The Court seemed to take on new life. Ladies huddled in little knots like posies of flowers, their gay dresses bringing splashes of colour to the great hall. And down in the kitchens, the cooks worked in the heat that shimmered from the roasting spits, filling the ovens to capacity with brown crusted pies.
The King sat often listening to the musicians, a happy if somewhat vague smile on his pale face, while his queen walked the corridors with a new dignity because she was with child.
She was not inclined to quarrel now with the great lords, haranguing them about the state of the country; instead she took up her embroidery frame, working the colours with womanly patience that was becoming to her state.
Margaret could not help but envy her. “She looks so proud,” she told Elizabeth. “She has even removed her girdle of rich gems so that her condition can be seen more easily.”
Elizabeth looked up with shrewd eyes. “And I wonder who the father is? Not the King, I’ll warrant!”
Margaret looked round quickly, fearful that someone might hear.
“Hush, it’s treason you speak. Someone will carry tales to the Queen, and then where will you be?”
“I speak truth,” Elizabeth said firmly. “The Frenchwoman has lain with more English lords than she would care tell about. Why, she has even shared the bed of Jasper Tudor, for all he is half-brother to the King.”
“You have not seen this with your own eyes, Elizabeth, and I would prefer you not to speak about the matter any more. The King seems happier than he’s been for a long time.” She sighed, quickly changing the subject. “I wonder if I will ever be wife to Edmund? For all I know, I am still joined in marriage to John de la Pole.”
Margaret looked through the window at the rolling fields, her eyes thoughtful.
“The King has not mentioned my marriage to Edmund since the death of the Duke of Suffolk. I wish he would make up his mind to speak and put me out of my misery.”
Elizabeth nodded her head shrewdly. “Edmund, Earl of Richmond, will bring matters to a head quite soon! He is an impatient man and I can tell by the look in his eyes when they rest upon you that he won’t delay much longer.”
Margaret felt the warm colour suffuse her cheeks. She too had seen the look in Edmund’s eyes, and it had the power to make her heart beat faster.
She went and stood before her mirror, seeing with delight the new angles that added maturity to her face now that the plumpness of childhood had left it. She was small-framed, it was true, but her breasts curved gently under the rich velvet of her gown and her waist was so tiny that the girdle of gold and precious stones hung loosely around the soft curve of her hips.
She smiled, wondering how she appeared in Edmund’s eyes. She hoped with all her heart that he found her desirable and womanly.
It was a pale, misty evening when the King at last sent a command that she appear before him.
“Come quickly,” Elizabeth fluttered round her in a panic. “You must let me help you with your gown. The King must see how lovely you can look.”
Margaret smiled serenely, though deep inside it seemed she had a dozen butterflies fluttering their wings.
“I’ll wear the blue velvet,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm. “And the collar and girdle of matching silver and gold. I do not wish to make Edmund ashamed of his choice.”
As she entered the royal chamber, Margaret saw the King sitting straight in his chair. His eyes were bright and he seemed well and in good spirits.
Edmund came to her and took her hand in his, leading her towards the King. He bowed, smiling affectionately.
“Henry,” he said warmly, “it is good to see you looking so well.”
He straightened then and addressed his brother formally.
“Sire, in the light of the recent impeachment of the Duke of Suffolk, I have come to ask that the wardship of Margaret Beaufort, heiress of John, first Duke of Somerset, should be given into the keeping of myself and my brother Jasper Tudor, jointly.”
He smiled down at Margaret, warm and reassuring.
“And more, Your Majesty. I seek your permission to marry the Lady Margaret as indeed was your own wish.”
The King smiled, though there were deep shadows under his eyes and lines of strain etched heavy around his mouth.
“I grant both requests most happily,” he said. “The marriage of Margaret to John de la Pole is null and void because of Suffolk’s treasonable acts. It must be removed from all records, as if it had never been.” He smiled at them both. “God go with you, and may your union prove happy and fruitful.”
The Queen, coming to his side, smiled, happy in her own proven fruitfulness, and for the first time Margaret realised there was a soft side to the King’s wife.
Outside in the long cool corridor, Edmund took Margaret gently in his arms and kissed her.
“We can thank the saints that the King was in his right senses,” he said, “today he was almost his old self.”
Smiling, he took her hand in his and she leaned against him, enjoying the warmth of his closeness. He was all she would ever ask in a husband.
Hands touching and heads bent toward each other, they moved happily along the dark tunnel of the corridor.
Margaret saw the old familiar walls of her home at Bletsoe, mellow in the early sunlight, and realised with a pang how much she had missed its gracious silence.
It seemed a lifetime ago since the Duke of Suffolk had come to take her away to the busy liveliness of the Court.
Her mother appeared at an upper window, waving a bright scarf, and Margaret smiled, guessing that the retinue from the King’s own bodyguard had been spotted from miles away, and that the Duchess had been waiting in a fever of impatience for several hours.
