When my knees begin to cramp, I rise slowly and she almost dances with delight when I signal for the door to be opened to facilitate our exit.
As soon as we enter the hall, Jasper and Edmund look up. My husband rises and Jasper swivels in his seat, watching as we cross the room; or rather, watching Myfanwy.
He barely notices me.
Both men welcome us to the table. Edmund’s lips brush my cheek and Jasper bends over my hand, his eyes seeking out Myfanwy as soon as he straightens.
“My lady,” he says. “You are radiant.” I know his words are not for me. Myfanwy has flushed as rosy as a summer peach. We take our places at table and are not half way through the first course when the talk turns to the condition of the king.
“Even though the king has shown some signs of recovery, things are no better,” Jasper says, prising a piece of meat from his teeth. “In fact, I’d say they are worse. York is resentful, the queen is demanding, and the king is weak – God’s teeth, Edmund, even when he is in his right mind, he dithers. He can’t make a decision and in the end comes down on the side of the queen, as if all he desires is a quiet life.”
“And what of York, where is he?”
“He left court in a fit of temper. I’m not sure of his direction. It puts you in an uncomfortable position.”
Edmund opens his eyes wide. “You are not wrong there, brother. If I take back the castles ap Nicholas has taken, I do so for the king, yet lately they were York’s possessions. I am caught between the two.”
“But surely, the castles were his only while he was Protector?”
I am so wrapped up in the conversation that I speak without thinking. The men turn to look at me and I turn pink with embarrassment. “I am sorry, my lord, do go on. I will not speak again.”
“Margaret, you are right, of course.” Jasper smiles at me quickly, slightly puzzled at my interruption. “Yet York is unlikely to see it that way. He sees himself as the protector of the realm whether we want and need him or not. As the official constable of the castles in question, York may well feel Edmund has stolen what is his and returned them to Henry.”
“Yes, I see.” I stumble over my words, his solicitous explanation making me feel more awkward than ever. Despite my status and condition, I am but a woman and my years mark me as a child. I bite my lip in an effort to prevent myself from speaking out of turn again.
Edmund takes a draught of ale while Jasper leans back, hooking an arm over the back of his chair.
“I have watchers at court, men who will bring me word the moment anything changes. Tomorrow, I must return to Pembroke, put a few things in order there.”
“Is it far to Pembroke?” Myfanwy asks and, grateful that talk has turned to more general things, I turn with interest toward Jasper’s reply.
“No; two or three miles or less. I go back to court in a day or so, but on my return, Edmund must find the time to bring you to visit. Pembroke is not as gracious as this. It is a fortress, not a palace.”
“Lamphey is very beautiful,” I say. “I am looking forward to tending the gardens and planting.”
Jasper smiles in a bemused manner as if he cannot reconcile the idea of me quietly gardening in a palace filled with armoured men and my husband riding daily into danger. I subside into silence, smile ruefully at Myfanwy, who doesn’t notice because she is gazing at Jasper.
I feel a niggle of impatience. He is just a man; a powerful and handsome one, but just a man nevertheless. And she has no business mooning after someone of his status; no good will come of it. From the way he returns her warm looks I fear the attraction is returned but he can offer her nothing. And she certainly has nothing to offer him.
She is toying with her food, nibbling half-heartedly, but drinking freely of the wine. Now that the first sickly months of pregnancy have almost passed, I have discovered a new love of food. I partake of every course, and when a platter of honey-drenched wafers is placed before us, I eat Myfanwy’s share as well as my own. Edmund watches with amusement, but like an indulgent parent, says nothing. When I am finished, he reaches across to wipe a trickle of honey from my chin. When he has done, he allows his hand to slide down my arm. He keeps me hand-fast for the rest of the meal.
The entertainers come on; first, a trio of minstrels who sing a mournful tune, lightened only by the antics of the tumblers who, too impatient to wait their turn, stage a hilarious re-enactment of the tragic tale. Jasper slams his cup onto the table, slopping wine and throws back his head, while my ladies titter behind their hands. I cannot help but join in the laughter, but feeling Edmund’s eyes upon me, I turn to look at him. I sober suddenly when I catch him watching me; his eyes creased with … something I cannot identify.
