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

by Judith Arnopp

  I am lost; tossed on a sea of agony, coming to only when the pain is at its height, and lapsing into blackness as it eases. I cry for my mother, ask for my old nurse who has lain in her grave for many a year. For hours, I hover between this world and the next, at the mercy of God to whom I am too torn to pray. Somewhere above me, ghostly voices whisper; they speak hopelessly of travail. They speak of death; they speak of a poor motherless babe whose heart ceases to beat before he can take his first breath.

  It seems like hours later when the midwife orders the women to move me. Through a haze of pain I am carried to the birthing chair. My shift is soaked with blood and birth fluid, it flaps cold about my legs until they strip it from me. Although the fire is blazing I start to shiver, I cannot get warm. I stare blankly at someone, a woman who grasps my hands and screams at me for pity’s sake to stay awake.

  It is Myfanwy. I grab her shift and try to focus on her face, refusing to let go. She rubs my arms to encourage my blood to flow, peering at me through dank, tousled hair, her smile like the grimace of a death mask. But I cannot respond. I am aware that soon the pain will come again and I am not sure I can survive it. I have little fight left, and although my body is wracked and my mind tortured, I know it is not yet over. There will be worse to come.

  A bell rings somewhere in the castle, and to my broken spirits it is clear they are ringing my death knell. Naked now, all modesty abandoned, I stare down at my body, my straining stomach and my bony bloodstained knees, and feel the now familiar twinge in my lower spine. I don’t want it to come; I fight to repel it, twist in their arms, trying to stop it from taking hold of me.

  From somewhere between my knees, the midwife wrenches my thighs apart and yells, “Push with the next pain, my lady; push with all your might.”

  At first I do not know what she means. How should I push? What should I push with? I grope for Myfanwy’s hand and as the pain increases, I instinctively duck my head to my chest and bear down with all my strength. I hear my teeth crack, I grunt and groan and strain, but nothing happens.

  The pain grows worse, my womb is squeezed until I think I will burst, and then mercifully it begins to abate. I let my head fall back, sink into darkness until Myfanwy douses me with water. She trickles it over my forehead, into my mouth, daubs it upon my neck and breast. I spring awake, gasp for breath. Perhaps it is better to perish now than to carry on. I try to pant a last goodbye.

  The midwife counts my breathing, puts her head to my chest, listens … for something. I thrust her away. The monsters are coming again. I try to fight them but they have broken in from the garden, they have laid hold of me and are rending my body in two, tearing me to pieces.

  Someone is screaming.

  “Hush, my lady, you will bring down the castle.” The voice comes from far away. I open my eyes, just a slit, and their faces sway and blur before me. They give me water and I gulp it down, it trickles down my chin and trails like icy fingers across my breast. I want to sleep, I want to die but the beast is coming again. I can hear his footstep, feel his sharp teeth, his claws dig deep inside me, tearing my skin, ripping my sinew, breaking my bones.

  Someone is screaming.

  “The child is misaligned. They might not come through this.”

  “Neither of them? You must do something.”

  Voices float above me, words I cannot comprehend, a language I do not recognise. Fingers probe with big hairy, clawed nails. There are many monsters now; they invade my body, cutting into me. They are stealing my child, taking my baby. Myfanwy is praying, praying for my life. It is small comfort.

  Someone is screaming.

  I am consumed. All I know is pain, back breaking, loin-tearing pain. I am pulled up, forced to sit bolt upright, they trap my arms, hold me fast. I cannot move. I am paralysed. I am lost.

  A dozen hands upon me, they keep me down, and my thighs are dragged so wide that my hips are breaking. I scream as they tear the child from me. The monsters sever the cord that binds us and I suffer sharp bereavement as they bear away a tiny, pale blue, limp body. I fall back into a pool of blood and birth fluid, the acrid stench of it thick in the air. As I close my eyes, I hear the thin high wail of my grieving women. Darkness, impenetrable blackness swims at the periphery of my mind; it is growing deeper, darker. It is rushing in to blind me. I fall into deep dark blood.

  All is black.

