The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles

by Judith Arnopp

  “He has granted us Woking …”

  “Woking? Really! Oh, Harry, that is good news.”

  I try to take the letter from him but he jerks it away and reads to the end.

  “Not only has he granted the Manor of Woking but also invites me to a council meeting at Mortlake.”

  He smiles widely and I find my face stretching to match his pleasure. Of course, in granting us Woking, the king is merely returning what is rightfully Beaufort property. It was the home of my grandparents, the childhood haunt of the father I never met. It is a good day, and I thank God for it.

  Harry’s inclusion in the forthcoming council meeting can only mean that the king has forgiven him his transgressions and has accepted him as a true supporter of his rule. I dare not believe that the grant of former Beaufort lands means he has forgiven me also.

  “When can we go there, Harry? Perhaps we could make a short visit to decide if it will make a suitable permanent home.”

  “Yes, that is a good idea. You can stay there while I am with the council; it is not so far to Mortlake.”

  “I will instruct my women to make ready for a journey. Should I take court clothes in case we are summoned by the king?”

  Harry shrugs, his eyebrow quirking at my optimism.

  “You could if you wish, but I wouldn’t wager on a summons. He won’t want to appear too eager to show us his favour. We must work slowly and with caution.”

  I bite my lip. Patience has ever been hard for me, but I reassure myself that at least Woking is in my hands and full royal favour cannot be far off. I may yet be appointed to the service of the queen and, once I am there, I can proceed with getting Henry’s lands reinstated as befits the Earl of Richmond.

  Woking - May 1467

  Sensing my need to be alone, Ned stays three paces behind as I walk in the footsteps of my grandfather. My feet are silenced by a carpet of grass that runs alongside the moat to where the water laps, deep and green. A moorhen emerges from a cluster of reeds near the inner bank; he dips and nods, leaving a trail across the looking glass surface. Soft cool shade to my right while, to the left, the curtain wall rises high.

  I place my palm on warm stone and try to remember if I have been here before, but the memory is lost, obscured by all that happened after. Childhood was such a fleeting thing; too many memories have been chased away by its abrupt ending. I turn toward the sun that falls warmly on my face, and smile at Ned. He ducks his head, sweeps his arm wide across the vista. “It is very pretty here, my lady.”

  “Yes, it was my grandfather’s favourite home.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  I shake my head. “No, nor my father. They both died before I was born …”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes. But I know no different.”

  We subside into silence again. I look across the smooth water to the distance where the moat joins the willow-banded river. The wind stirs and a cloud of small birds fly up of one volition. I have the strangest feeling I have been here before. I am the ghost of a forgotten child.

  “I have no memory of being here, Ned, yet it is as if I have come home.”

  “My mam would say it was your ancestors stirring your blood, my lady, welcoming you back.”

  I turn to him, my eyebrows raised, startled that he should have so precisely interpreted my feelings. With a burst of optimism, I turn full circle and survey the tranquillity again.

  “I will bring Henry here. He will enjoy it. It is about time he grew closer to his Beaufort blood.”

  With renewed purpose, I retrace my path across the springy grass toward the gatehouse to rejoin Harry in the hall where he is conferring with Master Bray. They both look up when I enter. Master Bray bows his head with deference and begins to tidy the desk.

  “Don’t hurry away on my account,” I say as I untie the strings of my cloak. “I’ve been for a walk along the moat. It is so pretty, Harry. I saw so many small creatures I couldn’t name, and the sun is as warm as high summer. You must find the time to walk there with me.”

  “I thought you’d be in the garden, deciding where to site your medicinal bed.”

  As soon as we had arrived, I had noticed the garden was in a sorry state yet it was possible to see the skeleton of a once loved plot beneath.

  “Yes. I might do that this afternoon. I wish Myfanwy were here, she was always so useful in the garden.”

  He does not answer; his disapproval of my friend doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

  “I am sure I will find someone,” I finish lamely.

  “Yes,” he waves his hand. “Ask the staff, there is bound to be someone in the village with enough knowledge.”

  I move close behind him, peep over his shoulder at the letter he is reading.

  “When do you leave for Mortlake?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon? I had hoped there would be time to summon your tailor.”

  “My clothes are fine. The king will not expect me to arrive decked out like a courtier. My visit is for business, not pleasure.”

  “Yet, he might invite us to court. We should be prepared for that. I expect you will be summoned to pay homage to the baby princess.”

  I almost succeed in keeping the envy from my voice. In providing Edward with a daughter, the queen has validated the marriage and silenced those who speak against her. Next time, she may produce a son.

  Harry, not noticing my bitter tone, puts the letter down, turns toward me and takes me by the shoulders, looking earnestly into my face.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Margaret. It is early days yet. We may never be summoned to court. By all accounts, the queen is filling the court with her relatives, conniving to secure all the best offices for them. Many of the nobility are put out about it, and not just the friends of the old king.”

  I do not remind him that the Lancastrian faction is all but destroyed. All that are left are those who have subjected themselves to Edward. The majority of the rest are exiled overseas. Only Jasper continues to harry the king from the border of Wales before slipping away again, out of reach among the vast mountains.

