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

by Judith Arnopp

  In the nursery at Bletsoe, in the hours between supper and bed, my brothers abandon their game of chess to indulge in their favourite pastime of court intrigue.

  “Of course, everyone knows the child is not of the king’s getting.”

  “Hush, Oliver, you will be shut up in the Tower if you are not careful.”

  Edith’s cheeks flush at the scandal of his suggestion as she bends her head back over her needlework. Unlike Edith, I am not shocked, I am curious.

  “Whose child is it then, if not the king’s?”

  Oliver leans forward, glances at the door and back again with pleasure in his dancing dark eyes.

  “Our uncle, the Duke of Somerset, of course. Everyone knows they are lovers”

  “Don’t be silly!” I am aghast at first, but as the news sinks in, my shock turns to indignation. I am hungry for more; I have to know. Without wishing to seem too interested, I listen almost feverishly as he continues his dirty tale of the queen’s infidelity.

  As Oliver speaks, my resentment grows. I may not yet be wedded and bedded by Richmond, but I am filled with indignation that my as yet unconceived son is to be denied his right by a bastard.

  Later that night when I ask for God’s blessing, I add a prayer to St Nicholas asking that the queen be brought to bed of a daughter so that my own son might still one day inherit.

  Bletsoe - May 1454

  Mother and I return home, where she wastes no time in training me in the duties of a Countess. My sisters share the lessons, but I am the only one nagged and forced to repeat things until I have them perfectly. I must learn the latest dances, practicing until I can dance them in my sleep. Mother drags me in her wake, impressing on me the important details of running a large household. By the time of my marriage, I will be schooled in all I will ever need to know.

  To me, it all seems pointless. Since the queen gave birth to a prince October last, my marriage is less desirable than ever. Yet I am nothing if not obedient, and I make no complaint as I absorb my lessons.

  Today my measurements are being taken, every contour carefully noted. A little man in dusty fustian bids me hold out my arm, he squints at his tape and makes some notes upon the page. Then he writes down the measurement of my waist, the length of my leg, the span of my undeveloped chest. I stand impassively and stare from the open window, although I can see only sky.

  When they are done, I join my siblings in the garden. They are almost grown now and fine marriages are arranged for them, though none so grand as mine. The king has not enough brothers to go around.

  The girls are picking daisies, forming them into chains and draping them over one another’s ears. They look up when they hear my footstep on the gravel path.

  “Margaret, there you are. I thought Mother would never let you out. What have you been doing?”

  “She was having me measured for my wedding clothes.”

  Somehow, saying the words makes it all the more real. My wedding is not long away. Edith drapes a chain of daisies over my head and immediately begins making another. It is something we have always done. Every June since I can remember, as if we didn’t have enough real gems in our coffers, we have gathered here on the mead to fashion jewels from flora.

  The sun is past its zenith, the chill beginning to creep in from the edges of the garden. Soon the house will have us in its shadow, and it will be time to wash and change for supper. The chatter of my sisters washes over me and I am suddenly sad, sad that I will have to leave here soon and no longer be part of it. We may only be half-siblings but our ties are strong; too strong, I hope, to ever be broken.

  I look up at the sound of horsemen in the bailey. Oliver gives a loud halloo to alert us to their return. The dogs raise their heads from slumber and set off barking in greeting, their great tails waving like banners.

  “Get down,” I hear Oliver cry, “don’t put your dirty great feet all over my hose.”

  The boys enter the garden, bringing with them a sense of the masculine freedom they enjoy. They are almost men now, soft down on their chins and their voices deepening. My brother John is laughing at Oliver’s dismay at his soiled clothes. Our youngest brother, Little John, whom we have been minding, spies his beloved brothers and runs forward to swing on Oliver’s arm. Oliver hoists him onto his shoulders and they slowly cross the garden to settle on the grass beside us.

  “The queen of the daisies,” he says in admiration of my headwear, “and her pretty maids in waiting.”

  “And the king’s homecoming.” Edith drops a ring of flowers on his head but he flushes scarlet, snatches it off and gives it to little Johnny, who plants it on the dog’s head.

