Rebellion (29 page)

Henry's forehead creased. ‘He does not need
any extra demands,' he said.

‘Henry,' she said, ‘he is beset with
demands. What better way to show our support than to give him a brief respite from
them?'

‘He will not come,' he said.

‘He will come,' she said. ‘He needs his
supporters now.'

She wrote the letter herself, and persuaded
Henry to sign it, and for three long weeks she waited for a reply, rehearsing in her
mind everything she would say to the king, and how he would reply, and what she would
say to that.

But if he did not reply, she thought, at the
end of the first week, it need not be the end of her project. She could write to him
again in the New Year.

Unless he rejected her
invitation absolutely, she thought, at the end of the second week. But why would he do
that? Surely he would just not reply at all? And she wondered how long it would take her
to accept that he would not reply at all.

Henry told her she would wear out her knees,
praying for something that would probably not happen. Privately she considered that
there was hardly any point praying for something that would definitely happen. She tried
not to fast too conspicuously, aware of her husband's watchful gaze, but spent more and
more time in her room.

Then at the end of the third week she came
upon him reading a letter that bore the royal seal. She hurried forward. ‘What is it?'
she said. ‘Is it from the king? What does he say?'

Henry did not even look up. He held the
letter close to his eyes and read it with his usual aggravating slowness.

‘Let me read it for you,' she said
impatiently. ‘Is he coming?'

Henry looked at her severely for a moment,
then held out the letter. ‘Yes,' was all he said before walking away.

Rapidly she scanned the words that told her
the king would be travelling to Guildford in early December and would be pleased to
accept their hospitality on the way.

She read it twice, then clutched it to her
chest. She could feel the blood rushing to her face, then draining away, leaving her
light-headed. But it was only that she hadn't eaten yet. Or perhaps that she needed some
air.

Edward of York
, she thought, and
for a moment she could think of nothing else.

They were old enemies, of course. As far
back as she could go their families had been on different sides. And now in one short
visit she would have to overturn all that.

She would have to prepare the house.

It was a palatial residence, Woking Old
Hall, unmistakeably the home of great nobles, and certainly a place where one might
entertain a king. But even as she considered it she thought that
she
would not entertain him in the house. She would arrange a hunting party for him in their
lodge, because he loved to hunt.

The forest surrounding their lodge teemed
with deer and wild boar that would furnish the main part of the feast. The dining space
in the lodge might not be adequate; but she could buy a pavilion of silk, lined in
purple or royal blue.

It was not the best time of year for an
outdoor feast, of course. But on occasion it was
the
best, a light sprinkling
of snow making the woods magical, and venison roasting in the cold air.

Of course, it was just as likely to rain
torrentially. So the pavilion could not be assembled until the day of the king's
arrival, and it would be put up close to the lodge in case the weather turned truly
inclement.

Given his majesty's prodigious appetite she
fretted over the food; about quantities and what was available at that time of year.
There would be dried fruit from their orchard and fish from the pond. Eels and lampreys
from the river, which were a little common, perhaps, but the king loved them. She could
buy cheese and geese from a local farmer, but she would have to send to London or
Guildford for other more luxurious items.

In the end she sent for curlew, larks and
plover from a London poulterer and 700 oysters from the Essex coast.

Then there were the materials she needed for
her dress and for Henry's outfit. Several yards of velvet and the finest Brabant cloth
were made up for her in London and sent by barge, which caused her some anxiety in case
it did not arrive in time or did not fit. The material for the pavilion arrived at the
same time – swathes of purple sarsenet that had to be assembled somehow and that she had
to hope would withstand the weather. She had ordered silk cushions in cloth of gold and
extra hangings to keep out the cold. And wine, of course, several cases of it from
Guildford.

Henry watched all the boxes and cases
arriving with his habitual look of consternation. ‘It is to be hoped his majesty does
not change his mind,' he said.

She could not even afford
to consider that possibility.

The day came and at five in the morning
Henry left to meet the royal party at Guildford. Margaret retired to her chapel, adding
prayers for the weather, the food and the king's disposition to the usual litany. She
remained on her knees until they felt bruised and her back ached, but her mind was too
restive, too anxious for real prayer. After some time she sat back with a wave of
resignation that was almost defeat. The tent was not large enough, the food was too
poor, and it would rain.

She went to her room to be dressed in her
new gown, which was a festive scarlet with fashionably long sleeves that covered her
hands. It made her look yellowish and old; or older, at least, than her twenty-five
years. She should never have chosen scarlet for her dress. But it was too late now. She
went out to the hunting lodge in despair.

The sky was overcast and there was an edge
of whiteness to the clouds that could turn dazzling, or to a storm. Her servants were
erecting the tent, preparing a fire. The singing boys were already there, huddled under
a canopy because there would be no room for them in the tent. She gave instructions to
arrange the cushions so that those with the royal insignia would be interspersed with
those bearing the Beaufort portcullis, then stood disconsolately in the tent. It was
certainly too small, but there was nothing she could do. She went to inspect the
lodge.

Time stretched unbearably like the string of
a bow. She paced from one window of the lodge to another, rehearsing again the best way
to make her plea to the king. Then she prayed simply that she would not say the wrong
thing.

Finally she heard the first horns blowing,
which signified the hunt was coming that way, followed by cries and shouts of
laughter.

She went out into the sharp light to meet
her king.

She could not mistake him, massive as he
was, dwarfing everyone around him. He wore an ermine cloak and a coronet, and seemed, as
far as she could tell, to be in a good humour. A little
behind him was
Henry, pink from his exertions. And several men followed them, carrying a dripping
deer.

