by Livi Michael
Raglan Castle had been a lowly manor house, but William Herbert and his father had rebuilt and extended it into a castle so fine that poets sang of it: its hundred rooms filled with festive fare, its towers, parlours and doors, its heaped-up fires of long-dried fuel. And Lord Herbert now owned so much land in Wales that he was thought of almost as a king in those parts; king of South Wales.
Which should have been Edmund’s role. Edmund would have united Wales and ruled it for his half-brother, King Henry. But William Herbert and his brother-in-law, Lord Ferrers, had taken Edmund captive and he had died.
But she must not think about that now; she had to think about her son.
As soon as she saw the yellow tower of Raglan Castle she felt a trembling inside, like a drop of water about to break. But she would not, she must not cry when she saw him. Her husband held her hand tightly as they approached.
A considerable number of Lord Herbert’s household had gathered to meet them. She scanned the assembled crowd rapidly, but could see no sign of children. Lord and Lady Herbert stood in the centre of the group. She had no difficulty identifying them, though she had not seen them before. Her stomach seemed to churn and twist as she saw them.
Fifty or so liveried servants stood behind them.
And there were children, she could see that now; though she could not for the moment see whether any of them might be her son.
The carriage pulled up and her husband helped her out of it. She walked with him, keeping her smile fixed. And Lord and Lady Herbert stepped forward to greet them.
She was very tall, Margaret realized; taller than her husband. And elegant in a gown of palest green that made Margaret’s travelling gown, which was also green, look dingy. And she was pregnant; that was obvious also.
Lord Herbert was stocky and dark. Though well past forty, there was no sign of grey in his hair or his beard. He had a broad, ruddy face, not unhandsome, but his features were somewhat blunt. He had the look of a fighting man, simultaneously bold and wary.
Margaret’s breathing was uneven; she feared that she would not be able to speak. Lady Herbert was speaking, but she could hardly hear what she was saying, because here, stepping forward, was her son.
She didn’t recognize him at first, how could she? She’d imagined kneeling down and taking him into her arms. But this young man was almost as tall as she was, and he was looking at her with wary, curious eyes. She saw that his eyes were the same blue-grey as Edmund’s, and his face had the same angularity, but his hair was a deeper, sandy shade, whereas Edmund’s had been a tawny gold.
But his eyes were the same: smallish, light and clear.
‘Henry?’ she whispered, and he said, ‘We are pleased to welcome you to Raglan Castle.’
Despite the formality of the greeting she moved forward to embrace him. At the same time she could sense the reticence in him; he did not want her to embrace him. So there was an awkward moment when she moved her head clumsily and kissed his ear rather than his cheek. ‘How tall you are,’ she said.
But Lady Herbert was stepping forward. ‘You must be very tired after your journey,’ she said, and Lord Herbert clapped his hands on her son’s shoulders and said, ‘What do you think of your son, eh?’
And she looked at him fully for the first time, at the apparently open face. Now would be the time for her to thank him for raising her son, but her throat closed on the words. Instead she said, ‘I think he is very like his father.’
William Herbert looked disconcerted, but he recovered swiftly and said, ‘Well – that’s no bad thing for a son. Go and join the others now,’ he said to Henry. ‘We’ll see you again at table.’ And Henry bowed at once and disappeared into what she now saw was a large group of children of varying ages.
She watched him go, but he did not look back. He blended in effortlessly with the group. She wanted to ask if he could stay with her, but Lady Herbert was saying that they must be shown to their rooms, and around the castle. Her son would join them for dinner, she added, following the direction of Margaret’s gaze.
They followed Lady Herbert’s narrow back into the castle. She moved easily, despite the pregnancy, and she was charming; she had a wide and welcoming smile. For the next hour she showed them around the castle; the schoolroom where Henry learned Latin and mathematics with the other boys. She introduced them to his tutor, a thin man with bulging eyes called Andreas Scotus, who told them that Henry’s progress in Latin was exceptional, but in geometry he was occasionally outstripped by the other Henry, Lord Percy.
