‘And the king lay with you before Christmas? And gave you pleasure?’
She keeps her eyes down, but her colour deepens. ‘Oh, Jacquetta – I did not know it could be like that.’
I smile. ‘Sometimes it can.’ Something in her smile tells me that she knows, at last, after eight years of marriage, of the joy that a man can give his wife, if he cares to do so, if he loves her enough to want to make her cling to him and yearn for his touch.
‘When would I be sure?’ she asks.
‘Next month,’ I say. ‘We will get a midwife I know and trust to talk with you and see if you have the signs, and then you can tell His Grace yourself next month.’
She does not want to write to her mother until she is quite certain, and this is a little tragedy, for while she is waiting for the signs that she is with child, a message comes from Anjou to say that Margaret’s mother, Isabella of Lorraine, has died. It is eight years since Margaret said goodbye to her mother and came to England for her wedding, and they were never especially close. But it is a blow to the young queen. I see her in the gallery with tears in her eyes and Edmund Beaufort holding both her hands in his own. Her head is turned towards him as if she would put her face to his broad shoulder and weep. When they hear my footsteps they turn to me, still handclasped.
‘Her Grace is distressed about the news from Anjou,’ the duke says simply. He leads Margaret to me. ‘Go with Jacquetta,’ he says tenderly. ‘Go and let her give you a tisane, something for grief. It is hard for a young woman to lose her mother and such a shame that you never told her –’ He breaks off his words and puts the queen’s hands in mine.
‘You have something you can give her? Don’t you? She should not cry and cry.’
‘I have some well-known herbs,’ I say carefully. ‘Will you come and lie down for a little while, Your Grace?’
‘Yes,’ Margaret says and lets me lead her away from the duke to the seclusion of her rooms.
I make her a tisane of Tipton’s weed, and she hesitates before she drinks it. ‘It will not hurt a baby?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘It is very mild. You shall have a draught of it every morning for a week. Grief would be worse for a baby; you have to try to be calm and cheerful.’
She nods.
‘And you are sure?’ I ask her quietly. ‘The midwives told me that they were almost certain?’
‘I am certain,’ she says. ‘I will tell the king next week, when I miss my course again.’
But she does not tell him herself. Oddly, she summons his chamberlain.
‘I have a message for you to take to the king,’ she says. She is sombre in her dark blue mourning clothes, and I am sorry that the loss of her mother has taken the brightness from her joy. Still, when she tells the king they will both be elated. I assume she is going to invite the king to come to her rooms. But she goes on: ‘Pray give my compliments to the king and my good wishes, and inform him that I am with child.’
Richard Tunstall simply goggles at her: he has never been asked to take such a message in his life. No royal chamberlain ever has. He looks at me, as if for advice, but I can do nothing but show, by a little shrug, that he had better take the message that this queen wishes to send to her husband.
He bows and steps backwards out of the room, and the guards close the door quietly behind him.
‘I’ll change my gown, the king is certain to come to me,’ she says.
We hurry to her room and change her from her dark blue gown to one of pale green, a good colour for spring. As her maid holds the dress out for her to step into, I can see that she has a rounded belly where she was once so spare, and her breasts fill the fine linen shift. I smile at the sight of her.
We wait for the king to come bursting in, his face alight with joy, his hands held out to her, we wait for an hour. We hear the watchman giving the time, and then finally we hear the footsteps outside and the guards throw open the doors to the queen’s apartments. We all rise to our feet, expecting to see the king rush in, his boyish face beaming. But it is Richard Tunstall again, the king’s chamberlain, with a reply to the queen’s message.
‘His Grace bid me tell you this: that the news is to our most singular consolation and to all true liege people’s great joy and comfort,’ he says. He gulps and looks at me.
‘Is that all?’ I ask.
He nods.
The queen looks blankly at him. ‘Is he coming to me?’
‘I don’t think so, Your Grace.’ He clears his throat. ‘He was so happy that he rewarded me for bringing the news,’ he volunteers.
