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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  She found herself speaking the words that she knew the king expected to hear while praying that Reginald would comprehend them as a warning but not the one that was written.

  “You have been a traitor and no son of mine.”

  “Serve our king as is your duty.”

  “You owe much to the benevolence of his majesty.”

  “Word of your folly has reached me from the king himself, and I ask you to consider the guidance of your mother though you are a man full grown.”

  As she scanned the scribe’s final product, she was astounded by the words she had instructed him to pen. The king appeared pleased, and she could only pray that Reginald would read his mother’s code. Her seal was brought to her that she might prepare the letter for sending in King Henry’s presence. He had generously offered to see it delivered with haste.

  “A mother bears many pains for her children long after the physical pain of bringing them into this world is a memory,” Henry said once the deed was complete.

  Margaret cocked her head and searched for the deep thinking young man that must still exist somewhere in this angry tyrant. Not finding him, she simply agreed, “She does.”

  Left weary by the interaction, Margaret hurried to her own rooms once the king had released her. She could think no more on whether or not she had done the right thing or if there was a way she could have turned things further in her family’s favor. Ordering her attendants to leave her as soon as she was dressed for bed, she fell into a deep, restorative sleep.

  Upon rising, she had word sent to her son, Henry, that she wished to see him. Knowing that the king would be likely to have her watched, she made no attempts to be secretive. Better to admit to the actions that could not incriminate her in order to make it appear that there were none that could.

  She was certain that Henry would promptly reply, and, in the meantime, she returned to the garden. The planta genista was easily located. This time she had her clippers with her. Others may find it an odd arrangement, but Margaret’s room would be decorated with the hardy yellow blooms.

  Henry arrived as Margaret was fine tuning the arrangement of the flowers in a delicate vase. He glanced at them, but seemed not to recognize their importance. After Margaret had relayed her story to him, she was surprised by the intensity of his wrath.

  He was unable to stay seated and paced the room angrily. “How could Reginald be so thoughtless to put us – you – in this position?” His words were emphasized by quick hand movements that made Margaret wonder how long until he knocked something over.

  “I do not believe he thought to put us in danger,” she replied calmly. “First, we must remember that Reginald has not had extensive contact with the king of late. He may have believed that Henry could still be convinced of his need for repentance and reconciliation. If he did fear the king’s wrath, he likely expected it to be aimed solely at himself, from a distance to be impotent.”

  Henry shook his head, wishing to remain angry though his mother’s words made a kind of sense. “I shall write him as well, admonishing him as an older brother. The king must see us as faithful servants rather than categorize us with Reginald as a traitor.”

  “If you feel it is wise,” Margaret agreed hesitantly. One admonishing letter Reginald would see the need for. Two might convince him that he alone of his family continued to oppose the break with Rome.

  Her son seemed to deflate as he let go of his resentment toward his brother. How he wished he could be so bold with the king!

  “He has disinherited the Boleyn brat as well, you know.”

  “It is as we expected,” Margaret agreed. “He hopes for a son with Seymour.”

  “I have no doubt that Jane’s brothers, Edward and Thomas, wish it as well. They are no less hungry for power and position than the Boleyns were,” Henry declared.

  Margaret nodded as she quietly reflected upon the reign of this king that she had placed all her hopes in.

  “She is not . . .”

  “No,” Henry said, finishing her thought. “But I’m sure Jane will be with child soon enough.”

  “What will you say to Reginald?” she asked.

  “Nothing for now,” he relented. “As you have said, the king is pleased and I shall leave the situation as it lies.”

  “I am grateful,” Margaret said, approaching her son and lifting her arms before realizing how long it had been since she had held him in them. Men had little need for the embraces of mothers.

  Yet he fell into her waiting arms now like a tired little boy searching for respite.

  September 1536

  Margaret’s time at court had been brief. Returning to Bisham had seemed a wise alternative to remaining beneath King Henry’s thumb. She would leave it to her sons to inform her if events occurred that she should be aware of.

  Before leaving she had visited with Kathryn for what she was certain would be the last time. They were neither of them young nor desirous of a return to London, so their parting was bittersweet. Margaret had considered again sharing her burden with this woman who had endured her own harsh journey through life, but decided it would be selfish. She would be increasing Kathryn’s load in order to lighten her own. Let her return to Berkshire in peace for the remainder of her days.

  When Margaret had watched Kathryn and her small retinue prepare to leave, she was sure she had seen an image of the young woman who had thought to be queen superimposed upon her elderly friend. Rapid blinking cleared her vision, but Kathryn dimpled at that moment as though she knew exactly what Margaret had seen.

  The memory of Kathryn’s leaving brought simultaneous smile and tears to Margaret as she admired the planta genista that she had ordered planted near her rooms at Bisham. The gardener had argued that the shrub grew like a weed and was difficult to control. Margaret had attempted to hide a small smile when she responded, “Exactly.”

  He had strode away, shaking his head at the senseless demands of noblewomen.

