A great hand, warm and rough, settles on my knee. He squeezes, as if testing a mare for soundness. Then the bed ropes squeak as he bounces onto his back and lets out a loud, ungentlemanly yawn. He sighs again and shifts away from me, onto his side.
“Good night, Margaret,” he says. “Sleep well; we have a long journey ahead on the morrow.”
Countess of Richmond
The Road to Wales – 1455
The family gather in the hall to bid me goodbye. I am allowed no time with Edith, and there can be no intimate discussion of what happened the night before. My husband wishes to make an early departure and, after a swift toilette and a swifter breakfast, I am helped onto my horse. More concerned with a loose thread upon her sleeve, Mother does not look at me as I ride away. But Edith is loath to see me go; she runs a little way after the cavalcade, her kerchief blowing in the chilly wind like a banner of surrender. She is the last person I see, and the last voice I hear is my brother Oliver, calling for me to have good cheer.
My throat is blocked with tears. I turn my face west, look toward Wales, thankful that we are riding into the wind and my tears may not be mistaken for sorrow. A horse moves up beside me, the stirrup leathers creaking.
“A long journey ahead, my lady.” It is Myfanwy, her fresh face an insult to my shadowed eyes.
“Three days or more on the road, so my brother says,” I reply. I find I am grateful for her presence. I am accompanied by my household women, but to me they seem elderly. Myfanwy’s youth means I have at least the promise of a friend.
She smiles. “But they tell me the scenery is pretty.”
I have rarely left the flooding, flat landscape of my birth. I miss the comfort of familiar wide vistas, and long stretching roads. Oliver says Wales is a land of clouds and rain, a mossy kingdom where sprites and spirits dwell. Usually, I would scorn such silly tales but today, riding away from everything I know and love, I fear they may be true.
Ahead of me, Edmund’s broad back and that of his brother block my view, so I watch the roadside and see the familiar flat landscape fade into meadows and woodland.
We pass small hamlets where children with sacking on their shoulders to protect them from the weather stare blankly as we pass by. A girl of about my age chases a gaggle of geese into a farmyard. She turns and watches us, her hand to her brow, and I have the sudden urge to change places with her. I have no idea what it is to be an ordinary common girl, but given the chance, I would let her be the Countess of Richmond, riding into the unknown. I would happily become a goose-girl in this hamlet where nothing ever happens.
Mercifully, before I grow too tired, we break our journey at a wayside inn. Edmund helps me dismount, and as I stand stiffly, resisting the urge to rub my buttocks, I notice for the first time how long our cavalcade is.
We ride at the head to escape the worst of the dust and dirt, but behind are scores of carts and many people; soldiers and their followers, servants, cooks. There are supply wagons, and a litter for me should I grow too weary. As the falconer’s cart pulls into the yard, I see that Edmund’s elderly hound has taken refuge there, his head on his paws, watching the world with disinterest.
Myfanwy goes with me into the inn, the other women following behind, trying to hide their groans of discomfort after so long in the saddle. The interior is gloomy after the daylight ride and I blink to adjust my vision. It is a bleak place and the furnishings are rough but the brightly burning fire is welcome. As my women do all they can to ensure my comfort for an hour or two, I draw off my gloves and hold out my hands to the flames. I hadn’t realised how chilled I had become.
“You’ll get chilblains,” Myfanwy warns as she comes to stand beside me. I ball my fists and, pull them from the warmth, turning to watch as refreshments are laid out on the table.
I am fed on cold meat, cheese and fresh baked bread; my thirst is quenched with warm, nutty ale. As my stomach fills I grow sleepy, and I greet Edmund’s instruction to move on with an inward groan. All I want is to lie in a soft bed, but instead I must clamber back onto that horse. I wish I could refuse; I am tired of the saddle after just half a day, and it is likely to get so much worse.
“Shall I have the litter made ready?” Edmund asks and I realise he has noticed my fatigue. Unwilling that he should think me weak, I straighten my shoulders and stubbornly shake my head.
