Edmund Tudor was half-brother to Henry VI, a favourite of the king and endowed with lands and titles to befit his station. As Earl of Richmond he was a good match for Margaret, and the difference in their ages not particularly remarkable for the era in which they lived. What was remarkable was the immediate consummation of the marriage. Most child brides were given time to mature before being taken into their husbands’ beds, and history has condemned Edmund Tudor for ensuring possession of Margaret’s lands and estates by getting her with child while she was just twelve years old.
Margaret and Edmund made their home at Caldicot Castle and Lamphey Bishop’s Palace in South Wales where Edmund fulfilled his duty as peacekeeper for the king. After a skirmish and siege, Tudor died in Carmarthen Castle before Margaret had time to give birth. Vulnerable and alone, she turned for protection to Edmund’s brother, Jasper, at his fortress at Pembroke Castle where she gave birth to a son, whom she named Henry Tudor. Underdeveloped and possibly ill attended Margaret’s body was so damaged by the birth that she was never able to conceive again.
Margaret’s third marriage to Henry Stafford, a younger son of the Duke of Buckingham, provided a stable and beneficial match. The marriage seems to have been a happy one, the couple spending much of their time together, with Stafford going some way toward filling the empty shoes of Henry’s father. Although Henry was left in the care of his uncle Jasper at Pembroke, Margaret and Stafford sent gifts and letters and paid regular visits. However, as the battle for the throne warmed up and York defeated Lancaster, Edward IV took the throne, precipitating a change in circumstances for both Margaret and her son.
Henry was a lucrative opportunity and he was given into the custody of William Herbert to be raised at Raglan Castle in Wales. Contrary to depictions elsewhere in historical fiction, it was quite normal for sons to be raised in the household of a knight. Under any other circumstances, Margaret would have been delighted at his appointment to the household of William Herbert, who was one of Edward IV’s most trusted friends. Of course, in the circumstances after the death of Edward of Lancaster, when Henry became the Lancastrian heir, Margaret must have had concerns. Still, we can only speculate.
Henry was treated well; clothed and educated as befitted his status as Earl of Richmond. Although his estates were given to the king’s brother, George, Duke of Clarence, Henry continued to be addressed as ‘Richmond’. This suggests that the king perhaps intended to reinstate Henry in the future. Herbert’s desire for a marriage between Henry and his daughter, Maud, reinforces this belief. Yet Henry lived in tumultuous times and was destined for an unstable childhood.
After Warwick’s defection and defeat at Barnet in 1471, the Yorkist king took measures to secure his hold on the throne. The deposed and mentally unstable Henry VI was reported to have suddenly died of ‘melancholy,’ but it is now historically accepted that he was put to death for the security of the realm. With the death of the old king and his heir, Edward of Lancaster, killed at Tewkesbury the same year, Lancastrian hopes rested entirely upon the narrow shoulders of Henry Tudor. Jasper Tudor, realising his nephew’s vulnerability, arranged to have the boy shipped to safety in France, where, to Margaret’s sorrow, he remained for fourteen years.
The House of York was securely in control of the realm and Henry Tudor’s claim seemed feeble indeed. Edward IV soon had two male heirs to add to his bevy of daughters, and the future of the House of York seemed set. But fate once more took a sharp turn.
Edward IV, rather like his grandson, Henry VIII, enjoyed an excessive lifestyle, eating too much, drinking too much and allowing his government of the country to slip. He grew corpulent and over indulgent, and in 1483, Edward IV collapsed during a fishing trip and died shortly afterwards. Immediately news of his death was made known, trouble broke out again, this time with the dowager queen, Elizabeth Woodville, pitting her will against that of Edward IV’s youngest brother, Richard of Gloucester.