‘There are so many Henrys here,’ Lady Herbert said, laughing. ‘We will have to call your husband Harry at least.’
Margaret shot her a sharp sideways glance.
But she spoke of her two wards, Henry Tudor and Henry Percy, with the same effortless warmth as of her own children. She showed them the room where they slept with her own sons, Walter, Philip and George (the eldest, William, was married now to the queen’s sister), then the room where her daughters slept, which was similarly stuffed with beds.
It was impossible to believe that she had given birth so many times. And was pregnant again, of course. Her husband was famously in love with her; it was said of him that he never looked at another woman. Though he had the usual sprinkling of bastards, so presumably he had looked, at least. Or fallen on them blindfolded, Margaret thought, following Lady Herbert up some narrow stairs.
‘This is where they pray,’ she said, showing them into a small, square chapel. ‘All my children eat, sleep and pray together – I think it is the best way of preventing night fears in the very young. Your son suffered from them a good deal when he was here at first. Sometimes he insisted on me staying with him – not even his nurse would do!’
Margaret could feel a headache coming on. Never again would she be able to imagine going to her son at night and gathering him in her arms to prevent him from being afraid.
Then they were shown to their own rooms, so they could change before dinner. A maid brought in a basin of water.
‘Lady Herbert – seems very kind,’ her husband ventured, when they were alone. ‘She certainly seems to have his best interests at heart.’
Margaret did not answer. She touched the hem of the dress she’d brought with her. It seemed to her to be the wrong colour, the wrong cut.
‘He is receiving an excellent education.’
‘I know.’
‘He is being trained as a knight – four hours on horseback every day.’
‘You need not repeat everything,’ she said. He leaned across the bed then and took her hand. ‘Margaret,’ he said, ‘you must be brave.’
‘I know,’ she said.
Then it was dinner, and she sat next to Lady Herbert, whose own dress was perfect; a soft colour between lilac and grey. The children filed past them to a table of their own and Lady Herbert named each one. ‘This is Walter, my older boy, and Katherine, my eldest girl, and Cecily, and George, Philip and Maud …’
Walter was tall and thin and serious. The two younger boys were almost identical, fair like their mother, stocky like their father. Maud was about six years old, with a sweet face and solemn eyes that, like her father’s, were wide apart.
Henry Percy was a little older than her son, tall for his age, with an arrogant air. He nodded curtly as he went past. Then her Henry stood before her with the slight awkwardness she had noticed before. She smiled warmly at him and extended her hand, but he only glanced anxiously at Lady Herbert and there passed between them a moment of understanding that Margaret noted with a sharp pain.
‘You may join the others,’ Lady Herbert said, and Henry bowed a little stiffly and left.
‘So many children,’ Margaret murmured and Lady Herbert smiled her wide, blue-eyed smile.
‘One can never have too many children,’ she said.
Henry sat next to Lord Percy, facing Cecily and Maud. He was different as soon as he sat down, suddenly animated. He scuffled with the older boys over a plate of meat and the li
ttle girls laughed, except for Maud.
Then all the food for the adults began to arrive – thirty or so courses of boar and venison, peacock and sturgeon and hare. At home she was in the habit of eating only one mouthful from every other course, after fasting for the rest of the day. It impressed her servants, she knew; they took it as a sign of piety. Secretly, however, she was bargaining with God for the return of her son. And here she was, in the same room as him, watching him even when she appeared not to be; following his movements with her eyes and ears and skin.
It would seem impolite not to eat; she would draw attention to herself. And so she tried.
Lord Herbert had no trouble eating. He grew more genial as the wine flowed and several toasts were proposed to him, wishing him success against the Welsh rebels and against Harlech, that final bastion of resistance to Yorkist rule. He accepted them all with a benign air, an apparently open-hearted bonhomie that made it difficult to believe those other descriptions of him as a cruel man, prepared for any crime. Margaret could see how fortified he was by good fortune, by all the victories, awards, riches and titles, children and lands. Who would not believe that the gods were smiling upon him, that he was inherently worthy of reward?
