“I hope so too, but ....” I do not finish my sentence. It is not for me to point out that Richard’s possible retribution against George rests entirely on the success of my son. Should George be harmed, then our own punishment will follow soon after.
My heart is bleak. Such a short while ago I was triumphant at having secured my husband’s support. Now, it looks as though he might be sacrificing his son for the sake of mine. Life is harsh, our actions affect others. No decision, no act, is without its consequences. I add George to the list of people I must pray for.
“Is there other news? I am so cut off from everything here.”
He looks at me, his brow furrowed as he contemplates any court rumour he may have forgotten to impart.
“You know about the scandal with young Elizabeth, I suppose?”
“Some of it, yes. My chaplain told me of the king’s public denial of the rumours of a marriage between him and his niece. But what do you think? Is there any truth behind it?”
He shrugs, shaking his head.
“Not as far as I know. The king is too busy trying to hang on to his crown to be swayed by pretty girls, although … if he was wise …”
“It would be a political triumph, putting an end to Henry’s plans and salving the indignation of those who are loyal to Edward and all his offspring. It would pacify the dowager queen too – but the scandal would be too great. I cannot see him seriously contemplating it.”
Thomas yawns, stretching his arms above his head.
“I believe he hopes for a union with Portugal. Anyway, he has scotched the rumour of an alliance between him and Elizabeth; she is still available for your son.”
“And you are happy to give your support to Henry now? I will ensure you are well rewarded once he is king.”
He squirms irritably in his seat.
“It is the lack of certainty I deplore. If the invasion fails, Margaret, we will be ruined. You will face execution and I probably will as well. I plan to exercise caution. I will know how to act when the time comes.”
I stand up, displeasure seething in my belly, and sneer at him down my nose.
“It is your risk to take, Thomas, but if you fail us and my son wins his throne, you may well live to regret it.”
I am so irritated, I go to my chamber and bolt the door, barring him from my company but I pass a restless, lonely night fraught with nightmares.
August 1485
“Thomas! Thomas!” I hurry through the house, through the garden and into the meadow where he is practising with his bow. He looks up at my call and I flutter the letter in the air, moving quickly through the long grass, disturbing small flying insects in my haste.
“He has landed, he is here.” I place a hand to my ribs, breathing hard from the exertion. “My son is home.”
Thomas takes the letter and quickly scans it.
“At Milford Haven. Then I must expect a summons from the king.”
“You can delay, Thomas. Plead illness, plead a broken limb – anything, but do not ride with the king.”
It is like a nightmare return to the days when Harry pledged himself to Edward of York; an allegiance that ended disastrously for both of us.
“Come, I had best take to my bed. When the summons comes, I can better plead a fever from there.”
He picks up his bow, slings the quiver across his back, and takes my hand. His pace back to the house is so rapid that I am forced to hop and skip beside him to keep up.
In our chamber, he pulls off his clothes, scattering them on the floor before climbing naked into bed.
“Now,” he says. “To make it look authentic, clutter the table with bottles and potions, and put on some other garb; something more workaday. When the messenger comes, have him shown in here; that way he will take a convincing picture of ill health back to the king.”
“I could dose you with something to make you truly sick, Thomas, to make it easier for you to feign a malady.”
Missing the teasing note in my voice, he frowns.
“That do not think that will be necessary. Go, do as I say.”
At first, as I hasten to the still-room, my step is light. My son is on English soil for the first time in fourteen years. I can almost reach out and touch him. If I were to mount a horse and ride it hard, I would be with him by daybreak. Yet, as I gather a few bottles and begin to fill a basket, I remember that nothing is certain. There is so much that could go wrong; our very existence hangs in the balance.
Henry could lose the battle. He could be killed and once my part in it is discovered, I will face death too, as will all my friends and family who are in this with us.
I bundle the remedies into the basket and hurry back to Thomas, who lies disconsolately on the pillow. His face is tight and white when he looks at me.
“Before God, Margaret, if this goes awry …”
There is no need for him to finish. We both know the enormity of the task ahead.