  “What news from court?” Edith asks. She is hoping for news from her sweetheart, but Oliver snatches the opportunity for fresh gossip.

  Recently, the king slipped from sanity again and left the country in turmoil. The queen, determined to keep control, demanded of the council that she be named regent, but they voted against her. Even Edmund and Jasper opposed her, and instead, the Duke of York was made Protector. To our fury, York, giving vent to his long-term hatred of our uncle, had him placed under arrest and imprisoned in the Tower.

  Oliver shakes his head. “Nothing is changed,” he says. “My man at court tells me the royal palace is simmering with resentment, the little prince suckles hatred at his mother’s teat, and York runs roughshod over everyone. It is a sorry situation.”

  I run my fingers through the grass and spy some ants on the sod beneath. They run from me, intent on their own affairs, and for a moment I am drawn into another world. If I were to press my finger tip upon them I could destroy them in a moment, erase the matters that they so intently pursue. Like a great impartial god, I could obliterate their lives, their world. My finger hovers, the ants flee, but with a touch of pity, I brush my palm across the tips of the lawn and send them only an earth tremor instead of devastation. Then I sigh, roll onto my back and look at the sky as Oliver’s voice continues to damn the events unfolding in London. If only the God above me would prove as compassionate to my world, and show such mercy as I bestowed upon the ants.

  Bletsoe - November 1455

  Edmund Tudor and I are married at home, in Bletsoe. I am nervous, my knees quaking beneath my stiff new gown, and he is anxious, distracted, his mind clearly on other, more important matters. A sidewise glance has shown me a handsome bridegroom in fine wedding clothes, but I dare not let my eyes linger. I stand stiffly, obediently following unspoken orders from my mother. I step forward when I am bid, kneel to pray when it is requested of me. Yet, when it is time for me to make my vow to love and honour him for as long as life allows, I discover my voice has fled. I hesitate, clear my throat and make my promise, my voice discordant, sounding thin and infantile in the vastness of the chapel.

  Edmund shuffles impatiently, flicks back his long hair from his shoulder and gruffly pledges his oath. Our hands are joined by the priest, God’s blessing is called down upon us, and I am a wife, a countess, and a child no longer.

  The bells ring out; a counterfeit of joy in what has become a worrisome world for all of us. It has been a cheerless year. Our family is fragmenting; two of my sisters have married, and my brothers have taken their places at court. In May, when the friction between York and the queen descended into violence, my uncle of Somerset was killed at a battle in St Albans. My family plunged into mourning, looking for someone on whom to place the blame. I blame them all.

  The gossips warn St Albans will prove to be the first of many skirmishes, and they may be right, for the king is in the custody - or as the duke calls it, the ‘protectorship’ of York, and the queen is practically under house arrest.

  Edmund and his brother Jasper, seeing no gain in siding with the queen, ostensibly support York, but their primary concern is for their brother. Demented or not, he is our anointed king. It is he and the security of his realm they will serve, for as long as they may. Amid all this, we celebrate our wedding, or at least, we give the appearance o
f celebrating it.

  We emerge from church into a chilly afternoon Edmund bows over my wrist and turns on his heel, walks determinedly toward his brother. They fall straight into conversation. For a moment, although I am a bride on her wedding day and all eyes should be upon me, I am left alone.

  I stand in the gusty churchyard and watch the congregation as if I am not part of it. Cousins kiss, aunts coo over newborn nephews. They are all there. My mother, my sisters, even my nurse have gathered to see me wed. I notice Edith, who is as yet unmarried, blushing at some compliment from a neighbour. She holds fast to her skirts and puts a hand to her wimple to save it from a sudden breeze that threatens to steal it. She laughs, making her suitor smile at her beauty. Edith is lucky. He is young and comely. With no great fortune to hamper her, she may be permitted to marry where she will. My heart twists suddenly and my breath catches in my throat.

  I will miss her, I will miss them all. My spirits are as heavy as stone as my throat closes in an attempt to stem childish tears. Tomorrow, I must ride away with the stranger who is now my husband and take up residence in an unfamiliar castle, in an alien land. I want to pick up my skirts and run back to my chamber, take refuge in the nursery and enjoy raspberry jelly for my supper.