  When I open my eyes and try to move, pain shoots through my body. I whimper and fall back on the pillow, and a shadow falls across the bed.

  “Margaret, thank goodness. I thought you would never wake.” Myfanwy takes my hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “I don’t know.” My voice croaks, I run my tongue across parched lips. “Can I have some water?”

  She brings a cup and as she helps me drink, the door opens and the midwife comes in. She stands at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and surveys me for a while.

  “We thought we’d lost you at one point, my lady. I must examine you when you’ve refreshed yourself. Do you have any pain?”

  I shake my head, but it isn’t true. It would be easier to list the parts of me that don’t hurt. I feel bruised from head to foot, my nether regions are throbbing and sore, my limbs and joints aching. As the midwife leaves us, promising to return shortly, I try to shift on the mattress. As I move, a rush of warm liquid gushes from me and I realise my private parts are swathed in wadding and bandages. I send Myfanwy a questioning look. She pulls a face, her cheeks growing pink.

  “As I understand it, the child was attempting to be born before your womb was fully open.” She turns scarlet. “You should let the midwife explain, Margaret, but, it seems your womb was torn during the violent nature of the birth. There was so much blood. We thought you would not recover. I cannot tell you how glad I am.”

  She mops away a tear. My hands fall heavily on the blankets as she releases me and turns away. I look at her long hair trailing down her back.

  “Did the child breathe at all?”

  Since I can hardly bear to ask it, I speak to her while she is turned away dreading her reply. She halts suddenly and turns again, her face turning scarlet as she comes rushing to the bed to seize my hands.

  “Margaret? Margaret, he not only breathed; he is breathing still! He is in the next chamber with the wet nurse. He is tiny but very nicely formed and growing stronger by the minute. I will have him brought to you right away.”

  My heart falters, skips a few beats; my breath halts in my throat. He lives! How is it possible? How could a tiny scrap of life endure what we both suffered? It is a wonder I survived myself.

  The great knot of sorrow that has been wedged in the base of my throat is suddenly released, and I am crying with great painful sobs. Huge tears splash upon my cheeks and fall upon the counterpane. My mouth is squared, my nose beginning to run.

  “Oh, Myfanwy,” I wail through snot and tears, “I gave up hope that he would live. Somewhere in the midst of all that pain I lost hope. I was certain we would both perish.”

  The door opens and the midwife enters carrying a tightly wrapped bundle.

  “Now, now,” she says, her smile as wide as a church door. “We mustn’t have tears. I’ve a young man wanting to meet his mother.”

  She comes forward. I dash the moisture from my face with the back of my hand and open my arms to embrace my son; Edmund’s son.

  My bruised and broken body is forgotten as I look down at him through a blur of happy tears. He is red and wrinkled, a large blue bruise beginning to spread across his forehead.

  “We had to be a little rough with him in the end, my lady. But we brought him forth safe and sound. He will soon be good as new.”

  Within the cocoon of swaddling bands his face is a round, red ball. A few strands of dark red hair peek from the blanket. His mouth is pursed, making gentle sucking motion, a crease between his brows. Delicate half-moon lashes rest on his cheeks.

  With a tentative finger, I stroke the curve of his cheek and my heart swells
. My body is wracked and ruined and by rights I should be dead, yet here I am, alive and well and holding my son. He is small, but thriving. For the first time I have done something right, made my mark on the world. Now, I have a reason to live, something to smile about, and someone to love. I will never be lonely again.

  Pembroke Castle – February 1457

  For many weeks I do not think of the future. I live in the here and now, concentrating on healing and bonding with my son. But one morning, after breaking my fast, I go with Myfanwy and Jasper to the chapel. The world outside is locked in a frozen white shroud, but inside the chapel, where the sun’s meagre warmth cannot reach, the cold seems even more intense. The only comfort is the gleam of God’s light through the eastern window, the multitude of candles, and the voices of the choir.

  After giving praise to God, we stand in a ring beside the priest while he breaks the ice on the font and trickles holy water over my son’s head.

  “What is the child to be called?” the priest asks, and Jasper looks up, his voice loud and echoing in the nave. “Owain,” he says.

