The great chamber thronged with people. Jewels flashed on rich velvets of red and purple as the ladies of the Court attempted to outshine each other in brilliance.
As Margaret moved forward with her son, the Earl of Richmond, at her side, the press of people and the intensity of the noise was almost too much for her.
“Come, my son; stay with me while I sit in this alcove for a moment.” She settled herself on the window seat, fanning herself with her lace kerchief. “It has all been too much for me,” she said, smiling. “King Henry restored to his throne and best of all, Jasper bringing you back to me.” She pressed his arm and Henry returned her smile a little self-consciously.
He had grown tall, and there was already the promise of broadness to his shoulders. Margaret felt a pang of regret that she had not been allowed to witness his transformation from a child into a young man of fourteen years.
“Time flies so quickly.” She uttered her thoughts out loud and the Earl of Richmond smiled down at her with pride.
“In that blue gown you look young enough to be my sister. You are more beautiful even than I had remembered you.”
Margaret’s laugh held a trace of tears. “I see you have your father’s pretty tongue when it comes to women.” She patted the seat beside her and obediently, Henry came to her side.
“In spite of everything that has happened, Mother, I was grieved to see Lord Herbert taken away from his home and killed by rebels. He was a good man and like a father to me.”
Margaret longed to hold her son close and comfort him, to drive away the desolation in his voice.
“Times are hard, my son. There are bitter lessons to be learned by all of us.”
Henry looked thoughtful. “Uncle Jasper talked about taking me to France if things didn’t work out well for the King.”
“Hush, my son.” Margaret looked around fearfully, but no one seemed to be listening to the conversation. “It is dangerous to speak so. Be careful in everything you say.”
Henry lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you think Edward has a chance of returning, Mother? Why, Warwick has turned against him and has placed King Henry once more on the throne. Surely Warwick is the most powerful man in the kingdom.”
Margaret’s eyes grew dark. “I have seen other men, more powerful even than Warwick, dashed from power. And see how frail the King has become. He is like an old man, not knowing or caring what will happen to him.”
Henry Richmond stood at full stretch to look at the King. He was indeed so gaunt as to appear like a skull beneath his fine crown. At his side sat his Queen, her face filled with almost hysterical delight because once more she held England in her greedy grasp.
“So there you are!” Jasper Tudor threw back his head and laughed. “I saw your red head pop up behind the crowd like a lighter taper, Henry. There was no mistaking you.” He took Margaret’s hand in his. “You must pay your respects to the King,” he said, “though it may well be that he does not remember you. He is not exactly lucid at this moment.”
Jasper’s strong shoulders soon cleared a pathway to the throne.
“Sire,” he bowed low to the King. “This boy is my brother Edmund’s son, Henry Richmond.”
For a moment, the King’s eyes seemed to be anywhere but on the boy standing before him. Then his vision cleared and he stretched out his thin hand.
“Come here, Henry Richmond, I would see you more clearly.”
Silence spread through the chamber like ripples in a pool. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the King to speak.
“England’s hope,” he said. “I see a crown glitter on your head, my son. You will bring order to my poor war-torn land.”
The Queen tried to distract him by pulling at his arm, but the King took no notice of her.
“You are the last hope of the House of Lancaster, I know you will carry the burden of kingship with courage and wisdom.”
The Queen could be silent no longer. “He is bewildered!” She appealed to those nearest her for confirmation, but no one spoke. “He must be imagining that this boy is our own son. There can be no other explanation.”
Her words were greeted with silence. Everyone had heard the King call the boy by name. There could be no misunderstanding.
The Queen’s colour rose. “Let there be music!” She tapped her foot angrily and immediately the musicians were galvanised into action.
The King turned to Jasper. “Take good care of this sprig of Lancaster,” he said, his voice rising above the music. “He will join the red rose to the white, and will bring peace to the realm.”
Jasper bowed and Margaret pulled at her son’s sleeve, drawing him away from the throne.
