The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1)

by Judith Arnopp

  Why, why, why has nobody told me? I turn my head and see Oliver is grinning, his eyes filled with jovial tears. I realise he has known all along, his stories of a bullying brute have all been for my discomfort. I have been expecting a man, a fully grown tyrant in the image of his father, but here is a skinny boy, and clearly we will not be expected to live together for many years. I tug at Mother’s sleeve, give a wobbly smile. She stoops so I can whisper in her ear.

  “Is that him?”

  She nods, strokes my hair. “Do you think you can like him?”

  I shrug, a shadow of doubt returning.

  “Will I have to go away with them?”

  “No, no.” Her denial is adamant and surprised. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  My relief is great but I glare once again at Oliver, who sobers suddenly as Mother’s eye follows my gaze. The choir ceases, the priest steps forward to the altar and silence falls like a heavy blanket on a flame.

  I am prodded forward, and with shaking steps I stand shoulder to shoulder with John, who is to be my husband. As he makes his vow, his voice is high-pitched, shaky, and he stops in the middle to sniff. But when it is my turn I clear my throat and answer loud and strong, so that my voice will be heard even at the back of the church.

  At the wedding feast we are seated side by side but John says very little. He nibbles at his food like a mouse, leaves half-chewed morsels that are not to his liking on the side of his trencher. He answers his elders meekly, as if he has learned a handful of responses by rote and dare not stray from them. I watch him rinse his fingers in the bowl provided; his hands are thin, his nails bitten to the quick, and his wrists are bony. I can’t imagine he will ever grow as big as his father.

  Oliver says that the Duke is out of favour with King Henry and his French queen just now, but is a great warrior; a ‘veteran of war’ he calls him. I glance sideways at his son and try to picture John at sword play, if indeed he has begun to train for a soldier as Oliver has.

  As the minstrel steps onto the floor, I pick up a wafer and sink my teeth into it, enjoying the rush of honey on my tongue. If I am clever and act quickly, I can prevent this little boy from bullying me as Oliver does. I might be just a girl but I sense his weakness, his uncertainty. I must be shrewd, hide my shyness and take control to ensure he never becomes my master.

  April 1450

  I find that although I am now a wife, nothing has changed. I remain at home with Mother, where Oliver continues to tease me in the nursery, and my lessons go on as before. John is to be raised elsewhere. He must learn the skills of the battlefield, and how to be the master of his own house. I see little of him, but he is brought for a visit in early April.

  Spring comes late this year and we have to wrap up warmly against the breeze whenever we go outside. John, when he comes, pays little attention to me. Instead, he tumbles in the meadow with Oliver, and I begin to worry that he will learn my brother’s bullying habits.

  My sisters and I are searching for bird nests in the gardens when Oliver and John come running back from the meadow. They are dirty; Oliver has torn his hose and John has lost his cap. They slump on the damp grass at our feet, their faces rosy from their downhill race. For the duration of John’s visit Oliver has been excused his studies, but my morning has been spent at lessons and prayer. I suffer a pang of resentment at their freedom. It must be so much better to be a boy. I don’t believe my face has ever been allowed to get as dirty as theirs are, and I am certain Edith’s hasn’t.

  “Do you know what is happening, Oliver?” Edith asks. “There have been messengers coming and going all morning.”

  Oliver plucks an emerging dandelion and begins to tear the bud apart.

  “I expect it is about the latest fighting in France.”

  Our world is governed by war, battle-hardened warriors holding on to the crown for our wavering king. The women stay indoors to pray. I am told time and time again that a woman’s place is at home. I wonder what it would be like to be a man and ride out at the head of an army. I know of only one woman who attempted that, and we all know how Joan, the maid of Orleans, ended up. It is safer to stay at home.

  I cross myself rapidly and send up a silent prayer for her poor soul before turning my attention back to my brother, who is giving us the details of the battle.

  “The king must be furious at such a loss. It is a major blow for England. We can’t afford to lose any more territory.”

