“Deliver your message before you take your comfort in the hall,” Margaret ordered him more sternly than she aught.
“I apologize for the early hour,” he said as he cowered in her presence. “Lord Montague wished for you to receive the news without delay.”
“Then do not delay it.”
“It is the duke of Buckingham, your grace,” he paused until he glanced up and was pushed forward by the impatience in her stare. “The king has asked him to meet him here, at Greenwich.”
Margaret’s face could have been carved from stone but her emotions reeled within her. It was the moment that her son had warned her about. She willed steel into her spine but could not find her voice. A stern nod released the messenger, and she sat for a full hour contemplating her next move.
~~~~
The days that followed this announcement were filled with dread and indecision for Margaret. She left Mary more in the care of her instructors and ladies while she gathered her thoughts and questions.
Why had the king determined to meet Buckingham at Greenwich? Was he sending her some sort of message? Did he hope to speak with them, and accuse them, together?
She contemplated sending a note to Catherine but was hesitant to put any questions she had to parchment. It was impossible to know if Catherine would have any knowledge of her husband’s plans, but he would certainly be privy to her communications.
If the moment came, should she disavow Buckingham or provide for him a character witness. Would exposing his guilt serve her family worse than taking the chance that they would be included in it? In the end, she knew the only one with any knowledge of the future heard her prayers as she frequented the chapel for daily services and meditation. God, however, seemed hesitant to share his answers with her.
Knees aching from so much time on the cold stone floor and mind weary from sleepless nights, she ordered the household to prepare for a visit from the king. Assuming this was a routine visit to monitor his daughter’s progress, the staff bustled into activity but not concern. Only Margaret harbored fear regarding the visit’s true meaning.
After a night of sleep that was so deep it could only be brought on by complete exhaustion, Margaret received another messenger from her oldest son. This time, she received him in her own rooms after dismissing her attendants.
“What news does Lord Montague send?” she plied him with the question as the door closed behind the last lady to leave. The messenger bowed low and respectfully, but she was annoyed with the delay. “Your message,” she ordered.
“My Lord Montague wishes to inform you that the king has changed his plans and will not be traveling to Greenwich. He has intercepted the duke of Buckingham and had him lodged within the Tower of London.”
He heard Margaret’s quick intake of breath, but her face was arranged by the time he looked up.
“Thank you,” she said regally. “You serve my son well. Please see to your refreshment in the hall.”
He bowed again. “I appreciate the offer but am to return with all haste. Do you have a return message for Lord Montague?”
Margaret considered what motherly advice she should send forth with the man before realizing that it was Henry who was expertly following events and protecting them all. “Tell him that I pray for God’s blessings upon him.”
Another shallow bow and her son’s man was gone.
May 1521
If Margaret had been anxious before, she was terrified now that Buckingham was under arrest. It was difficult to concentrate upon Princess Mary’s tutoring and activities when she was plagued by worries of what it would mean for her family.
Thankfully, she had taken Henry’s advice and sent Geoffrey to him. That left only Ursula with close connections, but her husband was not often thought of in conjunction with his father. She thanked God for that.
Margaret was perched upon a window seat in her rooms, facing outward but not seeing any of the spring beauty outside, when movement caught her attention. A rider was approaching, and as the distance was reduced to within range of her vision she recognized him as the man her son had last sent with news of Buckingham’s arrest.
She sent her ladies each on errands, one with the task to have the man sent directly to her. If he was shocked by the disarray of her hair and wardrobe when he arrived, he did not show it. He had much more important concerns.
“What message does Henry send?” She asked before the messenger could kneel before her. Failing to refer to her son by his title in the presence of a servant evinced her fretfulness.
“He did not.” Seeing the confusion on her face, he continued. “I have come of my own accord because I believe it is what my lord would have had me do.”
“Oh, God, no,” Margaret whispered.
“You misunderstand me, your grace,” he quickly interrupted. “Lord Montague is of good health.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in gratitude, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed toward him. “Yet there is a problem. A serious one.”
“I am deeply sorry, but yes. Montague and Bergavenny have joined the duke of Buckingham. In the Tower.”
Margaret thought she now knew what it felt like to die.
Memories of Henry flooded her mind from the time he was born and Richard was still healthy and strong at her side to the last time she had seen him, looking much as his father had looked before he rode away for the last time.
“No,” she whispered to the empty room.
The years since Richard’s death had not dealt her that type of pain again, as if God knew that she had already endured a lifetime’s worth of sorrow, but now Henry was in the Tower. Did the king know that Buckingham was certain that his son and Ursula would someday reign? If so, her daughter was not safe either. Margaret had allowed the idyllic days to make her incautious. She had dropped her guard and now her children were in danger.
“No,” she said again, but what could she do?
Henry was perceptive. With Edward as good as lost, he would give the testimony that the king wanted to ensure his own safety. Wouldn’t he?
“Dear God,” she said, falling to her knees in the middle of her room. “Please protect him, for you are the only one who can.”
