“She remains strong, but the animosity between she and the king increases,” Hussey continued. “He cannot stand defiance, but feelings against him grow in all quarters. I respect your continued loyalty to your husband,” he said, dipping his chin to her, “but I believe he is more hated at this moment than the late King Richard ever was.”
“The people at Anne’s coronation seemed more curious than enthralled,” Margaret said as though thinking aloud. “Did you see some of the men?” she asked Hussey. “They did not even remove their hats.”
He nodded and turned back to Catherine. “It is true, your grace. Princess Mary is beloved, and even more, trusted, while her father is increasingly seen as a tyrant who dictates the lives of men to suit his own purposes.”
His face reddened as he realized that nobody would understand that phenomenon more than Catherine, but it was thankfully unnoticeable in the forgiving candlelight.
“Princess Mary refuses to recognize Anne as queen or Elizabeth as princess,” Margaret added. “Are these gestures worth the wrath of her father? How can she expect to be named his heir if she puts such distance between them?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
Catherine seemed to grow taller, even as she sat in bed. “Mary is the only Princess of Wales,” she said in a voice reminiscent of the Catherine Margaret remembered. “When she is wed to Reginald, the York families will support her.”
What was left of them, Margaret thought. However, that was not exactly true. While the Plantagenets of her own generation were gone, another generation was rising up. The Courtenays, Poles, and Howards – could they wrest power from the Supreme Head of the Church of England and give it to his daughter? Would Reginald be king?
Margaret had never believed that one of her children would reign, even when Edward Stafford had spent many years attempting to convince her that Henry and Ursula would be next in line. She had no trouble supporting Princess Mary because she did not feel that her children had been displaced. But Mary wed to a Pole son, this was an idea she had never proposed to herself with all but Reginald married and he devoted to the church.
“If it is your wish and Princess Mary’s,” Margaret stated with fresh certainty. “I believe he would be honored to pledge himself as her husband.”
Hussey looked bemused. He had assumed this to be the case and had not required the internal process that Margaret had needed to come to the conclusion. Catherine, however, understood and pressed her friend’s hand in weak yet meaningful appreciation.
“But Reginald cannot enter England,” Margaret pointed out. “What if the king marries her to someone else?”
“You must take Mary to him.”
“Escape?” Hussey whispered. Rather than pointing out that this was impossible - insane even - he appeared thrilled by the challenge.
“How on earth could we possibly smuggle the princess to the continent?” Margaret exclaimed. They should be advising patience and reconciliation, not encouraging dangerous schemes. “Princess Mary is of delicate health. How would she even manage the journey if we were able to extract her from Hatfield? We are not even allowed visits.”
Disappointment was evident on Hussey’s face, and Margaret was ashamed of her outburst. Yet, they must be reasonable. Surely, an escape plan was not realistic.
“She cannot take the oath,” Catherine insisted, ignoring Margaret’s objection. “That would be handing her crown to that Boleyn bastard.” A fit of coughing followed her emotional outburst, and Hussey was immediately at hand with her water.
Margaret watched the pewter edge touch Catherine’s puckered lips and followed the fine lines away from her mouth. The network of lines helped calm her though she had no more answers than before. How could Mary be obedient but not sign her inheritance away? How could any of them remain faithful to their God and their king? Her gaze had shifted over the cup to the man holding it. She smirked, wondering at the unexpected ally God had given her. Maybe he had other miracles in mind.
One thing was becoming painfully clear to Margaret. The safe place that she had created for herself, for her children, the place she had hoped to keep Mary – it did not exist. Not in King Henry’s England. She was being forced to take a stand. They all were. You were either for Henry or against him. They grey area she had attempted to reside in since the execution of her father was no longer an option.
She steeled her spine. Margaret was over sixty years of age and did not fear what the king could do to her. Riches would not benefit her much longer and her soul had always been eager to meet God. It was thoughts of her children that closed her throat and made pain emanate from her heart. When Henry had been arrested with Edward, she thought he was going to go the way of many young Plantagenet men. However, he had been spared. He had taken the oath as a member of Parliament just a few months earlier, and she had been relieved. He was safe again. She had thought that was all that mattered. It was all that had mattered to her at the time, but God had given her greater purpose now. Each of them must stand up for his truth or nothing else mattered.
“What can I do?” she asked.
It seemed like only moments later when Hussey turned to the window and announced that they must be departing soon. Surprised, Margaret followed his gaze and realized that the room was beginning to fill with early morning sun rather than candlelight. The candles had burned down to stubs and attendants would soon be arriving to bring food to break Catherine’s fast and send news through discreet channels that she still lived.
Margaret had gained confidence from the discussion and planning that had carried on through the night, but now it evaporated as she was forced to face what would almost certainly be the final farewell between her and her oldest friend. Her eyes found Catherine’s and saw her feelings mirrored there.
She swallowed her emotions that had formed a giant lump in her throat.
“I will serve your daughter until my dying day,” Margaret vowed.
“I know,” Catherine whispered, her strength waning after a tiring night. “Give her my love.”