How must Henry feel? Is he thinking of me now, or of the crown that dangles just a little way from his reach? Is he sure of victory, or fearful of defeat?
I close my eyes and try to picture him, leading his men across the land of his birth toward some unknown battlefield where destiny awaits him, be it sword or sceptre.
When the king’s messenger arrives, I summon him to the sick room. He enters reluctantly, fearful of infection, and takes a position as near the door as is polite. The king’s letter orders Thomas to rally his men and go at once to the muster. He reminds him, that his son George is eager for his father’s presence. I see Thomas bite his lip, then, remembering his feigned sickness, he coughs pathetically.
“My husband is sick with fever,” I say, brushing imagined sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “He will ride to join the king as soon as it has broken and he can sit a horse.”
The fellow looks doubtful. I take a step closer to him and place my hand on his sleeve.
“I hope the contagion doesn’t spread,” I say, with a pained expression. “I have nursed him night and day.” I cough twice before turning my head away, and he stammers a farewell before fleeing our presence.
His footsteps are still clattering on the stair when Thomas throws back the covers and takes hold of me, leaving a smacking kiss on my cheek.
“Margaret, you are a liar and a devil, and I love you for it.”
As I help Thomas dress, I batter him with a list of instructions he can never hope to follow. He is to muster troops as he has been instructed, but he is not to join with King Richard, but with Henry. At the back of my mind is the knowledge that Thomas’s eldest son is hostage to his behaviour. Should King Richard learn of Thomas’s intended betrayal, George Stanley will be dead before dawn.
As he approaches his horse, I hear a sound behind me and turn to find Ned, armed and ready to ride.
“What are you doing?”
I take hold of his arm and try to push him back toward the house, but he shrugs my hand away.
“I am riding with your husband, my lady. You cannot expect me to stay behind like a woman when Henry’s future is at stake.”
“But your chest … your lungs. Ned, you may not survive.”
“Then my life will have been well spent. You cannot stop me, my lady. I will find a way to go whether you give me your blessing of not.”
Ned has changed. He is a man grown, albeit a weak one. How can he hope to withstand the rigours of battle? I want to order my men to lay hands upon him, to lock him up in one of the dungeons until it is safe to let him out. But I cannot do that, and nothing I say will deter him.
Unable to speak, I make do with squeezing his arm, and watch through a veil of tears as he mounts his horse and moves into rank behind Thomas.
They ride away.
My life moves in circles. I have been here before, suffered this gnawing dread as fate draws back its lips to bare sharp yellow teeth.
Another husband; another battle. This time, I pray to God he comes home unscathed. I want to order my horse made rea
dy and follow after, be part of the action I have planned and dreamed of for so long. But I can only wait here.
While Thomas and Henry, Ned and Jasper risk their lives in battle, I must face my woman’s fight. As soon as the dust on the road dissipates, I hasten to the chapel to once again attempt to strike a desperate deal with God.
If He will just grant me this one thing, I will ask nothing more. From the day my son is crowned, I will put aside my scheming ways and live a spotless life. I will be kind and charitable. I will be a creature of God. I swear it.
22nd August 1485
It is almost midnight. I have been in the chapel all day. My knees are aching, the skin roughened with kneeling. I have been praying for so long that when I rise, I cling to the altar, stumble and almost fall.
I limp through the darkened passages back to my chamber, back to a frugal supper, for I have sworn that until my son is king, I shall live as a nun. I discover a certain peace in giving myself up to God’s mercy. The words of my prayers are the only nourishment I allow, the muted humidity of the chapel the only air I breathe.
The last word I had from the outside world was from Thomas two days ago, telling me of his meeting with Henry at Athelstone. His words are brief, but encouraging.
Henry understands that my son is hostage to my allegiance to Richard, and makes no demands on me. I will do all I can.
What will Thomas do? The royal army is far larger than ours. Richard is a seasoned warrior, renowned for his prowess in battle. The odds are not in our favour but God is on our side. He will not let the victory go to Richard; surely he will guide Thomas, help him make the right decision to fight for my boy and me. If George is the sacrifice we must make, well, Thomas has other sons.
