Margaret’s mouth fell open as her eyes wandered the room for a response. “There is no chance of the king approving such a plan,” she settled on lamely.
“True,” Hussey agreed with a movement of his head that seemed to indicate he was agreeing with her and saying no at the same time. His grey head bobbed on a diagonal line in result. “My advice is to not ask him.”
Was that a wink?
“How did you manage to see her?” Margaret asked. She felt excitement bubbling inside her at the thought of seeing her friend after such a long absence, but she shoved it down like placing a heavy lid on a pot’s boiling contents.
Hussey lowered his voice though there was nobody near and jutted his face forward as a cat would if it were stalking a bird. “Her household is small and she is gaining their loyalty despite the king’s best efforts to keep it staffed by those loyal to him. He has more important appointments for sycophants than guarding his former wife, so he has become lax. If we are careful, it can be arranged.”
He leaned back into his chair, taking comfort in the cushions and his position as one sharing unexpected good news. His face fell slightly, and he added, “You will have to make your way to her bed chamber.”
The turbulent contents of Margaret’s stomach were joined by fear. “She is bedridden?”
Hussey responded with a reluctant nod, admitting that Catherine was not kept as a queen should be, but neither was she neglected. An evil seemed to be eating at her from the inside out. Chapuys agreed that she was likely more ill than she admitted, and even Catherine had relented to being treated as an invalid.
Margaret had experienced too much loss for her to become overwhelmed by this news. “Then it is all the more vital that I reach her as soon as we can secretly make the trip. I would know what Catherine’s wishes are for her daughter if she is truly approaching her ascendance to her heavenly home.”
Hussey raised his eyebrows but nodded in agreement. His wife had cried with much sniffling and grief when he had shared the same news with her, and she was not the lifelong friend of Catherine that Margaret was. The countess was made of sterner stuff.
“My Anne serves within the princess’ household. She is therefore able to communicate with Princess Mary without the need for written letters or messages.”
Margaret looked at the man before her in a new light. He had served the king, and still did if truth be told, but he had also just put himself and his wife at risk in order to help those opposed to him.
Opposed to the king. Yes, it was time she accepted that she was. When it came down to choosing Henry or Mary, she did not need the urging of the Holy Spirit to tell her which was the future of England.
“I thank you for your loyal service. You do understand the risk you are taking, even in having this conversation, but also in what we plan to do next?” she asked gently.
“Of course I do,” Hussey exclaimed looking somewhat miffed. “I know you stood up to the king when I did not where plate and jewels were involved, but this is somewhat more important than that.”
A snort of laughter escaped Margaret again, and she nodded with a slight frown. He was right. She had no idea at the time how serious the situation would become. Had she and Mary submitted from the beginning, they may be quietly continuing their lives together now. Or Henry may have come up with another reason to reduce Mary’s circumstances. It mattered not now.
“Then I will consider you a valued advisor and ally,” she said and was rewarded by a ruddy blush across old Hussey’s face.
June 1534
Margaret felt that she, rather than the palfrey beneath her, was chomping at the bit to be on their way. Six months had passed since she and Hussey had decided that a clandestine visit to Catherine was a worthy mission, but it had been more difficult to bring it to fruition.
She had begun riding again, telling her ladies and granddaughter that she felt the need for more exercise to fend off the effects of old age creeping up on her. As a cover story it was a good one, and she did feel years younger after spending much of her time preparing her body for the rigors of travel without coaches or attendants. Her hands smoothed her stomacher and felt leaner muscle beneath than had been present there in years.
That was not on her mind, though. Each item in her saddlebags was mentally checked off as she prepared for a journey like none she had ever taken in her life. Alone, with a man not her husband, she would sneak in like a spy to visit the queen of England. How had her life come to this?
Yet, she was excited. If this was what God required of her, she would see it done and trust the results to him.
Leaving Bisham was simple enough. She had built up the expectation that she would take short trips in her eccentric quest for exercise, so her household thought nothing of her trotting away with the well-known and trusted Hussey.
He had mapped out a path that would keep them from meeting those who might recognize the countess of Salisbury. Stopping to water the horses and pulling biscuits from a sack, Margaret smiled at Hussey and joked, “It is good that your wife trusts you.”
“It is good that she trusts you,” he countered. Formality had disappeared between them in the last year. It had no power to aid in their success and was therefore discarded.
As she laughed freely, Margaret drank in her surroundings. The ugliness that Henry had poisoned the kingdom with could not make the summer sky less warm and comforting or the scent of honeysuckle less sweet. It was as if she were on a pleasant afternoon ride rather than a treasonous adventure. Why had she not appreciated the smell of crushed grass or vibrant shades of blue that filled the sky when she was younger? She supposed all old women asked themselves that question.
Would Catherine be asking herself why she had not appreciated her freedom? Margaret loved her friend and understood that she did what she knew to be right in the eyes of God, but had it been worth it? Soon, she would be able to ask her.
“Let us be off,” she insisted, standing near her horse and waiting for Hussey to lift her up.
He did so with a groan, and Margaret was reminded that if she was old, he was ancient. Their eyes met in silent understanding that it would be worth it.