“The King’s words are strange, Henry, because an old woman from the streets of London prophesied the same thing many years ago.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand how you could join such bitter enemies as Lancaster and York. It is beyond my comprehension.”
Henry pressed her arm. “The King is not himself today, Mother.”
Margaret became aware that some of the courtiers were looking at her curiously. “You are right of course, Henry,” she said quickly. “Off you go and dance with some pleasant girl of your own age. I am making you old before your time, with my silly talk.”
Jasper touched her arm. “Come, let us try to find a quiet chamber somewhere away from the crowd. I would like to talk to you privately.”
He led her away from the hall and Margaret sighed with relief.
“The atmosphere in there was oppressive,” she said lightly. “I think I have been away from Court too long. I have grown accustomed to some peace and quiet.”
Jasper took her hand in his. “Now that the King has named Henry as the last hope of Lancaster, we must be doubly careful with him. A sharp knife on a dark night would end all that.”
Margaret shuddered. “What can be done?” Her voice trembled with fear for her son.
“Don’t worry, I have a ship waiting at the ready,” Jasper said quietly. “If there is any sign of Edward returning to do battle, I will take young Henry across to France.”
Margaret touched the cross at her throat. “Do you think it a likely event that Edward will take the throne once more?”
Jasper nodded. “It is a certainty! His brother-in-law, Charles of Burgundy, will help him gather an army, and remember, Edward is very popular with the people of England.” He smiled impishly. “They love him for his indulgences. It shows he is a man like everyone else. He’s had more women even than I have had!”
Margaret could not help smiling, remembering that Jasper Tudor had even numbered the Queen among his conquests. She studied him for a moment, seeing the resemblance between him and her son; both had inherited the strong red hair and the proud bearing of Owen Tudor. She sighed, thinking of her dead husband Edmund. He too had worn the handsome looks of the Tudor family.
“We had better return to the great hall.” Jasper took her arm. “We will mingle with the courtiers and no one will pay any attention to us.”
He laughed, well aware that they would be the focus of attention. His amorous nature was no secret and Margaret, Countess of Richmond, was an attractive woman. Her skin flawless and pale, her hair sleek beneath the tall headdress of black lace.
Margaret returned with Jasper to the comparative seclusion of the window seat.
“What of Edward’s wife? What is her situation now that he has fled the country?” She looked up at Jasper with genuine concern and he wondered at her kindness.
“You are generous to spare her even so much as a thought, my dear Margaret,” he said drily. “I doubt if she will be so considerate of you.”
“I cannot help that,” Margaret said gently. “I am curious about her and her little girls.”
“They are quite safe, so do not worry your pretty little head about them,” Jasper smiled. “They have gone into sanctuary at Westminster. It is rumoured that Elizabeth is once more with child. If she bears a son, it will make the Yorkists even stronger.”
“Poor lady,” Margaret said impulsively. “To be with child and locked away in such agony of uncertainty. It must be almost more than she can bear.”
“Don’t feel too sorry for her,” Jasper said. “Elizabeth Woodville still sees herself as Queen of England. Still, in the event of Edward returning to the throne, we could always consider a marriage between his eldest daughter and your son.”
Margaret gasped. “Oh, but he is so young to think of marriage!”
Jasper looked at her with his eyebrows raised. “You bore him when you were just thirteen, are you forgetting?”
The colour came into Margaret’s cheeks. “I will never forget my marriage to Edmund. Brief as it was, it was the happiest time of my life.” She frowned. “But it is different now. Henry’s future must be carefully mapped out. There is so much at stake.”
“I won’t argue with that, my dear Margaret, but think of it; if your son were to marry the daughter of Edward the Fourth, it would be a true union of the white rose and the red.”
Margaret looked up at him sharply. “Could that be what King Henry had in mind?”
Jasper shrugged. “No one can tell what he thinks, poor demented man. It was a cruelty to bring him out from the Tower at all. I’m sure he would much rather die in peace.”
