Shrill screams echoed around the chamber where Joan Hill lay labouring to give birth to her child. Candles flickered like live wraiths against the tapestries, and in the long corridors sudden gusts of wind played eerie tunes.
Margaret stood at the bedside of the stricken girl, bathing her feverish brow with cool scented water. She looked across enquiringly at the midwife, knowing that no woman on earth could hold out against such pain indefinitely.
The nurse shook her head. “The way things are going now, I can’t promise that the lady or the child will live to see morning,” she whispered.
“Can nothing be done to help?” Margaret said anxiously. “It is hard to stand aside and watch such suffering.”
“I can give her some herbs that will help her to sleep; that is all,” the midwife said quietly. “I will rest now, my lady, by your leave. There is nothing can be done for an hour or two.”
“I will sit with her,” Margaret said at once. “I will call you if anything happens.”
The potion quietened Joan for the moment and Margaret sat down, her hand resting on the empty crib, that had been her son’s. It seemed fitting that Somerset’s child should lie in it, even though he would be born on the wrong side of the blanket.
She dozed a little and the wind outside seemed to become one with the moaning of the girl on the bed. Suddenly she was wide awake. Joan Hill was leaning up on her elbow, her long hair tangled around her face, her hands clutching her full stomach.
“My son is about to be born. Will you bring help for me, my lady?”
Margaret called out sharply to the midwife and returned to the bedside.
“Try to reserve your strength, Joan. The midwife is coming. You will be in good hands.”
Joan grimaced with pain. “I want my child to live. About myself it doesn’t seem to matter any longer.”
Margaret hushed her. “Don’t talk like that. Everything that can be done will be done, I promise you.”
The midwife made herself busy, her hands deft and gentle, and soon she had drawn the child into the world.
“A lusty boy!” she said triumphantly as loud cries echoed around the chamber. “See how strong he is?”
Joan made an effort to smile as she lay back, white and exhausted against the bolster.
“I wish him to be called Charles,” she said thinly, her lips trembling and bloodless. “Promise he will be brought up like a gentleman.”
Margaret bent over her, admiring the courage that Joan had shown throughout her long ordeal.
“He will be brought up as well as my own son. He is my kin and will be treated as such.”
For a long moment Joan regarded her steadily. “I know you are faithful to your word, and I am happy.” A small sigh escaped her lips and her eyes slowly closed.
Anxiously Margaret turned to the midwife. “Is there nothing to be done?”
The midwife shook her head slowly. “It is in God’s hands now, my lady. I can do no more.”
Cold winds were lashing the countryside and through them Edward, Earl of March, won the race to London. The people, sick to their souls of war, proclaimed him King, and he lost no time in rallying men to his banner.
The soldiers of the south were weary of the barbaric attacks made on them by the Queen’s rough northerners, and willingly followed Edward in his pursuit of the French Margaret of Anjou.
Hidden away behind the stout walls of Pembroke Castle, Margaret knew nothing of the direction the war had taken. She had been present at the death of Joan Hill and had taken the tiny newborn child in her arms, promising before all the saints that she would care for him as if he were her own.
The Earl of Richmond had become a sturdy, self-sufficient boy with a kindly affection for the baby, a feeling which Margaret fostered, knowing that the time might come when the two children would find mutual benefit in such a friendship.
It wasn’t until the icy grip of winter had loosened its hold that a rider made his way over the winding path towards the castle. Margaret met him at the door, eager for news, and found a young priest with deeply etched lines of fatigue mapping his face.
“The news is bad, my lady,” he said wearily as she drew him near to the blazing logs. “The armies met at Towton and there was such slaughter as I’ve never seen before. It was said that thirty-eight thousand dead lay scattered about the field.” He paused for a moment, his eyes clouded with memory. “The Queen pressed on bravely, but she was defeated once more at Hexam, and was forced to flee to France.”
Margaret’s lips were dry. “What of the King?” she asked, a sudden fear tightening around her heart.
“He is taken to the Tower, my lady. It appears that his sickness has come upon him again.”
He swayed a little and Margaret led him to a chair. “I will see that you have food and drink and a good bed for as long as you need it,” she said quietly. “I thank you for coming to tell me all this.”
He held up his hand. “My lady, there is more bad news for you to bear, I fear. Please try to be calm, I beg you.”
“What is it?” Margaret clasped her hands tightly together, feeling faint with apprehension.
The priest coughed a little, seeking for a palatable way to break the news. “Your cousin, young Somerset – he fell in battle, my lady. And Lord Welles, too. They fought bravely, you may be assured of that.”
