He narrowed his eyes at her. “You have never been a good liar, cousin.”
The statement hung in the air as he reclined into the cushions piled into his chair and continued to examine her. Margaret stood unwavering, knowing that the slightest expression of doubt would be jumped upon. She would not reduce her dignity by denying a vague accusation of a crime she had not committed.
“Your son is close to Exeter, if I am not mistaken,” he finally said, then grinned to see that he had taken her by surprise.
“They are cousins,” Margaret agreed, unsure what else to say or where this was going.
“Of course, they are,” Henry rubbed his hands together as one preparing to grasp their prize. “My dear Yorkist cousins.”
“Your mother and I were quite close before my marriage took me from court,” Margaret said. She was not sure what had rekindled Henry’s fear of his white rose relatives, but a mention of his level-headed mother seemed appropriate.
“Such a very long time ago,” he countered, pointedly fixing his eyes on her grey hair and lined face until she lowered her gaze. “Could it be that you do not serve your current king as loyally as you did my mother? Even I know that you had no great love for my father.”
Keeping her chin down, Margaret closed her eyes and worked to control the anger that still simmered when she thought of Henry Tudor sending her brother to the block. That had been four decades ago and had not involved this king.
“My devotion to you has been complete, your grace,” she insisted without raising her head.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It was clear that his leg pained him, and he was absentmindedly rubbing his temples as though his head throbbed as well. However, his eyes never left her.
“The completely devoted countess of Salisbury,” he mocked with a groan that brought an attendant to his side to help him settle more comfortably.
“Yes, my lord,” she muttered.
“And are your sons completely devoted to me as well?”
“Lord Montague has served you in many capacities since he was old enough to do so, your majesty. As does my Geoffrey, though I know he is more impetuous and not as suited to prominent roles. You have judged them well in where you have placed them each in your service,” she said, hoping the praise would balance the fact that she knew no mention of Reginald could positively affect his mood.
“I am so glad to have your approval,” he replied with rich sarcasm. “You do not feel that they are at all influenced by their brother, the revered Cardinal Pole?”
Margaret could not resist glancing up at the mention of her exiled son. Henry’s face was red with anger and pain. Why must she speak to him when all was stacked against her?
“They have not seen their brother in years, your grace. I believe that it pains them as much as myself that Reginald has not been reconciled to his prince.”
“To be sure,” he mumbled, unconvinced. “What if I told you that I know that your sons have, in fact, been corresponding with each other and that the topics of said letters were of great import?”
“I do not believe that is true,” Margaret said in a rush. Too quickly. She could see by the smug grin that spread his tiny mouth and forced hanging jowls aside that he read her denial for what it was.
“Ah,” he almost purred. The cat was happy with its toy. “Does Reginald write to his dear mother as well?”
“All of my correspondence with Reginald goes through your council since you requested that be so,” Margaret said with greater confidence for this portion of her statement was true. Only Henry wrote clandestine messages and smuggled them to Italy. It had seemed safe. His position so secure. Why had she not done it herself, she with nothing to lose?
“I believe you,” he said, but somehow it did not make Margaret feel any better. “Please escort Lady Salisbury from my presence,” he ordered no one in particular. “I am in need of rest and her presence unbalances my humors.”
She was quickly ushered away feeling as though she knew no more now than she had when leaving Bisham.
August 1538
Margaret had decided to remain in London. She dreaded the idea but could not leave with such an unfinished feeling and tension in the air. The one bright spot was the time she was able to spend with her oldest son. The years separating them seemed insignificant, and she spoke to Henry now as an equal rather than a child.
They had discussed the vague remarks made by the king but could determine no new path based upon it. If he had learned of the whispered scheme to bring Mary from England in order to wed her to Reginald, little could save them. Plan was too strong a word for the dreams of men who hoped to see Mary as a staunch Catholic queen in place of her inconsistent father or infant brother. That did not mean that men could not die for considering it.
Since her arrival, Margaret had heard of other ideas, such as Henry Courtenay’s hope to marry his son, Edward, to Princess Mary. Margaret had thought that the idea had substance. As the grandson of Margaret’s cousin, Catherine of York, young Edward possessed an equal portion of royal blood as Reginald. She could not determine whether she longed for the position for her son or thought it would be the final plague on her house. Thankfully, few thought to look for her opinion or support. Henry was considered the head of the family now, and he seemed to be carefully weighing the options so she left him to it.
If Princess Mary were to be married to Courtenay, the need to secret her from the country was removed. Finding a priest willing to wed the two would be no difficulty, since the couple would stand to restore the Church. But would Montague throw his support behind his cousin or his brother?
These were the questions and ideas that swirled through Margaret’s mind throughout the summer of 1538, before she understood the true extent of Henry VIII’s vengeance and power.
~~~~
“Mother, join me in my study, please.”
