“You have done well here. It is very pretty.”
“Not just pretty, Edmund, it is beneficial too. Every plant grown here is a remedy or offers easement for some ailment or another.”
Why can I not just take his praise as it is offered? Why must I defend my labours here? Is it so wrong to be considered trivial? “But you are right,” I add as an afterthought. “As well as functional, it is also very pretty.”
He has my hand tucked within his, held tight beneath his elbow. It is growing overwarm in his palm and I am tempted to withdraw it but I let it stay. He matches his step to mine as our walk continues.
“The child is well? He is growing?”
“Well, I am growing, my lord, so I presume your son is also.”
Indeed, now the sickness is passing I am at last fattening like a goose for winter, and no longer resort to padding to achieve a womanly shape. I am still very short; my head doesn’t even reach Edmund’s shoulder. My brother-in-law, Jasper, often teases that I look more like Edmund’s daughter than his wife. His jokes make my husband scowl; he never sees the humour in such jests. When we walk out in public, he urges me to wear heels or pattens to make me taller, and he scolds me for chewing my finger nails.
Edmund pauses and ushers me to the arbour, where we rest upon a seat of camomile. He fiddles with the ends of my girdle as he looks around the garden, his face anxious; regretful?
“What is it?” I ask, sensing he is concealing bad news. “Why are you looking like that?”
He pats my hand.
“Nothing to get alarmed about. It is just … well, I am sorry, but you will have to leave this place after all your hard work.”
“Leave?” I look around the garden in dismay. The plants standing shoulder to shoulder in the sun, the shrubs undulating in the light breeze, the insects busy in the blossoms. “And go where?”
“Lamphey. It will be easier there, a better base, and closer to Jasper at Pembroke.”
“But you said we would be here until September. I had wished to reap the rewards of our labours. It would be easier for me to leave once the garden is readying for winter.”
I bite my lip, regretting I will not see the garden come to full fruition. “Can I not stay here? I might be in your way at Lamphey.”
He withdraws his hand.
“No. You are safer with me. I can keep a better watch on you there; if you should fall into enemy hands I dread to think …”
“Of course I will come, Edmund,” I say, seeking to hide my disappointment. “You are my husband, I am glad to do as you wish. I can always build another garden.”
He turns toward me, his face full of pleasure.
“But you won’t have to. I had quite forgotten. There is a fine garden at Lamphey already, one of the best stocked gardens I have ever seen; and a great library, stuffed with books. It is a lovely place, Margaret, fit for a countess, fit for a queen. Fit for you.”
August 1456
Once more, my possessions are packed into boxes and loaded onto the back of a cart to be taken to the dock. Edmund says the journey will be quicker and easier by sea. I try not to remember the short voyage I took once with my mother, when we were battered and beleaguered by storms. On the day before we leave, I walk sorrowfully around the garden for one last time while Myfanwy plucks seed heads. She stows them in small labelled packets and tucks them in with her baggage.
“We can make another physic garden,” she says with great determination. “There is always next year.”
“Yes,” I reply, but without much vigour. I am sad; tired of moving. I long to stay at Caldicot, and the journey to Lamphey holds no charm for me, but I allow myself to be bundled into a litter for the short ride to the dock.
I am jolted and bumped. It is too hot with the curtains closed, but when I ask for them to be drawn back, the sun burns me and I beg for them to be closed again. The road is dusty, there are too many flies, and every so often we pass a dead creature in the road and the cloying stench pervades my litter. I clamp a hand across my mouth and try to stifle the vomit that surges in my throat. Myfanwy sits opposite, clinging to the seat, her face green with the motion, tiny beads of perspiration anointing her brow.
“Edmund says it isn’t far,” I try to comfort her. She pulls a face.
“It has been too far already. We would have been better off riding.”
“Edmund wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I swear if men had to travel in litters they would find a way to make it more comfortable.”
I manage a laugh.
“Edmund said it was little more than a mile or so…”
“A mile? Surely we have travelled ten!”
