The Beaufort Bride: The Life of Margaret Beaufort (The Beaufort Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  The Beaufort Bride

  Book One

  of

  The Beaufort Chronicles

  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: Petrus Christus, Portrait of a Young Girl, after 1460, Gemäldegalerie, Berlin. Wikimediacommons free domain

  Cover design by Covergirl

  Edited by Cas Peace

  Dedication

  The Beaufort Chronicles are dedicated to my mother, Doreen Lily Robson, 1923-2015.

  Thank you for the love and for introducing me to books and the bard.

  Other books by Judith Arnopp:

  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

  The Lady Margaret

  Bletsoe - 1449

  It is a wild night. Outside, the trees are blackened by rain. They thrash their limbs in a dance of anguish, shedding leaves and twigs across the lawn, but here, at the nursery window, I am safe and dry. I press my hot cheek against cool thick glass and peer into the darkness of the garden.

  The shrubs and hedges assume threatening shapes; the yew tree by the gatehouse is a hump of deep black menace. My seven-year-old mind forgets the times my stepsisters and I have happily played there on the green mead in the sunshine; tonight I see only threats, only danger, only demons.

  A fistful of raindrops spatters against the window and I draw back with a gasp as a yellow leaf, as large as my face, smacks suddenly onto the glass. I stare at it, stuck there like a hand held up in warning. Do not look, Margaret!

  But I do look. I cannot help it. If there is a beast in the garden, I have to see it. I have to witness the moment it leaps from the darkness.

  Ever since I can remember the grown-ups have kept secrets from me. I didn’t know my mother had been married before, that my siblings had a different father to mine. It was Oliver who told me, and ever since he has delighted in revealing other, more horrible things. Now, to deny him pleasure, I am determined to learn secrets for myself. Secrets that are sometimes best left undiscovered.

  No one tells me when I am made a ward of the Duke of Suffolk, fated to marry whomever he pleases. It is Oliver who breaks the news and, at first, I don’t believe him.

  “Don’t be silly,” I scowl. “Stop teasing.”

  “Oh, I’m not teasing.”

  He slides from his seat and comes skulking toward me, his head thrust forward, a grin of mischief smeared across his dirty face. “You have to do as he says and go happily to your marriage, even if he weds you to a grandfather who will beat you twice daily.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  I can hear the doubt in my own voice and it spurs him on to greater revelations.

  “He can do with you as he wishes and you have to obey him or, if you don’t, you’ll be shut up in the Tower as your father would have been if he hadn’t -”

  A sudden movement and Edith comes to stand beside me. She places her hand on my arm.

  “Oliver, be quiet. You are being cruel. Don’t listen to him, Margaret, just ignore him. Why don’t you come and help me sort colours for the tapestry I am planning?”

  Edith, my older and favourite sister, grabs my wrist and tries to tug me toward her chair but, drawn to the awfulness of Oliver’s secret, I pull away.

  “What do you mean, Oliver? My father in the Tower; what do you mean?”

  He stands tall, runs two fingers across his upper lip, presenting a sudden image of how he will look when he is a man with a fine moustache and beard. His head is back and he squints down his long nose with a smirk. He is no longer a companion of the nursery; he is an accuser, a torturer, a devil with wickedness upon his lips.

  “Your father was a traitor, waiting to be sent to the Tower. The king was going to chop off his head … but your father sliced his own wrists before he could be taken.”

  With a gasp of horror, my stepsisters look up from the hearth where they are sewing. Everyone is looking at me. My cheeks begin to burn. I can feel their eyes boring into me, waiting for my reaction. I cannot move; my ears are ringing. It is as if he has struck me but I manage to raise my chin and clench my lips across my teeth.

  Oliver watches my struggle for composure, but his venom is subsiding. He is clearly calculating our mother’s reaction should I run to her with the tale of his sins.

  It takes a great deal of effort to shrug my shoulders and turn away as if nothing is amiss. His uncertain laughter follows my stiff-legged journey toward the door. I reach for the latch but before I pass through it, I feel Edith’s hand on my shoulder.

  “Margaret, don’t believe him. He heard it from the servants – it is likely just tittle-tattle.”

  I look into her kind eyes and read the lie hidden there. She seeks to spare my hurt, but I can tell she believes the story. I try to smile but my mouth goes out of shape, my chin trembling. She places a gentle hand on my coif but I shake it off, cuff away the first tear before it has a chance to drip onto my cheek.

  I find Mother just returned from chapel. She halts when she sees me and hands her prayer book to one of her women.

  “Margaret? What is the matter? Are you ill?”

  I shake my head and perform a wobbly curtsey.

  “No Mother, I am well.”

  She sits down and beckons me closer, places a hand beneath my chin. She feels my brow for signs of fever, pulls down my lower eye lid and bids me stick out my tongue. I obey, passively waiting while she examines my teeth and looks in my ears.