With her skirts pooled around her and her knees angrily protesting that they were too old to be pressed against the unforgiving stone floor, Margaret wept as she had not since the death of her husband over fifteen years earlier.
Realizing that his presence had been forgotten and his task complete, Henry’s man crept silently from the room and away from the shocking presence of the weeping countess.
~~~~
Margaret was standing within the courtyard of the Tower of London, surrounded by people she knew from the best families in the kingdom. The spectacle about to take place was one that no one seemed eager to witness, but they had all been called there just the same. What would occur here was to be an example to them all. Do not cross King Henry VIII.
Margaret took little comfort in the fact that Ursula, Arthur, and Geoffrey were standing near. She wished that they were not here and did not have to see the horrible play of power that was being put into motion. Thankfully, Reginald was preparing to attend the university at Padua. The king still valued this Plantagenet son and was sending him to further his education across the channel. Reginald had a way of remaining sheltered from the low points of life that the rest of them were forced to experience. Maybe his siblings were jealous of that fact, but his mother was grateful.
Let him never return to England again if that is what it takes for him to be safe and happy, she thought as she reached for Ursula’s hand. Just as her fingers were almost within reach, Ursula shifted her body away from her mother, and Margaret stood surrounded yet alone as her firstborn son was marched out onto the fresh spring grass.
Henry stood proud, as she knew he would. Nothing in his countenance gave away his fear, his regret that he would not see another summer sun or lift his children into his arms. He knew tha
t his final actions and words would be long remembered and would not spend them groveling. Only Margaret noticed his extended gaze into the sky that was filled with longing. For heaven or another day on Earth?
The scaffold had been prepared, and Henry strode toward it with no urging from those guarding him. He would meet his fate with courage.
Margaret’s knees turned to jelly and her stomach threatened to empty its contents here in front of this noble gathering. How could she watch her son die? She thought of the Virgin Mary, sitting at the foot of the cross as her son was tortured and executed. “Pray, give me your strength,” she whispered, though none around her seemed to hear. Everyone’s eyes were fixated on Montague, who appeared to be a man but Margaret knew to be her little boy.
He had climbed onto the scaffolding, and Margaret wondered that he did not speak. This was happening too quickly! What about his final words and prayer, the opportunity for the king to send relief at the last moment? They must give him time.
But they did not. Henry’s neck was exposed on the block, and the axe was raised.
“No!” Margaret screamed, or she tried to. The word would not come, and the people around her seemed frozen in place. “No!” she tried again, only a guttural moan escaping her.
Ursula finally turned as if just now noticing her mother. She grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her firmly.
“Stop! We must save Henry!” Margaret cried. Ursula’s face remained neutral as she continued to jostle Margaret without mercy.
“Margaret!”
It was not Ursula’s voice, and she had not been addressed as mother. In confusion and grief, Margaret let the tears fall.
“Margaret, you must wake,” the disembodied voice ordered.
Ursula, the crowd, and Tower Green disappeared. Margaret gasped to find herself in bed, her ladies surrounding her with fear plastered upon their faces.
“It was only a dream….a nightmare,” one of them dared to explain.
Heat rushed to Margaret’s face as embarrassment replaced her fear and sadness. She must have called out in her sleep, but what had she said? Could they discern the content of her dream? She sat up in bed, smoothing the covers and her hair, fidgeting because she did not know what to say.
“Thank you,” she managed to mumble.
Her attendants, seeing her discomfort, tipped their heads to her and began to move away. Just as Margaret was catching her breath and the flush was fading from her cheeks, an unexpected knock came at her door. Whispering between the girl who had rushed to it and the mysterious person on the other side of the door ensued for just a moment.
The young woman closed the door and leaned against it for support. She suddenly realized that all eyes in the room were upon her, and she looked to Margaret with an apologetic look on her face.
“It was a messenger, your grace.” She paused, looking around the room and seeing that everyone waited impatiently for her news. “The duke of Buckingham has been executed for treason.”
Everyone seemed to freeze just as they had in her dream, and Margaret prayed that she would be shaken awake once again to discover that this was not reality either. When her closest attendant laid her hand upon her shoulder in condolence, she knew that this was, in fact, real life. Edward Stafford was dead.
Feelings of guilt washed over her as she realized that her first emotion had been thankfulness that it had not been Henry.
June 1521
“I knew that you would be desperate for news, and I am always eager to visit my princess.”
Catherine squeezed Mary so tightly that Margaret expected the girl to squeal, but she endured and even seemed to enjoy the rare demonstration of affection. Margaret was touched by Catherine’s visit and bit the inside of her cheek to stopper her words until Princess Mary and her nurses had been dismissed.
Sensing her friend’s impatience, the queen gave her daughter a final pat and dismissed her entourage with the wave of a hand.
“You should know that he died well, with none of the foolish talk that took him to that place upon his lips.”
Margaret considered this. She had wondered if Buckingham had gone down blustering and debating or proud and courageous. Now she had her answer.
