The Beaufort Woman: Book Two of The Beaufort Chronicles Read online

  The Beaufort Woman

  Book Two

  of

  The Beaufort Chronicle

  Judith Arnopp

  Copyright © JudithArnopp2016

  First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Margaret Beaufort’s coat of arms by Sodacan (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

  Cover photo: Young Woman in Orison Reading a Book of Hours. Ambroiius Benson c.1475 Public domain

  Cover design by Covergirl

  Edited by Cas Peace

  www.caspeace.com

  Dedication

  The Beaufort Chronicle is dedicated to my parents, Doreen Lily Robson, 1923 - 2015, and Victor Ronald Robson 1920 - 2016.

  Thank you for showing me the way.

  Other books by Judith Arnopp:

  The Beaufort Bride: Book one of The Beaufort Chronicle

  A Song of Sixpence: The story of Elizabeth of York and Perkin Warbeck

  Intractable Heart: The story of Kathryn Parr

  The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn

  The Winchester Goose: at the court of Henry VIII

  The Song of Heledd

  The Forest Dwellers

  Peaceweaver

  Part One

  Lady Stafford

  Bourne, Lincolnshire - June 1460

  The ground passes swiftly beneath me. I cling to the reins, my eyes half closed, avoiding low branches as I thunder through murky brown puddles. At my side, a sudden splash of colour; a red cloak, a blur of chestnut flank, and with the wind in my ears, I turn my head and smile at Harry.

  With a grin of determination, he drives his horse harder, pulling ahead of me, throwing up clods of mud that spatter my face and skirts. I laugh aloud and dig my heels in harder; my mount lifts his head and surges forward, his nose drawing level with our opponent’s tail.

  Harry turns in the saddle, waves an arm and shouts something, but his voice is quickly swallowed by the speed of the chase. We thunder on and before I know it, a ditch appears from nowhere and my horse and I take flight. As we soar through the air, the wood falls silent and time seems suspended. I cling to the reins, hold my breath, out of control, afraid I will fall.

  With a jolt, his forefeet touch solid ground and I am forced forward onto his neck. To my relief, he pulls up sharp and stands head down, his sides heaving, his mouth foaming. I sit up and raise my hand to straighten my veil but it is gone, lost somewhere on the wild ride, leaving my hair in a tangle down my back. I have a brief vision of Mother’s face were she to see me now, muddy and dishevelled in full view of our attendants.

  “Margaret!” Harry wheels his horse about, slides from the saddle to grasp my bridle, and places a hand on my boot. “Are you all right? I was afraid that last ditch would see you on the ground.”

  I grope for composure, try to still my beating heart and cool my burning cheeks. Managing to laugh, I look down at my husband and feign a jaunty smile.

  “I was determined not to fall, Harry. You need not have worried; but I appear to have mislaid my cap and veil.”

  The hind will be far into the thicket by now. Harry and I turn and look back into the soft green wood to see one of our squires leaping puddles as he hurries in my wake to return my cap.

  “Thank you.”

  I take it from him and, without the aid of my women, do my best to put it on straight, arrange the veil to hide my ruined hair before we begin a leisurely ride home.

  “The quarry is long gone.” Harry wipes his brow and gathers his reins, ready to mount again. On this occasion, the deer escaped unscathed, but we will not go hungry for our larders are well stocked, our cellar replete with wine. It is not need that calls us from our fireside to hunt, but the longing for fresh air. I feel vital and alive. I run a gloved hand down my horse’s neck and turn again to smile at Harry.

  So far, he has proved a good husband. He lacks the noble looks of Edmund, but I am learning there is more to a man than a fine physique. My life with Edmund was spent waiting and worrying but, as Harry’s wife, most of my days are spent with him, and hunting is not the only pleasure we share. Harry is a quiet, studious man whose interests lie in books rather than war; he prefers to be home, running his estates and caring for his tenants than careering around the country in the service of the king.

  He is loyal to King Henry, of course, but he takes little part in the disputes that continue to beset the throne. The feud between the two royal houses endures; they fight, cousin against cousin, their households forced to take sides and no one allowed to remain impartial.

  At the end of last year, the Duke of York fled to Ireland, and his cousin and ally, the Duke of Warwick, took refuge in France. Now, there is an uneasy peace as the country waits to see what will happen next. For a while at least, Harry and I are free to relax.

  Letting our mounts cool and catch their breath, we ride with long, loose reins toward home, and soon the timbers of the house come into view. We pause at the top of the hill to allow our attendants to catch up, and the servants at the castle, noticing our approach, scurry about in preparation for our arrival. I glance at Harry, catch his eye and issue an unspoken challenge.

  Without a word, we simultaneously dig in our spurs, surprising our horses into life again as we compete to see who shall be the first to reach home. At the sound of our speeding hooves a cry goes up and, just in time, they throw open the gates. As we clatter over the drawbridge and into the bailey, Harry is just ahead. He leaps from his horse and hurries to assist me from mine. We are both breathless.

  “I beat you squarely, Margaret. Admit it, you are defeated. I am the better horseman.”

