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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  With her son tucked snugly into bed as if he were still her little boy, Margaret made her way to Bisham’s chapel. Should she pray for miraculous healing or the strength to watch her child waste away? Which prayer would be most likely to touch the heart of God and convince him to not put her through this?

  On her knees in front of the altar, Margaret was stunned to find that her eyes remained dry. She wished it was because she felt God’s comfort as she submitted herself to him, but she felt as alone as before. It seemed that her creator had formed her for sorrow and loss, relieved only by fleeting joy.

  It would be strength he would give her rather than a miracle. She knew as certainly as if it had been whispered in her ear by the voice of his angels. And he said his burden was light.

  She sighed and her knees made popping sounds as she rose. It was still within her power to provide Arthur with love and comfort while he remained hers, so she called for her steward to ensure that his favorite foods would be served to tempt him.

  Arthur was propped up with pillows when Margaret had a tray brought to him. She impatiently waved away other helpful hands and pulled a chair up to his bedside. This was a duty she would not delegate. It would be her hand that fed him his last as she had fed him his first.

  “It is too much,” Arthur protested, looking at the overflowing tray.

  “Then you will choose what you would like to sample, and I will send the rest back,” Margaret argued with a shrug.

  Arthur smiled. She had done the same thing for each of her children when they had been young, thinking nothing of creating a hard day of work for the cooks in providing the delicacies they preferred in order to tempt them into a few bites. He wondered if that made her a thoughtful mother or a demanding housekeeper.

  “The marzipan,” he said, lifting his chin to better survey his buffet.

  Margaret gave him a look that said he should start with something not made entirely from sugar but fed him a piece, nonetheless. He closed his eyes in contentment as the sweetness melted on his tongue.

  After tasting a few other morsels, Arthur was surprised to feel some measure of strength return.

  “I am sorry, mother,” he said.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Margaret replied. “What have you to apologize for?”

  He took a long breath and adjusted his position on the pillows. “For failing you. For not making success out of the plans you made for me.” He saw her shaking her head and preparing to protest, so he held up a hand to stop her. “I know that I’m not as serious as Reginald and have not made my wife happy as Henry has, but neither am I wallowing in self-pity.” He sighed again. “I just thought I would have more time.”

  Her lips pressed together into a thin line, Margaret took her son’s hand. If she could have, she would have given him years of her own life. She had experienced enough of what the Earth had to offer. Before she could form a response, there was a knock at the door of Arthur’s rooms.

  “It is a messenger,” whispered Margaret’s chief lady-in-waiting who knew that she wished not to be disturbed.

  “Very well,” Margaret sighed, rising stiffly from the chair that had not left the side of Arthur’s bed since his arrival.

  She was absent only moments, but Arthur could see that she had taken another blow in the paleness of her countenance and ghostlike movements.

  “What is it, mother?” he asked, pulled from the sleep that beckoned by the worry he discerned in lines of her face.

  “It is Cat.”

  He blearily screwed up his face in thought. “Your cousin? Henry Courtenay’s mother?”

  “The same,” Margaret whispered, falling gratefully into her seat. “She always seemed the very embodiment of life.” Her voice had a dreamlike quality until Arthur spoke.

  “She has died?” he asked, confusion stamped into his features by his mother’s odd behavior.

  Margaret’s eyes snapped back into focus, and she realized that she was not taking proper care with her words. “Accept my apology, Arthur. It is just that I cannot believe. . . Yes, Cat has died at Devon.”

  “Once again, I must offer you condolences. I am sorry, mother.”

  “She was the last,” Margaret started to say before realizing that she was wrong. She, herself, was the last of the children born to those Plantagenet princes, proud York boys who were so certain that they would rule forever. She had never felt so alone.

