Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2)

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  Margaret was no longer as accustomed to controlling her emotions, living on her own at Bisham so little required the skill. Her face tightened in anger, but she was pleased to realize that she felt no fear.

  “Her husband understood that was a possibility,” Margaret acknowledged.

  “Why could she not simply call her Lady Mary?” Ursula asked. She was almost begging her mother to tell her that she would not take a stand on this. Stay quiet. Stay safe. Her eyes pleaded.

  “Were I your age, surrounded by my husband and young children,” Margaret agreed. “I would feel the same way.” Ursula leaned forward and opened her mouth to protest, but Margaret continued without allowing her objection. “When you are my age, you will understand that those who still need you may require a different sort of sacrifice. Instead of my teaching or affection, you need me to be able to take this stand for you. Your children need you, and God would have you remain with them. He has different requirements for me.”

  “No, mama.”

  “Yes, Ursula. I do not know if I will be forced to directly oppose the king, but if it becomes necessary to defend our faith and our future queen I will not back down from him.”

  Ursula blinked away tears that were causing her eyes to appear a brighter blue than normal. She looked toward the wall so that her children would not see. After a deep breath, she faced her mother once again.

  “Faith in our Lord is the most important thing you taught me, but I never thought to see it questioned. Who would have guessed that our king would set himself up as our god?”

  Her slender fingers pinched the bridge of her nose to squeeze away a forming headache, but she quickly pulled them away. Her children would notice her distress. Margaret took the fidgeting hands into her own.

  “Pray for our king, even as you pray for the daughter he oppresses. Ask God to reform his heart that he will repent of his sins. There can be reconciliation yet,” Margaret insisted. “Nothing is impossible with God,” she added, seeing Ursula’s doubt. “I have witnessed treachery and bloodshed in my life,” Margaret said with a sigh. “But I have also experienced love and have hope for my grandchildren’s future.”

  They both turned to watch the children at play. Margaret had accepted that it was time for her to do whatever was best for them and for her God. Ursula felt the same, but her role in the events that must unfold was her own.

  “We must speak of happier things,” Ursula said, desperation clung to the words.

  “The queen desires to make marriage arrangements,” Margaret said quietly enough to be sure that the words reached only Ursula’s ears.

  It took Ursula a moment to realize that her mother referred to Catherine. Despite her feelings and preferences, Ursula now thought of Anne as queen, as the king ordered her to do.

  “But she insists that she is the true wife of King Henry,” Ursula said, her confusion imprinted on her brow.

  Margaret’s laughter was sharp. “Not her own,” she said with a shake of her head. “She wishes for Princess Mary to be joined with your brother, Reginald.”

  If Ursula’s eyes widened any further, Margaret worried that her eyeballs might actually pop out and roll to the floor. The expression was squashed in an instant, but it was clear that the younger woman still had not grasped the seriousness of the issue and the extent that her family was involved. Stay quiet. Stay safe. Her eyes again begged.

  “But Reginald is pledged to the church,” she pointed out quite unnecessarily.

  Still shaking her head, Margaret corrected, “He has never taken orders. He would have done so had Henry made him Archbishop of York, of course.”

  She did not need to continue. Both women knew well that Reginald had chosen exile over the prominent position in King Henry’s new church.

  “But marriage to Lady – to the Princess Mary,” she revised her words in the presence of her mother. “Is he considering it?”

  “I am sure that Reginald considers everything with deep thought,” Margaret assured her with a hint of humor. “If he has responded to the proposal, I have not yet heard of it. Both he and Hussey were to urge Emperor Charles toward invasion in the hopes of rescuing Princess Mary from her gilded prison. It is my hope that any success in that arena includes Queen Catherine.” She purposely used her friend’s title in order to emphasize it to her daughter.

  Thankfully, the earlier shock had prepared Ursula to exercise extreme self-control. She wished that she had saved what she had thought was scandalous news for after the children had been taken to the nursery for the night. This conversation that had followed was much more than she had bargained for.

  “Mother, I…” she trailed off, unsure what she could offer.

  “There is nothing you can or should be doing,” Margaret reassured her with a pat on her hand for good measure. “I simply wish you to hear things from me, rather than second or third hand through court rumors. If anything happens, I wish for you to know the truth.” She placed a wrinkled hand on her daughter’s chin as she spoke her next words, “I do not expect or desire for you to be involved in any way.”

  “Yes, mama,” Ursula whispered. “Please be careful, though. My Harry says that Cromwell has spies everywhere, even in households that you would not imagine containing one who is not loyal.” She spread her hands to indicate the sprawling building that surrounded their tiny corner.

  “I will,” Margaret ceded. “But I will do what I must.”

  They shared a look that silently closed the subject and agreed to tend to more trivial and joyful matters. Conversation flowed freely about the education and particular talents of each child, Harry’s work in Parliament, and the skill required to smoothly run their respective estates.

  From that point on, the visit took on the light hearted atmosphere of a typical daughter spending time with her aging mother. No further mentions of treason were spoken, and they could almost forget that danger crouched nearby, waiting to pounce.

