Her cheeks flush red but she looks pleased as she takes her place beside me, carefully spreading her skirts and placing her hands genteelly in her lap. I have the suspicion that she is perfectly aware of what is to come. Alert and ready for ill news, I try to prepare myself for whatever he is about to say.
Jasper paces the floor in front of the hearth. “Margaret, the time has come to look to your future protection. I – my jurisdiction is spreading and my duties will soon take me away from here for long periods of time.”
I open my mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand to silence me and I subside, trying to stem the anxiety that bubbles in my stomach.
He is going to send me away.
“Although I will always continue to care for and guard the interests of both you and Henry, I feel you need another protector, a husband who will provide day to day security.”
“A husband? I am only just widowed. I am not ready to marry again!”
He sighs. Myfanwy fidgets in her seat.
“It cannot be helped, Margaret. You must just make the best of things.”
I realise my future has been discussed between them, probably during the long dark night in the secrecy of their sinfulness. With a pang of jealousy for their intimacy, I tighten my lips.
“Who? Who do you have in mind?”
“Obviously, we will undertake no match that does not meet with your approval.”
His reluctance to name the man who has so obviously already been selected deepens my concern.
“But - but I like it here. Henry and I are as safe within this fortress as we can possibly be, nothing can touch us here. You will protect us, I know that. Jasper … why … why don’t we marry?”
Silence falls like a heavy curtain and then Myfanwy squeaks and puts out a hand, shaking her head, biting her lip in reproach.
“Oh, Margaret!” she mutters, her cheeks pink. “How could you?”
Jasper shakes himself, stammers to find his voice.
“Margaret … you are my brother’s wife. That could never be.”
“We could go to the king, your brother, and ask him to seek a dispensation. It is what Edmund would want.”
He looks at me in horror, like a man trying to tell a little girl that the sweetmeats have all been eaten. “Besides,” he ends lamely, “I … I have no wish to marry.”
“Well, I am not pretending it would be a love match, but we are friends …” I lapse into embarrassed silence and wish I had not spoken.
I look from him to Myfanwy, who has now turned her body a little away from me and is examining a loose thread on the tapestry seat beside her. I realise too late the gaucheness of my outburst. I have spoken out of turn and we are all discomforted by it.
“Well, who then? Who will wish to marry me? The physician has made it clear I am unlikely to bear another child. Who will want to ally themselves with a plain and barren wife? Tell me that!”
Jasper gives a snort of disbelief.
“Do you really have no idea how rich you are? How your connections with the king make you a desirable prize on the marriage market? For Heaven’s sake, child, barren or not, the right man would take you far away from here, provide you with a life at court such as you deserve. He would ply you with jewels and dainties and fine gowns … you will never get that buried in Wales with me.”
“What about Henry? Will he have a place in this hypothetical husband’s household? Will he be welcome at court?”
A long silence. Jasper looks at the ceiling and then into the hearth. My heart thumps as I wait for him to speak.
“Henry will stay with me … but the marriage won’t take place for a long time. You can stay with him until your period of mourning is over; you will see him weaned and walking long before you go.”
Dread washes over me. I leap to my feet, my stomach churning. Little Henry, weaned and walking. I raise my head, letting Jasper see the tears in my eyes, the pain in my heart.
“I would rather spend each day with my son; share each moment of his life until he is a man with his own household, his own wife; and then I would share his children too.”
“Gahh!” Jasper makes an impatient movement. “That never happens. You know that. All boys are sent away to be raised in the household of a knight; they never stay at home with their mothers. Be glad he will be with me, and not with strangers. Why should your son be any different?”
“Because he is the only son I shall ever have. Henry is all I will ever have. He is my life.”
Another long silence. I stare at Jasper, willing him to relent, to tell me he was wrong, that he will rethink the situation. Instead, he turns away, puts a hand on the mantel and stares angrily into the flames.
