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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  As Margaret’s caravan made its slow way through the countryside, she was thankful. Ursula would never enjoy the title of the premier duchess of the land, and Henry could no longer count on Jane’s inheritance. But they were alive. If her almost half a century on this Earth had taught her anything, it was that you could take nothing, not even life itself, for granted.

  August 1525

  The decorative chimneys of Thornbury peeked over the trees at the approaching sea of green and blue liveried people and horses. The estate, which Edward Stafford had not quite seen completed, was now to become the outpost for the princess of Wales, with the countess of Salisbury reestablished as her governess.

  Margaret had never thought to return to this castle after the arrest and execution of the duke of Buckingham and was surprised when Catherine informed her that she was to be the head of Princess Mary’s household once again. She was not sure if she should be grateful or displeased that her family had found its way back into close connection with the royal family. Since Arthur and Henry continued to serve the king, she supposed it made little difference if she again waited upon his heir.

  Princess Mary was riding securely in a litter at her parents’ insistence. It was too dangerous for her to make the trip on horseback, regardless of how much she pleaded to be allowed to for just a while. The girl longed to enjoy the sweet August sun with just enough breeze to keep it from being stifling, but the king and queen were unmoved. Margaret wondered if she would make the same decision with the kingdom’s future dependent upon this one fragile life. Yes, she thought, she would.

  Others claimed that Princess Mary would not feature in England’s future. The king had not only recognized Elizabeth Blount’s son, he had made him earl of Richmond. Certain that a girl was incapable of ruling, they looked to see Henry’s bastard son take the throne. Margaret did not believe this would happen. A bastard? If that was all it took, Stephen and Matilda would not have had to plunge England into anarchy in their fight for the crown. Henry I’s son Robert could simply have taken charge. Mary would just need the right husband to increase men’s faith in her, just as her grandsire had needed Elizabeth of York.

  She had even heard that some people believed Henry would betroth FitzRoy to his half-sister in order to give them each a greater claim. No one old enough to remember the outcry when people believed that Richard III would marry his niece were likely to give that rumor any credence. Margaret did not.

  More of Thornbury was coming into view and Margaret had great appreciation for the care that had gone into its planning and construction. She had discovered a passion for her own building projects and noticed details that Edward Stafford had designed that others probably overlooked. The carved stone, mullioned windows, and elaborate towers took her breath away. Tears threatened to spill when Edward Stafford’s carefully carved coat of arms came into view.

  Margaret tilted her face into the wind to dry her watery eyes as she entered through the stone archway that welcomed Princess Mary’s retinue to Thornbury, which was to become her seat of power as the governess of Wales.

  At nine years of age, Mary was expected to do very little on her own, but councilors and agents made up a great portion of the retinue that quickly filled Thornbury’s expansive courtyard. Built with housing of troops but not defense against an enemy in mind, Thornbury’s construction was unique and ideal for setting up Mary’s first household away from London.

  Few questioned the decision to send Mary to the Marches. It was what had been standard practice for heirs to the throne for decades, but Margaret knew that there was more to it than that. Her last conversation with Catherine reverberated through her mind as she sought quiet rooms and left the unpacking and organization to Mary’s capable steward.

  Margaret had assumed that the king must be relieved when Richard de la Pole was killed in battle at Pavia. Catherine had agreed that he was, but she had greater concerns.

  “He has stopped sharing my bed,” Catherine had confessed, blushing as she had when she was Arthur’s young bride at Ludlow.

  Margaret had been uncertain what to say. Catherine was unlikely to bear Henry another child, but this move seemed to indicate more than a lack of fertility. Had he no affection for his wife?

  “I believe he loves another.”

  Catherine’s tone revealed more than her words. It told Margaret that Catherine was concerned about more than a convenient tumble. She had endured Henry’s affairs and would not have bothered to mention a casual romp.

  “He is sending Mary away in order to punish me,” she had concluded.

  Attempting to reason with her had done no good. When Margaret pointed out that most princes spent their formative years practicing their ruling skills on the people of Wales, Catherine had simply stated that this was different.

  She had stopped short of confiding to Margaret the name of the woman that she believed had stolen her husband’s heart so completely that he wished his daughter to be far from his own presence as well as her mother’s. Now that she had spent much of the trip considering Catherine’s words, Margaret had decided that she would not dismiss them. Her friend was intelligent and discerning. She would not have shared these fears if there was no substance to them.

  Constance, Geoffrey’s wife, had joined the household as Margaret’s primary attendant. Though she did not break Catherine’s trust by sharing her concerns, Margaret did instruct the young woman to inform her of any rumor that floated through the castle, regardless of its implausibility or unimportance. Margaret would be in complete control of what reached Princess Mary’s ears.

  Dropping to her bed as soon as her ladies had prepared it, Margaret fell into a deep sleep where she could escape the conflicting thoughts and emotions that plagued her waking hours.

  September 1526

  “My mother seemed sad, Lady Salisbury. Why would that be?”

  Princess Mary’s question tore Margaret from her private thoughts. She had tended to her own estates while Mary had spent the summer on progress with her parents, who had apparently underestimated her powers of observation.

