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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  “Henry was too young at the time to fully understand the events that were taking place, but he assures me that his father expressed sorrow regarding Warwick before he died.”

  The mention of Henry VII stiffened Margaret’s resolve. He had made little effort to save the young man he saw as a threat to his position despite his complete power over him.

  “I will not speak of the king’s father, for he is gone to God’s judgement which is always just.” She gasped for breath, emotion tightening her chest. “I am, however, thankful that the king strives to compensate for wrongs of the past. William Courtenay may yet enjoy freedom and a position in Henry’s court, as he should. I will wait to learn what the king has in store for my own family.”

  Catherine’s lips were pressed tightly together. She had clearly expected more exuberant gratitude that would absolve her of the guilt her part in Margaret’s pain caused her. Disappointed, her determination increased to prove to Margaret that blows of the past would not be repeated. She would see that Henry was a different man than his father.

  A somewhat uncomfortable silence had settled upon the women, both struggling with the past and with varied visions of the future. They were somewhat relieved by the entrance of a messenger. His presence enabled Margaret to take a deep calming breath, until she lifted her eyes to his face. It seemed that messengers used the arrangement of their face to prepare their audience for the news that they were there to impart. Margaret could see that she must prepare for bad news, and she prayed that it was not regarding one of her children then felt guilty for thinking it. Who would she wish the unfavorable tidings upon?

  “Your grace,” the young man said as he swept into a low bow at Catherine’s feet. They could see only the back of his head, covered with wavy brown hair, left greasy where his cap matted it. Margaret briefly wondered what it would look like freshly washed with lemon water, soft with bright highlights in the curls. Catherine bid him rise and Margaret shook her head into focus.

  The man only glimpsed at Margaret, recognizing her with a curt nod. “I pray your forgiveness, your grace, as I bring unwelcomed news.”

  The fact that he did not even seem to know who Margaret was reassured her, and she was drawn to his honey brown eyes that reminded her of Richard. He would be forever young in her mind as she continued to grow old. Though he had been forty-five when he died and she was yet only thirty-eight, she suddenly felt ancient.

  The messenger continued at Catherine’s signal. “It falls upon me to inform you of the death of the earl of Devon. A sudden sickness visited him, but his family remains well.”

  It took a moment for Margaret to connect the title with the man that she had only just learned had reacquired it. William Courtenay, finally released and restored, was dead. Poor Cat. Although she bore hardships well, this blow would crush her. She had stood firmly by her husband’s side, even when Henry VII threatened him with charges of treason. His loss would be more devastating than anything else she had endured.

  Guilt made Margaret’s face burn with embarrassment. She had prayed for her family to be spared, not thinking of who else might deserve a reprieve. Catherine, who did not know Cat well and William not at all, thanked the messenger and sent him to receive food and drink as was expected for his service.

  With another glance and brief nod to Margaret, he left the room, and Catherine turned to Margaret. Before she had a chance to speak, Margaret stood and asked to be excused. This was not the most severe blow that she had ever been dealt, but it was one that she wished to consider in private before grieving publicly.

  February 1512

  Margaret was returning to Bockmer only briefly, not because she was called to return to Catherine’s service but because she had other estates to attend to. After difficult years and the reduction of her family’s status, she had finally been restored to a place proper for the daughter of a Plantagenet prince.

  “Countess of Salisbury,” she let her own title roll off her tongue quietly enough that no one was near enough to overhear her. It was impossible to keep her face from breaking into a satisfied grin, and she hoped that her mother, were she able to see her now, was proud of what she had achieved.

  Images of her oldest son were tucked away in her memories, precious treasures that she would never forget. He had been the image of his father as he stood before King Henry, dignified and unintimidated by his cousin’s magnificence. Margaret’s Henry was imbued with a quieter character, and he would serve the boisterous king well. From now on, he would be Lord Montague, rather than simply Henry Pole. That they both held titles that could be traced back through Margaret’s Neville ancestors filled her with a sense of family ghosts pressing in upon her, but she welcomed their presence as she wished to demonstrate to the world that not every Plantagenet had been crushed beneath Tudor rule.

  With a place in the king’s household, Henry would be away from Jane and his estates more than desired, but the rewards would be great. Margaret’s income from the lands now granted to her would allow her to keep her household in a state she had not enjoyed since before her father had died. She would not hesitate to make her status known. After visiting Bockmer long enough to gather some belongings and give instructions to the steward, she was immediately undertaking improvements at Bisham, where she intended to live.

  Jane would be comfortable in the well known surroundings at Bockmer, the familiarity taking some of the sting from Henry’s absence.

  “You are to ensure that my son is referred to as Lord Montague by each person within the household,” was among one of Margaret’s first orders to her steward. The only elevation more important than her own was her son’s. “Any decorating or improvements that Jane wishes to undertake have my full approval.” Margaret paused before adding, “Except to the study. That room alone shall remain my own and untouched. Lord Montague may utilize another space for his office.” This one bit of the past she was not ready to release. She didn’t know if she would ever be. The study was the only place on Earth where she still felt Richard’s presence.

