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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  Henry leaned back in his chair exhaling a heavy breath. His hand lifted to his chin again and his eyes narrowed in thought.

  “It is not a bad idea,” he agreed. “It cannot be long before the king receives a return message from my brother regarding his request for support of his new marriage. He may have it written and sent before hearing of Catherine’s death. If I know Reginald, he will be bold. You could smooth the king’s ruffled feathers.”

  This was not precisely what Margaret had in mind, but she saw the sense of it if such actions became necessary.

  “I will write to Reginald myself and encourage prudence,” she said, pouring more wine for each of them. “His righteousness is admirable, but we must also weigh what should be said and when. He must remember that this is a king who will punish those at hand if he cannot have the guilty party he desires.”

  Henry sat up alert at that. “Surely, Reginald would not write anything to put his family in danger. Remember Edmund de la Pole.”

  “I shall see that he does not.”

  ~~~~

  Henry was still at Bisham with his mother when he received a message from Geoffrey.

  “Anne Boleyn has suffered another miscarriage,” he told his mother, reading from the scribbled note. “Geoffrey does not believe she will be given the opportunity to have another.”

  “What does that mean?” Margaret snapped. She may harbor no love for the Boleyn girl, but she could feel a mother’s sympathy for a lost child.

  Henry locked his gaze on her. “He believes that Henry means to get rid of her.”

  Margaret laughed and her son looked as though he was concerned for her mental health.

  “All the pain he has caused. The people he has exiled or killed. The church he has sundered,” she said in gasps, fighting to catch her breath. “All for this woman whom he would now replace.”

  Henry did not know if he was supposed to say anything, so he did not.

  “At least it did not take him two decades to decide this time. Anne will have Catherine’s example to thank as she quietly retires to a nunnery rather than fighting a drawn out battle that she cannot win. May God have mercy on their souls.”

  June 1536

  Margaret’s transition back to the foreign world of King Henry’s court went more smoothly than she could have imagined. Few seemed concerned with the movements of a woman old enough to be considered irrelevant.

  For Queen Anne, fortune’s wheel made a vicious downturn. Even Margaret was surprised when the king’s second wife was brought up on charges of treason rather than given the opportunity to remove herself to a nunnery. Henry used the situation to rid himself of a few others who had been overly fond of the Boleyn girl, accusing them of adultery with her and chopping off their heads. Margaret was scandalized that one of the men was Anne’s own brother.

  In the wake of Anne Boleyn’s execution, few spared a thought for the aged remnant of the York family quietly inserting herself into court mechanizations.

  Though none were allowed to let it show, the brutal trial and death of Anne had shaken even the king’s most staunch supporters. An invisible fissure had opened up, with England’s aristocracy on one side and Henry and Cromwell on the other.

  Make that Henry, Cromwell, and Jane Seymour. The girl was either incredibly brave or astoundingly stupid, for she had become the third wife of King Henry just days after the head of his second was skillfully sliced off by a French swordsman. Margaret had to pinch herself to ensure that she was not dreaming or going insane. She supposed feeling the pinch did not mean that she was sane but knew of no other test.

  Margaret was sitting within Westminster’s great hall, observing the conspiracies and manipulations taking place when she looked up to find Kathryn Craddock examining her. No, she was no longer Craddock, Margaret reminded herself as Kathryn crossed the hall toward her. Deep blue silk enveloped the still beautiful woman. Her beauty was now that of a dignified older woman on her fourth marriage, but the beauty of her youth still twinkled in her ocean colored eyes and mischievous dimple. The woman who had thought to be consort to Richard IV was now the wife of gentleman usher of the chamber, Christopher Aston.

  The old friends greeted each other warmly and agreed to stroll through the gardens while they caught up with one another. Margaret shared what she could, wishing that she could say more. It was not that she did not trust Kathryn, but she and Hussey had agreed to keep tight the circle of people who were endangered by knowledge of their activities. She already regretted telling Ursula. It would have been better to let the girl live her simple life with her children away from court manipulations.

  “You are keeping something from me,” Kathryn observed as they slowly made their way through the fragrant paths surrounded by the blooms of summer.

  One side of Margaret’s mouth crept upward, remembering that it was difficult to keep anything hidden from Kathryn. She was one who knew how to slip into the hearts and minds of her friends and cared about what she found there.

  “Nothing of import,” Margaret reassured her rather unconvincingly, but Kathryn let it pass. “I was surprised to find you here,” Margaret added, changing the subject.

  Kathryn’s laughter was an echo of the past, and Margaret almost expected to glance over and see the woman who had turned all heads in 1497 standing there.

  “I do spend the majority of my time on the lands left to me by my beloved Matthew,” she agreed with a sad smile as she thought of her third and most loved husband. “The vast hills and sweet gurgling brooks are a balm for a weary soul. I love to ride out and pretend that I am the only person left in the world.”

  “At times, I do feel like the only person left. The only one from a certain time, I should say,” Margaret said with wistfulness evident in her tone and watery eyes.

  “But you are not,” Kathryn denied. “You have me.”

