“Are you feeling alright?”
Margaret had noticed Catherine’s hands falter at their work and the color drain slightly from her face. Immediately going to her side, Margaret wondered if the moment had arrived.
“I’m not sure,” Catherine said in a quavering voice. Her eyes searched Margaret’s for support, and the older woman was reminded of the first time she delivered a child.
“Let us get you into a comfortable position on the bed and see how you feel.” She kept her voice even and calmly helped Catherine put away her sewing before guiding her to the large four poster bed that had been provided for her lying in. Her heart was racing in her chest, but she would not allow Catherine to see any indication of worry or nervousness. She adjusted pillows and wrapped Catherine in blankets until she seemed content. “Do you still feel pain?”
Catherine shook her head with the quick movements of a scared child. “Not now. No. Maybe it was nothing.” Margaret smiled at the hopeful sound in Catherine’s voice.
“Now,” she said, patting her hand, “You do want the babe to be born, and I will be at your side every moment.”
Catherine closed her eyes, her lips forming the words of a silent prayer.
“My friend,” Margaret continued when Catherine looked up at her again, “I will ask God’s blessings upon your son and send for the midwife to put your mind at ease.”
A small alter had been erected within the confinement rooms to serve the women who waited upon the queen. Margaret knelt there now, the coolness of the stone floor contrasting with the warmth of the air in the queen’s chamber. She made a note to have the fire’s intensity reduced before focusing her mind on her request. She would not want God to punish Catherine for her own distracted prayers. The king must have a robust child this time. Surely, God would agree.
The creaking in her joints and tiredness that overcame her as she rose dismayed Margaret. If Catherine’s labor was beginning in earnest, it would be a long night. She took a deep breath and strode back into the connecting room with determined steps. Before too long, she would be present as the next king of England entered the world.
The following hours passed in a whirlwind of activity, but Margaret’s exhaustion was forgotten when the midwife proudly held up a squalling baby boy. The room was filled with joy that made all else irrelevant. The fragrance of herbs that had been rubbed into Catherine’s skin to ease her trial was rich in the air, covering the less desirable scents that were a natural part of childbirth. Dawn seemed to fill the room with fresh light just as the Tudor prince was presented to his mother. Sunlight glowed through the tapestries that had been hung over the windows to keep the winter chill from the room, insisting on being a witness to the important event.
Margaret had stayed firmly at Catherine’s side, as she had said she would. Catherine had been disappointed too many times in her short life for Margaret to ever willingly cause her one moment of pain. The pleasure on the young woman’s face as she gazed upon the miracle of life that she had born was the only reward that Margaret needed to make any service she had rendered wholly worthwhile.
Before she knew it, the room had been cleared of all evidence of the women’s battle fought there, all except for the babe himself, who suckled contentedly at the breast of a wet nurse. Margaret dozed in her chair, still not ready to leave Catherine’s side. The peace that overcame her was soon disturbed by the proud father barging into the tranquil room.
“Catherine, my beloved!”
Margaret winced at the booming voice, but Catherine smiled radiantly, so happy was she to present the king with his first born son. Choosing to leave the two of them to a moment of privacy, Margaret moved to slip quietly from the room.
“Cousin! I am glad that you are here for this,” Henry’s voice stopped her in her tracks. She turned and curtseyed, keeping her eyes on the rushes. “Stand, stand. There is no reason for that,” he continued. “You are cousin to the king and should act like it.” A sudden thought seemed to strike him. “In fact, you should also be awarded more appropriately for your station. I will demonstrate to all that I welcome my extended family in a way that my father found difficult to bear.”
Henry’s chest visibly filled with pride as he envisioned reactions to his generosity. He may have been young, but he had heard the whispers when Margaret’s brother, Edward of Warwick, was put to death. Raising Margaret up would establish that he was a better man than his father. It would let everyone know that infighting was over and all members of the royal family were to be welcomed at court with open arms. Looking at the perfect features of his tiny son, he saw no reason why he could not afford to welcome Margaret’s brood to higher glory.
Margaret stood slowly and waited for Henry to clarify what he meant by his promising statement. She had hoped to reclaim one of her family’s ancient titles, the earldom of Salisbury or Warwick. Her father’s title of duke of Clarence was beyond what she hoped to reach for, but desire to see her sons’ positions improved motivated her to present a request for something. First, she awaited Henry’s move.
“Your grace?”
Still enraptured by his small son, Henry only glimpsed at her, as if he had already forgotten the promise he had begun to make. Reluctantly placing the babe in his mother’s arms, Henry took long, quick strides to Margaret and grasped her arms in a viselike grip.
“We shall see your family restored. Your sons shall serve mine, and England will see the branches of our family tree firmly united.”
Again, he looked to his son with the rapture of one in the presence of the Christ child himself and then back to Margaret, clearly waiting for her display of gratitude.
“Your grace,” she stammered. “I am at a loss. What can I say to properly thank you for thinking of my sons when the joy of yours is still fresh?”
