Pembroke Castle shuddered in the howling winds and driving snows of January, but Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, was too busy celebrating his fourth birthday to notice the inclemency of the weather.
Margaret forced herself to smile and join in the fun of the games, but her heart was troubled; she constantly thought of Owen and Jasper, knowing they were again in the midst of battle.
Henry Stafford pressed her arm. “Come, Margaret, you must not brood on matters you can do nothing about. Try to forget outside events, and enjoy the present moment.”
Margaret was grateful for his sympathy. “You are right, of course, but the weather is so bitter and Owen is not a young man any longer. I wish they would return home.”
“Mother, will you read to me? I’m tired of playing, and my legs ache.”
Margaret drew her son to her and rubbed his cold limbs. The dampness of the castle affected her own legs, for they ached intolerably at times.
“I will read to you, but only for a little while. Shall I see you tucked into bed first? You will be warm and snug there.” Elizabeth rose from her seat in the corner. “I will call Joan Hill, Margaret,” she said quickly. “You rest near the fire for a moment. You look exhausted.”
Margaret sank back, grateful for the warmth of the blazing logs. “No doubt Owen and Jasper are crouched over some mean fire, resting on the freezing earth,” Margaret’s voice trembled.
Henry laughed kindly. “They will have entrenched themselves somewhere warm,” he said. “You forget they are seasoned soldiers and have learned to survive under all sorts of conditions.”
Margaret nodded consideringly, and held her son closer to her. He was almost asleep, and she rested her cheek against his bright hair, feeling love flow through her.
“You are such a comfort.”
She stretched her hand out quickly to her husband, wanting to include him in her feeling of contentment, and he smiled lovingly, tracing the curve of her cheek with his finger.
“You are like a madonna,” he said softly. “I never cease to thank the saints for giving you to me.”
The door opened, sending an icy draught along the floors, so that Margaret’s gown billowed round her ankles, as Joan Hill came over to the little group at the fireside. With a neat little curtsey to Margaret, she leaned forward to scoop young Henry into her arms with great efficiency but little warmth.
Margaret studied her for a moment. She was no beauty, but there was about her a certain bearing and dignity that set her apart from the other ladies of the household. Owen had mentioned once that Joan Hill had come from a noble family, but in one way or another their wealth had dwindled, and he had taken her into Pembroke for friendship of her father.
“I promised to read to my son for a little while, Joan.” Margaret tried to infuse some warmth into her voice, but it was difficult in the face of the hostile look the girl bestowed on her.
“But the Earl is almost asleep, my lady. Surely you could read to him in the morning.”
“I must keep my word to my son. I told him I would read to him tonight, and I will read to him.”
Joan swept along the corridor carrying young Henry easily in her arms. Her back was a stiff rod of disapproval and Margaret grimaced ruefully as she followed her into the nursery.
Margaret read softly in French until Henry’s eyelids closed like delicate butterflies against his round cheeks. Then she closed the book, holding its weight in both hands.
“I will leave you now, Joan. I apologise if you have been disturbed because of me.”
The girl bowed her head but made no reply, and with a sigh Margaret went to the door.
“I hope we are going to be friends, Joan. There is nothing to be gained by being difficult.”
The silence of the room was broken only by the gentle breathing of young Henry as he snuggled down into the bedclothes.
Suddenly, there was a commotion in the great hall and Margaret felt her heart leap to her throat. She put down the heavy book and sped along the dim corridors, oblivious to the icy draughts that came scurrying in through the large, open doors.
“Somerset is here!” Henry hurried towards her. “He has just ridden in fresh from the battle. Pray God it’s not bad news.”
“My dear cousin, come and warm yourself before the fire. You are soaked and freezing cold.”
Margaret tried to stop the pounding of her heart as she led Somerset towards the fire that burnt up brightly under the fresh load of logs.
“Richard of York is dead, and his son with him,” Somerset said tiredly. “The Queen was like the she-wolf she is named after!” He shuddered at the memory and took great gulps of the wine Henry Stafford brought him. “When York was dead, the Queen crowned him with a paper diadem and ordered that his head should be placed over the gates of York as a warning to others who would turn against the King.”
Margaret quickly made the sign of the cross, feeling ill as she recalled that once Richard had been a guest at her table.
Henry Stafford took her hand in his. “Remember, Margaret, he was an enemy of the crown. It had to end this way.”
Somerset pushed himself upright in his chair. “Do not make the mistake of thinking this is the end, Stafford. York’s younger son, the Earl of March, is cut from a different cloth to his father. He will be out for revenge, and he won’t care who falls under his axe.”
Margaret shuddered. “You must rest, cousin. I will have warmers put into a bed for you lest you catch cold.” She turned to see that Joan Hill was standing behind her watching Somerset intently. “Ah, Joan, will you go to the servants for me, so that a bed may be prepared?”
Joan Hill inclined her head. “I will see to it personally, my lady,” she said graciously, and Margaret lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
“She must have taken a liking to you, Somerset,” Margaret smiled at him. “She is not usually so accommodating.”
He shook his head. “I had not noticed her. A sure sign that I am mortally weary!” Henry Stafford helped him to rise. “Goodnight, cousin Margaret. Oh! I am forgetting a most important message I was bidden to hand you!”
He smiled and reached inside his doublet, handing Margaret a mud-bespattered letter. She took it, her hands trembling, and opened it out carefully, taking only a few moments to read the few scrawled words.
“Owen and Jasper are well and are marching towards the Welsh border,” she said in delight. “That means they should be home before too long. Thanks be to God and all the saints.”
