Yet, while Edmund continues to ride about the countryside in the king’s name, I stay quietly at home, minding my business, and only the promise of the coming spring keeps me steady.
Several times a day I gravitate toward to the small stone chapel where I pray, beseeching God to send me a son. With a child in my belly, Edmund will leave me in peace. He has promised me this. Although I know that one day he will desire more children, the thing I long for most is a reprieve from his attentions.
I am accustomed to the act of coupling now; there is no pain, just a sort of repugnance. It is a mystery to me why such store is set on love when it is such an inelegant thing. I cannot reconcile the emotions the minstrels sing of so plaintively with the act Edmund subjects me to. There is no beauty in it; no gentle touching of souls. It is embarrassing and rather smelly. For all his tender murmurings, designed to make me welcome him, once the joining is over, I feel like a brood mare, or a prize cow selected for service to produce the fattest calf.
But, to my joy, by the end of April, I fall sick and he spares me his nightly attention. At first, I fear I have contracted some ailment; I throw up every morning and the thought of food revolts me. But when my women notice my breasts are beginning to swell and are tender to the touch, they cast up their hands with joy and confirm my suspicion. I am, at last, with child. When I break the news to Edmund, he is more than delighted. He falls to his knees before me, spans my still flat belly with his big, calloused hands.
“God bless you, Margaret. I swear you will not be sorry. I will honour you for ever more.”
He is such a child in his joy that I place my hands on his copper-gold hair and am almost stirred into affection. Perhaps this child we share will bring us closer, make us happy. I pray it will be so.
Caldicot Castle – May 1456
Summer is very welcome. The sketchy plans Myfanwy and I made in the early spring are now coming to fruition. The paths are clearly marked, the flower beds have been dug deeply and thoroughly manured, and cartloads of plants begin to arrive. We collect snips and cuttings from the hedgerow, request shoots from nearby gardens. Soon the herbs will begin to flourish and we can collect the leaves and dry them in the still-room to provide comfort and relief from winter colds and other ailments.
Even in a small castle like Caldicot, the inhabitants welcome a little cosseting when they are ill. There are always minor accidents, cuts and bruises, boils and wens, tooth ache, belly upsets; and there are women’s problems aplenty that can be soothed with a well brewed posset. After the ignorant rough handling of their fellows, they will be glad of a knowledgeable hand to aid them.
As the spring flowers come into bloom, Myfanwy and a few others of my household begin sneezing, their noses red and running. At first, I suspect a summer cold but Myfanwy shakes her head.
“Don’t worry, my lady,” she says, dabbing at her nose again. “It is the same every year as the flowers begin to bloom – my stepmother called it the Summer Ague and dosed me with feverfew and eyebright.” She nods toward the immature plants at her feet. “But it seems I will have to wait awhile.”
She stoops to pluck a snail from a fresh green leaf, holding it gingerly between finger and thumb. “My stepbrothers used to stamp on them but I can never bring myself to do so.” She hurls the creature over the wall, wipes her fingers on her apron and we move along the path, pointing out gaps in the planting and discussing what best to grow there.
“Of course, by the summer there won’t be room to move, everything will be twice as big as it is now. It is best to pick leaves constantly, keep the plants contained. Old leaves are good for nothing anyway …”
She stops suddenly and I cock my ear to raised voices coming from the other side of the wall. A clarion blasts and the sound of hooves thunder. With one accord we abandon the garden, lifting our skirts to hasten our steps. We duck our heads beneath the low doorway into the bailey, and are met with chaos.
The castle dogs are barking, men are shouting as heavily burdened servants dodge through a bevy of wild-eyed horses. Mail-clad men issue orders that no one seems to follow. I scan the melee for Edmund, but he is nowhere to be seen. A boy runs past, forgetting to acknowledge me. I grab for his sleeve but too late … the stuff of his sleeve slips from my grasp and he is gone, disappearing down the steps to the under croft.
“What has happened? Where is your master?” I call to one of Edmund’s guards who is battling with his harness. He pulls himself upright, and throws back his mailed hood, his hair clinging wetly to his head. He turns exhausted eyes upon me.