  But then time seems to falter and I hear another voice, an instruction spoken in deep, masculine tones. At first I think it is God’s voice, or one of his angels, but then, when the words come again, I recognise it as belonging to someone much dearer. Alert, I stare from Jasper to the priest to Myfanwy, but their faces are lit with holy adoration and none of them gives any indication they have heard anything.

  “Name him Henry,” the urgent whisper comes again. I am flooded with warmth, as if Edmund is wrapping me in his arms and breathing into my ear. I shuffle my feet, clear my throat, lean forward and place a restraining hand on the sleeve of the priest’s robe. He looks at me with surprise, unused to hindrance from one as young as I.

  “No, not Owain,” I say, my breath short and sharp, surprised at my own instruction. “Name him Henry; it was his father’s wish.”

  As one, my companions turn and stare at me, making a child of me again.

  “Henry? But you said he was to be Owain; it was all agreed.” Jasper is frowning, willing me to change my mind and name my son for his grandfather, Owain Tudor. But I opt to listen to a higher authority.

  “I was wrong. I had forgotten,” I stammer, “but I remember now. Edmund told me before he rode away that he wanted his son to be called Henry, in honour of his brother, the king.”

  Afterwards, when they have left me to sleep, I take the child from his cradle and slip away from the chamber. It is icy cold but bright on the parapet wall, the air tainted with the smoke of many fires. Below me, the household bustles around as usual, to all intents and purposes a normal day. The blacksmith’s hammer steadily marks the passing minutes, the honking geese are setting up a din. Oblivious of my presence so high above her, a girl runs across the ward, slopping milk from her buckets in her haste.

  The sun is as high as it gets in February. I stroll slowly along the edge of the wall, in love with the bright blue world, smiling at the slow moving river, the sleepy priory buildings across the way. I pause, and as if missing the motion, the child stirs in my arms and nuzzles into my bony chest. He is hungry again, but my body has no nourishment for him. Soon, I will take him below and seek the services of his wet nurse. For now, to pacify him, I raise him to my face and kiss him again, his cheek warm and smelling of milk. I can never bestow enough love on my Henry.

  So many years lay ahead, so many trials, so many potential dangers to be faced without a father. I feel the now familiar creeping shrim of fear, but it is quickly dispelled. Since his christening, and his acceptance into God’s holy church, I feel more at peace. God loves Henry, I can sense it, and with Jasper as his godfather, he now has a guardian both in Heaven and on Earth.

  Jasper has promised to ensure Henry is well schooled and protected, and I will see it is so. Between us, Jasper and I will keep him safe. He will thrive, be happy, and learn all there is for a man to know. He will be wise in knowledge, gracious at court, and fierce in battle; an asset to his family and to his king.

  There has never been anyone so precious to me. I lift Henry to my cheek again, inhale his infant scent, close my eyes, and dream of all he will become, all he will achieve.

  “My Lady Margaret, you must come inside, you will both perish out there!” When the voice calls to me from inside, I do not answer at once. Instead, I close my eyes and send up a prayer of thanks to Heaven. As I stand there embracing my son, I am aware of God’s presence. His blessing washes over me. I know Edmund is at his side and both of them are whispering, “Margaret, you have done well.”

  March 1457

  I walk through cries of hostility, people tug at my clothes, spit on my gown. “Witch,” they cry. “Devil’s whore!” Their hatred is deafening. Behind me, an armoured man pushes me along a path I must not tread. I stumble, wrenching my ankle, and cry out at the sudden pain.

  A missile flies from the crowd and strikes me in the mouth. I taste blood, my lip swelling, futile tears soaking my cheeks. I twist and turn in their grip, crossing my arms in a vain attempt to protect myself. Ignoring my protest, they tear away my gown, leaving only my shift, and force me to climb to a pinnacle I have no wish to reach. Rough hands thrust me hard against the stake, my arms are wrenched backwards, my wrists bound cruelly tight. There is no sign of God. Still the crowd call out against me, naming me a traitor to Heaven, a traitor to the crown.