Henry had rushed in at midday, his presence unexpected at that hour due to his duties at court. He had not waited for his mother to respond but continued on hurriedly toward his study. Margaret’s brow creased in curiosity as she set aside the needlework she had been attempting. Her vision made it impossible to complete the fine work in anything other than full sun and even that was becoming a great challenge. She promptly followed her son’s footsteps into the study that could be a mirror image of Richard’s old room at Bockmer. Margaret would have smiled at her son’s mimicry of his father if it had not been for the utterly crushed expression upon his face.
She dashed to his side. “What is it?”
To her surprise, tears filled his eyes. She could not recall the last time she had witnessed her eldest child in such pain. “Henry?”
“They have taken Geoffrey,” he exclaimed as if each word wounded him.
“Geoffrey?” she parroted dumbly.
“To the Tower.”
~~~~
Everything up to this point felt like a child’s game now that Margaret was faced with the reality of her youngest child held in the fortress whose very name struck fear into noblemen’s hearts. The idea that they had been scheming to arrange marriage for Princess Mary while her father lived and ruled with an iron fist seemed ridiculously dangerous and a wholly not worthwhile risk now that it was already taken.
Margaret pleaded with the king through every channel available to her. He would not see her, so she sent letters and advocates with a greater opportunity to have his ear. She did not request Geoffrey’s release. That would not be well received. Her requests were sent with the simple request of a mother begging to visit her child.
She received no word in return.
It was as if Geoffrey had simply vanished. Montague heard nothing of his brother being questioned or charged with any crime. He was not seen walking within the Tower complex or upon its walls. No one seemed to even be sure exactly where he was being held.
Margaret had to settle for sending clothing and food in the hope that a compassionate party would see that at least a po
rtion of it reached him.
As summer became autumn, the chill in the air was met by icy fear that surrounded Margaret’s heart.
October 1538
Margaret sat at the table without seeing her family surrounding her or smelling the roasted apples that had been prepared to tempt her. Her mind was trapped in a cell with her youngest child, envisioning the worst because she still had no word on what was happening to him or even if he yet lived.
That was what plagued her most as she went through the motions of each day, losing hope a bit more with each sunset. She told herself that she would know somehow if Geoffrey had been tortured or fallen ill, but she could not convince herself. As her prayers were sent half-heartedly that he might be released, Margaret sank deeper into despair.
The image of Geoffrey as an infant, the only one she had nursed after she learned of the death of her husband, was followed in quick succession by his first steps, playing with a wooden sword, and her finding him sneaking a kiss from a kitchen girl. The pictures flitted through her mind in the way that her own life was supposed to flash before her eyes in those last moments. Was it the same thing he was seeing?
“Grandmother, will you not try a bit of apple? They are lovely,” her youngest granddaughter urged her.
Margaret attempted to smile at the sweet girl and took a reluctant bite. She saw the bones protruding through her skin and knew that she was giving up. Let the darkness cover me, she thought. Her desire for scheming had dissipated like the fog chased away by the sun. The ideas that had brought them to this place seemed so irrelevant when faced with their consequences.
“I think I will spend some time in the chapel,” she whispered, pushing back from her trencher and leaving without hearing the arguments that rose for her to stay.
As she knelt before the altar, she wondered how long the king would allow it to remain with its crucifix and relics. Reform continued though little was changed within the Pole households to recognize it. They would be forced eventually to give up their precious items that had been deemed idols, but Margaret would not betray her faith willingly. Would that God rewarded her for her faith with the restoration of her son.
Did the heavenly father look down upon Geoffrey as Margaret prayed? Did he hear her at all? At times, she wished to leave the chapel and never return. She had seen too much bloodshed to believe in a peace loving God. Then she would return, needful of the comfort that only fell upon her when she was in prayer. Who was she to understand the ways of the eternal king?
When she finally rose, slowly with aches permeating her body, she saw that Jane was sitting on one of the elaborately carved benches. Stranger still, she was smiling.
“What is it daughter?” Margaret asked, surprised that fate continued to provide reasons for cheer.
“A message from Constance,” gushed Jane. “She has received permission to visit her husband.”
“Geoffrey is alive,” Margaret whispered. “Thank God and all his saints.”
“Amen,” Jane dutifully replied.
November 1538
The joy that arrived with Constance’s permission to visit Geoffrey was promptly extinguished. She reported that his condition was poor. Since his arrest, he had been held within a dungeon that normally housed only the worst criminals. This pampered son who was accustomed to luxuries had spent two full moons scraping out his living among fleas and rats.
Constance had hardly recognized him and only been allowed to see him for a moment when he was taken for his examination. Fully demoralized and reminded of the woman he had to live for, Geoffrey was dragged from the room as his wife screamed his name.
When Constance tearfully shared her experience with Margaret and Henry, they all agreed that nothing good could come of it. The king had known exactly who to target. They each loved Geoffrey but were fearful of what he would reveal under torture.
“They can prove nothing,” Henry insisted. “I burn all of my correspondence. Certainly, Geoffrey has as well.”
“Proof,” Margaret scoffed. “Like the proof his father had against my brother or that my uncle had against my father? Kings do not need proof.”