‘Is he coming to visit Her Grace before dinner?’
‘He has called his jeweller to see him. He is having a special jewel made for the queen,’ he says.
‘But what is he doing now?’ she asks. ‘Right now? As you left him?’
Richard Tunstall gives another bow. ‘He has gone to give thanks in his private chapel,’ he says. ‘The king has gone to pray.’
‘Good,’ she says dismally. ‘Oh, good.’
We don’t see the king until that evening, when he comes to visit the queen in her rooms before dinner as usual. He kisses her hand before us all and tells her that he is most pleased. I glance round the room and see that all her ladies in waiting are looking, like me, bewildered. This is a couple who have conceived their first child – after nearly eight years of waiting. This child makes their marriage complete and their throne secure. Why do they behave as if they are barely acquainted?
Margaret is queenly, she gives no sign of expecting more warmth or enthusiasm from him. She bows her head and she smiles at the king. ‘I am very happy,’ she says. ‘I pray that we have a son, and if not, a beautiful daughter and a son the next time.’
‘A blessing either way,’ he says kindly, and gives her his arm and leads her into dinner, seats her most carefully at his side and then tenderly chooses for her the very choicest pieces of meat and the softest pieces of bread. On his other side, Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, smiles on them both.
After dinner she says that she will retire early. The court rises as we withdraw and when we get to the queen’s rooms she leaves her ladies and, beckoning me, goes into her bedroom.
‘Take off my headdress,’ she says. ‘I am so tired and it makes my head ache.’
I untie the ribbons and lay the tall cone to one side. Underneath is the pad which keeps the heavy weight balanced upright on her head. I untie that too and then let down her hair. I take up a brush and gently start to free the tightly braided plaits, and she closes her eyes.
‘That’s better,’ she says. ‘Plait it up loosely, Jacquetta, and they can send in a glass of warm ale.’ I twist the thick red-gold hair into a plait, and help her take off her surcoat and gown. She pulls on a linen gown for the night and climbs into the big bed, looking like a little child among the rich hangings and thick covers.
‘You are bound to feel weary,’ I say. ‘You can just rest. Everyone will want you to rest.’
he king. & wonder what it will be,’ she says idly. ‘Do you think a boy?’
‘Shall I get the cards?’ I ask, ready to indulge her.
She turns her head away. ‘No,’ she says, surprising me. ‘And don’t you think about it, Jacquetta.’
I laugh. ‘I am bound to think about it. This is your first baby; if it is a boy, he will be the next King of England. I am honour-bound to think of him, and I would think of him anyway for love of you.’
Gently, she puts a finger over my lips, to silence me. ‘Don’t think too much then.’
‘Too much?’
‘Don’t think about him with the Sight,’ she says. ‘I want him to bloom like a flower, unobserved.’
For a moment I think that she is afraid of some old horrible hedge-witchery, casting the evil eye or ill-wishing. ‘You cannot think that I would do anything to harm him. Just thinking about him would not harm . . . ’
‘Oh, no.’ She shakes her golden head. ‘No, dear Jacquetta, I don’t think that. It
’s just that . . . I don’t want you to know everything . . . not everything. Some things are private.’ She blushes and turns her face away from me. ‘I don’t want you to know everything.’
I think I understand. Who knows what she had to do to gain the interest of such a cool husband? Who knows how seductive she must have been to get him off his knees and into her bed? Did she have to try sluts’ tricks that left her feeling ashamed of herself? ‘Whatever you did to conceive this child, it is worth it,’ I say stoutly. ‘You had to conceive a child and if you have made a son it is all the better. Don’t think badly of yourself, Margaret, and I will think of nothing at all.’
She looks up. ‘Do you think that nothing would be a sin that gave England an heir?’
‘It was a sin for love,’ I say. ‘And hurt no-one. Then it’s forgivable.’
‘I don’t need to confess it?’