“There!” she said laughingly to Edmund. “My mother, the Duchess of Somerset, is not such a dragon, is she?”
Edmund inclined his head, his eyes bright with amusement, and gave Margaret a quick look.
“Indeed she is not a dragon, I think I may even prefer the mother to the daughter!”
Margaret tossed her head, pretending to be insulted, and Edmund threw back his head, laughing in delight.
Lionel, Lord Welles, was waiting to welcome them. He drew them into the great hall with its cheerful fire of logs and filled goblets with sparkling wine.
“It is good to see you home, Margaret.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek and she embraced him, remembering with a surge of tears how kind he’d been to her when she was a child. Some had said he was thinking of the vast fortune that came with the widowed Duchess of Somerset and her young daughter, but Margaret had always known that the match was truly one of love.
“It is wonderful to be here, Leo, and I do believe you are more handsome than ever.”
She spoke with sincerity. His hair stood up dark and crisp and his cheeks had the colour of the outdoors, so that he looked younger than his years.
The Duchess swept into the room. Her cheeks were warm, and it was obvious that she had hurried down to welcome them.
“Oh, Margaret, you are so much grown that I hardly know you.” She kissed her daughter decorously and she still possessed the dignity and poise that Margaret had always envied. “Come, we will eat. You must be tired and hungry.”
She smiled at Edmund, and he bowed quickly over her hand.
“You are as lovely as your daughter,” he said, and the surprised Duchess blushed with pleasure.
When they were settled at the table, Margaret glanced at Edmund from under her lashes. He was deep in conversation with Lionel and was as much at home here as in the Court of the King. She felt full of pride because this handsome, charming man loved her and wished to marry her.
Edmund turned to her suddenly. “What are you dreaming about?” he whispered, and touched her hand beneath the table.
She smiled up at him, feeling absurdly shy with her mother present. “Only how well you fit in with any surroundings,” she said softly.
Her mother leaned forward. “Have some peacock breast. Or if that is not to your fancy, we have heron in verjuice and wine, cooked specially for your arrival.”
The atmosphere at table was genial and when the enormous meal was finished, Margaret rose and went with her mother to her old chambers.
“You see, Margaret, I have kept your room just as you left it.” She leaned forward to touch a brilliant tapestry on the wall. “This is the very first of your carpets. I keep it proudly. You were always good with your needle.”
Margaret smiled happily, pleased with the compliment. It seemed that she would have much more in common with her mother now than she ever had as a child.
As if to confirm her judgment, the Duchess sat on the edge of the bed in an attitude of complete informality.
“Come, now, tell me your news,” she said softly. “Is the wedding to be soon?” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried on. “And what of the Queen? Can it be true that she is with child? And the King – there is talk he has not been himself since Suffolk’s death. Come, child, tell me everything that has been happening at Court!”
Margaret smiled and obediently sat on the small stool and folded her hands together.
“I’m quite willing to tell you, Mother,” she said happily, “but there is so much it is difficult to know where to start.” It was strange to be sitting back in her old room at Bletsoe, Margaret reflected when at last her mother had gone. She went to the window and looked out at the darkening overcast skies, and shivered a little. Still, tomorrow would be fine and then she and Edmund could ride out together.
Soon she would go with him to his native Wales, and she would love it because it was the country that had bred him; but first she would teach Edmund to love the quiet fields of Bedfordshire.
The days passed in a succession of happy events that seemed to stand out in Margaret’s mind like a bright pattern of shapes and colours. The lush green of the sunlit fields, the red-gold of Edmund’s hair, and the jewel shades of dresses and doublets against the grey mellow walls of Bletsoe.
It was as if all her senses were heightened towards a shining peak of happiness that ran like a gold thread through all the carefree days.
It was to end more abruptly than she’d anticipated. The dew of an early summer’s morning was still on the grass when a rider came galloping at full speed up to the great doors of the house. Edmund was to return to Court at once. The King had been victim to some kind of seizure, and was gravely ill.
Preparations were made to begin the journey at once and as Margaret rode away from the walls of her home for the second time, it seemed that once again she was making a journey into the unknown.
Elizabeth wrung out a square of linen into a bowl of scented water and dabbed Margaret’s red-rimmed eyes gently.
“Come now, Margaret,” she said, “there is no need to weep for the King. He is quite unaware of your tears.”
“But if you could see him, Elizabeth.” Margaret could scarcely bring herself to speak about it. “He raves and staggers around his chamber until he falls into a deathly silence, not speaking or moving. It is pitiful.”
Elizabeth handed a partly sewn tapestry to Margaret and smiled encouragingly.
“Try some new patterns. It may take your mind off the King’s illness.”
Margaret looked down at the bright silk threads, her face white and drawn.
“Some are saying that the King is tainted with madness from his grandfather, the King of France. He spent his last days completely devoid of his senses.”
Margaret shuddered even as she spoke the words aloud. Her own Edmund was descended from Charles of France through his mother, Queen Catherine. Was it possible that he too could inherit such dread illness of the mind?