Knowing that their discussion could lead to no answers, Margaret stormed from the room.
“Mother,” Henry pleaded her to return.
“I believe that my time would be better spent in the chapel,” she snapped, angrier with the tears that began to run down her face than her son for wishing to discuss matters without resolution.
Was it fate that brought them to this place? Had she and her brother simply been born into a cursed branch of the family, and had she unwittingly passed damnation on to her children? She had not believed it to be true, but hearing of Geoffrey beaten into submission weakened her resolve and increased her fear for the future. For all their futures.
As Margaret was attempting to work out these eternal mysteries on her knees, Jane burst into the chapel.
“You must come!” she cried.
Margaret dropped deeper into the pit that was threatening to swallow her. The news she had been dreading must have arrived.
“Please, mother,” Jane begged while Margaret moved slowly as if her presence could delay what had already occurred.
Tears ran in rivers down Jane’s face, and confusion pierced the hazy veil over Margaret’s thoughts. “Jane?”
It took her daughter-in-law a moment to be able to form the words, and then Margaret wished that she never had.
“They have taken Henry, too.”
Just when Margaret thought she could fall no further, fortune’s wheel turned again. She and Jane tumbled into each other’s arms and wept bitterly. Margaret knew that she should be in prayer for their safety but never before had her prayers seemed so pointless. As she prayed for one child, God had allowed another to be taken.
The women had not had time to consider their next step before footfalls were heard outside the chapel. They held each other and turned in fear, watery eyes ringed with glistening eyelashes stared at the door as if they could hold it shut.
The pair of guards that entered did not offer an explanation, but the taller of the two spoke, “Lady Salisbury. Lady Montague. You are to come with us.”
~~~~
The walls of Warblington Castle were as secure as any jail cell, and Margaret could only assume that she was held here while most members of her family were taken to the Tower as another subtle form of torture.
In all, Jane and Constance had joined their husbands within the Tower, as had Henry and Edward Courtenay. A shiver of foreboding shuddered through Margaret’s body when she heard that their children had also followed. She knew better than anyone alive that no one was safe within the Tower, not even children. The fortress that had been built as a place of safety had become synonymous with death.
She could sense the king’s hand in the decision to leave her to rot at Warblington, just as he had done to Catherine at Kimbolton. Originally a portion of her brother’s Warwick estates, the castle had become the property of Henry VII when he rid himself of the York heir. Henry VIII had restored it to Margaret and then made it her prison. How poetic.
The castle and surrounding grounds were beautiful, which only served to increase Margaret’s overwhelming sense of grief. As she gazed from the upper turrets at the crashing sea and golden hued forest, she could only think of her sons and grandchildren held in Tower cells. How many of them would escape?
Margaret struggled to find her comfort where she always had, in prayer. She asked God if the situation might be resolved by the ascent of a new English monarch in an attempt to veil her wish for the death of the king that surely did not fool her heavenly father. At this point, she cared not one iota whether that next monarch might be Princess Mary or the infant Edward. She would serve any king or queen who released those most precious to her.
Her mood was almost brightened by the arrival of her inquisitor. A man announced as Sir William Fitzwilliam had Margaret brought before him. It was surreal for her to be tr
eated as a supplicant before this commoner and in her own manor, but she kept her head low and her back curved in submission.
Fitzwilliam likely thought that he had been assigned easy prey until he began his round of questions. This seemingly docile old woman had enough strength remaining to deny any wrongdoing and to protect her grown sons as if they were babes in the cradle.
He started with a jab at her youngest. “I have been told that you have been disappointed in your son, Geoffrey.”
“Geoffrey has brought me joy since the day of his birth,” she countered.
“But more recently,” Fitzwilliam pressed.
“He has only ever strived to serve his king to the best of his abilities,” Margaret replied. Her head remained inclined but her words would not be used against any of her household.
Fitzwilliam shifted in his seat and tried another tactic. “You know that he is guilty of the damning sin of suicide.”
He smiled when Margaret’s head shot up in surprise. Margaret’s mouth went dry. It could not be. She would have heard. Surely, she would have sensed it if her child’s soul had been plunged into the depths of hell for a sin that could not be repented of. Her mouth worked on words that would not come and she felt like a fish that has been tossed into the bottom of a boat, gulping for water in the poisonous air.
“Well, attempted suicide, anyway,” Fitzwilliam amended, his point scored. He adjusted the belt around his substantial waist, his face never lifting its ever present scowl.
Margaret felt as if her heart had stopped. Geoffrey was not dead? How could he play this game with her? Dear lord, give me strength, she prayed.
Fitzwilliam continued as casually as if he had mentioned the weather. “Now, why do you think he would do that – stab himself in the chest? And not even well, since the poor sot survives.”
What answer could she give? “Perhaps he felt that he was without hope, knowing how few innocents leave the Tower alive.”
Faithful Traitor: The Story of Margaret Pole (Plantagenet Embers Book 2) Page 27