  “And I am thankful for that,” Margaret said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. Kathryn was a good person and a thoughtful friend, but she was not close enough to confide in. Nor had she grown up in the violence of the battles between Edward III’s descendants, as Margaret had, even if her husband had been one of the last victims of it.

  Instead of lifting her spirits as Margaret had been sure spending time with Kathryn would do, she felt morose. She would never learn to deny the ghosts of her past, so instead she welcomed them and let their presence wash over her like the tide coming in. She did not realize that she had halted her steps and closed her eyes.

  “Margaret, are you well?” the concern all people kept on hand to use with the aged clung to Kathryn’s words.

  Margaret took one more moment to appreciate the feel of the sun on her face before bidding her spirits farewell, then took a deep breath.

  “I am, and I apologize for worrying you,” Margaret resumed her steps as she spoke.

  Kathryn pinned her down with a quizzical look but did not prod. Margaret purposefully turned away from her to inspect a sprig of planta genista that was warring for dominance in a flowerbed. The grey-green leaves shielded tiny thorns from view. Bright yellow flowers gave the plant a cheery appearance that must have appealed to Geoffrey of Anjou when he wore the flower so often that it had given his son’s dynasty its name, but the hidden barbs protected the invasive shrub from pests, animal and human. She was the last Plantagenet. Would its thorns protect her?

  “Lady Salisbury,” a deep voice announced itself. Without turning, Margaret knew it would be attached to a large man further puffed up with self-importance. Clothing chosen for the statement it made rather than its practicality would accompany a voice such as that one. It was the sound of a man who was accustomed to answering to no one besides his king.

  Margaret grasped a branch of the Plantagenet shrub, mindless of the blood drawn as spikes drove into her soft palm. She silently prayed for strength before slowly shifting to face him as if he was the one at her command.

  “Sir?” The tilt of her chin and raising of her eyebrow left n
o doubt that she expected his obeisance.

  She would not receive it. His stern features faltered almost imperceptibly under the gaze of this York matriarch before he remembered that her position was not that exalted under the Tudor regime. He stretched to stand even taller, towering over the old women. “You have been ordered into the presence of his majesty.”

  Margaret swallowed and nodded, unable to speak. Only Kathryn noticed the drop of blood fall from Margaret’s hand to the ground as she followed her escort to the king.

  Prayers to God and all his saints raced through Margaret’s head as she followed her silent guide. He did not turn to glimpse at her, unconcerned if his pace was too quick and certain she would follow. She did.

  Despite her anxiety, she noticed the tapestries that seemed to cover every surface of the castle walls. Henry may have become notorious for his temper, dissolving beloved religious houses, and collecting wives, but he clearly also had an interest in the arts. Margaret hoped that she would have the opportunity to inspect them more closely, that she would have the opportunity to do anything after this meeting.

  A calmness came over her, and she was sure that it was her friendly ghosts accompanying her to her audience with the king. They reassured her that Montague was capable of leading the family. Reginald would stay firm in the faith and marry Princess Mary if it was deemed the right thing to do. And Geoffrey? He would have his older brothers to guide him.

  They had come to a door so elaborately carved and painted that it could only lead to the king’s chambers. As she was announced, Margaret prayed a last time for strength to remain faithful. She was led into the room with her head held high.

  “Cousin.”

  The word hit her before her eyes had found the man who had once been little Harry Tudor. Margaret blinked to be sure she was seeing clearly. How long had it been since she had been in the presence of the king?

  The vivacious little boy and athletic young man seemed to have been swallowed up by a thick puddle of a man reclining in a cushioned chair with one leg propped up on a short stool. He must have noticed Margaret’s eyes widen, because he released a belly laugh that set his rolls of flab jiggling in a nauseating dance. Once he gained control of his mirth and his body settled into its preferred stagnancy, Margaret had renewed her dignity as well.

  “Your grace,” she said as she curtseyed as low as she was able.

  “Do you know why I have had you brought here?” he asked in a low rumble that drew deeply from his gigantic girth.

  To ensure that she knew her place, beneath him? To threaten her? To have her thrown into the Tower?

  “I do not, but it pleases me to be at your mercy, and hope that I may serve you in whatever task you have for me,” she gave the expected response.

  He chortled again, loud and long. “Your skills are wasted at Bisham,” he stated coolly as if the echoes of his dying laughter were not still bouncing around the chamber.

  The sudden change made Margaret’s blood run cold, and her thumb rubbed the wounds on her palm like a sort of talisman. She did not speak, as he had not asked a question. The less said the better.

  “I would like to share with you a letter that I have lately received,” Henry announced, his words still tinged with a threat, though Margaret could not imagine what he meant. “Do you know who it is from?”

  His beady eyes that had once been bright with intelligence and joy were now made smaller by the massive jowls attempting to bury them. His stare stabbed her like a sword, and suddenly she knew. But she would not confess that to him. He gestured to an attendant, who handed him a single piece of vellum.

  “I cannot imagine what missive your majesty would deign to share with one such as myself,” she said demurely, her head bowed low in submission. When had her chin reached her chest, she wondered. Had she not meant to keep it upright? Her strength was insufficient to raise it.