  Her eyes met those of her son. His were searching hers though filled with fever and announcing the approach of death, and hers filled with the tears that had not come on schedule when she was alone in the chapel. Suddenly, she was sobbing, feeling nothing beyond the warmth of her dying son’s arms wrapped around her. She had been ready to curse God for his heartlessness until that moment. Arthur’s embrace broke her heart but saved her faith.

  ~~~~

  “You must be prepared to forgive Jan.”

  Arthur’s words pierced Margaret’s heart. It felt like a pincushion since the day he had arrived at her door, so this was just one more wound that would harden into a scar once he was gone.

  “That is not something you need concern yourself with,” Margaret snapped. It still rankled that her children’s marriages had not reflected their auspicious beginnings. While most of them were content or even happy, the Buckingham and Bergavenny inheritances had been lost. The fact that Arthur was cared for by his mother rather than his wife at this time spoke volumes on their relationship.

  “I cannot remain silent on it,” Arthur insisted. “Jan and I have made the best of things, and you have four grandchildren to show for it. Do not ask her for more than that.”

  “You mean do not ask her to mourn her husband or demonstrate love for you toward your children?” She was sorry as soon as the words had left her lips. How could she speak so coldly toward him as he lay wasting away? “Arthur, I wish I could take back my words,” she said, rubbing his hands too enthusiastically but he lacked the strength to pull them away. “I will be gentle with Jan and do my very best to see your children well situated.”

  “Thank you, mother,” he said wearily. “I know you will.”

  His eyes closed, and Margaret realized how much this small request had cost him. Arthur had not needed his mother to remind him that his wife did not love him. Of course, any husband would know. Poor Arthur, chivalrous knight and companion to the king, had been married to one of the few women in England who did not adore him. Margaret hated herself for making the match, even more so now that Arthur’s time for earthly joys was cut short.

  His breathing had the slow rhythm that informed her he slept. For a moment, she could convince herself that his health would be restored. He appeared so young and free of pain in the depths of his dreams. Lines of fatigue and pain relaxed as he took refuge in unconsciousness. However, it was an empty promise and a fool’s dream. Margaret knew she was spending his final days with him.

  The next day, Arthur was too exhausted for conversation, so he asked his mother to regale him with stories of court from the past summer.

  “Princess Mary was in a whirlwind over the invitation to court. Spending the previous summer with her parents had given her such joy, despite the coolness between them, and this time there was her betrothal to celebrate. “

  A faint smile crossed Arthur’s face as he closed his eyes and imagined the beautiful little girl twirling around in her new dresses as she dreamed of her prince. He wondered if Jan had ever thought her marriage would be that way.

  “Your brother, Reginald, was there. He interested me much more than the French ambassadors, of course,” Margaret admitted with a girlish grin. “The king has made a great investment in him and his serious demeanor and intellect are a great reward for it. Henry has provided him with the deanery of Exeter now that he is returned from Italy.”

  “Do you think he will stay?” Arthur asked without opening his eyes.

  “In England?” Margaret was surprised. She thought that she was the only person able to perceive t
he tension between Reginald and the king. Her son was a model of decorum and respect, but somehow she could sense that he wished to return to the continent.

  Arthur peeked at her through slitted lids. “I have not spent as much time with my younger brother as our illustrious king, but I can tell you that they are oil and water. England may not be big enough for the both of them.” This short speech had tired him, and he closed his eyes and rolled over before Margaret could question him further.

  Light snoring soon escaped Arthur’s bedcovers, and Margaret wondered if she would get the opportunity to learn more about his unexpectedly insightful observations. Why would Reginald not have a flourishing relationship with the man who had sponsored his education since childhood?

  Wearily shaking her head, Margaret stood and hailed a girl to clear away the remnants of Arthur’s last barely touched tray from the kitchens. Henry had favored Reginald and each of her children more than she could have ever hoped for. She dismissed Arthur’s fears as the result of fever.

  ~~~~

  Before Arthur had arrived, Margaret had concentrated upon bringing new life to the Bisham estate. She had purposely avoided thinking of or visiting the graves of her ancestors who were spending their eternal rest within the priory. Her brother and Neville grandfather were just two of many who had given their lives for causes of the kings of England. Arthur would join them, a novel addition to a collection of men who had died in battle or been executed, since Arthur was a Plantagenet son who had managed to die of natural causes.

  The funeral arrangements had been made, but she did not remember doing so. The fortnight since his passing was a blur of prayer and tears. As she thanked her savior for welcoming her son into his arms, Margaret sobbed for the vibrant little boy who should have outlived her.

  It was poor comfort that he would lie here among distinguished Neville and Montague relations, going back to the first earl of Salisbury. So many of their deaths seemed pointless now, Edward’s execution chief among them for his youth and innocence. She had never even met her grandfather, who died after deciding he would like to replace the York king he had helped elevate. His bronze effigy revealed no clues to her of why he had decided it was worth his life to switch sides. Her father had soon followed him, executed for treason by his own brother.

  Margaret dropped her hand, which she had subconsciously lifted to reach out to the kingmaker. She released a sigh and shivered at the thought of how cold and lifeless the golden face would feel. No different than the body that lie below it or the body of her son that would soon lie at its side.