  “Perhaps I allowed you to win; had you thought of that?”

  He throws back his head with a snort of derision and, as we ascend the steps, I try to take his elbow. But instead, he throws an easy arm around my shoulders and plants a kiss on my forehead.

  “Of course you did, sweetheart. Of course you did.”

  After the brightness of the day, the hall is dark. Slowly pulling off my gloves, I blink while my eyes readjust. Harry pours a cup of wine, continuing to crow of his prowess in the saddle until a boy comes forward and hands him a message. I toss my cloak at a hovering servant.

  “Bring us some more refreshment, this wine is rancid,” Harry says, unrolling the parchment and carrying it to the window where the light is better. “Damn!”

  I turn, surprised at his profanity.

  “What is it, Harry? Not Henry; it isn’t bad news of my son?”

  I hurry forward, my heart suddenly sick, and reach for the letter.

  “No, no,” he says, his brow furrowed as he scrunches the parchment into my palm. “It isn’t from Pembroke. It is from my father. Salisbury and Warwick have landed in Kent and are marching on London, and he rides to defend the capital. I am summoned to join him.”

  Without reading it, I let the letter drop, and pull a face.

  “Must you?”

  “I have to go; there is no way I can refuse.”


  A thousand reasons why he shouldn’t leave rush through my mind; silly things like an appointment with the tailor, the regime of care we have embarked upon for his skin complaint, the sick horse in the stable that he has been tending. I open my mouth to speak but he is already turning way, bellowing for his squire.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  He does not heed me; my voice is lost in the hubbub. Silently cursing York and his persistent dissent, I follow in Harry’s wake, waiting for my chance to speak, but he is soon lost among a crowd of retainers.

  I fall back, barely able to see the top of his head in the clamour, but I can hear his voice. His scribe hovers at the back of the crowd, quill in hand, straining to hear so he may list Harry’s instructions.

  I am forgotten.

  Reaching for a cup of wine, I slump into a chair. I realise the futility of trying to prevent him from leaving. The friction at court has become untenable, and late last summer violence broke out again with a heavy humiliating defeat for the king at Blore Heath, which was quickly followed by victory for Lancaster at Ludford two weeks later.

  The conflict between the two houses is like a great seesaw; one moment the king is winning, the next he is cast down. When York’s army scattered and he and Warwick fled to exile overseas, I had hoped it was all over. Since then, things have been quiet; I cannot believe it is to begin again.

  As painful as it is to see Harry go, I know it is his duty to answer his father’s call yet I cannot help but remember when Edmund rode away from Lamphey on that last day. Despite everything that has happened to me since, I cannot forget that.

  During the two years Harry and I have been married, I have become fond of him. It is an easy relationship, much easier than the one I had with Edmund. He treats me as an equal, appreciative of my skills in the still-room, gently encouraging my studies, and tolerant of my devotion to God, which inwardly I fear he does not share.

  Harry has a gentle humour, a compassion for those less fortunate, and a wry and sometimes cynical opinion of his betters. As a younger son, he has come to accept his lot in life, his ill health, and his political obscurity. We are rich but not so prominent that we are constantly at the beck and call of court, but the quiet, country life we live suits us, and he is a good stepfather to my son.

  The one thorn in my shoe is my separation from little Henry, but we have made several visits to Wales and I am touched by and grateful for my husband’s obvious affection for my boy. I can never give Harry a child of his own but I have bequeathed him mine, and it warms my heart to see their flourishing relationship.

  Ours is a good match, a good choice. I have benefitted from his gentleness and he has benefitted from my knowledge of herbs and medicine. His sore skin is soothed now; the nightly creams and poultices I take so long to prepare have brought him ease and, with the constant itching soothed, he can now sleep at night. Without me to ensure he keeps up the regime, however, he will soon become uncomfortable again, and all my work will be undone. I want to remind him of this but I do not speak of it, for I know he would scorn my concern.

  It seems our honeymoon is over, the long period of peace is ended; our days of placid domesticity may seem dull to some, but I don’t want them to end. I do not complain. I stay calm and quiet as I watch his preparations for battle, and never once do I let my smile drop.

  “Farewell, sweetheart.” He kisses my brow. “I will be back soon.”

  He moves away, and before I can stop myself, I grab the sleeve of his coat. He turns, a questioning frown on his forehead, his eyes silently beseeching me not to make a fuss.

  “Take this,” I say, pressing a small glass phial into his palm. “Apply it each evening before you retire.”

  He laughs. “My squire will think less of me but, for you, Margaret, I will do as you ask.”

  One more kiss and he is hurrying away, calling for his horse, setting the dogs barking. With a flourish of banners and a clash of armour, the troop ride beneath the gate and a sorry peace descends with the dust.

  It seems I am destined to be left behind, alone.

  In the solitude, with little to distract me, my thoughts turn to my son. I know he has a comfortable home at Pembroke and is as safe as a boy can be, but I cannot shake off the nagging worry that he might be ailing. Deciding a visit is overdue, I summon Harry’s steward.

  “Oh, Master Bray. Your step is so soft it startled me.”

