The grey light of dawn was creeping slowly into the chamber when Margaret opened her eyes. She felt curiously fresh and well-rested and when she placed her hands on her body, her stomach was flat underneath the binding of linen.
A great fire crackled in the hearth, sending out hissing sounds with an occasional crack of shifting logs. Margaret sighed contentedly and turned to look at the crib that rocked gently under the hand of a nurse.
“Good morning, Margaret; the air is still a little chill, but I think we will have some winter sunshine later in the day.”
Elizabeth stood at her side, a steaming bowl in her hand. She seated herself on the edge of the bed and held a spoon to Margaret’s lips.
“Come, take some gruel. It will make you strong again. You’ll need your strength to look after that hefty son of yours.”
Margaret struggled to sit up. “It is the feast of St Agnes, is it not?” she smiled. “The twenty-eighth day of January, the day my son was born.”
As if to emphasise her words, the child began to cry, great gasping sobs that tore at Margaret’s heart.
“Bring him to me,” she said softly, and after a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth lifted the child and brought him over to the bed.
He stopped crying as soon as he was placed in Margaret’s arms and she held his tiny fingers to her lips in an ecstasy of joy.
“His hair is bright like his father’s,” she whispered, and tears stole down her cheeks. “See how his little fingers curl against mine.”
Elizabeth bent towards her. “Do not tire yourself, Margaret. Let me return him to his crib.”
Margaret stared down at her son for a long moment, reluctant to let him go from her arms. “I shall call him Henry,” she smiled through her tears. “Edmund would have approved of his son being named for the King.”
She allowed Elizabeth to take the baby from her and sank back wearily against the pillows.
“I have the strangest feeling, Elizabeth.” She closed her eyes against the pale morning light, brushing the strands of hair from her forehead. “I shall never bear another child! My son will have no one but me to love him in his infancy.”
“Nonsense!” Elizabeth said briskly. “You are little more than a child yourself. Thirteen summers is not very ancient, I do assure you.” She straightened the covers and plumped up the bolster behind Margaret’s head. “In time you will learn to grow fond of someone else and no doubt you will marry and have a large family. You once said it was what you desired.”
Margaret shook her head. “That was when Edmund was alive. I know now that there will be no other children, and no man I will ever love as I loved my husband.” She smiled at Elizabeth’s disconcerted expression. “There is no need to fret about it. I am content with my son. I will live for him and do my utmost to make up to him for his lack of a father.” She sighed gently. “I think I will try to sleep, and when I am more rested, I will nurse my child.”
She drifted off to sleep and though there were tears drying on her cheeks, she was smiling.
Lionel, Lord Welles, looked up in admiration at the towering walls of Pembroke Castle, noticing that the sea protecting the outer wall was azure in the sun.
He smiled at his wife. “Soon, my dear, you will see your grandson for the first time, though to me the idea is absurd. You are far too young and beautiful to be a grandmother.” The Duchess of Somerset sighed deeply. “I feel quite old after the difficulties we’ve endured on the journey. I am only thankful that we left our own young son at home.”
The retinue passed under the archway of stone and there waiting on the steps of the castle was Margaret surrounded by the towering Tudor men. The Duchess saw with pride that her daughter was now an elegant young woman, a little thin and pale perhaps, but that was natural enough in the circumstances.
“Mother!” Margaret hurried across the yard, her gown fluttering in the breeze. “Welcome to Pembroke.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and turned to Lord Welles, a happy smile on her face. “Lionel, you are just as handsome as I remembered you, and not looking a day older.”
She took his arm, feeling a flood of affection for the big gentleman who had taken her father’s place. They went immediately to the nurseries where the baby lay asleep, his bright hair jutting from beneath his bonnet and his cheeks healthy and firm.
“Oh, he is so handsome.” The Duchess bent over him, seeing immediately the likeness the boy bore to his dead father. Her eyes met Margaret’s and her daughter smiled.
“I know what you are thinking, Mother,” she said softly. “He is very much like Edmund, and I am glad of it.”
The Duchess took Margaret’s arm and led her away from the crowd of people gathered around the crib.
“Listen to me, Margaret,” she said, and though she spoke quietly, there was a note of urgency in her voice. “I was bereft when your father, the Duke, died suddenly and in such tragic circumstances. But life must go on.” She stared at Margaret steadily. “A woman needs a man’s protection and so when I met Leo, I married him.”
Margaret’s eyes were withdrawn, and her mother rushed on nervously.
“Think about your son. His future would be more secure with a father to protect his interests.”
Quietly Margaret settled herself into a chair as if her legs would no longer support her.
“My son has his grandfather, Owen Tudor, to care for him. And Jasper who would lay down his life for the boy. What more could he want?”
The Duchess sighed. “I will say just one more thing on the subject, and thereafter hold my tongue. The Tudors are a breed of fighters and a country in such a state of unrest as ours gobbles up such men. Believe me, when I say that you need a husband of your own!”
There was a silence that lengthened into minutes while Margaret considered her answer. At last she rose to her feet with such a gesture of weariness that the Duchess felt a deep pity for her.