  “You are very pale, and you are trembling. What has happened? Have you been fighting again?”

  “No, Mother.” Although I threaten to, I never bear tales of Oliver’s taunting. I search around in my head for a small lie that will explain how I have heard the rumour of my father’s disgrace. “I heard someone talking.”

  She sits back, links her fingers and rests her hands on her stomach.

  “You should never heed gossip, Margaret.”

  “No, I don’t but … they said bad things about my father.”

  I watch her face blanch and know without her confirmation that Oliver’s tale is true. Her face squirms unattractively as she tries to school her features into obedience.

  “Who have you been listening to?”

  “Oh … I – I don’t know. We were playing hide-come-seek and I was hiding in a cupboard when some servants were passing … I couldn’t see who it was.”

  I will have to make confession and do penance for such a lie, but I refuse to bear t
ales. It will only make Oliver resent me more.

  “Is it true, Mother?” I step closer. “Was my father a bad man? Did he ... did he …?”

  I cannot form the last words and as my fear spills from my eyes, her own composure dissolves. She fumbles for a kerchief, blows her nose.

  “Oh, Margaret.” She screws the square of linen into a ball and looks at the ceiling. “Your father was a good man, an honest man but … well, he was not always wise. He made mistakes in France and angered the king. When King Henry refused him an audience, your father fell into despair. I … we are not sure what happened … it was a long time ago, six years.”

  I listen to the horrid truth, counting back the years on my fingers. 1443, the year I was born.

  “So, if my father was a traitor, are we all disgraced? Am I a disgrace? Am I, Mother?”

  She sighs, casts about for her kerchief again and dabs her nose.

  “No. Your great uncle, the Cardinal, and your uncle Edmund will ensure we remain in the king’s good graces. You must learn that everything is not black and white, or good and evil. There are many different shades. Your father was neither; he was just a man, and all men make mistakes … even kings.”

  The end of her sentence is barely audible. I jerk my head and stare into her eyes, trying to fathom what she means. I have been taught an anointed king is sacrosanct. It has never occurred to me that kings can err.

  “So the king was wrong?”

  “Mistaken, perhaps, is a better word; an error of judgement.”

  “What about us? Is Oliv - are the servants right when they say that I must marry whomever the Duke says?”

  She looks around the room, her lashes fluttering like damp butterflies that cannot decide upon which blossom to settle.

  “We must all marry where we can, Margaret. A woman is seldom given choice.”

  “But what if he picks an old man who will beat me twice a day?”

  The words are out before I can stop them, Oliver’s laughter echoing again in my ears. She pauses with the kerchief just below her nose.

  “No! Where do you get such ideas, child? Come here.”

  I long to slide onto the chair beside her and inhale her sweet herby scent that speaks of security. I wish I could snuggle to her bosom. If she was not big with child I could crawl into her lap as if I were a baby. She places her hand upon her swollen belly. “I suppose it is time I told you of your future. You are an important asset to the Duke but he has chosen very carefully for you.”

  “Who will want to marry me when my father was so bad?”

  She laughs musically, tilting her head back. “Oh my dear child, do you not realise how rich you are? You are an heiress and will be an asset to any husband. Men have already been seeking the honour of your hand.”

  I digest this news slowly. So, Oliver was right. I am to be sold.

  “You said ‘chosen’ so the Duke has already decided?”

  Her hand, that has been gently rubbing the place where her unborn child is curled, stops suddenly. She smiles and looks down at it. She has felt the child kick – another half-sibling. I will no longer be the smallest. I will no longer be the baby of the family. I pray this child will be kinder than Oliver.

  “The Duke fancies you for his son, John, who is destined to be a great man.”

  I have seen the Duke of Suffolk many times, the great William de la Pole who has fought so long for the king in France. Oliver says that he has almost single-handedly kept our territories in English hands. He is a favourite of the king, but the populace dislike him and have christened him ‘Jackanapes.’

  The duke is a big man, large and rough. I remember when I was little, hiding behind my mother’s chair when he came into her parlour. His giant frame blocked the sun from the window and his laugh made the wine cups rattle on their tray. I am filled with dread that his son will be the same.

  “Suppose I do not like him?” I whisper with sickness washing in my belly. Mother smiles and closes one eye before answering conspiratorially.

  “Then you will make the best of him, as do all women in our position.”

  February 1450

  “Margaret, it is time to wake up; the Matins bell has rung.”

  I roll over with a groan and blink at Edith who is leaning over me. Her long fair hair has worked its way out of her cap and is tumbling about her shoulders. “Come on, sleepyhead,” she laughs. Grabbing my wrist, she hauls me from the bed.

  I stand for a while, staring dull-wittedly at the floor while my body slowly wakes, my mind gathers itself. I lift my chin, remembering that this is my last day. Tomorrow I am to be married.

