Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2)

by Samantha Wilcoxson

Catherine did not immediately speak. She examined Margaret’s face as though she would look for hidden motives there. The Tudors feared Plantagenet blood, knowing that they have so little of it. However, this Henry has much more than his father did, thanks to his beloved mother. Surely he would be less afraid of rival claimants.

  “Of course, I will.” Catherine suddenly decided. “When the time is right.”

  ~~~~

  Additional coaxing from Catherine was more effective than years of efforts by others, and William Courtenay was released within the fortnight. In fact, he was further honored with the task of carrying Henry’s sword at his coronation.

  Margaret hoped that Cat’s husband accepted the unspoken message that he was welcome to serve the king as long as he remembered his place. Cat watched William with evident pride, her own head held high in a sophisticated posture that comes naturally only to a princess, which of course she was. Margaret had observed them both and prayed that they could focus on their household and rein in their proud tongues.

  Shifting her focus to the royal couple, Margaret’s smile came easily. Their marriage may have been a private affair, but not so with their joint coronation. Henry was insistent that he had his opportunity to show off his lovely bride, and he had chosen his moment well.

  The streets had been transformed by tapestries and rich cloth draped along the path of the coronation procession. In ermine trimmed scarlet and cloth of gold, Henry was magnificent. His bearing was dignified yet approachable and must have come naturally to him as it had his grandfather, for he certainly had not learned it from his father. He was young and golden, and the people shoved and craned their necks for a glimpse of him.

  Not far behind her husband in the procession, Catherine was carried in an elaborately decorated litter. Her rich auburn hair, only slightly darker in hue than Henry’s, was loose and glorious. Margaret thought that Catherine’s hair was her most beautiful accessory, despite the intricacy of the jewels, embroidery, and fabrics that surrounded her. The Englishmen who had cheered Catherine as she became the bride of the first Tudor prince welcomed her all the more now as she finally took her place as queen. Their excitement was palpable as they quickly tore away at the cloth of gold fabric that lined the street to Westminster. It had guarded the procession from dust and worse but now became souvenirs.

  Henry was happy to let them have their mementos. He cheerily laughed and waved as the crowd pressed in and collapsed on themselves as soon as the last prancing horse passed. When the Archbishop of Canterbury hailed, “Vivat, vivat rex!” they returned the cry four times. “Long live the king!” Henry and Catherine proclaimed their vows to serve England with dignity before leaving the abbey for several days of jousting, celebrations, and dining.

  Margaret took this opportunity to quietly slip away to Bockmer.

  July 1509

  Back upon her own estate, Margaret felt tension leave her back and shoulders that she had not even realized was there. She loved Catherine and had been happy to serve her in many roles over the years, but she could not live at court. It was more than being away from her children. She simply could not feel as though she belonged there.

  Margaret had been forced to reduce her household to the bare minimum following Richard’s death and at times was only able to maintain that through the generosity and advisement of friends like Henry of Somerset. He visited and reviewed her records as often as he was able, often praising Margaret for her good management.

  “You’ve made remarkable work of it for a woman,” he exclaimed, believing this to be a high compliment indeed, and Margaret had taken it for the kind encouragement it was meant to be.

  Margaret’s attention was shifted by the appearance of her son, Henry. Recently turned seventeen and a heartbreaking image of his father, he had reached the point where he required useful work to put his hands to in order to avoid the evils of idleness. For this reason and because Margaret felt it was more his place than hers, Henry had been given an increasing amount of responsibilities over what remained of the Pole estates. She was happy to see him now for she had greater plans in mind for him.

  “Come and sit with me, Henry,” she said, patting the seat next to her. She had been gazing out the window of Richard’s study, where she spent much more time since his death than she ever had while he was alive. It made her feel closer to him, touching the papers and furniture that had been his. She had brought in chairs that she placed in front of the large windows, so that she could comfortably pass the time in the room when not working at the desk. Henry joined her, easing himself into the opposite chair with the easy grace of youth.

