The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1)

by Judith Arnopp

  He pushes me down, down, his hand on my throat so I cannot breathe. I fight against him but I am too small, too weak. I open my eyes to a great flash of lightning that strikes his blade, turning it as red as the coals in the blacksmith’s forge. I want to scream but I have no breath; my kicks and struggles are nothing to him. “Please God,” I gasp. “Free me from my enemies. Keep me safe, guide my path.”

  The muscles on the beast’s naked torso ripple, the axe is falling in a great arc. My eyes are transfixed by its journey, which seems to take forever … all my life I have been here, waiting for ignominious death …

  “Margaret, wake up! You are dreaming! Margaret, wake up!”

  “Edith!” I fall sobbing into her arms and feel her hands soft on my hair.

  “Hush,” she croons. “It is all right, you are awake now. It was just a dream.”

  I cannot tell her of my nightmare for a long time. Not until my chest ceases to shudder and my throat is no longer clenched so tight. When I try to explain, although I cannot put the full horror of it into words, she opens her eyes wide.

  “Poor Margaret, how awful,” she says.

  “What are dreams, Edith? Why do we have them?”

  “I am not sure. My old nurse used to say they were a message from beyond the grave but … I am not sure.”

  She half smiles, then frowns, her eyes serious. “I expect you are just over-tired, or perhaps you ate something at supper that disagreed with you.”

  She smiles, satisfied to have discovered a reason. But each time I close my eyes I can still see the devil’s face, feel his fist clamped tight on my throat. He is real, I know it; he is real and waiting to claim us should we stray from God’s path. I am sure the dream was summoned by something more than a piece of meat that should have been thrown to the dogs. I begin to think of all the people I know who are dead; my father, and the duke … I shake myself and briskly rub my arms in a futile attempt to chase off the lingering horror.

  I decide to pray more often. Even if my knees become raw from kneeling on the stone floor, I will pray as much and for as long as I can. Only God can keep the devil at bay; perhaps that is the message behind the dream. Perhaps I have inadvertently sinned and the only way to make penance is to constantly pray.

  I pray, not just for myself, but also for the king to wake up from the illness that has seized him, making him as ineffectual as a babe in arms. I pray for the queen, whose attempt to govern during her husband’s sickness earns her more enemies by the day. I also pray for John de la Pole, whom I am no longer encouraged to love. I wonder what will become of him now. I wish I could write to him, tell him of my sadness at his plight, but I am forbidden. It seems that during a lucid moment, the king and my stepfather have agreed that our marriage is no longer desirable.

  Until it happened, I had no idea that marriages were so easily made and broken. When our hands were joined two years ago, I imagined only God could break the union. I was wrong.

  February 1453

  I am to accompany my mother to court to be presented to the king and queen. Trying to conceal their envy, my sisters look on as I am fitted once more for new clothes. The brocade is stiff and uncomfortable. It scratches beneath my chin, and when they dress my hair it is pulled so tight beneath my hennin that it makes my scalp smart. And the new shoes are pinching – usually I hate new shoes, but looking down at the red leather toes peeking from beneath my gown, I have to concede they are very fine.

  “Now, you must remember to be meek yet pleasant, proud yet kind; do you understand?”

  I frown as Mother leans forward and plucks a stray hair from my brow, making my eyes water. She adjusts her girdle, lifts her chin and winks at me.

  “Stay close, walk slowly, keep a smile on your face, but direct it at none but the king and queen. Address nobody unless I do first, and then be careful what you say.”

  My heart throbs as I follow her from the chamber and pass along the corridor. A serving girl ducks into an alcove to allow us to pass, her head lowered. She bobs a curtsey when I draw near but I have been told that servants are beneath my notice, so I keep my gaze averted. Mother dips her high headdress beneath a low lintel and we negotiate the stairs. Below, as we approach the assembly, the din increases; a babble of voices merging to form nonsense.