  She waited, but new tears did not fill her eyes. With a nod, she accepted that now was the time to carry out her last duties to her second son. Surely, more tears would come, but later, after her work was complete. Walking away from the tombs, she formed a picture in her mind of the monument that she would have crafted to memorialize Sir Arthur Pole.

  ~~~~

  As if burying her child was not difficult enough, Margaret then had to deal with her daughter-in-law. She had strictly ordered her household not to spread word of Arthur’s death. Jan may not care enough for her husband to sit at his deathbed, but no one deserved to hear about their spouse’s death by chance gossip.

  Margaret had sent messages to Jan, requesting that she come to Bisham. She had finally agreed and was making her way, unknowingly too late. Their marriage must have held some passion if not love, for the union had produced four children. It was these four whom Margaret’s concern shifted to now. More important than consoling her son’s wife, she must ensure that care was taken for his children’s future. She only hoped that Jan shared her feelings.

  No one would deny that Jan was a lovely woman. Her parents had taken advantage of the fact and arranged a marriage for her early. She had been wed and widowed twice already, though her first marriage had not produced children due to her still being a child herself at the time. When Margaret looked upon her, she wished that her personality was as beautiful as her countenance.

  That was not entirely fair. Many, men and women alike, were drawn to Jan. The young woman’s failure to create a happy home for Margaret’s beloved son colored her feelings for her. In her eyes, none of the fault lay on Arthur.

  After breaking the news to Jan, Margaret presented her request.

  “I would like for you and I to take a small pilgrimage to Syon Abbey.”

  Jan wrinkled her normally smooth forehead at the unexpected demand. Though she had not despised her husband, she felt no great love for his family or need to continue relations with them now that Arthur was gone.

  In a deceptively sweet voice, she asked, “Why Syon when you have such a lovely chapel here?”

  “Thank you, daughter,” Margaret said, accepting the praise with a tilt of her head. “I believe it will provide us both with great healing. Have you seen the newest building completed?”

  Jan’s shoulders relaxed. She knew of her mother-in-law’s obsession with building projects. Still unsure why she was included in the trip, she acquiesced, assuming that it would be the last time she spent extended time with her.

  When they approached the impressive complex of Syon Abbey a few days later, Margaret’s broad grin was caused by more than the great evidence of men’s dedication to God.

  “Jan, is it not a sight like none other?”

  The stone structures sprawling along the bank of the Thames were breathtaking, to most. Jan remained uninterested and slightly suspicious.

  “Yes, mother,” she responded dutifully.

  The river sent up a great stink that invaded the nostrils and stuck fast to the clothing of anyone downwind, as they were. Jan, quite indiscreetly, covered her nose with a bit of perfumed cloth, but Margaret kept her nose high as though she did not notice.

  As they entered the gates of Syon, Henry stepped forward to assist his mother from her coach. She greeted Henry casually, sharing a victorious look with him that Jan would have had to have been blind to not notice.

  “Lord Montague,” Jan said as she curtseyed. Her words and movements were as politeness required but no more. She could not be faulted for coldness nor praised for warmth. “What a surprise to find you here.”

  With a quick glance at his mother that seemed to ask how much Jan had been told, Henry bowed to his sister-in-law to gain time for forming his response.

  “You have my condolences on the loss of your husband,” he said gravely. “It is trying enough that I have lost a brother, but your loss is the greater one. May God have mercy on his soul and also give you peace.”

  Like her words, they could not be faulted though they did not answer her question.

  “I thank you for your concern and your prayers,” Jan said with her head appropriately bowed in a posture of grief.

  “The abbess is busy?” Margaret interrupted their act with more practical matters.

  Henry looked as though he was holding back a rather inappropriate grin. “She welcomes us to join her after midday prayers when she has reserved her time for us until vespers.”

  “Well done, Henry. Let us take this time to refresh ourselves from the dust and discomfort of the road.” She turned to Jan. “Come, daughter. A room has been prepared.”

  Margaret ignored her daughter-in-law’s small hands balled into fists so tight that her knuckles shone white. Jan would see that this was what was best for the children.

  The delicate stonework and elaborate riches of the abbey could not distract Margaret from her purpose today. At any other time she would have been entranced by the carvings and stained glass windows. Today, they melted into the background of what she must do.

  Jan seemed to have selected silence as the best defense, though she clearly believed her in-laws were up to something. Margaret could see it in her narrowed eyes and pursed lips, as well as the tiny line that was forming between her eyes. It was left to the older woman to make small talk as their dresses were brushed and a small meal was brought. She babbled about the history of the Abbey, as if any
one was still under the impression that pilgrimage was their true purpose.

  Jan’s eyes glazed over as Margaret talked of each king that had improved upon Syon and Richmond Palace which faced it across the river.

  “Did you know that my cousin, Elizabeth, was in residence when the old manor of Sheen burnt to the ground?” Margaret asked.

  “Yes, mother,” Jan responded blandly. All England knew about the Christmas fire, some blaming it on Perkin Warbeck. However it had started, the first Tudor king had used the opportunity to build a new palace that demonstrated his magnificence.

  “This is a beautiful place,” Margaret continued, ignoring Jan’s disinterest. “It is no wonder so many serve God here at Syon.”

  “Yes it is,” Jan muttered with no hint that she was following Margaret’s train of thought. She was concentrating on perfecting the arrangement of her light golden hair and inspecting her dress for specks that her ladies may have missed. Satisfied, she looked to see if Margaret was also prepared to do what they must before they could leave.

  Margaret smiled and did not realize how it gave the younger woman chills. “Let us visit the chapel to pray before we meet with the abbess.”

  Jan followed obediently. As Margaret admired tapestries and fine stonework, Jan noticed the cold of the hard floor seeping through her velvet slippers. She hugged herself for warmth and support.

  When they arose from their prayers, Margaret brushed a nonexistent bit of debris from Jan’s sleeve. “It is a balm to the soul to be here. Wouldn’t you agree?” She tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the question from sounding loaded.

  “Prayer is always a tonic to me,” Jan gave her hesitant agreement.

  “That is good, daughter,” Margaret said, gripping her arm and directing her away from the altar with some excitement. “That is very good.”