It was Margaret’s turn to stop him. “No! Edward, you must not even whisper of the death of the king. It is treason!” She placed her hand that was not grasped by him on his arm. To anyone secretly observing them, they appeared to be lovers, but Margaret’s heart was filled only with fear. “Our fathers have already taught us this lesson. It would be best to remember them and avoid their fate.”
He only leaned closer. “I am certain and do not fear, as you should not. Henry will leave no heir, and it will be I who is the next king of England.”
Margaret’s eyes widened in horror, and she leaned away, attempting to put space between them. Edward seemed surprised by her reaction.
“Do you not see? Your daughter will be queen. You should rejoice at her good fortune and the correction of past wrongs.”
She stared at him, seeing that he was entirely sincere. “Maybe you are right, but we can never speak of it again. We must be content with bringing together our families and trust anything else to the Lord.”
He pursed his lips, still not satisfied. He squeezed her hand once more before releasing it and leaning back into his own seat. “I will respect your wishes, but you will see. I promise that you will see all that I have said come to pass.”
Edward immediately transitioned to more innocent threads of conversation, leaving Margaret wondering if his talk of prophecy had all been in her imagination. Yet, as she lay in bed that night, his stormy sea eyes still vivid in her mind, she knew that she had not dreamt it. She could not deny the knot of excitement in the pit of her stomach. Though she had admonished him for his loose speech, the future he painted thrilled her more than she would admit aloud. Would Edward be the next king and pass on his crown to his son and Margaret’s daughter? The idea exhilarated her. The Tudor king may have executed her brother, but he had not counted on the Plantagenet women to be the ones who rose from the ashes of their dynasty.
Her dreams were pleasant that night.
The next day, Edward showed no sign that he had been speaking treason the evening before. He gave Margaret a meandering tour of the castle as they discussed terms that would unite their families. Margaret was forced to confess that the fee she was forced to pay for the title she now enjoyed left her currently unable to present him with much. As much as the Stafford name, she strove to connect Ursula to the Buckingham riches. She would never be forced to struggle as Margaret had. The estates Henry had provided her with changed her status dramatically, but she would never forget having to borrow the money to bury her husband.
Edward was generous in the negotiations. Whether it was because he truly believed that royal riches were in his future or he felt a fond kinship for Margaret she did not know and would not ask. They agreed that the children would wait a few more years for the ceremony sealing their union. Ursula, at fourteen, was the age that Margaret had been upon her own wedding night, but Ursula had nothing to run from and could afford to wait while she learned valuable lessons at her mother’s side. Besides, Henry Stafford was two years his betrothed’s junior. While women were occasionally married off at age eleven or twelve, men were not. Margaret was well satisfied with the arrangements and the time that she had secured for herself with her daughter.
Edward had moved on to the topic of his building project at Thornbury. “I have had the former manor house demolished and will build a more fitting home for my family there.”
Margaret could not hide her surprise. “You would leave Stafford Castle? You seem to adore it.” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm indicating the esteemed surroundings.
“I do,” Edward nodded in agreement as he continued strolling the manicured grounds. “Eleanor longs for more modern and manageable accommodations.”
He needed say nothing more. Edward’s wife was one of the few women who would have taken issue with the fine, aged estate. It was not Margaret’s place to comment upon this, and so she did not. Instead, they carried on in companionable silence as autumn leaves swirled around them. Appreciating their glorious bursts of color, Margaret wondered if there was any other example of such beauty in death.
October 1512
Following her visit with Buckingham, Margaret returned to Bockmer, where she intended to enjoy time with Henry and Jane until after the Christmas festivities. The work continued at Bisham, and she was confident that construction would make greater strides if the workmen did not have to tiptoe around her. She looked forward to seeing the results when she arrived in January.
“Have you ordered new windows, mother?” Henry asked.
“I have,” Margaret said, her eyes lighting with excitement. “The craftsman you recommended assures me that he is more than capable of etching the arms of my family and your father’s into the glass. The clarity and durability of the glass are modern marvels.”
Montague smiled in satisfaction that he had been able to serve his mother in a higher capacity than as her child. He wanted her to look to him as the head of the family, and he devoted much attention to making himself worthy in her eyes. “I am pleased that he is equal to your desires,” he said, glancing at Jane to see that she too wore a satisfied grin.
“Have you news from court? When does the king expect you to return?”
“You could come to court yourself, mother, and would then be aware of every whispered rumor.”
Margaret waved a hand and shook her head. “I have no desire to be at the center of politics, but would know how my dear Catherine fares.”
“The queen is well, so far as I am aware. Were she not, I am certain she would summon you to care for her.”
“And the king?”
“He looks to France for several reasons. Richard de la Pole continues to evade his efforts to apprehend him. Henry is not a man to take disappointment lightly, and he sees de la Pole’s success as mockery of his rule. He will be sending more than secret assassins in the coming year. For now, he will have Charles Brandon made duke of Norfolk in order to discredit the de la Pole claim and keep Buckingham from feelings of superiority.”