Somerset shook his head. “Don’t harbour false hopes, Margaret. This battle is not done yet.”
Suddenly, in spite of the huge fire, Margaret was cold.
The dark months of winter moved miserably on and Margaret became nervous at the ominous lack of news. She spent much of her time in prayer, lighting candles in the cold winter light of dawn, expecting that each day would bring some sign that the war had come to an end.
Her son was a constant source of delight to her, and these days, Joan Hill was far more willing to allow her charge his freedom. It wasn’t until the girl fell into a swoon in Margaret’s presence that she noticed how pale and listless Joan had become.
“I feel so guilty,” she said to Elizabeth. “Perhaps I have been placing too much on the girl’s shoulders.”
“Nonsense!” Elizabeth’s voice was brisk. “She’s missing her lover, that is all.”
“Her lover? What on earth do you mean?” Margaret was quite bewildered at the turn the conversation had taken and Elizabeth looked at her in amazement.
“Surely you knew that she had taken a liking to your cousin, the Duke of Somerset?” She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t blame her. He’s a handsome young man and going off to war again. It was all quite romantic really.”
Margaret shook her head. “You mean that Joan Hill bedded with my cousin?” Her colour was high as she stared at Elizabeth in consternation.
“Well, yes, I thought you knew about it. I thought the whole of Pembroke knew about it. It was no secret.”
Thoughtfully Margaret walked across the chamber to stare out at the bleak winter landscape.
“I only hope there is not going to be a child. It would ruin poor Joan’s life.”
The idea was obviously a new one to Elizabeth. “That would bring Miss High-and-Mighty down a station or two,” she said with amusement. “She is far too superior, with her airs and graces.”
Margaret tutted a little. “You should be more charitable. It would be an awful situation to find yourself in.”
Elizabeth was unrepentant. “She should have thought of that before she climbed beneath the sheets. Now she has to pay for her fun.”
Margaret turned away from the window. “I’d better talk to her right away,” she said. “Please ask her to come to see me if she is feeling better. And Elizabeth, on no account say a word to her about any of this.”
“I’ll leave everything to you, Margaret. The uppity little creature would never confide in me, anyway.”
Joan was dressed unbecomingly in a grey gown. Above the neckline of black velvet, her skin seemed sallow and there were purple shadows underneath her eyes.
“Joan, please sit down.” Margaret made an effort to speak lightly. “I hope you are feeling a little better now.”
The girl inclined her head, but there was a sullen look about her mouth.
Margaret tried again to communicate a feeling of sympathy and friendship.
“Have you anything that troubles you, Joan? Anything you may like to talk to me about?”
The girl shook her head, and Margaret decided it would be better to come straight to the point.
“Is it true that you are fond of my cousin, the Duke of Somerset?”
Colour raced into the girl’s cheeks and suddenly, to Margaret’s consternation, she burst into tears.
“Please, Joan, try not to upset yourself. It won’t mend matters, it will only make you feel ill again.” She patted her arm awkwardly. “I’m trying to help you. Please think of me as a friend.”
“I’m sure I’m with child, my lady.” Joan hid her face in her kerchief. “It is two months now since I was properly well.”
Margaret leaned forward. “Don’t cry. Let us think things out calmly and sensibly.”
She paused, giving Joan time to compose herself, wondering what her cousin, the Duke of Somerset, would say when he returned from the war to find himself a father.
“What makes you think you are with child?” Margaret said at last. “Have you any definite symptoms?”
Joan gulped a little and stopped crying, though she still avoided Margaret’s eyes.
“I have had a feeling of nausea in the mornings, my lady, and my breasts feel full and heavy. I’m certain I’m with child; there can be no doubt about it.”
“Well don’t worry, you will be well looked after. When the baby comes, something will be arranged.”
Margaret did not quite know what she could do. No doubt Owen Tudor would have arranged a speedy marriage if he’d been at home, but Margaret hardly knew anyone from the surrounding countryside, and at any rate all the men of marriageable age were probably at war.
“From now on, you are excused duties, of course,” she said soothingly. “It would be best if you stayed in your room and rested as much as possible.”
Suddenly Joan got to her feet. “I don’t want a child!” she said hysterically. “I hate the thought of it growing within me. And as for tending a mewling infant, the idea sickens me.
Margaret pressed her hands against her skirts, trying to be calm. “You should have thought of that before you consented to be in Somerset’s bed,” she said coldly, unable to understand a woman who felt that way about her own child.
“But my lady, the Duke seduced me. I told him I was virtuous, and he took no notice of my protestations.”
Margaret clasped her hands together, fighting for control.
“Are you trying to say that Somerset raped you? Did he force his way into your room?”
Joan looked down at her hands a little shamefaced. “Well, no. I went to his room, but I only wanted to be kind, because he had come from the wars, my lady.”
“Go to your room, now.” Margaret turned away, trying to hide her anger. “I will let you know what I have decided when I have had time to think.”
Joan bobbed a curtsey, her eyes sullen behind the reddened lids. “Very well, my lady. I know you’ll do what is best for me and your cousin’s child.”
Margaret went to the window and stared out unseeingly. The war had a great deal to answer for and sometimes it seemed it would never be over and done with.
Sighing, she leaned her hands on the sill and for some unaccountable reason felt loneliness rise inside her like a recurring sickness she could not throw off. She closed her eyes and saw in her mind’s eye a picture of Edmund, his young face smiling and his hair alive and bright, falling to his shoulders. Tears came then and alone in the darkened room, she wept for something – some spirit of laughter and love that had gone from her life forever.