Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat. So, her family was no longer his, then? “Please, your grace.”
“Richard de la Pole,” he said without listening to her entreaty. “He has evaded me and now gives his loyalty to that French viper, Louis. Have you communicated with him?”
“Your grace, I have not,” Margaret stated as confidently as she was able. As relieved as she was to be able to honestly deny Henry’s accusations, she could not be at ease until she was certain he believed her. “Richard de la Pole left England while my husband was still alive. My concern has been only for him and then his children for many years.” She bowed her head enough to be respectful while keeping it high enough to demonstrate that she did not hide anything from her king.
With a furrowed brow, Henry contemplated her words and considered their truth. “And Edmund?” he asked.
Margaret could not stop herself from a quick, sidelong glance at Catherine, who simply shrugged. She raised her eyes again. “Surely, your grace, he is still held in the Tower at your pleasure.”
Edmund de la Pole had been imprisoned since he was turned over to the previous King Henry by Philip of Castile several years earlier. Margaret had never known him well and had not visited him in the interest of protecting her own children. She assumed he was there still.
Henry’s face now was smug in an ugly fashion that reminded Margaret of bullies who target smaller children at play. A curl of fear began to twist itself deep in the center of her being. Had she tempted fate with discussing her great position just moments ago?
“He was,” Henry gloated as he flexed his chest and stood tall to emphasize how high he towered above her. “His family’s treason has resulted in his execution.” Leaning in toward her ominously, he added, “Be sure I am the first to hear of it if you are contacted by Richard de la Pole or have any news of him whatsoever.”
Margaret could only whisper, “Yes, your grace.”
She lowered her head once again and did not move or speak until she heard his heavy footsteps completely fade away. She clamped her eyes shut as she waited, willing tears away as she prayed that God not revisit these feuds upon her family. Not again. Had they not endured enough? But Henry would not remember that. He had not even been born when John, the first de la Pole brother to rebel against Tudor rule, gave up his life at Stoke Field.
Feeling Catherine’s small hand upon her back, Margaret allowed the vision of the tranquil garden to once again fill her eyes. The beauty of the day remained, and she could almost convince herself that the interlude with Henry had only been a horrid nightmare. Except that one look at Catherine’s face told Margaret that her friend was as terrified by the transformation in the king as she was.
Catherine quickly arranged her face to appear as if nothing untoward had occurred. She slipped an arm around Margaret’s waist and informed her ladies that they were going to retire to her rooms for a while. “My dear Margaret does not feel well,” she said, though all had heard Henry’s attack. “Please give us some privacy until I call for you.”
Most of the women mumbled their assent or said nothing. Each had to determine what to say and how to act going forward with the knowledge that the countess of Salisbury was no longer held in high regard by the King. Would he bring her down further or was this simply an explosion of temper aimed at her because Richard de la Pole was beyond his reach? Loyalties must not be too loudly proclaimed just yet.
The door was quietly closed once Catherine had obtained food and wine to bolster them. Sitting together like this with the rest of the world shut out, Margaret could fantasize that they were simply two Englishwomen, not pawns at the whim of a Tudor king. An involuntary shudder drew Catherine’s eyes to her.
“It is not you that he holds responsible,” she attempted to reassure her. “Richard and Edmund have demonstrated their lack of loyalty since before Henry was crowned.”
Margaret pressed her lips together and nodded slowly. Catherine was right about the de la Poles, but why would Henry take it out on her? She was no closer relation to them than he was. She hated feeling like a scapegoat.
“He will soon be distracted from his anger by the preparations to leave for France, in any case,” Catherine continued as if she were talking about nothing more serious than the behavior of a naughty child. “You have heard that he sends the earl of Surrey north while he will personally lead his army across the channel?”
His sins forgotten, Catherine glowed with pride as she discussed her husband’s plan to fight a war on two fronts with the Scots to the north and the French to the south. Margaret was not sure what to say about the ease with which Catherine brushed aside his cruelty or his questionable battle strategy. She chose to say nothing and sipped her wine instead. For the first time since she had accepted Catherine’s call, she wished she could return to her own estates and be with her children instead of participating in the unpredictable game that was the royal court.
She was not surprised or offended that Catherine’s first loyalty would be to her husband and king. That was as it should be. She only wished that the babe’s birth was closer at hand so that she could look forward to being gone from this place where one’s destiny could suddenly reverse at any moment.
Catherine munched on bread and cheese. Her waist thickened quickly and not solely from the growth of her child. Silence, she seemed to have decided, was the best way to cope with this problem. Margaret could not disagree. After all, Edmund was already dead, and Richard was in the service of the French king. She could only pray that her name would not become intertwined with theirs again.
Releasing a deep breath, Margaret finally turned to Catherine, who raised her brows questioningly as she sipped wine to follow most of the food that had been on the serving plate.
“I did know that the king was planning a French campaign. Montague has been included in the ranks of those who will be joining him.” Margaret could not decide if she was proud or terrified that her oldest son would be part of Henry’s forces in France. It had to be better than being sent into the rugged north.