  A clarion of trumpets shatters the conversation and silence falls; my heart quails further as all eyes turn upon us. An authoritative voice calls out our names: “Lady Margaret Welles and Lady Margaret Beaufort.”

  Mother moves regally forward and I follow, doing my best to glide as I have been taught. In my mind, I can hear the voice of my old nurse, “You are not a goose, Lady Margaret, so do not walk like one.” As we pass into the room, the court turns toward us with a loud shuffling of feet and marks our progress toward the dais. Every person in the room, great and small, is judging us, speculating.

  I try to remember Mother’s instruction. I paste a smile on my face, keep my eyes on the back of her neck, my chin lifted, my neck stretched. As we move closer to the king and queen, the colours of the courtiers clothes either side of us blur into a pattern of vibrant hues. Mother halts and sinks to her knees, and after a moment’s hesitation, I do the same, my skirts forming a vibrant pool around me.

  “Get up, get up …” The king has risen from his throne and hurries forward, fussing like an old mother hen. He takes my mother’s arm to help her rise and pats her awkwardly. “My very dear cousin, we are happy to have you here … delighted, delighted.”

  He smiles agreeably, hesitates and glances at me, opening his hands in joy and bringing them down on his knees, stooping so we are of a height. “Can this be little Margaret?” he asks, his nose an inch from mine.

  Unsure what to do but remembering Mother’s instruction not to speak before she does, I sink to my knees again. I dislike being called ‘Little Margaret,’ but it is an appellation often applied to me. I am small, much smaller than my siblings, and Mother says I have bones like a bird.

  Lifting her head so that all present may hear her words, Mother speaks at last.

  “We are happy to be here, Your Grace.”

  In rising to greet us, the king has not adhered to etiquette and Mother does her best to disguise the fact. She opens her arm and brings me forward so I may be presented to the queen. Anxiously, I lay my eyes on King Henry’s consort.

  Margaret of Anjou waits for our approach. Her eyes sweep across my frame, taking in my fine clothes, my sweating brow, before returning her gaze to Mother.

  “Lady Welles and Lady Margaret, you are welcome to our court.”

  She is not what I had expected. Her voice is heavily accented yet soft, and her eyes are kind. I stand stiffly, not knowing what to say as Mother and the queen discuss the weather, and the newly refurbished hall.

  The king hovers nearby. He clasps his hands as if he would rather be praying; his shoulders are a little hunched, his gaze not settling on any one thing or person. While we wait for him to speak, my uncle, the Duke of Somerset, steps forward and ushers him back to his seat. The king follows obediently like a small boy, and I remember Oliver’s tales of his instability. I had never quite believed his stories of the mad king ruled by his queen and her chief advisor, Somerset. Now, I can see there may be some truth in them. I wrack my brains, trying to remember all Oliver has told me of the goings on at court.

  There is a long-standing resentment between Somerset and the king’s heir, the Duke of York. Some say King Henry wishes to make Somerset his heir in York’s stead. Slowly and deservedly, York is being ousted, and Somerset receives all the favour, and all the while the king remains deaf to York’s demands for more say in the government of the country. As I recall, after the riots of recent years, the duke has now quit the court, refusing even the summons from the king.

  Oliver has told me of the ill will directed at the queen whose unpopularity with the common people increases with every passing day. The realm is quiet again now, but Oliver still believes my uncle Somerset to
be at the helm of a foundering ship.

  I remember my dream again, the great thundering storm, the devil’s grip on my throat – I shudder. Mother, ever vigilant, turns to me.

  “Are you chilly, Margaret?”

  “Oh no, I am quite warm, thank you, Mother.”

  “She has not an ounce of flesh on her bones, no wonder she is chilled.” The queen smiles, her stretched mouth belying her white face and reddened eyes.

  She has recently lost her mother, Isabella of Lorraine, and my heart twists in sympathy. I cannot imagine losing my own mother; she might be stern and sometimes a little frightening, but still she is my place of safety, my anchor. I never want to leave her. There is no one else I can trust. I would like to tell the queen of my pity, offer condolence for her sorry loss, but I remain mute, remembering I have been warned to speak only when spoken to.