  Margaret’s skin no longer healed the way it had when she was younger, and her palm bore scars from the sprig that had given her strength to bear the scrutiny of the king. She caressed the marks and prayed that they be a constant reminder of the greater wounds that her savior bore for her as he gave her strength in this life until he welcomed her to the next.

  Montague was scheduled to arrive, he also requiring a refuge away from the Seymour faction that was now taking up the space that the Boleyns had been forcefully vacated from. Margaret clipped a sprig of yellow flowers to place upon his hat.

  When he arrived, Henry clearly brought news that made him eager to burst. They had just sat down to bowls of honeyed fruit when he announced that the duke of Richmond had died.

  “May God have mercy on his soul,” Margaret whispered.

  This was unexpected. Though illegitimate, Henry Fitzroy had been the hope of many who were opposed to either Mary or Elizabeth taking their father’s crown.

  “He was just a child,” she mourned. It was impossible to find joy in the death of a possible enemy when he was a sweet child on the verge of adulthood. The king had married him to Mary Howard but refused to allow them to live as husband and wife, despite the boy’s insistence that he was a man. Somehow the very insistence was what made him seem incurably young.

  “Yes,” Henry agreed, attempting to be sensitive. “But now the king is left to choose between two daughters that he has bastardized. Which will he choose?”

  Margaret frowned in thought. “Jane?”

  “Not yet.”

  They each selected bits of the sweet, sugared fruit as they considered what this meant for the future of the kingdom, if anything.

  “Will Reginald marry Princess Mary?” Henry asked, sounding like a child asking his mother why a chicken laid eggs.

  Margaret breathed deeply. “I do not know. Somehow, I cannot imagine Reginald occupying the space that Henry does today.”

  Henry barked with laughter. “That is an interesting picture. Our Reginald decked out
in jewels and sitting where the current king dandles girls on his knee.”

  She glared at her oldest son. There was no need for frivolous remarks that could have grave consequences. He raised his hands in apology.

  “Still, I think I will write to him while I am here. It is so peaceful,” Henry sighed, popping a strawberry into his mouth.

  “Take care what you put to parchment,” Margaret advised. “Lady Hussey has just recently been released for a lesser crime than you purport to commit, and now only because of her ill health.”

  She need not remind Henry of the risks inherent in saying anything that varied from the king’s views, but she was still his mother.

  “I had heard,” he said. “It was a pathetic move to attempt to make an example out of an old lady who simply wished to show the princess respect.”

  “You must take care what you say aloud as well,” Margaret admonished, surveying their surroundings for how far his words might carry and what ears might be within range.

  Henry bowed to her. “Then I will retire and hope that I have reined in my tongue before the morrow.”

  Margaret could not help but smile as she watched him walk away, the yellow petals upon his hat gleaming in the dying sunlight.

  February 1537

  Sitting before a crackling fire, Margaret and her granddaughter, Katherine, relaxed in companionable silence. Katherine had a book open on her lap, and the older woman envied her ability to see the small characters in the dim light. Since her brief and disastrous return to court, Margaret had been happy to spend quiet days at Bisham with Henry and Jane’s daughter. She was getting too old for politics and was pleased to see that her efforts to become closer to the girl who had served her for so long had been positively received.

  A letter from Reginald had been delivered earlier, but Margaret had saved it for this cozy time of the evening when it could be savored. Retrieving it, she held it where it would capture Katherine’s attention and indicated that she would like her to read it aloud.

  “What is this?” Katherine asked rhetorically, unfolding the note. “Ah, it is from Reginald.” She smiled, but it faded almost immediately, her face paling and eyes bulging at the message.

  Margaret had been expecting innocuous Christmas tidings. Clearly, Reginald was surprising her again. “What is it?” she demanded. She moved to tear the paper from Katherine’s hand before remembering that she would not be capable of making out the print if she did.

  Katherine tore her eyes from the words long enough to glance at her grandmother. “My apologies,” she muttered, quickly refocusing on Reginald’s news. “You will be very proud of your son,” she added in false cheer. “He has been made a cardinal.”

  If Margaret thought the battle lines had been drawn before, there was no doubt now. She wondered if the king had already heard. Undoubtedly.

  She realized that her mouth was hanging open, though she had no words. She clinched it shut. An image of Reginald in his red hat brought her joy, despite the anger it would rouse in King Henry. “My son,” she whispered. “A cardinal.”

  “Yes, grandmother,” Katherine agreed, even less certain that this was a good thing. “He could be a rallying point for the pilgrims.”

  The Pilgrimage of Grace it was being called. Faithful Catholics had gathered together in the North of England and marched south. They were without armor and weapons of war but hoped that their number would encourage the king to consider their desire to return to the mother Church. Margaret pictured Reginald marching out in front of them, his robes scarlet against the dull colors of peasant clothes behind him, a scepter held high.

  “But Princess Mary has just returned to court,” Katherine pointed out, her confusion clear.

  “That she has,” Margaret agreed. “And I do not blame her. Reconciliation with her father may be her best course if she wishes to be chosen as his heir now that Richmond is gone and Elizabeth is bastardized.”