Margaret felt guilt at her thankfulness that Catherine had been moved to Kimbolton. It made this trip possible, being a quite reasonable distance from Bisham, but she knew the castle to be aged and not well-kept. If Catherine was as ill as her few visitors indicated, it was a poor situation for Henry’s neglected queen.
Kicking her horse quite unnecessarily, Margaret hardened her features in determination. This was no longer about Catherine. Her future had been forfeit, but her daughter’s had not. Not yet.
Following obscure paths that Margaret wondered how Hussey had known of, they made their secret way through trees and across quiet meadows. Much time had been spent in prayer that God would veil their progress, and he must have heard. The roof of Kimbolton came into view like teeth biting into the sky before they spotted a single soul.
Tension that she had not realized was there left Margaret’s shoulders as the honey colored stone filled her vision. She scanned the dirty windows, wondering which one Catherine lay behind.
Hussey had precise directions regarding the approach of the castle and where to enter unnoticed. Gesturing to Margaret, he led the way. She crouched low and followed through the brush. Rather than fearing capture, she was exhilarated.
The ground was soft and damp under her feet, and she was thankful for the boots that she had thought were ridiculous but Hussey had insisted upon. Margaret felt mud ooze over the toes without the moisture leaking through as she swatted at an insect that was intent upon landing upon her face. The air was thick in the summer heat and humidity, and Margaret wondered if she would be able to wring liquid from her clothes at the end of the journey.
How would the heavy air feel to one who was unwell as Catherine was reported to be? The thought restored Margaret’s determination to reach her old friend and find a way to help her.
She hoped th
at she would continue to be in a position to help Princess Mary as her father’s demands grew increasingly tyrannical. In his most recent fit of frustration, he had outlawed appeals to Rome. Only King Henry VIII ruled over Englishmen, not the Bishop of Rome. These concerns were shoved aside as Margaret peered through the dusk at Hussey’s back. Catherine and Mary inspired devotion and courage, while Henry ruled through fear. For how long?
The expanse of lawn would be the riskiest portion of their journey. After crossing eighty miles and having Catherine almost within reach, they could fail here, spotted within the cleared area surrounding the castle.
God was watching over them again. Catherine’s reduced household had higher priorities than keeping the grounds manicured, especially with their mistress unable to step outside. Grass was overgrown and bushes in need of trimming. Margaret felt like the snake in the Garden of Eden as she slithered through the growing darkness to sidle up to a wooden door.
The rough planks of the small entryway marked it as a service door used solely by servants. When it opened with only slight creaking upon Hussey’s knock, Margaret saw that it led to a storage area that would be more often visited through a larger opening on the opposite wall. The girl who had received them appeared to be younger than Katherine, making Margaret wonder if her granddaughter supported secret causes. Surely, her children were fighting for their princess and their God in their own quiet way.
Brushing aside dark blond hair, the girl pointed to a narrow stairwell without speaking a word. Hussey nodded to her and squeezed past, so Margaret followed suit. She caught the girl’s eye and was shocked to see no fear there. Strength shone from the deep brown pools, created by experiences that young Katherine would always be shielded from.
“My thanks,” Margaret offered in a whisper as she reached the bottom step.
Dust motes floated in the dim shafts of light that weakly streaked into the stairwell. As they rose higher, Margaret grew in her appreciation for Hussey. How had he made these contacts and received such precise directions without discovery? His wife, Anne, had shown her value as well, refusing to call the king’s daughter anything besides Princess Mary until the king had given up and removed the elderly woman from the household.
Margaret sensed that they were nearing their final destination as Hussey’s weary posture straightened and a happy glow lit his face. Maneuvering within the castle had been easier than anticipated, and they had encountered little evidence of anyone living there as they snuck down corridors and up a wider set of steps to pause before a broad, heavy door.
“This is it,” Hussey whispered excitedly. “At this time of night, she will be unattended for several hours as she sleeps.”
The dying queen would get little sleep this night. Her clandestine visitors shoved the door open just enough to slip through before silently latching it closed.
Moonlight streamed into the room, and the cloying fragrance of scattered pomanders greeted them. The exotic petals and spices failed to cover the unmistakable scent of withering life. Margaret’s final hopes fell. She had prayed to find Catherine healing and preparing to continue her righteous battle with the king, but a single step into Catherine’s chamber convinced her that God’s path veered in another direction.
As her eyes adjusted to the soft light blended with deep shadows, Margaret saw Catherine. She saw only her face, her body was too thin to make a perceptible shape under the heavy bedcovers that the ill woman required even in the summer heat. The bed curtains had been left open, either because the attendants were lax in their duties or Catherine had requested the light be allowed in. Catherine’s cheeks were sunken except where bones that had previously been pleasantly padded now thrust sharply forth. Was she breathing? Had they arrived too late?
Seeming to sense their presence or somehow hear Margaret’s unspoken questions, Catherine opened her eyes. Without searching the room, she looked directly at Hussey and Margaret with eerie precognition. A single blink indicated that she recognized them, as though a smile or word would have taken more strength than she had in supply.