Margaret pursed her lips, causing lines to etch her face. It was unjust that Henry kept Mary from her dying mother when mercy would cost him so little. “I will, and know that you have mine.”
A small smile was Catherine’s only response. She seemed to be slipping back into the weak state that they had found her in. Margaret thanked God that she had been given strength enough for their meeting and prayed for success in turning Catherine’s last wishes into reality.
Hussey’s large hands were on her shoulders, beckoning her to action. He would never have touched her that way before this trial they had faced together, and it was not over. They must still leave Kimbolton undetected and make their way back to Bisham. Margaret took a deep breath and realized that all she smelled now was the pleasantly spiced pomanders. Curious how things we find unacceptable slowly go beyond notice with enough exposure.
Catherine had closed her eyes, but they slowly opened as Margaret made the sign of the cross upon her forehead. “God bless you, Queen Catherine,” Margaret whispered before kissing her for the last time. She crossed the floor, leaning on Hussey’s arm. He seemed strengthened by the challenge and her need for him. Margaret looked to Catherine once more and then shut the door with a quiet sound of closure.
After becoming comfortable in the castle during the hours of their visit, Margaret almost laughed at how nonthreatening the dim passageways were. They were quickly down in the storage room, preparing to make a dash across the lawn.
Margaret did not feel like dashing. She was feeling her sixty-one years, the ride of the day before, and the fact that she had not slept in more than twenty-four hours. Hussey handed her a sack of provisions and assured her that they would find a hidden spot to rest once they were well away from Kimbolton.
Nodding in acceptance of his plan, Margaret edged the door open just enough to peer outside. The sunrise was breathtaking and the air still held the coolness of night. Somewhat revived, s
he shoved it far enough to allow their escape and sprinted across the long grass in a way she would not have thought she was capable of six months ago. The dew clung to her skirt, weighing it down and chilling her ankles. She was thankful again for the clunky boots.
A dog barked in the distance, sending a shiver down Margaret’s spine. Had they been spotted? Without turning to look for pursuers, she increased her pace as she made a beeline for the grove where they had left their horses.
Hussey overtook her. Because he was afraid she would not know the way or because he was frightened of pursuit? She was not sure. The bravery she had felt in the dim chamber as she made her vow to the queen was quickly evaporating into the dawn.
They reached the horses and fell against them, straining for breath and scanning their path for those they hoped were not there. A dog bark. The call of a bird. The sounds could be innocuous or they could indicate the end. Did she hear the approach of a horse or was that the furious beating of her heart?
Her haggard, windblown face turned toward Hussey.
He took one look at the countess in a damp dress covered in road dust, her hair in disarray, and her face ruddy with sweat and started laughing. Margaret looked around and behind her before realizing that she was the source of his mirth. Secure in herself enough to see the jest, she joined him in laughter that freed them from the fear and ghosts that had been the only things chasing them.
By unspoken signal, they both became serious at the same moment. Hussey quickly made the horses ready and handed Margaret onto her grey palfrey. It being much better rested than she was, her horse pranced in readiness. She prayed that she would not fall asleep and fall from her mount. It would be a rather undignified way to go.
Once they had placed some distance between themselves and Kimbolton, Margaret felt emboldened to speak to Hussey about the future of their cause.
“What will you and Anne do now?”
Hussey cleared his throat and frowned, weighing what he might say. “At my earliest opportunity,” he said. “I will encourage the Holy Roman Emperor to invade England.”
He gave his horse a firm kick, pulling out in front of Margaret before she had time to respond. It was not a decision that he wished to give her the opportunity to talk him out of.
August 1534
As weeks crept by following Margaret and Hussey’s clandestine visit to Catherine, Margaret began to wonder if it had all really happened. Overseeing the day to day operation of her estates and receiving letters from her children seemed so ordinary compared to the wild ride across the countryside to make treacherous plans with the displaced queen.
A visit with Ursula would take her mind off things that she could not control and wished she knew more about. Hussey had been serious when he said that he would ask Charles to invade, and he did not think he would be alone. Henry had been making some dangerous enemies and might live to see his daughter handed his crown.
After ensuring that each of Ursula’s favorite foods were being created in the kitchen, Margaret settled into a chair with her most recent parcel of messages to await the arrival of her daughter. It had been too long since she had spent time with Ursula. She and Harry tended to keep to themselves, especially since the death of his father. Margaret could not blame them, her life with Richard had been much the same. Even when they ordered the household of the Prince of Wales, they felt away from the center of politics out on the Marches.
A basket of wooden swords and scrap fabric dolls sat in the corner to serve as small gifts for the passel of grandchildren that would accompany Ursula. The thought of the cheery faces, one babe coming quickly after the other, brought a content smile to Margaret’s face.
Harry and Ursula had been crushed by the loss of their first child, but it had not created distance between them. If fact, the shared grief had seemed to bring them even closer together, finding comfort in one another they were soon expecting another child. And then another.
