to court, I stand lonely on the tower and watch him go. A short while before, the sun was bright, the birds singing in the trees. Yet, as his figure shrinks toward the horizon, the sky turns black like an ominous foretelling of doom. I rub my arms, shivering in the sudden chill.

  It is eerie, the tower isolated, as if all else has been obliterated and I am all alone beneath the vast and empty sky. The silence stretches on. I cling to the parapet wall, my courage dwindling, my heart pounding. It seems a long time later that the darkness begins to lighten, the birds stir in the trees again.

  It must be an eclipse. I have read of such things; they are believed to be things of evil portent. Before turning to fumble my way back to the hall, I cross myself, and send up a prayer for all mankind.

  Thomas’s departure leaves me more unsettled than ever. I am afraid that his affection for his king may out measure his loyalty to me. For a few days, I can dwell upon nothing else.

  One moment, I see Henry high upon a dais, the crown of England gleaming on his brow; the next, I see him cast low in a vault, torn and bleeding, soon to be nothing but dust. I swat the thought away as if it were a wasp. Henry must succeed in this. Everything depends upon it.

  I am in the garden when I hear a horse cantering into the stable yard. I cock my head, listening for voices. It is not Thomas, I am sure of that. His habit is to leap off his horse in the bailey and loudly call my name as he makes his way straight up the steps to the hall. It must be a message; perhaps he writes to tell me that his arrival will be delayed. From the length of time the messenger takes to reach me, I can tell it is not urgent.

  “My lady?”

  I look up to see Thomas’s squire making his way toward me through the garden. The beds are mostly empty now, the cold spring making the new shoots tardy. He bows, holding out a letter, and I recognise my husband’s seal. With a quavering heart, I remove the black ribbon and break the wax.

  I regret to inform you of the death of Queen Anne. The news came a few days ago; she died at the time of the eclipse.

  Thomas’s typically blunt announcement takes my breath away. Had she even been ill? I had heard of her extreme sorrow, her passive grief, but … no rumour of imminent death had reached me.

  I look up from the letter, sorrow for Anne obliterating every other thought. I cast my mind back to the day the sun turned dark and remember my certainty that it was an ill omen. Yet my fear was for my son and his cause; I had not thought its darkness might fall upon another.

  I move slowly along the path, frightening a robin foraging for worms beneath
a hedge. He flies up, startling me, showing a flash of red breast before diving into the covert. Poor Anne; she is with her son now. Her suffering is over. Mine goes on.

  Thomas’s letter informs me that his return to Lathom will be delayed for a few weeks more, since the king is beset with trouble. As I read, the significance of his words increases and I fear the king has had wind of the plot and refuses to let Thomas out of his sight. I sit down at once to write a carefully veiled letter, asking after his health and that of his brother, William.

  June 1485

  It has been a long three months. Thomas dismounts and walks wearily toward me, his face grim. I wait with my hands clasped before me, unwilling to let him sense how much I have missed him.

  “Are you well, my lord?” I ask when he is within speaking distance.

  “Sick at heart, but well enough in body. I will tell you of it inside.”

  As we climb the steps to the hall, his hand is heavy on my shoulder. Dismissing the servants, I pour him a cup of wine and put it in his hand. His dour looks make me nervous, fearful that he is regretting his decision to change his allegiance and support my cause.

  “So, your decision is made?” I ask uncertainly.

  He sighs. “I think so. I asked for leave of absence, pleading fatigue. I told him I would be better placed here to raise my men when the time comes.”

  “Does he suspect anything?”

  “I hope to God not, because he insisted on George taking my place as surety against my return.”

  My eyes widen at this. George is Thomas’s best-loved son; his heir.

  “Then he does suspect you; what will happen to your son when your allegiance changes to Henry?”

  He tilts back his head, blinks at the ceiling.

  “I do not know. I can only cling to the knowledge of his former leniency. He is not a vindictive man. I do not think – I hope he would not wreak vengeance on a man for the sin of his father.”