Forgetting the need for quiet and the requirements of their mission, Margaret rushed forward and fell to her knees at the bedside of her friend.
“Dear, Catherine,” she cried. “Why did you not call for me sooner?”
She knew the question was ridiculous. Catherine had neither power to issue orders nor permission to request visitors, but Margaret’s heart was shattered by the sight of Catherine so depleted. The rosy cheeked girl who had rode into London at Prince Arthur’s side, so full of hope and joy and sure to reign with the reincarnation of the glorious king of old, now lie in a damp bed, alone and unwanted.
Dank smells of the swamp mingled with the sweet scent of oncoming death as Margaret buried her face in Catherine’s bedcovers. The pomanders, one of the few items in the castle fit for a queen, could not fight this battle. They were losing, as all do when they attempt to instill their own will over God’s.
Margaret wriggled a hand through the layers to find Catherine’s, clammy and fragile beneath the blankets. “Oh, Catherine,” she moaned. She had intended to be optimistic, dignified, and full of reassurances. Instead, Margaret was on her knees sobbing for the impending death of her friend, their faith, and England’s future.
“Meg,” Catherine whispered, using a name Margaret had not heard in years. Richard used to call her Meg. Catherine would see him soon.
Forcing herself to raise watery eyes to meet Catherine’s, Margaret saw that an inner strength remained there that could not be squashed even as her earthly body wasted away. If Catherine could offer what little strength she had, Margaret could carry on.
“I’m here,” she said, emphasizing the truth of her words by squeezing Catherine’s hand. “I would know what my queen wishes of me.”
Catherine’s lips twitched. Few called her queen anymore, not if they valued their position and freedom.
“Mary?” The single word asked an exhaustive list of questions. Was she well? Had she given in to her father and signed the Act of Succession? Did her father find new methods to creatively punish her?
A flash of fear told Margaret that she would never learn what she must from Catherine if the poor woman was able to communicate solely in single whispered words, but she told Catherine what she knew.
“Your daughter is strong as a future queen must be,” Margaret whispered, forcing herself to smile encouragingly. “She has taken her wise mother’s advice and informed the king that she wishes nothing more than to obey him and will do so in every way that is in accordance with God’s wishes as well.”
The twitch again, and Margaret knew Catherine was pleased. She kept to herself that she wondered if it was wise for Mary to take up her mother’s failed argument and logic, but Mary was a woman now and no longer under the direction of her governess.
“Mary,” Catherine whispered again, making Margaret wonder if she had heard her or if her mind was failing. Her face must have scrunched in confusion because Catherine gave a miniscule shake of her head and added, “Reginald.”
First squeezing together in growing frustration then widening as understanding struck, Margaret’s eyes locked on Catherine’s in astonishment.
“You wish for Mary to marry Reginald?”
Blink.
Struck speechless, Margaret stared mouth agape at her queen. Of all the tasks she had thought Catherine might assign her, this was not one she would have ever considered.
“Let me help you, your grace,” Hussey interjected, swiftly swooping in to rescue her. She had forgotten he was there.
But he was not addressing Margaret. He moved to the opposite side of the bed, taking a cup of water in one hand and lifting Catherine to a seated position with the other. Margaret almost cried out that he must leave her, that he would hurt her, but she was silenced by his practiced movements and gentleness. Catherine’s look of gratefulness spoke louder thanks than any word could have.
After a few moments, Catherine was
settled with pillows behind her back and a worn notebook in her hand.
“It takes her a bit to rouse from her sleep, but she will be fine,” Hussey commented under his breath to Margaret. Fine in this case meant that Catherine would be well enough to express her last wishes to her dearest friend. Fine did not mean that she would recover her health, her daughter, or her crown.
Margaret nodded. It was no less than she had gone into this scheme expecting.
Hussey lit a candle, and its soft light gave Catherine’s skin the illusion of a healthy glow. Everyone looked beautiful in candlelight, Margaret mused. It was the harsh sun that revealed every flaw and line while adding its own burning redness to cheeks and noses.
“Reginald, will he have her?”
The question startled Margaret, and she gave a small gasp as she realized that the low scratchy voice had been emitted by her vibrant friend. She took a deep breath, slowly moving her head from side to side.
“I do not know.” Honesty seemed the best policy. “He has not set foot upon English soil – cannot now that he has so vociferously rejected the king’s annulment and remarriage.”
Hussey spoke up. “Henry has sent assassins to target Reginald without success. There is no hope of reconciliation in that quarter. He is the most hated man since Richard de la Pole.”
He did not look to Margaret as he made this revelation, though he doubted she had understood the extent of the situation between the king and her son who had formerly enjoyed his favor and support in education.
“He was going to make him Archbishop of York,” Margaret whispered, but Hussey knew that she required no response.
He continued addressing Catherine. “Princess Mary, of course, is prepared to marry him if it becomes possible and is your will.”
Margaret turned toward Hussey, once again astonished at the depth of his loyalty. She had been underestimating him still. She would have the return journey to ask him how he moved between Mary and Catherine without anyone, friend or enemy, knowing it. He ignored her for the task at hand.
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 21