by Anne O'Brien
‘My sister does me a disservice, my lady. I am not at her beck and call. Neither am I under orders from the newly restored King of Scotland.’ His smile touched my heart as he took my hand and raised it formally to his lips. They were warm and dry against my skin and I shivered at their light brush as Edmund Beaufort continued, smoothly courteous, holding my gaze with his. ‘I am come to pay my respects to the Young King. And, of course, to his lady mother.’
He hesitated as if he was lacking in assurance, but I knew he was not. None of the Beauforts lacked assurance. ‘If my lady will receive me here as a guest, in her household, as the King’s cousin?’
The question made my heart flutter. How strange that he should ask it, and in so personal a manner. Why would I not receive him? The strange intensity of him undermined my habitual polite response, and I found myself searching for a reply, caught up in his stare.
His family history was not unknown to me, redolent as it was with past scandals. The Beaufort bloodline was descended from John of Lancaster and his mistress of many years Katherine Swynford. A scandalous, illegitimate line, of course, but on the marriage of the infamous pair the children had been subsequently legitimised and had married into the aristocratic families of the realm. Now, formidably ambitious, precociously gifted and intelligent as well as blood related to the King, they were one of the foremost families in the land.
And this was Edmund Beaufort, son of the Earl of Somerset and nephew of Bishop Henry, and of course Joan’s brother. And second cousin to my son. A young man from a family skilled in warfare and politics, obviously destined for great things, as were all his family, although he had been too young to fight in the recent wars in France at Henry’s side.
How old was he? I considered the years behind the supreme confidence, beneath the fluid line of muscle given attention by his fashionable tunic with its luxuriant sleeves and jewelled clasps. Less than twenty years old, I thought. Younger than I. But he had grown up since I had last seen him, a youth under Bishop Henry’s care, when I had first come to England. Taller and broader, he would make a fine soldier now that he was grown into his strength.
‘My lady?’
I had been staring at him. ‘You are welcome,’ I managed as he bowed low again over my hand, brushing my fingers once more in chivalrous salute. And he did not release his clasp until I tugged my hand away, and then he did so with a rueful smile.
‘Forgive me, my lady. I am sorely blinded by your beauty. As is every man here.’
It took my breath. I could only stare at him, as he stared back at me. Men did not flirt so openly with the Queen Dowager. Men did not flirt at all.
James, still caught up in his own woes and oblivious to any undercurrents, continued to expound. ‘I still thought they would never release me, even with the document and the pen to hand.’
‘Of course they would.’ Edmund, abandoning me with a charming smile much older than his years, punched him on the arm. ‘Have sense, man. Think about it. What will your return to Scotland bring of benefit to England? Peace between the two countries. Particularly if you decide you were well treated here.’
James gave a shout of laughter. ‘So that’s why the Exchequer has agreed to provide me with a tunic in cloth of gold for my wedding.’
‘Of course. And in grateful thanks for your cloth of gold you will do exactly what England demands of you. You will withdraw all Scottish aid to French armies, and you will stop any plundering along the border between our two countries.’
I was impressed. How precocious he was, and how cynical, as were all the Beaufort clan. I could not look away as he stood, hands fisted on hips, outlining the future of English relations with Scotland. Edmund grinned, spreading his hands, long fingered and elegant. ‘The cloth of gold is the last payment England will have to make for you. You’ll be home in no time after the New Year. And we will send you off in good spirits, will we not, my lady?’ He had spun round. Again, before I could prepare for it, that red-brown gaze was devouring my face and I felt myself flushing almost as rosily as Joan.
‘What do you say, my lady?’ he whispered, as if it were some intimate invitation.
And all I could do was swallow the breath caught fast in my throat.
‘As for that, if you’ll have us,’ James interrupted, as he gestured to encompass his friends, ‘we’re in mind to stay here with you for Christmas and the New Year.’
‘And the possibility of spending it with your newly affianced wife…’ I managed to chide, pleased to have the attention drawn away from me.
‘… has nothing to do with it.’ But James’s hand sought Joan’s again.
