“When will it be over?” Margaret paced the room impatiently, her hands twisting knots into her white kerchief. “Surely there must be news soon. I just can’t bear this waiting.”
For the hundredth time she turned to the window, searching the sunlit fields for any sign that the Earl of Richmond may be returning.
“Please, Margaret, won’t you try to rest?” Elizabeth pleaded. “There will be news before much longer, I’m sure.”
In reality she was sure of nothing, save the heavy dark shadows under Margaret’s young eyes, and the thinness of her small-boned face.
She had watched the tension grow in Margaret ever since the Earl had ridden out for St Albans to join the King in battle. She could eat nothing, not even the cold meats spread with jelly that she loved so much. The most she would take was a little thin soup sprinkled with parsley and now she stood like a small slim child, lost without her husband’s love and comfort.
Suddenly she gave a cry. “Look, Elizabeth, horsemen on the long meadow!” She stood on a stool and leaned over the sill, careless of the danger. “I cannot tell from here if Edmund is among them!” she said distractedly. “They all look alike in their gleaming helmets. I will go down to the doors and await them there.”
Elizabeth hastened to her side. “Careful of the steps, Margaret, it would not do for you to suffer a fall.” But Margaret was away, her skirts flying behind her as she sped downwards.
She was outside then, with the sun all around her and a rider was detaching himself from the army of men.
He leaned down and scooped Margaret into his arms and there was such a look of holy joy in her face that Elizabeth felt the tears choke in her own throat. She stepped back into the coolness of the doorway. Margaret would not heed her for some time, nothing was more certain. She would not leave her husband’s side. She brushed impatiently at the foolish tears and slowly returned to her own chamber.
The fire threw great shadows along the walls and the room was all the more comfortable because of the light spring rain that pattered like thousands of tiny feet on the courtyard outside.
Edmund sat stretched to his full length, his feet towards the burning logs, the weariness gradually disappearing from his face.
Margaret slipped down on to the small stool at his side and rested her head against his knee.
“Was the battle very terrible, Edmund?” She took his hand and held it tightly against her breast.
“Bad enough, Margaret,” he sighed. “Your uncle, the Duke of Somerset, lost his life, as did Northumberland and Lord Clifford.” He stretched out his hand and caressed Margaret’s cheek. “These are hard times. You will need courage, my little one.”
Margaret held her hand to her lips and closed her eyes. There was a deep sorrow inside her that her father’s brother was now dead on the field of battle. She thought of her three young cousins – strong, sturdy young men, but how they would miss the love and guidance of their father.
“What of the King?” she said at last, her heart beating faster with the fear growing within her.
“He was taken prisoner, but York will not do him any harm. He will not seek to usurp the position of the Prince of Wales.”
“What will happen then?” Margaret looked at Edmund fearfully. “Will Richard of York try to capture you?”
Edmund smiled. “I don’t think he’ll bother about the Tudors! He does not consider us enough of a threat to him. At least not yet.” He paused for a moment, his eyes regarding Margaret steadily. “He may, of course, decide that we are dangerous if we have a son, you and I.”
Margaret shook her head. “How could that make a difference? The King has a son and heir of his own.”
“Our child would be of royal blood, don’t forget. Both from the Beaufort line and from my mother, Queen Catherine de Valois. In certain circumstances, such a boy could be a threat.”
Margaret shuddered. “It makes me fearful of bearing a child.” She was silent for a moment, watching the flickering firelight illumine Edmund’s strong face and bright hair. “What will happen now?” she asked at last, wishing that the affairs of the country had no power to touch her life with Edmund.
“Richard of York will probably assume the position of the King’s chief aide, in place of Somerset. He will, no doubt, be received on to the council and that will bring him one step nearer the throne.”
Margaret pressed herself closer to her husband, aware of the warmth of his body against her own.
“And what of us?” she said softly. “What shall we do?”
She wound her arms around him, and he took her face in both his hands and kissed her on the mouth. She felt tremors of joy speed through her, and she closed her eyes, drinking in the nearness of him.
“Suddenly my weariness has vanished,” he said, smiling.
“I shall show you how much I love you and how much I’ve missed you.”
He lifted her easily in his arms and carried her into the chamber. She lay back against the pillows, feeling the fluttering mixture of joy and fear that his physical needs always aroused in her.