“No, no, thank you, I will ride. I am not an infant.” I look about for a groom to help me mount, but Edmund is impatient. Without ceremony, he puts his hands about my waist, hoists me into the air as if I weigh nothing, and deposits me in the saddle. It is all I can do not to cry out as my tender delicate parts make contact with that dreaded seat.
“We stop at Oxford for the night, so make haste.” He swings onto the back of his horse and at his command, the cavalcade moves forward with the hunting dogs running alongside. I turn my head toward the swaying curtains of the litter and wish with all my heart I was not so stubborn. A litter may not be the most comfortable mode of travel, but at least one can close one’s eyes and be spared the relentless chaffing of the saddle.
At Oxford, the accommodation is cramped and I am spared any further intimacy with Edmund. He sleeps where he can with the other men, and Myfanwy shares my bed. I sleep soundly and wake refreshed, but in the morning I notice Edmund is heavy-eyed, his greeting terse. As the day wears on and we draw closer to our destination, the more he seems to brood. I wonder what I may have done to offend him.
By the time we approach the crossing into Wales, he is positively sulking. Myfanwy leans from her saddle to speak quietly. “What is the matter with your lord?” she asks. I shrug expressively. “I have no idea, but whatever it is I pray I am not the cause of it.”
She shakes her head and smiles encouragingly as the horses begin to climb uphill. We pause on the ridge while Jasper points out the undulating land that betokens the Welsh border. As we grow closer, the rain begins, and by the time Caldicot Castle looms ahead, the road is swathed in mist and we are all drenched to the skin.
Caldicot Castle – November 1455
The household staff ride ahead to ensure all is in readiness for our arrival. We clatter through the towering gate, our arrival greeted by barking dogs and hovering, welcoming attendants. Edmund dismounts stiffly and throws his reins to a waiting groom. Then, to my surprise, he holds out a hand to me. I try to alight elegantly, but my back is aching and my thighs are sore. When my feet touch the ground, my knees give way, forcing me to clutch at his sleeve. His arms come out instantly, preventing me from falling, and he gives a wry smile, knowing my discomfort and finding it amusing.
“Welcome home, my lady.” He bows and ushers me inside. Myfanwy follows, her cloak, as sodden as my own, bundled in her arms. She cranes her head to look about the hall, but I do not want to look. Overcome with a wave of bitter homesickness and exhaustion, I do not wish to find pleasure in anything I see. I am sure I will not be happy here, and hope against hope that we will not tarry long at Caldicot.
I follow Edmund into the hall where servants are scurrying around with trays of refreshment and two pages are wrestling a large chest through a narrow door. Edmund’s dog takes up residence before the fire, the younger castle dogs giving ground to his authority. As we move toward the hearth, I struggle to untie the ribbon of my cloak but my fingers are cold and stiff, the sudden change in temperature making them burn painfully.
“Come here.” Edmund stands before me. My face is level with his chest. As he fiddles with the ties, I inhale the scent of horses, ale, and rain. “There,” he smiles. “All done.”
My cloak slides from my shoulders and he offers me a cup. I drink gratefully, for I am thirsty from the road. “You must be hungry,” he says, but I find I have little appetite. The things I crave most are a hot bath, fresh clothes, and a warm soft bed in which I can sleep for a week.
“I would like to go to my chamber first, if I may. I am tired and filthy from the road.”
He puts down his cup and summons
a servant. “Take my lady to the chamber and see to her comfort.” I stand, beckon Myfanwy to follow, and try to conceal how strongly my legs and back protest at the movement.
My husband’s apartments are well appointed, located on the upper floor of the gatehouse. Even on this dull day, the large windows allow plenty of light to stream into the room. While the maid orders water for a bath, I move to look out across the park. Myfanwy settles herself before the fireplace, where the leaping flames promise to soon warm even the furthest corners.
A manservant is stowing away Edmund’s belongings, arranging his books on the table and setting his best boots to warm by the hearth. It is a comfortable chamber; well furnished with cushions and rugs, and sumptuous tapestries hanging on the walls. My husband has taste. When a servant enters with a tray of victuals, Myfanwy and I fall upon them as if we have been starved.