Margaret closed her eyes; how many more of her kinsmen would die at the sword of Edward, Earl of March, now King of England?
She began to pray for strength while in her mind the thought lay like a black bat that it was only a matter of time before Edward moved against her son.
“My lady, there are soldiers moving towards the castle!” Elizabeth was almost hysterical in her fear and Margaret put a calming hand around her waist.
“It may be that the remnants of the Lancastrian army have found their way home,” she said soothingly, though it was not at all a likely prospect. “Go and call my husband, just in case.”
Anxiously, she went to look from the tower and saw the unfamiliar standard fluttering in the breeze. Her heart contracted with fear and she hurried to the great hall to await the arrival of the soldiers, joined immediately by Henry.
The retinue came to a standstill and a tall, kindly-looking man bowed before her, nodding respectfully towards Henry Stafford.
“I am William, Lord Herbert. I have come to tell you that your young son, the Earl of Richmond, and his uncle, Jasper Tudor, have been attainted. The honour of the title Earl of Pembroke now rests with me and the King, Edward the Fourth, has instructed me to take your son as my ward.”
Henry placed a hand on his sword and stepped forward a pace, but Margaret restrained him.
“Enter Pembroke Castle if you must, but please leave me my son,” she said brokenly; and Lord Herbert turned his head, avoiding her eyes.
“I cannot grant your request, my lady. Do not worry about your son. My wife and I will care for him as if he were our own child.” He walked past her into the great hall. “It may even be possible to arrange an alliance between your son and my daughter, Maud. I will at least give the matter some thought.”
“Never!” So suddenly did she speak that Lord Herbert stared at her in surprise. Margaret drew herself up to her full height. “You may take him from me, but I will never consent to him marrying into a Yorkist family, my lord.”
Lord Herbert shrugged. “I am sorry to hear that. But the time may come when you will change your views. Yorkists are not come from the devil, you know. We are men of flesh and blood, just like Lancastrians.”
Margaret was silent and Lord Herbert despatched his men to bring out the Earl.
Henry put his arm around her to steady her. “Try to be brave, Margaret,” he said softly. “The King may still return to his senses, and then this Edward will be forced to relinquish the throne.”
Henry Richmond, Earl of Pembroke, clattered down the stairs and crossed the room in quick short steps to his mother’s side.
“Is it true that I am to go with these men, Mother?” he asked, staring in suspicion at Lord Herbert.
Margaret almost choked on her tears, but she took her son in her arms and fondled his bright hair.
“What harm could a seven-year-old boy do to the new king, my lord?” she said pleadingly, but Herbert turned his face away in silence. “Go with them for now, my son.” She held him close once more. “It won’t be for long. And Lord Herbert is a good man. See that you continue with your studies.”
She watched as they took him outside and set him on a horse and then as they rode away across the rugged path, she turned into Henry’s arms and wept.
“Mother, how good it is to see you again!” Margaret drew the Duchess of Somerset into the warmth of the chamber and handed her a glass of wine.
“You haven’t changed a bit. You look just as fresh and young as I’ve always remembered you.”
She looked well in her black garments of widowhood, Margaret decided, though there were new lines etched at the corners of her mother’s eyes and some grey among the fair hairs curling from under the velvet headdress.
“My dear Margaret,” the Duchess sighed, “it seems only the other day you were a little child sitting on Leo’s knee and now he’s gone from me forever.”
“I was distressed to hear of his death at Towton, mother. I was very fond of him, you know that.”
The Duchess put away her lace kerchief. “We have both suffered, Margaret, but we must be strong. We both have our sons to comfort us.”
Margaret looked down at her hands, fighting to control the tears that brimmed into her eyes. “I wish my son was with me. It is hard to think of him being brought up by another woman, however kindly she might be.”
The Duchess leaned forward and patted her hand. “He is alive and well, Margaret. It is a great deal to be thankful for in such times.” She drank a little of her wine and regarded Margaret steadily, her eyes betraying her curiosity. “What is this I hear about you bringing up a Somerset bastard?”
“Mother, please don’t speak so loudly,” Margaret said quickly. “Someone might hear you. I promised I would bring him up as if he were my own child, and I intend to do just that.”
“Very commendable,” the Duchess said drily, “but there can be no profit in it for you.”
“I do not look for profit,” Margaret said mildly. “He is a fine boy, robust and healthy, the very image of Somerset. I have grown to love him.”
“You must show him to me,” the Duchess said comfortably. “You have made me eager to see him for myself.” Before Margaret could frame an answer, her mother was on a new train of thought. “Margaret, I have come to the conclusion that we should both join the fraternity of the Abbey of Croyland. I have been approached on the matter and I view the idea with favour.”
