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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  Once Mary was properly enthroned for a regal image that would be whispered of when the messenger returned to court, he was recalled to impart his message.

  “It falls upon me to bring news that I would rather not,” he began, and Margaret wondered if he wrote poetry in his spare time. Mary simply nodded that he should continue. “Your grace, with great sorrow I must inform you of the death of your good kinswoman, her grace of Suffolk, the king’s sister.”

  Even braced for disappointment, Margaret had not been expecting this. Henry’s sister, Mary, had been Catherine’s greatest supporter, and an outspoken one as one of the few people who could speak their mind without retribution in the presence of the king. She knew that concern must be written on her face, but when she looked at Mary she seemed carved from stone.

  “Thank you for traveling to bring me news of my dear aunt’s passage to heaven,” Mary said with a tip of her head that made onlookers feel that a crown should be resting upon the red-gold hair. She rose and continued, “I must spend time in prayer for her soul.”

  Without another word, Mary turned and left her household staring after her. Margaret knew it then. She was looking at a future queen.

  ~~~~

  “I would like to write to Frances and invite her to stay with us if it would offer her some comfort.”

  Mary made this announcement in a distracted manner, clearly establishing that she no longer felt she needed to ask her governess for permission, but rather simply inform her of her wishes. Margaret did not mind. Instead, she was proud of the woman that Mary was becoming. She knew that advice or correction would be respectfully received if Margaret had any to offer.

  “That is very thoughtful of you,” Margaret agreed, thinking of the girl who had lost her mother but would not see her father mourn her. Charles Brandon, Mary Tudor’s widowed husband, was almost certainly comforting himself in another woman’s bed. Margaret had long since stopped feeling sorry for the duchess, who had known who she was defying her brother to marry, but she did pity their children. “Frances enjoyed her time with you this spring and may enjoy being around other young woman of an age with herself.”

  Mary nodded once, that topic settled. She would see that a messenger was sent to her cousin before the day ended.

  “Have you heard from my mother?” Mary asked in a tone that she attempted to force into casualness, but Margaret knew that she was anxious about the forced separation.

  “Unfortunately, I have not,” Margaret said, keeping her eyes on her needlework to avoid looking Mary in the face. She knew that they could both better control their emotions that way. “I do not believe that your father is allowing her much correspondence.”

  Mary tossed her own work into the basket at her side. As she stormed from the room, she growled angrily, “He has already taken away her crown. Will he not be content until he has taken her very life?”

  July 1533

  The summer sun was welcomed for its cheery warmth, and Margaret chose a cozy arbor for reviewing Mary’s latest writing. Red and white roses that had been commissioned by Mary’s grandfather covered the wooden slats, providing shade that was speckled with light where the brightness made its way through. The air was made sweet by those same roses, and Margaret was content that the unity they indicated would be personified in Mary when she became queen.

  “Your Latin is without error,” Margaret praised without looking up from the parchment. “Such a brilliant young woman you have become.” She would not say out loud that her charge had surpassed her in every subject, but she was sure that Mary knew.

  “I thank you for your kind words and guidance,” Mary demurely replied.

  Margaret finally looked up to see the rogue dashes of sunlight glimmering in Mary’s coppery hair. With her head bowed and face partially in shadows, Mary was the image of her grandmother and Margaret’s cousin, Elizabeth of York. Enough time had passed that the memory brought a smile to Margaret’s face rather than pain or grief. Had it truly been three decades since the first Tudor queen escaped this world for her heavenly home?

  Reaching out and tucking a stray lock of hair, Margaret said, “You remind me of your grandmother.”

  Mary lifted her face to look for indications of where this was leading but remained silent.

  “She was devout, as you are, and beautiful.”

  A hand to Mary’s cheek told her that she shared this trait with her York grandmother as well.

  Margaret shifted to face Mary more directly and straightened her aching spine. “But you will rule, while she was submissive. She united England, but you will hold it together. This is the path that God has lain before you.”