The message bearer assured me he would ride back as soon as the battle was won … or lost. I had hoped to know by now.
In the solitude of my chamber, I pull apart a piece of bread, push it between unwilling lips and dispatch it to a reluctant stomach. Everything I eat is tainted by my fear; everything tastes of dirt, or failure.
I push the plate away and get up, begin to pace the room, wringing my hands. Every so often, a wail of anguish rises from somewhere deep within me, resonating in the loneliness of the chamber.
I would know it if Henry were dead. I would feel it. If his heart were to cease, then surely mine would too. Oh, I must hear something soon. I must hear something soon.
I keep vigil throughout the night, refusing to go to bed, or even to rest by the fireside. I am cold, still standing at the window, my eyes raw with exhaustion, when the early bird begins to sing in the dark.
Dawn arrives, dragging behind it a tardy pink sky, a dreary welcome to the new day. As the dusk lightens, I hear a cry, and the sounds of a hard-ridden horse careering into the bailey.
How many times have I hastened down the stairs, eager for news? How many times has my future depended on an exhausted despatch bearer? Never before have the contents of a letter meant so much. There can be only one answer.
There must be only one answer.
The boy stumbles from his horse, hanging onto the stirrup leather. There is blood spattered on his face and foam from his exhausted mount smeared across his coat. His eyes are hollowed by the horrors he has witnessed but they tell me nothing.
I dare not hope.
My heart hammers and vomit swirls in my empty stomach.
I snatch the parchment, turn my back and walk away from him as I break the seal. The words blur and swim beneath the emotion that gathers in my eyes.
This day, (Thomas writes)as the sun reached its zenith, I placed the crown of England on the head of your son. We are victorious.
I crush the parchment to my chest, and throw back my head. Oh, blesséd God. Blesséd, blesséd God.
Turning on my heel, I hurry in search of the steward.
“Order my horse made ready.”
His wet mouth falls open in surprise.
“But, my lady …”
Turning the full measure of my loathing upon my gaoler, I almost spit the words that free me from his keeping.
“Do as you are told. King Richard is dead, and his punishment of me no longer stands. My son, the king, has redeemed me.”
With no further argument, he bows his head and scrambles to do my bidding.
An hour later, I am galloping toward Leicester. Outpacing my retainers, I show my horse no mercy. My heartbeat echoes the pounding of the hooves beneath me, assuming the sound of my son’s name.
Henry, Henry, Henry!
On the road, I pass the dregs of Gloucester’s vanquished army; ragged, bloodstained nobodies, blocking my path.
“Get out of my way!” I yell as I thunder past them, my cloak billowing behind.
“My lady! Wait for us!” The calls of my companions sound faintly in my ears, but I have been kept from Henry’s side for too long. The years I spent quietly campaigning for his return, and later for his crown, have come to fruition. I am not prepared to wait any longer. I will be part of his victory, part of his triumph, and part of his future.
I have earned it.
Changing horses at every inn, ignoring pain, ignoring fatigue, I ride relentlessly on. Just outside Macclesfield, I call a halt at a small priory, where I pray, eat sparingly, and toss restlessly on a narrow bed before rising at dawn to continue my journey.
While my body demands respite from the road, my mind craves the journey’s end. By night fall, I will be with Henry.
The stench of the tanners wafting from the riverside informs me that I approach the gates of Leicester. Despite the momentous events that have taken place nearby, despite the presence of the new king, life in the town goes on. I urge my tired mount through the market place, becoming caught up in a flock of sheep. I use my whip to force my way through, the idiotic sound of their protests loud in my ears.
My horse treads carefully through litter and dung toward the castle. Wounded men line my route. I turn my face from their suffering, but every so often, a woman in a dark habit hurries past with jugs of water, or baskets of bandages. I make a note to reimburse them for their trouble. As the king’s mother, it will be my duty to show charity to the unfortunate, to fund hospitals and seats of learning throughout my son’s realm.
