‘It will be safe soon,’ her nurse said. But Margaret did not know if she would ever feel safe again. She would never forgive herself if something she did made her lose this baby. Already in her mind it was a boy, and looked like Edmund.
When Edmund returned, she would say to him, ‘I hope you will be back this winter – I would not like you to miss the birth of your son.’
Between fits of nausea she tried to eat, for the baby, but often the mere thought of food made her feel ill. Betsy resorted to her old bullying tactics. She instructed all the servants to watch the Lady Margaret, because her own eyes were failing, and she understood that she was being cheated over the question of food. She sat with her at every meal and refused to leave until Margaret had been persuaded to eat a little watered-down pottage. And Margaret accepted this mainly because she was too weak to remain kneeling for long when she prayed, then too weak to rise again once she had knelt. And if she could not pray, then Edmund might never return.
The weeks passed and Edmund did not return. The weather grew hot and the land lay baking under a weight of sun. The grass was the same colour as the corn and the blue hills shimmered in the distance. Margaret stayed in much of the time, reading Boccaccio or embroidering, taking a little wine and bread, or praying.
Sometimes she had the sensation of light streaming upwards from the palms of her hands, or even her forehead, and wondered, dizzily, if she would fly up to heaven. But automatically she resisted this: she was not ready – her place was here, with Edmund.
Yet after such moments she always felt an uncanny peace; an inner certainty that Edmund would be returned to her, and all would be well.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.
Jasper knelt before her, hot and dusty from travelling.
But it wasn’t supposed to be Jasper, it should have been Edmund.
Someone had spotted the Tudor colours approaching from the distance, and a great cry had been set up: ‘He is coming, he is coming!’
Margaret had been sitting by the pool in the orchard. She barely had time to hurry to the gateway before she heard him riding up the path.
Her hand flew to her hair; she could remember nothing she had meant to say.
And then he rounded the bend, and it was not Edmund at all, it was Jasper.
She saw him dismount, hand his horse over to one man and give instructions to another. All this without looking her way. He took off his helmet and his hair was plastered to his head with sweat. He looked grim, exhausted. Then he fell into some consultation with his captain at arms.
There was no sign of Edmund.
She stood for a moment, her cheeks alternately burning then pale. Then abruptly she turned and went into the house, walking swiftly past the line of servants who had assembled to greet their master.
He could say whatever he had to say to her inside.
She waited for him there, with her nurse and her steward, two lady attendants and two grooms. And Jasper finally appeared with two or three of his own men, and he walked towards her, then dropped clumsily on to one knee.
Her stomach shifted and something fluttered in her throat. He had never done that before.
Then he told her that Edmund had been taken prisoner at Carmarthen Castle. Not by the Welsh, but by William Herbert, who was an ally of the Duke of York.
She replied quickly, automatically, that she didn’t believe him.
He had been looking not at her, but at a mosaic pattern of tiles on the floor. Now he glanced up at her swiftly. She had spoken in a low voice, and he chose not to hear her. He went on telling her what had happened.
At the end of July, Edmund had won a great victory, wresting Carmarthen Castle from Gruffydd ap Nicholas and his two sons. Messages were sent to the king. But it was York who was Constable of Carmarthen Castle, and he was less pleased about this boost to the king’s authority, this victory in the king’s name. On 10 August, some 2,000 men from Herefordshire and the neighbouring Welsh lordships had set out for west Wales by order of the duke. They were under the command of Sir William Herbert, the duke’s chief retainer. They went straight to Carmarthen and seized the castle. They had taken Edmund’s garrison by surprise – no one had expected to fight the English rather than the Welsh. And they had imprisoned Edmund in the castle itself.
The king would, of course, do everything in his power to secure Edmund’s release. Jasper planned to go to the king, who was still at Coventry. York was no longer the chief power in the land now that the king had resumed his role – he would have to obey his king. Jasper was sure this was all some kind of misunderstanding that could be sorted out. But, in the meantime, Edmund was still held prisoner, and Jasper had broken his journey to Pembroke Castle, because he had thought that the Lady Margaret would want to know.
There was a silence in which Jasper continued to gaze at the floor.
Margaret said, more distinctly than before, ‘I don’t believe you.’
Jasper’s face changed, and a stir passed around the room. She could hear the way she sounded – childish, rude – but she couldn’t help it. She averted her gaze from the look he gave her, which was like Edmund’s at its most stern.
‘Edmund would never let himself be taken,’ she said.
She should have said, My Lord of Richmond.
‘My lady,’ Jasper said in even tones, ‘he was taken by surprise. He thought that Herbert’s forces had come to relieve him, to reward him, even, for his victory. He rode out to greet them. And suddenly, with no warning, he was surrounded and pulled from his horse. But he was taken alive – Sir Roger swears he was still alive. There were several witnesses –’
‘No! It isn’t possible!’ she cried. She was blatantly rude now, and shrill. Her nurse remonstrated with her.
It was impossible – brave, laughing Edmund, taken prisoner at Carmarthen Castle, by that notorious earl, William Herbert – what was it they said about him? A cruel man and prepared for any crime.