‘And you, Lord Edmund? Do your family expect you?’ I held my breath, not quite knowing why. Or perhaps not willing to admit to it.
‘No, my lady. I am here at your disposal.’ His face was a miracle of deference.
‘There are no festivities planned,’ I warned. ‘We live quietly.’ I thought I sounded ungracious and tried to make amends. ‘That is to say that usually we see no need to feast and…’ This was no better. Windsor sounded much like a convent of aging nuns.
‘Quietly?’ Edmund interrupted, grinning. ‘It’s no better than a damned tomb. It’s a dismal place. Old King Edward, who feasted and frolicked at every opportunity, must be turning in his grave. I think we should celebrate.’
‘Celebrate what?’ James asked warily, which gave me pause. It made me think that he might have had experience of some of Beaufort’s wilder schemes. I could imagine Edmund Beaufort being wild.
‘Your release, man. Let’s make it a Christmas and Twelfth Night to remember.’ And Edmund Beaufort actually grasped my hand, linking his fingers with mine before I could react. ‘What do you say, Queen Kat? Shall we shake Windsor back into life? Shall we make the old rooms echo with our play?’
Edmund Beaufort was irrepressible. Queen Kat? No one had ever called me that. But my heart was lighter. For the first time in many weeks my spirits had risen, and my room was full of noise and laughter. I did not know whether to laugh or rebuke him for his lack of respect. I did neither, for he gave me no time.
‘Do you object to games and dancing, Majesty? I do hope not.’ Releasing me as fast as he had seized hold of me, he swept me another magnificent bow, as full of mockery as it was possible to be, following it with a dozen agile dance steps that took him to plant a kiss on Beatrice’s cheek. ‘We’ll celebrate around you if you’ve no taste for it—and you can sit on your dignity and let us get on with it.’
I laughed at the irreverent picture, and at Beatrice’s astonished discomfiture. But there he was, waiting for my reply.
‘Well, Cousin Queen? Do we celebrate with you or around you? Or do we leave you to your misery and take ourselves off to Westminster instead?’
I was struck by an overwhelming longing to be part of this youthful group.
‘Let me arrange the festivities for you,’ Edmund Beaufort pleaded in false anxiety. ‘I will die of boredom if you refuse. Let me loose to bring this place back to life again.’
And you too. I heard the implication that was not spoken.
Entirely baffled, I felt the prickle of tears at his concern.
‘I’d let him if I were you,’ James remarked. ‘He’ll only badger you into insensibility if you don’t.’
‘Please let us dance, my lady,’ Joan added.
‘And even play games. We are not too old for games,’ Meg observed.
‘I would like it too,’ Beatrice added solemnly.
I raised my palms, helpless before all the expectant faces. ‘It seems that we celebrate,’ I managed.
Edmund crowed at his success. ‘Then we will. I’m at your feet, my lady. Your wish is my command.’ True to his statement, he flung himself to his knees and raised the hem of my gown to his lips. When he looked up his face was all vivid life and expectation. ‘We will turn night into day. We will transmute shadows into brightest sunlight.’
That was what I wanted.
The
years fell away from me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Edmund Beaufort took control with a snap of his impertinent fingers. I had never met anyone with so much inexhaustible energy. Or such a charmingly insolent denial of authority, such wanton disregard for my enforced cold respectability as Queen Dowager and Queen Mother. Or such wilful casting aside of court etiquette. Unleashed on the quiet Court at Windsor, Edmund Beaufort blew the cobwebs from the tapestries and stirred the old rooms into joyful activity, breathing life into rooms that had not seen occupation for years. I found myself at the centre of a whirlwind.
Our staid court became a place of ragingly youthful high spirits, the young courtiers who elected to remain with James and my damsels in no manner reluctant to be drawn into Edmund’s plans. It was as if they were awakened from a long sleep, and I too. I was drawn in whether I wished it or no. And I did. I came alive, my despondency and desolation vanishing like mist under early morning sun. There was no lying abed in those frosty December mornings when the sound of the hunting horn beneath my window blasted me into activity. Neither was I allowed to cry off. We hunted through the days, come fair weather or foul.