Initially supporting his nephew, Gloucester began making arrangements for Edward V’s coronation, but then he made a sudden U-turn. Edward’s heirs were deposed, Gloucester was crowned Richard III in Edward V’s stead, and England was once more plunged into instability. There has been much violent debate over the reasons behind Gloucester’s actions. It could have been a lustful desire for a crown that was not his, or it could have been a genuine concern for the future of England. Previous to this, Gloucester had been a loyal subject to his brother. Indeed, in his short reign he showed promise of proving to be a just king, but he lacked support and England was once more rife with intrigue.
Margaret, now married to her fourth husband, Thomas Stanley, moved stealthily into action. There is little evidence that she was overly fond of the dowager queen but at this point Margaret began to work against King Richard by arranging with Edward IV’s widow, Elizabeth Woodville, to unite in their cause. The two women agreed that, on his future ascension to the throne, Henry Tudor should take Elizabeth’s daughter, the heir of York, as his wife and queen. This agreement united Lancaster with the previous adherents of York, who now opposed Gloucester.
Henry, still in exile, continued to be aided by his mother. Margaret played a very dangerous game, sending money and letters to keep Henry informed of the events at the English court. After an abortive attempt to invade, their plotting came to fruition after his victory at the Battle of Bosworth in 1485. After a delay while Henry established himself as king in his own right, his marriage to Elizabeth went ahead, uniting the Houses of York and Lancaster and putting an end to the family feud we now know as The Wars of the Roses.
It may have been the fact that Henry was her only son that prompted such devotion in Margaret, or perhaps it was her nature; she never gave up her dream of seeing her son inherit the crown of England. Her years of unfaltering devotion to her son’s cause were finally rewarded and she revelled in his success.
The Beaufort Bride is Book One of The Beaufort Chronicles in which I address Margaret’s early years. The records of Margaret’s early life provide only a sketchy map, but I have closely examined them, read a wide variety of historical opinion and debate, and stuck to the facts as far as possible. I have taken joy in colouring in the gaps to provide a fiction of how she may have dealt with the trials that life laid before her. In this first book, we meet Margaret as a small child, a valuable tool in the politics of her day, unaware of the horrors that lie ahead.
In Book Two:The Beaufort Woman, that young girl matures into a formidable player in the war between Lancaster and York.
Book Three: The King’s Mother tracks her path as she achieves her goal and becomes the most powerful woman in England and valued advisor to her son, the king.
You can read an excerpt from Book Two below and I hope it will be available to read by Christmas 2016.
Book Two:
The Beaufort Woman
By
Judith Arnopp
Bourne, Lincolnshire - June 1460
The ground passes swiftly beneath me. I cling to the reins, my eyes half closed as I duck under branches and thunder through murky brown puddles. At my side, a sudden splash of colour, a red cloak, a blur of chestnut flank. I turn my head and smile at Harry. With a grin of determination he drives his horse harder, pulling ahead of me, throwing up clods of mud that spatter my face and skirts. I laugh aloud and dig my heels in harder; my horse throws up his head and surges forward, his nose drawing level with our opponent’s tail.
Harry turns in the saddle, waves an arm and shouts something, but his voice is quickly swallowed by the speed of the chase. We thunder on, and before I know it, a ditch appears from nowhere. My horse and I take flight. As we soar through the air the wood falls silent and time seems suspended. I cling to the reins, hold my breath, out of control, afraid I will fall.
As his fore feet touch solid ground with a jolt, I am forced forward onto his neck, but to my relief he pulls up sharp. He stands with his head down, his sides heaving, his mouth foaming. I sit up panting. When I put up m
y hand to straighten my veil I find it is gone, lost somewhere on the wild ride. My hair hangs in a tangle down my back, and I have a brief vision of Mother’s face were she to see me now, muddy and dishevelled in full view of our attendants.
“Margaret!” Harry slides from his mount to grasp my bridle, places a hand on my boot. “Are you all right? I was afraid that last ditch would see you on the ground.”
I grope for composure, try to still my beating heart. I fan my burning cheeks, managing to laugh as I look down at my husband with a feigned jaunty smile.