The horses move downhill, and I cling to the side of the litter while we swing and jerk for the final part of the journey. At last someone calls a halt, the horses stop, and the world settles down again. We sit up. Myfanwy straightens her cap and veil, and pulls back the curtain. Edmund’s face appears, red from the sun.
“All safe and sound?”
He extends a hand to help me alight and I grasp it gratefully, placing my feet on terra firma. Putting a hand to my back and squinting slightly in the bright sunshine, I look about.
A brisk wind buffets my face, tiny invigorating slaps of briny air that kiss my cheeks and stir my blood. My eye is drawn straight away to the fluttering pennants of a ship waiting at the dock, the deck swarming with men labouring our luggage aboard. Overhead, gulls are causing uproar; squawking, keening and turning in the sky. A sudden brisk breeze lifts a cloud of dust and tries to steal my veil, and I put up a hand to save it. I blink to clear dirt from my eye, turning blindly toward Jay’s yelp. Through a blur of tears I see Ned urging the dog to leave the comfort of the produce cart in which he has travelled. Ned tugs at the lead and the hound follows reluctantly, his bloodshot eye full of resentment. I dab my eyes. “Myfanwy.” I point blindly in the direction of the litter. “I have left my psalter on the seat, can you fetch it please?”
The gang plank is springy beneath our feet and Edmund places a hand beneath my elbow to steady me. Men pause in their work to acknowledge our presence but Edmund dismisses them with a wave of his hand, urging them to continue with their task. He aids me as I step down onto the deck, and the surge of the sea makes my head swim, the sensation echoing deep within my gut.
“It will take a while to become accustomed to the motion,” he says, his hand a steadying influence on my arm. As if to prove his words Myfanwy staggers toward us.
“Goodness,” she whispers as she hands me my psalter. “We are not even under way yet and I feel as if I am in my cups.”
Jay slumps at my husband’s feet and prepares to sleep again.
“Don’t get too comfortable, old fellow,” Edmund laughs, nudging him with his toe. “Come, Margaret, let us settle you in your quarters. Maybe Jay can keep you company on the voyage.”
Below deck it is dark and cool; a strange green light, a briny aroma, the ships timbers creaking like an ancient body kept too long from the fireside. To soften the harshness of life aboard, someone has heaped cushions and furs on the narrow bed. Betony is already busy, plumping the pillows, laying out a fresh robe and pouring cool water into a bowl.
Gratefully, I pull off my veil, and Myfanwy helps me remove my sleeves so I can wash away the megrims of the road. The ship rises with the swell of the tide and a cry comes from above, taken up by another; then a bell clangs, the timbers groan as the sails are unfurled and bellied by the wind. The ship lifts and dips again, and I know we are on our way.
In anticipation I sit on the bed and kick off my shoes, shake out my hair before stretching out on the covers. For a long time I watch the swaying lantern, trying to accustom myself to the sinking and rolling of the sea. It mesmerises me, my eyes grow heavy. I blink slowly …
It is almost dark when I wake. Myfanwy is sprawled in sleep beside me, Jay at her feet. He doesn’t so much as raise his head when I stumble from the bunk and tiptoe from the cabin to clamber up the ladder to th
e deck. The day is all but gone and, at first, I don’t notice Edmund standing at the ship’s rail, looking forward into the darkness as if to hasten our journey. I make my way toward him, still unsteady on my feet, and lurch suddenly against him as the ship tilts unexpectedly. I grab his sleeve and he turns, instinctively reaching out a protective hand to my shoulder.
“Margaret, you should have stayed below. Come, you will get chilled.”
I think he means to send me to my cabin again, but instead he opens his cloak and beckons me into its warmth. I hesitate, unsure and shy of such intimacy. “Come,” he says. “I will warm you.”
I move closer and stand before him, looking out to sea with my back against his belly. He wraps us both in woolly warmth that smells faintly of horse and sweat. A fragrance that is strangely reassuring.
“I am surprised to find the night so chilly after such a hot day.”
He rests his chin on my head, his voice rumbling in his chest as he replies.