I think of Bishop Ayscough who told the young king not to bed his wife in the first week for fear that the young couple would experience the sin of lust. ‘You needn’t confess anything you did to get this child. It had to be done, and it was an act of love, and men don’t understand such things. Priests the least of all.’
She gives a little sigh. ‘All right. And don’t you think about it.’
I wave my hand like a veil over my face. ‘I won’t think. I have not a thought in my head.’
She laughs. ‘I know you can’t stop yourself thinking, I know that. And I know you have the Sight sometimes. But don’t look for this baby, promise me you will not look for him? And think of him as a wild flower which grows and is a thing of beauty; but nobody knows how it was planted nor how it came to be there.’
‘He’s the son of Marguerite the Daisy,’ I say. ‘He can be the flower that we rejoice to see in springtime, whose coming means spring.’
‘Yes,’ she says.‘A wild flower that comes from who knows where?’
GRAFTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,
SUMMER 1453
I keep my word to the
queen and don’t puzzle over this long-delayed conception, and she keeps her word to me and speaks to Edmund, Duke of Somerset, and he sends my husband home to me, as I go into confinement at Grafton. I have a boy and we call him Lionel. My daughter Elizabeth, a married lady, comes and attends me in my confinement, very serious and very helpful, and I find her hanging over the cradle and cooing to the baby.
‘You will have your own soon,’ I promise her.
‘I hope so. He is so perfect, he is so beautiful.’
‘He is,’ I say with quiet pride. ‘Another son for the House of Rivers.’
As soon as I am strong enough to return to court I get a message from the queen asking me to join them on progress. Richard has to return to the garrison of Calais and it is painfully hard for us to part again.
‘Let me come to Calais,’ I beg him. ‘I can’t bear to be without you.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Next month. You can come and bring all the younger children; I can’t bear to be without you and them either.’
He kisses my mouth, he kisses both of my hands, and then he mounts his horse and rides away.
CLARENDON PALACE, WILTSHIRE,
SUMMER 1453
The court itself is
merry, travelling around the western counties and seeking out traitors and rabble-rousers. The Duke of Somerset has chosen the route and says that gradually the people are coming to learn that they cannot speak evil of the king, that there is no future in their demands and – more important than anything else – that Richard, Duke of York, will never be a power in the kingdom and so allying with him, or calling on his name, is a waste of time.
Edmund Beaufort is especially attentive to the king this summer, urging him on to be more and more severe in his judgements and rigorous in his sentencing. He strengthens his mind by applauding his decisions, and encourages him to speak out. The duke accompanies the king to chapel and brings him to the queen’s rooms before dinner where the three of them sit and talk, and the duke makes them laugh with his account of the day, sometimes mocking the ignorant people who have been before him.
The queen cannot ride in her condition, and Edmund Beaufort has trained a beautiful set of matched mules to carry her litter. He himself rides beside her, keeping his great horse reined back to the slow speed of the mules, watching her for any sign of fatigue. He consults me almost every day to make sure that I am happy with the queen’s health, with her diet, with her exercise. Every day I assure him that she is well, that her belly is growing as it should, that I am certain that the baby is strong.
Almost every day he brings her a little gift, a posy of flowers, a poem, a little lad to dance for her, a kitten. The king and queen and the duke travel around the green lanes of Dorset in absolute accord, and whenever the queen steps down from her litter or turns to go up a stair, the duke’s hand is out to support her, his arm to hold her steady.
I had seen him before as a charmer, a seducer, a rogue; but now I see something better in him, a man of great tenderness. He treats her as if he would spare her any fatigue, as if he has dedicated his life to her happiness. He serves the king as a most loyal friend and he serves her as a knight of chivalry. More than this, I don’t want to see; I won’t let myself see.