“I was determined not to fall off, Harry. You need not have worried.” I twist in the saddle, looking back the way we have come. “I appear to have mislaid my cap and veil.”
The hind has escaped and will be far into the thicket by now. Harry and I look back into the soft green wood to see Henry’s squire leaping puddles as he hurries in my wake to return my lost modesty.
“Thank you.” I take it from him and, without the aid of my women, do my best to put it on straight, arranging the veil to hide my ruined hair before we begin a leisurely ride home.
“The quarry is long gone.” Harry wipes his brow and gathers his reins ready to mount again. On this occasion the deer escaped unscathed, but we will not go hungry for our larders are well stocked, our cellar replete with wine. It is not need that calls us from our fireside to hunt, but the longing for fresh air. After the chase, I feel vital and alive. I run a gloved hand down my horse’s neck and turn again to smile at Harry.
So far, he has proved a good husband. He lacks the good looks of Edmund but I am learning there is more to a good husband than a fine physique. My life with Edmund was spent waiting and worrying but now days are spent with Harry, and hunting is not the only pleasure we share.
Harry is a quiet, studious man whose interests lie in books rather than war. He prefers to be home, running his estates and caring for his tenants than careering around the country in the service of the king.
He is loyal, of course, but he takes little part in the disputes that continue to beset the throne. The feud between the two royal houses endures; they fight, cousin against cousin, their households forced to take sides and no one is allowed to remain impartial.
At the end of last year, the Duke of York fled to Ireland, while his cousin and ally, the Duke of Warwick, took refuge in France. Now, there is an uneasy peace as the country waits to see what will happen next. For a while at least, Harry and I are free to relax.
Letting our mounts cool and catch their breath, we ride with long, loose reins toward home. Soon, the timbers of the house come into view. We pause at the top of the hill and wait for our attendants to catch up. The servants at the castle below, noting our presence, scurry about in preparation of our arrival.
I glance at Harry, catch his eye and issue a bold, unspoken challenge. Without a word, we simultaneously dig in our spurs, surprising our horses into life as we compete to see who shall be the first to reach home.
At the sound of our speeding hooves, a cry goes up and, just in time, they throw open the gates. As we clatter over the drawbridge and into the bailey, Harry pulls ahead of me. He leaps from his horse and hurries to assist me from mine. We are both breathless.
“I beat you squarely, Margaret. Admit it, you are defeated. I am the better horseman.”
“Perhaps I allowed you to win, had you thought of that?” He throws back his head and emits a snort of laughter. I try to take his elbow to allow him to escort me up the steps, but instead he throws an easy arm around my shoulders and plants a kiss on my forehead.
“Of course you did, Sweetheart. Of course you did.”
The hall is dark after the brightness of the day and, slowly pulling off my gloves, I blink while my eyes readjust. Harry is still crowing of his prowess in the saddle when a messenger boy comes forward and hands him a message. I toss my cloak at a hovering servant.
“Bring us some refreshment,” Harry says, unrolling the parchment and carrying it to the window where the light is better. “Damn!”
I turn, surprised at the uncharacteristic profanity. “What is it, Harry? Not Henry; it isn’t bad news of my son?” I hurry forward, my heart suddenly sick, and reach for the letter.
“No, no,” he says, his brow furrowed as he scrunches the parchment into my palm. “It isn’t from Pembroke. It is from my father. Salisbury and his son, Warwick, have landed in Kent, and are marching on London. I am summoned to join him.”
I let the letter drop, and pull a face.
“Must you?”
“I have to go, it is my duty. There is no way I can refuse.”
A thousand reasons why he shouldn’t go rush through my mind; silly things like an appointment with the tailor, the regime of care we have embarked upon for his skin complaint; the sick horse in the stable that he has been tending. I open my mouth to speak but he is already turning way, bellowing for his squire.