“You are to accompany me to the Duke of Buckingham’s residence at Greenfield near Newport. It isn’t far. Once there, you will make the acquaintance of Harry Stafford, the duke’s second-born son. He is an amiable fellow. Try to like him a little; it will make things easier for you.”
Jasper abruptly crosses the room. As he nears my chair, I leap to my feet, grab his sleeve.
“Jasper, my lord; if … if I cannot like him … you will not force me … please, at least promise me that much.”
He stares into my face with eyes so much like Edmund’s, I could weep. His mouth softens, and a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
“Nay, Margaret. I will not force you – you have my promise. This time, your bridegroom will be of your own choosing. Look upon this meeting as an introduction, no more, but think on it, be wise and look to your future security. Use your mind, not your foolish heart.”
It is happening again. For all Jasper’s assurances, my life is out of my hands. I know that my marriage to Buckingham’s son is a foregone conclusion. Just like the dream in which I am burned for a witch, my hands bound, my wishes ignored, my dreams ashes. It is my fate.
A brisk cold wind blows against our faces as we travel east to Newport. After taking leave of Henry and regaling Myfanwy, who is feeling sickly, with a thousand instructions as to his well being, my heart is heavy. As we ride ever farther from Pembroke, my spirits decline even more, the chill damp weather making my nose run. I huddle deep into my cloak and keep my eyes on the muddy road that I have no wish to travel. After several attempts to cheer me by engaging me in conversation Jasper falls silent. A short time later, frustrated by my stubborn sulks, he kicks his mount forward and strikes up a conversation with one of his men.
I shrink into my own misery, wrap myself in gloom, wishing I had never been born; or at least wishing I had been born a boy, in charge of my own destiny.
To pass the time, I try to recall all I know of the Duke of Buckingham. He is a powerful man, of course, and one not given to keeping his own counsel. I seem to remember Jasper saying he was not an admirer of the queen, but his loyalty to the king precluded him from turning against her. As a result, he has fallen foul of Warwick and York, whose activities he renounces as treason.
I picture a large, forceful man, brutish and lordly, and imagine his son will be made in his father’s image. It is with great trepidation that, after almost two days on the road, we approach the estate at Greenfields. This visit could prove pivotal in my life; if fate is against me, I could ride away from here the betrothed bride of a brute.
At least today is brighter than yesterday, and the sunshine goes some way toward lifting my sense of doom. As we near our destination, I notice a group of lent lilies dancing in the hedgerow, primroses emerging from last year’s decaying leaves. It is not easy to be dour on such a pleasant day. For the first time in months, my spirits stir a little; perhaps Jasper is right and it is up to me to take my life and make of it the best I can.
The gatehouse is thrown open in anticipation of our arrival; we ride into the bailey where Jasper dismounts quickly. He spins on his heel, puts out a hand to help me alight, but a groom is there before him. He leads my mare to the mounting block and reaches up to steady me.
I grasp the groom’s arms and slide to
the ground before dismissing him with a wave of my hand, and turning my attention to brushing my skirts and straightening my veil. The groom bows and gestures toward the hall. Taking Jasper’s proffered arm, I allow him to lead me into the house.
After the brightness of the day, it seems dark inside. I blink, trying to adjust my vision, and look about the oak panelled hall at the vast tapestries and a wide-mouthed hearth with a huge fire blazing. This is one of the duke’s lesser estates but nevertheless it is impressive, yet comfortable at the same time.
A maidservant enters and sets a tray of refreshments on the table. A few moments later, a door opens and Humphrey Stafford, the Duke of Buckingham, enters with a trio of large dogs at heel. The dogs poke their great noses into my skirts, snuffle at our feet. “Get back, go and lie down!” the duke yells as he comes forward and takes my brother-in-law’s hand.
“Jasper.” He slaps him on the back in welcome before turning to me. “And you must be Margaret. Yes, you have a look of your mother.”
I look nothing like my mother, who is round faced and bonny, but I smile politely and try to accept it as a compliment. He does not meet my eye but turns back to Jasper, swipes a wine cup from the table and gestures to the servant to serve us. I keep the thick red burgundy wine in my mouth for as long as I can, savouring the taste before I release it to forge a rich and warming path to my empty belly.