“Lord Montague will undoubtedly earn his knighthood conquering England’s ancient territory,” Catherine said a little too brightly, clearly hoping to grasp on to something that would cheer her friend.
“I have every faith in my son,” Margaret conceded. “Buckingham goes as well, and he will be the guide to him that his father cannot be.”
She was not sure why she had brought up Richard. Gone for almost ten years, he had left Margaret with a wound that she occasionally reopened to ensure that it still pained her.
“Oh, Margaret, my friend,” Catherine crooned, holding a tray invitingly in front of Margaret’s face. “Try the sweetmeats. They could cheer one in the deepest, darkest pits.”
Margaret could not help but laugh as she resigned to accepting a few of the delicacies. “Breeding women always believe that food solves every problem,” she said wryly, giving Catherine a gentle nudge.
“Well, surely they are correct then,” Catherine assured her with her nose in the air and eyebrows arched.
Their comfortable companionship regained, discussion of Henry’s plans was left for another time. Margaret chided herself for allowing the episode to upset her. It was up to her to maintain the calmness and good health surrounding the queen. The prince was her first and only priority until she was free to leave this place.
June 1513
In the weeks since the king’s outburst, Margaret had carefully avoided him as much as she could without making it clear she was doing so. During meals, they were often in company, and she put supreme effort into exuding the demeanor of one who is both innocent and demure.
For his part, Henry had neither apologized nor repeated the accusations he had threatened her with. He was also not difficult to avoid as he was consumed by his plans to invade France while the earl of Surrey took charge of English troops in the north against King James of Scotland. When he was in Margaret’s company, his mood was polite if
not as familiar as he had previously been.
This was fine with Margaret as long as her son would be in good standing with the king while they were across the channel. Concern for her son led her to approach the king during one of the last opportunities she would have before many of the men would leave England never to return.
“Your grace,” she said to him with a deep curtsey. “My son is proud beyond measure to serve his king in France, all the more so because you are our beloved cousin.”
She breathed a sigh of relief as Henry smiled in what appeared to be genuine bonhomie.
“Montague will be an ideal companion,” Henry said in a friendly tone, as if he and Margaret’s son were planning nothing more serious than a day of hunting. “He has the intellect to assess the situation between us and our enemy and his training in arms is almost second to none.” He said this last with a playful flexing of his own muscles in case there was any question who Montague was second to. “It will be a comfort to have a faithful cousin at my side.”
Margaret’s smile was sincere as she continued, “I thank you for choosing to take Arthur as well. I pray that he learns much by observing at your side and that of his brother.”
In truth Margaret’s guts twisted at the thought of her second son enthusiastically tramping off to war, but she could make no excuse to keep him safely home at the age of eighteen. Since he must go, she would choose pride over worry.
Henry threw his shoulders back, making his broad chest seem even more so. “Young Arthur will do well to be a part of the campaign. You can rest assured that I will see to his safety and training.”
It took some fortitude to keep her smile from appearing amused at Henry’s condescending tone. She was happy that Arthur was not present to hear the king speak of him as if he were an infant.
“You have put this poor mother’s heart at ease then, your grace,” she said bowing her head low and hiding her face behind the display of humility.
“When we return victorious,” Henry continued as if she had not spoken, “you will see that your sons are formed into men. Possibly fortune will shine on them and one will even return with his knighthood.”
“I hope and pray only for their safety and that they serve their king well,” Margaret said, lowering her face again to keep him from noticing her dismay at the changes she perceived in him. How he had changed since happily greeting her as family at his coronation. She felt like a supplicant and wondered how her sons would manage their interactions with him. Of Montague, she had no concerns, but Arthur too often depended upon his charm to get away with what other men could not. Yes, she would be praying indeed.
She realized that while she had stood there lost in her own thoughts, her head bowed before the king, he had moved on to the next person who he felt certain should be honored by his attention. Margaret took a deep breath, somewhat bolstered by the fact that the conversation had gone about as well as she could have hoped for, and looked for Catherine.
It was easy to spot the queen despite her small stature. She positively glowed with joy and good health. Margaret was certain that the women’s prayers would be answered by the safe delivery of a healthy prince in the autumn.
“Margaret, I do believe that it is time that I should rest,” Catherine said slightly too loudly as Margaret approached.
Keeping her face neutral, Margaret observed that the newly named Lord Lisle had claimed Catherine’s attention. Charles Brandon may have been the king’s oldest and closest friend, but the queen quickly grew weary of his coarseness. Margaret lowered her head slightly to the large, overbearing man before turning to her queen.
“Your grace, let me escort you to your rooms and fetch a cool compress for your head.”
Margaret moved to take Catherine’s arm then turned slightly toward Brandon. He scratched at his bushy beard, and Margaret could not help but wonder what his young ward by whom he took his title thought about being betrothed to him. Poor Elizabeth Grey was only eight years old, but maybe that was a mercy. Even Brandon could not suggest that they marry just yet. Besides, her title was just a small stepping stone on his way to the promised dukedom.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Lord Lisle,” she said, knowing that use of his new title would keep him from taking offense at the queen’s leaving. “I must ensure that the queen takes every precaution, regardless of how much she enjoys her present company.”