“He is with the injured, Madam, I should think. In the hall ...” He waves an arm in the direction of the steps and slumps onto a nearby wall.
My stomach churns.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I hurry in search of my husband, fearful of what I will find. I turn feverish with horror. Edmund is injured? How? When? Why did this happen?
As we run up the stone steps and into the gloom of the great hall, I am aware of Myfanwy’s tread echoing mine.
I scan the room, searching for Edmund, but he is just one man, lost in a crowd of groaning injured. The wounded have been laid out in a long, long line. One man, his head almost in the hearth, is calling for water; another, his face as white as a winding sheet, lies silent, his eyes closed, to all intents and purposes dead. I mutter a prayer as I frantically search for Edmund.
I stumble; a torn banner is wrapped around one of the wounded. As I pass, he grips my ankle, cries out for water. His hose is ripped, his tunic blood soaked. Beside me, Myfanwy’s face is a mask of horror. I realise I must cast my own concerns aside.
“Fetch help.” I lift my skirts and kneel beside the boy. “Bring as many women as you can, Myfanwy, and linen for bandages, and salve. Hurry!”
She jerks awake, nods just once, and flees the room. My duty as countess battles with my duty to my husband, who maybe lies just feet away. Even now he could be sucking in his last breath. I slide my hand beneath the boy’s head.
“It is all right now. You are safe. I will take care of you.”
I feel awkward. I am no nurse and unused to the sickroom, a stranger to battle wounds. I have only ever dealt with splinters and grazes, while the wounds around me are deep and wide. The boy whimpers, licks his lips. He can be no older than me. I think of his mother, the years he has left; the things he has yet to do; the joys he has yet to know. Yet there is only me standing between him and death. His head flops on my arm, and he opens his eyes and moans.
“It hurts.”
“I know, I know, but God is with us. Be brave, remember to breathe and all will be well.”
What nonsense I speak! There is an arrow lodged in his breast, his life’s blood is dwindling, and I lack the knowledge to tend him. I glance up the hall to where Jasper is staunching blood, tearing strips of linen, feverishly binding wounds and tipping water down parched throats; water that might be as fatal as their wounds. Close by, a priest is praying. The droning comfort of his Latin verses add calm to a world turned cruel and bloody.
“Jasper,” I scream. “Where is Edmund?” And then my husband stands up and looks down at the man he has been tending, dithering as to which man to aid next. Relief floods through me. He is tall, unmarred, and blessedly alive.
“Edmund,” I whisper. “Thank God.” And he turns and hurries toward my voice.
“Margaret, this is no place for you. Go back to your apartment …”
I look down at the soldier at my feet.
“This one is just a boy. We must help him.”
He strides forward, pushes me out of the way and touches the boy’s cheek.
“Ned. Take heart, boy.”
I cannot take my eyes from my husband. He is detached, business-like and efficient, but I realise he knows the lad’s name, probably knows the name of every man in his troop. Edmund is that sort of leader. He is a good man and his household love him. They would follow him to the ends of the Earth. I had not realised that before.
“Now is not to the time to die,” he says as he tears the boy’s tunic open. Ned tries to smile, fails, his eye rolling, and Edmund, in desperation, calls for assistance just as Myfanwy appears. Her breath is ragged, her cheeks flushed and dirt-streaked. She thrusts a bundle of sheets at me and I begin ripping them into strips, my small hands made strong by need.
“It will hurt, lad, but it must be done,” Edmund says. “You bite on this and think of your sweetheart, or your mother.”
He thrusts the handle of his dagger between the patient’s teeth and with a swift, gentle motion sweeps the sweaty hair from the boy’s forehead. He looks at me. “Have some wadding ready, Margaret.”
I nod determinedly.
