“Thank you …” Further conversation is stolen by the sound of a galloping horse. I throw up the curtain and poke out my head, blinking into the rain that settles on my cheeks like a diaphanous mask.
“What is it?”
A young page is shouting, gesturing wildly, pointing back the way we’ve come. My steward leaps from his horse and splashes toward me.
“Bad tidings from your husband, my lady. William Herbert and the Vaughans have attacked Carmarthen. My instructions are to take you back to Lamphey.”
I fall back on my pillows.
“But we have come so far,” I wail. Myfanwy joins me on my seat, offers me a kerchief to soak up my ready tears.
The men refuse to heed my arguments. Edmund’s orders are written large; they wave his heavy black scrawl beneath my nose and stand firm against my pleading. Knowing I am beaten, I scribble a hasty message to Edmund, requesting that he send me word as soon as he is safe. Sealing the letter with a prayer and a secret kiss, I hand it to the boy, watch him mount his sweating horse and ride away into the mist.
Aware of possible danger, we travel more quickly now, all thought of my delicate condition forgotten. Desolation swamps me as the litter sways and rattles back the way we have come. Even when the rain ceases and the sun pokes blearily from behind the clouds, I cannot raise a smile. I cannot even pretend optimism. Myfanwy does her best to comfort me, but I turn a little away from her and bury myself in my own thoughts until she subsides.
We have travelled but three miles when a shout goes up behind and the messenger returns. He slides from his horse, his chest heaving, his hair plastered to his head.
“I could not get through,” he shouts through the increasing rain. “There are soldiers on the road, and the castle is surrounded.”
The steward frowns, glances up as the rain begins to come down harder, spattering noisily through the leaves overhead. “We must move more quickly, my lady; we must get you to safety. Will you ride with me?”
I hesitate, my eyes swivelling from Myfanwy’s pallor to his darkly serious face. Such a thing is highly irregular.
“We could go to Pembroke,” Myfanwy says suddenly, breaking her silence. “You would be under the protection of Jasper then.”
Her face is anxious, insistent. I narrow my eyes, angered at her blatant romantic strategy in our time of danger.
“Jasper is at court. And you should address him as Lord Pembroke.”
She turns away, pouting.
Myfanwy and I both know how vulnerable we are. Despite my status and our heavily armed guard, we are a target for the desperate, and a rich prize for my husband’s enemies. My belly is tight and hard, the child quiet and heavy within me. My stomach churns at the danger I have placed him in and I suppress a sob, wishing I had never left the safety of Lamphey palace. I am at a loss as to what to do. The steward shuffles impatiently.
“There is an abbey not far from here, a Cistercian brotherhood, where we could seek shelter.”
Ned, his hand to Jay’s collar, watches me with round, anxious eyes, waiting for my answer. Suddenly I realise it is not just my own safety I must look to; our entire party are in peril. I nod my head once in agreement, both embarrassed and afraid.
As I am hauled inelegantly up before the steward I manage to send the boy a rueful smile. Summoning what dignity I can, I settle on the pommel and the steward apologises as he puts his arms around me, holding me secure, guarding me with his body. He gathers up the reins, jabs the horse with his heels and we jerk forward, mud splashing all around us.
It is very strange to be in such close proximity with a man who is not my husband, but I am grateful for the protection and the warmth of the steward’s body. I put my head down and close my eyes against the driving rain. With stone-cold fingers, I cling to the horse’s mane, and try not to think of the earth speeding past beneath me. I try not to think of my unborn child, who lies as quiet as a boulder in my tight belly.
Every mile we travel takes me farther from Edmund. I try to remember his face, cling to our shared vision of the life we will lead when the fighting is over and our child is born.
Yet all around me the world is bleak, the landscape obliterated by driving rain, my husband in absolute peril, and myself and my child at God’s mercy. I try but fail to muster the picture of domesticity I hope will come after.