But she would not look at him, she would look at her son. She saw him take a spoon from one of the boys and give it to Maud, who looked at him with shy adoration. For the first time Margaret felt herself begin to smile. Maud was slow, but he wouldn’t let the older boys nudge or harry her. There was a kind of jelly, made of meat, in the centre of their table and it kept slipping from her spoon.
‘He is wonderful with her,’ Lady Herbert said, leaning close. ‘That’s why we decided they should be betrothed.’
Margaret’s smile became fixed.
‘I thought Lord Herbert would have told you,’ Lady Herbert said, turning her blue gaze towards her husband.
‘I’ve hardly had a chance yet,’ he said, then he turned to Margaret saying, in more conciliatory tones, ‘But that is the way we were thinking. They are so fond of one another. Unless,’ he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air, ‘you have any objections, Countess?’
What could she say? That she might like to have been consulted; that she knew, however, that her opinion counted for nothing. Because Lord Herbert had bought the right to arrange her son’s marriage when he paid for the wardship; he did not even have to let her know.
She put her spoon down and glanced at her husband, but he was gazing at his plate.
She managed to say something to the effect that she was sure Lord Herbert would take everything into consideration. And Lady Herbert said, ‘Well, but they are very young yet,’ and the topic passed on. But Margaret looked over to her son.
They would keep him in their family, she thought. They would win back his titles and estates from the king because he was theirs and everything he owned would now be part of their family’s estate. Any grandchildren she had would be the Herberts’ also.
She picked up her spoon, then put it down again, having lost what was left of her appetite.
‘Are you unwell?’ Lady Herbert asked. Speechlessly, she shook her head.
Lady Herbert looked at her quizzically for a moment – she, after all, was the one who was pregnant. But Margaret’s husband spoke up. ‘It must be the journey,’ he said. ‘So much jolting in the carriage.’
Lady Herbert seemed to accept this and said indeed the roads were terrible.
‘Well, I must set out on them tomorrow,’ said Lord Herbert. ‘I must join the king at council,’ he said, beaming round.
So he would not be there with them for the rest of their stay, Margaret thought. That was something, at least. Some form of relief. She picked up her spoon again and pushed it into the gelatinous meaty substance on her plate, but she could not make herself eat it. Her throat closed.
Herbert would own everything Edmund had owned, fought for and lost.
She became aware that Lady Herbert was looking at her again; also that she was sweating.
‘I think I do feel a little unwell,’ she said, and Lady Herbert’s face became a perfect mask of concern.
‘You must retire to your room,’ she said, and Henry said, ‘I will take her.’
‘There is no need,’ Margaret said, adding a little desperately, ‘I just need some air.’
‘I could do with some air myself,’ Lord Herbert said. ‘Let me accompany you as far as the gallery.’
This was the worst possible outcome, but Margaret couldn’t dissuade him. After the usual exchanges – No, you mustn’t interrupt your meal and I could do with a little rest, Countess – it will fortify me for the feast – she gave in with as much grace as she could manage and was forced to wait while Herbert finished his wine, then dipped his fingers in a bowl and dried them, and spoke to his steward.
Finally he rose and accompanied her from the great hall, his fingers pressing lightly on her elbow. She was dimly aware of her son watching them as they left. What would happen if she broke free from Herbert, took his hand and ran?
She would not do it, of course. She would not tear herself away from Herbert’s gently steering fingers.
Soon they were in the gallery, where a fresh wind blew through the carved stone.
‘Had this built only recently,’ Herbert was saying. ‘All the stone was shipped from the north.’