  Not quite sure what had made Margaret say it, she nonetheless knew it to be true. She was no more certain now than she had ever been what would happen as a result of Mary’s father taking a new wife and bearing another child, but she knew that Mary would be queen of England and it was her duty to prepare her for that day.

  “Lady Salisbury,” the voice of a page interrupted Margaret’s revelation.

  “Yes?” she said, removing her hand from Mary’s face and emotion from her own.

  “It is Lord Hussey, your grace,” he wishes to speak with you. Something in the page’s tone made Margaret think that this was a conversation that would not be enjoyed by any of the participants.

  “Very well,” Margaret said, gesturing that the page was dismissed she turned to Mary. “You will join me. This is your household, and you should be the ruler of it. I will be at your side.”

  A girlish grin appeared and was quickly squashed by the princess. “Let us go see what Lord Hussey has to say then, shall we?”

  The women stood and left their comfortable hideaway together to confront the chamberlain the king had appointed to his daughter’s household. When they arrived in the hall, Mary confidently stepped up to the large chair that Margaret had appointed for her without glancing at her governess for direction or approval. Pride for her swelled in Margaret’s heart as she took a less ornate seat at Mary’s right hand.

  Lord Hussey approached, his discomfort palpable and sweat dripping into his eyes. “Lady Mary,” he said, bowing low before his mistress but using the title that the king had determined was more appropriate for his daughter than princess. Margaret frowned and steeled herself for a fight, lines appeared in her forehead like a freshly plowed field.

  As Lord Hussey straightened, his face was apologetic. Margaret felt an inkling of pity for him somewhere deep within her. He was stuck in a difficult position between Mary and King Henry. So was she, but she had no problem making the right choice. The compassion that she naturally felt was snuffed out by righteous indignation.

  Thin, grey hair formed a ring around Hussey’s head, and he moved his hands to flatten it in a motion that must have been necessary in the days when he had been younger. He bit his upper lip once before charging on to say what he must.

  “His majesty the king has requested that I deliver the crown jewels currently in the Lady Mary’s possession to his beloved wife, Queen Anne.”

  Margaret watched Mary’s face, emotions bubbling just beneath the surface. She buried them well enough that only an observer who knew her as well as Margaret did would see the shock quickly replaced by hurt and then overwhelmed by anger.

  “The queen is my mother and she would never make such a request,” Mary stated firmly.

  Shifting her eyes back to Hussey, Margaret felt as though she was surveying a field where armies prepared for battle.

  “My lady,” Hussey began, his eyes begging her to understand his unenviable position. “I am but a humble servant, doing my best to fulfill a royal demand.” He twisted the edge of his doublet in his hands, making a wretched mess of the fabric.

  Margaret saw the same sympathy that had threatened her own heart blossoming in Mary. Before the younger woman could speak again, Margaret stood.

  “I regret to inform you, Lord Hussey, that I am uncertain which items the king could be referr
ing to and sorry to say that any search for them would be most inconvenient at this time. I am sure you can appreciate how difficult it would be for Princess Mary to be forced to part with beloved items that she received from the hand of her mother, the queen.”

  Margaret had forged her spine into steel as she looked down her Plantagenet nose at the squirming Lord Hussey. She did not need to be so cruel, she knew. Hussey loved Mary, but he was weak, giving in to Henry’s will. Maybe he would take strength from Margaret, who had just placed herself in a position she had sworn she would never allow her family to take again, that opposed to the king.

  Hussey frowned, but Margaret was uncertain if it were due to her opposition or the fact that he had been unwilling to stand up to the king himself. He looked to Margaret and back to Mary as if waiting to see if either would change their mind. They remained firm, like statues except for the fiery eyes that bore into him.

  “Very well,” he acquiesced with a nod. “I will, of course, have to notify his majesty of the difficulty in granting his request.”