Then, the bulk of his body shielding me from his actions, he gets to work. Myfanwy sits on Ned’s legs, uttering soothing sounds while I bite my lip and silently pray. The boy’s screams are loud and long, his knees twisting in agony, his fingers like claws. This is beyond me; I swallow vomit, try to keep breathing and beseech God to show mercy. I shift just a little to afford myself a better view, although it is probably better not to look. Edmund grips the shaft of the arrow, grunts with exertion, grimacing with the distaste of his task. Then, with a jerk, the boy falls back in a dead faint. His skin turns rapidly grey, his lips tinged with blue. He lies so still I fear he has stopped breathing.
“Quick.” Edmund holds out a hand. I thrust the wadding and rolled bandages toward him and he works swiftly to bind the wound. “Hold that there, press hard.” I do as I am bid, the linen turning scarlet, staining my fingers as I instruct my rebellious stomach not to weaken. The boy cannot possibly live after losing so much blood.
Moments pass in silence while Edmund hastily ties a bandage to hold the wadding in place.
“What happened?” I ask at last, turning to look at my husband properly for the first time this afternoon. His face is pale, daubed with dirt and gore, and there is a deep cut on his chin. Otherwise, he seems unharmed.
“They came upon us unawares. We were almost home; the boys were singing, riding loose in their saddles, looking forward to the feast. Damn me for a fool that I let it happen …”
“But who attacked you?”
“ap Nicholas. He is a damnation, a thorn in my flesh, but I will have him soon. He will not find me unguarded a second time, I promise you that.”
Edmund stands up and looks grimly about the room, hands on hips, his face desolate. “There are about twenty injured but, praise be, we have lost only one ... so far.”
Order is swiftly returning; the wounded are quieter now they are well attended. The castle women provide ease, the priest gives spiritual comfort. Soon, the most able of the wounded will be carried off to their quarters. The boy, Ned, snores, his head thrown back in oblivion. Survival is up to him now.
Edmund holds out a hand and I grasp it, allow him to pull me from my knees. I look down at my ruined gown, brush away some of the filth and make a face.
“I must go and change. I will order a bath drawn for you, Edmund, and perhaps we should dine quietly in our chamber this evening. The men need to rest. This is no time for feasting.”
He tries to smile but his eyes are bleak. I realise he is still holding my hand.
“I will come with you, wife,” he says, and as if he is a small, tired boy, I lead him to our chamber.
Once closeted in our private chamber we do not speak. He slumps in a chair. Ignoring my soiled, bloodstained gown, I kneel before him and begin to pull off his boots. His head lolls, his red hair damp upon his forehead, his cheeks thick with dirt.
“I shall call for water so you can wash,” I say, using his knee as an aid to help me rise. As I make to move away, he grabs for my hand, detaining me. I look down at his big fingers encircling my narrow wrist.
“You worked well, Margaret. Thank you.”
Our eyes meet, and through the grime I notice a glimmer of something, the beginnings of camaraderie perhaps. I feel blood rush to my cheeks, drag my eyes from his. I shrug, trying to hide my pleasure.
“It was my duty as your wife and countess to help in any way I could. I only wish - ”
“Shh, you were not wanting in any way, and I thank you for it.”
Unable to help myself, I smile again. His grip releases me, but as I make to move away, his voice halts me again. “I was bringing you a gift but I fear it may not have survived the turmoil. Bring me my coat.”
With great curiosity, I drag his coat from beneath the pile of belongings heaped in the corner and place it on his knee. With an unreadable look, he plunges his fist into one of the deep pockets and begins to draw something from it.
“Wait, turn around; don’t look yet.”
I am bursting to know what he has concealed, but obediently I turn away, closing my eyes and placing my hands over my face to make sure I do not weaken and peek.
“Ah,” he says. “Thank goodness. I thought you might have perished, little chap. Here, Margaret, see if you can save him. He is one of a litter of seven the stable lad found abandoned in the barn. The rest have perished. I thought he might salve your sadness.”
My hands drop from my face and I spin round to see a tiny kitten, surely too young to be taken from its mother. It balances in the palm of his hand, a scrap of tabby fur with blue weeping eyes. Instinctively, I reach for it, raise him to eye level. The poor thing can barely hold his head aloft.