He held her fiercely, but his mouth was gentle as it explored her neck and the pinkness of her small nipples. She sighed and wound her arms around him, delighting in the hard muscles of his back arched above her. And then they were one, and tears of happiness spilled on to her cheeks.
Edmund was truly hers once more.
Pembroke Castle rose high and indomitable against the pale evening sky, its sheer majesty, as it clung to the cliffs overlooking the sea, took Margaret’s breath away.
“Do you like its splendour?” Edmund bent to look down at her and Margaret smiled her delight in spite of the ache in her bones from the long journey. “Here I will plant my son within you, and he will be born on Welsh soil. You will both prosper at Pembroke, I feel it strongly.”
As they entered under the archway of mellow stones, Margaret knew she had come to a place she could love as she’d loved Bletsoe when she was a child.
Edmund was drawing her into the warmth of the great hall and she was suddenly surrounded by tall handsome men.
“Father!” Edmund went forward and embraced Owen Tudor who still had the handsomeness that had once caught the heart of the Queen of England.
He came to her and smiled, his eyes bright and clear, his grip strong as he kissed her cheek.
“Welcome to Pembroke, my daughter,” he said, in a deep voice that was vibrant with emotion. “You must always look on this place as your home, because there will always be a welcome for you in the House of Tudor.”
Jasper came forward and pressed her hand warmly, his dark eyes alight. “Margaret, how good to see you. Come; be seated. You no doubt feel tired after your journey.” He shook back his hair that was as bright as Edmund’s. “Our land is beautiful, but sometimes wild and uncomfortable for travellers. We would not have it otherwise. The safety of Pembroke Castle is in its position above the sea.”
Margaret felt her tiredness slip away from her. She was enchanted by the tall handsome Tudors, masters in their own little world far away from the intrigues of the English Court. Here in the wild hills of Wales, they were a law unto themselves, as tough and hard as the stonework of the castle itself.
That night, she lay with Edmund listening to the waves lapping the far wall. It was a gentle sound, but then the spring breeze was soft and light and carried little weight. What of the winter when the winds shrieked to a fury outside the walls? She imagined the dark green sea dashing itself endlessly against the rocky fortress, and shivered in spite of the warmth of Edmund’s arm around her.
Margaret’s fingers became slow over her tapestry, the needle poised as she listened to Owen Tudor talking to his sons. She watched as he nodded his proud head, giving emphasis to what he had been saying.
She often spent her time in such a fashion. It interested her greatly to hear Owen speak of his days in the army of Henry the Fifth of England.
Elizabeth had kept to her bed since the journey into Wales. She had caught a severe chill, and Margaret insisted that she take the utmost care of herself so that her recovery would be all the quicker. She smiled to herself, recalling that even in her feverish condition, Elizabeth had taken a moment to admire the tall Welshmen of Pembroke. No doubt she would take every opportunity to enjoy their company once she had recovered from her indisposition.
Margaret stretched her fingers. They had grown cold and cramped through holding her needle. She put down her tapestry and rose to her feet, and immediately the eyes of her husband were upon her. She swayed a little, and Edmund was at her side, holding her carefully.
“What is it, Margaret, are you ill?” he said, anxiously. “It could be that you have caught a fever from Elizabeth. You should not try to play the nurse always.”
Her head cleared and she looked up into his bright blue eyes, a smile curving her lips.
“I am not ill,” she said softly. “I am with child.”
She knew the colour was high in her cheeks as Edmund drew her nearer to the fire. His eyes were almost dark in the sudden joy that was reflected in the faces of his father and brother as they all stood and looked down at her, so that she felt like a delicate engraved figure.
“It is quite a usual happening,” she said, smiling. “I have done nothing out of the ordinary. It is just that I’m going to be a mother.”
Owen kissed her fingers with grave courtesy. “My dear daughter, I am so happy for you and for myself too. I need a grandson.”
She realised with a catch of her breath that there were tears in his eyes, and that Owen was moved more than he could say by her news.
Edmund tenderly led her to a chair and arranged a cushion at her back and one beneath her feet.
“I am a strong young woman,” she said, smiling. “I assure you I will not break at a touch.”
Owen rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. His face held a faraway look, and for a moment Margaret was afraid.
“This boy that you carry within you will make England a safe and prosperous place,” he said soberly. “You must guard him well. He has a great destiny to fulfil.”
