Succession

by Michael, Livi

  ‘He would not try to attack in winter,’ Jasper went on, looking at her now. ‘But the spring is coming.’

  Margaret sat down again. Her knees felt weak and a sense of helplessness overtook her. The king had deserted them. He had left them to their enemies.

  ‘Can the duke not – come here?’ she said.

  ‘He has invited us to stay with him there,’ said Jasper. ‘It is a most gracious invitation. Do you wish to offend him?’

  She would not look at Jasper, but all her protests died away. As usual she felt outmanoeuvred, and as though there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  ‘I will make all the necessary arrangements,’ Jasper said, and she looked at him with reddened eyes.

  ‘I do not want to go,’ she said.

  It was a long journey, over rough terrain. She travelled in a carriage with her nurse, Betsy, and the wet nurse, Jane, who held her baby, swaddled, on her knee. The carriage shook and rattled so much she feared it would damage him, but in fact he seemed to like the motion and remained sleeping, except when he fed.

  Jasper rode alongside the carriage, pointing out views or objects of interest from time to time, or feeding them information about the duke.

  ‘He is the greatest landowner in England as well as Wales,’ he said, and her nurse clucked and said, ‘Fancy.’

  ‘The manor at Greenfield is not his largest, but still it is impressive – more than a hundred rooms, I’m told.’

  ‘A hundred!’ her nurse said in amazement. ‘Did you hear that, my lady? And not his biggest house, either.’

  Margaret turned her face away. She wanted to tell her nurse to stop parroting what Jasper said, that maybe he would go away and leave them alone if she did. But she would not give him the satisfaction of acknowledging him and her silence had resulted in this pantomime.

  The duke’s eldest son had been dreadfully wounded at the Battle of St Albans, Jasper told them, and had been ill ever since. Her nurse said, ‘Oh, what a pity,’ but Margaret only thought of Edmund with a piercing pain.

  His wife was Margaret’s cousin, Jasper told them, daughter of the Duke of Somerset who had been killed in that same battle. Her son was also called Henry.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ said Betsy in amazement.

  ‘I am not deaf,’ Margaret said.

  She would also be staying at the manor at Greenfield, so the two of them would have plenty to talk about, Jasper said, and then, to Margaret’s vast relief, he spurred on his horse and rode ahead.

  They had come to a particularly rough stretch, where a stream had burst its banks and flowed over the road. The horses slipped and stumbled, and everyone in the carriage was flung from side to side. All conversation stopped for a while as Jasper struggled with the horses and her nurse exclaimed that all the bones in her body would be quite broke. Slowly they forded the stream and the road levelled out again, and Jasper joined them once more. And he resumed talking just as though he had never left off.

  ‘The duke has other children, of course – it is quite a large family,’ he said, and Betsy commented that that must be a comfort.

  ‘The second son is also called Henry.’

  ‘I hear he is a very fine young man,’ her nurse said.

  Margaret stopped listening, for now they had turned a bend in the mountain road and the land fell away from them into clear blue air. Blue-green woodland clustered up the valley sides, curlews called and the clouds were tinged with fire.

  It was a beautiful land, God’s own country, as all the poets said, blown out on His breath and shaped by His fiery fingers. But it was an oppressive beauty – the towering mountains like a fortress, the sea an impassable barrier. And Edmund could no longer see it, all the beauty and magnificence; Edmund would see nothing any more.

  ‘Whoever marries the younger son, of course,’ Jasper was saying, ‘will inherit many of the Stafford estates. Which are considerable.’

  ‘How fortunate they would be!’ said Betsy, and just for a moment a dark suspicion flickered in Margaret’s mind, but she dismissed it as unfeasible, too horrible even for Jasper. Who was nothing if not loyal to his brother.

  They had to stay overnight at an inn. It was an out-of-the-way place, built for travellers and near no villages, since Margaret was still haunted by fear of the plague. She was to share a room with her nurse, while Henry’s nurse took him into an adjacent room, and Jasper took a room on the next floor. His men camped outside.