  She beckons to a page to bring stools and Mother and I sit at her feet. I listen as the women discuss the latest fashion, the new music.

  “When the weather changes,” the queen is saying, “we will visit you at Bletsoe; in the summer, when the roads are better.”

  Mother smiles her delight but I can see her mentally calculating the cost of a royal visit, the price of refurbishing the main chambers. Bletsoe may be grand and our coffers deep, but Mother is careful with money and always makes a point of the virtue of thriftiness.

  A page pours wine and my mother sips it, savouring the taste before complimenting the queen. Slowly, as the court realises there is no gossip to be had from our meeting, they turn away and begin to chat among themselves.

  Aware of a thousand eyes lingering upon me, I sit as gracefully as I can on the low stool. I clutch my fingers tightly and keep my chin so high that my neck begins to ache. Without moving my head, I look about the hall, recognising a few faces, and speculating on who the others may be.

  I see two sets of courtiers, both as proud and richly clad as the other, yet somehow distinct. I try to puzzle the difference, but it escapes me. There seems to be a division. Their clothes are similar, their manners are equally as courtly, their chatter just as loud. It takes me some time to realise that one set are cheerful and ebullient, while the other group, who stand a little farther from the dais, are just the opposite. I sense discomfort and resentment.

  It is not the gay romantic royal court I have read about in story books. This is no Camelot, and Henry is no Arthur. My eyes slide toward the queen; she is fair enough to be Guinevere, but she is restless, constantly fidgeting. One moment her foot is tapping, the next her fingers are drumming on the arm of her throne, and her eyes never rest in any place for very long. It is as if she is constantly searching for something, or someone.

  Afterwards, in our chambers, my maid helps me from my gown. She draws off my hennin and lets my hair loose. As soon as it falls about my shoulders in a brown cloud, I massage my scalp and it prickles with relief. I lie on the bed and have just closed my eyes when Mother comes and tells me she has been summoned by the king for a private audience.

  “Do not leave the chambers until I come back. Go to sleep; get some rest before the evening entertainments begin.”

  I lie down and close my eyes again, but my mind is teeming with images, my ears still replete with clamouring voices. The discontented queen and her kind simple husband are as different as can be from what I had imagined. My mind runs through the conversation, as I try to make sense of the small snippets of a confusing grown-up world. Eventually, my eyes grow heavy and I fall asleep; it seems just a few moments later that something wakes me. I wriggle upright and knuckle sleep from my eyes, blink at the figure sitting on my bed.

  “Mother?”

  “You were dead to the world,” she laughs. She places a hand on my bare arm, her fingers cool. As I come fully awake, I realise how unusual it is for her to come to my chamber and sit with me like this. Usually, if she requires my presence, I am summoned to hers.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, not wrong, but I do have some news.”

  “News from the king?”

  “Yes.” She is thoughtful for a moment, then she lifts her chin, gives half a smile as if she is not sure if she is pleased or not.

  “You understand you are a person of importance, don’t you? As cousins to the king, there are certain expectations placed upon us – obedience being one of them.”

  I nod but my heart swells with fear. I know without being told that I am about to be given some troubling, possibly unwelcome, news.

  “King Henry has two half-brothers, Edmund and Jasper, and has lately called them to court, making great favourites of them. He calls them his ‘uterine’ brothers since they shared the same mother: Catherine of Valois.”

  I nod vigorously. I know all about her. Oliver took great delight in describing the scandal of the widow of Henry V who took up with the Keeper of her Wardrobe and bore him two sons in secret. Some say they made a clandestine marriage, but others, Oliver included, prefer to believe the union was immoral as well as illegal. I recall the way he relished the tale, as if it afforded him some great pleasure, but it was a scandal to me that a queen should ever demean herself so. Now, in my chamber, I am struggling to understand what this has to do with me. I give Mother an enquiring look, my brow furrowed, my heart sinking even before she speaks, before I know what she is about to say. She takes a deep breath, her words coming out in a rush as if she has to force them from her tongue.