Margaret made the sign of the cross. “Jasper, do not talk like that!”
He rose to his feet. “It would be better for me to take my leave of you now. We don’t want too many courtiers speculating about our friendship. There are too many ready to entertain suspicions for us to be careless.”
He bent formally over her hand and pushed his way through the throng of people. A short while later, Margaret saw his bright hair as he bent over the Queen. She was smiling, her small pointed teeth overlapping a little against her full lip.
Margaret shivered. She-wolf seemed an apt nickname for the tough Frenchwoman.
She pushed her way out into the coolness of the corridor. She was faint with the heat and wanted only to be alone to think clearly about the idea Jasper had put into her mind. Tomorrow she would leave the Court and make her way to her estates at Sampford Peverell, where Henry Stafford waited for her, along with Elizabeth and young Charles Somerset.
She felt tears come into her eyes. If only time could be reversed so that once more she could live in happiness at Pembroke Castle with those she loved around her. She made a quick prayer to the saints to guard her son from all the forces of evil that had gathered over his young head.
The triumph of King Henry the Sixth was short-lived. Edward gathered together a great army and together with his brothers George of Clarence and Richard of Gloucester, defeated the Queen at Tewksbury.
Henry Stafford had ridden out to learn how the battle was progressing and Margaret paced the chamber, uttering little prayers, watching the roadway anxiously for a sign that her husband was returning.
“You will wear yourself to a thread,” Elizabeth admonished. “What good does it do the cause to worry yourself into a decline?”
“I just cannot sit still when I do not know what is happening,” Margaret said, and turned over the pages of her book of gospels seeking comfort from the well-loved lines.
“Well, you need contain yourself no longer,” Elizabeth said triumphantly. “I can see my Lord Stafford coming across the lower field.”
Margaret was almost faint with apprehension and when Henry Stafford made his way unsteadily towards her, she clasped her hands together for fear of crying out loud. He sank into a chair and Elizabeth hurriedly brought him a cup of wine, helping him to hold it to his lips, his hands were shaking so badly.
His eyes were dull as they looked at Margaret. “Our cause is finished, killed on the battlefield of Tewksbury.” He tried to steady himself and Margaret fell on her knees, holding both his hands in hers. “The young Prince of Wales was cruelly slain, right before his mother’s eyes. The Queen was mad with grief and it took four of Edmund’s men to hold her.” He paused for a moment to draw his breath. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Margaret, but both of your cousins were killed. Edmund, Duke of Somerset, was executed after the battle, and his younger brother John died on the field.” Margaret drew a sharp breath. “All the Somersets are gone,” she said, “their blood spilled for England. All except young Charles who was born out of wedlock.” She walked over the chamber and stared out at the darkening sky, her eyes moist with tears. “Edward is rid of his enemies now, except for the poor mad King, and I don’t expect that any mercy will be shown to him.” She spun round quickly and looked beseechingly at Henry. “My son must be taken to France. I will write a letter to Jasper Tudor. They must both leave before Edward thinks of capturing them.”
Henry coughed a little. “I will go just as soon as I’ve had some rest. Don’t worry, Margaret, your son will be safe, I promise you.”
Margaret rested her head against his sleeve. “You must not ride out again. Send a messenger, someone you can trust. I can see that you are utterly exhausted.”
He lifted his hand to her hair. “It is a tiredness of the spirit more than of the body, Margaret. I will send a message; no doubt a younger, stronger man would ride more swiftly.”
She helped him up. “Come to your chamber, Henry. You must rest. Elizabeth will bring you a potion to induce sleep and in the morning you will feel much better.”
She left him propped against his pillows so that he could breathe more easily and there was a worried frown on her face as she faced Elizabeth.
“He is very ill. I can see it in his face, and in his hands.” She walked nervously about the chamber. “What can I do, Elizabeth?”