  “We all will do what we must,” Mary replied, her confidence restored by the support of her governess.

  Hussey bowed again and left the hall in silence.

  A moment passed as each woman replayed the scene in her head and wondered what she could have done differently. As if at an appointed time, each turned to the other. Exchanging grim smiles, they agreed without speaking aloud that battle lines had been drawn.

  “Would you like to retire to Bisham?” Mary asked.

  A scoffing laugh escaped Margaret’s throat. “You wish to offer me escape from my decisions?” she asked, raising a single greying eyebrow. “That is unnecessary. My son, Reginald, took his stance and in doing so gave me my example. I have vowed to keep my family safe while also seeing that they receive the positions they are due. You are my family, too.”

  Mary would not try to convince her that she should leave, that the safety and security of Henry, Ursula, and Geoffrey depended upon it. She would not insult Margaret’s intelligence by suggesting that she did not understand the significance or potential consequences of her decision. Instead, she stood to face her. The family resemblance was clear as they grasped each other’s hands with determination and silently agreed that they would see this through together.

  September 1533

  Autumn splendor once again surrounded Margaret as she travelled by coach with Mary to Beaulieu in Essex. She was thankful to be putting distance between the princess and London. It would provide Mary with the opportunity to hold an informal court of her own but not seem to be in direct opposition to her father. As he was the one who must name her his heir, she could push him only so far. It was a fine line to submit to him yet not relinquish her position.

  Beaulieu, with its red brick and octagonal towers, reminded Margaret of Thornbury. She and Mary had spent happy years there before Henry had decided that his daughter was a bastard. Perhaps they were doomed to repeat the cycles of betrayal and destruction. Edward Stafford had also enjoyed his brief time at Thornbury before King Henry had his head struck from his body.

  That would not happen to Mary. Surely, not his own daughter. Margaret discreetly searched the young woman’s face and posture for signals of her emotions, but she had grown expert at revealing nothing. If she feared her father, she did not show it. Longed for his approval and love, yes, but she was not truly afraid of him, regardless of their not insignificant differences of opinion.

  Margaret despised riding in the coach but had been forced to admit she could no longer ride long distances the way she had once enjoyed. Mary was more content with it and had comfortably settled into the soft cushions provided for her, but Margaret kept leaning out to view the countryside and gaze longingly at the sleek horses in their retinue.

  When she settled back into her seat, she was reminded why she was not on horseback. Her knees crunched unpleasantly as her weight shifted and a dull ache never seemed to leave her lower back. She looked down at the hands that had lovingly caressed Richard Pole and saw the arthritic claws of an old woman. In Mary, she saw her younger self, though she had never seen herself as lovely as she could recognize Mary to be. It was unfortunate that she had not appreciated her beauty when she had it.

  She let out a sigh, which attracted Mary’s attention. “Are you comfortable?” Mary asked dotingly, but Margaret brushed her question aside.

  “Do not treat me like an old woman.”

  Mary smiled at the brisk tone, knowing it was not truly aimed at her. “I’ve had a letter from my mother,” she said to pull her governess from her dreary mood. It worked, and Margaret’s face was transformed by the smile that lit it. They had both grown accustomed to the king not allowing their visits and took joy in what communication they did have.

  “She claims to be well and is pleased that Chapuys, at least, is given entry. It is good for her to have some company and friendship.”

  Mary’s face was turned toward Margaret, but her vision was of the kindly Spanish ambassador as he sat before her mother. They would both be smiling as they chatted. Mary’s imagination would not include Catherine’s anger at her imprisonment or grief over their separation. She wished to paint an optimistic picture of the mother she was in no position to help. In the moments when she could not ignore reality, her anger toward her father and his concubine threatened to bubble over into words and actions that she would likely regret and never be able to call back.

  Margaret did not feel the same comradery for Eustace Chapuys that Mary and her mother did. Maybe it was because she did not speak Spanish and therefore felt that he was betraying her in some way when he did. Perhaps she simply wished to be Mary’s only pillar of support and Chapuys offered the possible strength of an Emperor. How her mind wandered in her old age!