  He glances at John, who flushes red. Even I recognise the unspoken accusation. Rumour and gossip of the Duke’s unpopularity finds a way even into our nursery, and we are all aware of the problems he is having.

  “My father isn’t to blame.” John says, closing one eye and squinting up at the sulky sun. “He advises the king but he doesn’t listen. He and Queen Margaret make the mistakes and my father takes the blame. The people hate him when it is the king they should berate.”

  “I am sure everything will work out.” Edith leans forward, places her fingers on John’s sleeve. He gives a half smile, shrugs his shoulders as if he doesn’t care either way, but I know he does.

  I furrow my brow, struggling to understand. The duke is an important man, I know that much. Oliver is always telling me he is the chamberlain of England, captain of Calais, warden of the Cinque Ports and other such honours. Of course, I am not sure what these titles are, or what they mean, but as long as the duke is powerful and John is safe, so will I be. But if he loses the friendship of the king, what will happen to us? My father was driven to suicide by the withdrawal of the king’s love, and it is something I cannot forget.

  “The king is weak.” Oliver rolls onto his back and stares at the sky, where early swallows are soaring. “He should tell his wife to be quiet. She should keep her nose out of politics and concentrate on getting him an heir.”

  Oliver is quoting our stepfather, John Welles, whom I have often heard say such things. He loves the king but wishes he were wiser and stronger. Edith sighs; she is sitting so close to me that I feel her ribs heave.

  “The poor lady; she must be so sad not to have a son yet.”

  “What will happen if she doesn’t? Who will be king when King Henry dies?”

  I drop my voice to a whisper and we exchange glances. While my brother knots his brow, trying to recall his lessons, I lean forward, tucking my hands beneath my armpits, waiting for an answer. Oliver sits up, crosses his legs, his grass-stained knee poking through the rip in his hose. He wrinkles his nose.

  “I think the Duke of York is next in line – his mother was a Mortimer. Of course, if the Beauforts weren’t excluded from the succession, you could be queen, Margaret.”

  At first, I don’t grasp his meaning. I stare at his grinning face for several moments before the words sink in. John is suddenly alert. He slaps his own knee.

  “That would be good. Margaret could be queen and I’d be the King of England.”

  He raises his chin and assumes what he thinks is a lordly air. He looks like a buffoon. They are all laughing. Oliver punches John’s upper arm and they begin rolling on the grass. My sisters look on smiling, but I am very, very still.

  “What rubbish you talk, Oliver,” I call loudly over their ruckus. “I’d not be queen for all the riches in the world.”

  The boys sober. Oliver and John begin to search the grass for beetles, while Edith, Mary and Eliza discuss new gowns for Easter. I take no part in their chatter but sit quietly, imaging a world where girls are allowed to ascend the throne of England and wear a golden crown.

  May 1450

  “The Duke of Suffolk is under arrest in the Tower!” Oliver dashes into the room, making me start, the needle jabbing into my finger. While my sisters leap to their feet, I watch a bead of emerging blood smear across the row of puckered stitches. I poke my finger into my mouth; a metallic rasp burning upon my tongue as I raise my eyes to Oliver’s.

  For once, he is not teasing. He pushes through our clamouring sisters and comes to sit softly beside me at t
he window. He smells of the outdoors; grass and wind and rain. My heart hammers beneath my ribs.

  “What will happen? What about John?” I whisper. “He will be so afraid. I shall write to him.”

  “You had better ask Mother for permission before you do. She might wish you to wait to see what happens.”

  I have often imagined how it might have been for my father falling foul of the king, and it is easy to imagine John’s fear. He is not a brave boy like Oliver, although he tries very hard to be.

  “The king will forgive him, won’t he? You said the duke was his friend.”

  Oliver almost undoes his kindness by giving a short bitter snort of derision. Then he remembers himself and smiles at me as if I am his dearest sister. His voice is soft as he carefully explains.

  “Kings can’t afford to be friends with the wrong people. My tutor says York and his followers have made Suffolk a scapegoat for the king’s misgovernment. If the king shows him too much support, he may find himself in the firing line.”