  “Did you ask her, your grace?”

  Mary slowly shook her head. “No. It did not seem right, somehow, though I know we should always be prepared to show God’s comforting love to others. I sensed that she would be less happy if I indicated that I could see through her…” she paused. “What is the word?”

  “Façade,” Margaret supplied. “She was trying to look happier than she really felt.”

  “Yes, that’s it,” Mary smiled as she stored away the new word, but frowned again as she returned to the topic at hand. “Do you know what cause she has to be discontent?”

  Margaret had enjoyed only a brief conversation with the queen upon Mary’s return, but none of its content could be shared with her charge. She decided that was the only way to address the question. “If your mother did not wish you to know, then it is probably best that you do not concern yourself with the cause. I do know that she was extraordinarily pleased by the time she shared with you and seeing your impressive progress in your studies.”

  Mary politely smiled again, though Margaret could see that she recognized the distraction for what it was.

  “She seemed particularly pleased with my accomplishments in Latin and French. My mother proclaimed that my skills have already eclipsed her own and that these languages will be useful diplomatic tools for my future.” Mary bowed her head as she related this praise that was just as much Margaret’s as it was her own.

  “That is wonderful, your grace. I am blessed to work with such a willing student and supple mind. I believe you share your love of learning with your cousin, Reginald. He alone among my children has your passion for improving the mind. It shall serve you well. I am also pleased that you enjoyed your time with the king and queen.”

  Margaret had been nervous sending the small girl away for the summer. She knew that Catherine would shower her with affection, but was worried that Henry would be more chall
enging. Was he looking for evidence that his legitimate daughter was a better choice of heir than his strapping, but illegitimate, son? There seemed to have been no evidence of it or anything else to justify the reluctance that Margaret had harbored regarding placing Mary in her father’s care for a few months.

  Henry was pleased with his daughter, but less so his wife. Catherine had revealed to Margaret that Henry stayed away from her bed and their relationship seemed to continue to deteriorate. Some couples could enter this new stage of life, free of intimacy and childbearing, by building friendly comradery, but neither Catherine nor Henry seemed interested in this type of relationship. Catherine wanted a full marriage, while Henry pushed his wife further away. Where would it all end? And what would it mean for Mary?

  Kathryn Craddock quietly entered the room and indicated that Mary’s tutors were ready for her. Margaret sent Mary to continue her studies and then waited for Kathryn to speak what was clearly upon her heart.

  She and Kathryn were of a similar age and each had been burdened with more than their share of heartbreak within their lifetimes. While Margaret had watched her father and brother be executed for treason and lost her mother and husband to deaths that had come far too soon, Kathryn had been bartered for and betrayed as the wife of a pretender. She had truly loved Perkin Warbeck, back when she had been Kathryn Gordon and he Richard Plantagenet.

  Both women were now comfortably into their old age and did not often speak of the turbulent past, but they did not need to. It gave them common ground upon which their strong relationship was built. Their joint highest hope was that they could create a brighter future for their ward. With Kathryn as her chief lady-in-waiting and Margaret as her governess, Mary had no idea just how much effort went into ensuring her future happiness.

  Unlike Margaret, Kathryn continued to search for her own happily ever after. Now on her third husband, she seemed content enough with Matthew Craddock, whose Welsh estates kept him relatively close to his wife as she waited upon the princess. Kathryn never spoke of Perkin Warbeck.

  “Did Mary enjoy her time at Warblington?” Kathryn asked. Her voice remained a souvenir of her former beauty. Though years had greyed her hair and slightly thickened her figure, her voice was musical to hear.

  “She did,” Margaret said with a nod. “But you should tell me what is bothering you for neither of us appreciates beating around the bush.”

  Kathryn laughed, softening the lines around her eyes and filling the room with the pleasant sound.

  “Very well, my bold and demanding Lady Salisbury.” Her wink took the edge from her words, but her face turned serious once more. “She did not mention a lady that her father has been spending time with?”

  Fear caused pain to grow deep in the pit of Margaret’s stomach. Fear for Catherine if Henry was not content with his wife. Fear for Mary if Henry had another child.

  “Tell me.”

  Kathryn nodded and indicated two comfortable seats. Once they were settled, she asked, “Do you know Anne Boleyn?”

  With brow wrinkled in thought, Margaret searched her memory for the name that was, in fact, familiar.

  “She is one of Queen Catherine’s ladies,” Kathryn prompted.

  This shed light on the girl, and a picture of a young, sophisticated woman sprung into Margaret’s thoughts. “She has dark hair and a pointed chin, unfashionable of face but makes up for it with her clothes.”

  “Ah, you do pay attention, Lady Salisbury.”

  “She is Perseverance to her sister’s Kindness.”

  “Yes!” Kathryn exclaimed, almost clapping her hands together before becoming solemn once again. “That is her.”

  Margaret considered the girl. She was no girl, was the first mental correction she made for herself. Though she had served the queen of France and now Catherine, she had never been married. Mary Boleyn, her sister, was a buxom woman, a little too friendly and free with her favors as one who is constantly searching for love and affection. Anne gave the impression that she could go a lifetime without love and affection, which of course made men desperate to give her theirs.

