First of the Tudors

by Joanna Hickson

  Luckily Alice was of a similar age and mind as me and we worked well together. She always accompanied her mistress to the chapel, for which I was grateful. The Church required attendance once a week and I adhered to that, with confession at Easter and Christmas but otherwise my prayers were said privately and usually in bed at night.

  I tied the laces of Lady Margaret’s second boot before looking up. ‘I believe God knows what my duties are, my lady,’ I said, swallowing my impatience. ‘And as long as you have Alice to go with you I am satisfied that you are well attended.’

  She frowned and took my hand to pull herself out of her chair. ‘It is not my soul or Alice’s I worry about, Jane, it is yours.’

  ‘Perhaps you will honour me with your prayers for my soul then, my lady, for I feel sure He will listen to you. Now do you have your psalter?’

  * * *

  Jasper had booked the services of a Pembroke midwife, a bossy but motherly soul called Mallt, who had been recommended by his steward’s wife because, apart from having some experience with very young mothers, she also spoke fluent English. Lady Margaret had an abhorrence of revealing any personal physical details which made it hard to estimate when her pregnancy had started and therefore when it might end. Between us, the midwife, Alice and I decided that she should enjoy the Christmas celebrations and begin her confinement at Epiphany.

  I had suggested to Jasper that the apartments of the West Hall would be the most suitable for the lying-in. It was in a far corner of the Inner Ward, tucked between the chapel and the original curtain wall of the old castle. It seemed a peaceful place, quiet and shadowy and sheltered from the cruel north wind, well removed from other buildings and occasionally used for accommodating visiting ladies. I thought it ideal for the purpose because Margaret would be able to hear Mass through the door that linked it to the chapel.

  But Jasper shook his head. ‘No, I do not like the West Hall for the lying-in. It might be fine for the waiting time but not for the actual birth. Do not mothers often cry out loud? And might these cries not be audible during Mass?’

  He looked embarrassed to be mentioning this aspect of childbirth but I chided myself that I had not thought of it. ‘You are right. Although anywhere in the castle is probably the same, is it not?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ he said suddenly. ‘My new mansion will be finished, except for some of the interior decoration and we can delay that. You have not yet seen inside but I deliberately planned for the solar block to have a blank wall onto the Outer Court for privacy and it will baffle noise as well. We could install Margaret there and close it to everyone except appointed ladies. All it needs is furnishing and some thick hangings and rugs and it will be quiet and fresh and clean. A new house, perfect for the birth of a new life.’

  14

  Jane

  The Mansion, Pembroke Castle

  COCOONED IN HER NEW and shrouded lying-in chamber Margaret barely noticed the snow that came soon after Epiphany to cover the courts of Pembroke Castle under a white blanket. Those of us who ventured out found the exposed stairways treacherous with ice and the cisterns and pumps frozen solid but in the mansion fires burned constantly and somehow Jasper managed to obtain enough wood for fuel to be delivered to us daily. Only women were allowed in the mansion and fortunately a female cook had been found, a Pembroke woman of gentle birth who was only too willing to leave her family to their own devices for what seemed an exorbitant sum but it had to be owned that the dishes that emerged from her kitchen were delectable, despite the scarcities of winter. Although excluded from her company, Jasper gave orders that anything she wanted Lady Margaret must have. She had sophisticated tastes and relished sauces made with copious quantities of costly nutmeg, pepper and cinnamon. Jasper himself rode a mule – not wishing to risk the legs of his precious horses – over the frozen track to Tenby to fetch fresh supplies of spices, embroidery silks and herbal remedies. With her books and needlework, music from a female harper and gossip from anyone who would provide it, the expectant mother remained tranquil and calm.

  ‘He is kicking, Jane,’ she said to me from time to time. ‘He is a lusty boy. Just here.’ She would place her hand over a particular spot on her ever-expanding belly. Then one day, instead of a kick, she felt something else.

  ‘Oh, oh Jane! He is coming. Quick, I must lie down.’ Margaret suddenly heaved herself from her chair and threw off the woollen wrap that had been tucked around her.