While Buckingham shows Jasper the fine new panelling he has recently had installed, I trail after them around the hall and try not to resent the duke’s off-hand manner. By rights, as his prospective daughter-in-law, he should be escorting me, making me as comfortable as possible in his home. I curse my young years that encourage men to constantly overlook my status. With a stifled sigh, I realise he is unimpressed with women, especially those of my age, and hope with all my heart his son is not the same. I really need a man who is easily managed, or at least one who will prove to be a partner rather than my master; one who will allow me to have some input into the way my life will be led.
I turn suddenly at the sound of a gentle cough at my side, and to my astonishment I find the groom who helped me dismount earlier. Bewildered by his presence, I look him up and down. He has taken off his hat, revealing sparse hair and a red, flaky scalp. He is a plain man, probably in his thirties, but his eyes are kind and they crinkle at the edges when he smiles. It seems he smiles often. He points to a jewel-rich tapestry on the wall.
“This one arrived just last month from Flanders.”
His voice is quiet and cultured as he addresses me in the most extraordinary way. I look down my nose, or at least I try to, but I am not equal to his height. I make do with a cold dismissal.
“Indeed,” I sniff. “Very nice.”
Ill at ease, I let my gaze run around the hall. It is truly a magnificent tapestry, as are the others that hang here, warming the interior and cutting out draughts. I resent being conducted round the duke’s home by a servant. I hurry in Jasper’s wake, my face burning with indignation. Noticing my presence, the duke turns and catches sight of his groom. To my astonishment, he waves him forward to join us.
“Damn, I quite forgot. Do forgive me. This is my son, Harry; you two make your acquaintance while Pembroke and I talk business. Show her round the garden or something, Hal, I am told she likes flowers – that’s what you said, wasn’t it, Jasper?”
Humiliation floods me, my confusion increased by the obvious amusement on Jasper’s face. His eyes twinkle with glee but he conceals his laughter in his wine cup as the groom, whom I now must call Harry Stafford, bows to me again and I allow him to take my hand.
“I – I didn’t realise who you were, I am so sorry.”
He smiles, an encouragingly uncertain, sheepish grin that is somehow comforting. I find myself relieved he has not taken our chilly meeting amiss. Clearly, he sees the funny side and the heat in my cheeks cools as he ushers me toward the door.
“Father says we are to examine the gardens, so I suppose that is what we must do.” He holds out his arm and shyly I slip my hand into his elbow. Together, we leave the darkness of the hall and step into the sunshine.
“Thankfully it is a lovely day,” he says as he looks anxiously at the clear sky. “When I saw yesterday’s weather, I thought of you on the road. I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant.”
“Oh no, not too bad,” I lie.
We walk in silence for a while, our footsteps in unison, until we enter the gate to the walled garden. Since it is early spring, the flowerbeds mostly consist of tilled soil with a few burgeoning bulbs and some sparse blossom on the trees dotted about the mead.
“There is not much to see just now, but in full summer it is very pretty. Father said you have an interest in plants, and that you are skilled in herbs and healing.”
“Well, I do my best. A household is ever in need of doctoring. At Caldicot and Lamphey …” a sudden memory of those days with Edmund unexpectedly steals my breath “… the gardens were very pretty,” I end lamely.
We walk on, gravel crunching beneath our shoes. My fingers on his sleeve reveal the cloth is actually rather fine and his tunic very well cut. I had been misled by its simplicity, the sombre hue, and the fact that he wears no sword.
“Margaret … may I call you Margaret?”
“Of course you may. It is my name.” I do not look at him. He has suddenly become rather too intense, too serious, his face too close to mine. I am uncomfortable beneath such scrutiny, and with a plunging heart, wish I were here with my tall, handsome Edmund, not this plain, anxious man almost twenty years my senior. He grimaces, runs a finger around his collar, and I notice he suffers some skin complaint; his throat is reddened and appears as if it might be itchy. I have just the salve for it in my remedy box.