  “This is the woman that has caught the king’s eye?” Margaret asked, wondering if Kathryn knew that Henry had once tumbled Mary Boleyn during Catherine’s pregnancy.

  “She has,” Kathryn had a knowing look on her face that told Margaret there was more to this than she was seeing.

  “He has had mistresses before, though not usually when he could be sharing his wife’s bed.”

  “Which he refuses to do.”

  “Refuses. Is that the word used at court?” Margaret’s hopes sank further. If openly discussed at all, she had hoped that people would say Henry worried for his wife’s health and kept from her bed to avoid what could be fatal childbearing.

  Kathryn nodded, her eyes soft with understanding. Even on the wrong side of fifty, Margaret could see what men loved about Kathryn.

  “There is no way to soften the blow,” Kathryn said, shaking her head. “He is seeking an annulment.”

  “No! He wishes to marry the Boleyn girl?”

  Shrugging, Kathryn said, “If not her, then surely someone else. It is our Mary he wishes to replace as much as your dear Catherine. He wishes for a new queen for his bed and a prince for his throne.”

  Margaret’s hands rubbed her temples as she sank into her seat, deflated that her best efforts had not been enough. Nothing Margaret could do would make Princess Mary a boy. She wanted to cry for Catherine who had been a devoted wife first to one Tudor prince and then his brother, only to be discarded after bearing half a dozen dead children.

  “He is only whispering it now, but soon it will be public knowledge. The king will use Leviticus as his justification,” Kathryn explained, almost as if she had read Margaret’s thoughts.

  “Leviticus?” Margaret repeated with a sneer. “It took him almost twenty years to determine that he should not have taken Arthur’s wife? He has Papal dispensation!”

  Kathryn shrugged again. “Kings have a way of getting what they want, regardless of facts.” She leaned closer, the dismissiveness gone from her face. “The question is, what can we do for our Mary?”

  They locked eyes, and unspoken agreement growing between them that their own unhappy fates would not be visited upon the princess they both loved.

  Margaret decided to participate in something she had vowed to never do: get involved in politics. She had her own connections, not least of these her son, Reginald, who was studying in Italy closer to the Pope than most of them could ever hope to be. For Mary, only for Mary, would she rally against the king.

  November 1527

  Margaret looked out of her study window at the Bisham grounds. Clear finally of construction debris and wandering craftsmen, her gardens had been given new life throughout the summer months. As winter overtook autumn, those efforts seemed in vain. She tried to remind herself that the life there would reemerge in a few months’ time, but she could not shake the feeling of foreboding, the certainty that death had a hold upon the roots.

  The year had served an unkind turning of fortune’s wheel, and Margaret had found herself coping with setbacks that kept her from dedicating herself to the battle against King Henry’s annulment. Kathryn had been correct, Henry was no longer keeping any secrets about his feelings for Anne Boleyn or his lack of them for Queen Catherine. However, Margaret had done no more than write two letters, one to Mary’s godfather, Cardinal Wolsey, and the other to her son Reginald.

  A great many of the passing months since that seemingly innocuous conversation at Thornbury had been spent here at her own estate while others saw to her governess duties. Margaret had come home to care for another of her sons. She had been forced to watch Arthur die.

  At first, she had been certain that he had simply worn himself out and brought on a minor illness. When he had written that he needed her, she was shocked but also assumed that he was being dramatic. Arthur loved to be the center of attention and this was his way of ensuring
that he received hers. So, she had left Thornbury for Bisham, leaving instructions for the upcoming month.

  She had, therefore, been completely unprepared for Arthur’s appearance when he arrived at the peak of summer, dressed warmly as though warding off chill, thin and pale with an appearance that Margaret recognized too well. It was the visible manifestation of death creeping up on one who has not quite noticed yet.

  Arthur was in the prime of his life. In his early thirties with a young wife, he was a tournament champion and boon companion to England’s noble sons. But he was dying, a truth that was painfully obvious to his mother.

  This knowledge had not colored her greeting, which was joyous and gave nothing away. She would not be the one to inform him that he had a dark, merciless rider with him on his courser. Arthur would be forced to acknowledge him soon enough.

  “I have comfortable rooms prepared for you,” Margaret said as she embraced her son. Quickly, she was able to assess his temperature: too high, and weight: too low. His hands felt softer than normal, indicating that he had not been riding, hunting, and jousting regularly for quite some time. A reprimand died upon her lips. He should have come to her sooner. She could have cared for him. But, no. She would simply be thankful for the time that God did grant to him.

  “Thank you, mother,” he said in a raspy voice, throat dry with sickness and road dust. He seemed to be thanking her just as much for what she was not saying. His dark hair hung limply about his face as he allowed her to guide him into the house.

  He had told her about his little Henry, Mary, and Margaret, and she had shared news about Princess Mary. If he had any greater insight into the king’s plans for Mary, Arthur did not share it. Margaret doubted that her son had spent much time discussing the girl with her father. Arthur was a tool for keeping Henry young through physical challenges and light conversation. Discussions of his heir would be held with Cardinal Wolsey and other older, wiser counselors.