  “The king? That can’t happen, surely.” Edith, who has come to sit at my other side, squeezes my hand. “I am sure it will all blow over and things will go back to normal. Shall we go to Mother and ask if we can send a message to John?”

  She holds out her hand and, with a smile of thanks to Oliver, I slide from the seat and go with her to our mother’s apartment.

  “No, do not write,” Mother says. “Not until we can learn more. Perhaps by tomorrow the duke will have been released.” She is pacing the floor, her face white with strain. The birth of my baby brother last month went hard with her, and she has only recently left the lying-in chamber. “I will write to your stepfather for advice, but for now we must do nothing. We do not want to draw attention to ourselves.”

  The next few days are void of news, but Oliver speculates endlessly. We grow quite tired of him. One moment he swears there will be a war, the next he thinks the duke will be pardoned, and then he reverts to his certainty that disaster is close. With no word from John, we can only wonder how he is coping with the horrible uncertainty. Yet when news eventually comes, and I am summoned to Mother’s apartments, I wish I was still ignorant.

  “The duke is dead,” Mother tells me and will say no more, but the crumpled kerchief in her fist and her tight white lips tell me quite plainly that there is more to know. I am determined to discover the truth.

  “It will be all right, Mother,” I venture, bravely placing my hand on her knee. “Perhaps John can live with us now, here at Bletsoe.”

  She stands up, and my hand falls away. “Don’t be ridiculous, Margaret. Go back to the nursery. Send Edith to me, there is a matter I wish to discuss with her.”

  So many questions burn within my mind, but the stiff straight back that is turned toward me prevents me from speaking. I hesitate for a long moment, switching my weight from one foot to the other until she becomes impatient. She spins around, her brows an angry furrow.

  “I said I wish to speak to Edith.”

  I sketch a brief curtsey before fleeing her presence, and hurry to rejoin the others in the nursery. They all look up when I enter the room.

  “What did she say?” Oliver puts down his book, his face anxious.

  “Nothing. Just that the duke is dead. She would say nothing more, nothing about how he died or what John will do now. Oh, and she wants to speak to Edith.”

  Edith stands up with a sigh, pausing at the door as John speaks.

  “I think your marriage might be annulled.”

  I look up quickly. “Ended, you mean. I won’t be his wife after all?”

  The idea is startling. I had thought my future settled, and suddenly a black wall of uncertainty rears before me. I can see Oliver thinking, searching for a way to explain the intricacies of the world to me, a girl who knows nothing of how it all works.

  “Mother and Father will see no benefit to a union with the son of a traitor. John will lose his inheritance and so our parents will seek to find favour with the king, and secure a marriage contract that will bring you the prestige you deserve.”

  Edith quietly closes the door.

  “Oh,” I whisper, wishing she would come back.

  I find I have grown used to the idea of John; a boy young enough to be my friend, a boy who will not order me around. The old uncertain fears stir again.

  In bed that night, while the others gossip I pretend to sleep. I burrow beneath the blankets, making sure one ear remains above the pillows. I keep my breathing deep and regular while the whispering voices of my sisters hiss in the dark.

  “Oliver told me what really happened, but if I tell you, you are not to breathe a word to Margaret. She is too young to know such things.”

  I hold my breath. The bed ropes groan beneath us as Eliza and Agnes wriggle closer to Edith.

  “We won’t say a word, I swear,” Eliza whispers. Edith takes a deep breath.

  “Oliver says the king loved the duke and wanted to forgive him, but the commons wouldn’t let him. In the end, the king caved in beneath their pressure and sentenced him, not to death, but to exile…”

  Beneath the covers, I frown to myself. Surely, this news is good; exile is harsh but it can’t be as bad as death. Edith’s voice continues.

  “He left the Tower in great secrecy but was accosted by a mob at his house at St Giles and had to escape like a felon out the back door. Last week he managed to take to sea, but before he had left English waters his vessel was intercepted by his enemies.”