  “Edmund!” I cry, repeating his name over and over until I remember he cannot help me. “Jasper!” I change my plea, “where are you?” And then I glimpse his golden hair, the familiar cut of his figure, and relief surges through me. He has come, he will keep me safe. I close my eyes and thank God before opening them again.

  Jasper is standing a little apart from the crowd, his arms folded, a mocking smile on his face. I realise he is not my friend. He promised to care for me, to protect my child, my Henry. Anger adds its helplessness to my fear. “Jasper!” I scream his name louder, knowing I am betrayed.

  The man behind me pulls tighter on the rope that binds me.

  “Now, now, Joan, that ain’t lady-like.”

  “Joan? I am not Joan, I am Margaret!”

  He pushes his face close to mine; his stagnant breath, the filth of his clogged pores, the coarse hairs on the end of his nose adding to my nightmare. From the corner of my eye I see a trio of men surge forward; demons with lighted torches.

  “Please,” I wail, although I know it will do no good. “There has been a mistake. I am not Joan. I am Margaret.”

  He laughs, turns away, and I watch in horror as a tiny flame ignites and begins to creep steadily up the faggots. An acrid smell of smoke brings the memory of autumn, the stench of death and decay. My head rolls back, I close my eyes and scream at Heaven.

  Blood trickles down my chin, the flow increasing until it drips onto my chest, soaks into my shift, trickles down, hissing into the flames, across the ground between my tormentors’ feet, soaking into the very sod itself.

  I am one with England and with my death …

  “My Lady, my lady, wake up. It is just a dream … oh my goodness, you have bitten right through your lip.”

  Myfanwy leans over me, her hair tumbling, her sweet blessed arms pulling me from the suffocating pillow. I cling to her, my tears and blood tarnishing her pristine linen as, like a mother, she strokes my hair. “It was just a dream,” she murmurs, “only a dream.”

  I rest on her shoulder and stare into the lurking shadows in the corner of the chamber, the horror of the nightmare slow to leave me. Gradually, as my sobs abate, her rocking stills and she pulls away. “What was it, Margaret? Can you tell me?”

  I shake my head.

  I can never speak of it.

  The dreams have been coming to me nightly. Dreams in which I am not myself, not in control of my own destiny; dreams where I am at the mercy of faceless enemies. The childhood obsession I had with Joan d’Arc usurps my very self, and while I sleep our souls somehow merge.

  �
�It was just a silly dream.”

  Myfanwy stands over me while I sip a cup of milk and honey through sore lips. She begins to babble about the day ahead, throws open the shutters to let in the blue March daylight to chase the darkness away. I try to brush off the nightmare but it lingers; every so often throughout the day it returns like a dour dark cloud shutting out the sun.

  The euphoria I felt after Henry’s birth did not last long, and it has been replaced by a heavy shroud of sorrow and misery. I am out of step with life, and lack the spirit to move boldly into the future.

  Myfanwy’s strategy is to distract me from my gloom; she tries to tear away the thick woolly veil that seems to lie between me and the rest of the world. She fails. I do not care about the approach of spring, or the plight of the poor, or the germinating seeds on her windowsill. I only care about Henry.

  He is thriving, growing well under the ministrations of his wet nurse. I bite my lip in envy when he snuggles at her breast, drawing life and sustenance, but even if it were appropriate for me to nurse him myself, my paps have shrivelled so small that in order to present a womanly shape, I am forced to pad my bodice once more. At least my son is flourishing. I have no worries on that score, although I am increasingly concerned for his future, for my own future. Everything seems so very bleak.

  As the country falls further into disarray, Jasper’s expression grows grimmer. The king’s ailment continues and the queen refuses to leave her refuge in the midlands; she fills Kenilworth with arms, surrounds herself with supporters. She misgoverns the country and makes herself no friends. York and Warwick are now openly hostile, and those loyal to the king are torn, reluctant to support the queen, who now styles herself as regent.

  One evening, after supper in Pembroke’s great hall, Jasper asks that I spare him a few moments. Myfanwy makes to leave us but Jasper calls her back. “Nay, Myfanwy, stay please. You should hear this. Margaret will be glad of your counsel.”