“Come, let us talk of other matters,” she said quickly. “You are so young and have many years ahead of you. I am forgetting how near your grief must still be.” She patted Margaret’s arm awkwardly. “Let me hold the little one for just a moment. I promise not to spoil him too much while I’m here.”
She was rewarded by a smile then, and with a sense of relief the Duchess turned once more towards the baby lying asleep in his crib.
The Duchess of Somerset lost no time in approaching Owen Tudor about the future of her daughter.
“I am naturally concerned that she and the boy should have every advantage, my lord,” she smiled at him in her charming way, and Margaret could see that Owen admired her mother greatly.
He turned to Margaret. “It is only right that you consider your future,” he said gently. “Naturally the boy will inherit his father’s estate and the title of Earl of Richmond, but you are young enough to make an advantageous marriage.” He coughed a little in embarrassment. “You will always have a home at Pembroke Castle. You must understand that we love you here, as if you were our own flesh and blood.” He looked at Jasper who nodded in fervent agreement. “But I could find you a good Lancastrian who would care for you and young Henry, and guard you with his life.”
The Duchess smiled graciously, pleased to have brought the matter into the open. It was obvious that the menfolk would have been content to allow circumstances to remain as they were indefinitely.
That night, Margaret huddled dry-eyed in her bed, staring at the flickering shapes thrown by the tapers on to the walls. She had only just begun to grow accustomed to the emptiness of her life without Edmund, and now her mother, with the best of intentions, had succeeded in opening old wounds.
She thought of the cold wet day barely six months ago when Edmund had been laid to rest in the dark earth and closed her eyes tightly against the pain of it. She could not bear to take another husband. Her mother didn’t begin to know what she was asking.
She slipped from the covers on to the coldness of the floor, and bowed her head in prayer.
“Help me to do what is right and to be an obedient daughter and a gracious mother,” she whispered, but her heart still ached and her arms still longed to embrace her beloved Edmund.
The castle seemed silent and empty. Darkness fell early, and morning seemed late arriving.
Margaret sat at the high window, her tapestry fallen unnoticed to the floor. She tried to occupy her mind with the beauty of the rolling fields sloping down towards the roughness of the sea. Rocks surfaced from the foaming breakers like slippery black dogs, and then were hidden again as the deep swelling tide raced with frightening speed against the shore.
Across the mountain path new grass had sprung, so that the road had almost vanished, and every day Margaret sat watching, waiting for a sign that Owen and Jasper were returning home.
The wars had started up once more with frightening suddenness; the Queen had taken matters into her own impulsive hands. She had sent out Lord Audley to arrest Salisbury who was attempting to join Richard of York at Ludlow. Affairs had not turned out to her expectation, and Audley had been killed.
As soon as Owen and Jasper heard the news, they had set out for England with as many men as they could muster, and now were probably marching on Ludlow with the King, who had once more recovered his senses.
“Margaret, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but the young Earl continues to cry. His nurse thinks he may be feverish.”
Elizabeth stood at Margaret’s side, her broad face lined with concern.
“I will come at once.” Margaret tried to speak calmly, but fear pounded within her so that she could hardly breathe.
She hurried into the nursery that was kept warm day and night to keep out the damp air that the sea sometimes brought inland.
The baby was turning restlessly to and fro in his bed, and Margaret took him up, gently cradling him in her arms. He was indeed feverish and beads of perspiration stood like tiny jewels on his cheeks and forehead.
“There, there,” she crooned softly, “Mother will make you better, don’t cry. Bring some cool water, Elizabeth,” she said quietly, “and open the drapes so that some freshness can enter the room.”
Margaret continued to hold him long after it was necessary, staring down at the small features that were so like Edmund’s.
“Was my mother right?” she wondered out loud. “Do I owe it to you to marry again and give you a new father?”
She thought of the happiness she herself had found with Lord Welles to be a father to tease her and comfort her when she cried. Suddenly there were tears, but now there was no bitterness, only a calming acceptance that Edmund was gone from her forever, and she must make a new life for herself and her son.
“They are coming, Margaret!” Elizabeth called urgently from her seat in the high window. “I can see their helmets gleaming in the sun. The men are home from the wars!”
Margaret swept young Henry up in her arms and he waved plump fists in excitement, as she hurried to look across the mountainside.
“Thank God!” she said fervently. “I can see the Tudor standard flying high. They must both be safe.” She swung away from the window with a burst of happiness. “Go and tell the cooks to prepare a fine feast. My Lord Tudor will be here within the hour.”
Henry clapped his hands and pushed away from his mother’s arms to toddle precariously across the room. He laughed aloud with glee, infected by the air of excitement, even though he did not understand its cause.
“Go with your nurse, and let her dress you in your best doublet!” Margaret scolded with a smile on her lips, and Henry allowed himself to be lifted up and taken to the nursery.
Margaret looked down at her own dress. It was time she discarded her dark gowns and wore something bright and becoming. Excitedly, she opened her closet and chose a deep blue gown of fine velvet edged with frills of white lace.
“Bring my comb, Elizabeth,” she said gaily. “We will give them a homecoming they will never forget.”