  “I apologise, Madam. I will endeavour to tread more heavily next time I approach.”

  “I want to travel to Pembroke to visit my son. Please make the arrangements for my journey.”

  He hesitates, clears his throat.

  “I don’t believe that is wise, my lady. The armies are mustering and the roads will be full of men, and besides … my lord of Pembroke will not be at home. He will surely be fighting for the king.”

  I had forgotten that but it makes me no less determined to go. With just the household staff for company, Henry will be alone – vulnerable, and perhaps in need of me.

  “But my son will be there. It is he I wish to see.”

  “I fear …. If you will pardon me, my lady, my Lord Stafford would not forgive me should I allow you to travel. Wait a few days and he is sure to escort you there on his return. There is much unrest in the countryside…” He clears his throat again, plainly embarrassed at having to deny me. I take pity on him. He is a good man.

  “Very well.”

  I press my lips together firmly, suppressing sudden disappointed tears. They build in my chest. I want to sob, cry like an infant and demand he do as I say, but I am too well schooled to give in to a display of pique. Instead, I raise my chin and look him squarely in the eye. “I shall write to my son instead. Ask a page to fetch me pen and parchment.”

  “I will fetch it myself, my lady.”

  He leaves as quietly as he came, and while I await his return, I stare moodily into the flames. My arms ache for want of Henry. It has been almost six weeks since I saw him last; he is growing up quickly and I am afraid he holds more affection for his nursemaid than for me. A self-pitying tear pricks at the corner of my eye, but I blink it away.

  I have no time for weeping.

  When Master Bray brings my pen, I quickly scrawl a letter to Myfanwy, hoping and praying she is still in residence at the castle. Shortly after I left Pembroke, she retired to one of Jasper’s estates in the north and there gave birth to his illegitimate daughter, but the last letter I received from her suggested she would be returning to the south as soon as she was churched. She has not yet written to confirm her arrival.

  My husband considers my friendship with Myfanwy a great scandal, and so would my mother if she knew of it, but in my short life, I have made few lasting friends and I cling to this one, despite her scandalous ways.

  Pray, send me word of my son, (I write.) I fear for him in these tumultuous times. My husband is riding with his father in defence of the king, and I expect Jasper has been summoned too. It is hard for us women at such times and I constantly pray for the king’s deliverance and a return to peace.

  Perhaps when Warwick and York are quelled, you can bring Henry here to us at Bourne for the summer. It seems so long since we were together, so long since there was real peace in the realm.

  My pen scratches on, but it is a sorry substitute for dandling my child on my knee. I imagine rocking his sturdy body in my arms, resting my chin on his head, closing my eyes and inhaling his baby scent. For a while, lost in my dream, I am happy, but when I finally open my eyes, loneliness erupts from my throat in an ugly sob. My maid looks up from her place by the window, her startlement forcing me to control myself. I will not cry, not in front of her. Turning my head slightly away, I dab inconspicuously at my eye with the edge of my sleeve. I force my mind to other things but one thought is never far away. It constantly bobs to the surface, like a cork in the river.

  If only Henry could be with me; if only I could bring him home for good.

  For the next
few weeks, when I am not on my knees in the chilly stone chapel, I meander about the house. I strum half-heartedly on my lute; I count the jars in the still-room, or prise emerging weeds from the crumbly soil in the garden. When I am not pretending to be busy, I spend far too long scanning the horizon in hopes of a message, either from Harry, or from Pembroke.

  During a break in the rain, I venture outside; tread the wet gravel path where, despite carefully dodging puddles, the moisture soon seeps into my slippers. Weeds are already encroaching upon the young plants I put in a month ago. I stoop and dig my fingers into the earth, grasp a root and enjoy the small triumph of pulling it free.

  While I am looking about for a basket to deposit it in, the rain begins again. Cursing beneath my breath, I wipe the sticky soil on my apron, and head for the shelter of the hall. As I draw near, I hear the sound of a horse galloping fast along the castle road.

  I pick up my skirts and hurry toward the bailey, arriving just as the messenger dismounts from his lathered horse. I grab for his bridle, backing off as the beast snorts a mouthful of green foam across my bodice.

  “Are you sent by my husband? What news have you? Is he safe? Is he wounded?”

  The messenger pulls his forelock, fumbles in his bag, and brings forth a damp, crumpled message.

  “The battle is lost, my lady, but your husband lives, as far as I know. He escaped by the skin of his teeth. My Lord Buckingham was eager to fight, win the battle and get back to London to reclaim the Tower from York, but it was hard going. This damn … begging your pardon, the rain turned the field into a quagmire. We would have had the victory had Lord Grey and some others not turned their coats. They stood by, my lady, and let Edward of March right through their ranks. There was nothing we could do against him. The whole thing was over in half an hour or less. It was a rout, my lady. I daresay Sir Harry’s message contains the detail …”

  He hands me a muddy note and I tear it open, frown at my husband’s handwriting, scrawled in such haste it is barely legible. I tilt back my head, feel the rain spotting my face, and address the sky.