I haul on the head of my flagging horse and urge him on. Just a little farther. I clatter over the bridge, through the gate, and into a castle yard seething with men.
Few pay me any attention. My clothes are mired from the road, my face coated with dust; they mistake me for a woman of no account.
I slide from the saddle, drop the reins, and abandon my horse as I climb the steps to the hall. I pass a company of laughing young retainers, duck through a low door and halt as the darkness of the interior blinds me. My eyes quickly adjust and my feet move toward indistinct voices, my steps loud on the stone floor. Pushing aside a curtain, I enter a small ante-chamber.
The blood-stained standard of Cadwalader leans drunkenly against the wall. Beneath it, a group of men stand at a table, their backs toward me. I recognise my husband, his brother Will, and Jasper. Beside them is another figure; a tall man with bright golden hair.
I stand for a long moment, just watching, drinking him in, their words lost to me. Then, Thomas looks over his shoulder, his eyes opening in surprise.
“Margaret?”
All heads turn toward me. Thomas hurries forward, but I push him aside, my eyes locked on the man with the bright hair. His head turns, eyes wide and unsure as we regard each other for a long, long time. How I have missed him! I watch, my heart leaping and dancing, as his body relaxes. His eyes are warm as his mouth stretches slowly upward.
He gropes behind him, fumbling for something on the table. Then he stands proudly and places a circlet of gold upon his brow. My eyes mist, my throat closes.
Oh, my son. My king …
*
Later, in the chamber hastily provided for me, I cannot sleep. My mind will not relinquish the events of the day; the long harrowing
ride, the joyous reunion, and the riotous evening of celebration.
My son, the king. My son, Henry; home at last, never to leave these shores again. Exile is a horrible thing. Life has been hard, but now …
Change is imminent. There is no one now to tell me what to do, where to go, what to wear, whom to befriend. The word ‘friend’ shines in my mind, hanging in the air in large golden letters, reminding me that there is one thing I have overlooked.
Rising from bed, I hasten to the table. I pick up my pen, writing quickly, without thought to grammar or spelling. Who can judge me now?
Myfanwy, my Dear Friend,
My son is victorious and Henry is now king. Jasper is safe and the whole of England celebrates.
You must ride to London for the coronation, for fortune now shines upon us, and you will find a glad welcome at my son’s court.
Throughout all the changes and insecurities of my life, Henry remains my one constant; he is the world and I the benign and loving sun that warms him. He is now no longer merely the king of my heart, but the king of all England.
And I have placed him there.
I tap the pen against my teeth, hesitate, and then, with a satisfied scrawl, I make my mark at the bottom of the letter.
Margaret R. The King’s Mother.
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Author’s note
Margaret Beaufort became one of the most powerful women in Medieval England. During this time, as mother to King Henry VII, she was consulted on many matters pertaining to his rule and treated with the utmost deference. Yet it was not always so; the wealth, status and bearing of her latter years is a direct contrast to the uncertainties of her youth and childhood.
Margaret, heiress to the Beaufort fortune, is believed to have been born and raised at Bletsoe castle. Her first marriage to John de la Pole took place when Margaret was six and John was eight, the union an attempt by the disgraced Duke of Suffolk to use Margaret’s close proximity to the throne to bolster his rapidly declining position as the most powerful man in England. When Suffolk, his political career in ruins, was seized and beheaded, Margaret’s marriage to John was annulled. Those are the bare bones of her history and we do not know for certain whether Margaret and John ever met. InThe Beaufort Bride, I have embellished the known facts and used her first marriage to shape her character. With Margaret back on the marriage market, her mother sought another suitably beneficial match. Very little is known about Margaret Beauchamp, and her depiction in this novel is for dramatic purposes. She was successful in securing beneficial marriages for all her children, but that was the medieval way. In reality, she may have been a very caring mother. Nonetheless, she married the twelve-year-old Margaret to a powerful, rich man who was twice her daughter’s age. Margaret’s marriage to Edmund Tudor is more documented than her first, but we still have only bare facts. We know nothing of her thoughts or feelings; we can only guess at those.
The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Page 33