  While they were settling in, Jasper knocked on their door. He had come to see how they were recovering from their journey, and to assure them that the next part would not be as rough. Then he sent Betsy away, to order wine and ale, and sat down in the chair, crossing his long legs, watching Margaret. She could feel his gaze upon her, though she did not look at him.

  ‘The duke is most anxious to see you,’ he said. He told her how important it was to be on good terms with him, how hard he had worked for it. It was their only chance of suppressing the rebels in Wales. As she listened to him a growing dread crept over her. Finally she turned to face him.

  ‘Why am I here?’ she said.

  If Jasper was surprised, he did not show it.

  ‘I have told you,’ he said. ‘We have been invited.’

  ‘But why?’ she persisted. ‘Why have I been invited?’

  Jasper stood up then and stared out of the window, and her stomach contracted.

  ‘The duke – wants to be gracious to Edmund’s widow,’ he said. ‘You are his kinswoman, after all.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  Jasper turned slowly and looked at her. It was one of the occasions when she wished she was taller. She stood very straight and stared back at him.

  ‘The duke thinks – we both think – that it would be best for you, and for your baby, if an alliance were made –’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘– and for the king,’ Jasper continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘The king wishes it. To create a stronger link between the Duke of Buckingham and the crown.’

  ‘No,’ she said again. She could not believe that he was even considering it.

  ‘I understand,’ he said, looking at her, but she wouldn’t have this.

  ‘I am not a child,’ she said. She could hardly get the words out, they were so important to her. ‘I am – Edmund’s widow.’

  And once again she was almost crying. She hated herself; she hated him. Why did he always have this effect on her?

  Jasper let out his breath. He turned back to the window, then shook his head, started to speak, then stopped. She carried on, her voice so choked with emotion she could hardly wring the words out.

  ‘You treat me as a child – but I am not a child. I am Edmund’s widow. And the mother of his son. It is just four months since he …’

  Jasper nodded. Then he sat in the chair again, pressing the tips of his fingers together, watching her face.

  ‘Edmund – is gone,’ he said, then he carried on quickly before she could interrupt him. ‘What is the most important thing now that he is not here?’

  She knew the answer to that, of course, but she would not answer him. He leaned forward.

  ‘What is the best way of securing the interests of your son?’

  She shook her head and Jasper spoke again.

  ‘What happens if I am not here to protect him? What happens if I die? You are surrounded by your enemies.’

  Even her breath hurt, catching at her ribs.

  ‘It is – too soon,’ she said.

  Jasper stood now, and started to pace.

  ‘It is not too soon for your enemies to attack,’ he said. ‘Do you not know that the vultures are already gathering? Even now Lord Herbert is rallying his forces in the north. Your baby – Edmund’s son – needs all the alliances we can make. And the Staffords are most powerful: if they stand behind him he has a chance – the best chance …’

  She could hear him, but through a barrier of noise that was the blood rushing to her head.
This was what they had planned together – Jasper and her nurse – in all those hidden conferences, behind her back.

  ‘No,’ she said faintly, but he didn’t hear.

  ‘Now that his heir is so ill the duke is anxious to secure the interests of his younger son. Nothing matters to him so much – he will act and act soon. That is why I went to stay with him after Christmas. Because if he does not look to you, my sister-in-law, he will look elsewhere. He wants his son married before the end of the year. And he is well aware of your value.’

  He sat down again, facing her.

  After Christmas? she thought. So soon after Edmund’s death? Before the birth of his son? Had it all been settled even then?

  When she didn’t speak, Jasper went on, somewhat awkwardly. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you any of this. I was going to let you settle in there and enjoy their hospitality – which is famous, you know – and to meet the younger son, Henry, for yourself – to see for yourself what a pleasant fellow he is –’

  ‘But you did not tell me.’ Her voice sounded distant and strange.