In a day or two, he will be riding away. He will be gone for weeks, and I am surprised to discover I will miss him. I have grown used to him; he represents security, and warmth. I will miss our late night conversations in which we whisper of the future of our son, of the colour of his hair. We try to guess the hue of his eyes, and imagine his future position at the royal court.
When the revel ends, Edmund follows me to my chamber. He kicks off his boots and takes a seat close to the hearth. My women make themselves scarce and I follow them to the door, draw the bolts across and settle on the floor at my husband’s feet. Jay lays his big head in my lap and Edmund pulls off my veil and begins to fiddle with my hair until I grow sleepy and my head lolls on his knee.
When the fire has reduced to embers, Edmund stirs. Reluctantly, for I hate him to treat me like a child, I allow him to put me to bed. He removes my pearl necklace and throws it on the dresser before fumbling with the laces of my gown. With a sound of triumph, it finally becomes free, and forms a blue-green pool at my feet. He kicks it away as if it is a rag and scoops me into his arms.
Once I am tucked beneath the covers, I lie on my side, snuggle into the mattress and prepare to drift off to sleep, conscious all the while of his stealthy movements as he removes his clothing.
The bed dips as he clambers in, his body a little chilled against mine. Once, I would have longed to move away, but now I am with child I sense no danger in his presence. He places his large hand on my hip, the warmth of his touch penetrating my thin shift. We are cupped together like spoons, his breath on my neck, his fingers gently kneading my waist. Something stirs within me, his child is nestling snug in my womb, and I relax against my husband as sleep drags me further into its embrace.
In my dream, someone is caressing me, slowly lifting my shift, cupping my belly, stroking, skimming my skin, filling me with warmth. I groan and stir, the caress ceases and, missing it, I groggily reach for the hand and replace it on my belly. Edmund emits a sigh and rolls me onto my back. I am half asleep, half awake, and do not remember to reject the softness of his lips upon my breast. I am flooded with warmth; a warmth that quite rapidly turns to heat, my body invaded by a sensation that is both alien and irresistible.
I am not Margaret. I have been consumed by some other being, some sensuous, erotic goddess who thrives beneath her husband’s touch and urges him to continue. His mouth is on my breast, and his hands that skim my skin are my only reason for continuing to breathe. His own breath is coming in rasps, his hand travels down from my breast, burning a route across my belly before coming to rest between my legs, opening a path of pleasure as yet untrodden. I do not stop him. I have no wish to deter him, or to stay his hand. I don’t want him to ever stop.
He is stirring places I did not know I had, giving me pleasure I had not known existed. I part my legs, press myself against him and wind my arms about his neck. His mouth comes down on mine, hard with longing, rough with desire, as his finger moves and my body shatters. Breath and life are suspended in one glorious moment, our cries mingling as his seed gushes wet upon my thigh.
Afterwards, we lie together, his forehead against mine as I try to peer through the darkness, the need to see his face overwhelming. For the first time I am not shamed. I feel blessed and newly alive.<
br />
Late August
The bailey is full of horses, carts and armoured men; the air alive with voices. Above the palace walls Edmund’s flag snaps and bellies in the breeze. I stand on the steps of the hall, put on a brave face and wait to bid my husband goodbye.
Jay, who despite his age thinks his place is with his master, has hauled himself from his favourite haunt at the hearth and stands head down, waiting for someone to lift him onto a wagon. I put my hand on his head and he looks up at me, a sad question in his eyes.
“No, Jay. You are staying here with me. You are too old now to follow your master on the road.”
Ned appears with a rope and loops it around the dog’s collar. “Thank you, Ned,” I murmur, noticing the resentment in his eye.