“Nothing tonight except to rest and see how my Lord Stafford feels in the morning.” Elizabeth spoke firmly, though her eyes avoided Margaret’s glance.
“I feel it inside my very being that he is not strong. There is surely something I can do to help him.”
Elizabeth took her arm. “You go and try to sleep. I will sit with him myself and if he should wake, I will come for you immediately.”
Margaret sighed. “Very well. Perhaps I am making a fuss about nothing. We will see what the morning shall bring.”
Elizabeth shuddered, her eyes turned away from Margaret so that she should not see the feeling of dread in them. Henry Stafford was ill of the lung fever, though he did not realise it himself and Elizabeth very much doubted that he would live to see another morning.
Night had closed in around the thick mansion walls and in the silence, Margaret’s gown whispering along the corridors sounded unnaturally loud. She had no idea what had disturbed her, but she slipped immediately from the sheets and made her way to Henry’s chamber.
At the door, Elizabeth, her face white, in the light from the tapers, stood aside for Margaret to enter, and together they walked towards the bed.
“He didn’t wake at all,” Elizabeth whispered. “He just slipped away quietly in his sleep.”
Margaret stood in silence looking down at the man who had been her husband, who had cared for her and comforted her when she was troubled.
“I wasn’t even with him,” she said brokenly. “I would have prayed with him and held his hand. I might have brought him some comfort.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “He didn’t wake, Margaret. He would have been unaware of your presence, so don’t reproach yourself.”
“I will have a priest say perpetual Mass for him at the College of Plessy,” she said bleakly. “It is all I can do for him now.”
She held herself erect as she left the chamber, and tears slipped unnoticed down her cheeks.
“If only I could have given him more love,” she said softly. “Perhaps I could have made him a happier man.”
“Nonsense,” Elizabeth said bluntly. “He loved you so much that you were all he ever wanted from life. You were good and obedient to him. What more could any man ask?”
Margaret sat in a chair, her hand laying across the book of gospels. “I hope you are right, Elizabeth. I have loved my son so well since my dear Edmund died that there has been little room for anyone else.”
“You have loved little Charles Somerset. He is a fine boy. A credit to your care and teaching.”
Margaret nodded her head in agreement. “You speak the truth, Elizabeth, but there is always something selfish in my loving. I just cannot help it.”
“You are upset. It is natural that you should reproach yourself. It happens to all who have lost a loved one. Believe me, Henry Stafford was a lucky man, and he knew it, even if you didn’t.”
Margaret leaned her head wearily on her arms. “I would like to be left alone for a time, if you don’t mind,” she whispered and as Elizabeth left the room, Margaret knew that the tears falling on to her hands were more for herself than for poor Henry Stafford who lay dead and silent in the next chamber.
Margaret sat upright in her chair, listening almost in a daze to the droning voice of the cleric reading out a list of Henry’s behests.
“To Henry, Earl of Richmond, I bequeath a trapper of four new horse harnesses of velvet, and to my brother John, Earl of Wiltshire, my favourite bay courser. The residue of my estates are to be given to my beloved wife Margaret, Countess of Richmond, to do with what she pleases.”
When the interminable reading of the will was over, Margaret retired to her chamber and rested her head wearily against the lavender-scented pillow. It was true that she had not loved Henry in the wild sweet way she had loved Edmund, but she had come to have a respect for him and a high regard for his integrity, and life without his steadying hand to hold her was going to be very bleak and lonely.
Elizabeth, in the best of intentions, had suggested that she might marry again in time, but Margaret could not bring herself to even consider such a prospect. Two men had died and left her alone and her son had been continually taken from her side. It seemed she was meant to live a solitary life.
Perhaps she would retire to an abbey once young Charles was old enough to do without her. It seemed an ideal life; no cares or tribulations from the world outside, just prayer and meditation and endless peace of mind.
She closed her eyes and the steady drone of voices in the outer chamber soothed her, until at last she fell into a sound, dreamless deep.