  I looked down, expecting to see tell tale signs that her waters had broken but could spy none. ‘Are you sure, my lady?’ I asked, offering her my arm. ‘Did you feel a pain?’

  ‘Not a pain as such but there was a definite twinge – just here.’ She put her hand to the small of her back. ‘Should I lie down? I do not want him to fall to the ground.’

  At that moment I wondered if perhaps it had been wrong not to explain the process of birth in more detail but she had shown remarkably little curiosity and we had not wanted to disturb her with warnings of how much pain and effort would be required before her precious baby saw the light of day.

  ‘No, that is not necessary yet. It may be a false alarm. Perhaps you have a cramp. Would you like to walk a little?’ I suggested. ‘It can do no harm to stretch your legs. The baby will not come after just one twinge.’

  ‘How many twinges will it take?’ Her brow creased in a frown and she fixed me with a questioning stare. ‘I was with my mother when she started to bring my stepbrother John into the world. I remember the midwife began counting between the pains. They would not let me stay but it did not seem very long before we heard his first cry.’

  I had learned something of Lady Welles’s history: she was on her third marriage and had given birth to at least eight children prior to John, her last child. ‘Babies take their own time, my lady, but the first one usually takes longer than the rest. Come.’

  With her small hand tucked into the crook of my elbow we began our slow progress towards the door. It was hung with a heavy curtain and Alice held it back to let us out. I had encouraged Margaret to walk a little each day but because of the snow we could not go outside, exercise was restricted to the hall, a few steps from the lying-in chamber. The hall was magnificent, half-panelled with carved oak, which extended into an ornate mantelpiece over the hearth, where a fire was kept constantly burning, and lit by three mullioned windows looking out over the new garden court. At night these windows were shuttered but at present the wilderness of white outside reflected bright light through their diamond panes and we paused on entry to blink until our eyes adjusted. Slowly and carefully we walked the length of the hall, stopping to peer through the distorting glass at the curious striped tracks made by iron-hooped pattens across the garden paths and the plump white cushions of snow that topped the dark battlements on the round tower across the court.

  ‘What is that tower called, Jane?’ Margaret asked. ‘We see it every day but I have never known its name.’

  ‘I do not know if it has a name; it is just part of the castle defences and used by the knights and archers.’

  ‘Perhaps Lord Jasper will name it for my son. He does not have a name yet either.’ She suddenly clutched at my arm. ‘I felt another twinge,’ she whispered. ‘Is that all right?’

  I smiled reassuringly. ‘Yes, my lady. If it is not a false alarm they will come at intervals, which will get shorter by degrees, but there is no hurry. Do you feel strong enough to walk a little more?’ Looking for distractions I glanced up at the spectacular ceiling. It was crosshatched with dark oak beams, the rectangles between them plastered and painted with heraldic symbols. I pointed upwards. ‘I believe those are the coats of arms of Lord Jasper and his relatives. Can you show me your Beaufort badge?’

  This took her mind off her twinges for a few minutes while we wandered about the big empty room, gazing upwards, scanning the various images. She reeled the devices off as we went. ‘There in the centre are the royal arms, the leopards and lilies, and around them King Henry’s antelo
pe, Queen Marguerite’s swan and the Prince of Wales’s three ostrich feathers. And then there is the red rose of Lancaster and the fleur de lys of France – and are those not Jasper’s golden martlets? I do not recognize that one with the three helmets; perhaps it is his father’s device but does Owen Tudor have a coat of arms? Ah, there is the Beaufort portcullis and next to it – oh! – is the flowering mount of Richmond.’ This last brought tears to her eyes and she turned to me, her face crumpling. ‘I wonder if my dear lord knows that his child is coming? I wish he were here to see his son born!’

  Although I made soothing noises I regretted that the sight of the Richmond device had defeated my attempt at distraction. It also troubled me that Margaret was so fixed on the child being a boy but considered that now was not the time to admit any doubt about the gender. Another twinge caused her tears to spill more freely and I abandoned any further attempt to extend the walk. Once she was settled back in her bed I sent a message to Jasper that the labour had begun, the midwife should be summoned and the wet nurse warned.