He is angry with me because I refused my permission for him to ride out with Edmund today. He complains that his place is on the road with the other men, not safe at home with the women and children. But I will not relent; I will not let him go. The wound left by the arrow has healed, but it has left him weak, his right arm devoid of muscle, and he still becomes breathless and remains very pale. He needs further nourishment and the ease of living in one place. I tell Edmund the boy will need another six months at least to regain his former vitality. Ned, when he discovers my order, is slow to forgive. I show my sympathy with a gentle smile but, grim-faced, he avoids my eye. I understand his resentment. It is just as I feel when I am forbidden to do something, so I do not reprimand him, but turn away. I am sure he will come to understand my reasons, but I know how hard it must be for him. It is hard for me, too, to be left behind.
Edmund’s voice cuts through the babble. Flicking back my veil, I turn toward it. He is striding across the bailey in full armour with his gauntlets in hand. Beside him, his squire is hop-skipping along, carrying his helmet and sword. Edmund stops, takes my hand and draws me close, lowering his face to mine. As we kiss, a cheer goes up from the assembly and he pulls suddenly away, his face red. He gives a rueful smile before climbing onto his horse. It is a great beast, richly caparisoned, hooves striking sparks on the cobbles. Mounted, Edmund towers above me. I crane my neck, squinting into the sunshine before putting up a hand to shield my eyes.
“Good bye, Edmund.” I try to speak confidently but my voice issues in a squeak of fear. “Be safe. I will pray for easy victory.”
He grins and raises an arm, signalling for his men to follow, and nudges his horse on. As the household surges toward the gate and the dogs set up a great din of barking, the air around me fills with dust. Only Jay, Ned and I remain on the palace steps. For a long moment, we remain there. Unwilling to move, I feel strangely bereft; the diminishing noise of departure is somehow isolating and wretched.
Even when the women and children return to stand gossiping in the sunshine, I do not move. The sky is high above me, the ground solid beneath my feet. In my womb, Edmund’s child squirms and kicks and, at my back, the Bishop’s palace offers warmth and welcome, yet my equilibrium has shifted. I am thrown off balance.
I cannot settle to anything. My needlework lies abandoned on the table, my books open at the last page I read. Instead, I spend my days praying and nurturing my child. My knees grow raw from kneeling and a niggling pain in my lower back never lessens, even at night. From time to time, Edmund sends word, but his messages are sketchy, rushed notes, written in haste at the roadside. He does not say he is missing me, makes no mention of our new found affection, but he bids me care for my health and that of our son.
My days drag by. I pick up my needle again, reluctantly filling the empty space with tiny neat stitches. When I finally apply the last few strands of silk, I hold it aloft, satisfied to have conquered my idleness. I stare at the tiny loops and swirls of the pattern and remember stitching them, embroidering a life for myself, a future for my son. Myfanwy and I carry it carefully to Lamphey’s tiny chapel and drape it across the altar, where I pray thrice daily and sometimes during the lonely, chilly nights.
As the end of August nears, I begin to work on garments for the baby. The cap in my hand is so tiny, I cannot imagine a head small enough to fit it, yet my women assure me it will be so. As my needle dips in and out of a sea of white linen, I dream of Edmund’s victorious return, his joy at the arrival of his son. I picture our heads close together, watching as the baby sleeps in his wooden crib, but as the weeks pass and my worries increase, I begin to wonder if that dream will ever become real. I withdraw from everyone. Whenever I can, I sneak off on my own, wishing only to be alone with God and my child, my son whom Edmund says we must name Owain.
I am in the garden, tucked out of sight in an arbour, sewing as usual, when Ned appears. I am unaware of his presence until I hear his shy cough. I look up.
“Ned! You startled me.” I lower my needle and wait for him to speak. He is grinning from ear to ear so I know the news is good. “Is there a message from my husband?” I prompt.
“Not a message by his hand, my lady, but a tinker came by bearing news from Carmarthen.”
“Yes, go on, tell me.”
“Our lord has taken the castle, my lady. The Welshman has fled and the earl now turns his attention to Cydweli, and Aberystwyth.”
