The Red Queen tc-2 Page 4

  I put my hand to my belly that is still as flat as a child’s. “King,” I say quietly. “You are going to be King of England,” and I know that the baby hears me and knows that his destiny and that of all England is given to me by God, and is in my keeping.

  My knowledge that the baby in my womb is to be king and that everyone will curtsey to me supports me through the early months, though I am sick every morning and weary to my soul. It is hot, and Edmund has to ride out through the fields where the men are making hay, to hunt down our enemies. William Herbert, a fierce Yorkist partisan, thinks to make Wales his own while there is a sleeping king, and no one to call him to account. He marches his men through our lands and collects our taxes under the pretext that he is ruling Wales for the regency of York. Indeed, it is true that he has been appointed by his good friend the Earl of Warwick to rule Wales, but long before that, we Tudors were put here by the king, and here we stay doing our duty, whether our king is awake or not. Both Herbert and we Tudors believe ourselves to be the only rightful rulers of Wales, properly appointed; but the difference is that we are right, and he is wrong. And God smiles on me, of course.

  Edmund and Jasper are in a state of constant muted fury at the incursions of Herbert and the Yorkists, writing to their father Owen, who is in turn riding out with his men, harrying York lands, and planning a concerted campaign with his boys. It is as my mother predicted. The king is of the House of Lancaster, but he is fast asleep. The regent is of the House of York, and he is only too lively. Jasper is away much of the time, brooding over the sleeping king like a poor hen with addled eggs. He says that the queen has all but abandoned her husband in London, seeking greater safety for herself in the walled city of Coventry, which she can hold against an army, and thinks that she will have to rule England from there, and avoid the treachery of the city of London. He says that the London merchants and half of the southern counties are all for York because they hope for peaceful times to make money, and care nothing for the true king and the will of God.

  Meanwhile, every lord prepares his men and chooses his side, and Jasper and Edmund wait only till the end of haymaking, and then muster the men with their scythes and bill hooks and march out to find William Herbert and teach him who commands Wales. I go down to the gate of the castle to wave them farewell and bid them Godspeed. Jasper assures me that they will defeat Herbert within two days and capture Carmarthen Castle from him, and that I can look for them to come home in time for the harvest; but two days come and go and we have no news of them.

  I am supposed to rest every afternoon, and my lady governess is ordered by my mother to take a renewed interest in my health, now I am carrying a child that could be a royal heir. She sits with me in the darkened rooms to make sure that I do not read by the light of a smuggled candle, or get down on my knees to pray. I have to lie on my bed and think of cheerful things to make the baby strong and blithe in his spirits. Knowing I am making the next king, I obey her and try to think of sturdy horses and beautiful clothes, of the magic of the joust and of the king’s court, and of the queen in her ruby gown. But one day there is a commotion at my door, and I sit up and glance at my lady governess, who, far from watching over me as the vessel preparing to bear the next king, is fast asleep in her chair. I get up and patter over to my door and open it myself, and there is our maid Gwyneth, white-faced, with a letter in her hand. “We can’t read it,” she says. “It’s a letter for someone. None of us can read.”

  “My lady governess is asleep,” I say. “Give it to me.”

  Stupidly she hands it over, though it is addressed to my lady governess and marked for her eyes alone. I break Jasper Tudor’s seal and open it. He has written from Pembroke Castle.

  Edmund wounded and captured by William Herbert. Held prisoner at Carmarthen. Prepare for attack as best you can there, while I go to rescue him. Admit no strangers; there is plague.

  Gwyneth looks at me. “What does it say?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say. The lie comes to my mouth so swiftly that it must have been put there by God to help me, and therefore it does not count as a lie at all. “He says that they are staying on a few days in Pembroke Castle. He will come back later.”

  I close the door in her face, and I go back to my bed and lie down. I put my hand on my fat belly that has grown bigger and now curves beneath my gown. I will tell them the news later tonight, I think. But first I must decide what to say and what to do.

  I think, as always, What would Joan of Arc do, if she were in my place? The most important thing would be to make sure that the future king is safe. Edmund and Jasper can look after themselves. For me, there is nothing more important than ensuring that my son is safe behind defensible walls, so when Black Herbert comes to sack the Tudor lands, at least we can keep my baby safe.

  At the thought of William Herbert marching his army against me, I slide down to my knees to pray. “What am I to do?” I whisper to Our Lady, and never in my life would I have been more glad of a clear reply. “We can’t defend here; there isn’t even a wall that goes all round, and we don’t have the fighting men. I can’t go to Pembroke if there is plague there, and anyway, I don’t even know where Pembroke is. But if Herbert attacks us here, how shall we be safe? What if he kidnaps me for ransom? But if we try to get to Pembroke, then what if I am ill on the road? What if traveling is bad for a baby?”

  There is nothing but silence. “Our Lady?” I ask. “Lady Mary?”

  Nothing. It is a quite disagreeable silence.

  I sigh. “What would Joan do?” I ask myself. “If she had to make a dangerous choice? What would Joan do? If I were Joan, with her courage, what would I do?”