Some days, seeing my wariness around horses, Edmund arranged that we take the hawks out into the marshes on foot. There was little sport to be had, nothing but wet feet and icy fingers and shivering limbs by the time that the noon hour approached, but Edmund, in his role of Overseer of Inordinate Pleasure, had all arranged with my Master of Household. As the pale sun reached its zenith, wagons pulled by oxen trundled towards us along the track.
‘What is this?’ I squinted against the hazy sun.
‘Everything for your comfort, of course, my lady.’
I watched with astonishment.
‘When did he arrange this?’ I asked James, who stood with his arm openly around Joan’s shoulders.
‘Lord knows. He’s a past master. Give him an inch…’
And he would take a dozen miles. As he had. Hot braziers, the air shimmering around them, were manhandled onto the ground in our midst. Heaped platters of bread and meat and cheese, bowls of steaming pottage, flagons of warm spiced ale were all unloaded and a group of minstrels produced their instruments, blowing on their cold fingers. Soon the marshes echoed to music and song.
It was magical.
‘Do you approve, Majesty?’ Edmund asked with a bold stare.
‘It’s too late to ask that,’ I replied in mock reproof.
He sank to his knees, head bent. ‘I asked no permission. Am I in disgrace?’
‘Would you care?’ I thought he would not.
‘I would care if I caused you to frown on me, lady.’ Suddenly he was grave, looking up through his dark lashes, all light mockery abandoned, making me recognise that I must consider my choice of words. And so I kept them light as I borrowed a fiddle bow from one of the nearby minstrels and struck Edmund lightly on both shoulders.
‘Arise, Lord Edmund. I forgive you everything. A hot brazier and a bowl of onion pottage on a freezing day can worm your way into any woman’s favour. Even mine.’
He leapt to his feet. ‘Come and be warm.’
Handing over the raptors to the waiting falconers, we ate, then danced on the frosted grass by the river, until the bitter wind dispelled even the heat of the fires and drove us in. I laughed at the irresistible impulsiveness of it all when we joined hands and circled like any peasant gathering, and my hand was clasped hard in Edmund Beaufort’s as we hopped and leapt. As if he felt that I might run away if he released me for even a moment.
I felt like a young girl again. I had no intention of running.
Ah, but some days I felt old, older than my years, unable to respond to the simple magic of pleasure. A vicious cold snap found us skating on the solid stretch of river, silvered and beautiful in the frosty air, the grass seed heads coated in hoar.
‘I cannot,’ I said, when my damsels donned skates and proved their prowess. It looked dangerously uneven to me, the ice ridged and perilous to those who had no balance.
‘Have you never skated?’ Edmund was skimming fast across the frozen ripples, already at my side in an elegant slide and spurt of ice that drew all eyes, while I shivered miserably on the riverbank, reluctant even to try. I had a vision of me, sprawled and helpless and horribly exposed.
‘No.’
‘You can learn.’ ‘I doubt it.’
What’s wrong with you? Why can you not just try? What will it matter if you fall over?
I am afraid. I think I have been afraid all my life.
And there was the familiar gloom lurking on the edge of my sight, waiting for me to allow it to approach closer and overwhelm me.
‘You can, Queen Kat. There is nothing that you cannot do.’ Edmund’s certainty cut through my self-imposed misery. ‘You will be an expert by tonight. I guarantee it.’
Still I sought for an excuse. ‘I have no skates.’
He produced a pair, shaking them by their leather straps over my head. ‘Sit there and I will remedy your lack.’
I sat on a folded cloak on the bank. ‘Permit me, my lady.’
Without waiting for permission, he pushed back my skirt and lifted one foot, beginning to strap on the skate. I discovered that I was holding my breath, watching his bent head as he huffed at the stubbornness of the frozen leather. He wore a magnificently swathed velvet hood, his hair curling beneath it against his cheek; his fingers were sure and clever, even in the cold.