“Margaret, you know they, Father and Jasper, I mean, think we should wed. How does that suit you, being so recently widowed?”
My throat closes and I cannot stop my eyes from filling with tears. I want to tell him it is the last thing I wish for; that I want to devote my life to Edmund’s memory, to bringing up my son, to remembering all I have lost. But I look up at the sky and try to smile.
“Oh, Jasper assures me it is for the best, and the wedding is not to be for some while yet, until I am out of mourning. I will be recovered by then, I am sure.”
“I hope so.”
He takes my arm again and we move off along the path together. “I had feared that, being a Dowager Countess, you would be very grand.”
I laugh gently. “It is not easy to be grand when one is constantly instructed on how one should behave, but I warn you, I have every intention of becoming very grand one day.”
“Ha ha, Margaret, that pleases me very much. Perhaps your grandeur will be enough for both of us, for I fear I am very bad at it.”
We stop and regard each other shyly. Can I come to love this strange unassuming man? He is as different to Edmund as an eagle from a dove. We both look down at my small thin fingers lying in his sore, red palm.
“I am an undemanding man. As my wife, you will be treated gently, Margaret, and I will endeavour to do all I can to make you happy.”
Encouraged by his words, I feel my body relax a little as if I have been holding my breath.
“You, you … did they make you aware I can bear you no children?”
He smiles a slow smile, nods his head sadly.
“Physicians are often mistaken …”
“Not this time, I am sure. I – it was quite … I was too young, far too young.”
I lower my head and after a moment, he covers my hand with his.
“It is of no matter to me, Margaret. What will be, will be.”
I look up again, unsure that he fully understands.
“I do already have a son; he is named Henry, like you. He is a babe yet, but … oh he will be a fine boy, and when he grows up he will be a warrior, like his father.”
“I am sure he will be. I look forward to getting to know him. Look, the celandine is beginning t
o open on this sunny bank.”
Harry Stafford distracts me with flowers and an early bee that is nosing in a nearby primrose. By the time the sun begins to set in the west and we are called in to dine at the table in his father’s great hall, he has put my fears to rest.
I feel better now. The future is not so impossibly bleak. Harry does not mind my barren state. He promises to welcome my son into his home, and promises his goal will be my contentment. Harry will not constrain me; he wants me to be happy. Suddenly, as Jasper and Buckingham raise their glasses and drink to our future happiness, the world somehow feels a little kinder.
Continued in Book Two: The Beaufort Woman
(Excerpt below)
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Author’s Note
Margaret Beaufort became one of the most powerful women in Medieval England. During this time, as mother to King Henry VII, she was deferred to on many matters pertaining to his rule and treated with the utmost deference. But it wasn’t always so; the wealth, status and bearing of her latter years is a direct contrast to the uncertainties of her childhood.
Margaret, heiress to the Beaufort fortune, is believed to have been born and raised at Bletsoe castle. Her first marriage to John de la Pole took place when Margaret was six and John eight, the union an attempt by the disgraced Duke of Suffolk to use Margaret’s close proximity to the throne to bolster his rapidly declining position as the most powerful man in England. When Suffolk, his political career in ruins, was seized and beheaded, Margaret’s marriage to John was annulled. Those are the bare bones of her history and we do not know for certain whether Margaret and John ever knew each other. In The Beaufort Bride I have embellished the known facts and used her first marriage to shape her character. With Margaret back on the marriage market, her mother sought another suitably beneficial match. Very little is known about Margaret Beauchamp, her depiction in this novel is for dramatic purposes. She was successful in securing beneficial marriages for all her children, but that was the medieval way. In reality, she may have been a very caring mother. Needless to say, she married the twelve-year-old Margaret to a powerful, rich man who was twice her daughter’s age. Margaret’s marriage to Edmund Tudor is more documented than her first, but we still have only bare facts; we know nothing of her thoughts or feelings, we can only guess at those.
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 14
