Succession (21 page)

She could have written to him, of course, but she was never entirely sure where he was, or that the messenger would find him. And she had wanted to tell him about the baby herself, when he returned. He might return quickly, she hung on to that thought. She would let him rest a little, and then go to him. He would look at her blankly at first, and then his face would light up with joy, and he would catch her in his arms. He would be overwhelmed that she, who was so tiny and unformed that he still thought of her as a child, had done this thing for him; that he would be a father at last.

Betsy caressed her face and said she was hot, she was sweating; she needed some cooling water and chamomile to refresh her before the evening meal. She would have some sent up for them at once.

Somehow, as always, Betsy wore her down. She allowed herself to be placated, and dressed with special care.

When she went down to table, and sat at Jasper’s side, there was no further mention of her discourtesy. Jasper paid her special attention, pouring her wine himself, and explaining to her in great detail what would happen next. He would not be returning to Carmarthen, partly because plague had broken out in the villages surrounding the castle – but she was not to worry, he said quickly, as a look of horror passed across her face. The castle itself was safe, and getting its supplies by river to avoid contamination. He would go to the Duke of York personally, and to the king – King Henry’s forces would liberate Edmund, and he would be awarded great honour, of that he was sure.

Margaret smiled and nodded as he poured her wine. She knew that Betsy must have told him about the baby, because he was so attentive, so prepared to overlook her rudeness. She felt aggrieved in her heart, and resentful of her nurse. Because now Jasper knew and Edmund didn’t. And Jasper would tell Edmund, of course, all that would be taken from her. But how else could her nurse have explained Margaret’s insulting behaviour?

Jasper didn’t mention the baby, and for that she was grateful. He wanted to soothe her, and she allowed him to think that she was soothed. She allowed herself to be persuaded that it had all been some terrible mistake. The king did not even know about Edmund, and as soon as he did, Edmund would be set free, and York rebuked – even sent back to Ireland, which was the best thing for him.

She was not to worry, Jasper said again. While he was in the castle, Edmund was safe – safer, even as prisoner, than fighting in the field. Or in the plague-ridden villages.

She listened to him attentively and consciously removed the
worried frown from her eyes. Her nurse watched her approvingly, but she would not meet Betsy’s gaze. When she retired early no one objected, because of course everyone knew about the baby. But she held her head high and left the room smiling. Betsy followed her, as usual, so that even in her room she could not vent the rage and sense of injury that was burning in her heart.

As August drew its last, laboured breath, Jasper set out once more, to meet the king. Before he left, he came to her room. He stood in front of her for a moment, ponderously, the whole of his face pulled into a frown.

‘If I had known,’ he said eventually, ‘I would not have told you.’

And Margaret, who had meant to say only courteous and pleasant things, looked at him sullenly.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it would be like you not to tell me.’

Betsy started to protest, but Margaret shot her a look of such venom that her words died away. Jasper looked taken aback.

‘I did not mean –’ he said, then seemed to bite his words back. He looked thoughtfully at the floor. ‘I mean I would not for anything put the baby at risk. You might have – the shock –’

She would not help him. He had not saved Edmund. She looked at him with sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

He carried on talking.

Already the Welsh were banding together in support of Edmund. Their father, Owen Tudor, was raising a great force of men who were even now crossing the Menai Straits. And soon they would be joined by the king’s men.

He waited for her to speak, but it was her nurse who thanked him and wished him God speed; Margaret said nothing. She had not eaten that morning, despite Betsy’s remonstrations. She had gone straight to her chapel, and lain on the floor and tried to pray. But the only image in her mind was of Edmund in a cell, languishing in darkness, like that unfortunate prisoner in Pembroke Castle.

