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

by Samantha Wilcoxson

  “I will be sore for a week if I attempt such a foolish pastime,” she argued, wishing she had kept up the habit after her trip to Kimbolton.

  “Nonsense.” Geoffrey was not one to be declined. “A calm palfrey taking you on a slow walk about the grounds will be good for you.”

  “And you would limit yourself to a walk in order to keep pace with your old mother?” she asked, unconvinced.

  He gave her a lopsided smile that reminded her of his father. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But I shall always come back to you.”

  Too true, she thought. She considered continuing to deny him, but knew it would be futile. He was spoiled, she supposed, but it was too late to rectify that. Just enjoy the moment. That was what life with Geoffrey taught her.

  She would never admit to him how often he was correct. Though she would never have even thought of riding out that day, with him at her side she was quickly invigorated by the crisp air that fought to overcome the heat of the sun. The combination was pleasant, leaving her cold in the shade of trees then embraced by warmth as they entered sunny patches.

  “I have had word from my brother,” he said when they were well away from the manor.

  “From court?” she asked, knowing that communication with Reginald was no longer permitted except through the king’s council.

  “Yes. Henry sends word that Jane Seymour has managed to provide the king with his much sought after son and heir.” He did not look at her as he said it, knowing his mother did not like to be caught unaware.

  “A boy,” she whispered. After years of preparing Princess Mary for queenship, making promises to her dying mother, and risking all to oppose the king. It came down to his newborn child. What did God mean by this?

  She absently rubbed her hand along the silky coat of her mare in a soothing motion, and Geoffrey remained silent. He was more sensitive and perceptive than he was often given credit for, she realized, ashamed that she was often one to underestimate him.

  “What else did he say?” she asked. But what else could there be to compete with the news that King Henry finally had a son?

  “He writes that Jane is not expected to live.”

  Margaret gasped. Little as she admired the girl for her grasp at power, the Seymours were at least preferred to the Boleyns. Would Henry be content as a widower now that he had a boy or would he continue his quest for an heir and a spare? What poor woman might be next?

  “But the child?” she asked.

  “Said to be robust,” Geoffrey answered the question she meant to ask. The mother would give her life for that of her son as so many before her had.

  Margaret nodded, peering up at the array of colors that surrounded them, russet, gold, and chestnut. It was too beautiful for most artists to recreate, and she was blessed to be here in the center of it while a much younger woman, a queen at that, lay dying. God’s ways are not our ways. Was there any truer statement than this?

  “Does Henry advise anything at this time?” She could accept that they had begun the swapping of positions in life. Henry was the head of the family as much as she was, and he had the benefit of maintaining his quiet place at court. He excelled at being present yet inoffensive, despite the king’s issues with his mother and brother.

  Geoffrey’s head bobbed in affirmation. His older brother seemed to perfectly anticipate his mother’s inquiries.

  “He suggests that we simply wait. The king does not seem to have a fourth queen in waiting, so the past whirlwind courtships are not expected to be repeated. Let the king make the next move, especially as Cromwell watches carefully for ours.”

  Margaret could see the sense of it though every part of her cried out that something must be done. But what? Should they put forth a potential wife acceptable to their cause and take the chance that Henry would continue producing boys or wait to see what unpredictable action he takes next? No clear alternative presented itself, so she agreed to await further instructions from Montague.

  “I thank you,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she knew she wanted to say them. In response to Geoffrey’s raised eyebrows, she continued, “Oh, I know that you initially came here for your own purposes, but it has done my soul well to have you here. It is good for Katherine, as well, to have her uncle here when she misses her father.”

  Geoffrey inclined his head to her, almost embarrassed. He was used to praise but that of the more superficial sort. He was not equipped to properly respond and could only hope his mother understood how much it meant to him.

  “He does share somewhat unrelated news as well,” he turned the conversation back to his brother’s missive.

  Margaret appeared interested but not concerned. She had received what she thought was the most severe blow.

  “Throckmorton has been arrested.”

  A chill shivered through Margaret’s body though she was clear of shadows. Throckmorton had been an agent of the king’s - and one of Reginald’s - a fact that must have been discovered for the Tower to be his fate.

  “What does this mean for Reginald?” she asked, praying that God did not damn her for her lack of concern for the poor man if her son remained safe from the king’s clutches.

  Geoffrey offered an unconcerned shrug. “He is as safe as he can be, though he is now without such a valuable spy.”

  Margaret sighed in relief and could spare some thought for the double agent. “And Throckmorton?”

  “Will most likely be executed,” Geoffrey admitted lightly.

  “God have mercy on his soul,” Margaret whispered.

  May 1538

  Receiving a summons to join Henry’s court was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. Margaret’s hands were shaking by the time she finished reading the note from the king’s secretary. Placing the vellum on a table already covered with correspondence, she squeezed her hands together, willing them to stop. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine why he would want her there now.

  There could be no favorable reason, of that much she was quite certain.

