First of the Tudors

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘He could have died, Jasper,’ Jane said through chattering teeth, her deep brown eyes wide, almost black in the dim light. ‘Dear God, supposing Harri had died?’

  For the first time in years she had used my name without deference or title and instinctively I put my arms around her and drew her into a tight embrace. I said nothing because there was nothing to say. She was right, Harri could have died but this time luckily he would just have a bump somewhere on his head – I prayed that would be all.

  We hugged silently for a long time, sharing each other’s warmth and as we did so a message seemed to pass between us, unspoken but heartfelt. I think it was an apology on my part, an acknowledgement that I had failed to understand the deep feelings she had for me and completely failed to comprehend that I had only to recognize my own aching need in order to reciprocate them. Now I was swamped by that need. I felt it so fiercely that I almost crushed the breath from her. She pulled loose but not away, gasping, her mouth slightly open, her eyes gazing into mine and her head almost imperceptibly nodding in answer to the question that she saw in them. ‘Yes,’ she whispered and reached up to kiss me on the lips. I was engulfed by the same powerful response as the last time our lips had met.

  I almost carried her along the shadowy passage and we more or less felt our way down the spiral stair, to the door of my chamber. The April night still had its icy fingers on us and the tumbled covers of my tester-bed beckoned us enticingly into their warmth. But alluring though she was, Jane also looked so sweet and trusting that I hesitated, uncertain if she completely understood what she was doing. With both her hands in mine I summoned all my courage. I did not want to lose her by telling her the truth, yet I knew I must.

  ‘I cannot marry you, Jane, but please believe me when I say that I will always look after you.’ I could only hope that my words sounded sincere, for I could not delude her however much I longed at that moment to make love to her.

  ‘I will hold you to that promise,’ she said solemnly, then added, with a typically impish smile, ‘but remember you are bedding a virgin, my lord, so please be gentle. Oh, and I would be eternally grateful if you tried very hard to be faithful.’

  With an appreciative laugh I gathered her back into my arms. ‘Oh, Jane, I love you and I cannot imagine deceiving you.’

  She flashed me another irresistible smile. ‘Well – just to remind you – I also love you and not many married people going to bed for the first time can say that.’

  ‘No they cannot!’ In moments we had both shed our clothes and were sinking into the soft mattress, pulling the curtains closed, the covers up and wrapping ourselves in each other. It was everything I had imagined. Virgin she may have been but she gave herself to me with unmistakable joy.

  21

  Jane

  Pembroke Castle

  A LETTER FROM LADY Margaret came at last in June, along with some sunny days when the scented herbs and flowers spilled over the neatly hedged knot-garden where I had taken Harri to play. I had made him several pairs of small hosen with leather soles and patches on the knees so that he did not hurt himself if he fell on gravel paths.

  ‘I will watch Harri for a while if you like,’ Jasper said, handing me the letter so that I could read it. He swung the little boy up as he always did; Harri squealed with excitement.

  I nodded. ‘Thank you, but do not throw him around or he will be sick. He has only just eaten.’

  I left them and wandered over to a stone bench in the sun, set against the mansion wall. The seal of the letter was broken but before unfolding it I turned it over in my hands several times, wondering what effect the contents might have had on Jasper. He and I were happy but it had been impossible to keep it a secret that I was sharing his bed. Many of the people around us, Steward Dŵnn and other Pembroke counsellors and their wives, such as Edith and Geoffrey Pole, had been positive about the fact that Jasper had taken a mistress, especially as they already knew me well. Set against this, the straight-laced gentry of castle and town were scandalized, but my friends led the way in persuading the more easily-offended folk that since I was already trusted with the upbringing of young Harri Tudor, I could not be an entirely scarlet woman. Harri’s great-grandfather had apparently taken his daughters’ governess as his mistress and what had been good enough for John of Gaunt should surely be good enough for Lord Jasper. However, Lady Margaret’s opinion was another order of concern altogether; without doubt Jasper would be seriously perturbed by any sign that rumour had reached her of the situation at Pembroke.