“Brandon made duke. Quite a rise,” Margaret said evenly, keeping emotion from her features. Brandon’s father had been killed defending Henry Tudor at Bosworth, and the son had been shown remarkable favor ever since.
Montague shrugged. “It was bound to happen. He already has greater power over the king than any other person, including the queen.” He lightly shrugged again when he saw his mother’s upturned eyebrows. “It is true. The two have grown up together, and there is no one the king admires or respects more.” A glance at Jane kept him from adding anything about Brandon’s female conquests that he shared with his monarch as often as he was willing.
“What of Richard?” Margaret asked, changing the subject to one she found more significant. Were it not for her loyalty to Catherine and desire for peace, the cause of the de la Pole brothers would be Margaret’s own. With John’s death and Edmund’s imprisonment, Richard was the last York challenging the Tudor king.
“He is believed to be in France, though, as I have said, the king’s spies and assassins are having trouble pinning him down. Henry cannot funnel too many resources into his capture with problems brewing to the north and the south.”
“He will take on both Scotland and France? What of his sister?”
“She has failed to give James an heir,” Montague trailed off, not sure what to say that could not also be said to criminalize England’s queen. “The king will insist upon his rights as overlord of Scotland.”
Margaret did not immediately respond. She wondered how Henry would proceed with animosity on two fronts. Who would he send to fight for him? Might he be killed in battle and Buckingham truly left his heir? Would Richard de la Pole press his own claim, leaving them sliding into the depths of civil war again?
“Will he win?” she asked her son.
Montague appeared taken aback. “Against Scotland? Assuredly. I am not yet certain what strategies he will put into place with James or Louis, but there is none like our King
Henry against any enemy.”
Margaret was thinking of war, not tournaments, but her son could still be correct. They could not count on Tudor’s early demise. She must continue to plot a course for her family that assumed his success. Henry had given her much to consider, so she turned her questions to Jane and diverted the conversation to more mundane topics of household and crops.
Alone in her room after the full day, Margaret felt the loneliness that creeps into those who have no spouse to warm them through the winter. Since she was growing too old to bear children, she was not often considered by men who needed a wife to replace one who had been lost to illness or childbed. Usually, she was content with this. However, on nights like this one, she gazed into the dark night glittering with thousands of points of light and wondered what it would be like to have strong arms wrapped around her.
March 1513
Little time had been spent admiring the improvements at Bisham and providing instructions for ongoing work before Margaret was summoned to court once again. Catherine’s missive had been brief but cheerful, and Margaret was looking forward to catching up with one of her oldest friends. Barely unpacked from her stay at Bockmer, she had reopened the trunks to prepare for London.
The cold seemed to seep into her bones more than it ever had in the past. Margaret pulled her cloak more tightly around herself as a woolen barricade against the blustery wind. She remembered Richard leading his men away in all extremes of weather. Always worried that a sword would take him from her, it had been seasonal illness that was her true enemy. The Lord could take her as well if it were his will. She was content with her position and what she had achieved for her children. So many of her family members had died young that she felt almost decrepit at forty.
When the conglomeration of tightly packed buildings came into view, Margaret accepted that God indeed had other plans for her. With mixed feelings, she prepared herself mentally for presentation to the queen. Catherine could be greeted with joy and informality, but she must also be equipped for the possibility that Henry would be at her friend’s side. The king would choose whether he wished to greet her as a cousin on this occasion or expect her to demurely enter his presence.
The king was with his wife, but Margaret was shown, once again, that she had worried over nothing.
“Our dear cousin,” he gushed as he, far from expecting her obeisance, rose to greet her with an overwhelming embrace. His height placed Margaret’s frozen cheeks against his broad chest briefly before he held her away at arm’s length. She felt like a doll being manipulated by a child but could only smile up at the young man who greatly resembled her uncle, King Edward IV.
“It has been too long since you have been here with us,” he said in response to her mumbled greeting, a wide grin on his still boyish face.
“Your grace, I believe the countess would appreciate a seat near the fire and some sweet wine,” Catherine suggested even as she kept her head slightly bowed in reverence to him.
“Of course you are right, my beloved,” he said with no less enthusiasm. He even proceeded to pour the wine himself into a pleasantly warm silver goblet.
Margaret thought of Buckingham’s fine glasses and smiled that the king did not see the extravagance as necessary to impress her. She held the goblet with both hands, taking in as much of the warmth and sweet fragrance as possible. The scent told her that it was one of her favorites before she took the first sip. That would be Catherine’s touch. Henry, as kind as he could be, was frequently too focused on his own objectives and desires to take note of the preferences of others.
As Margaret relaxed and soaked up the heat of the cheerful fire, Catherine and Henry spoke in low voices. She was content to let them carry on without her for a moment and closed her eyes to enjoy the heat seeping into her extremities and the comfortable feeling that was washing over her. Before long, she sensed Catherine at her side and opened her eyes just in time to see Henry stride from the room.