Henry laughed, pleased with himself and his effect upon the older woman. He loosened his grip on one arm to gesture toward his small family, including them in the moment. Catherine gave him an encouraging smile in support of his intentions toward the Pole family.
“File a petition to receive your family title of countess of Salisbury. I will approve it without delay.”
With that, he returned to his wife’s side, not waiting for further thanks from Margaret. She stood frozen in disbelief. Had she heard correctly? Should she express her thankfulness? Henry was leaning in intimately toward his wife, his mind already moved beyond Margaret’s concerns. She decided to render her praise within the chapel rather than to her direct benefactor and silently left the room.
February 1511
Henry’s revelation had given Margaret newfound pride that she did not remember feeling before. The last time her family had been at the wheel of fortune’s height, her father was alive and the heir to his brother’s throne. That was long before anyone considered the possibility of a Tudor king. Now, after serving her cousin, Elizabeth, and the children she had with Henry VII, Margaret would have a noble position of her own. Let the memory of her brother retain the title of Warwick. She would be countess of Salisbury as her ancestresses had been.
These thoughts buoyed her through her daily tasks. Not that serving Catherine was a chore. The two shared a close friendship that made spending time together a pleasure. Margaret only missed spending time with her own children. With the young prince settled with his nurses and Catherine churched, Margaret could prepare to leave for Bockmer soon. She paused at a window to imagine the countryside surrounding her own estate as it came to life with the new season. With God’s help, she would be there in time to witness the greening and blooming.
Sounds of shuffling feet and worried voices reached into Margaret’s daydream and sent her feet hurrying to Catherine’s room. A weight began to form in her stomach as the words became distinct and weak crying could be heard. She straightened her back and entered, ready to take control of whatever situation presented itself.
She would have given anything to save Catherine from whatever might ever again send her
weeping. Had the young woman not been through enough? Margaret’s heart ached as one glance at the scene informed her that she would not be able to take charge. All was in God’s hands.
“Margaret!” The pain in Catherine’s voice caused Margaret to cringe, but she swiftly moved to her side.
“What has happened?”
She only half listened to Catherine’s sorrowful reply as she observed for herself the tragedy that had suddenly enveloped the room. One of Henry’s personal physicians examined the small prince who had been baptized only weeks earlier. Margaret had been so proud to be godmother to the robust, copper haired boy. Illness so shockingly attacks the young, irretrievably sapping them of vigor. The babe did not move, only whimpered, as the doctor prodded and manipulated the tiny limbs. Margaret closed her eyes. There was no need to see more.
“We shall trust in God and his great love for each of his children,” she whispered to Catherine, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. “It is he more than any doctor who can bring healing to your son. Let us pray for him.”
Catherine nodded with tears leaving wet trails down her cheeks. Together they moved to the altar that remained in the next room. Although Catherine could leave her rooms now, the evidence of her recent confinement remained unchanged. Would young Henry ever move to his carefully prepared nursery?
If the strength of her own will could save the child, he would have enjoyed immediate healing, for Margaret prayed more fervently than any time in her life. She had been through much and begged God for many things, but this was for her friend, a woman who deserved better from the God of all creation.
God undoubtedly heard the women’s prayers, but his plan for the tapestry of their lives was known only to him. The brief life of Prince Henry was but a stitch of color with a more noticeable knot. The morning he died, Catherine sent her attendants away, and Margaret returned to Bockmer in somber acceptance that she was not needed by anyone.
Catherine’s dismissal stung, though Margaret was never unhappy to return to her beloved home. It reinforced her belief that she could count upon herself alone for her future, for certainly the king would reject her petition for the earldom of Salisbury in the face of his personal tragedy. Margaret would do her best to ensure that she did not rely upon the whims of kings and queens for the future of her children.
June 1511
Despite the somber chain of events that had sent her home, Margaret felt rejuvenated after spending the season of new life with her own family in her comfortable, if modest, household. She had even enjoyed a lengthy visit from her son, Henry, and his wife, who seemed to revel in the excitement of their new life together. Whether their joy would last was anyone’s guess, and Margaret was determined to simply appreciate the gift of the present.
Her call to return to court was expected and not entirely unwelcomed. The bitterness she had felt when Catherine sent her away had dissipated when she reconsidered all that her friend had been through. Margaret held the summons between her fingers as she examined the desktop that had been marred by her husband’s work and habits. Her grief at his loss was no longer a burning pain, but she did long for his advice and easy conversation. What would he think of the match she had made for their oldest son or the royal couple’s struggle to bear a child?
Reginald had been sent to Magdalen College for continued schooling, a path only made possible through the support of the king. It was one area where Henry was of one mind with his father. Although suspicious of Margaret, Henry VII had discerned an unusual capacity for learning in young Reginald that his son continued to make provision for. Margaret was content that two sons were set upon satisfying paths and looked next to her son, Arthur.