  Wearily, I rise to my feet. I walk over to my lady governess and take a pleasure in shaking her awake. “Get up,” I say. “You have work to do. We are going to Pembroke Castle.”

  AUTUMN 1456

  Edmund does not come home. William Herbert does not even demand a ransom for him, the heir to the Tudor name and the father of my child. In these uncertain times nobody can say what Edmund is worth, and besides, they tell me he is sick. He is held at Carmarthen Castle, a prisoner of the Herberts, and he does not write to me, having nothing to say to a wife who is little more than a child, and I do not write to him, having nothing to say to him, either.

  I wait, alone in Pembroke Castle, preparing for siege, admitting no one from the town for fear they are carrying the sickness, knowing I may have to hold this castle against our enemies, not knowing where to send for help, for Jasper is constantly on the move. We have food and we have arms and we have water. I sleep with the key to the drawbridge and the portcullis under my pillow, but I can’t say that I know what I should do next. I wait for my husband to tell me, but I hear nothing from him. I wait for his brother to come. I wish his father would ride by and rescue me. But it is as if I have walled myself in and am forgotten. I pray for guidance from Our Lady, who also faced troubled times when she was with child, but no Holy Ghost appears to announce to the world that I am the Lord’s vessel. It seems that there is to be no annunciation for me at all. Indeed, the servants, the priest, and even my lady governess are rapt in their own misfortunes and worries as the news of the king’s strange sleep and the struggle of power between his queen and the country’s regent alerts every scoundrel to the opportunity of easy pickings to be made in a country without government, and Herbert’s friends in Wales know that the Tudors are on the run, their heir captured, his brother missing, and his bride all alone at Pembroke Castle, sick with fear.

  Then, in November, I get a letter addressed to me, to Lady Margaret Tudor, from my brother-in-law, Jasper. It is the first time in his life he has ever written to me, and I open it with shaking hands. He does not waste many words.

  Regret to tell you that your husband, my dearly beloved brother Edmund, is dead of the plague. Hold the castle at all costs. I am coming.

  I greet Jasper at the castle gate, and at once see the difference in him. He has lost his twin, his b
rother, the great love of his life. He jumps down from his horse with the same grace that Edmund had, but now there is only the noise of one pair of boots ringing iron-tipped heels on the stone. For the rest of his life he will listen for the clatter of his brother and hear nothing. His face is grim, his eyes hollowed with sadness. He takes my hand as if I am a grown lady, and he kneels and offers up his hands, in the gesture of prayer, as if he is swearing fealty. “I have lost my brother, and you, your husband,” he says. “I swear to you, that if you have a boy, I will care for him as if he were my own. I will guard him with my life. I will keep him safe. I will take him to the very throne of England, for my brother’s sake.”

  His eyes are filled with tears, and I am most uncomfortable to have this big, fully grown man on his knees before me. “Thank you,” I say. I look round in my discomfiture, but there is no one to tell me how to raise Jasper up. I don’t know what I am supposed to say. I notice he doesn’t promise anything to me if I have a girl. I sigh and clasp my hands around his, as he seems to want me to do. Really, if it were not for Joan of Arc, I would think that girls are completely useless.

  JANUARY 1457

  I go into confinement at the start of the month. They put up shutters on my bedroom windows to close out the gray winter light. I can’t imagine that a sky which is never blue and a sun which never shines can be thought so distracting that a woman with child should be shaded from it; but the midwife insists that I go into darkness for a month before my time, as the tradition is, and Jasper, pale with worry, says that everything must be done to keep the baby safe.

  The midwife thinks that the baby will come early. She feels my belly and says that he is lying wrongly, but he may turn in time. Sometimes, she says, babies turn very late. It is important that they come out headfirst; I don’t know why. She does not mention any details to Jasper, but I know that he paces up and down outside my chamber every day. I can hear the floorboards creak as he tiptoes north and south, as anxious as a loving husband. Since I am in confinement I can see no man, and that is a great relief. But I do wish I could come out to church. Father William, here at Pembroke, was moved to tears by my first confession. He said he had never met a young woman of more piety. I was glad at last to find someone who understands me. He is allowed to pray with me if he sits on one side of the screen and I the other, but it is not nearly as inspiring as praying before a congregation, where everyone can see me.

  After a week, I start to have terrible pain in the very bones of my body when I am walking the narrow confines of the chamber, and Nan the midwife and her fellow crone, whose name sounds something like a squawk, and who speaks no English at all, agree that I had better go to bed and not walk anymore, not even stand. The pain is so bad I could almost believe that the bones are breaking inside me. Clearly, something has gone wrong, but nobody knows what it is. They ask the physician, but since he cannot lay a hand on me, nor do more than ask me what I think might be the matter, we get no further forwards. I am thirteen years old and small for my age. How am I to know what is going wrong with the baby in my body? They keep asking me, does it really feel as if my bones are breaking inside me? And when I say yes, then they look at one another as if they fear it must be true. But I can’t believe that I will die in childbirth. I can’t believe that God will have gone to all this trouble to get me here in Wales, with a child who might be king in my womb, only to have me die before he is even born.