  “Are you well, mother?” he asked, making her smile at his politeness while bittersweet feelings made her miss him calling her mama.

  “I am, thanks be to God,” she responded as she reached out to pat his hand. It was no longer the hand of a little boy, but now carried scars and callouses from training and hard work. “I would like to speak to you on an important matter.”

  He did not seem surprised and simply waited for her to carry on, his honey brown eyes more serious than his father’s had ever been.

  Knowing that he appreciated frankness, Margaret did not wait to broach her topic. “I have a marriage in mind for you, Henry. One that I think you will be happy with and will enable you to come into resources that I have not the power to give you.”

  She had thought that, at this point, her son would have something to say, but he continued to gaze at her with a controlled look on his face that gave away nothing. How had he learned to arrange his face that way, she wondered. It was a skill that she had often wished she had mastered to a greater degree. His stillness made her want to fidget, but she would not be intimidated by her own child. She forced herself to picture his baby face as she stared into the eyes of this full grown man.

  “It is Jane Neville that I speak of, and there are a variety of reasons why I feel she is a good match. Do you remember her?”

  “Baron Bergavenny’s daughter, of course,” Henry admitted that he was acquainted with the girl in question and nothing more.

  Margaret sat up straighter in her chair in order to be on eye level with her son. “Indeed,” she said. “Jane’s father has no sons. Therefore, Jane is expected to split his estate with her sister - eventually, of course. Bergavenny is in good health, but his wife died last year.”

  Henry rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow in a thoughtful posture that made him look years older than his true age. Margaret waited for his judgement on the matter while holding her hands still in her lap. After a few moments, a hint of a smile crossed Henry’s face.

  “Yes, I believe you are right, mother. A match with the Nevilles is a respectable and appropriate one. If King Henry elevates us, as he has led us to expect, Jane and I could enjoy a comfortable future together.”

  Wondering how a child of hers and Richard’s could be so devoid of passion, Margaret nodded and waited for him to continue.

  “Have you spoken to Lord Bergavenny?”

  “We have had preliminary discussions,” Margaret said with a nod indicating that she had been pleased with the result. “He understands that I have less than I would like to leave to my children while he does not have sons to inherit his estate. You and Jane are of an age and similar temperament. I do not advise you to count on favor from the king, but it shall be a blessing if that were to come to you as well.”

  Finally, an authentic smile lit Henry’s face, and Margaret couldn’t help but return it.

  “I trust your judgement in all matters, mother, and confess that your plan pleases me as well. When do you see the betrothal being carried out?” he asked. He was attempting to keep his voice formal and his attitude disinterested, but Margaret noticed that a hint of a smile could not be kept from his lips. Maybe there was more than met the eye in her oldest son. Jane would have her work cut out for her.

  Margaret assured him that she would see to finalizing the arrangements that would carry her first child far
from her. She tried not to think of it that way, but as she watched Henry stroll from the room with a new lift in his step she couldn’t help but think of Richard. He had been gone for almost five years and would not recognize his own children were he to see them today. Henry was ready for the responsibilities that came with marriage, but Margaret almost wished that he were not so she could hold him close and not have to let go.

  She walked slowly to the window of the room that would always be Richard’s study in her mind, whoever made use of it. She examined the landscape for other changes that had taken place since that day when her greatest joy was mingled with her harshest loss. Geoffrey galloped across the grounds like a frisky colt, and a lump rose in Margaret’s throat as she remembered, not for the first time, that Richard had never held this youngest son. Geoffrey had the red-gold hair that Plantagenets were famous for, and Margaret was thankful that he was not another painful reminder of Richard the way Henry was with his dark ringlets inherited from his father. She turned away from the window with the fleeting thought that even the trees were taller than Richard would remember them. It was necessary for her to change the path of her thoughts before they led her to the pit it was difficult to pull herself up from. She no longer had Richard to lend her a hand upward.