  For many hours there was little or no progress. I had only Bethan’s births to compare it with but Mallt assured me that all was well. ‘Young girls’ bodies have to adjust to the process of opening up,’ she said. ‘Muscles must stretch that have never stretched before and it will hurt.’

  Margaret heard this. ‘How much will it hurt?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I am getting pains but they are not as bad as when I sprained my wrist. Will it hurt as much as that?’

  Mallt smiled at her kindly. ‘It is a different sort of hurt, my lady. You must pray to your patron saint to help you bear it. You are fortunate to be called Margaret for it is she who aids all women in childbirth and particularly those who bear her name. Very soon I will rub your belly and thighs with my special oil, which smells of roses and it will ease the pain.’

  ‘I like the scent of roses. I must be strong so that my son is strong,’ said Margaret, becoming breathless as another spasm started.

  ‘We are certain that it will be a boy then, are we?’ Mallt sounded sceptical. ‘Have you dangled a gold ring over your belly? And did it swing north-south for a boy?’

  Margaret was beyond making any comment in return but I spoke for her. ‘Lady Margaret has always felt that she was carrying a boy. She does not believe in old wives’ tales.’

  Mallt chuckled. ‘Old wives’ tales you call them, do you? Let us try it shall we? And then soon we will see whether the ring is right.’ She pulled a length of ribbon from the bosom of her gown and revealed a gold ring attached to it. Holding it over Margaret’s belly, she stilled it with her other hand and when she let it go it slowly began to sway to and fro. Mallt watched it for several heartbeats before making her pronouncement. ‘East-west. The ring says it is a girl.’

  I saw Margaret’s eyes widen in protest and took her hand. Her fingers crushed mine and I shared her pain.

  Mallt confined the ring once more to her bosom then asked gently, ‘Did you confess your sins before your lying-in, my lady? That always makes everything easier.’

  Relieved as the pain subsided, Margaret managed to croak, ‘I did but it seems a long time ago. Should I do so again? Shall we send for the priest?’

  Mallt looked shocked. ‘Oh no, my lady, that would never do. Childbirth is women’s work. Now that your labour has begun it is doubly bad luck to let a man enter the chamber. We women will all work together and with God and St Margaret’s help we will welcome a new life before morning.’

  However, when I went out into the great hall to meet with Jasper at dawn I had nothing to report. My expression must have revealed my deep concern because before I could open my mouth he burst into speech. ‘Oh Jane! Is she still labouring? Is there no sign of the child yet?’

  ‘I fear not, my lord. She is brave but getting very tired and no wonder.’ As I spoke there came a muffled cry from the lying-in chamber, which crescendoed into a long, agonized moan, enough to tear at the hardest heart.

  Jasper gasped. ‘Lord save her! Can she survive such pain?’

  ‘Have courage, my lord!’ I said, cutting short our discussion in order to return to my mistress.

  The midwife had instructed me fetch the birthing chair, which had remained out of sight until the appropriate time so that Lady Margaret would not be disturbed by its curious shape. I bent and picked up the chair from where it had been tucked away in a corner near the door to the lying-in chamber, staggering a little as I found it heavier than I had expected.

  Jasper stepped forward to steady me and rapped on the door for entry.

  I whispered to him, ‘Keep praying, my lord, and do not despair. We are doing all we can.’

  The labour went on hour after hour. Poor Margaret felt exposed and vulnerable in the birthing chair, perched on its back ledge and racked with pain. I pointed out how she might grip the arms and push and the position would allow the baby to arrive more easily and not fall to the ground and so she agreed to bear it, at least for a while. But at length she no longer had the strength to grip and we lifted her back to the end of the bed where the midwife could tend to her while she lay back, exhausted, on pillows.

  ‘Is there any sign of the head?’ I asked Mallt in a whisper, after she had felt under the bedcovers for what seemed like the hundredth time.

  She nodded. ‘I can feel the crown but it is all too slow. The babe will die if I do not help.’