  They speak of sending for my mother, but she is so far away and the roads are so dangerous now that she cannot come, and besides, she would know no better than them. Nobody knows what is wrong with me, and now they remark that I am too young and too small to be with child at all, which is rather belated advice and no comfort to me now I am so close to the birth. I have not dared to ask how the baby is actually going to come out of my belly. I fear very much that I am supposed to split open like a small pod for a fat pea, and then I am certain to bleed to death.

  I had thought the pain of waiting was the worst pain I could endure, but that was only until the night when I wake to an agony as if my belly were heaving up and turning over inside me. I scream in shock, and the two women bounce up from their trestle beds and my lady governess comes running, and my maid, and in a moment the room is filled with candles and people fetching hot water and firewood and among it all, nobody is even looking at me, though I can feel a sudden flood pour out of me, and I am certain that it is blood and I am bleeding to death.

  They fly at me and give me a lathe to bite on, and a sacred girdle to tie around my heaving belly. Father William has sent the Host in the Monstrance from the chapel, and they put it on my prie dieu so I can fix my eyes on the body of the Lord. I have to say I am much less impressed by crucifixion now that I am in childbirth. It is really not possible that anything could hurt more than this. I grieve for the suffering of Our Lord, of course. But if He had tried a bad birth He would know what pain is.

  They hold me down on the bed but let me heave on a rope when the pains start to come. I faint once for the agony of it, and then they give me a strong drink, which makes me giddy and sick, but nothing can free me from the vice that has gripped on my belly and is tearing me apart. This goes on for hours, from dawn till dusk, and then I hear them muttering to each other that the timing of the baby is wrong, it is taking too long. One of the midwives says to me that she is sorry but they are going to have to toss me in a blanket to make the baby come on.

  “What?” I mutter, so confused with pain that I don’t know what she means. I don’t understand what they are doing as they help me off the bed and bid me lie on a blanket on the floor. I think perhaps they are doing something that will relieve the gripping pain which makes me cry out until I think I can bear no more. So I lie down, obedient to their tugging hands, and then the six of them gather round and lift the blanket between them. I am suspended like a sack of potatoes, and then they pull the blanket all at once and I am thrown up and drop down again. I am only a small girl of thirteen, they can throw me up into the air, and I feel a terrible flying and falling sensation and then the agony of landing and then they fling me up again. Ten times they do this while I scream and beg them to stop, and then they heave me back into the bed and look at me as if they expect me to be much improved while I hang over the side of the bed and vomit between sobs.

  I lie back for a moment, and for a blessed moment the worst of it stops. In the sudden silence I hear my lady governess say, very clearly: “Your orders are to save the baby if you have to choose. Especially if it is a boy.”

  I am so enraged at the thought of Jasper ordering my own lady governess to tell my midwives that they should let me die if they have to choose between my life or that of his nephew that I spit on the floor and cry out: “Oh, who says so? I am Lady Margaret Beaufort of the House of Lancaster …” But they don’t even hear me; they don’t turn to listen to me.

  “That’s the right thing to do,” Nan agrees. “But seems hard on the little maid …”

  “It is her mother’s order,” my lady governess says, and at once I don’t want to shout at them anymore. My mother? My own mother told my lady governess that if the baby and I were in danger then they should save the baby?

  “Poor little girl. Poor, poor little girl,” Nan says, and at first I think she is speaking of the baby, perhaps it is a girl after all. But then I realize she is speaking of me, a girl of thirteen years, whose own mother has said that they can let her die as long as a son and heir is born.

  It takes two days and nights for the baby to make his agonizing way out of me, and I do not die, though there are long hours when I would have done so willingly, just to escape the pain. They show him to me, as I am falling asleep, drowning in pain. He is brown-haired, I think, and he has tiny hands. I reach out to touch him, but the drink and the pain and the exhaustion flood over me like darkness and I faint away.

  When I wake, it is morning and one of the shutters is opened, the yellow winter sun is shining in the little panes of glass, and
the room is warm with the banked-up fire glowing in the fireplace. The baby is in his cradle, swaddled tight on his board. When the nursemaid hands him to me, I cannot even feel his body, he is wrapped so tight in the swaddling bands that are like bandages from head to toe. She says he has to be strapped to his board so his arms and legs cannot move, so his head is kept still, to make sure that his young bones grow straight and true. I will be allowed to see his feet and his hands and his little body when they unwrap him to change his clout, which they will do at midday. Until then I can hold him while he sleeps, like a stiff little doll. The swaddling cloth is wrapped around his head and chin to keep his neck straight, and it finishes with a little loop on the top of his head. The poor women use the loop to hook their babies up on a roof beam when they are cooking, or doing their work, but this boy, who is the newest baby in the House of Lancaster, will be rocked and carried by a team of nursemaids.

  I lie him down on the bed beside me and gaze at his tiny face, his little nose, and the smiling curves of his rosy eyelids. He is not like a living thing, but more like a little stone carving of a baby as you find in a church, placed beside his stone-dead mother. It is a miracle to think that such a thing has been made, has grown, has come into the world; that I made him, almost entirely on my own (for I hardly count Edmund’s drunken labors). This tiny little object, this miniature being, is the bone of my bone and the flesh of my flesh, and he is of my making, all of my making.