In the fourteen years of their marriage, they had produced six more children and lost one more, a beautiful little girl who would forever be the image of a golden curled toddler. The second loss had been easier to bear with the distraction of other children. Ursula had also been with child at the time. It was not lack of love that made Ursula mourn little Anne less, but the outpouring of love that she received from her growing family.
Margaret had reached an age where she took comfort from the thoughts of those who would greet her in heaven on a day that grew ever closer. It had plagued her as a younger woman to think of all she had lost, but as she aged her anticipation of reunion swelled. Her little grandchildren would be there holding the hands of her own lost babes. And Arthur. How she missed her joyful son. No reverie on those she missed was complete without Richard’s face, now eternally younger than hers, coming to the forefront. “How I still love you,” she whispered, hoping that God would relay the message.
The sounds of shuffling feet and more hurrying than typically took place at Bisham told Margaret that her daughter had arrived. Soon the laughter of children and an older scolding voice confirmed it. She set aside her letters and stood, subconsciously smoothing her skirt and hair. At a quick, yet dignified, pace, Margaret strode toward the hall to greet her family.
Margaret’s heart swelled and tears sprung to her eyes at the sight of Ursula and the children. They must be the picture of what I looked like when Ursula clung to my skirts, she thought. Ursula was the image of her mother’s younger self, auburn hair shining in the sun and heart shaped lips pursed at the children’s antics. At the sight of their grandmother, they fell into order.
They were surprised to watch their proper mother publicly embrace and kiss the countess they had been trained to be perfectly behaved in the presence of. The boys cocked their heads in curiosity, while the girls smiled with grins that spoke of knowledge that mama could let down her guard every now and then. Margaret and Ursula were oblivious to them as they reveled in the warmth of each other’s arms.
The scent of her daughter’s rose water filled Margaret’s nostrils, and she closed her eyes to memorize the sensation of the moment. How many embraces like this would she share with her daughter? It had become her habit to consider all items and events finite.
“I must have a look at you,” she said, only releasing her grip when Ursula had loosened hers. Taking the smallest of steps back, Margaret’s face crinkled in happiness and her eyes roved over her daughter from head to toe.
Ursula’s hair was bright red-gold, where Margaret’s had long gone grey. Her figure was pleasantly rounded with frequent childbirth, while her mother’s had gone thin with age. Yet there was a similarity that could not be mistaken, despite the lines and sagged skin that affected only the elder of them.
“My little white rose,” Margaret said in a voice choked with emotion.
“Mama,” Ursula exclaimed. “You have not called me that in years.”
It was the recent talks with Hussey and the visit to Catherine, Margaret knew, that had brought the old pet name to mind, but she could not share her reasons with Ursula. She wanted her daughter to be free of any bonds that the king might trap her in.
“It is seeing your girls, looking so much as you did when you were my lovely shadow,” Margaret settled upon, and it was true. The little girls, who stood near each other for support without actually clinging to each other, had the Plantagenet appearance that was almost guaranteed for a child of a Pole and a Stafford. Thank God that Harry and Ursula kept them from court.
Ursula called them to her side and urged them to greet their grandmother. Perfect little curtseys and formally prepared words were her reward.
“That was very well done, girls,” Margaret praised them as she struggled to lower herself to their level. “Now let me hold you a moment and remember what it was like when your mama was as small as you are now.”
Dorothy looked up at her mother for guidance, but Susan happily flung herself into Margaret’s arms, almost knocking her to the ground.
Margaret chuckled and said, “Do not punish the dear child. She simply did as I asked.” She tussled the hair of Dorothy, who had remained at her mother’s side, as she rose with Ursula’s support. “Only I was more capable of absorbing the impact when you attempted to knock me over,” Margaret added with an affectionate look at her daughter.
Ursula laughed despite herself, and her daughters shared another knowing glance. It was interesting to learn new facets of their parents, and the information was stored away in their clever minds.
Margaret welcomed the boys and presented them with the wooden swords that were waiting for their first nicks and scrapes. The two older boys struck at each other immediately, while a younger one toddled after them. It was not long before they were receiving a lesson on chivalry from their governess as they rubbed purpling bruises. Only the baby was quiet with his nurse.
Arm in arm, Margaret and Ursula strolled to a cozy spot that had been prepared for them in an alcove. The girls moved to follow until they were halted by their own nurse. Instead of eavesdropping on their mother and grandmother, they would have to be content with the dolls that Margaret had stitched for them.
“It does my heart well to see you and the children, and looking so fine,” Margaret said, attempting not to groan as she lowered into her chair.
“I only wish that I could bring them more often,” Ursula agreed.
Though they both had much to say, they enjoyed comfortable silence for a few moments as they selected morsels from the tray that had been silently set before them. Each savored the fact that the closeness between them remained even as circumstances of life changed. Ursula was the first to break the calm quiet.
“Harry asked me to tell you that Anne Hussey has been taken to the Tower.” She said it nonchalantly, knowing that the children were quick to pick up anxiety in her tone, but she had not wanted to bring the news. Best to get it out of the way from the start.
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 22