  Her lips pressed tightly together and she forced herself to pray for strength. If she was being called to account for her loyalty to the princess, she would stand up to Henry for the sake of his daughter. Were he to question her on her reverence of relics and saints, she had her son, a cardinal no less, to point to as an authority higher than a man who had forced his people to revere him as a god. Little else could be the subject of the hearing. Which loyalty had made her a traitor to the crown?

  For the first time in years, she wished that she was at Bockmer. It had long become much more Jane’s than hers, but this moment when her death seemed so close she wished that she were there where she and Richard had lived.

  A harsh laugh filled the still air and it startled Margaret. It took her a moment to realize that the discomforting sound was of her own making. Bitter laughter in the face of the demise that she had claimed she was prepared to staunchly face.

  Sun beamed through the window and lent its warmth to her frigid outlook. Perhaps she should not so hastily assume the worst. After all, Montague was still at court, serving the king satisfactorily so far as she knew. Even Geoffrey had been welcomed back once Margaret had covered his latest debts and Henry had grown bored with less jovial companions.

  Taking a deep breath and stiffening her spine, Margaret called for her ladies to begin packing. They would leave as soon as proper arrangements could be made. It was not wise to keep the king - or fate - waiting.

  Watching her ladies stuff dresses, linens, and other necessities into large trunks, Margaret wished that she had a closer companion to travel with her. With Katherine settled in her own household with Francis Hastings and their three children, Margaret had many occasions to feel her absence. This was one of the more piercing moments since the girl, or rather young woman, had left to see to her own family. Margaret felt like a relic in a world that no longer needed her.

  King Henry had not brought his court to Bisham in recent months as he had done in
the past. Rather than being upset by this, Margaret had been content to retire into obscurity. Apparently, he was not going to give her that option.

  She hoped to have the opportunity to speak to Montague before being presented to the king to ask if he had heard from Reginald. Could it be a letter from Cardinal Pole that had sent Henry into a fury? Again. If that were the case, would Margaret be equipped to protect her family from the consequences that Reginald need not fear? She could only pray that God would see her through whatever King Henry had planned for the Pole family.

  She had trained her household to be efficient and was soon upon the London road. Spring blooms greeted them cheerily in their ignorance of the cavalcade’s reason for travel. Pink apple blossoms kissed the sky and received warm yellow sun in return. The sight of Tudor roses made Margaret’s stomach churn. York roses were not prominent in the area surrounding Henry’s seat of power.

  As country cottages were replaced by busy storefronts and taverns in structures that leaned out over the road as if attempting to embrace each other, Margaret steeled herself for the confrontation to come. She had decided to stay with her son instead of renting a house because she hoped to leave as soon as business could be completed. Keeping arrangements simple would help make that possible.

  Margaret was surprised to see her Henry waiting to welcome her when they arrived. His hair was disheveled if not as thick as it had once been. The athletic frame that he had once proudly displayed was shrouded in a layer of padding as a result of fine food and wine frequently enjoyed with close friends. He was still handsome, at least Margaret and Jane both thought so, but there was no denying that he was no longer young.

  As soon as her coach crunched to a stop on the finely raked gravel, he was there to help her out. Margaret was touched that he was so eager to see her, until she glimpsed his face up close. She knew that fine lines had become Henry’s lot as well as any who reach his age, but the haggard visage that greeted her was hatch-marked with buried anxiety. To all others present, he appeared carefree as he made inane conversation and was friendly with the servants, but Margaret could see that there was much hidden behind his façade.

  She could hardly wait until they were safely out of earshot to plague him with questions. Holding up his hands, he promised to tell her everything he knew, including the likely reason that Henry wished to see her. If only she had an inkling of what she missed while snugly spending quiet days at Bisham.

  Margaret knew, of course, that the king’s right hand, Thomas Cromwell, was pressing for his fourth marriage. She assumed with only one surviving infant son, that Henry would not be difficult to convince. The problem seemed to be with the choice. His last two wives had been conveniently prepared for him as ladies-in-waiting to their predecessor. For once, none of the ladies at court was waiting in the queue, so a foreign match had been suggested.

  “A Lutheran?” Margaret exclaimed. She could not have been more shocked if Christ had chosen that moment to return to Earth. “How has Cromwell convinced him of that? He must be more persuasive than we have given him credit for.”

  Henry allowed his head to sag. Clearly he had more to reveal.

  “Geoffrey’s man, Hugh, has been arrested,” he said in the voice of one who knows they must be resilient but lacks the strength. “He warned me that my brother and I would be quick to follow.”

  The heat rushed from Margaret’s body and she was certain that she must have died, her body left lying cold in poor Henry’s sitting room. How could her heart continue to beat if it were her sons, and not just her, who were targeted by the king? Her mouth had dropped open, so she shut behind tiny pursed lips.

  “He would not. What charge would he bring?” she said, hoping she sounded more hopeful to his ears than she did to her own.

  Henry burst out in laughter, making her wonder what she had missed. She prayed she was not one of those unfortunate souls who lost their senses at a certain age. He seemed incapable of controlling his mirth, and she felt anger returning the heat to her limbs.