  Fear clutches at my belly. I have always had the protection of my mother and my stepfather, John Welles, but now I am to be handed into the keeping of the Duke and his son, who is soon to be my husband.

  My clothes press is stuffed with new linen, new shoes, a fine brocade gown and a fancy new escoffion and veil. Such care has never before been taken with my clothes and, although I normally have little interest in such things, I feel different when I try them on. The girl in the looking glass is nothing like me. I look and feel important, grown-up and noble. It is only my eyes that look like my own: large, dark and terrified.

  This morning, I am so frantic to stay that I am filled with a desperate love for everything familiar. I smile at my nurse with new appreciation as she dresses me. When she kneels to slip on my shoes I put a hand on her shoulder and whisper, “Thank you.” She looks up in surprise, as if I have never thought to thank her before.

  “Here you are, my lady.” She hands me my prayer book, and my stepsisters and I hurry toward chapel. As we clatter along the corridor, we are met by Oliver and our eldest brother, John, who are emerging from their chamber. The two boys jostle to be head of the procession until Mother appears at the door, her belly standing proud before her.

  She has not long to go now; after my wedding she will retire to her chambers to await the arrival of her child. She is shadowed about the eyes and her face is puffy. She raises one eyebrow in reprimand and the boys immediately fall into submission. They play the part of great gentlemen, bowing and holding out their arms that she might go ahead. She smiles indulgently.

  “Come, Margaret,” she says and, with an apologetic grimace at my sisters, I push my way to the front and take my position just a little behind Mother. Although I am the youngest daughter, I am afforded the most honour because of the status of my father, who was the Duke of Somerset. My uncle Edmund has that honour now.

  I would rather sit with Edith. I cast a glance over my shoulder and she sends me a funny, upside down smile, raises a hand and waggles her fingers. As I pass my brothers I keep a wary eye on Oliver in case he puts out a foot to trip me. Silence falls as we follow Mother into the chapel, make our obeisance to the lofty cross and take our places for prayer.

  The words of the psalms echo in the vaulted roof, the morning sun shines through multi-coloured glass casting patterns on the floor, red and yellow and blue. The sing-song voice of the priest enters my soul. I clasp my hands, close my eyes and pray fervently to the lord to help me accept the path He has chosen for me.

  If I am to bear this marriage I must either learn to like my husband or pray to soon be made a widow. Shocked by the wicked, unbidden thought of John de la Pole’s early death, I pray harder and know myself a sinner. “Let us be happy, Lord,” I pray. “Please give us happiness.”

  I do not sleep a wink. Not for one moment does my mind let me rest. When dawn finally breaks I rise reluctantly, and after mass my chamber fills with servants. They form a chain bearing buckets of steaming water to fill the bath that is set before the hearth. Flower petals are strewn on the surface and thick towels are placed near the hearth to benefit from the flames.

  When they strip me of my clothes, I cross my hands across my skinny chest and lower myself into water that is barely warm. Then, with small consideration given to my status, I am scrubbed from head to toe, my hair is washed, and my nails clipp
ed. I stand on a towel before the fire while they rub me dry and comb the knots from my soaking hair. I shiver, my body swathed in goosebumps as they rub fragrant lotion into my skin. Soon, I quake inside my fine new clothes. Every scrap of hair is tucked inside my hood, making my eyes seem bigger than ever, my face bony and white. I am no beauty and, as I regard the stranger in the mirror, I realise that even fine fashion will never make me so.

  As we process to the church, I can hear Mother’s breath rasping. I look up at her and notice the beads of sweat collecting on her upper lip. She tries to smile but I can see her discomfort; the child lies heavy in her womb making her usually quick steps lumbering and slow. I spare her a moment from my own concerns and take her arm, slow my pace a little.

  The priest who leads our small procession is unaware that we have slowed and reaches the porch before us. He turns, opens his mouth to speak and looks surprised to find us lagging. He clasps his wrist and, with a benign smile, waits patiently for our approach.

  I wish I could turn and run but I am Lady Margaret Beaufort, about to become the wife of the Duke of Suffolk’s heir. Girls like me cannot be like infants and run away. We must put aside our childhood and act like women, and make the best of what we are given.

  In the porch my ladies fuss with the hem of my gown, Mother strokes a wisp of hair from my face, left loose today in testimony to my innocence. The choir begins to sing, their voices fuelling my courage and reviving my faith that God will steer my course. I take a deep breath and step into the darkness of the nave.

  In the dim light, the duke is waiting. It is the first time I have seen him without a sword, and he looks ill at ease without it. He is finely garbed in thick velvet, and the hat he turns in his hand is hung with jewels. Beside him, a boy, a few years older than me and as richly clad as his father, is biting his thumb. The duke slaps the boy’s hand from his mouth and I see tears spring to his eyes. I cannot stop myself from staring at him.