  I know I am about to learn something terrible. My heart is beating slow and hard, so loud I am sure they will hear it. My throat closes. I need to swallow, to clear the obstruction so that I may breathe freely, but I can’t. Edith pauses … I grow frantic, stifled of air, longing to throw off the covers, sit up and yell at her not to tarry with the telling of her tale. But if I do, she will stop, or alter her words to suit my tender ears. I have to know the truth, no matter how bad it is.

  “What did they do to him?”

  I bless Agnes for her impatience.

  Edith draws a breath. I can feel her steel herself. The blankets shift as she leans even closer to our sisters, allowing a tiny trickle of air to flow across my face.

  “They showed no mercy. They took him on board their ship and despite his desperate pleas for mercy, they named him a traitor. Without recourse to the law, they chopped off his head. He died unshriven, and Oliver says they left his head and body on Dover beach for the gulls to pick.”

  Sickness floods into my throat. I can bear it no longer. With a cry, I fight my way from the stifling blankets, sit up and struggle to the side of the bed. I hold my belly and stagger to the centre of the room. The floor seems to sway, tipping me forward to vomit on the smooth polished wood. Drool and tears and snot dribble down my chin, my cheeks are wet, and my heart is hammering.

  “Margaret!” Edith’s face is slack with horror. She climbs from the mattress and rushes forward to help me back to bed on trembling limbs. I flop upon the pillow, draw the back of my hand across my lips and look at my sisters, who are staring open-mouthed.

  “Oh, Margaret, I thought you were sound asleep.”

  I stare at Edith, still unable to speak, my mind teeming with images of John’s father’s untimely death. She sits down beside me and my head droops on her shoulder, her fingers soft in my hair. “You won’t tell Mother, will you, Margaret? I will be in such trouble if you do.”

  After that, my dreams are haunted. Each night I wake up panting in the darkness. I shake my head trying to dislodge the bloody images from my mind. I burrow deep beneath the covers, listen to the snores of my sisters and stare sightlessly into the dark. For the first time I realise my own mortality, and that of my family. Desperately, I pray to the saints for peace of mind, beseeching God to look kindly upon me, his most humble, most obedient servant.

  Slowly, as dawn creeps into the east, I can discern the outline of the window, a crack of light between the shutters. Soon, the servants are abroad, moving
stealthily about the room to coax the fires back to flame. There comes a clattering from the kitchen and then the matins bell rings. I rise heavy-eyed, yawning as my woman helps me dress, and soon, the familiar routines of the morning chase away the terror of the night.

  Nobody seems to notice my pink-rimmed eyes or listlessness. Mother and my stepfather are distracted by news from London of riots, fighting and insurrection. My uncle Somerset, who is great friends with the queen, is in trouble in France. Oliver says he surrendered our territory without a fight, and now the people are turning against him even more. I overhear the grown-ups talking after supper; they speak of unrest, the country dividing further. The Duke of York, the king’s heir, resentful at being packed off to Ireland while my uncle receives the honour he thinks should be his, is marching on London with an army of three thousand men. It seems to me that the whole world has caught the madness of the king.

  While messengers scurry to and fro, and my stepfather prepares to ride to the king’s aid, nobody notices my fears. I begin to think they do not care. Desperate to know all there is to know, I linger in corners, listening, watching, my fear deepening as my understanding increases. In the end, I creep to the chapel and kneel alone at the altar. I interlace my fingers, press them against my chin, close my eyes and pray to God to make the nightmares cease.

  But God is busy with matters of state. He spares no time for me. I am just a little girl.

  The ship is foundering. Great waves wash across the rain-lashed deck where I cling for life to a slither of slimy green rope. I blink through darkness, open my mouth and scream for my mother, but she is not here. She is bending over my infant brother’s cot, crooning a nursery tune that she used to sing to me. All I have is a slippery rope and my grip is loosening.

  Someone grabs me by the collar and drags me to the centre of the deck. A huge figure, horned and red, towers above me. He looks like the devil, his breath as foul as my uncle’s hunting dogs, his eyes a fiery red. His hand is hard on my neck, and in his other fist he clutches a rusty axe.