“It is often so at sea, but at least our journey is short. You will soon be safe on shore and tucked up in bed at Lamphey.”
When his hands slide down to caress the dome of my belly, my instinct is to draw away, but it is dark and no one can see, so I do not deter him. As if the child senses his father is close, he jerks suddenly, and Edmund pulls away in surprise.
“Was that … ? Did he … ?”
“Yes, my lord. That was your son. He is a rebellious fellow.”
“Ha!” Edmund laughs aloud and replaces his hands, stroking and squeezing gently, encouraging the baby to move once more. When the child kicks again, Edmund is wildly excited. “He is lusty, and strong.”
I murmur agreement, my head lolling back against his shoulder as he continues to engage with his unborn child. For a moment, I am happy, content with my lot and sure of the future.
“Tell me about Lamphey. Is it warm and free of damp? Is it a good place to bring forth a child?”
“I would not have brought you here if it wasn’t. Lamphey is palatial. You know how bishops like their comfort. I have set aside chambers for your own personal use. They are close to mine, overlooking the gardens. I am certain you will find them to your liking.”
“I am sure I will. What are your plans, Edmund? Will you stay close by?”
“It depends upon Gruffydd ap Nicholas and … and the Herberts. I am ordered to bring him under control, to enforce the debts he owes the king and to take the castles he has in his possession. At least … that was my order …”
Sensing uncertainty, I turn in his arms and look up at his strong head silhouetted against the deep blue sky.
“What do you mean, my lord? What has happened?”
His hands find the swollen mound of my stomach again.
“I don’t know for sure, but I sense all is not well. Jasper, when he returns, will have more news. Until then, I can only follow the orders of the king.”
“He is ailing again, isn’t he?”
“As I understand it.”
“And York is in control. What will happen if … if the king never returns to himself? The queen will want to rule until her son is of an age, yet I cannot imagine her working in conjunction with York, whom she hates so much.”
“No.”
“What about you, Edmund? You are the king’s brother, couldn’t you become her advisor?”
A bitter laugh rumbles in his chest.
“Take the place of your uncle Beaufort, you mean? I don’t think so.”
“But why?”
“Aghh.” He lets go of my belly and pulls away from me. He runs his fingers through his hair, leaving it dishevelled, like a field of ripe corn scat asunder by a devilish wind. “I serve the king. I am not convinced that serving the queen would amount to the same thing. She is foreign; the people hate her and her policies are flawed. I do not believe you can quell the population with violence. If she is ever to make peace with York, she needs to appease him, not antagonise him and … the queen is not the sort of woman who will ever do that.”
A brief silence falls; he pulls me back against him, wraps me once more in his cloak, and rests his chin on my head. Rediscovering our former comfort, his hands slide again to my swollen womb.
“So you will side with York should he move against the queen?”
“No… Perhaps. Oh, I don’t know. I must wait on my brother for news. For now, I must take one day at a time and follow the order I was given by the king when he was not in the thrall of madness.”
Edmund is right; the journey by sea is quicker and more comfortable than rattling over land in a litter. We disembark at Tenby and take the high road along a ridge, through golden green countryside to Lamphey. Once more, Myfanwy and I are rattled in the litter, but just as I feel I can take no more, Edmund calls a halt.
A servant comes running with refreshment and soon I am cradling a cup of ale in my palms, looking across the soft rolling land that stretches to the sea. Behind me, the horses are stomping and steaming, tearing mouthfuls of grass, rolling it on their frothy tongues and chomping it between large yellow teeth. Myfanwy is some way apart. I can hear her berating Ned for some misdemeanour. When Edmund joins me, I smile, and let him refill my cup.
“If I drink much more, my lord, we will be forced to stop again before we are much farther along the road.”
He smiles, flushes slightly, and pretends he is going to take my cup away. I draw it back. “I was jesting, my lord. I am as thirsty as a fish.”
I dip my face into the cup; the ale is warm and refreshing.