“It would be a great honour, Mother,” Margaret said, and patiently waited for her mother to explain.
The Duchess slowly took a sip of her wine before continuing.
“You will, of course, be heiress to the manor of Deeping, which is near Croyland. I am merely holding it in dower for you from your father’s estates.” She smiled. “The abbot would be grateful if you were to pass on some, or indeed all, of the land to them, and you never know when you will need help or sanctuary in these troubled times.”
“May we never be in need of sanctuary, Mother,” Margaret said quickly. “But no doubt you are wise to think of such things.”
Her mother put down her glass. “Now, that is settled, I would like to go to my room and rest for a time. The journey took longer than I thought. Later, perhaps, you could show me Somerset’s boy. Was it Charles you named him?”
Margaret helped her mother to her feet. “Joan Hill asked that he should be named Charles. Naturally, I deferred to her wishes.”
“Naturally,” the Duchess said drily, “though I should have been inclined to choose some other name. Charles is so ordinary. No, do not come with me. I can find my room alone. I’m not infirm yet.”
The moment her mother was out of sight, Henry joined Margaret near the fire.
“Did you find a great deal to talk about?” he smiled. “The conversation seemed a bit one-sided to me, though I may have been mistaken.”
“My mother is a great one for holding forth,” Margaret said good-naturedly. “But she usually talks a great deal of sense.”
Henry nodded. “She is a fine woman, and bears her grief well. Losing Lord Welles must have been a great shock.”
Margaret stared into the glowing fire, feeling the familiar ache that came whenever she thought of her son.
“These wars between the Houses of Lancaster and York have a great deal to answer for,” she said wearily. “We have lost some of the finest men in England into the greedy hands of war.”
“It has to end,” Henry said cheerfully, “and then you will have your son restored to you.”
“That is my prayer every night when I go to my bed, and every morning when I open my eyes.”
Henry sat beside her and carefully brushed away her tears. “Your prayers will be answered, Margaret, I feel sure of it. One day soon King Henry will be restored to his rightful place and Edward, the usurper, will be overthrown. As for your son, the Earl of Richmond, there is a great future ahead for him. I feel it deep within me and you will be there to share his triumph.”
Margaret attempted to smile through her tears, holding out her hands to Henry. “I do not know what I would have done throughout all this if I hadn’t been blessed with you to comfort and support me. You are so good and kind. I sometimes feel I’m not worthy of you.”
“What nonsense!” Henry smiled warmly and kissed Margaret’s fingers. “I would not have any other woman in the whole of the kingdom, not even the Queen herself.” He pinched her cheek playfully. “Enough of this melancholy talk. Let us go up to the nurseries and see little Charles.”
Elizabeth was sitting beside the crib talking foolishness to the child. It seemed that everyone had taken him to their hearts because of the tragic circumstances that had made him an orphan in his infancy.
Margaret leaned over to smile down at Charles and he immediately lifted his arms to her, begging her with round eyes to lift him up in her arms.
“You will spoil him,” Elizabeth said reprovingly, but she smiled as Margaret handed the child to Henry.
“Impossible!” Margaret said. “He has such a sweet nature that nothing could spoil him.”
Elizabeth got to her feet. “Well, I promised to help your mother, the Duchess, settle into her chamber. I must keep my word, or I’ll feel the sharp edge of her tongue.”
“We had such high hopes she and I; mine, alas, came to naught. I have neither husband nor child to call my own.”
Margaret looked at her with surprise. She had forgotten that Elizabeth had been friends with her mother in the old days at Bletsoe.
“I never realised you wanted to marry,” she said softly. “I suppose I selfishly imagined that this life here with us was what you wished from life.”
Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “Don’t you take any notice of my ramblings. It comes over me every now and then that life has passed me by, especially when I think back at times gone and over with.” She walked to the door. “Your mother and I will talk ourselves dry as dust, so if you don’t mind I’ll take some wine along to her chamber with me.”
“Of course,” Margaret said quickly, “have the servants bring you anything you like.”
Margaret stood thoughtful and silent for a moment after Elizabeth had left the room, realising how much she had taken the older woman for granted.
“What’s on your mind?” Henry came and stood beside her holding Charles gently in the crook of his arm.
She smiled warmly at him. He looked so handsome and paternal with the baby asleep against him that tears came to her eyes.
“I’m just reminding myself how fortunate I am,” she said quietly, and standing on tiptoe, she gently kissed his cheek.