  Turning to her daughter-in-law, Margaret continued, “All is trusted to you, my dear. I know that you have a frugal and sharp mind and, therefore, am completely confident turning this beloved place over to your care.”

  The corner of Jane’s mouth upturned slightly at Margaret’s easy transition to grander behavior and speech than the girl had grown used to, but she maintained her own dignity and simply said, “Yes, mother,” with her head respectfully bowed.

  Margaret could see that Jane was amused and uncertain regarding their new circumstances, but Margaret was dedicated to guiding her family into the upper echelon of nobility, where they were meant to be. Raised as part of the royal family, even after her father’s death, Margaret knew how to play her part and would teach her children as well. She had no concerns for Henry and Jane, for they were serious by nature and would take to their new roles quite naturally. Once she was settled at Bisham, she would turn her focus to the younger children.

  June 1512

  Ancient stone towers soared above the vast monastery grounds at Bisham. Margaret’s new residence shared one of the wide Bisham Abbey walls, adding a stunning grandeur to the home. Timbers of unbelievable size propped up the ceiling over the great chamber, an enormous space more than suitable for the Countess of Salisbury to receive supplicants and guests. The adjoining rooms were no less grand, though it all needed some repair and scrubbing. Margaret was anxious for work to begin.

  Choosing the rooms with the least maintenance needed, she issued orders for unpacking to begin even as she began dictating the restoration work that was to be done. Tapestries, glazed windows, and fine furniture were all to be ordered without delay. Large additions would allow elaborate parties to be hosted by the generous noblewoman.

  As Margaret watched every member of her household scurry to do her will, she noticed that each worked with eagerness. They were as energized by this new adventure as their mistress was. Her advantage was certa
in to bring benefits to them as well.

  She could not rest for a moment. Once her trunks were unpacked, she sat down to write a message to her cousin, the duke of Buckingham. They had marriage plans to discuss.

  September 1512

  Edward Stafford was not one to leave his estates any more than he had to. Since growing up under the oppressive hand of Henry VII, Stafford had learned to enjoy his riches away from Tudors who watched him with a suspicious eye on his royal bloodline.

  The duke of Buckingham’s father had been executed by Richard III after leading a rebellion against him. Only five years old at the time, Edward had been forced to live in hiding until the rise of Henry Tudor. The death of the first Tudor king left Edward with a feeling of freedom, and his relationship with his son was, so far, without strain. Edward had carried his cousin’s crown at his coronation, hoping to demonstrate to anyone who mattered that the Stafford family was happy to serve under the new dynasty.

  Both Tudor kings had been hesitant to give the direct descendant of Edward III too much power, so Edward had sufficient time on his hands to enjoy his estates and father illegitimate children.

  Margaret remembered Edward as a kindred spirit growing up at the Tudor court. Although Edward was not an orphan, he had been taken from his mother, Katherine Woodville the dowager queen’s sister, and placed within the royal household as a ward of the king. Margaret had also been placed first in the households of Edward IV and Richard III and then in that of Henry VII, who married her cousin, Elizabeth. Margaret could see from an early age that she and Edward shared the sense of being important by blood but a presence that those in power wished they did not have to deal with. Although they had not been close due to the five years in age that separated them, Margaret felt a bond with the duke that she hoped would lead to satisfying negotiations.

  Because of Edward’s desire to remain at his own estates, Margaret was traveling to visit him. The autumn was mild and she was happy to escape the dust and chaos of construction at Bisham to enjoy Buckingham’s historic family home, Stafford Castle. The motte and bailey structure dated back to the time of the Conqueror, and Margaret could almost envision the Normans slowly creating it with strong timbers, as her caravan approached the sprawling estate. Most of the original timber was gone or hidden beneath the impressive stone towers and walls. Margaret could not help but wonder if the residence’s status as an unapproachable fortress was one of the reasons Edward enjoyed living there. It was difficult to recover from the execution of a father for treason, as Margaret well knew, and this castle would make him feel safe.

  Edward had clearly set a watch for them because the way was cleared for the party to enter the courtyard without pausing to wait. Margaret was relieved. Although she had enjoyed the trip, taking in the vivacious colors of the season along the way, she was road weary and looked forward to a fire and a flagon of fine wine. She had no doubt that Buckingham would be serving the best in the hope of impressing upon the newly raised countess his own almost royal status. She did not mind and would happily benefit from the duke’s insecurities.

  Gratefully, she left the horses and luggage to others and allowed herself to be swept away by Edward Stafford. He was a magnificent presence to be in. Five years younger than Margaret and renowned for his handsome features and elaborately tailored clothes, Edward had a clear resemblance to his cousin the king. Tall and broad with auburn hair that gleamed in the fading sunlight, he had no trouble turning the heads of many more women than he had a right to. It was probably best, Margaret thought, that he did remain reclusive. She could see that rivalry would be inevitable if the two men were too much in each other’s company. Better to leave more reserved men, like her son Henry, to see to the king’s everyday demands.