  “Perhaps you can explain what in God’s green earth is humorous regarding our predicament?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry, mother,” Henry apologized breathlessly as he struggled to regain control of himself. “I forget that you are not here to see that our king makes up his own rules as he goes along.” Shaking his head and taking deep gulps of breath, Henry went on. “He receives a dispensation to marry his first wife, then leaves the church to divorce her. He burns Catholics for denying that he is the head of the church and reformers for denying Catholic truths. Do you not see?”

  “It does not matter what truth is when it comes to my cousin the king,” Margaret whispered. She could have God, the Pope, and Martin Luther united at her back, but it would not be sufficient to bear the wrath of King Henry if she had displeased him. “Is he so separated from reality? From God?”

  Henry shrugged. “He has always claimed to be a true son of the church, but the very woman he may marry confesses a faith that he has burned lesser men for. Then again, he may change his mind with the setting of the sun. He has become completely unpredictable. Only Cromwell enters his presence with an unconcerned air and dry brow.”

  But was that bravery or ignorance?

  “Alright,” Margaret brushed away the information to the back of her mind. “But why do you think he has called me here? Is it regarding Reginald? Have you heard from him?”

  Henry held up his hand once again, slowing his mother’s stream of questions.

  “I cannot be certain of course. I believe it is regarding Reginald but not the way you think.” He paused to sip him wine and Margaret resisted the urge to hurry him on. “I believe he may have heard whispers of the hope that many have for Reginald as king consort.”

  Margaret’s eyes were wide and dry as air around an open flame. When heretics were burnt at the stake, did they notice how dry their eyes were before the flames made other pain unendurable?

  “And because he now has a son, any plans for Princess Mary are a hope to usurp his own,” she completed Henry’s thought. She would not ask how the king would have heard. It was inevitable that a prayer so many years held would become less private than it should be. Margaret had no doubt that each one who was privy to Catherine’s last wish would be discreet with it, but somewhere it had leaked. It only took a drop of conspiracy and treason to enrage a king, especially this king.

  “Is there a way that you and Geoffrey could join Reginald?”

  His face had darkened as she asked the question, and she was crestfallen to see that he would never consider it.

  “And leave my children and dear Jane to his inconsistent mercies? You remember the fate of Maude de Braose, do you not?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Margaret snapped, shaking her head in insistent disagreement. “My cousin is a tyrant, but he is not King John.”

  Henry simply raised a single eyebrow in reproach but would not argue with his mother. “I will not leave them.”

  “Very well,” she acquiesced. Part of her respected him and had a mother’s pride for his refusal to leave his family as her grandfather, Richard of York, had when he left her father and uncle with their mother to fend for themselves at Ludlow while he retreated to safety in Ireland during the late wars. Grandmother Cecily, with young George and Richard, had been put under household arrest but not harmed. However, Henry was her son, no matter his age, and a small part of her wished to force him to flee. Surely, she could protect his family. No, she knew that she could not guarantee it.

  “What shall be our strategy then?” Margaret asked him.

  As he breathed deeply, Henry’s eyes scanned the room as if taking an inventory of the rich tapestries and displayed plate. Their riches meant nothing, she could read the thought upon his face.

  “Let us talk after your conversation with the king,” Henry advised. “He could be complaining about Geoffrey’s gambling or raging regarding correspondence from Reginald. We cannot determine our next move wi
thout knowing his.”

  Disappointed that he had not been able to provide greater insight, Margaret agreed. Not one to waste time, even if what needed to be done was distasteful, she left to present herself to King Henry’s secretaries.

  As she had expected, Margaret was asked to wait in a hall that was filled with hopeful courtiers. Regardless of the king’s increasingly despotic behavior, there were those anxious and willing to do his bidding if they saw advantages to their house in doing so. Margaret’s lips disappeared into a thin line as she observed them in what was undoubtedly their finest doublets and hose. How she wished she could advise them to leave and be content in their life that did not include their king to an unnecessary extent. Go home and love your wives and children in peace, she longed to encourage them.

  Some truths one had to learn for themselves and were only fully understood when it was far too late.

  Before long, Margaret was called upon to present herself. The glares of those who had been waiting far longer prepared her for the reddened visage she expected to find behind the door.

  King Henry appeared older than his years thanks to a recent illness that had left him closer to death than many knew. It was this topic that he promptly broached with Margaret after the required pleasantries were exchanged.

  “I will include your majesty in my prayers to an even greater extent than I already do,” Margaret assured him with her head bowed as if she would intercede for him at that very moment.

  Henry was waving her comment off before she had finished uttering it. “You know quite well that I am not interested in that.”

  “Not interested in prayer, your grace?” she asked archly.

  His smile indicated that he would not be trapped by his words. Not by her.

  “It is schemes that blossom at the news that a king may be dying that concern me, not your bedtime prayers,” he spat.

  Moving her head from side to side, Margaret insisted, “I am sure that no such scheme would be necessary, given that your dear late wife blessed you with a strong son and heir.”