Whitland Abbey – November 1456
Safe in the confines of Whitland Abbey, I huddle close to the fire, unable to prevent the juddering of my frozen, frightened body. As soon as my blood is warm enough to allow my fingers to work, I summon a pen and parchment. With no recourse to etiquette, I scribble an urgent message to Jasper who is with the king at Kenilworth.
I wish with all my heart he was here in Wales. Were he at Pembroke he could be here before dusk but it could be many days before my message reaches him and he rides to relieve his brother. I am confused. Why has Edmund come under attack? He is following the orders of his king, why does York send an army against him?
When he comes to enquire as to my comfort, I bombard the steward with questions.
“York is jealous of your husband’s position. He fears his kinship with the king will interfere with his own plans. He sees Carmarthen and the other Welsh castles the earl has taken as his own by right, and he has stepped so far from royal favour he probably believes his position is lost.”
Unable to mask my confusion I look up at him.
“I wonder what he will do next.” I keep my voice low; afraid to speak too loudly in case it gives my fears substance. I look about the stark room that remains stubbornly chilly in spite of the lively fire, and wish I had never left the warmth and comfort of Lamphey Palace. “Do you think he will hurt Edmund? He is the king’s own brother. Surely even York would not go so far.”
My voice shakes, my chin trembles. I clench my lips in an effort to still my tears. I must remember my position. I am not some silly little girl. I am the Countess of Richmond.
After the messenger has ridden away I cannot seem to either keep still or warm myself so I wrap my cloak tight about my body and pace back and forth from one side of the chamber to the other. Every so often, I stop to stand on tip-toe and peer from the narrow window, but there is nothing to see; just a bleak, cold vista and relentless, lashing rain.
I think of Edmund. I wonder where he is, what he is doing. He could be fighting; he could, even now, be victorious. Or he could be captured or wounded. He could be dead.
I turn too quickly on my heel and the room sways and dips around me. My hand snakes out, finds solidity, and I discover Myfanwy has come to stand beside me. I welcome her substance and grip her arm, the warmth of her flesh a sharp contrast to my frozen fingers.
“Come along, my lady. You must stop this or you will make yourself ill. Think of your child.”
Our faces are close together. I can see the pores of her skin, the sheen of perspiration on her brow. Her eyes are creased with concern, shadowed with worry.
“How can I rest when Edmund is in danger? How can I think of anything else?”
“Now, now, my lady; your husband would want you to think only of yourself and his son at this time. You must stay strong so you are able to greet him happily on his return.”
I sigh and let my head droop on her shoulder.
“Oh, Myfanwy, I am so afraid.”
“Of course you are; who would not be? But you have a duty both as wife and mother, and your duty is to put your health first. Edmund is a fine soldier and big enough to look to himself.”
She is right. Wearily, I allow her to lead me to the bed where she begins to unlace my gown. When I am tucked beneath the blankets, she brushes my hair from my brow as my nurse used to when I was an infant, and a sudden memory of the nursery washes over me. A tear trickles from the corner of my eye, quickly pursued by another.
“I had not realised you cared for him so much,” she whispers, her eyes searching mine. I feel a blush creeping up my neck and blooming on my cheeks.
“Neither had I,” I murmur.
***
For three days, I am in limbo, voluntarily imprisoned in the abbey while we await news. Stealthily we send messengers to discover news, but it is almost the end of the third day before a message finally arrives. I snatch it from the boy’s hand, tear it apart and drink in the words that confirm my worst fears. Edmund has been taken and is imprisoned in Carmarthen castle. My hand shakes as I scan the words again. The letter is in a strange hand but at the bottom my husband has scrawled a few words that give me a little hope.
I am injured but well. Take care of our son. I will be with you soon.
I drink in the information, read it over again and again before I begin to believe it.
“At least he is alive,” I manage to utter as the letter falls from my fingers to lie among the rushes. My heart floods with thankfulness.
After summoning Myfanwy, we hurry to the church where I pour out my gratitude to God for sparing him. All we need to do now is persuade York to set him free. Edmund must be forced to come to any terms demanded to ensure his release. His freedom is what matters most. After forcing myself to eat the meagre supper provided, I call for the steward and together we fashion a message to begin the negotiations for his release.