Margaret shuddered a little, thinking unwillingly of the old woman who had sheltered her from the mob at London Bridge. She had foretold that Margaret’s son would rule England. Could Owen Tudor think so too?
But no, it was impossible! King Henry the Sixth still lived, and his son was lusty and strong. Even in the event of a double tragedy in the royal family, Richard of York and his heirs would be next in line for the throne.
She shook away the feeling of gloom that had descended for a moment, and smiled up at her husband, clasping his hand in hers.
“I want no more from life than I have at this moment,” she said earnestly. “My husband at my side and my child growing within me.”
Edmund forbade her now to ride even the most docile mare along the rugged coastline, and instead she contented herself with a gentle walk on the golden sands that curved like a smiling mouth against the darkness of the rocks.
She had come to love Pembroke Castle, and she knew that the Welsh people were making up charming rhymes about the love match between herself and Edmund. She was proud that the fierce, brave inhabitants of the surrounding villages had taken her to their hearts.
The days were soft and sunlit, each one imprinted itself on her mind and was stored away in her memory.
The peace was not to last! It was shattered quite suddenly when Owen who had been keeping watch on the battlements, saw a dark snake-line of soldiers wending their way over the hills.
“Come, boys, we have visitors!” There was excitement in his voice and his hair stood around his head like a silver halo.
Margaret hurried after them up the steep stone steps and Edmund turned back to reprove her.
“Take your time Margaret,” he said gently. “Think of our son.”
Nevertheless, he took her arm and helped her the rest of the way.
“Look!” Owen’s voice rang out. “It is the royal standard, the King himself is coming to Pembroke!”
But it was the Queen who entered through the great archway, Margaret heard her strident voice, thickly accented as she called commands to her escort, and her spirits sank.
She knew instinctively that Queen Margaret of Anjou had not come to spend a quiet time listening to the musicians playing the sweet Welsh airs that so charmed her own leisure hours. More than likely she had come with some new strategy of war that she wished to discuss at length with Jasper and Edmund.
Margaret sighed softly. The peaceful summer was over.
“You seem despondent, my love. Perhaps you are tired?”
Margaret drew Edmund away from the press of people in the great hall and he went with her thankfully to the peace of their own chamber.
“Where Her Majesty finds her strength and vigour is beyond me.” He smiled, reassuringly patting Margaret’s hand. “Don’t frown so, this fatigue is the result of too many rich banquets and much too much dancing late into the night.”
Margaret sat beside him taking his hand and holding it to her cheek.
“I wish you would care more about your health, Edmund,” she reproached gently. “That cough of yours becomes worse, I’m sure of it.”
“Nonsense!” he smiled warmly. “Look at my father. Have you ever seen a man his age look so fit? We are a strong family, my love.”
“Nevertheless, I insist that you stay in bed tomorrow and rest. I don’t like the shadows that have come under your eyes.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. “Your belly grows round and your heart grows softer as a mother’s should, but don’t be too tender, little Margaret. Come to bed. I’m sure no one will miss us from the revelries for once.”
Long after, Edmund’s regular breathing told Margaret that he was asleep. She lay watching the flickering shadows dance along the walls. Her heart was heavy with fear, even though she didn’t know what was causing her distress.
She was just on the edge of sleep when she heard the heavy accented voice of the Queen outside the door.
“Jasper, hold me close. You do not know how much it means to me to have your strong arms around me once more.” There was silence for a moment, and then the Queen spoke again. “I cannot exist without you, my love. You must come back to Court soon, promise me.”
Jasper spoke then. “I will be with you at Court as soon as I can. The Tudors will be a thorn in the flesh of Richard of York that he will not remove easily.”
“You talk of war and I know well enough what a brave soldier you are, but what of me? Don’t you think of me as a woman sometimes?”
“I think of nothing else!” Jasper’s voice faded and Margaret knew that he had moved away towards the Queen’s chambers.
She lay still, wondering what Owen Tudor would do if he knew that his firstborn son was making love to the Queen of England. Still, it was none of her business. She turned towards the warmth of her husband and tried to sleep.
He stirred and turning, took her in his arms and as she clung to him, all thoughts of Jasper and the Queen were thrust from her mind as she realised how laboured his breathing had become. Under her hands, his shoulders felt thin and she sat up, staring into his face, as it dawned on her that her beloved Edmund was ill.