“He denied being a traitor, of course, but also praised Henry for being a ‘gracious prince’ before his jury.” Catherine waited to see if Margaret would ask about the execution, about the three strokes that it had taken to sever the duke’s head from his body, but she did not.
“Do you know the king’s plans for my son?”
Catherine sighed. “I am no longer Henry’s chosen confidant, and certainly not when it is the son of my closest friend that he wishes to discuss.”
Margaret visibly deflated, so Catherine offered what she could.
“There were tears in the crowd as Buckingham was led to death. I do not believe that Henry will repeat this act based upon the imprudent words of a dead man.”
Slowly nodding at the sense of this, Margaret began to feel the first easing of concern regarding Henry.
“The king’s attention has been diverted to France once again, where he continues his quest for Richard de la Pole.”
Margaret furrowed her brow. “He is concerned that he is a threat? We are well into the Tudor dynasty and most have come to fully accept it. Richard de la Pole has few people on English soil who remember him, let alone would support him should it come to an invasion.”
“Yet, that is just what Henry fears,” Catherine admitted, rubbing a hand across her weary eyes. The years had not been kind to the queen. Years of uncertainty, dead babies, and easing the fury of a temperamental husband had taken their toll in the fine lines, shadowed eyes, and downturned lips. Margaret had not seen Henry in some time but wondered at how the difference in their ages must be evident now as it was not when they married.
“Do you think there is any basis for this fear?” she asked, bringing herself back to the topic at hand.
Catherine shook her head but her face was uncertain. “I do not think so. Richard has made a name for himself on the continent, but would he risk what he has for an invasion that would be likely to fail?”
“Henry Tudor did,” Margaret said without thinking, and Catherine tilted her head as if considering the comparison.
“He had nothing to lose. Richard, by all accounts, does. He is in high standing with several leaders, not least of which the king of France and a mistress that he is quite devoted to, but I cannot claim to understand the minds of men.”
Margaret peered at Catherine more closely, wondering at what she did not say. She considered asking but knew that speaking negatively about the king was a line that Catherine would never cross, even with her oldest friend.
Seeing her friend’s examination of her features, Catherine closed that path of conversation. “I cannot be sure, but I believe that Henry will have Montague and Bergavenny released.”
“Soon?”
“I hope so.” It was the best encouragement Catherine could offer.
The sun’s warmth streamed into the room, despite the inhabitants having little interest in the golden beauty. Margaret swirled the wine in her goblet as her mind went back to Catherine’s comments inferring degradation of her relationship with the king.
“You know that the Buckingham title has been revoked,” Catherine spoke again, breaking Margaret from her thoughts. “I am so sorry if you had not heard, but Ursula will not be the duchess of Buckingham. At least not for now.”
Margaret laughed, earning a bemused look from her friend. “It is all dust, as God tells us,” she said, still laughing. “I have planned and negotiated, put everything I had into creating the best future for my children that I could. I married Ursula into the best family in the land, and now her husband is without title. Henry sits in the Tower with his father-in-law, from whom he was meant to inherit riches that will now go to the progeny of his new wife. Arthur and his wife can barely tolerate one another, and Reginald will likely never marry. I sh
ould leave poor Geoffrey to his own devices.”
Catherine frowned as Margaret attempted to rein in her maniacal laughter at fortune’s wheel taking its turns regardless of her efforts.
“The Princess Mary will require a spouse of fine family, good reputation, and prudent mind,” Catherine mumbled as if thinking aloud.
“What?” Margaret was shocked from her fit. “What are you suggesting?”
“That one of your sons should be the one to marry her.”
Margaret shook her head enthusiastically. “Do not take offense, my dear friend,” she said, taking Catherine’s hands. “But the king would never agree to the match. Even suggesting it puts Geoffrey at risk of his wrath.”
“Reginald then,” Catherine said, unperturbed.
Margaret could only look at her friend in wonderment. The king had been considering matches for his daughter since the moment of her birth. None of those plans included the Pole family.
“I have brought this up at the wrong time,” Catherine apologized. “Think on it and rest assured that I will speak no word of it to another soul.”
Nodding in response, Margaret seemed unable to speak. She dared not consider one of her sons married to England’s next queen. When she attempted to envision it, she only saw Tower Green.
May 1522
Catherine had been correct on all counts. The king was terrified of Richard de la Pole’s potential and had called up troops to take the battle to King Francis once again. Montague had been released and was in attendance upon the king in France, either believed innocent of the treachery that had doomed Buckingham or deemed sufficiently warned.
Margaret was on progress to evaluate the status of her various renovation projects. The king’s mercy had not extended quite completely to the entire Pole family, and Margaret had lost her position as Princess Mary’s governess. Although she was disappointed, Margaret considered it a small price to pay for her son’s return to favor. She also did not regret the time she could now spend seeing to her own affairs, though she missed the bright and sometimes surprising observations of the precocious young girl.
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 14