  Mary continued to share the inane details of her mother’s letter. Catherine had nothing more consequential to share after two years in exile, and Mary was satisfied to simply see her sprawling script and read her words of love and affection.

  The towers of Beaulieu were by this time so close that they seemed to lean over them, so Margaret began to mentally prepare the list of orders she must delegate once she was released from this infernal coach. Most of Mary’s household would already know exactly what they needed to do, but hearing it from Margaret reminded them of her position and authority. She had trained Mary to similarly order her ladies-in-waiting, ensuring that they would never forget that they served a future queen.

  She was surprised to find a messenger awaiting their arrival. He had made the trip from London more quickly as a lone rider than they had as a caravan. He had made his face inscrutable, giving Margaret no clue to the news he had carried with him. When he approached Mary and bowed respectfully but not servilely, she knew.

  “Lady Mary,” he began without waiting for her to bid him speak. “I am pleased to announce the birth of your father’s daughter, the Princess Elizabeth.”

  The smile faded from Mary’s face, and she quickly composed her countenance to look like an effigy of herself. Those around her had suddenly gone silent, all eyes and eager ears waiting for her response. None had missed that the newborn babe was called princess, while they had been instructed to address Mary as lady. Margaret was preparing to step forward and release the man herself, when Mary spoke.

  “I thank you for traveling such a distance to impart your news,” she said dully, as though the man had informed her of market prices. Her back was turned to him so swiftly that her skirts almost flew up to touch him. Yet she strode away with dignity, not running or slouching but marching away with her head held high.

  Margaret cleared her throat, and the swarm of eyes that had been following Mary focused on her. “Princess Mary will send a response to her father as she sees fit. You are free to go.”

  She was moving to step around him, when his voice broke the stunned silence. It seemed to be tinged with amusement, causing her to narrow her eyes at him.

  “You misunders
tand me, Lady Salisbury. There is more to the king’s message.” He stood, speaking to her as though he were equal to the countess. “Lady Mary is instructed to cease use of the badges and livery that decorates this display.” He spread his arms to include the ornamented coach and horses. “Further instructions will be sent on the king’s expectations on how the Lady Mary may serve Princess Elizabeth.”

  After a shallow bow, he leapt onto a waiting horse and trotted out of the courtyard. It seemed that he had been expecting to be immediately dismissed all along.

  Margaret felt her jaw drop at the man’s audacity, so she clamped it tightly shut.

  “As you were,” she almost shouted at the members of the household surrounding her. “You will continue to serve Princess Mary as you have until you are informed otherwise.”

  Bowing, curtseying, and mumbled assent slowly dissipated as each attended to their own duties. Margaret had thought she would feel relief if Anne gave birth to a girl, but it was terror that tore through her body like a sharpened sword.

  Margaret thought to find Mary in her rooms, but she could not locate her until she entered the chapel. Mary was on her knees, but it was easy to see that she was sobbing rather than praying. While Margaret internally debated whether to go to her or leave her in privacy, her heart was torn apart by the heartbreak evident in the quaking of Mary’s shoulders and whimpers that reminded Margaret of a beaten dog.

  Tilting her head heavenward and closing her eyes, Margaret pleaded with God. She would not call it a prayer, for her prayers so rarely included this form of raw begging for blessing. Mary was pious while her father tore the church apart to force it to do his will. Her father in heaven must see that and raise her up.

  Had they made a mistake treating the king’s messenger as they had and refusing his requests for jewels and plate to be returned? Margaret had thought that they should not accept Mary’s reduced position, but what could they do to deny Henry’s will if he chose to tear Mary’s badge from her household livery? Margaret took a deep breath and heard Mary’s sobbing abruptly stop. Opening her eyes, she saw Mary’s turned upon her, red and swollen with tears like she had not seen her in years.