  ‘Of course there would be no question of marriage if you did not agree – no question at all. I am simply trying to secure the interests of your son.’

  What about my interests? she could have said, but this was the man who would have had her cut open to save Edmund’s child. And he was still speaking.

  ‘You cannot remain a widow for long, you know – your estates are too vast for that. It is my duty as your brother to look after you and my nephew.’

  She started to speak, to say that it was too soon; her husband had been dead for just four months, his child was one month old. She would have liked a year, one year at least – one year of mourning, to be with her son – was that too much to ask? And to have been consulted, of course, but then that would never have entered into it. Not with Jasper.

  ‘You do not have to marry straight away,’ he said. ‘But we need to seal the alliance.’

  Somewhere inside she felt a white-hot spoke of rage. Jasper was still talking, but she cut right through him.

  ‘I won’t do it.’

  He stopped talking then. There was a complete and deadly silence. Then he said, ‘You would rather be taken by your enemies, and forced into marriage with the Herberts or the Fitzwalters? Your husband’s murderers?’

  She blanched a little at this, but he went on.

  ‘You do not seem to realize the danger you are in. You can stay with me, of course, but that is the first place they will attack.’

  He paused, and into that pause she forced her words: ‘I love Edmund.’ Her voice was unnaturally tight. Jasper did not respond to it.

  ‘You could return to your mother. But the king will expect your marriage to be arranged – and arranged by me.’

  ‘I love him,’ she said.

  Jasper sighed. ‘You will love again,’ he said.

  ‘No!’ she said, still in that high, unnatural voice. ‘I loved him – I still love him – I think about him all the time. Every morning I wake up and feel him next to me – the touch of his breath here – on my neck – I can still smell him …’

  Jasper looked shaken by this outburst, but he recovered.

  ‘You loved him as a child loves – yes – but that is soon forgotten. You will marry again and learn to love as a woman loves a man.’

  ‘NO!’ she shouted, at the same time furiously aware that she sounded like a child.

  He started to tell her to behave herself, but he got no further because she took several steps towards him, towards the chair in which he sat.

  ‘Did the Duke of Buckingham outbid William Herbert for your brother’s son?’ she whispered. ‘Do you think my affections can be so easily bought?’

  She had barely time to register the terrible shock on his face. In a lightning movement he grabbed her wrist and rose, jerking her arm upwards. The bones in her wrist grated against one another.

  She would not cry, she would not cry out, even if he snapped her wrist.

  ‘Do you think you are the only one who grieves for Edmund?’ he said in tones so low she could hardly hear him. ‘I miss him as I would miss my right arm, my lungs, my heart. His son is my son now, and my heir. Do not think that I will neglect any aspect of his future, or allow anyone, even his mother, to stand in his way.’

  He released her then, and she stumbled back, almost falling. Her face was burning and she could hardly see. All her breath seemed to be caught up in her throat. She would not look at her wrist or rub it, she would not give him that satisfaction. She could feel the weight of his contempt bearing down on her, but she would not cry. Above all, she would not cry.

  ‘Now,’ he said, in the old, impersonal tone, ‘I do not imagine that you would choose to turn back alone and walk all the way to Pembroke, so what I suggest is this. In the morning you will feel better and we will continue on our way. We will take advantage of the good duke’s hospitality, for one week at least, and if you truly do not enjoy any aspect of your visit, we will leave. Otherwise we will extend our stay for as long as they extend their hospitality. Does that seem fair to you?’

  What choice did she have? With Jasper, what choice did she ever have? She managed to nod.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now I will leave you to your toilette.’

  She sat down on the bed as he left, because her legs were trembling. He had brought her to this. Jasper and her nurse had colluded together to betray her. All her visions of herself, her life that was to be dedicated to chastity and prayer, were collapsing around her. She would be given to another man. He would touch her as Edmund had. She felt a kind of nausea at the thought – she might actually be sick.