In August we reach Wiltshire, and stay at the old royal palace at Clarendon, in the lush water meadows near Salisbury. I love this chalk meadowland and the broad watery valleys. The runs after the deer go on for hours through the woodland of the valley floors and then we burst out onto the high downland and gallop across the even cropped grass. When we halt to eat we can see half of England spread before us. The palace is set among flowering meads, flooded into lakes for half the year, but a network of clean streams and pools and rivers in this high summer. The duke takes the queen fishing and swears that they will catch a salmon for her dinner, but they spend most of the day with her resting in the shade while he casts a line and gives her the rod to hold, and then casts the line again as the dragon-flies dance over the kingcups and the swallows fly low over the water, skimming their little beaks into their own darting reflections.
We come home late in the evening as the clouds in the sky are like peach and lemon ribbons, swirled above the horizon. ‘It will be another beautiful day tomorrow,’ the duke predicts.
‘And the next day?’ she asks him.
‘Why not? Why should you not have a beautiful day every day of your life?’
She laughs. ‘You would spoil me.’
‘I would,’ he says sweetly. ‘I would like you to have a beautiful day every day.’
She takes his arm to help her up the stone steps to the great front door of the hunting lodge. ‘Where is the king?’ he asks one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber.
‘In the chapel, Your Grace,’ the man replies. ‘With his confessor.’
‘I’ll come to your rooms then,’ Edmund Beaufort says to the queen. ‘Shall I sit with you before dinner?’
‘Yes, come,’ she says.
The ladies arrange themselves on stools and the window-seats, the queen and the duke sit in a window embrasure, talking quietly together, their heads close, and then there is a knock and the doors are thrown open for a messenger from France, who comes hastily in, dirty from the road, and with his face grave. Nobody could doubt for a moment that he brings bad news.
The duke leaps swiftly to his feet. ‘Not now,’ he says sharply. ‘Where is the king?’
‘He has given orders not to be disturbed,’ the man says. ‘But my orders are to come at all speed and give my message at once. So I’ve come to you. It’s Lord Talbot, God bless him, and Bordeaux.’ height="0">
The duke grabs the man by the arm and marches him out of the door, without a word to the queen. She is already on her feet; I go to her side. ‘Be calm, Your Grace,’ I say quickly. ‘You must be calm for the baby.’
‘What’s the news?’ she asks. ‘What’s the news from France? Edmund!’
‘A moment,’ he throws ove
r his shoulder, turning his back on her as if she were an ordinary woman. ‘Wait a moment.’
There is a little gasp of shock from her ladies at how he speaks to her, but I put my arm around her waist and say, ‘Come and lie down, Your Grace. The duke will bring you the news when he has it. Come now.’
‘No,’ she says, pulling away from me. ‘I must know. Edmund! Tell me!’
For a moment he is in rapid conversation with the messenger; but when he turns he looks as if someone has struck him in the heart. ‘It’s John Talbot,’ he says quietly.
I feel the queen stagger as her knees go weak and she drops down in a faint. ‘Help me,’ I say quickly to one of the ladies in waiting, but it is the duke who brushes past us all and picks the queen up into his arms and carries her through her private rooms into her very bedroom, and lays her on the bed.
‘Fetch the physicians,’ I snap at one of the ladies and run in after them. He has half laid her on the bed, he is kneeling on the royal bed, his arms are around her, he is bending over her, holding her like a lover, whispering in her ear. ‘Margaret,’ he says urgently. ‘Margaret!’
‘No!’ I say. ‘Your Grace, Lord Edmund, let her go. I’ll take care of her, leave her.’
She holds him by his jacket, her two hands grasping him tightly. ‘Tell me it all,’ she whispers desperately to him. ‘Tell me the worst, quickly.’
I slam the bedroom door and put my back to it, before anyone can see that he has his hands either side of her face, that she is holding his wrists, that they are scanning each other’s eyes.
‘My love, I can hardly bear to tell you. Lord Talbot is dead and his son too. We have lost Castillon that he was defending, we have lost Bordeaux again, we have lost everything.’
She quivers. ‘Dear God, the English will never forgive me. We have lost all of Gascony?’
The Lady of the Rivers Page 28
