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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  The queen did not have her fire roaring as Margaret had. Younger and burdened by the weight of her coming child, Catherine did not feel the cold as her friend did. In fact, she had discarded her mantle and was wearing a dress more suited to summer while her ladies took places closer to the small fire. Her face lit up when she noticed Margaret’s arrival.

  “I have wonderful news,” Catherine said in a low voice meant only for Margaret. “Henry will be pleased with tidings from Scotland as our Lord Howard of Surrey is leading his troops toward an encampment near Flodden Edge. The Scots believe that we cannot bring the battle to them with our troops in France, but they are confidently marching toward their own defeat.”

  Margaret did her best to appear impressed by the news that Thomas Howard felt himself ready for battle. Well advanced in age, Surrey looked to recapture a bit of his family’s former glory, but Margaret was sure the Scots had good reason for their optimism.

  Catherine did not notice Margaret’s doubt and continued, “He is hopeful that King James himself will be there.”

  “Will that not inspire his troops to fight that much more fervently?” Margaret asked and then winced that she had allowed the question to escape.

  Catherine, however, merely shrugged. “It will not matter. James is ineffective and will fail.”

  “Henry’s faith in you was well placed, your grace. I would not have foreseen your aptitude for war.”

  With a confident smile that made Margaret wonder where the queen’s shy blushes had gone, Catherine stated, “Henry will have every reason to be pleased with me upon his return.”

  Margaret nodded. A prince in the cradle and the Scots put back in their place. This would please the king a great deal if events went according to his queen’s plan. Margaret prayed that they would. Surely, God would bless Catherine this time.