  To the honourable Lord Jasper Tudor, Earl of Pembroke and brother to the puissant and gracious Henry VI, King of England, France and Ireland, greetings.

  Trust Margaret to bring Jasper’s relationship with the king into her greeting, I thought. Although still only fifteen she was acutely aware of the power of royal connections and the importance of parading them.

  I hope this finds you well and I thank you most earnestly for keeping me informed on the progress and state of health of my most precious and dearly loved son Henry, Earl of Richmond.

  I felt a jolt of alarm. This was the first I had heard that Jasper had been reporting to her on Harri’s progress and presumably on my supervision of it. Had he described Harri’s fall from the bed? Had he – God forbid! – told her of the change in our relationship? But reading on, the pounding in my chest eased as I realized that these fears were groundless and that Margaret’s attitude towards Jasper had softened.

  It is with much relief that I find myself at last able to write to you freely from our home at Colleyweston in Northamptonshire, where my husband brought me very recently, after the Duchess of Buckingham was called to attend the queen at Kenilworth. Until now it has been impossible for me to obtain access to the services of a courier without submitting my private correspondence to the scrutiny of the duchess, a process with which I did not care to comply. From now on I will be able to conduct my correspondence free of censorship, because my dear and enlightened husband does not believe in it.

  Colleyweston is a comfortable manor house, which has only a skeleton staff at present but Sir Henry is to help me hire a new household. We also intend to enlarge and improve the house so that we will be in a position to entertain and invite friends and relations for hunting and hawking. I hope you will soon be among those who are able to join us. To my great sadness my beautiful merlin Elaine did not survive the move to Maxstoke, where I fear the falconer did not keep the mews warm enough for her. But I still have the emerald bells that were the gift of my beloved Lord Edmund and Sir Henry has sent to Ireland for another merlin. No one could ever wholly replace your beloved brother, but I am truly blessed in the husband you chose for me. Sir Henry is kind, considerate and entirely honourable and now that we are free to establish our home together I believe our marriage will flourish and we shall become a truly united couple. The Virgin and St Catherine have protected me and you have been their chosen implement. Now I shall pray to be soon reunited with my beloved son, whom Sir Henry constantly assures me could not be better cared for than by his highly esteemed and chivalrous uncle of Pembroke. I beg you to indulge my maternal anxieties and continue to provide detailed reports on Henry’s progress, and perhaps you would ask Jane Hywel to include occasional notes of reassurance on his physical health and development.

  I am forever your loyal and loving sister,

  Margaret, Countess of Richmond.

  Written this day the twenty-seventh of May at Colleyweston Castle, Northamptonshire 1458

  I refolded the letter and looked up to find Jasper standing before me, hand-in-hand with Harri. ‘I notice she still signs herself Countess of Richmond,’ I said. ‘I thought the king had recalled Richmond to the crown.’

  ‘But the title was granted to Margaret for life, or until Harri marries. I thought you took little interest in titles, Jane.’

  I handed him the letter. ‘No I do not but Lady Margaret clearly does. Will she ever obtain custody of Harri?’

 
‘No because she would share it with her husband and fate may give her more than the two she has so far had. It is possible that Harri might become a tool in our enemy’s hands, so she will never get custody, not while I live and King Henry is on the throne.’ Jasper pushed the letter into the front of his doublet, which today was in shimmering azure blue with high collar and silver braid. Since taking his place as the uncrowned prince of West Wales he had begun dressing rather grandly and I had myself almost defied the sumptuary laws by employing the castle seamstress to make me some new summer kirtles in exquisitely patterned fabrics and bright colours. Not only that, gone was my eternal coif for now I wore more elaborate headdresses copied from the fashionable ladies of the town. Jasper had not made any comment but his glances told me that my efforts were appreciated.