But she mustn’t think about that, she must try to focus on what Jasper was saying. For he was speaking again, he had spoken, and was looking at her in grave reproof; then, when she failed to respond, he looked at her nurse with a mixture of impatience and uncertainty.
Margaret had always hated Jasper, his long, crooked nose, his sweating face.
‘Why are you here?’ she said suddenly, and Betsy said, ‘My lady has not been well.’
‘Why are you here if he has been taken?’ she demanded.
Jasper looked stricken. He stood up abruptly and swept the dust from his knees. He was angry, more angry than she had ever seen him, but so was she. She felt an unprecedented rage.
‘You should not be here,’ she said, and someone gasped.
‘My lady is overwrought,’ said her nurse. ‘It is the heat.’
‘I am not overwrought,’ she said, and her voice rose. ‘I don’t believe he would be taken – he would rather die! And if he has been taken you should not be here – you should be trying to rescue him! Why are you not trying to save him?’
There was a clamour of voices and it seemed that everyone was speaking at once, explaining, remonstrating, apologizing. Only Jasper did not speak. He looked down at her with glittering eyes. And she too said nothing; there was nothing left to say. Her throat felt wounded, she could speak no more. Abruptly, she rose, without ceremony, and turned her back on Jasper and left the room, her nurse running after her in dismay.
‘Oh, my lady, what have you done?’
She had violated all the codes of conduct, all the rules of hospitality and homage due to a kinsman and an earl. But all she could think about was Edmund, trapped in a stinking cell when he loved to ride and to be free. How he had looked when he set off that May morning, the sun glinting on his armour. How he had turned and waved at her, unusually, and she had felt rather than seen him smiling.
Betsy clucked and fussed over her, loosening her gown at the throat, dabbing at her face with a damp napkin. She would have to beg the Lord Jasper’s f
orgiveness, she said.
‘I will not,’ said Margaret.
The next moment she was clasped to Betsy’s ample chest while her nurse broke into weeping, all the time trying to reassure her.
‘At least he is only taken, not killed,’ she sobbed. They would not dare to kill Edmund, who was brother to the king. As soon as the king heard, they would have to release him. And Jasper had sent messengers to the king and was going to him himself, to plead Edmund’s cause.
Still clasping Margaret, she sank on to the window seat, out of breath from her outburst, and from the stairs.
Margaret turned suddenly, pressing her face into Betsy’s bosom. She sobbed three or four times, harsh, dry sobs. Then she pulled back, pushing a strand of hair from her eyes.
‘We need to take care of this little one now,’ her nurse said, laying a hand over her barely swollen stomach.
She hadn’t even told Edmund about the baby.
And Margaret rose and stood, distracted, in the middle of the room. Edmund, she thought. How had she not known, not been able to sense what was happening? He had not written to her, but he was not good at writing.
She could have written to him, of course, but she was never entirely sure where he was, or that the messenger would find him. And she had wanted to tell him about the baby herself, when he returned. He might return quickly, she hung on to that thought. She would let him rest a little, and then go to him. He would look at her blankly at first, and then his face would light up with joy, and he would catch her in his arms. He would be overwhelmed that she, who was so tiny and unformed that he still thought of her as a child, had done this thing for him; that he would be a father at last.
Betsy caressed her face and said she was hot, she was sweating; she needed some cooling water and chamomile to refresh her before the evening meal. She would have some sent up for them at once.
Somehow, as always, Betsy wore her down. She allowed herself to be placated, and dressed with special care.
When she went down to table, and sat at Jasper’s side, there was no further mention of her discourtesy. Jasper paid her special attention, pouring her wine himself, and explaining to her in great detail what would happen next. He would not be returning to Carmarthen, partly because plague had broken out in the villages surrounding the castle – but she was not to worry, he said quickly, as a look of horror passed across her face. The castle itself was safe, and getting its supplies by river to avoid contamination. He would go to the Duke of York personally, and to the king – King Henry’s forces would liberate Edmund, and he would be awarded great honour, of that he was sure.
Margaret smiled and nodded as he poured her wine. She knew that Betsy must have told him about the baby, because he was so attentive, so prepared to overlook her rudeness. She felt aggrieved in her heart, and resentful of her nurse. Because now Jasper knew and Edmund didn’t. And Jasper would tell Edmund, of course, all that would be taken from her. But how else could her nurse have explained Margaret’s insulting behaviour?
Jasper didn’t mention the baby, and for that she was grateful. He wanted to soothe her, and she allowed him to think that she was soothed. She allowed herself to be persuaded that it had all been some terrible mistake. The king did not even know about Edmund, and as soon as he did, Edmund would be set free, and York rebuked – even sent back to Ireland, which was the best thing for him.
She was not to worry, Jasper said again. While he was in the castle, Edmund was safe – safer, even as prisoner, than fighting in the field. Or in the plague-ridden villages.
She listened to him attentively and consciously removed the worried frown from her eyes. Her nurse watched her approvingly, but she would not meet Betsy’s gaze. When she retired early no one objected, because of course everyone knew about the baby. But she held her head high and left the room smiling. Betsy followed her, as usual, so that even in her room she could not vent the rage and sense of injury that was burning in her heart.