  “The king has lately made them Earls. The elder, Edmund, is the Earl of Richmond, and his brother Jasper is to be given the title of Pembroke. They are powerful and influential men indeed, and are set to rise even higher. It has been decided that you should become their ward.”

  I open my eyes wide and try to speak but she interrupts.

  “Furthermore, it is the king’s wish that when you are of an age, you and Edmund should be married. But that won’t be for a year or two yet.”

  She adds the last few words hastily, applying them like a bandage to staunch a wound before the knife penetrates my gut and the blood begins to flow. I swallow something foreign in my throat and grope for words.

  A year or two. I will be almost thirteen by then and quite grown-up; perhaps by then I will have come to understand and accept it.

  “Is he nice? Is he a boy … like John?” I conceal my hands beneath the blankets and cross my fingers, silently praying.

  Please don’t let him be an old man; not an old man, Lord. I couldn’t bear it.

  “I have not yet had the pleasure of an introduction, but I am informed that both men are pleasant. Edmund is in his early twenties, a mature man but young enough for you, I feel. It will give him time to mould you into his perfect wife.”

  I am not sure I want to be moulded but I say nothing. She assures me that twenty is not old, but to me it seems a great age. The contentment I had enjoyed a short time ago dwindles away. I now do not care that I have a coffer full of fine clothes and jewels; my new red shoes are no longer a source of pleasure. My destiny is to be placed once more in the hands of strangers – and this time they are brothers to the king.

  My future looks bleak – shackled to an old man, to be ordered around at his whim; it seems so dreadful to me that I cannot force my features into a smile. There is nothing I can do to stop the tears as they prickle at the back of my eyes. I blink rapidly in an attempt to stem them and Mother lets her hands fall into her lap in exasperation.

  “The point is, Margaret, the king has no heir and it looks unlikely he will get one now. Edmund is the king’s favourite; in the absence of a son, the king could very well name him heir. Should you bear a son, he could well one day be king.”

  I pause, my tears staunched. I look up at my mother.

  “King? My son could be Henry’s heir?”

  She smiles, winks her right eye.

  “Indeed, it is a possibility, and an idea that is certainly more appealing than having York take up the reins of England.”

  I relax back onto my p
illow again, place my hands across my concave belly. I picture a boy, slight and dark with eyes like mine. He is sitting on a golden throne and the Archbishop is lowering a great bejewelled crown on to his head. I am at his right hand, full of pride, with tears of joy anointing my cheek. I take a deep satisfied breath and decide that perhaps the future is not looking quite so bleak after all.

  My joy in the future doesn’t last. Within weeks of my betrothal, my mother informs me that the queen is at last with child. My foolish dreams shatter into pieces and when she sees my stricken face, she shakes her head.

  “No, Margaret. We must be seen to greet the news with great joy. The whole kingdom is rejoicing and we must let the world see that we do the same.”

  “Am I still to wed the Earl of Richmond?”

  It is not a prospect that overjoys me. Our brief meeting showed me a handsome yet distant, distracted man. His beard was rough on the back of my hand, his cursory glance dismissive, as if my opinion of him on our first meeting was immaterial. Jasper, the younger brother, was kinder; he seemed more pliant, more conscious of my tender years and finer feelings. Edmund looks to be an uncompromising man who would rule his wife with a rod of iron. I begin to hold tentative hope that I may soon be released from this second union as I was from my first.

  “The king has no plans to alter the arrangement.”

  Mother’s words quash my hopes, although Oliver assures me the king is once again touched with madness. It seems he has fallen into some kind of state where he is oblivious to all that goes on around him. I wonder who is really behind the arrangement for my marriage.

  A frown settles on my brow and remains there for days. I am to be married to a man I cannot like, a man I cannot influence, yet I am to be denied the joy of seeing my son upon the throne of England. Marriage to Edmund has no compensations now.