After Jasper left the heat grew worse. Crops withered in the field. In the church of St David’s masses were said and sung continuously
for Edmund. In the north there was famine as first Herbert’s soldiers then Gruffydd ap Nicholas’s men took what was left of the harvest. In the south the plague was spreading. It was said that it always spread in times of heat, as though borne on waves of sun. Lamphey was safe, because of its isolated position, but Betsy said she should certainly not go to St David’s. It was too far, and apart from the plague the land was at war. Everywhere the rebels were coming down from their hiding places in the mountains and setting fire to English property; the bards were once more singing their prophetic songs. There was no news of Jasper.

But one of the Tudors was always present in the church of St David’s at harvest time, because the family represented both England and Wales. It was more important than ever now in this time of war, and so she insisted she would go.

She arrived late, due to a wheel falling from her carriage and having to be repaired on the road, so that when she got there the congregation was already standing in the nave. She proceeded along the main aisle of the church past many villagers, farmers, tenants and labourers, to the seat she would normally occupy with Edmund. With every step she was aware of them staring at her, of mingling currents of hostility, pity, resentment and curiosity emanating from them. She was sweating, but could not wipe her face in front of all these people. She pressed one hand to her stomach as she took her seat. She did not think the baby was showing yet; she did not think anyone outside her household knew.

The service proceeded as usual, the priest reciting the liturgy in Latin, until the point where he began to sing, chanting lines of the mass alternately with the choir of men and boys.

Then unexpectedly, powerfully, the congregation broke in.

Their voices rose like a broken wave, becoming higher and louder, the stones and pillars of the church vibrating with the noise. It took her several moments to realize they were singing their own song, in Welsh.

And another moment to realize there was a small quivering in the pit of her stomach. She did not know what it was – if anything,
it might have been anxiety or surprise. But when it happened again she knew. She knew it was her baby moving, quick and live.

Much later she would tell him that he was truly a Welshman, for he had come to life to the tune of the Welsh anthem as it soared inside the great church.

Every time the priest began to chant in Latin the congregation sang, and the voice of their singing was at first unwieldy and inharmonious, but then came together in a powerful harmony as it gathered force.

Lady Margaret and the priest looked at one another, and she saw her own fear and uncertainty reflected in his eyes; she knew he did not know what to do.

He could not do anything, it seemed, only wait, while the voices sang on, rising and falling and breaking into a chorus that was like the broken heart of Wales itself.

And when they had finished they all stood, looking at the priest, who looked back at them and said nothing.

Then he managed to say the final prayer in a shaken voice, dismissing them, and Margaret rose. She walked back down the aisle, past them all, keeping her gaze carefully lowered, praying all the time that she would not be molested. It was a long walk, but no one moved, no one stood in her way. She arrived safely at her carriage.

But that was the last time she went to the great church; she would not put her baby at risk again. She confined herself to Lamphey, where she was safe, and returned to her private prayers, to fasting and waiting for news.

In October the great heat was replaced at last by heavy rain, too late for the harvest. And still there was no news of Edmund. Or rather, there was contradictory news – news of his escape, then news that he was back under lock and key, or that he had never escaped at all. News that Owen Tudor was captured with him, then that he had never left Anglesey. The Duke of Buckingham’s men were obstructed by unexpected floods. The king had not the means to
muster an army, but Jasper had gone directly to complain to the Duke of York. The Archbishop of Canterbury, together with several bishops, had already written expressing outrage at Edmund’s imprisonment. And so the Duke of York had finally given the order for Edmund’s release.

This news came towards the end of October, that month of storms. There was rejoicing at Lamphey. Margaret gave the day to fasting and prayer and thanksgiving in her chapel. Yet Edmund was still in Carmarthen Castle, the next messenger told them. He was waiting for the flooding to subside, before Jasper’s men could reach him to escort him home. Or perhaps he was still wary of the plague.