  She remembered the example of her cousin Elizabeth as she held to her faith through the many losses and challenges of her life. The same God that had seen Elizabeth through the destruction of her family and the founding of a new one would serve Margaret as well. Leaving the study, Margaret strode with purpose for her private chapel. The time on her knees would encourage her and help her feel linked to all those she missed so sorely.

  December 1509

  With Henry’s future secured to that of Jane Neville’s, Margaret had felt she should return to court. She enjoyed Catherine’s company and appreciated the king’s kindness to her family, but few would understand her preference for her small estate at Bockmer. The Christmas festivities and Catherine’s pregnancy would make the time more enjoyable. A smile softened Margaret’s countenance as she envisioned herself holding the next heir to England’s crown in a few short months. Catherine radiated joy as she happily assured anyone who would listen that she was certain to be bearing a prince.

  Margaret prepared to enter Catherine’s room now and was overflowing with gladness. The optimistic queen was good company for her, countering her own less cheerful moods with natural happiness. Pausing only a moment at the door to compose herself for the chaos that was likely to be found within Catherine’s busy rooms, Margaret entered but did not take more than a single step inside the room, frozen as she was in shock.

  Catherine was sitting in the center of her luxurious bed, tears streaming down her face. Her solicitous ladies patted her and offered whispered words of comfort to little avail. Margaret’s mind worked furiously for what could have upset Catherine to this extent. No news that she could recall should have been more than a minor disappointment, and who would dare share anything worse with the queen in her condition?

  Jolting herself into action, Margaret rushed forward and shoved the more junior members of Catherine’s household aside. Placing herself before Catherine, she knelt upon the soft coverlet and put her hands on either side of Catherine’s warm, tear-streaked face. She firmly but gently forced Catherine to face her. Raw pain seemed to emanate from the eyes that met Margaret’s.

  The baby! That was the only reason Margaret could conceive for the anguish in Catherine’s eyes, but she did not want to look down and break eye contact. Instead, she added her own shushing and empty words to those of the other women as she softly stroked Catherine’s hair away from her face. Finally, something that Margaret whispered captured the queen’s attention.

  “No, that is not it,” Catherine insisted, though her breath caught in her throat as sobs made speech difficult.

  Margaret wrinkled her brow. Not the baby? Then what? Finally, she allowed herself to look about the room, taking in details she had looked past earlier. The other women looked guilty but not remorseful. They did not appear to believe that the heir had been lost.

  “You may all leave. I will attend the queen,” Margaret said as she stood next to the bed, her disdainful glare dared any of them to countermand her.

  None did, and the room was soon cleared. Without a crowd gathered about her, Catherine seemed capable of controlling her emotions. The shaking sobs slowed to quivering hiccoughs, and Margaret waited patiently, stroking the girl’s slim shoulders and calming her own breathing. Once Catherine seemed recovered enough for speech, Margaret moved to sit before her once again.

  “What is it, my friend?” she asked, taking up Catherine’s small hands. Her fingers stroked Catherine’s, and she couldn’t help but admire the lovely rings that Henry had placed there as evidence of the great love he had for his queen.

  “Henry has taken a mistress,” Catherine said so quietly that Margaret was sure she must have misheard, though she couldn’t ask for this to be repeated.

  “Surely not,” she began, but Catherine interrupted her.

  “It is certain,” Catherine insisted, with a deep breath shuddering out of her small frame. “He has taken up with Bess Fitzwalter, and I seem to be the last to know. Well, other than you.” A half-hearted smile flitted across her face as she raised her bloodshot eyes to Margaret’s. “I suppose I was a fool to think he would not stray while kept from my bed by the babe.”

  Margaret enveloped Catherine in a firm embrace. “You are not a fool, but Henry is a young man who has suddenly had the entire kingdom placed at his feet. He gives not enough thought to the idea that there are some gifts offered that he should not accept.”