When we learn that York and his followers have left Carmarthen and turned their attention to Aberystwyth, I grow impatient. The need for caution has passed. I want to ride for Carmarthen straight away, to ascertain that he is unharmed, but Myfanwy’s wisdom hinders me.
“Please, wait for Jasper,” she implores. “He cannot be long away and we will be safe with him. When he gets here, with the men of Pembroke behind him, he will put pressure on York to free Edmund and bring him home to you. It would be far better if we were to return to Lamphey and wait for him there.”
“No; not without Edmund. It is almost November. I will wait three more days for Jasper, if he is not here by then I will ride to Carmarthen … alone if I have to.”
***
Another long road. Another jolting, disheartening journey in the litter. Try as I might to persuade him, Jasper is unbending.
“You will ride in the litter or not at all,” he says, attempting to soften his harsh words with a quick smile. Pouting like an unruly child, I gather my cloak about me and clamber into the detested conveyance. I sit bolt upright, simmering with anger for as long as I can bear to. Myfanwy, moonstruck by Jasper’s return, smiles an apology for my behaviour and tries to soothe me.
“The journey will not be so long this time,” she says, “and Jasper is only thinking of your safety, and that of the babe.” She nods toward the dome of my belly and instinctively I put a hand on it, the contact imperceptibly softening my mood.
“I know.” Full of resentment, I look out beyond the looped-back curtain. Mercifully the weather is dry; a chilly bright day, with the sun reflecting on the puddles left by the last few weeks of rain. The blue skies are a teasing reminder of the summer so recently departed. Tomorrow, it will rain again.
Jasper rides at the head of the column. I watch his upright figure, notice how his head continually moves from left to right as he scans the horizon for signs of trouble. He is uneasy, not convinced of York’s promise of safe passage, and his discomfort unnerves me too.
Where the terrain allows, we follow the serpentine trail of the River Tywi, but every so often, to avoid marshy terrain, we are forced to higher ground. As we pass close to Grey Friars, the waterlogged fields about the river are scattered with sheep. At our approach, they throw up their heads in alarm and abandon their grazing to hurry from our path. Myfanwy laughs.
“Look at them. They look like beggars with their grubby woollen fleeces hanging from their backs.”
I smile, but I do not care about sheep. In the distance, I have spied the town gate and beyond it the towers of Carmarthen Castle standing proudly above a loop at the river crossing.
I sit up straighter and try to see ahead, as if expecting Edmund to be waving a greeting from the battlement. But he does not know I am coming; I will be the last person he expects to see.
I watch Jasper ride toward the town gate. He leans from his saddle and exchanges words with the gatekeeper. He takes off his helmet and turns toward me, the wind tussling his hair which, I notice with a sudden pang, is the exact same shade as Edmund’s. His brow is creased and, noting his dour expression, I sense more trouble. My heart sinks as, after a further exchange of words, he turns his horse and rides back to the litter.
He slides from his horse.
“Margaret …” He hesitates, pulls a face and lets out a long breath. “There is pestilence here. I cannot let you travel farther. It isn’t safe.”
A surge of anger such as I have never known consumes me; I can feel it rushing uncontrollably through my body, gathering in my head until I feel it will burst.
“I will not be kept from him!” I hear myself shout. Tears of rage drench my cheeks; my fists are clenched tight, my ears ringing with the sudden stress. My mother would be furious if she witnessed such behaviour, but I am too afraid and too angry to care. Without ceasing my tirade, I swing my legs toward the door.
“I have travelled too far and waited too long to be kept away now. If there is pestilence here, he may need nursing. I will not allow you to keep me from my duty.”
I struggle from the litter and, shrugging Myfanwy’s hand from my shoulder, begin to hurry along the dirt track, determined to travel the rest of the way on foot. I do not get far before my ankle turns on a rut in the road. Concealing the sudden sharp pain, I limp on.