“Oh, Elizabeth, could Edmund fall sick in this way, do you think?” she said faintly.
“Not him!” Elizabeth spoke with certainty. “He is descended on his father’s side from tough Welsh stock. Why, you’ve only to look at him to see there is no weakness in him.”
Margaret was comforted. There was a great deal of sense in what Elizabeth said, and why go out to look for trouble when there was trouble aplenty on the doorstep?
Even now, Richard of York was trying to influence Parliament to make him the King’s protector. That would put her uncle, the Duke of Somerset, in an invidious position. It could even mean that Edmund and Jasper Tudor be banished from the Court, and the thought made her feel physically sick.
Richard was descended from the same royal line as she herself and he did not seem an evil or overambitious man, but when there was a crown at stake it was hard to tell how anyone would act.
She picked up her needle. Elizabeth was right. The best thing to do would be to free her mind of all morbid fears; no good would come of worrying. And yet even as the resolution was made, her needle became idle and there was a worried frown between her eyes.
The corridors were busy with women carrying white linen and a strange mixture of bowls and jars. They scurried to and fro like busy ants, skirts swishing and veils flying.
In the Queen’s chamber, tapers had been placed close together to provide more light.
On the great bed, the Queen of England lay tossing in silent agony, her hands gripping the sheets so that the material was strained to breaking point.
It was almost time for the King’s heir to be born.
Margaret took her place with the other ladies around the bed, helping as best she could by placing a scented cloth on the Queen’s hot brow. She knew a deep pity as she saw the dry lips move. The Queen was saying her prayers, no doubt in her native French.
Margaret was amazed by the way she bit with small white teeth into her lip, drawing blood, retaining her dignity at all costs.
At last, with a strangled gasp, the young queen gave birth to her child and lay for a moment exhausted against the bolster.
The physician came forward proudly. “It is a son, Madam,” he said loftily as if he had done the whole thing alone.
“His name will be Edward,” the Queen said imperiously, her delight at the birth of a male heir conquering her weariness. “My Lord Duke of Buckingham, please to take the prince to his father so that the King may rejoice in his son.”
Margaret went along the corridor behind the Duke of Buckingham who gingerly carried the tiny Prince of Wales on a soft cushion in his arms. Guards fell away from the door of the royal chamber like leaves in the wind and Buckingham went forward purposefully.
The King sat like an urchin on the ground, his pale eyes gazing at something only he could see. His hair was unkempt and fell in wisps over his face, and his thin hands plucked nervously at the folds of his robes.
Buckingham coughed. “Your Majesty, I bring your son and heir, Edward, Prince of Wales.”
There was no response from the King, not the slightest sign that he’d understood or even heard what was said.
Edmund Tudor took the King’s arm. “Come and sit upon your throne, Henry,” he said softly, as though to a child. “Let me place your crown upon your head. You are the King of England, remember?”
The King looked into Edmund’s eyes for a moment with almost a lucid expression, but then his head drooped and the crown rolled across the chamber.
In the silence, Buckingham tried manfully to attract the King’s attention. “Sire, behold your son and heir,” he said almost desperately. But with a fretful cry, Henry turned his face to the blank wall again.
At last, Edmund drew Buckingham away. “Come, my lord,” he said softly. “Perhaps time can achieve what a son cannot.”
They withdrew, bowing with respect, even though Henry stared away from them, unaware of their existence.
“York will demand to be made protector of the small prince. It is inevitable,” Buckingham said sadly. “And who is going to break the news to the Queen that her husband does not recognise their own son?”
“I will do it,” Edmund said quickly. “The Queen can accuse me of nothing, for the King is my own flesh and blood, after all.”
Margaret of Anjou lay still in her childbed. She had more colour now and her eyes were bright with a fierce motherlove as they rested on the baby Buckingham returned to her arms.
From the back of the crowd, Margaret stood, feeling ill and unhappy; seeing the King like that had left her feeling weak and upset. But she watched with pride as Edmund went and bowed over the Queen’s hand.
“Madam, the King does not respond when we speak to him. He sees nothing. Not even his own son.”
The Queen held her hand out in supplication to Edmund. “What will become of us if the King does not recover?” she said in a whisper.
“Do not be afraid,” Edmund spoke kindly. “Even if Richard of York becomes protector, he will have regard for your son’s position. He would not dream of doing him harm.”
Margaret stared at him fiercely. “Harm? Oh, no, he will not pierce him with a sword, but he will steal what is rightfully the King’s, for all that, and when my son grows up there will be nothing for him.”
She began to weep and waved her hand to her ladies impatiently; they clustered round her anxiously.
“Send to the Pope. He must say a special Mass for the King’s swift return to health.”
Margaret met Edmund’s eyes and she knew his thoughts were the same as hers. Admiration for the young queen, who would not admit defeat even though it was staring her in the face.
Silently they made their way from the chamber and out into the corridor, their hands meeting in a silent message of hope and love.