I look at my husband who is, in turn, watching me. “I fear I cannot save him, Edmund, but I will do my best.”
“You always do, my dear. Don’t think it has gone unnoticed.”
Wearily, he rests his head back again and closes his eyes. I tiptoe to the door in search of sustenance for the poor mite now clasped to my bosom, but as I reach the threshold, I pause and turn toward him again.
“Edmund,” I say with great daring, disturbing his rest. “I should like you to know I am no longer sad. I am beginning to enjoy my life here and I am looking forward to our future and the birth of our son with great … joy, and pride.”
Then, before he can fully open his eyes, I flee in the direction of the kitchen, calling for Myfanwy as I go.
For a few days, beneath our continuous ministrations, the kitten appears to thrive, but then, I awake one morning and find him stiff and cold on my counterpane. My bitter weeping penetrates Edmund’s sleep and he stirs, sits bolt upright to discover what ails me. His hand is gentle on my shoulder as we look down at the tiny stiff body. “Come Margaret, do not weep. It’s just a kitten.”
I smear salty moisture across my cheeks with the back of my hand and blink up at him. I try to speak but my voice goes awry, my face distorts and more tears gather. With one movement he sweeps me into his arms, lies me back on the pillow and, tucking the covers around us both, gathers me to lie against him.
“No more weeping, Margaret. Forget the kitten, I wish I had not brought him to you. Let us dwell upon our son.”
He begins to speak of the astonishing child that will soon be born to us, and as he does so, he plays with the ends of my hair. I can hear his voice rumbling in his chest, smell the aroma of his body with which I am now familiar. It is all strangely comforting. I relax against him, finding relief in his presence as he draws my thoughts away from the tragedy of the kitten to the miracle of our unborn child.
Caldicot Castle – July 1456
The boy Ned, who was so badly injured, is recovering slowly. I have taken him into my household, where he is learning the skills of a houseboy. He is quick to learn, and Jay has taken an unexpected liking to him; he spends his waking hours in the boy’s company while his master is away.
Edmund’s task to overcome ap Nicholas has become a quest. He is like a man driven; up at first light and awake until the following dawn he allows himself no ease. Sometimes I do not see him for a week; sometimes he is gone but half a day. In July, he stays at the Bishop’s Palace at Lamphey for a month, and then arrives home unexpectedly.
I am in the garden, which has become my favourit
e retreat. In my hand is a letter from my sister Edith, who writes of her forth-coming marriage, her hopes for the future. My life at Bletsoe is remote now, the everyday household matters of little concern to me. I hope Mother has found Edith a good man with whom she will be happy. I let the letter drop and look about me.
The plants are burgeoning, some of them out of control. The roses sprawl with marigolds and camomile, their fragrance almost overpowering. I have been gathering flowerheads, and my lap is full of aromatic colour.
Jay comes lumbering into the garden first; he shoves his wet nose into my hand, insisting I pet him. His head is as soft as silk, the bones of his skull easily discernible beneath. I stare into his dark sad eyes and in response, his tail thumps on the path, raising dust. I hear a footstep and when I look up I find Ned hovering nervously, his cap in his hand. “The Earl and his troop are approaching the castle, my lady,” he tells me, a commotion in the bailey confirming his announcement.
Edmund is home.
I leap to my feet, orange petals scattering, and look in dismay at my muddied hands and dusty skirts. There is no time to change. When Edmund ducks beneath the lintel of the gate, I am still untying the strings of my apron. His smile is broad, his clothes thick with the dust of the road.
“There you are, Margaret. I hope you are taking care of my son.”
Jay bumbles forward to greet him, his tail like a banner in the wind, but Edmund keeps his eyes on me as he absentmindedly pats his dog’s head. I cannot contain my smile as I shade my eyes from the sun, noticing how it glints on his hair, turning it into gold.
“I am indeed, my lord. Please, excuse the state of my clothes. I had not expected you this day.”
He plucks a rose from a nearby bush and presents it to me, ignoring my mucky fingernails. Then he leads me round the garden, following the path beneath the arches of woodbine and wild briar.
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 7