As August drew its last, laboured breath, Jasper set out once more, to meet the king. Before he left, he came to her room. He stood in front of her for a moment, ponderously, the whole of his face pulled into a frown.
‘If I had known,’ he said eventually, ‘I would not have told you.’
And Margaret, who had meant to say only courteous and pleasant things, looked at him sullenly.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it would be like you not to tell me.’
Betsy started to protest, but Margaret shot her a look of such venom that her words died away. Jasper looked taken aback.
‘I did not mean –’ he said, then seemed to bite his words back. He looked thoughtfully at the floor. ‘I mean I would not for anything put the baby at risk. You might have – the shock –’
She would not help him. He had not saved Edmund. She looked at him with sunken, dark-ringed eyes.
He carried on talking.
Already the Welsh were banding together in support of Edmund. Their father, Owen Tudor, was raising a great force of men who were even now crossing the Menai Straits. And soon they would be joined by the king’s men.
He waited for her to speak, but it was her nurse who thanked him and wished him God speed; Margaret said nothing. She had not eaten that morning, despite Betsy’s remonstrations. She had gone straight to her chapel, and lain on the floor and tried to pray. But the only image in her mind was of Edmund in a cell, languishing in darkness, like that unfortunate prisoner in Pembroke Castle.
After Jasper left the heat grew worse. Crops withered in the field. In the church of St David’s masses were said and sung continuously for Edmund. In the north there was famine as first Herbert’s soldiers then Gruffydd ap Nicholas’s men took what was left of the harvest. In the south the plague was spreading. It was said that it always spread in times of heat, as though borne on waves of sun. Lamphey was safe, because of its isolated position, but Betsy said she should certainly not go to St David’s. It was too far, and apart from the plague the land was at war. Everywhere the rebels were coming down from their hiding places in the mountains and setting fire to English property; the bards were once more singing their prophetic songs. There was no news of Jasper.
But one of the Tudors was always present in the church of St David’s at harvest time, because the family represented both England and Wales. It was more important than ever now in this time of war, and so she insisted she would go.
She arrived late, due to a wheel falling from her carriage and having to be repaired on the road, so that when she got there the congregation was already standing in the nave. She proceeded along the main aisle of the church past many villagers, farmers, tenants and labourers, to the seat she would normally occupy with Edmund. With every step she was aware of them staring at her, of mingling currents of hostility, pity, resentment and curiosity emanating from them. She was sweating, but could not wipe her face in front of all these people. She pressed one hand to her stomach as she took her seat. She did not think the baby was showing yet; she did not think anyone outside her household knew.
The service proceeded as usual, the priest reciting the liturgy in Latin, until the point where he began to sing, chanting lines of the mass alternately with the choir of men and boys.
Then unexpectedly, powerfully, the congregation broke in.
Their voices rose like a broken wave, becoming higher and louder, the stones and pillars of the church vibrating with the noise. It took her several moments to realize they were singing their own song, in Welsh.
And another moment to realize there was a small quivering in the pit of her stomach. She did not know what it was – if anything, it might have been anxiety or surprise. But when it happened again she knew. She knew it was her baby moving, quick and live.
Much later she would tell him that he was truly a Welshman, for he had come to life to the tune of the Welsh anthem as it soared inside the great church.
Every time the priest began to chant in Latin the congregation sang, and the voice of their singin
g was at first unwieldy and inharmonious, but then came together in a powerful harmony as it gathered force.
Lady Margaret and the priest looked at one another, and she saw her own fear and uncertainty reflected in his eyes; she knew he did not know what to do.
He could not do anything, it seemed, only wait, while the voices sang on, rising and falling and breaking into a chorus that was like the broken heart of Wales itself.
And when they had finished they all stood, looking at the priest, who looked back at them and said nothing.
Then he managed to say the final prayer in a shaken voice, dismissing them, and Margaret rose. She walked back down the aisle, past them all, keeping her gaze carefully lowered, praying all the time that she would not be molested. It was a long walk, but no one moved, no one stood in her way. She arrived safely at her carriage.
But that was the last time she went to the great church; she would not put her baby at risk again. She confined herself to Lamphey, where she was safe, and returned to her private prayers, to fasting and waiting for news.
In October the great heat was replaced at last by heavy rain, too late for the harvest. And still there was no news of Edmund. Or rather, there was contradictory news – news of his escape, then news that he was back under lock and key, or that he had never escaped at all. News that Owen Tudor was captured with him, then that he had never left Anglesey. The Duke of Buckingham’s men were obstructed by unexpected floods. The king had not the means to muster an army, but Jasper had gone directly to complain to the Duke of York. The Archbishop of Canterbury, together with several bishops, had already written expressing outrage at Edmund’s imprisonment. And so the Duke of York had finally given the order for Edmund’s release.
This news came towards the end of October, that month of storms. There was rejoicing at Lamphey. Margaret gave the day to fasting and prayer and thanksgiving in her chapel. Yet Edmund was still in Carmarthen Castle, the next messenger told them. He was waiting for the flooding to subside, before Jasper’s men could reach him to escort him home. Or perhaps he was still wary of the plague.
Succession Page 17