He paused, but she failed to admire it. He had released her arm and she walked as far away from him as she could without actually falling through one of the gaps. She said nothing, breathing in the air, and he said nothing either, until they were almost at the end of the gallery. Then he stopped, and since she could hardly walk away from him, she too was forced to pause.
‘I hope you realize that we are very fond of your son – and proud of him too – just as if he was our own.’
He is not your own, she did not say.
‘He is a fine young man – very intelligent and quick to learn – oh yes. Much quicker than I was at his age.’ He laughed a little. ‘But then, I was only ever really interested in horses. And fishing.’ He laughed again, and she waited impatiently for him to finish.
‘I know this must be difficult for you –’
‘Why should you think that?’ she asked sharply, and he smiled a little, continuing as if she had not spoken.
‘You have not been able to see much of him over the years and I regret that. I hope we can rectify it in future.’
She did not reply. She did not want to jeopardize any chance she had of seeing her son.
‘Probably it came as a shock to you – the news that we are already considering his marriage.’
‘Not at all,’ she said evenly. ‘It is your right.’
‘It is our honour,’ he said. ‘I hope you know that it is a mark of our especial regard for him that we want to keep him as our son.’
She turned to face him fully, smiling. ‘He is not your son,’ she said.
‘I know that, of course,’ Lord Herbert said. ‘He has received all the education and training befitting his especial status.’
She waited.
‘I would not have it any other way – if he is to marry my daughter, he must have his due – everything according to his background and estate.’
‘Yes,’ she said tightly. ‘He has much to offer.’
Lord Herbert paused only for a moment. ‘My daughter has much to offer also,’ he said slowly. ‘In that respect, they are well matched. But if you have any objections –’
‘It is not for me to arrange my son’s marriage,’ she said. ‘I think the king gave you that right, did he not?’
‘But I would not want to arrange anything against your wishes,’ he said. ‘I thought that keeping him here, in Wales, would be a way, perhaps, of giving him back everything he has lost.’
Everything you’ve taken from him, she thought. ‘That is very generous of you,’ she said, and unexpectedly Herbert laughed. Then he said quietly, ‘It is time, perhaps, to let the past go.’
She looked away, remembering Edmund suddenly, vividly, golden and laughing. He had never seen his son.
‘It would be better for all of us if we could be friends.’
She stared at him. It is not enough, she was thinking, that you have taken everything I have, my husband and my son, but we must also be friends.
‘The past,’ he was saying, ‘it carries us along in its grip, like a tidal wave. But old wounds must heal sometime if we let them. The old enmities cannot last for ever.’
When she still said nothing, he said, ‘What happened – was not meant to happen. I did not intend any harm to your boy’s father. I was obeying my lord, as he was his – he understood that much, I think. And I have done my best by his son.’
She could see that he was in earnest – he believed what he said. He had felt no personal enmity towards Edmund – they were just on different sides of the same war. And it was one of the rules of war that the victor should take everything from the vanquished.
Yet he had been a good guardian to her son. Henry could only gain from an alliance to this family. And the fact that Herbert would consider marrying him to his daughter was a mark of his affection and esteem.
That was what she must believe. Lord Herbert believed it and so should she. It fell to the victor to determine what must be believed.
Lord Herbert was looking at her with those wide, earnest eyes; waiting for her to speak.
‘I am sure you will do your best,’ she said, a little unevenly, ‘for both our children.’
And his face relaxed into a smile. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Then she said that she was tired and he walked with her a little way towards her room, then bowed and left, wishing her an excellent night’s sleep. And she opened the door to her room and lay down, fully clothed, on her bed.
How would she bear it? she thought. She could not bear it.
Help me to bear it, she prayed.
The next day they were taken on a tour of the grounds, shown the view from the tower. They visited the schoolroom where Henry parsed sentences for them in Latin, a small frown of concentration between his eyes. His shoulders were bowed from the weight of his efforts, but he parsed all the sentences correctly, and then looked to Lady Herbert, who clapped. Margaret smiled.