“How long will you be gone?” He does not heed me, and my voice is lost in the hubbub. Silently cursing York and his persistent dissent, I follow in Harry’s wake, waiting for my chance to speak but he is soon lost among a crowd of retainers.
His scribe hovers at the back of the crowd, quill in hand, straining to hear so he may list Harry’s instructions. I am forgotten. I fall back, barely able to see the top of his head in the clamour but I can hear his voice.
Reaching for a cup of wine, I slump into a chair. I realise the futility of trying to prevent him from leaving. The friction at court has become untenable, and late last summer violence broke out again. The king suffered a heavy, humiliating defeat at Blore Heath, which was quickly followed by victory for our forces at Ludford just two weeks later.
The conflict between York and Lancaster is like a great see-saw, one moment the king is winning, the next he is cast down. When York’s army scattered, and he and Warwick fled to exile overseas, I had hoped it was all over. Since then all has been quiet; I cannot believe it is all to begin again.
As painful as it is to see Harry go, I know it is his duty to answer his father’s call. Yet I cannot help but remember Edmund, and the day he rode away from Lamphey, never to return. Despite everything that has happened to me since, I cannot forget that.
In the two years Harry and I have been married I have become fond of him. It is a good relationship, and although he lacks his youth and charm, much easier than the one I had with Edmund. The difference in age is immaterial; he treats me as an equal, appreciative of my skills in the still room, gently encouraging my studies, and tolerant of my devotion to God, which inwardly I fear he does not share.
Harry has a gentle humour, a compassion for those less fortunate, a wry and a sometimes cynical opinion of his betters. As a younger son, he has come to accept his lot in life, his ill-health, his political obscurity. We are rich but not so prominent that we are constantly at the beck and call of court. The quiet, country life we live suits us, and he is a good stepfather to my son.
I miss my little Henry dearly but we have made several visits to Wales, and I am touched by my husband’s obvious affection for my boy. I can never give Harry a child of his own, but I have bequeathed him mine. It warms my heart to see their flourishing relationship. Harry is a good match, a good choice. I have benefitted from his gentleness, and he has benefitted from my knowledge of medicine. His sore skin is soothed now; the nightly creams and poultices I take so long in preparing have brought him ease and, with the constant itching soothed, he can now sleep at night. But, without me to ensure he keeps up the regime, he will soon become uncomfortable again and all my work will be undone.
It seems our honeymoon is over, the long period of peace is ended. Our days of placid domesticity may seem dull to some, but after the rigours of my life with Edmund, I don’t want it to end.
But I do not speak out against the war. That would be pointless. I stay calm, and as I watch his preparations for battle, never once do I let my smile drop.
“Farewell sweetheart.” He kisses my brow. “I w
ill be back soon.”
He moves away. Before I can stop myself, I grab the sleeve of his coat. He turns, his forehead crisscrossed, his eyes silently beseeching me not to make a fuss.
“Take this,” I say, and place a small glass vial in his palm. “Apply it each evening before you retire.”
He laughs, but I can see he is touched. “My squire will think less of me, but for you, Margaret, I will do as you ask.”
One more kiss, and he is hurrying away, calling for his horse, setting the dogs barking. With a flourish of banners and a clash of armour, the troop ride out, and a sorry peace descends with the dust.
The Beaufort Woman will be available soon
An excerpt from A Song of Sixpence: the story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck
Chapter One
Boy
London ― Autumn 1483
Ink black water slaps against the Tower wharf where deep, impenetrable darkness stinks of bleak, dank death. Strong arms constrict him and the rough blanket covering his head clings to his nose and mouth. The boy struggles, kicks, and wrenches his face free to suck in a lungful of life-saving breath. The blanket smothers him again. He fights against it, twisting his head, jerking his arms, trying to kick; but the hands that hold him tighten. His head is clamped hard against his attacker’s body. He frees one hand, gropes with his fingers until he discovers chain mail, and an unshaven chin. Clenching his fingers into a fist, he lunges out with a wild, inaccurate punch.
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 15