She heard Catherine make a low scoffing sound and resolved not to glance in her direction, hoping that Brandon had not noticed. Her worry was entirely unfounded, as his attention was already captured by one of the younger of Catherine’s ladies. Margaret was thankful for his distraction while making a mental note to instruct the girl on handling men like Brandon.
As they turned away, Margaret gave her friend a sidelong glance and could hold back her grin no longer. Only steps away, she whispered, “Your grace, I can only escort you from undesirable situations if you are able to maintain your composure at my lies.”
Catherine did not hold back her laughter, and Margaret hoped that they were far enough from Brandon that he would not connect it to himself. She was afraid that Brandon had more power over the king than Catherine gave him credit for. Maybe it was her upbringing, but Margaret saw potential for rivalry everywhere.
Soon they were settling in Catherine’s rooms with a window open to allow a sweet summer breeze to refresh them. Margaret solicitously placed a small stool under Catherine’s feet and cooled a cloth in rosewater before placing it upon her brow.
“You are too good to me,” Catherine sighed wearily. Tiredness seemed to overtake her once the excitement of the crowd no longer enlivened her.
“I am precisely as good as you deserve, your grace.”
Margaret was pleased to see a content smile form on Catherine’s lips as she seemed already to be dozing in the cushioned chair.
~~~~
Before she knew it, before she was ready, it was time for Margaret to send her two oldest sons off to France to serve their king. She vowed not to spend their last moments together repeating advice and instructions that she had already given them until they rolled their eyes at her and assured her that they were no longer children and did not need to be treated as such.
She stood proudly before them. Though her head was held high and her back straight, both of her sons towered over her. Just as their father had. She quickly dismissed the thought. This moment did not belong to her husband’s ghost, although he would have been thrilled to see his sons in the king’s service.
Montague knelt before her with Arthur quickly mirroring his movements. “Your blessing, mother?” he requested in a resonating tone that enabled Montague to be a man that others listened to despite his youth.
“Of course, my son,” Margaret could manage only to whisper as her throat seemed to swell. As she lightly made the sign of the cross upon his features, she prayed, “May the Lord bless your eyes with discernment and your mouth with wise words. May he give you courage and victory.”
Montague arose as Margaret repeated the words to her younger son. The blessing ended with her voice refusing to obey her. They way Arthur’s hair carelessly fell across his forehead reminded her of her brother, though Edward’s had been Plantagenet red and her son’s was dark as a raven. Looking into his eyes as he rose, she wondered why she had never noticed the similarities in them before. Her brother would never have the opportunity to serve his king, but her sons would make up for that loss.
She blinked, realizing that Montague was speaking words of comfort and assurance to her that meant nothing and ensured nothing but were kindly intended. Margaret knew that few men headed into battle believing that they would be the ones to fall. She would not embrace them again. That had been done in private. Now was the time to send them off as men. Each of them raised her hand to their lips and were carried off by the bustling swarm of humanity that looked to make their fortune in France.
Moving to Catherine’s side, she was pleased to see the strength
demonstrated in the queen’s dignified appearance. Margaret had not given voice to the fact that she disagreed with the king’s decision to make Catherine regent in his absence. Her ability Margaret did not doubt, but she wondered if it was wise to put the stress of ruling upon the queen while she was with child. Catherine’s expression left no doubt that she was certain of her own fitness for the task at hand. Margaret could only pray that God would see the child brought safely forth and England’s enemies vanquished.
September 1513
Margaret kept her back straight and stiff as she knelt before the altar that was set up in her room for private worship. Months at court left her buzzing with anxiety and unable to let down her guard even long enough for prayer. The ease that she should have felt with Henry’s leaving was replaced by concern for her sons and other people she cherished who had gone to war. She fervently prayed for each of them by name, and was disturbed by the ache in her knees when she finally rose.
As a girl, she had been able to leap from the altar unaffected by the cold stones that left her elders rising more slowly. With chagrin she realized that her younger self would put her in that category of elders with her grown children marrying and following their king to glory in France.
“I suppose I am old,” she whispered to the sculpted Jesus who had already listened to her silent prayers. The statue had been a gift from her cousin Elizabeth upon Margaret’s marriage. Many times had her eyes taken in the fine details of craftsmanship that made her savior seem so lifelike that at times she expected him to give vocal response to her heavenly requests. His sky colored eyes gazed solemnly into hers but revealed nothing of his divine wisdom.
Returning to the demands of her day, Margaret turned from the unchanging stare with a swish of skirts and strode toward Catherine’s rooms. She had not far to go and was thankful, for the narrow corridor was much cooler than her private room with its cheerful fire chasing away the autumn chill that invaded through each crevice of the palace. She pulled her mantle closed to trap the cozy warmth of her rooms close to her body, not releasing her grasp until she had gained entry to Catherine’s comfortable quarters.
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 9