The tables in the great hall were laden with food and still servants scurried to and fro, bringing yet more delicacies to tempt the daintiest appetite.
Great swans, browned to succulent tenderness and garnished with pounded ginger and dried violet leaves, had pride of place on the main table, while along the sides of the room stood the steaming dishes of fish cooked in ale and spread with almonds. Bowls of eggs beaten with chopped dittany and coloured to a deep yellow with the addition of saffron, stood like eyes among the beets and crisp lettuce.
“A feast fit for a king!” Owen strode into the hall, tall and handsome as ever, and at his side, Jasper smiled in delight at the scene of welcome. “You have done well, Margaret.” He bent over her hand and she returned his smile warmly.
Owen turned and drew forward a young man, slight of frame and sallow of complexion who, nonetheless, had an air of distinction about his bearing.
“This is Henry Stafford,” Owen said. “Second son of the Duke of Buckingham, and a fine Lancastrian if ever there was one.”
Margaret felt her colour rise as she understood the implication of his words.
“Come, be seated,” she said quickly. “You must all be tired and hungry after the long journey.”
Somehow young Stafford contrived to sit beside her and he insisted on helping her to something from every dish until she began to laugh in spite of herself.
“If I listened to you, my lord, I would soon be too big to sit behind the table,” she protested.
At last the great banquet was over and Margaret led the way into the smaller chamber with its cheerful fire of logs.
“Now, my lords, are you going to tell me about the battle?” she said impishly, knowing it would be more than she could do to try and stop them.
“The Yorkists have fled in all directions,” Owen said with satisfaction. “The King’s prompt action in marching to Lydlow confounded them all. York himself has fled to Ireland. It appears that he was once deputy there, so relies on the Irishmen to hide him.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs wearily before him. “Salisbury and Warwick have made for Calais, taking the young Earl of March with them.” Margaret was immediately concerned. “Oh, how could Richard of York bear to be parted from his son? Could he not have gone to Calais with him?”
Owen gave a short laugh. “On the field of battle, it is every man for himself, and the Earl of March may be young, but he’s a man for all that! I’ll say that much for him.” He stretched his big arms above his head. “If you’ll forgive an old man, Margaret, I must go to my bed. I’m so tired I can hardly move.”
“So full of good food you mean!” Jasper said with a laugh. “But perhaps you are right. It is time I retired too. I’ll see you in the morning, Margaret, and mayhap you will let me take my young nephew riding, if the weather is fine.” Margaret felt a dart of fear. Henry was still just a baby. The idea of him being placed upon the back of a great horse was disturbing, to say the least.
“I’ll guard him well, have no fear,” Jasper said gently, and Margaret thought of the welcome her son had received from Jasper earlier, when, dusty and tired, he had ridden into the castle yard.
There had been an instant feeling between the tough soldier and her small son; she had felt it strongly as Jasper had lifted Henry in his arms, holding him tenderly against his strong shoulder.
“Of course he can go with you,” she said, quickly ashamed of her hesitation. She did not want her son to grow up into a mother’s boy, did she?
It was quiet after the Tudor men had left the chamber and Margaret was sunk into her own thoughts, almost dozing a little before the warmth of the fire when she realised that Lord Stafford was at her side.
“You must forgive my rudeness,” she said quickly, “I did not think. I should be treating you like a guest, and here I am almost asleep.”
“You are forgiven,” Henry Stafford said, bowing over her hand, his green eyes alight with admiration. He stared at her for a long moment until she raised her eyebrows quizzically. “Now it is my turn to beg your pardon.” He laughed, and it was a pleasant sound. “You are so much younger than I thought; why, you are little more than a girl. About fifteen years, if I’m any judge.”
“I feel much older, I do assure you,” Margaret said truthfully, indicating that he take a seat beside her. “What brings you to Pembroke, my lord?”
He coloured a little under her direct gaze and she softened towards him, smiling so warmly that he took his courage in both hands.
“I did not intend to speak so soon, but I would much rather be open about my intentions,” he said. “I am here to ask you to become my wife.” He held up his hand to stop her speaking. “I am no great catch,” he admitted. “But even though I am a second son, my father has settled a great deal of his estate upon me, and I vow I would always be kind to you and to the young Earl of Richmond.”
Margaret was touched in spite of the fear that made her heart beat fast. How could she bear to take another man for husband after loving Edmund so much? She tried to imagine herself in Stafford’s arms; in his bed.
She rose abruptly. “I must have time,” she said quickly. “Marriage is not a matter to enter into lightly, I am sure you will agree with me.”
He stood beside her, not touching her, but his eyes were clear as they looked into hers.
“I know already that I could love you well, my lady, and if you will allow me, I will defend you with my life.”
Margaret looked down at her hands. “Please, let me think,” she said softly, and then he had gathered her hands in his and she was surprised at his strength.
“Think all you like, Margaret, but I am determined to make you my wife.”
He left her then and she stood before the logs that gleamed richly, reminding her of the colour of Edmund’s hair, and tears blurred her eyes.
“What am I to do?” she whispered piteously, but the silent walls gave back no answer.