  “Will she deny the faith?” Katherine asked.

  “I think not,” Margaret said slowly. “She is a strong girl. Smart as well. I believe she will accommodate her father’s wishes as far as her conscience allows, but nothing could shake the faith passed down to her from her beloved mother.”

  Katherine looked doubtful, and Margaret wished to console her.

  “You do not know Princess Mary the way I do, sweet Katherine. She has reason to understand the mechanizations of the court far better than most. The experience of her mother’s exile was not one to be thankful for but has prepared her for anything else she must face. Most importantly, we can trust her. Regardless of what her father does, when Mary is queen, she will restore the church and rule us well.”

  The cloud of doubt over Katherine’s features dispelled somewhat if it did not clear completely. “I thank you for your wise counsel, grandmother. What about Reginald? Cardinal Pole,” she corrected herself.

  Cardinal Pole. Pride stirred in Margaret’s heart as she replayed the words in her mind. “He will do as God leads him,” she said. “And what better guide could he have?”

  Katherine attempted a smile before fixing her gaze upon the roaring flames. Was she imagining them reaching out and searing her skin the way so many good men, women, and even children had lately experienced? Margaret wished that she could provide her with greater reassurance, but there was nothing left to do but trust their future to God.

  October 1537

  How many more times would she see the splendor of autumn, Margaret wondered as she moved slowly through her gardens. Though the colors were splendid, they were evidence of death. Dying leaves gave one last glorious show before falling to the ground to be trampled into the dirt that would sprout with new life in the spring.

  The aged countess smiled to herself. When she went to God, there would be no fine last moment such as these leaves had. She was likely to simply find needed rest one night and wake from it in her new heavenly home. Or she might slowly deteriorate as Catherine did. She frowned at the thought.

  Her Plantagenet shrub continued to thrust forth tiny yellow flowers late into the year, long after the more delicate roses had gone into hibernation. That was her, outlasting the beauties that should have enjoyed life longer.

  It was the word that Kathryn had died that left her in a fatalistic mood. An illness that struck with the speed and violence of a sword had put an end to her rejuvenating daily rides. Her husband had not even had time to reach Berkshire from London before she had left him to return to her previous husbands.

  What a stir Kathryn had made when she first arrived in England, Margaret remembered. Even without considering the drama of her husband’s claim to be Richard, duke of York, Kathryn had turned heads. She had been the most beautiful woman anyone had seen since Elizabeth of York.

  Four decades had passed since then, and so few people who had witnessed it remained.

  One who had not yet been born when Perkin Warbeck attempted his invasion of England was striding toward Margaret along the well-worn garden path. She shook her head and blinked quickly, certain that she must be mistaken, but the image remained and grew clearer as he approached.

  “Mama!” Geoffrey greeted her jovially as he swept her into his arms. He was the very image of her father as she remembered him, which was just one more reminder of how aged she had become.

  Her hands slapped at him to release her. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, sure that his absence from court could be nothing but a bad omen.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said, managing to appear hurt by her cold welcome.

  She examined his face. “What have you done?”

  He sighed and relented the information that he had hoped to reveal only once buttering her up somewhat. “I have some debts.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Alright,” he admitted. “More debt than I should. It is rather expensive to serve our benevolent king.”

  Margaret bit her lower lip. All courtiers had debt. Geoffrey’s must be substantial to forc
e him to come to her.

  “But, mama,” he exclaimed, trying to salvage the moment. “I did wish to see you and bring you news.”

  “I have no wish for news,” she muttered. “It is always bad.”

  Geoffrey roared with laughter as if he had never heard bad news in his life.

  “Come now, mama,” he said, offering his arm. He took her hand and placed it there when she failed to move. “Let us spend some time together, just you and me.”

  She knew that he had come to take advantage of her and convince her to bail him out of his problems once again. Choosing to be happy to see her son rather than angry about his reasons, she gripped his arm and said, “That sounds fine.”

  After all, a woman only received so many opportunities to be the center of her adult son’s attention. Money was a small price to pay for that.

  Geoffrey seemed to have arrived with a minimal retinue, which either evinced his desire for a hasty departure from London or his characteristic lack of planning. Either way, his presence at Bisham did not create too much of a stir, besides among the female servants who fluttered as he passed.

  Margaret found that she did enjoy his company and that his debt, though high by any standards, would not be a problem for her to cover. She would sell Wyke in Middlesex and have no cause to miss it. What had she to spend her fortune on at this point, if not her children?

  Her beloved building projects seemed less attractive of a prospect as she reached an age that made her doubt she would see their outcome. How she wished she shared the optimism of masons who worked tirelessly on the soaring cathedrals, knowing they would never see their work complete. An elaborate chantry at Christchurch Priory was the work of her craftsmen now until the day she required it.

  “Mother, let us ride out,” Geoffrey exclaimed as he burst into the room.

  Margaret could not remember him ever entering one quietly. As she recalled, he had come into the world announcing his presence – right before she had learned that her Richard had been taken from her.