  January 1536

  After a Christmas season that had been quietly spent, Margaret was preparing to welcome her oldest son to Bisham. Word had arrived only days before his expected arrival, so she anticipated that he had news for her that could only be spoken in person, not recorded in print. Knowing that the king had sent a request to Reginald in Italy for support with the new pope, she hoped that was not the cause of Henry’s visit.

  God had a new representative on Earth in Cardinal Farnese who had recently been named Pope Paul III. If Englishmen had hoped that their king would be reconciled to the new leader of the Catholic Church and life could go back to what it had been before the advent of Anne Boleyn, they were sorely disappointed. Margaret had heard that mention of this theory to Henry had been met with anger and firm rejection, as were any ideas that were not the king’s own.

  King Henry had become increasingly unpredictable and difficult to please, to the extent that Margaret almost felt sympathy for the upstart who had displaced her friend. Anne Boleyn was also said to be nervous and demanding of those who served her. They deserved each other, it seemed.

  Even knowing that the royal couple was plagued by a toxic relationship that had failed to produce the children that Henry so desperately wanted had not prepared Margaret for the news of the past summer. Sir Thomas More, a lifelong friend and mentor of the king, had been executed for treason. The pious More had refused to sign the Oath of Succession, the very same stance that Princess Mary had taken. Allowing his Lord Chancellor far less mercy than his daughter, the king ordered More tried for treason. He had been executed under a pleasant July sun that belied the stew of discontent that was brewing below it.

  The memory of receiving this news caused Margaret to go cold all over again. Fear had once again made her wonder if she was doing the right thing, not only failing to support the Boleyn faction herself, but encouraging the princess to insist upon her own rights. Maybe it would be easier to enforce Princess Mary’s right to succeed after her father was dead. With only a baby girl and bastard brother to
challenge her, victory was almost certain.

  It was the almost that kept Margaret in the fight. That and her desire to present herself as righteous before God. How would she explain herself to her heavenly master if she were called to him before Henry was, as seemed likely given their respective ages? She would not be able to justify a life filled with sins of omission, of sitting back and doing what was easy rather than what was right.

  When her mind became overwhelmed with these thoughts, she made her way to her private chapel to gain the comfort that only God could provide. Her deep green skirts swirled around her feet as she took swift steps in that direction. The areas without roaring fires were too cool for her aching joints, so she kept a cloak woven of warm, pure white wool wrapped tightly about her shoulders. She was glad of it as the icy cold of the chapel’s stone floor seemed to reach up gnarled claws to snag at her ankles and knees.

  A pillow rested before the altar. She had received permission from her chaplain to kneel upon it when the hard ground had become an undeniable distraction when she was at prayer. Better this indulgence than a heart not completely focused on her conversation with God. She gripped the pillow in her hands, still not relishing the idea of kneeling and then having to pull herself back up. She felt growing respect for the decrepit monks and priests who continued to prostrate themselves for long hours without outward concern for their physical pain and discomfort. Margaret was simply not that strong.

  The cushion was just enough to keep agony from shooting through her hips and knees as she knelt. Her prayers did not include requests for physical blessings. Those she loved most had enough of those, but she pleaded for their safety. She prayed for renewed faith and forgiveness in the king, but felt that her heart was not in that hope. Nothing is impossible with God, she reminded herself as she had Ursula. But just how well did God know King Henry? Was he beyond the influence of his heavenly father though he proclaimed himself his representative to Englishmen?

  Pushing aside her questions and doubts, Margaret prayed for her own children and for Mary, who she considered always in the same breath as the children of her own womb. Mary’s mother was the next person in need of God’s ministrations, and Margaret asked God for news of Catherine even as she dared not go so far as to ask to see her again.

  Margaret was uncertain how much time had passed when she finally unbent stiff knees and massaged her sore lower back. A cleared throat from the back of the chapel alerted her that she was no longer alone.

  Turning toward the sound, she recognized a relatively new page. He had joined her household recently enough that she was embarrassed to realize that she did not remember the young man’s name.

  “Yes, you have need of me?” she asked as he bowed before her.

  “It is Lord Montague, Lady Salisbury,” he said, never lifting his face to look into hers, though he stood at exactly her height. “His cavalcade has been spotted entering the village.”

  “I thank you for bearing wonderful news,” Margaret enthusiastically replied. She hoped to encourage the sheepish young man, but her excitement was also authentic. Always too much time passed between visits from her children. She hurried from the chapel to welcome Henry to Bisham.

  A table had been prepared in her chamber. She had learned to assume that discretion would be necessary after Ursula’s visit. Regularly managing visits this way with Hussey and her sons also took away any sense of secrecy that might have otherwise been created by not hosting a larger gathering of the household in the hall. Those who served the countess knew that she preferred intimate arrangements. It was simply the eccentrics of an old woman rather than the need to avoid listening ears and spying eyes.

  Upon opening the finely engraved wood door, the scent of roasted foul filled air and made her body remember that it was hungry. She fasted often in her focus on prayer, but this day would be filled with feasting. One never knew how many opportunities remained.