  Of course, I do not listen to Harry’s words of caution. As soon as he has left for the council meeting, I summon my seamstress and begin to plan an extravagant new wardrobe.

  Every fibre of my being informs me that a summons to court cannot be far away. I call my woman to bring from my coffers the length of embroidered linen I have been working on during the long winter evenings.

  By the end of the afternoon I have ordered a fur-trimmed red velvet cothardie; several gowns for day wear; embroidered and jewelled hennins with long sheer veils; partlets, some lightweight and some for colder weather, and sleeves that are slashed at the elbow in the new fashion, to reveal the fine cloth of the chemise beneath.

  As well as all this finery, I also replenish my night wear, and order several pairs of new shoes. As an afterthought, I request a suit of court clothes be made for Harry. Not being one for finery, he will complain bitterly, but we must do all in our power to impress the king.

  Afterwards I sit back, expecting to feel satisfied, but it is at times like this that I miss a companion with whom to share such pleasures. Although I have women a plenty, I do not seek their company, for none of them match the close sisterhood of a real friend.

  As the seamstress leaves, clutching a pattern book and a handful of fabric samples, I sigh and decide to take a turn about the garden. I pick up a pen so I can make notes. There is much that needs to be done there. If I don’t get it into order, my supply of medicinal herbs will soon diminish. I walk purposefully to the back of the hall, skim down a short flight of steps, duck beneath the lintel and into the courtyard garden. I come to an abrupt halt.

  It is raining. I hadn’t realised.

  The overgrown pathway is full of puddles, the leaves dripping with water, the emerging flower heads laid low by the burden of rain. As I stand there deciding what to do, a raindrop drips down the back of my
neck, making me shudder. I turn on my heel and retrace my steps. It is hours until dinner so, taking refuge in my other joy, I climb the stairs to the library.

  Thankfully, a fire has been lit. I select a book and climb onto the window seat, curl my knees to my chest to serve as a table on which to rest my book. The pages are thick, the rich jewelled illuminations bringing warmth to the chilly spring afternoon.

  I lose myself there, lingering long over my favourite passages, tracing a finger across the intricately decorated border until, with a pang of sorrow, I turn the final page. I place the heavy book on the seat beside me and reach for another.

  The first page reveals the fine flowing hand of the previous owner.

  This book is mine, Anne Neville, gifted to me by my mother.

  Anne Neville was the name of Harry’s mother before she married, a lady whom I have yet to meet. I trace the marks of her pen with my forefinger, remembering that now we are in Suffolk, we are living much closer to her. I put the book down, move to the table in the centre of the room where parchment and quills lay strewn across the board. I light a candle and sit down, pick up a pen.

  Three weeks later, Harry comes home. He swings from the saddle and opens his arms, his face relaxed but tired. It tells me all I need to know; the meeting with the king went well.

  “I missed you.” He kisses my brow and flings his arm about my shoulders.

  “I missed you too. How was it with the king? Did he speak to you? Did you broach the subject of …”

  “Margaret! Take a breath. Come, let us go inside. We can talk there.”

  I stop, forcing him to stop too.

  “We have a visitor,” I say, suddenly anxious.

  “A visitor? Anyone nice?”

  I am full of doubt. Perhaps I should have waited. Perhaps I should have spoken to him first. I open my mouth to explain but before I can speak, a figure appears at the top of the steps.

  “Harry!”

  His head snaps round.

  “Mother?” His mouth stretches wide as he races up the steps and takes her in his arms, planting kisses on her cheeks. I duck my head as happiness floods through me.

  I have done the right thing.

  Keeping hold of Anne, he opens his other arm, inviting me to join them.

  “I take it this is the work of my scheming little wife.” His smile belies the censure of his words. Anne puts a hand to her mouth and laughs but there are tears balanced on her lashes.

  “Had Margaret not invited me I should have come soon anyway. I am so glad to have you both so near.”

  Anne is not how I expected a mother-in-law to be. The moment I sent my impulsive invitation, I began to regret it, imagining a termagant, a judgemental kill joy who would bring a bitter shadow into our marriage. But I was wrong. She arrived like a breath of warm wind, took me into her heart and, in two short weeks, has become the mother I have lacked.

  She wears her widowhood nobly. Instead of mourning his loss and refusing to value the life that God has given her, she thanks God for the time she enjoyed with Harry’s father. She is grateful for the children she bore him, the life they had. It is a good attitude and one I hope I can emulate.

  Each morning, I am careful to remind myself to be glad for the time I had with Edmund. I put aside the grief that I can never bear another child. Like a mantra, I chant my thankfulness for Henry, for Harry, for Woking, for my health and good fortune. I am determined, with Anne’s help, to become a better woman. I increase my charitable donations and begin to visit the poor in the village, ensuring the sick are nursed and the children are nourished. I find joy in this such as I have never found before.

  So, for a while, there are three of us, but it is never a crowd. Anne shares our humour; she enjoys the garden, lends me her wonderful books and suggests new editions for my growing library. When she discovers me sketching designs for the refashioning of the great hall, she is full of advice that I eagerly accept.