Tomorrow, Myfanwy is to travel on to Monmouth and I am loath to part with her. Her chatter prevented me from thinking, salving the wound in my heart where my family lodge. I am scared, ill at ease, and feel like a stranger in a strange country; a child in an adult world. There is no one in whom I can confide. In only a few days Myfanwy has become a real friend. She has in many ways replaced the confidant I once had in Edith. I have grown accustomed to her on our shared journey and will miss her when we part, as I miss them.
Just as the first tear drops from the end of my nose, a page arrives with a tub. I wipe my face with the back of my hand as a girl enters with a slopping pitcher of water. Soon, the promise of a warm bath chases some of the homesickness away. As the women line the tub with thick linen, Edmund’s manservant makes a quiet, hasty exit. A procession of women, young and old, troop back and forth with buckets and jugs until the tub is full. Myfanwy helps me remove my damp kirtle and pull off my soiled stockings.
I soak up to my neck in warm water. The aches of the journey leach away and the grime seeps from my pores. My woman, Betony, washes my hair, rinsing it in an infusion of marigold and camomile. Afterwards, I sit before the bedchamber hearth while she tugs at the tangles. The fire warms me and, dressed in a loose gown, I am almost relaxed, almost sleepy.
And then Edmund comes. Betony leaps up from her knees and bobs a curtsey before fleeing. I wish I could follow her, take refuge with her in the steamy kitchens, but I am the countess, the lady of the house. My place is here. With him.
“Margaret, you are recovered from the ride?”
He sinks into a chair. His elderly wolfhound drops to the floor at his feet and looks up at me with big, soulful eyes. I reach out and click my fingers and the dog raises his head but does not move.
“What is his name?” I ask, for want of something better to say.
He laughs shortly. “Jasper.”
“Jasper?” I cannot help but exclaim. I am astonished that he should give his dog the same name as his brother.
“But … but … what?”
“I was a boy when I named the pup, I thought it funny. I meant it as a jest, a friendly insult. My brother was furious, but I think he has forgiven me now. We call him Jay these days – to distinguish the two.”
I can feel a giggle brewing. I bite my lip but he can see the laughter in my eyes. He leans forward and caresses the dog’s silky ear.
“He is an old fellow now, nearing the end of his days. I will miss him.”
Jasper, or Jay as I must remember to call him, thumps his tail on the rush matting, his expression pathetic as if he can understand every word and mourns his own imminent demise.
Edmund nods to his page to fill two cups with wine and bring them to the fireside. “You can go now,” he orders and the fellow makes his escape, leaving us alone.
There is nothing to say. We sit sipping wine in silence. The logs shift and crackle in the hearth and outside the wind howls about the tower. On this wild winter’s night I am safe indoors, but I don’t feel it. I am ill at ease and awkward.
I wish I was wearing more than this loose gown that is too wide at the neck for decency, the short wide sleeves showing my bare arms. I wish my hair was pulled tight beneath a wimple, instead of falling free and fluffy beneath my white linen cap. Edmund stretches out his legs, crosses his ankles and balances his cup on his chest.
“You are very young, Margaret.”
His gaze is steady, unsettling.
“I am thirteen.”
He snorts and takes another slurp of wine.
“I would you were older. I need a wife. I need to be a husband not a nurse maid.”
I bridle, unable to conceal my annoyance.
“I need no nurse maid, Sir.”
He laughs at my tight lips, and sits up to lean toward me, his forearms resting on his knees, but he does not look at me direct. He swirls the wine in the bottom of his cup and when he speaks, his voice is earnest.
“I am not a brute, my lady. I would things were different, but I cannot change fate. I cannot make you older, and neither can I wait for you to grow up. I must get myself a son.”
My face burns. He should not speak of these things. I duck my head, chin to my chest, and wonder what Mother would have me say.
I am worldly-wise enough to know he needs a son to secure my fortune; my properties will not be his until I produce a child. My heart thumps and dread surges in my belly as I recall the awful things Oliver told me about reproduction. I have seen the dogs in the castle rutting where they can, and the memory fills me with revulsion that I should be expected to take part in such an act. As the silence grows, I try to remember everything my mother tried to teach me about obedience, about my position, my duty. I do not answer him and he grows angry.