  Only moments passed before Henry was ushered into the room, exclaiming his joy at seeing her and declaring that he was ravenous. Losing no time, Margaret waved away all but those who would serve the food and directed her son to the table.

  The meat steamed as it was carved and placed upon their plates. Thick sauce accompanied it because Margaret knew that Henry favored it. She ate sparingly, preferring to observe him enjoying the meal. She had happened upon one of the cook’s boys grinding almonds into fine paste for the marzipan, and it made her wonder how many other dishes took hours to create only to be gobbled up in a moment. Henry put a sugared bite into his mouth, closed his eyes, and let it melt with pleasure written upon his face.

  “All this with such a short time to prepare,” Henry said when he eventually pushed back from the table. He remained seated but seemed to need the extra space after the courses of meats, cheeses, and wine. “You could manage the fine affairs at court.”

  Margaret was shaking her head. There were few things that would make her wish to return to court, none that she could think of. “I am eager for the news that you bring,” she said in hopes of changing the subject.

  Henry frowned and wiped his mouth, though Margaret could see nothing to make the action necessary.

  “I wish that it did not fall to me to cause you pain, mother,” he said, taking her hand.

  She felt familiar feelings churning within her. Was it Reginald or Geoffrey? Not Ursula. Please God, not Ursula.

  “You know that Queen Catherine has not been in good health for quite some time.”

  Margaret frowned. This was not what she had been expecting.

  Henry cleared his throat to delay his message. “I’m afraid that she has died. I sent my message to you as soon as I heard, but would not have you receive the news in writing.”

  Her face clearing, Margaret was struck by the fact that she was not upset. Poor Catherine had been suffering emotionally for years and physically for only slightly less time. “She is finally at peace,” she whispered. “I pray that God welcomes her as the faithful servant that she was.”

  “Amen,” Henry agreed.

  The memory of the former queen of England flew through the years to settle in the room. “I thank you for traveling through the cold and snow to tell me,” Margaret added, remembering that stark parchment that gave no hint of the tragic news it contained.

  “Of course,” he said, moving to stand behind her and place his hands protectively on her arms. Their evolution was now complete. She no longer served and cared for him. It was his turn to protect his mother.

  “You will hear rumors of poison,” he did not continue, seeing his mother shake her head and hold up a hand.

  “I know the truth of her terminal condition,” Margaret reassured him. She almost told him of her wild ride and secret visit. What could be the harm now? But she did not. The less Henry knew, the less could be held against him if the king were to narrow his eyes at him.

  “You have my deepest sympathy,” he said. “Would you like me to escort you to the chapel? I would join you to say prayers for our dear queen’s soul.”

  “Later,” Margaret said, much to her son’s surprise. “I have just come from there, and God knew the truth already as I prayed for Catherine’s peace. She had already received it.”

  Henry nodded and moved back to his chair, finding another minute space for a bite of marzipan. He had waited for them to be alone before breaking the news to his mother. The entire country would hear of the beloved queen’s death, though he hoped that not all heard that the husband she had been devoted to rejoiced at the news. Henry frowned at the thought.

  “What is it?” his mother asked. He could hide nothing from her.

  “I do not think that peace will come for the rest of us,” he said, rubbing his chin and frowning at the stubble he felt beneath his fingers. “The king is disillusioned with Anne, but he awaits the result of her current pregnancy.”

  “She is with child again?” There were some disadvantages to being so far from court.

  “Yes,” Hen
ry acceded with reservation evident in his voice. “The entire court seems to hold its breath until she gives birth. After two babes lost with his new wife, there are whispers that it is the king who is at fault for his lack of sons rather than his queens.”

  Margaret remained silent, considering the import of this news. What would it mean for Mary if Anne produced a boy? If the king died while the boy was young, Mary may still be the clear choice of successor. Margaret knew well the lack of faith Englishmen placed in a child king, and for good reason.

  “Anne is not only frantic about her condition,” Henry continued. “She raves at whomever is near regarding her husband’s wandering eye.”

  “It is more than his eye that wanders if he is anything like I remember,” Margaret pointed out, causing a blush to rise on her son’s face. “Really, Henry. You have your own children almost grown, but cannot hear your mother speak of the temptations of man?”

  Henry just shook his head but could not contain his smile.

  “He has no additional illegitimate children that I have not heard of?” she asked.

  “Not that I am aware of, and he proudly presents Richmond so there’s no reason to think that he would not do the same if there were others.”

  Margaret weighed this. “Unless he did not wish to add to Anne’s anxiety.”

  “Maybe,” Henry acquiesced doubtfully.

  “No others then,” Margaret agreed. “I am simply thinking of Princess Mary. Has anyone told her?”

  “Chapuys. He was with her near her mother’s end and will be the best person to comfort her, I think,” his tone questioned, so Margaret nodded in agreement.

  Chapuys would provide support and encouragement to stay strong where another might attempt to convince Mary that her cause was lost without her mother.

  “I need to see her,” Margaret stated. “What if I were to come to court. Maybe I could convince the king that I mean only to care for her as a mother does a child. I can be no threat to him.”