Named for the prince that she had cared for when his hopes were golden, Margaret’s Arthur did not yet demonstrate the strength of character of his older brother. She would admit it to no one, but Margaret saw much of her father’s charm in Arthur. It was a charisma that was shallow and, at times, manipulative. Knowing how a similarly weak character had led to her father’s demise, Margaret prayed that Arthur would mature and become a better version of his princely grandfather, George of Clarence. The correct wife could make all the difference.
The parchment began to slip from Margaret’s fingers and she grasped at it, returning to its words. Catherine’s words were kind, and Margaret read an apology between the lines of text. Forgiveness could be freely given to a woman who had been harsh while in mourning for her second child buried in two years of marriage. Margaret began to place things in order for her absence and called her steward in order to provide him with her instructions.
~~~~
“Your presence is a balm to me, Margaret.”
The scent of rosewater filled Margaret’s senses as Catherine embraced her. She looked healthy enough, even if she would never again be as slender and graceful as she had been when she arrived in England to marry her first Tudor prince.
“My friend,” Margaret said, holding Catherine at arm’s length and considering her more carefully. “I am privileged to serve you and pray that God sends you blessings.”
“He does,” Catherine said with a smile that appeared sincere. “He has given me a loving husband and understanding friends to bear with me.”
Margaret nodded once, and their conversation was able to fall into the comfortable rhythm of small talk and innocent gossip. By the time they were enjoying a private meal of manchet bread, sharp cheese, and sweet wine, Margaret felt generous enough in spirit to offer her thanks for Reginald’s provision.
“Henry is happy to sponsor him,” Catherine said, waving away Margaret’s thanks. “He enjoys the company of learned men and strives to emulate them.”
She sounded proud, like a mother enumerating the many talents of her child.
“From the time he was young, his mother ensured that he had the most sought after tutors and was exposed to modern philosophies. He never tires of discussing ideas and debating with those whom most would never question.”
Margaret indulged a grin. “He is the king. He may challenge who he likes.”
Laughing, Catherine conceded the point. “I’m sure he looks forward to the day when Reginald reaches an age to face him in healthy debate.”
The women sipped their wine as each sent their imaginations into the future to observe the lively discussions that would take place between the king and his favorite young cousin.
“He means to have Courtenay fully restored,” Catherine said in an off-hand manner that did not match the information.
Margaret’s hand halted halfway between the table and her open mouth. William Courtenay had been released from the Tower, just as Henry had promised. He had even carried the sword at Henry’s coronation, demonstrating their new friendship. That Henry continued to favor him, even after the death of the prince, was surely a positive sign of Henry’s intentions toward his mother’s family.
“Henry is generous indeed,” Margaret managed to say. She stuffed her mouth with the bread in her hand to forestall the need to say more.
Catherine nodded slowly, almost reverently, as she considered the actions of her husband. “He is a fair and wise ruler, and he does not forget those who serve him. Courtenay is once again earl of Devon and his son marquess of Exeter. Nor has the king set aside his promise to you, Margaret.”
Her heart beating roughly in her chest, Margaret swallowed uncomfortably before responding. Still she was not sure what to say. “Promise?”
“False ignorance does not suit you,” Catherine said with a smirk. “You submitted your official request for restoration to the earldom of Salisbury?”
Margaret could only nod. How could she speak when she had completed the application while home at Bockmer. She had been looking to her own advantage while Catherine had mourned her son. Catherine did not indicate that she was offended. In fact, her face brightened.
“Good! I had hoped that you would. Henry will approve it as he said. It is no more than you deserve.”
Finally, Margaret managed to speak. “I am grateful beyond words. It will mean much to my children as they reach marriageable age to have a portion to offer.”
She was surprised that Henry continued to recognize and raise up male relatives while he himself had no heir. It was certainly not the path his father would have taken. As if reading her mind, Catherine carried on.
“Henry will never admit as much, but he is heavily burdened by the execution of your brother. As am I.” The brief confidence that had filled Catherine faded, and she withdrew her hand and bowed her head.
“You? What have you to be sorrowful for?” Margaret asked, taking her turn to reach for Catherine.
“It is entirely my fault,” she whispered. “I have not spoken of it before, for it will not change the past. You should know, however, that I have never forgiven my parents for insisting upon the execution of your brother.”
Margaret tried to interrupt and assure the queen that she had no part in the decision, but Catherine stopped her with a look of determination.
“You are only partly correct,” she insisted. “I knew of the terms, and they seemed to make sense from my distant perspective. It was only upon getting to know you and your Richard that I began to question what had been demanded. Queen Elizabeth never purposely revealed her anger to me, but I could see a change in her countenance when Edward’s name was mentioned. I began to see the human cost of what had been, to me, only the terms of a negotiation between kingdoms.”
Tears filled Margaret’s eyes as visions of Edward overwhelmed her. He should be a man with a family by now, the patriarch of the York remnant. Instead, his mind had wasted away in captivity before his head had been struck from his body for a trumped up crime. Margaret could not respond, despite the years that had passed since Edward’s execution.
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 6