  A grin that reminded Margaret of that painted in murals of demons trapping humans in sin filled Henry’s face, rearranging the folds of skin. She repressed a shiver, or at least she hoped she had.

  “This,” he continued slowly, holding up the letter as if it were damning evidence in a trial, “is from a dear cousin of mine. I have supported him financially and taken much interest in his education and prospects from the time I took my throne. Above most others, he has reason to serve me well and gratefully.”

  Margaret tried not to swallow or blink or breathe.

  “Do you still not know who wrote this?” He gave it a shake between his pudgy fingers as his eyes narrowed until Margaret was surprised he could see through them. “I think you do.”

  She remained silent, not because she thought it was prudent at this point but because she was unable to speak.

  “It is from your son, Reginald.”

  And the world crashed down around her.

  Still, she could not speak, and she knew she must. Those icy blue eyes were fixed upon her, waiting.

  “You will know, of course,” he continued as if they were discussing trivial matters, “that I have asked your son represent me before the Bishop of Rome. I have requested that he support me in marital matters the way I have supported him in all things.”

  Margaret could only nod in affirmation. Henry did not seem to mind.

  “In response to these requests from his king, your son,” he said the last two words as if they were daggers that he could throw, “has written this.” Another shake of the mysterious vellum.

  “When was the last time you communicated with Reginald?”

  The question took Margaret by surprise. She had been hypnotized by the quivering of the sheet in the king’s fingers as he crinkled the edges with anger that he wished he could take out on the author.

  “Your grace?” she mumbled.

  “When,” he carefully enunciated each word, “was the last time you received word from your son?”

  Her tongue searched her mouth for words, and she was appalled at the indecisive mutterings escaping from her. “I am not sure,” she finished.

  “You are not sure,” Henry repeated so that she could hear the lameness of her response.

  “I apologize, your highness,” Margaret attempted to recover. “This is all rather unexpected.” She realized that the king had not actually revealed the contents of Reginald’s letter. “What does he say?”

  “Ah,” Henry said, that grin filling his countenance once again. “That is an important question. You are a smart woman, Lady Pole, aren’t you? Of course, you are,” he answered his own question, and Margaret just watched the letter, willing it to flutter away. “You have managed to thrive when so many others have not. Warwick, de la Pole, Courtenay,” he enumerated, not because she would have forgotten the fate of her house, but to taunt her with it.

  “Your grace has been unfailingly generous,” she forced herself to say.

  “Yes, I have.”

  Tension sparked as they locked gazes, but Margaret was the first to look away. What else could she do?

  “When your aged mind recalls the last time you spoke to your son, Reginald,” he continued, “perhaps you can tell me if you encouraged him to support my unfortunate need to rectify my sinful position as husband to my brother’s wife. I have no doubt that you informed him that I, your king, am supreme ruler of this kingdom of all earthly and heavenly concerns. You, as my loyal subject and dear cousin, surely guided your son – and all your children – in understanding that you owe me everything.”

  All her children. Why had he said that? Reginald was safely out of Henry’s reach, and she had no fear for herself, but what of the others?

  “I have,” she boldly lied. “I will repeat my advice to him again, if you have a scribe available,” she offered. “Reginald is my child but is not under my control, surely you can understand.”

  She hated herself for speaking against him. Why had he not warned her of what she would face? Margaret had no choice but to look to those she must protect and let Reginald take care of himself.


  Henry seemed pleasantly surprised. “Is that so?” He gestured again, certain that his attendants could read his mind. “We shall do so now.”

  Margaret’s fingers fidgeted at the dried blood on her palm. Could she do this? What would Reginald think? She watched a scribe brought in, settled with ink, parchment, and wax to warm for her seal. Instead of nervousness and doubt building in her, the peace that was stronger than she was came over her again. Reginald understood her position. He knew that preparing her would have convicted her of his crime, and he would also expect this result. Clever boy.

  “Would you like to know what your son has written?” the king asked, and Margaret realized how much she had given him by not asking more questions. He knew that she expected Reginald to speak out against him. She closed her eyes and admonished herself for her stupidity.

  “I can see that it is something that displeases your grace,” she attempted to recover. “If it involves the points that you have stated, I am at your pleasure to remonstrate him as my child.”

  Henry nodded slowly, as if even this movement were retarded by his excess flesh. “Very well,” he conceded, and Margaret felt she had averted the devil. “In your instructions to him, you may like to inform him that it is best not to refer to his king as ‘a robber, a murderer, and a greater enemy to Christianity than the Turk.’”

  Margaret gulped.

  “You may also wish to remind him that I am the head of the Church in England. So much time away from his homeland seems to have confused Reginald’s allegiances. Please request that he return to our shores and submit to me as is his duty.”

  Never. “Yes, your highness.”

  Henry shifted his attention to the scribe, who seemed to have everything in its place after much shuffling and rearranging. Margaret felt her shoulders droop as if the king’s gaze had been propping them up.

  “Please take down the countess’ wise words to our servant Reginald Pole,” he instructed with a bit of amusement in his tone. He was like a cat playing with a mouse.