  Even at her age, she knows the latest dances, the way the women at court are styling their clothes, the most flattering way to pluck one’s brow. I absorb all this knowledge like a garden that has long been starved of rain. For the first time since I left Wales, I have a female friend, and this time she is one of my own class. My lessons in courtly manners, that ceased when I left my mother’s house, now begin again, and I relish them.

  Having enjoyed a lengthy supper, Harry and I are nestled in our bed. We speak in whispers, the chamber lit only by the night candle and the embers of the dying fire. I snuggle into his shoulder, his familiar smell comforting, like home.

  “Your mother is so nice.”

  His arm tightens around my shoulder.

  “I know.”

  “Do you think she is lonely?”

  “Lonely? She is surrounded by people.”

  “Yes … but that isn’t the same as being with friends. It isn’t the same as having a husband to share your life. Widowhood is hard …”

  A lump gathers in my throat, forcing me into silence as Edmund’s handsome face rears in my mind. I love Harry, but I have not forgotten the misery of losing Edmund, the terror of being pregnant and alone in a hostile country. The future was a blank wall then. I had never thought to remarry at all, let alone find such joy in marriage for the second time.

  “She is mourning just now. When her grief passes, perhaps she will wed again, she has many years left, I hope.”

  “How old is she?”

  He lets out a gust of breath, his voice rumbling in my ear.

  “I am not sure. It isn’t something you ask, is it? Fifty, maybe … she could be more.”

  “She is still very handsome; she should have no trouble finding a husband.”

  “She is rich too, probably richer than is good for her.”

  I laugh gently.

  “I know all too well how wealth can attract the most reprehensible of suitors.”

  “So, you find me reprehensible? Surely not? I was never interested in your fortune; it was the lure of your big brown eyes that attracted me.”

  The laughter grows, it bubbles up inside until I can no longer contain it. We both know I am not blessed with alluring eyes, or anything else, but it doesn’t matter, not to us. A happy tear finds its way onto my cheek and he traps it with his finger, wipes it away.

  “I would have married you had you come to me in rags, my dear.”

  His words are soft, turning the humour into something else, something that resonates deep within me and brings swift, sweet sentiment that stings my eyes. His lips are on my face, erasing the tears and blessing me with his love.

  August 1467

  I can hardly contain my excitement when Harry announces we are to take a tour of our holdings in the West Country.

  “Oh, Harry, that will be a welcome change, the country has been in upheaval for so long. How nice it will be to travel safely again.”

  He makes a non-committal sound, prompting me to look up, and I see at once that he has further news.

  “What is it? What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.” His eyes are large and round, a sure sign that he is keeping a secret.

  “Harry.” I get up and prowl toward him, armed with a large cushion. He throws up his arms, raises one knee, and cowers away. Collapsing into giggles, I discard my weapon and fall onto his lap, kissing him on the nose.

  “Tell me at once, Harry, or I will put itching powder in your shirt.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” he says, kissing me in return. “But I will tell you anyway. I have a letter from Herbert giving permission for a visit. I thought we could go once our business has been dealt with.”

  “What? Really? Oh, my, where is the letter?”

  He fumbles inside his tunic and draws it out, still teasing, snatching it back as I reach for it. I make a wild lunge and tear it from his grasp, turn my back on him.

  “It must be the king’s doing, Harry,” I exclaim as I scan the carefully worded invitation. “You must have pleased him and persua
ded him of our loyalty. I wager he spoke to Herbert and instructed him to make us welcome.”

  Harry smiles modestly and shrugs his shoulder. “You may be right. I was on my best behaviour …”

  I cut off his words by flinging my arms around his neck to leave a smacking kiss on his cheek.

  “You always are. Oh, I must make a list of all the preparations to be made. I will need a new travelling coat and some new shoes, and we must think up a gift to take for Henry …” I stop suddenly, my heart welling with the realisation that I really will soon be reunited with my son.

  It has been a long, long wait. He was such a little thing when last I saw him, I will barely know my son now. I try to imagine him. Is he dark-haired and small like me, or brash and golden-haired like his father? A shrim of delight washes over me, and I turn my wide smiling eyes on my husband. “When do we leave?”

  “In a fortnight. I have some business at Martock and in Bristol. We can travel to Raglan from there, perhaps at the end of September?”

  “I will write and let Anne know right away, and then I shall begin my list.” I signal for Harry’s man to bring me parchment and pen. Outwardly calm, I take a seat at the table. Inside, I am tingling with excitement.

  The weeks seem to crawl by until it is time for our travels to begin, but at last we are on our way. To avoid the dust thrown up by the long cavalcade that accompanies us, Harry and I ride ahead. The sky is blue and cloudless, the sun warm on our faces, and I am in high spirits. A week at Martock, a few jaunts for Harry into the busy streets of Bristol, and then we will be on our way to Raglan, and Henry. If it were as easy to spur on time as it is to urge my horse to go faster, I would gallop all the way to next week.

  Raglan Castle - September 1467

  Raglan is firmly embedded in the landscape, lording it over the humbler dwellings that cluster at its foot. I smile at Harry, both nervous and excited and, obligingly, he urges his mount to a faster gait. I do likewise.