  ‘When I have written my reply to Lady Margaret I shall come to you, as she suggests, for an account of Harri’s health to include with it,’ he went on. ‘It will have to be today, Jane. I haven’t yet told you, there came by the same courier a summons to a meeting of the Great Council, only this time it has been called by Queen Marguerite, in the name of her son, Prince Édouard, which can only mean that my brother is ill again.’

  ‘When will you go to the king?’ I asked, although I already knew the answer for he never delayed responding to his brother’s needs.

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Jasper made a face. ‘Clearly he needs me. But Geoffrey will be coming too so Edith and Rich can come to stay with you and Harri.’

  * * *

  After a six-week separation, Jasper sent his harbingers to announce his imminent return. I had dressed myself in my best and Harri in the red and blue worsted gown Edith had given him, when we heard the trumpet announce the first sighting of the cavalcade. Harri had grown independent and refused to let me carry him down to the outer ward, but we reached it in time to greet Jasper – not with a passionate kiss as I would dearly have liked – but with dignity, because among his retinue, as they poured through the gatehouse arch, I spotted his father Owen and, riding beside him, a young woman, who I guessed must be his ‘comeliest little widow’ Myfanwy. She was indeed a very pretty girl, looking at least thirty years Owen’s junior and in spite of his mature good looks I found it hard to believe that so young a female would have pestered him to take her as his mistress. Owen claimed she had said they were destined to be together but I thought it quite possible that she had a motive of her own; had she been in desperate need of his protection, perhaps?

  Jasper leaned down from his saddle and held out his arms for Harri, pulling him onto the pommel where the little boy sat, goggle-eyed at the milling crowd of horses, liveried servants and men at arms. ‘One day you will have a big horse and a cavalcade like this, young Harri,’ said his uncle, giving him a smacking kiss and passing him down to me again, before jumping from the saddle and acknowledging my discreet curtsy with one of his inevitable blushes and a brief squeeze of my hand, a reaction which disarmed me and fooled no one, least of all his father.

  Owen lifted his companion down from her horse and escorted her towards us, commenting to Jasper, ‘Is that the best you can do for your lovely lady, after so long a separation?’ Ignoring his son’s exasperated grunt, Owen bowed over my hand and presented his companion in Welsh. ‘Jane ferch Hywel, may I present Myfanwy ferch Gwilym of Denbigh, who flatly refused to be left behind when told I was coming to Pembroke.’

  ‘I wished so much to meet you, Jane, having heard a great deal about you.’ Her voice was soft and her Welsh words warm as she presented her cheek for the kiss of welcome. It was smooth and creamy but I saw close up that there were tiny lines around her striking violet eyes, which added extra years to my initial estimation of her age. Our brief embrace also told me something else; that she and I were in the same condition. At a rough guess Owen and Jasper Tudor were to become fathers within weeks if not days of one another.

  It was later that night, after we had retired to bed, that I broke the news to Jasper of our expected child. To my dismay he did not express the delight I had hoped for.

  ‘How long have you known?’ he said.

  I could feel my heart begin to flutter with alarm. ‘I knew before you left but it was too early to tell you, I could have been mistaken. Are you angry? It is frequently the result of a man and a woman sharing a bed I believe.’ His apparent indifference had nudged me into sarcasm and he responded vehemently.

  ‘No, no, Jane! How could I be angry?’ He put his arms around me and his next words were muffled in my hair. ‘I am downcast and worried about the state of the world the babe will enter. I fear there is a real threat of civil war. That is how bad it has become.’

  I pulled back from his embrace. ‘Babies will still be conceived, war or no war, Jasper.’

  He gave a hollow laugh. ‘You have a pragmatic view of it, sweetheart. But there is something else that worries me. Did you know my grandfather the King of France was mad, and his country descended into civil war because of it? Well, I left the king recovering from another period of stupor, and just like King Henry, I too may fall into a that state one day, or grow mad like the grandfather I share with him. I may become incapable of raising an army or running my estates or even providing for this child you are carrying. And God forbid but the child may also suffer from the same malady.’