  ‘There you are, my sweeting,’ Betsy said with a slightly forced heartiness as she entered the room. ‘I’ve had such trouble getting a simple bowl of water and a jug of wine –’ She paused, placing them on the chest beside the bed, then changed her tone. ‘What is it, my little dove?’ she said.

  And the next moment she was enfolded in Betsy’s arms.

  Everything about her was so familiar – the smell of her, which was slightly stale and spicy, the whiskery face, the rolls and folds of the body she had turned to for comfort most of the days of her life, but now never would ever again. Betsy lowered her considerable weight on to the mattress, necessarily taking Margaret with her, and rocked her as she had done since her infancy. When Margaret neither resisted nor responded, she released her slightly and looked into her face with those luminous greenish eyes.

  ‘What is it, cherub?’ she said again, quietly, and the words and her face tugged at Margaret’s heart as if trying to break it, though it was already broken.

  But she only turned her face away.

  ‘I am tired,’ she said, her voice muffled by Betsy’s sleeve. ‘I must sleep.’

  ‘Of course you must,’ said Betsy heartily, already manoeuvring her into position, and tucking herself in beside her as she always did, her knees bent into the crook of Margaret’s knees.

  Margaret lay beside her, staring into the night, into the darkness that surrounded them both, feeling the intolerable weight of Betsy’s body on her own.

  If he had been anything like Edmund, in looks or manner, she could not have borne it, but he wasn’t. He was older, with thinning hair. Also he was plumpish, with scars on his skin. And he didn’t seem to know what to say. Margaret glanced up at Jasper, but he was staring straight ahead. The duchess was beaming vaguely at them both, but she and her servants had withdrawn a little way from them, and Jane and Betsy had taken her baby to his room.

  A painful silence extended itself until the duchess called her away to introduce her to the rest of the household.

  After the introductions, which went on for some time, the duchess said she wished to talk to Margaret, and as they left together she nodded at the young woman who was Margaret’s cousin, and perhaps closest to her in age. Margaret’s cousin followed them into a little room and the duchess ordered a tray of cakes. Then she s
at down and Margaret’s cousin sat down, and the duchess said, ‘Well,’ to no one in particular, and apparently did not require a reply.

  The duchess wore a green and silver silk, and Margaret’s cousin wore a gown of palest rose. Margaret sat with them, painfully conscious of her own, weathered state.

  Like the duchess, Margaret’s cousin wore her hair shaved back from her forehead, so that her face appeared egg-like and pale beneath her pointed wimple, and her eyebrows were shaved too as a sign of piety, though this was also high fashion. Her long sleeves covered her hands and her gown was slashed at the neck to reveal her kirtle and chemise. She was the grandest young lady that Margaret had ever seen, better dressed than the queen, it was said, and certainly better dressed than Margaret herself, but she did not think her pretty. Her face was too pointed and her eyes too close together for that.

  The duchess was saying how pleasant it was to have company so early in the season, and Margaret murmured something in reply. Then the duchess said she had planned several feasts, to brighten up the dark days at the end of winter, and much dancing.

  ‘There will be a special one to celebrate the betrothal,’ she said, beaming, and Margaret did not say that there was no betrothal yet. She was thinking instead of a problem that had not previously occurred to her.

  Since Edmund’s death she had given no thought to clothes. The supply of money sent by the king for her wardrobe had long since run out, and no one had had time, since the birth of her baby, to order her anything new. She had only two gowns that fitted and neither one was suitable for a banquet.

  Ordinarily she would have asked Betsy, who could have passed this on to one of the duchess’s servants, but Betsy wasn’t there.

  They were waiting for her to speak. Finally she said that she had not brought many clothes with her – she had not been sure how long she would be staying.

  The duchess said there was no question at all of them returning while the weather was so unpredictable.

  ‘We will send for the rest of your wardrobe,’ she said.

  Margaret stared at the floor. Then she managed to explain that since her baby nothing had fitted her properly, and nothing new had been sent for yet.