  “Countess, I am honored to welcome you and am eager to discuss our common interests,” he said with a grin that Margaret was certain made many a young maid’s heart beat a little bit faster. Though she was had known him since they were children and considered him far too young for her, Margaret was not completely immune and found herself admiring the way his hair fell endearingly across his forehead.

  “Thank you, but I hope we are too intimate for titles, cousin. It is as family rather than peer that I reach out to you now.”

  He had quickly led her into a lavish hall that was quite literally fit for a king. Henry may not entrust many responsibilities to Edward, but he did endow him with rich lands that were managed with care. Soon, Margaret had acquired her sought after position in a comfortable chair before a roaring fire. She sighed with contentment as she settled into it.

  “How are your sons?” Edward asked before concealing his own face behind his glass.

  Margaret examined her own wine glass as she considered her response. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, undoubtedly imported at great cost from Italy. She mentally noted to order a set of her own for use only with the most noble of guests. The impression they made upon visitors was well worth the cost, which she could now afford.

  “Henry is doing exceptionally well in the king’s service,” she began, setting the glass aside. “He and Jane are well settled at Bockmer while I oversee the work at Bisham. I would welcome you to an extended visit once it is in order. Reginald has entered Magdalen Collage with his grace as his sponsor. The boy is well suited for learning and is expected to excel among the Oxford scholars.”

  “And Arthur,” Edward prodded when Margaret paused to consider what was best said about her second son, who was on the cusp of manhood.

  She retrieved her glass and sipped slowly to give herself more time. She was less certain about Arthur’s future than his younger brother’s, but that was of no consequence since she was here to discuss her daughter.

  “Arthur dotes upon his dear sister while he awaits orders from the king. I expect he, too, will soon have a position at court to attend to. Ursula assists me in the management of my estates and has become a capable young woman.”

  Edward raised a single eyebrow at Margaret’s turn in the conversation, but his eyes were lit with amusement. “Your daughter is a beauty as well, which is no surprise considering her mother.”

  Margaret dropped her eyes to her hands which began to fidget in her lap as she cursed herself for blushing. “You flatter me, cousin,” she said without looking at him.

  “Ah, don’t be silly,” Edward boomed as he rose to his feet. His natural energy had been confined for too long and he began to pace before the fire. “You know as well as anyone that you have your fair share of Plantagenet beauty. Had you only been free when I came of age.”

  Margaret’s blush deepened and she hoped that it could be blamed on the heat of the fire even as she attempted to shake herself free of his charm. She finally forced herself to raise her eyes to him and saw that he was grinning broadly in clear enjoyment of the effect he knew he had on her.

  “That’s enough, you devil,” she scolded him, though she could not stop herself from smiling in return. “How many women are you able to keep from ever stating their request because you have turned them into shy girls?”

  “I cannot help myself, my dear, but I do apologize,” he said with a perfect bow that still somehow held the air of mockery. “I also do not mean to keep you from your desired objective. My Harry will be an ideal match for your Ursula as soon as he has been deemed responsible enough to care for a noble and beautiful wife.”

  Margaret realized that her jaw had dropped, and she quickly clamped her lips together. Oh, it was good indeed that this one was not at court. “How did you…”

  She did not get a chance to finish. Edward waved her silent as he retook his seat.

  “I have no spies. It simply made sense. I do have greater intelligence and skill in many areas than our cousin the king gives me proper credit for.”

  “That, I can see, is true,” Margaret said, allowing herself to relax into the softness of the cushions with the wine warming her from the inside and the firelight dancing across the scene. “You also fav
or their marriage then?”

  Edward confirmed his assent with a firm nod. “I can think of no better union than that between your noble line and my own. Their children will have twice the royal blood than he who currently sits upon the throne of England.”

  Margaret sat up and quickly scanned the hall. Even in his own home, Edward should never say such a thing, true as it may be. Edward observed her actions without reacting with more than a smirk.

  “Surely, you have considered this and count it as a reason for approaching me,” he said as he poured more wine into her only half empty glass.

  “Well, yes. However…”

  Again he cut her off. “You do not wish me to speak aloud what we and everyone else already knows.”

  She sighed. He knew very well that he was making light of treasonous words.

  “Before we consider the discussion closed,” he said, leaning close and lowering his voice. “You should know of a prophecy that may ease your mind.”

  His face was closer to hers than anyone other than her children dared to approach. She could see wine glistening on his lips and the specks of emerald in his sapphire eyes that blended to create the hue of a raging ocean. Was it the heretical reference to a prophecy or his proximity that left her speechless?

  “It is dependable, Margaret,” he clutched her hand, and she wished to look again to ensure that they were alone, but she could not avert her gaze from his. “This prophecy was given to me by a reputable monk. Nicholas Hopkins is his name.” He carried on when she demonstrated no reaction to the name. “Our children will take their proper place as God wills it,” his voice had lowered to a whisper filled with fervency. “This second Henry Tudor will have no sons. I have been assured. When he dies…”