  As if her thoughts had prompted the action, Margaret watched Catherine’s eyes widen in fear and her hand reach under the bulge of her belly. Without giving her a chance to speak, Margaret ordered the most senior of Catherine’s ladies to clear the room and send for the midwife.

  ~~~~

  The hours of agony had once again paid Catherine poor reward. The child, who was born an almost cruelly perfect baby boy, had struggled to take breath only briefly. One could almost convince themselves that he was sleeping, so finely formed were his outward features that his death was a mystery.

  Rather than collapsing into tears, Catherine’s face appeared to be carved from stone when she was given the news that strident efforts had not saved her son’s life. She was no longer a girl and had grown used to pain and disappointment, but she was also now the regent ruler of England and would not show weakness, regardless of how fractured her soul felt.

  After a brief rest taken as women silently tidied the rooms that should have been filled with a newborn’s cries and happy celebrating, Catherine requested writing tools to inform Henry of the birth and death of his son.

  Catherine was still abed several days later when a messenger wearing the evidence of long travel arrived and requested an audience with the queen. He was ushered into Margaret’s presence instead with Bishop John Fisher, Catherine’s most trusted advisor, at her side.

  “Your grace,” the young man said hesitantly, as if uncertain who he addressed or how to properly address her. “I’ve come with a message for the queen.”

  “You will have heard then that she has recently born a child and cannot receive visitors at this time.” Margaret knew that she sounded harsh but also knew that a woman must in order to obtain authority and respect from men. “Queen Catherine sends me as her proxy, and anything you have to say to her you may tell me.”

  With a glance at Fisher, the man assented. “I bear her majesty victorious news from Northumberland, my lady. Surrey has taken the day and the King of Scotland lies dead upon the field near Flodden.”

  Margaret controlled her features to hide her emotions upon hearing that James IV, the husband of Margaret Tudor, was dead. His son, now James V, had not yet reached two years of age. What would Henry think of the ascendancy of his nephew?

  The messenger was continuing with details of the battle, men captured, and others lost, while Margaret considered what this battle would mean to her family and the game of royal dynasties with Henry’s sister in control of the infant King of Scots. Excusing herself as soon as she was able, Margaret rushed to share the news with Catherine.

  An unpleasant smile formed on Catherine’s face as Margaret relayed the news. “I will have the head of the Scots’ king as a gift for my husband to uplift him as he also prepares for battle.”

  Margaret was caught with her mouth agape. Of all of the things she had thought her friend might say, this was an order she had not anticipated. “Catherine?”

  A cruel gleam that Margaret had seen in others but never in Catherine lit the younger woman’s eyes. “See it done, Lady Salisbury. The king will be pleased to have the head of that arrogant Scot presented to him before he destroys the French.”

  Seeing other faces in the chamber no less shocked than her own, Margaret mumbled assent and bowed from the room.

  She was thankful when Fisher pointed out the logistic difficulties of transporting King James’ head to Henry in a desirable condition and suggested a gift of his bloody doublet in its stead. As gruesome as the business was, Margaret thanked God that Catherine did not have to report a double failure to her mercurial husband.

  “Do you believe that Henry will order his sister to return to London?” Margaret asked Catherine as they shared a simple meal in Catherine’s rooms a few days later.

  “It is the course that I plan to recommend to him,” Catherine said as she shoved a healthy portion of fluffy white bread into her mouth. Margaret was saddened that a thicker waistline was all Catherine had to show for her many pregnancies. “He will wish to groom her son for kingship, I have no doubt.”

  “It will serve him well to have an ally in Scotland, rather than a rival,” Margaret agreed. Best to befriend the boy while he was young and develop a sustainable relationship with the Scots.

  “Of course, he will be more than an ally, since he will also be Henry’s heir.”

  Catherine seemed to be frequently taking Margaret by surprise. She considered those who Henry might name as his heir besides the young King of Scots. There was Edward Stafford, but of course he would prefer a son of his own sister. “Only until he has a son of his own,” she said as her mind flitted through the Tudor family tree for acceptable substitutes.

  “That is in God’s hands,” Catherine stated harshly, closing the subject of her own childbearing.

  “As are we all,” Margaret agreed, submissively bowing her head before this hardened version of her faithful friend.

  June 1514

  With Catherine recovered physically, if permanently altered emotionally, and Henry returned from France, Margaret had gladly taken her leave from court to tend to her personal estates. She felt herself slowly relax the farther she removed herself from London, and was pleased to see the progress made at Bisham.

  The news that Montague had been knighted in France was received with pleasure second by far to that pertaining to Henry and Arthur’s safe return. Henry had made his way to Bockmer and Jane, while Arthur had remained at court to ply his charm upon the king and the fair ladies of England. How he reminded Margaret of her father. She thought this with a smile that disappeared as she prayed that God would grant her son a more prudent mind than George of Clarence had been blessed with.

  Margaret had invited the duke of Buckingham to visit Bisham. She told herself that she had done so to hear of her sons’ exploits in France and to have his opinion of the ongoing construction project, but the tightness she felt deep within her when she thought of him exposed her private lie. As long as it was only herself that it was ever revealed to, she thought.

  Ursula was at Margaret’s side to receive Buckingham and his entourage. The carefree smile upon her daughter’s face re
assured Margaret that she knew nothing of the marriage plans that she and Edward would also negotiate and finalize during this trip. Ursula would not be dismayed by the match, but surely she would be nervous if she were aware that she would soon be greeting the boy that would become her husband.

  At sixteen, Ursula was more beautiful than Margaret had ever been. She thought this with pride and not an iota of jealousy. Having grown up surrounded by cousins who were stunning in looks but not always blessed with happiness, Margaret had long understood that there were more important elements of life than youthful beauty. Many of these vital components were also embodied in her daughter. Ursula skillfully managed the household while Margaret was at court and demonstrated none of the infamous Plantagenet temper.

  A warm breeze stirred the few loose wisps of Ursula’s auburn hair that had escaped their pins, and Margaret’s heart ached with love for this girl whom she would soon be sending away to begin her own household. She was not foolish enough to wonder why it had to be that way but did wonder what life might be like if she and Ursula could simply stay together at Bisham, never visiting the Tudor court again. At least with Stafford she would be safe.

  The caravan edging closer to the waiting women had the appearance of a royal procession. Buckingham displayed evidence of his royal blood in the finery that clothed his men and horses, the Buckingham coat of arms daring anyone to challenge his superiority. The Stafford chevron was boldly quartered with England’s rampant lions and France’s fleur-de-lis to remind everyone of whom Edward’s ancestors were. Fear tugged at Margaret’s heart. Must he be so antagonistic? It was time to accept that the Plantagenet dynasty was over.