He was in the castle, but he was free. She could imagine him strolling about the walls and the palace gardens, thinking of her, perhaps, as she was thinking of him coming home. At night she dreamed of him, and woke feeling his touch, the imprint of his body on hers. And increasingly she felt the movement of her baby, daily now, but of this she said nothing. This much at least was hers. She got up before daylight, roused by its movements, and leaving Betsy still asleep and snorting like a war horse, she went straight to her chapel. And she remained there all morning, fasting and praying until she knew, finally, that God had entered into her bargain. Edmund was safe.

He would return to her.

Which was why, when the messenger came, she could not hear him. There seemed to be a buzzing noise inside her skull.

He knelt before her, repeating the words she could not hear, then there was a commotion in the hall and Owen Tudor arrived. He entered, walking uncertainly, not like Owen Tudor at all. His shirt was stained and undone; she could see the grey hairs sprouting from the open neck.
He should fasten it properly
, she thought.

He came towards her with reddened eyes, and a collapsed face, and she could not speak. He had ridden ahead of Jasper, who was delayed, he told her, but he was following close behind.

Already there was the sound of sobbing in the room. Owen
Tudor made a tottering movement towards her, then he grasped her knees and buried his face in her lap and sobbed.

It was mid November, but suddenly it seemed too hot. Her clothes were suffocating her. She could hardly breathe.

She got up too suddenly and the room lurched around her. She could see Betsy moving towards her, her stricken face. But she didn’t want Betsy. Or her father-in-law. She pushed Betsy away from her violently and hurried out of the room.

Faster and faster she went, despite the shortness of breath, the heaviness of her stomach, along one passageway after another, not knowing where she was going. She struck the walls as she passed them, and felt no pain in her hands. Then up a narrow stair, until finally she was alone on the roof, looking over a parapet in the direction in which Edmund had gone.

The sky was a billowing grey, and all the earth was in motion, the trees and the grass in a great wave-like motion, like the sea.

She could not see Edmund.

If she leaned forward and fell into the wind the currents of air would take her to him.

She would be able to breathe.

She could hear someone calling her name, but she wouldn’t look round. She leaned forward, over the parapet, and felt her lungs expanding gently in the moving air.

Then her nurse was there, panting from her exertions, her face pink and terrified. She came to Margaret in a stumbling run, and folded her in her arms.

That was no good, she was obstructed, she couldn’t breathe. She struggled a little, but her nurse held on.

‘Oh, my lady, my lady,’ she moaned into her hair.

Then she heard another noise, a different moaning, a deep, bellowing moan that sounded like a lost calf. She felt herself sagging in her nurse’s arms.

Other people followed, bearing her away, and she had no resistance to them. She allowed herself to be led away from the roof.

Somehow she was back in her room and many hands were
helping, to lay her on the bed, to unfasten her clothing, to bring her cinnamon tea. Her nurse was chafing her hands and talking all the time: she had to be strong, because of the baby – Edmund’s baby – she was carrying his son – the only heir to the house of Tudor – that was what was important now – Edmund would be looking after her, day and night, until the baby was born – and for the rest of its life …

None of her words made sense. Margaret turned away from them, into the pillow.

Usually with her eyes closed she could feel him around her, enfolding her, always as though he were about to laugh. But this time when she shut her eyes, her mind lurched dizzyingly over a void; she had to cling to the bed to prevent herself from falling. She was trembling, she realized, from the sheer strain of trying not to fall in. She hung over it, suspended, but with the weight of the thing she could not bear to know pressing her down.

Edmund was dead of the plague.

She was carrying his child.

Brother of King Henry, nephew of the dauphin, son of Owen – [Wales without Edmund] is a land without water, a house without feasting, a church without a priest, a castle without soldiers, a hearth without smoke.

Lewis Glyn Cothi

 

Each night after hearing of his death she dreamed of him, and when she woke, feeling his touch, she believed for one precious moment that he was there. Then came the more terrible awakening, the crushing realization, so that soon she came to dread going to sleep.

‘You must eat,’ her nurse said, over and over. ‘Do you think your husband would want his son to starve?’