  As she held Catherine and let the last sniffles leave her, Margaret resolved to speak to her own boys about the treatment of their wives through childbearing. She could not reprimand the king, but she could save her daughters-in-law some heartache, she hoped. Bringing herself back to the present situation, she held the queen and rocked her as she would her own child, for there was nothing to be done but to bear the knowledge that her husband had not taken long to prove that he would put his own satisfaction above her happiness.

  Within a few days, Catherine demonstrated her royal upbringing by appearing at supper at Henry’s side. The looks of admiration that she gave him were sincere and as enthusiastic as they had been prior to his straying. Like many queens before her, Catherine had chosen to be content that she would be the mother to princes and princesses, if not the only woman in her husband’s bed. Margaret was astounded by Catherine’s strength but grateful once again for the husband God had joined her to, for he had never caused her that kind of pain.

  Sitting near enough to hear the conversation between king and queen, Margaret followed Catherine’s example. She laughed at Henry’s jokes and showed proper appreciation for his stories as though there were not already secrets building up between the young royal couple.

  Exhausted from the façade, Margaret found a quiet spot to sit when the entertainment began. Leaving Catherine’s side, she escaped to an alcove that afforded some slight privacy. She wished that she could leave the hall altogether, and felt a desire for her own home and family swelling in her breast. The Christmas revelries would keep her from Bockmer for several more weeks, but maybe she could leave for some time then before Catherine’s lying in.

  Her soul required time away from the gaudy, gilded beauty of court that attempted to hide heartache, manipulation, and ambition. Circumstances would keep her there as Catherine’s needs proved greater than those of Margaret’s children.

  January 1510

  Catherine frantically tore at her bed hangings and grasped at her ladies’ hands. Nothing she could do would tighten her womb to hold the baby inside. Margaret winced as her friend murmured, “No, no, no” until her tears made her incapable of speech. In an attempt to calm her, Margaret took Catherine in her arms much as she would have one of her children with a gentle swaying motion that could not ease the pai
n but demonstrated her love and sympathy.

  After a moment, Catherine responded to Margaret’s mothering, and a calm peace began to come over her. She laid back on the bed and a tiny child slipped from her womb with little of the anticipated pain and pushing. Leaving her mother before either were ready, the little princess never took a breath of chilled English air.

  Catherine’s face was vacant, a painful contrast to the joy that had been evident since she discovered she was with child. She had allowed herself only the one breakdown over Henry’s infidelity, and Margaret admired her dignity without mentioning the topic again. Remembering her own babes gone to God too soon, Margaret knew that there was little she could do to comfort the young woman in this situation either. Instead, she quietly cleared the room of anyone else and pulled a seat near the bed which looked far too large for the woman cocooned there.

  Taking up needlework, Margaret was simply present. She covertly monitored Catherine and waited to respond should she wish to speak.

  Enough time passed in silence that Margaret began to wonder if she should try another approach, when Catherine suddenly spoke in little more than a whisper, her voice sounding hoarse with emotion. “What will Henry think?”

  Pressing her lips together and slowly filling her lungs with the smoky air emitted from the fire, Margaret did not rush to answer. Henry had proven himself self-assured and remarkably capable in the months since he became king. Would his confidence be shaken by this loss? Some would call it a judgement from God upon the young king’s reign, but that only mattered if Henry believed it. Margaret remembered how Richard had mourned as fervently as she had when they lost their little ones. She also knew that Henry’s father had not shown anger toward Elizabeth when their royal children had not been protected from illness by their status.

  “He will be concerned for you, above all things,” Margaret decided. “God will send you more children, but Henry has only one queen. You need not worry that he will blame you for things that only God can control.” Setting down the needlework and shifting herself to sit on the edge of the bed, Margaret took Catherine’s small, pale hand. “Henry has waited many years to marry you, and even a king expects some hardships in life. He will stand by you and love you as he always has.”