“That is good news.” I turn the full force of my pleasure on him, making him blush to the roots of his hair. He opens his mouth to speak but a footstep on the path forestalls him.
“Myfanwy, did you hear the news?”
“I did. I had come to tell you of it but I see Ned got to you first.”
At my invitation, she joins me on the chamomile seat and bends over to examine my needlework. Hopefully, I tell myself, in a few weeks we can join Edmund at one of the castles he has secured for the king. Although Lamphey is tranquil and a good place to be nurturing a child, I will feel safer closer to my husband.
October 1456
Time seems to stop; the hours and days become weeks and years. My life is in limbo, I am in a palace not my own, waiting for my husband, waiting for my child to be born. My duties are those of a matron, and as my belly stretches, I forget I am just thirteen years old. I feel old, as if I have experienced all there is. I scratch beneath Jay’s ears, teasing out the burrs in his coat with a comb, and remember when I used to run through the meadows at Bletsoe with my siblings. It seems so long ago. I wish I could laugh and run now.
The summer is almost over, the garden going to seed, the still-room well stocked with remedies and salves. The world around me is preparing to shut down for winter, and it won’t be long before my child arrives. I run a hand across the tight bowl of my belly and wonder what Edmund will think when he is reunited with his apple-shaped wife.
At last, he has agreed to let me join him in Carmarthen and I must leave this place. Although I have come to love Lamphey, I am not sorry; my place is with Edmund. Slowly, as my belongings are packed into boxes, the room grows bare around me until just Jay and I are left at the hearth. Tomorrow morning we will ride away from Lamphey, but I intend to return. I love the palace and the gardens, and will miss the rich treasures stored upon the library shelves. When Edmund has restored peace in the land, I tell myself we will come here again and let our children run wild in the gardens.
I cast a lingering look about the empty chamber and wonder where Myfanwy is. She is probably ensuring my jewels and gowns are laid away with great care. She will be ordering the servants, attempting to organise the other women, who resent her lowly status. I sigh a little, feeling lonely, wishing she were with me.
The months ahead are full of the unknown. I am very young to birth a child; there are those who frown upon Edmund for not waiting until I was older, but I understand his reasons. Once I have presented him with his child, many assets will be bestowed upon Edmund, strengthening both our bond and our child’s future. I know how important a son is to him; it is important to me, too. But that does not stop me from being afraid.
God will keep you safe, I tell myself, and I try very hard to believe it but I am growing maudlin. At my feet, Ja
y yawns and drops his head onto his paws as if he is dismal too. In the empty room, I blink away tears, bend my head over my sewing again and listen to the crackling fire in the grate.
In the morning a gentle rain is falling; the sort that is much akin to mist but that wets you right through to the skin until it seems to seep into your very soul. We are all in bleak spirits and I am loath to leave the comfort of the palace. Myfanwy and I climb into the litter and order the curtains drawn. The horses put their heads down; the armed guard pull their collars high and their helmets low.
Ned is fortunate, his role as Jay’s companion gaining him a place in the covered produce cart. The journey is a jolting one. The road is quickly mired, and more than once we are forced to stop because a wagon has come to grief. For once, I am grateful for my dry, snug litter.
While those on horseback are quickly wet through, I am seated upon soft cushions, with a rug for my knees. At first, Myfanwy entertains me with her chatter; she is excited to be on the road, and keeps peeping from beneath the curtain.
“I can hardly see across the valley,” she says, letting the drape fall. “I hope we will reach shelter before dark.”
“Of course we will.” I don’t mean to snap but her words fill me with fear. The thought of being out on the road after darkness has fallen is unthinkable. “There must be a monastic house along the route; perhaps we should give orders to make an early stop.”
She subsides into silence. I read, doze off to sleep, but awaken suddenly at an extra violent jolt of the litter. For what seems like hours, we lumber slowly across the countryside. As the horses begin to move downhill, the swaying of the litter increases, the book I’ve been reading slides to the floor and I cling to my seat. When the terrain levels out and the motion becomes a little less sickening, Myfanwy picks up my book.
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 9