Wine slops to the floor as he slumps back in his chair.
“Go to bed,” he growls and at his dismissal, I leap to my feet and scurry to do his bidding.
It is dark in the bedchamber, the candles almost spent and the embers dying in the hearth. A chill draught blows in beneath the door. This would never have been allowed to happen at home. I long for the warm comfort of my nursery, the bed I shared with Edith, Agnes, and Elizabeth. With a sob of homesickness, I dive beneath the covers, draw my knees to my chin and try very hard not to cry. Soon the pillow grows damp, my nose blocks with snot and my eyes smart. A short time later, when the door opens and a shaft of light falls across the bed, I realise I have forgotten my prayers.
I hear the thud of Edmund’s boots as they hit the floor, the clank of his discarded sword belt. I hear his garments fall one by one and then the mattress sinks beneath his weight.
With my back to him, I shut my eyes tight, breathe long and slow, trying to pretend I am sleeping. He rolls against me, his arms slide up around my body, his fingers fumble at the neck of my shift.
I cannot allow this. I cannot let it happen. When I dare to speak, my voice is muffled by the blankets.
“My mother said you wouldn’t bed me until I was of an age.”
He rolls me onto my back.
“Your mother lied.”
I cannot see him clearly; he is but a shadow, a monster in the dark. His breath is foul with wine and, to my horror, I realise he is drunk.
“She wouldn’t have married me to you had she known.”
“Your mother would have married you to the devil for the right fee.”
I am silenced. Remembering a thousand instances when I had doubted her, I fight and fail to disbelieve his wicked lie. When he begins to lift my shift, my body turns rigid. I jump when his hot, searching fingers touch upon my skin, his lips, tentative at first, are wet upon my neck. I sob and bite my lip, closing my eyes tight, straining away from him.
I can speak of this no more …
***
The next morning, my women tut-tut at the bruises on my thigh. Betony creeps around, makes soothing noises as she washes me, her hands gentle. Every so often she glances at me as if fearful I may break. I stare at the ceiling and wish I had never been born.
To my relief, Edmund rides out early with his troop, leaving me free to w
ander the castle. Before she takes her leave, Myfanwy and I walk in the small garden. The earth is dormant and we tiptoe through sprawling dead nettles and fallen leaves.
“Can I write to you, Margaret? I have so enjoyed our short time together.”
I reach out and take her hand, trying not to cling to it.
“Please do, I shall like that.”
We pass a little farther along the path, careful not to slip on the wet leaves. When we reach the boundary we look out across the moat, and I sense her heart is as heavy as my own.
“Margaret.” She slides her arm around my shoulder as if she is an elderly aunt. “Things will get better; it won’t always feel like this…”
I stiffen. I had hoped to keep my misery a secret. “Of course, I know nothing of these things,” she continues. “But I have overheard enough to believe that, after the first time, it is easier. The pain will-”
“Myfanwy!” I am sharp. I close my eyes take a breath to calm my embarrassment and speak through clenched teeth. “I do not wish to speak of it.” I shrug my shoulders, pretending nonchalance. “It is just another duty I must bear.”
She relaxes. She has believed my lie, my self-delusion.
“And when your child comes, it will all be worthwhile.”
“Yes.”
I look down at my flat chest, my narrow unfruitful hips, and wonder how that can ever be.
Rashly, I promise to invite her to Caldicot for a visit as soon as she is properly settled, and then we embrace and she is helped onto her horse. She rides unhappily away. Monmouth is not so far, but too far for weekly visits. From now on, we will meet only seldom
I climb to the top of one of the towers and watch her go. She turns regularly in her saddle to acknowledge the salute of my floating kerchief. When she turns no more, I sink to my knees, and behind the shelter of the battlement, give way to tears. I am a sorry, wretched child deprived of a playmate. When I can weep no more I linger on the tower, alone beneath the wide, grey sky.
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 5