“Margaret!” Jasper, defying all etiquette, strides after me, grabs my arm and forces me to stop. “You are acting like a child. Get back in the litter. I will take you as far as Grey Friars, but there you must wait until I discover the situation at the castle. If it is safe, you can see Edmund tomorrow. For Christ’s sake, think of your son.”
I am always being told to think of my child. I think of little else. I am thinking of him now, in my desperation to liberate Edmund. What will my son be without his father?
Myfanwy adds her argument to Jasper’s, her voice soft and silky with persuasion.
“We can freshen up and rest at the priory. You will feel better tomorrow, my lady, after a night’s sleep. Edmund will prefer to see you calm and … clean.” She casts a glance at my mired skirts.
I pass a hand over my face, knowing I am beaten, knowing they are right. With a sob of both rage and misery, I allow myself to be turned around and bundled back into the hateful litter.
As the horses lurch forward and the swaying of the litter starts up again, I refuse to look at Myfanwy. I resent her alliance with Jasper. Despite my situation, I do not miss the warm looks that pass between them, or the excuses she finds to be with him. She is glad this mischance has befallen my husband because it puts her in the company of her sweetheart.
Another religious house, this time run by the Grey Friars. They greet me cordially, offer what comfort they can and give me lodging in the abbot’s house. The room is comfortable, well furnished, and a welcome fire roars in the grate. Fuelled with resentment toward her, I cruelly send Myfanwy from my presence. It is midnight before I regret it. I pass a lonely, miserable night but I am too stubborn to summon her back, and so I lie awake, staring into the dark.
The child is quiet, his head pressing on my bladder, so I have to get up repeatedly to use the close-stool. Each time I return to the bed, the sheets become rucked into a worse mess and by dawn the blankets look as though a wrestling match has taken place.
“Goodness,” Myfanwy exclaims in the morning when she brings me a tray of victuals to break my fast. “What have you been doing?”
She bears no malice for my hostility the night before and her cheeks are rosy, her eyes bright as if she has passed a restful night. While I stare grumpily at my morning meal, she begins to smooth the sheet and plump my pillows.
“Jasper will be leaving soon, I expect.” She moves to the window and ope
ns the shutters, letting a stream of dirty daylight into the room.
I want to correct her, command her to use his proper title but I am tired, sick and tired of everything and cannot find the strength. I frown at the hump of my raised knees beneath the blanket. There must be something I can do, some action I can take.
I push away the tray and throw off the covers. “Help me get dressed, Myfanwy. I cannot face food this morning.”
Cup in hand, she hovers for a few moments before hurrying to do my bidding. I am mute during my toilette, but all the while she sponges my face her questions fall as swiftly as arrows.
“Why are you in such a hurry? What are you going to do? You don’t mean to defy Jasper, do you, Margaret? Please don’t do anything …”
“Give me that.” I snatch the comb rudely from her hand and begin to drag it through my hair. It catches at the knots, large clumps coming free. “There,” I say. “Now quickly braid it and tuck it under my cap.”
She has no option but to obey me, and I offer no explanation. Ten minutes later, less neat than usual, I am waiting for Jasper to appear in the hall. I hear his approach long before he arrives.
“Margaret.” He stops short, instantly wary as he notices my outdoor clothes and my mulish expression. He tucks his helmet defensively beneath his arm. “What are you doing here?”
I can tell by his voice that he knows my intention, but I raise my chin defiantly before I make an answer.
“I am coming with you. I will not be sent to my chambers like a child. My husband’s life may be in peril and I refuse to sit idly by when it is clearly my duty to be with him.”
“It is too dangerous.” He comes closer, his brow creased with concern. “I have no idea what danger we may be riding into. Do you not care about your child or your own well-being?”
“Of course I do.” I look him firmly in the eye. “I have spent most of the night in prayer asking for God’s guidance as to what I should do. He convinces me my place is at Edmund’s side. Surely, Jasper, you are not so high and mighty as to argue with God?”
The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Page 10