  ‘And what about Harri – your brother’s son?’ I pointed out. ‘Does he not also run that risk? Yet I believe many of your grandfather’s descendants have shown no sign of madness. It serves no purpose worrying that you and your children will lose their minds, Jasper. I would even suggest that worrying is the best way of doing exactly that.’

  He let me unlace his tight doublet and pull it off. ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘And of course I will be proud to welcome my first offspring. When do you expect it to make an appearance?’

  ‘In the spring; at about the same time as your father’s child, I would guess.’

  He stared at me, a deep frown creasing his brow. ‘What? Did Myfanwy tell you she was pregnant?’

  ‘No, she did not need to.’ I tapped my nose and smiled. ‘It takes one to know one.’ I stepped out of my gown and hung it and his doublet on a clothes-pole. ‘Now, let us pretend that I have not told you and you can take pleasure in discovering what changes your son or daughter has already made to my body.’ I knelt then to remove his hose and when I looked up I was happy to see that the creases in Jasper’s brow had vanished.

  I let him push me gently down onto the bed and he clambered over me to draw the curtains around us. Conversation ceased as his lips claimed mine and I felt his weight pressing me into the feathers. Then there was nothing to be done but celebrate our reunion by succumbing to the demands of our rising passion and the glorious rhythm of its fulfilment.

  22

  Jane

  Pembroke Castle

  MYFANWY WAS A WOODLAND nymph, a small, dark secretive creature who would frequently slip away into the forested hills beyond Monkton Priory, a monastery visible from the western battlements of the castle. After several hours she would return with a basket containing what she called ‘nature’s treasure’; fungi, roots and herbs, many I did not recognize and some which looked quite sinister.

  ‘Do you not worry about her roaming alone?’ I asked Owen, who seemed quite relaxed about these excursions. ‘The woods are dense and there is no telling who may be lurking in them.’

  Owen just shrugged. ‘Myfanwy’s mother was what some people call a Wise Woman, and in her own right she is a child of the forest. She would detect anyone nearby before they even knew she was there and she carries a knife tucked into her garter.’ He grinned lasciviously. ‘It was one of the first things I discovered about her. She almost unmanned me when I attempted a kiss!’

  Myfanwy and I walked together into Pembroke town a day or so later and I took the opportunity to quiz her. ‘Owen told me you were brought up in the forest. Is that why you like to walk in the woods?’

  Those mysterious violet eyes of hers reg
arded me steadily. ‘I was born in the king’s forest in the valley of the river Clwyd near Denbigh. Only coppicers and charcoal-burners, bodgers and the like live there. My father guards the king’s beasts – deer and boar and wolf – and my mother, who was a healer, used the plants that lurk in the undergrowth, as well as those growing out on the high slopes where there are no trees. Tonics and potions are sought after – people travel miles to buy them and they buy charms and spells, too, for ailments of the mind. Folk like us in the deep valleys believe that trees have spirits and faeries live in the streams, but they are not always friendly, and they require understanding.’

  She fell silent and I scurried alongside her, choosing my next words as carefully as my footsteps along the refuse-strewn thoroughfare. ‘It can sometimes be dangerous for a woman who tries to help people like that,’ I hinted. Getting no response, I am ashamed to say that I blurted out, ‘What did your mother die from?’

  Myfanwy stopped still and shot me a sharp glance. ‘Oh she was not accused of witchcraft, if that is what you are thinking. The travelling priests are sympathetic to the country ways and they often used my mother’s cures themselves. No – in a way she killed herself. There are many, many different plants and most are kindly, some are helpful, but some are dangerous. One day she made a new potion from a selection of roots and fungi and became very sick. In two days she was dead.’

  I made the sign of the cross. ‘God rest her soul. Did you discover what it was that caused her death?’

  ‘No, my mother always kept a recipe secret until she had perfected it and tried it herself; then, if she was satisfied, she got me to write it down. She had not yet given me the recipe for the potion that killed her. But I have her book. My father wanted to burn it but I hid it and took it with me when my father arranged a marriage to a widowed farmer, to get rid of me because he was grieving and full of anger.’