  Edmund is being sent to Wales to keep the king’s peace. I overheard him tell my mother that it was York’s doing. He is exiling the king’s brothers from court to diminish their influence, get them out of the way. And I can’t think of a worse place to be sent.

  Oliver has told me all about Wales. The least of my fears are the sprites and evil things that dwell deep in the wet Welsh woods. The country is known for its lawlessness; ever since Owain Glyndwr rebelled against the crown there have been violent quarrels between neighbours, skirmishes and in-fighting, and now the ungovernable Gruffydd ap Nicholas is making further trouble for the crown.

  “We will vanquish him in a month,” my husband comments at our wedding banquet. He picks a morsel of beef from his teeth and wipes it on the white tablecloth. “Royal authority will be reinstated in no time. I will see to that.”

  Jasper leans forward and slices his knife through a chunk of blue veined cheese.

  “I have every faith in you, Brother,” he grins as he plops back into his seat. He catches my eye, winks at me. “But this is no kind of wedding talk, Ed. Your bride is falling asleep.”

  Falling asleep at supper is something infants do. I give myself a shake and sit taller in my seat, look across the hall, pretending interest in a trio of minstrels who are preparing for a song. Beside me, Edmund grunts noncommittally and picks up his wine cup. I hear the gulp as he dispatches the fluid down his throat.

  Soon after, the minstrels start to play and everyone begins to dance. I tap my toe, sit forward in my seat. Edmund cocks one eye at the toe of my restless red shoe. “I am not a dancing sort of man,” he says with a half laugh. For the first time, I look at him properly.

  He isn’t old, middle twenties I am told, and he is good-looking in a rough, untrammelled sort of way. His clothes are costly but serviceable, no fur trim or satin sleeves for him. He wears his hair long; the light of the torches burnish it, revealing strands of red and copper. His upper lip is hidden by a vast moustache. As if he feels my eyes upon him, he turns to me and smiles again, a quick, uncertain smile, his eyes glinting green. He bows slightly. “But surely, my lady, you may have other partners.”

  I incline my head at his permission and shortly afterward take to the floor with Oliver. His familiar fingers are warm and his smile as mocking as it was in childhood, but there is no hostility now.

  “So, our little Margaret is now the Countess of Richmond. Who would have thought it?”

  I glance at him sideways.

  “You for one, Oliver. Don’t you recall suggesting I could be queen one day?”

  He throws back his head and bellows with laughter, drawing all eyes upon us.

  “I remember it well, little sister. We were in the garden. Poor John was quite taken with the idea too, as I recall.”

  My smile drops a little as I remember the innocence of those days. I had become accustomed to John. The idea of ruling him in such a way that a man hates to be ruled has not lost its appeal. I turn my gaze to the top table, where Edmund is quaffing another cup of wine. I cannot imagine any woman holding sway over him.

  My chin drops, Oliver nudges me. “Hey,” he says, “chin up. It won’t be that hard. Edmund isn’t a bad fellow … for a Welshman.”

  The last is a joke, the sort typical of my brother, and I do my best to laugh, but the thought that a few hours from now I will be bedded down with a stranger, a man with whom I have exchanged no more than a few sentences, makes me sick to my stomach. I swallow my fear and take a deep breath, blow out my cheeks and stumble as I regain our place in the dance.

  The music ceases.

  “Another turn, my lady?” Oliver bows like a courtier but I see Mother summoning us and, still hand in hand, Oliver and I hurry toward her.

  “Margaret,” she says, ignoring her son and gathering me to her side. She inclines her head toward a young woman I have not met before. “This is Myfanwy. She lost her father recently and is travelling to join her uncle’s household in Monmouth. She will be part of your company.”

  Myfanwy and I exchange shy smiles. She is a little older than me, or at least she is taller, stronger, and a deal more confident.