“Does he have to hurry off?” Now that she knew Henry was in a jovial mood, she was sad to see him go.
Catherine gave her a knowing smile. “Henry is always hurrying and can hardly stand to be still, but in this case, he is honoring my wish to have some time alone with you.” She had settled herself comfortably near and waved off her ladies to far corners of the room. “He was right. It has been too long. I’ve missed you Margaret. You have become one of my dearest friends.”
“We have shared much,” Margaret agreed. “Endured pain and celebrated joy.”
Catherine simply nodded as they both considered the deep past that she had so concisely described. Since Catherine’s arrival in England more than a decade earlier, the two women had leaned on each other as fortune’s wheel turned.
“I hope that you will stay at court and be by my side once again as I await God’s richest blessing,” Catherine said in a quiet voice that could not quite hide her excitement.
Margaret was instantly more alert, the sleepiness caused by the wine and cozy warmth leaving her in a moment. She turned to examine Catherine’s rosy complexion more carefully and forced herself to smile. “You are with child.” She hoped she had infused her tone with an appropriate level of enthusiasm. Margaret did wish for a child for Catherine but was not sure if she could watch her continue to go through pregnancies that ended with tragedy.
Catherine seemed unfettered by such concerns, and her face lit up now that her news was revealed. “I believe we can expect our prince in the autumn.” Her hand subconsciously had fallen to rest upon her thick layers of skirts, and she demonstrated no sign that she expected this child to befall the fate that had taken her previous babes.
Forcing herself to leave her seat and appear joyous, Margaret knelt before Catherine and took her hands in her own, rubbing them as if they were cold. “Thank the Lord for his many blessings! Of course, I will be here with you. I would not trust your care to another soul in this world.”
“Thank you, Margaret,” Catherine whispered as she pulled her into an embrace that revealed the worry she had been so successfully hiding. “God has sent me a great gift in you.”
May 1513
Catherine bloomed along with the Tudor roses that spring, and Margaret was pleased to see that she seemed in good health. Watching over her like a mother, Margaret ensured that the queen got proper rest and foods that were known to strengthen children in the womb.
Henry was only slightly less vigilant. He had refused his wife’s requests to ride out with him and insisted that she also give up dancing and any other activity that may exert too much energy or jostle the child. Of course, this meant that he was also absent from her bed, though Margaret was unsure who Catherine’s proxy was. Maybe he would honor his queen and avoid dalliance this time in the hope of earning God’s favor for the precious babe. There were few things that Henry coveted more than a son of his own.
Margaret did not want her charge to become too slothful under Henry’s instructions. She understood better than he the energy that Catherine would require when her time can, so the women shared garden walks each day and watched the greenery come to life. New discoveries were made each day as the women noted shoots popping from the dirt, buds exploding into bloom, and leaves creating veils around private alcoves.
During one of these early morning excursions, Catherine voiced her fears for the first time as birds sang a joyful tune and the sun shone with promised warmth.
“What if this babe, too, dies?”
Avoiding her friend’s gaze, Margaret took a moment to respond. “We cannot know God’s will,” she said, but saw that this was not what Catherine needed to hear at present. “Your child will not die,” she stated firmly. “You have the best care and a doting husband who just happens to be king. God hears your sincere prayers and is sure to bless you and the country with a prince to be his father’s image and heir.”
The queen inhaled deeply of the fresh air and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Thank you. I do not only need you as a h
elpmate and guide, but your faith boosts my own when the devil attempts to get a foothold.”
“Oh Catherine,” Margaret said, turning and gripping the younger woman by her shoulders. “I cannot know our future any more than you, but I also cannot believe that God has brought us both to this place only to see us brought low again.” She held her close for a moment before continuing, “You will give birth to a thriving child if it is within the poor powers that our Lord has given me to ensure that you do.”
The moment was broken by the sounds of chaos from across the courtyard that could only indicate the approach of the King. Henry was a boisterous presence at all times, but an edge of anger could be heard as he demanded to know the location of his queen.
The women hurried toward the sounds, wondering what could have upset him. He had been jovial since Margaret’s return to court. Whether it was because he was young or because he was king, he did not seem to doubt that his wife would present him with a healthy son this time. Margaret had begun to forget to be distressed by his presence.
As they approached him, Margaret was alarmed to see his gaze fall upon her rather than his wife. His face was held firm in angry lines, and he sent away those he had just called to him in order to help locate the women. Without meaning to, Margaret hung her head and looked at the ground in an effort to turn his attention away.
“Dear husband, what is it that troubles you?” Catherine asked as she raised her hands in an attempt to touch his face and smooth his hair.
He shook himself out of her grasp and took a step toward his cousin. “Lady Salisbury, you will tell me what you know of your traitorous cousin’s location and actions.”
Her head whipped up for her eyes to questioningly search his. “Your grace, I’m not sure . . .”
“You know exactly what I mean,” he bellowed. “Or maybe so many decades of treason does, in fact, leave you uncertain in a family like yours.”
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 8