“Not far to go now,” he says. “I was wondering … if you would like to ride with me. You might be more comfortable than bouncing around in that.”
He nods toward the litter, filling me with relief. Riding with him will mean close proximity, but I find this not so irksome now I am with child, for I know he will not follow me to my bed.
“It will indeed be more comfortable. Thank you, Edmund.”
Shyly, I allow him to hoist me onto the saddle before him, and once I am settled, he urges the horse forward. After the confines of the litter, it is a joy to breathe in fresh air and look out across the landscape. In the distance, the sea twinkles, deep blue in the sunshine. I keep my eye on it, dazzled and calmed by its vast presence. When we reach the highest part of the ridgeway, Edmund reins in his horse.
“Look,” he says, and I follow the line of his finger to where a high-walled palace slumbers in a wooded valley.
“Is that it? Is that Lamphey?”
“It is. What do you think?”
“It looks lovely from here.”
“I am told it is one of the finest palaces in Wales, but I haven’t visited them all.”
The palace is the home of John de la Bere, the bishop of Wales, but he is presently at court, serving as the king’s chaplain and has placed Lamphey at our disposal. The palace is larger than the castle at Caldicot, solid and welcoming, and I can tell I am going to like it. I shift a little on the pommel of Edmund’s saddle. “It looks to be the perfect place to give birth to our son.”
He squeezes his heels and as the horse walks on, Edmund’s body moves lazily against mine, his arms a protective shield around me and the child I carry.
Lamphey Palace –August 1456
Jasper is expected very soon, and Myfanwy is trying, and failing, to conceal her excitement. He is expected to join us before supper, and all afternoon she has been trying on different gowns in readiness. She has exchanged one cap after another, changing her sleeves, asking if she looks better in green or yellow. I bend my head over my needlework and smile secretly.
“You look beautiful in anything, Myfanwy, and well you know it.”
She pauses in her preening and peers into the looking glass, a hand to her unblemished cheek.
“Do you really think so, Margaret? Do you think Jasper would agree?”
“Well, he isn’t blind, is he?” I reply waspishly. I shouldn’t encourage her vanity, it is one of the cardinal sins but I can h
ardly deny it for truth is also a virtue. She smoothes down her skirts and twists and turns, trying to reassure herself that Jasper will agree.
Besides Myfanwy’s gratification, much depends upon Jasper’s visit and his news from court. Recent word from England informed us that the queen has moved the king’s court to Kenilworth. The castle there is highly fortified, and against the wishes of York and his contingent, she is preparing to run the country herself.
Henry VI is now a puppet-king.
The crease on Edmund’s brow deepens when he hears of it. He is curt with the servants and this morning he failed to pet Jay before riding out on the king’s business.
I have discovered that if my husband is troubled, I am also. I may appear to be engrossed in the altar cloth I am stitching, but in reality, my mind is teeming with possible solutions. Of course, I am on the side of the king, the side of my husband, but my dilemma will be where to place my loyalty should Edmund fall foul of the queen. She is my mother’s friend. I recall her brittle kindness toward me when I was a child; the king’s simplistic doting. Henry is the rightful monarch, there is no doubt of that, but does she have the right to rule in his stead? I am not sure. There may be others who would serve the country better.
From her seat at the window, Myfanwy cries, “They are here.” She leans out, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.
“Myfanwy, come away from there. Put your cap on.”
I sound like an old maid, yet she is older by several years. She turns and pouts, but her eyes are glistening with impatience. I put down my sewing.
“I suppose you are right. It is time I made ready for the evening.”
She jumps up and summons the maids to bring water, then rummages through my clothes press, drawing out my favourite kirtle and fresh linen for my approval. She then fidgets and fumes as I am made ready. Her excitement is slightly irritating. I have never enjoyed the feverish joys of a youthful amour and envy makes me mean. Just as we are about to leave I stop.
“Before we go, I must remember my devotions,” I announce, and she watches in open-mouthed frustration while I kneel at my prie dieu, taking some delight in delaying, hoping it will teach her some patience.
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 8