  “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.” She bobs a curtsey and when Mother waves us away, she chatters constantly as she follows me to my seat. Edmund and Jasper are conducting a loud and rather drunken argument about battle strategy. I raise my eyebrows at Myfanwy and she pulls a face in return – a face that expresses quite clearly her opinion of men when they are in their cups. I indicate the empty chair, urging her to sit. “Thank you,” she murmurs as she comes to sit beside me.

  As Myfanwy and I become acquainted the company grows tired. Ladies are hiding yawns behind their hands and men are sprawling in their chairs, belching quietly into their kerchiefs. Soon, the celebration will be over and it will be time to retire for the night.

  My heart turns sickeningly. I cast a fearful look in the direction of my husband. He pushes back his chair, sways a little on his feet as he wags a finger at this brother to emphasise his final point of the argument. “Anyway, I am done with you,” he barks. “I am off to my bed. Come wife!”

  A great cheer goes up in the hall. Mother lifts her head. She promised me she would forbid any undue bawdry at our bedding time. To my great relief, the company makes no move to follow us, but they yell ignoble comments as I stand with shaking knees and let my husband engulf my hand with his.

  His palm is calloused, his grip firm and unrelenting.

  I totter along behind him as he strides across the hall. As we pass, I cast a helpless glance over my shoulder at Mother, who refuses to look at me. She keeps her eyes firmly downcast but Oliver raises a hand, sends me a wave of both encouragement and pity. Myfanwy and Edith are standing together; both of them watching me go with something akin to horror. They are unwed, maidens both, yet they are more aware of what is to come than I.

  At the top of the stairs, Edmund throws open the chamber door and I follow him inside. There is nothing untoward about the room; the fire is lit, the shutters drawn and candles are guttering beside the bed. At the hearth an elderly dog is slumbering, his brindle coat camouflaged in the flickering light.

  I try not to look at the bed but I can see it from the corner of my eye. It is high and broad, the heavy drapes looped, the covers peeled back, revealing snow-white linen beneath. In a little while, I will be in that bed with this strange man. I have no idea how to act, what to say, or what to expect. I can only place my trust in God. I look about the room for somewhere to pray.

  A timid knock comes at the door. At Edmund’s curt reply, my woman pokes her head into the chamber. “We’ve come to help my lady make ready for the night.”

  He nods and moves toward the fireplace, slumps in a
chair, his head in his hands.

  The women speak in whispers, gently easing me from my clothes and placing them neatly on the press. The two youngest girls hold a sheet aloft so that I might discreetly wriggle from my shift and into my nightgown. Every so often I glance at Edmund who remains unmoving, staring into the flames, seemingly indifferent to my toilette. His hair shines gold in the firelight.

  At last, I am ready. Too afraid to ask to be shown to the prie dieu, I am aided into the high chilly bed, where the covers are drawn up to my chin. Soon, my husband’s servants will arrive to help him make ready and … God alone knows what will follow.

  He does not move. The moments slip by, the coals glow red in the hearth and the dog snores gently. Close outside the window an owl calls.

  I keep very still. With the covers clutched to my chin I watch him, lost in thought, at the hearth. It is as if he has forgotten all about me. I tell myself that if I hold my breath and keep silent, he will pass the night in his chair.

  For a long time I wait, scarcely daring to breathe. When he finally moves, I jump and almost cry out in fright. He glances at me, gives a short laugh and begins to undo his sword belt.

  I cannot look. I turn my head to his chair and watch as his garments fall one by one in a disarrayed heap; his sword, his jacket, his neckerchief. When he tosses off his jerkin, the silk lining shines bright and rich for a moment. Then, slowly, it slides from the seat onto the sleeping dog, who does not stir from his slumber.

  As Edmund walks toward the bed, I keep my eyes averted. The mattress dips beneath his weight and I cling desperately to my side, terrified of rolling against him in his nakedness. His bare leg touches mine, and I draw away, my heart hammering, my chin beginning to tremble. Desperately, I begin a silent prayer. He reaches out, snuffs the candle, the bed curtain drops and we are cast into pitch darkness but there is little comfort in that.

  My eyes are wide, staring into nothing. My throat is dry and tight. I want my mother. I want Edith. I wish with all my heart and soul that it was John lying beside me. John, who would be so easy to deny.