  At that moment Margaret let out a piteous moan, which escalated into a full-blooded scream as a new and prolonged contraction tore at her fragile body. Mallt called for a light as she ripped off the top quilt and tented the sheet beneath, thrusting her head under it. I held a lamp near so that its light shone through the white linen.

  Tense minutes passed. It did not seem possible that Margaret could have the strength to scream any louder but then she did and moments later a red-faced Mallt emerged from under the sheet … to my horror, her hands and the sheet were covered in blood. ‘I have had to cut her,’ she said. It was then that I realized with horror that the midwife’s long thumbnail was sharpened like a blade.

  I stumbled away, gulping for air as my mind filled with dreadful and bloody images and the lamp nearly dropped from my hand. Trembling violently I set it down and then another prolonged groan filled the room and Mallt’s urgent cry called me back to sense and duty.

  ‘Jane, bring a towel quick – I have the babe!’

  15

  Jasper

  Pembroke Castle

  I SPENT THE SEEMINGLY interminable period of Margaret’s labour kneeling before the altar in the Pembroke chapel. In the freezing small hours of the morning I begged God to spare Margaret’s life, even over and above that of her child and I realized with an appalling sense of guilt that my motives were as selfish as Edmund’s ever were. I wanted her to live because if she died it would be my fault for letting Edmund get his own way as he had done all his life. I should have fought harder for her, persuaded King Henry that I, not Edmund, should marry her because I would care for her wellbeing so much more than he. I felt I had spinelessly abandoned her and now, if she lived, I would be forced to abandon her again because by marrying Edmund, whether the babe lived or not, she had become my sister and I was forbidden by the laws of consanguinity to marry her, as the mother of my brother’s child.

  On the third day of Margaret’s ordeal Jane came at dawn – she found me prostrate before the Holy Rood, my face wet with tears. She knelt and touched my shoulder. ‘Is she dead?’ I asked, my voice a croak.

  ‘No, my lord, but she may be close to death. She has lost much blood and is insensible, but the child is a healthy boy.’

  I hauled myself up onto one knee, my head swimming. ‘Close to death you say. How close?’

  Jane looked as pale as death herself and shook her head. ‘I do not know. There is also the ever-present threat of fever. Your prayers will be needed more than ever.’

  ‘Oh dear God Almighty, save her!’ I cried, turning back to the altar and making the sign of t
he cross. ‘What does the midwife say of her condition?’

  ‘She says Lady Margaret is lucky the baby is small, though he is strong. Nevertheless he should be baptized as soon as possible.’

  I ran my hand over my face, trying to remove all sign of my tears. ‘Yes. I will alert the priest and then we will bring him here.’

  Jane brought the baby out of the lying-in chamber with a lace-trimmed chemise over his swaddling and a beautifully embroidered coif tied over his head so that all I could see of his features were crumpled red cheeks, a small, straight mouth and tightly-closed, rather puffy eyes. Knowing that his mother lay at death’s door seemed to rob me of all feeling for the child. He was my nephew but I could summon no sense of kinship.

  Then the midwife carried him wrapped in a thick woollen shawl through a crowd of curious servants and soldiers who greeted the newborn with blessings and applause as we walked past them to the Inner Gate and the castle chapel. At the font I undertook the godfather role and passed the baby to the priest.

  ‘Who names this child?’ he asked.

  ‘I do,’ I answered, realizing that I had no idea what name to give him.

  Then all at once it came to me, perhaps as a way to induce in myself some sense of family connection, and as I made the declaration the list of Welsh patronyms ran fluently off my tongue. ‘His name is Owen – Owen ab Edmund ap Maredudd ap Tudur.’

  * * *

  ‘A fine name for a Son of Prophecy!’ declared Lewys Glyn Cothi in his lilting Welsh-accented English. The poet had appeared at the castle gate at noon as if he knew by magic that the expected child had been born. His intuition had also brought him on foot through a fall of snow from Haverford in time to join me at dinner. ‘This young Owen is descended from Cadwalladr and the great Princes of Wales, just as you are yourself, Lord Jasper. The prophecy says that one such called Owen will raise the red dragon standard and become our saviour. We call him Y Mab Daragon!’