That was all she had time to see before
sinking into the deepest curtsy she could manage and was dismayed to hear one of her
ankles crack.

The king extended his hand to raise her.
‘Countess,' he said.

She looked up and saw, in the fractional
moment in which such things occur, the way the king's eyes, always alert to the prospect
of female company, glazed over, the look in them replaced by a more customary courtesy
as she took his hand.

She'd heard, of course, how the king
sometimes sent for the wives or daughters of his hosts to entertain him through the
night. The irony was not lost on her that of all husbands Henry was least likely to be
injured by such an eventuality, but she could tell there would be no such complication
here. And she was glad of it; he was not her type either, this young giant who occupied
half the tent.

He was immediately at ease, sinking down on
to the cushions, disposing his great limbs graciously while the rest of the company
followed suit with varying degrees of elegance. Henry sat cross-legged next to the king
in a posture that curved his chest and made his paunch prominent. Margaret sat to the
other side of her husband, trying not to notice the effect of so many mud-spattered
boots on the newly bought silk.

She was close enough to the king to see
there was a certain pouching beneath the eyes, and broken veins beneath the skin of his
cheeks that flushed as he ate or when he laughed. His hair was nothing special, the blue
eyes rather small, but she could see why people called him handsome. Firstly because he
was king, of course, and secondly because of his impressive build. And thirdly because
of some quality in his face. He was attentive. When he spoke to you it was easy to
believe there were only the two of you there.

It was a dangerous quality, she thought. It
drew people towards
him and drew out of them a greater trust and
freedom than the situation warranted. Already Henry, usually so reserved, was talking
volubly about the latest manuscript they had bought: a chronicle by Jean Froissart in
which the king had an especial interest since it detailed the usurpation of Henry IV and
by implication invalidated the claim of Henry VI to the throne. The king leaned towards
Henry as though he was fascinating, while eating with his fingers. Margaret ate too,
more cautiously because her sleeves were getting in the way of the food.

She was intensely aware of the king, who was
talking now about the latest manuscripts
he
had acquired, all of which
confirmed the validity of his father's claim. There was something not quite English
about him, she thought. His eyes and that sensitive mouth reflected exactly the
fluctuations in the other person's face; their hopes and fears. He had none of the usual
dour aggressiveness of the warrior; none of the obvious ruthlessness of a man who had
shut up his cousin in the Tower, slaughtered so many at Towton, or imprisoned and
tortured so many opponents to his reign.

Even as she listened to him talking about
the splendours of the library at Bruges and his own ambition to build one at least as
impressive at Windsor, she felt the impossibility of asking for what she wanted. She
felt awash with melancholy, and as if she had been cast adrift in a boat, bobbing
further and further away from the shore where she was bound.

Outside, the threatened rain had begun to
fall, but the singing boys sang on.

Henry was talking now about the claim made
by the Earl of Warwick to their Kendal estates. ‘It is not true that Edmund Tudor was
attainted,' he was saying. ‘That's why you were able, if you remember, to grant the
rights to my wife.'

She held her breath. She would not have
chosen, just then, to direct the king's attention to the Tudor brothers. But the king
was nodding. And he said, ‘My cousin the earl is good at pushing boundaries. It is one
of his especial gifts.'

And then he turned his
attention towards Margaret. ‘And you, Countess,' he said, ‘what can I do for you?'

He spoke with a light irony as though
acknowledging the fact that the only reason for approaching a king was because one
wanted something. She swallowed hard to get rid of a piece of crust in her mouth, then
murmured something conventional about his majesty having done them too much honour
already.

‘How is that possible?' he said, and his
light eyes focussed on her as if, even though she was not attractive to him, he could
not resist playing the old game.

Any other woman would have answered
playfully, but this was not a game she knew how to play. She angled her chin downwards
and said it was not possible to expect more in the circumstances. But the king by now
had drunk a considerable amount of wine. ‘It is always possible to expect,' he said,
waving his goblet. Her throat tightened; she could not speak. After all the speeches she
had rehearsed. But Henry, her husband, leaned forward and said, ‘My wife is very
concerned about her son.'

‘Your son?' said the king. ‘Herbert's
ward?'

She raised her eyes to his and saw that he
was surprised by their bleakness. ‘But I believe he is being very well taken care of,'
he said, and she managed to say that indeed she had no complaint in that quarter – a
better home could not have been provided for him.

‘But I do not see him very often,' she said.
‘He was going to visit us here. But now – it has been interrupted.'

She could see a calculating light in the
king's eyes that took into account the events of the summer, Jasper's attack on Wales,
the link to Margaret of Anjou in France. She wanted to beg him to believe that they'd
had nothing to do with any of it, but something warned her that he would not be moved by
protestation. Her gaze remained fixed on his, as though asking him to believe what she
could not say.

Once again Henry spoke up. ‘My wife writes
to her son all the
time,' he said. ‘I expect she will write to tell
him of the great honour of your visit. Each time she writes she asks if she may visit
him, but there is no response. We have not seen him for more than a year.'

Slowly the king nodded. ‘It must be
difficult for you,' he said.

Finally she managed to speak. ‘I beg you to
believe that I would do nothing to risk the welfare of my son,' she said. ‘We are first
and foremost your majesty's loyal subjects.'

The king leaned towards her on one elbow,
and in the sympathetic tones that had propelled so many women into his arms, said, ‘You
must miss him very much.'

She couldn't help it, tears rose to her
eyes. He noted this, of course he did, but all he said was, ‘I will write to Lord
Herbert. The child should see his mother more regularly.'

Then Henry spoke up for her again. ‘We have
been concerned about young Henry's title to Richmond,' he said. ‘Especially in view of
the activities of the Earl of Warwick.'