Clusters of snowdrops forced their way through the hard ground, even though the mountains still wore their winter mantle of snow. The February days were bright and crisp bringing with them the hope that the battles would soon be ended.
Margaret often sat under the big window facing the path that wound its way over the hills, hoping that one day soon she would see Owen’s army returning with the Tudor standard flying high.
“Margaret, I wish you would rest sometimes.” Henry came and sat beside her, his face a picture of concern. “You will strain your eyes doing all that needlework. Why don’t you just sit before the fire and chatter to the ladies? I’m sure you spend too much time alone.”
She smiled at him warmly, stretching her fingers to exercise them. “You are right as usual, Henry,” she said. “My hands are quite cramped.” She folded her tapestry, tucking the ends of silk carefully into the folds of the cloth. “I will return to it tomorrow when the light is stronger.”
“You are worrying about your kinsmen. I know you too well by now for you to hide your feelings from me.” He put his hand over hers. “They will return before long. Try not to think about it. You are only tormenting yourself.”
Margaret sighed. “I worry about them both, but mainly about Owen. He is an old man and should not be out in the cold of winter camping on the frozen earth.” She looked into his face. “I have a feeling deep inside me that all is not well with them. I may be foolish, but I cannot shake the fear away.”
Henry called gently to Elizabeth. “Bring some wine. I think the Lady Margaret is in the throes of a chill.”
Elizabeth came at once, clucking her tongue and laying a hand on Margaret’s brow.
“I do believe you are feverish, Margaret. Why not go to your room and I will bring you something hot to make you sleep?”
“All right,” Margaret shrugged. “If it will make you both happy, then I will go to bed.”
She suddenly felt as if she wanted nothing more than to snuggle under warm sheets. Perhaps Henry was right and she had caught a chill.
Margaret brought a taper near the bed and sat for a moment with a gospel open on her knee, reading in silence until Elizabeth bustled into the chamber, carrying a potion of boiled herbs. When she was settled into bed, Elizabeth drew a stool up beside her and waited to take the empty cup.
“What is to be done about Joan Hill, Margaret?” she said impatiently. “She sits around issuing orders to everyone else since you relieved her of her duties. Though I must say the young Earl of Richmond is happier without her long face around the nurseries.”
Margaret could not help smiling. “Try to have some sympathy, Elizabeth. The girl is going through a difficult time, though I agree she is a prickly person to talk to.”
Elizabeth snorted inelegantly. “She is revelling in all the attention, Margaret. She is thrilled that everyone knows she has been with a man.”
“Oh, surely not!” Margaret said, sinking back on to the bolster. “No one else knows about her condition except for us.”
“Bless you, Margaret, you are too innocent. There is talk of nothing else. Even the servants are gossiping about it. The winter is long and at least Joan Hill has provided us all with a diversion.”
Margaret felt a pleasant sleepiness steal over her, but shook her head feeling she should remonstrate with Elizabeth.
“The fact is my cousin was wrong to do such a thing. I will have to see that she does not suffer too much by it.”
“She will never let you forget that Somerset is the father of her bastard,” Elizabeth said quickly. “She intends to get the utmost out of the situation, so that far from suffering from it, she will benefit. She does not seem to care about the disgrace.”
Margaret held her hand up tiredly. “I would like to sleep now, Elizabeth. Be kind to the girl, for my sake if not for hers.”
Elizabeth rose and tucked the covers more snugly around Margaret’s shoulder.
“Too good for this world, that’s what you are! But I will try to be charitable, if it will make you feel any better.”
She went then and Margaret thankfully closed her eyes feeling as if she was just recovering from a very long illness.
The snow on the mountain was beginning to melt when Margaret saw a small crowd of riders come over the mountain road. Ignoring the cold, she flung open the window and leaned out, straining to see if any standard was flying. She saw none – just a tired line of horsemen picking their way over the hard track towards the castle.
“Henry!” she called anxiously. “Someone is coming towards the yard. I can’t see who it can be.”
Henry took her hand and leaned over her. “I too saw them. It is your cousin, the Duke of Somerset, and some of his men.”
Margaret felt fear tug at her heart. “It is bad news, Henry, I know it.”
He pressed her hand gently. “Be calm, Margaret. It probably isn’t as bad as you think.” He released her and went to the door, flinging it wide to welcome the Duke.
He came to Margaret, his young face haggard. “I have ill news. I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you.”
Margaret fingered the cross at her throat, the colour draining from her cheeks.
“Owen and Jasper? Are they dead?” She felt as if she were in a bad dream and shortly she would wake from it, but Somerset was speaking again.
“Jasper managed to escape from the field, dressed as a monk. And I am sure he got well away from Mortimers Cross.” He looked down at his hands that shook with weariness. “Owen was executed after the battle. He died bravely, with Queen Catherine’s name on his lips.”
Margaret gave a little cry, and Henry took her hands in his.
“Have some wine, Margaret, it will make you feel better.” He held the cup to her lips and she took a drink, scarcely knowing what she was doing.
“Tell me all of it, Somerset. I must know,” she said, forcing herself to be calm.
He hesitated for a moment, and Henry nodded to him to continue.