I took in a quick breath as they slid over my ankle, then round my instep. It was an intimate task but not once did he stray beyond what was acceptable. Quick and efficient, he was as impersonal as any servant. Not once did he look up into my face. Until it was done.
And then he did, holding my gaze, his own bright with knowing. ‘There, my lady. It’s done. You may breathe again.’ His eyes outshone the jewels anchoring the velvet folds. He knew I had been holding my breath. My heart jolted against my ribs.
And then there was no time to think. Edmund braced himself to lift me, and drew me onto the ice. I clung to his arm as if he were my last resort in preserving my life, but I skated and my pride knew no bounds.
‘A prize! A prize for Queen Kat, who has learned a hard lesson.’
He left me standing at the edge, to skate off to the far side, returning with a feather fallen from the wing of one of the swans that we had driven off in high dudgeon. It was perfect, shining white, and he tucked it into my hood.
‘You are a pearl beyond price, Queen Kat.’
‘Indeed, you must not…’ Despite the cold, my body felt infused with heat, but a voice of sense whispered in my mind. Enchantment could be a dangerous thing.
And then before I could say more he was off with a whoop to swing Joan away from James and drag her along the curve in the river at high speed. And then even Alice, who had brought Young Henry down to see the jollity. He did not single me out again, for which I was glad.
I sat on the bank and watched, Young Henry tucked against my side. And when I shivered, my Master of Household strode across, shaking out a length of heavy woollen weave to wrap around the pair of us, anchoring it against the breeze with much efficient tucking. When I murmured my thanks, he bowed gravely in acknowledgement, sternly unsmiling, returning to his position.
As the wagons were repacked and we prepared to return to the castle, whose towers beckoned with promises of warmth and comfort, I retained enough presence to thank those who had added to our festivities—the minstrels, the servants, the long-suffering pages, who had been at our beck and call all day. I did not think Edmund would necessarily remember them, and it was my household after all.
‘Master Tudor.’ I summoned the young man who had stood, silent and watchful throughout. ‘Do you have any coins?’
‘I have, my lady.’ Searching in the purse at his belt, he dropped into my outstretched hand a stream of silver.
I dispensed them with my thanks.
‘You must tell me what I owe you,’ I said.
>
‘There is no need. I will note it in the accounts, my lady.’
His eyes were as dark as obsidian, his voice a slide of pleasurable vowels and consonants, but brusquely impersonal.
‘Thank you,’ I said hesitantly.
‘There is no need, my lady,’ he said again. ‘It is my duty to see to your comfort.’
The winter evening’s twilight was falling fast and I could see his face only obscurely, the planes of his face thrown into harsh dips and soft shadows. It seemed to me that the corners of his mouth were severely indented, almost disapproving—or perhaps it was a trick of the light.
A voice reached me, calling out to my left.
‘Come and give me your opinion on this important matter, Queen Kat!’
I went joyfully where I was summoned.
I looked in my reflecting glass when we returned. My cheeks were flushed, my eyes bright, and not from the exercise. My thoughts were capricious, and all centred on Edmund Beaufort. I had wished he would not single me out, but was irritated when he did not. His wit, his outrageous compliments set fire to my blood, but then I found them too personal, too over-familiar.
I was swept with an urgency, a longing: I could barely wait to rise from my bed to experience a new day at the wilful hands of this man who had erupted into my life.
And then came the long evenings and nights, the days when it did not grow light and the twelve days of festivity drew close. The day before Our Lord’s birth dawned, and the castle was shivering with anticipation. Perhaps I was the one to shiver, uncertain of what awaited me but exhilarated in equal measure.
I had had one Christmas with Henry, in Rouen, a rather sombre, religious affair, heavy with tradition and formal feasting and celebration of High Mass. And then I had spent Christmas alone at Windsor after my son’s birth. We had made no merriment that year for I had not yet been churched. Neither did I recall any moments of festive joy as a child. This year would be different. This year Edmund Beaufort was at court. There was a distinct air of danger when we met together before supper on Christmas Eve. Not menace, but a waiting, a standing on tiptoe.