  A brilliant smile covered the emotions that were at war within her. The sight of Edward genuinely boosted her spirits, and she would have nagging doubts about any family that she was entrusting her daughter’s care to. She took a deep breath. She was doing the right thing.

  The russet haired boy riding next to Edward had to be his son, Harry. Margaret released the breath she had been subconsciously holding, thankful that the almost fourteen year old appeared tall and well-built. Ursula would have balked at being betrothed to one who seemed to be a little boy, and Margaret could not blame her. Before he dismounted, Margaret could see that Harry would tower over her daughter despite being two years younger.

  If their looks marked them as family, only a few words spoken established that Harry was a very different man than his father. Leaping from his horse with the ease of youth, Harry did not give the impression that his actions were for show. He had the look of one who takes in much more than they reveal. As his father loudly greeted the ladies and barked orders at servants, Harry quietly and respectfully waited to be presented.

  Margaret dared not glance at Ursula enough to give anything away, but she saw enough to perceive a slight flush that rose to her daughter’s cheeks. Good. That was a promising beginning.

  When the party turned to move indoors, Edward consumed Margaret’s attention. When he took her hand and placed it on his arm, she kept her face turned away to avoid revealing her own blush. The anger she felt with herself for feeling this way only exacerbated the problem, and she felt her face flush with heat.

  “Margaret, you must serve us some of that wonderful red wine that you have brought in from Spain. The heat of the sun seems to be getting to you.”

  She dared not look up into his face to see the smug grin that she was sure resided there.

  “I will,” she responded with enthusiasm, refusing to rise to his bait. “In fact, I have a new one that I know you will enjoy.”

  He carried on with the descriptions of wines that he had sampled since their last meeting, while Margaret attempted to focus her ears on the conversation between Ursula and Harry. She did not manage to hear them but could see that Harry had either been tutored to treat Ursula with special care or he was an uncommonly refined gentleman for his age. Either was fine with Margaret as long as he pleased her daughter. The sparkle in Ursula’s eye when she tilted her head back to smile up at him proclaimed that she was pleased indeed.

  The household quickly settled and many retired early after a gluttonous meal that Margaret knew would please the duke. He had been in his element, entertaining all present with his stories of France. Even Margaret enjoyed the meal more than she normally would have since Edward’s escapades included her sons. She beamed when Henry’s or Arthur’s name was mentioned.

  “The wine you requested,” Margaret said, gesturing to a small table set before the fire in her private sitting room.

  Edward smiled sincerely this time as he took up a goblet and relaxed into one of the chairs set between the fireplace and the open window. During the summer, Margaret enjoyed blending the cool evening air with all its seasonal scents with the warmth of a small, cheerful fire.

  Taking up a glass herself, Margaret sat next to him. “The children got on well,” she observed. “Had Harry been prepared?”

  Buckingham laughed. “No, I dared not speak as I know that my own tongue has a habit of running wild once it is set free.” After a moment of internal reflection, he added, “He is simply a better man than I am.”

  “Self-doubt? I never thought I’d see it in you,” Margaret teased, placing a hand lightly upon his arm. “But I am happy that they seem well suited to one another.”

  He examined her hand as if considering his next move, so she pulled it back. “The boy deserves a fine marriage. If he can be happy as well, then he will be richer than his father.”

  Guilt washed over Margaret. Eleanor and Edward were seen so rarely together that she had a habit of forgetting that the other woman existed. While she would never consider anything inappropriate with Buckingham for her own reasons, honoring his wife should have been one of them.

  “You are content that we move forward with plans for them?” Edward interrupted her thoughts.

  She nodded with exaggerated motion as if it would clear her head of all else. “I am. Our families are ideally matched. They will be the most notable couple in the kingdom.” Glancing at her cousin, she added, “Besides the king and queen, of course.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, though he could not contain himself from saying more. He leaned in close to her in the way that always made it difficult for her to focus on what he was saying. “Maybe they will be the king and queen,” he whispered.

  Those words. The wine on his breath. The quivering in her stomach at his closeness. She thought she would be sick.

  “No, Edward.” She forced more strength into her voice. “Do not say anything like that again.” Her anger building, she stood and looked down on him. “My father was executed for words such as those. My brother because the king thought he might someday say them. Do not ever utter them in reference to my daughter.”

  Her hands were on her hips and the fire glowed behind her, making her appear to be a demonic vision. At least to anyone besides Edward Stafford. He laughed.

  Margaret wavered in her conviction and her arms fell limp to her sides. She felt foolish and turned to pour more wine in order to give herself a moment free of his mocking face.

  “Margaret.”

  How had she not heard him rise and move behind her? He was too close, with his hands on her arms, almost embracing her as no man, save Richard, had ever done. Her limbs were frozen and her words caught in her throat.

  “You misunderstand me,” he said in a voice so low and deep she swore she could feel it vibrating inside her. “I know they will rule.”

  She swallowed.

  “You know what the monks have told me.” His breath warmed her neck and excitement pulsed through her. “It will be you and I, Margaret, and our children will follow us.”

  Margaret closed her eyes. She would not be swept up in this. She was not her father. She pulled herself from his grip and turned to face him.

  “And where will your wife be while we rule England? Where will Henry Tudor be? Do you think he is simply going to hand you his crown?” She allowed
the mockery that Edward usually utilized to saturate her own questions, but he only smiled knowingly.

  He stepped toward her again, keeping his voice seductively low. “Henry will die with no heir. Surely you see that?” He stopped short of touching her. “Who is higher in the kingdom than you and I?”

  “I…” Margaret faltered. She didn’t know what would happen if Catherine failed to birth a son. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider it. “Henry has sisters. Surely they…” were not men, like Edward was. She did not finish.

  “You understand now,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “It is our royal blood that is strong. The weakness of the Tudor blood is showing and it will fail.” His face was inches from hers, and she forced herself not to prepare for his kiss. She would not close her eyes, would not part her lips.

  “I will give you time,” he said, releasing her. Edward was gone from the room before she could catch her breath.

  February 1516

  Almost two years later, Edward’s words flashed through Margaret’s mind as she heard the first cry of Catherine’s baby.

  After that night, they had both pretended that the treasonous, intimate conversation had not taken place. They had discussed construction, betrothals, and her sons’ action in France. However, she had never been able to forget his certainty or the way he had made her want it to be true as well.

  “Lady Salisbury, please attend her grace.”

  The midwife had addressed her with more briskness than should be acceptable, but Margaret was thankful to be shaken from her memories. The baby’s wailing continued. It sounded strong and healthy, and Catherine looked radiant.

  “He is robust! Do you hear him?”

  “Yes, my friend,” Margaret said, smiling. “I wager that all of his future kingdom can hear him.”