“When it was done, an old crone came along. No one knows from where, and washed the blood from Owen Tudor’s face and combed his hair and set four candles around him to ward off evil spirits. It was an unearthly sight and every soldier there trembled and prayed to the saints to protect them.”
“How could anyone execute a fine gentleman of Owen’s years?” Margaret said distractedly. “It does not bear thinking about.”
Somerset shrugged his broad shoulders. “The Earl of March is young, about your age, Margaret. He seeks revenge for what Queen Margaret did to his father, the Duke of York. War makes barbarians of us all.”
“And what of the Queen?” Henry asked. “Did she escape capture?”
Somerset nodded. “She marched south with the Prince of Wales to face Warwick, and she had a resounding victory over him.” He paused thoughtfully. “It all rests on one thing. Who will reach London first, the Queen or the Earl of March?”
For a moment there was silence as each one present tried to imagine young Edward ruling England.
“It is not likely that it will come to that,” Somerset said reassuringly. “The Queen has worked miracles so far. Let us pray she continues to do so.”
Margaret forced herself to remember that her cousin had ridden long and hard. “You must eat, Somerset, and then rest. You must be tired beyond endurance.”
He took her hand gratefully. “Margaret, you have my deepest sympathy in your loss. I know how much Owen Tudor had come to mean to you.”
She inclined her head without answering. There was nothing to say. Some things went too deep for any words.
Something had awakened Margaret. She sat up in her bed and tried to identify the sound. It was like someone crying out loud along the long corridors of the castle. She shivered and rushed into Henry’s arms as he appeared from the other chamber.
“What on earth is going on?” she said sleepily. “Who is making that awful caterwauling?”
Together they moved to the door and Henry looked outside, holding Margaret back with one hand.
“Let me see what is happening,” he said firmly. “You wait here.”
Reluctantly Margaret stopped near the door, wishing she had more tapers lit to dispel some of the shadows.
Henry quickly returned, his colour high. “It is Joan Hill. She is at Somerset’s door talking a great deal of nonsense if you ask me.”
Margaret sighed. “Is that all? Leave this to me, Henry. I will settle the matter. She is a foolish girl.”
Somerset was standing at the door of his chamber, red to his ears with embarrassment.
“Cousin, come and sort this out,” he appealed. “I am quite bewildered by the tirade this young lady has subjected me to.”
Margaret drew Somerset back into his chamber indicating that Joan Hill should come too, and closed the door in the faces of the curious ladies gathered outside in the corridor.
“Now what do you mean by this stupidity, Joan? Couldn’t your business wait until a respectable hour of the morning?”
Margaret was so angry she could hardly speak. She clenched her hands to her side in an effort to stop them trembling.
Joan had the grace to look ashamed. “I’m sorry, my lady, but the Duke refused to open his door to me.”
“Refused?” Somerset was indignant. “I did no such thing! I was so dead tired I failed to hear anyone knock; that is the truth of the matter.”
Margaret held up her hand for silence as Joan began to speak again. “Do you realise that my cousin is straight returned from the field of battle, Joan? You could at least have allowed him one night’s rest before you told him your plight.”
Somerset shook his head in exasperation. “I wish someone would tell me what this is all about,” he said abruptly.
“I am to have your child, sir,” Joan said hotly. “I need your help, and you won’t even listen to me.”
Margaret saw the shock on her cousin’s young face as he digested the information.
“Is this true?” he said, and turned to Margaret for confirmation.
“It is true, but nothing can be gained by everyone becoming hysterical, especially at this time of night.” She moved purposefully to the door. “Come, Joan, we will talk this over calmly and sensibly in the morning.”
Reluctantly Joan Hill followed her to the door. She turned back for a moment to look at Somerset.
“I will see you in the morning, my lord?” Her voice was pleading and Somerset nodded.
“Naturally I will take responsibility for the child, but it would be better to allow matters to rest there for tonight. I promise I will speak to you tomorrow.”
Margaret sent Joan to her bed and turned back into the room. “There is not a great deal you can do for the girl, Somerset, except to make adequate provision for the child.” She brushed back a tendril of hair from her forehead. “I will try to arrange a match for her. I’m sure that is what Owen would have done.”
Her voice broke and tears trembled on her lashes. Somerset came towards her and held her gently in his arms for a moment.
“I’m sorry to bring you more trouble at such a time. I had no idea that I’d made the girl with child.”
Margaret shook her head and strove for composure. “I understand better than you think. I don’t blame you for taking what was so readily offered.” She moved away from him. “Try to sleep now. We will think of the best way to deal with this when we are all well rested. I don’t know what the girl was thinking about disturbing everyone at this unearthly hour.”
An impish smile sped across Somerset’s face. “It might have been love for me,” he said quickly, “though more likely it was love for my purse that inspired her.”
Margaret shook her head reprovingly. “There doesn’t seem to be much sleep left in you, cousin. I’d advise you to take a cold wash and then get back into bed – your own bed!”
She let herself out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her, stifling a yawn. Perhaps she would be able to fall asleep straight away. She was so tired she could hardly stand. But when she returned to her own chamber, Henry was waiting there, his arms open wide to receive her.