The Red Queen (10 page)

“Certainly,” he says pleasantly. “It is very wrong that you should feel we think of you like that, for I love and respect you, as I promised I would. I shall find you an expensive horse and you will look beautiful on his back and everyone will admire you, and it can all mean nothing to you at all.”

I sleep in a dream of white-washed cloister walls and a great library, where illuminated books are chained to the desks and I can go every day and study. I dream of a tutor who will lead me through Greek and Latin and even Hebrew, and that I will read the Bible in the tongue which is closest to the angels, and I will know everything. In my dream, my hunger for learning and my desire to be special is quieted, soothed. I think that if I could be a scholar, I could live in peace. If I could wake every day to the discipline of the offices of the day, and spend my days in study, I think I would feel that I was living a life that was pleasing to God and to me. I would not care whether people thought I was special, if my life was truly special. It would not matter to me that people could see me as pious, if I could truly live as a woman scholar of piety. I want to be what I seem to be. I act as if I am specially holy, a special girl; but this is what I really want to be. I really do.

In the morning, I wake and dress, but before I go for my breakfast I go to the nursery to see the baby. He is still in his cradle, but I can hear him cooing, little quiet noises like a duckling quacking to itself on a still pond. I lean over his cradle to see him, and he smiles. He does. There is an unmistakable recognition in his dark blue eyes, and the funny, gummy, triangular grin that makes him at once less like a pretty doll, and tremendously like a little person.

“Why, Henry,” I say, and the little beam widens, as if he knows his name, as if he knows my name, as if he knows me as his mother, as if he believes we are lucky and that we have everything to play for, as if we might have a life that is filled with promise, in which I have more to hope for than the meanest survival.

He beams for a moment longer and then something distracts him. I can see a surprised look cross his face, and in moments he is choking and crying, and his rockers come forwards and brush me aside to take him out of the cradle and carry him off to the wet nurse. I let them take him, and I go down to the great hall to tell Jasper that baby Henry has smiled at me too.

Jasper waits for me in the stable yard. A big dark horse is standing beside him, its large head bowed, its tail swishing. “Is he for me?” I ask. I try not to sound anxious, but he is, undoubtedly, a very large horse indeed, and I have ridden only little ponies when led by the master of horse, or pillion behind a groom on long journeys.

“This is Arthur,” Jasper says gently. “And he is big. But he is very calm and steady and a good horse for you to learn to ride. He was my father’s warhorse, but he is too old now for jousting. Yet he is afraid of nothing, and he will carry you safely anywhere you command.”

The horse raises his head and looks at me, and there is something
so trustworthy about the steady darkness of his gaze that I step forwards and hold out my hand. The big head comes down, the wide nostrils sniff at my glove, then gently, he lips at my fingers.

“I shall walk beside you, and Arthur will go quietly,” Jasper promises me. “Come here and I will lift you up into the saddle.”

I go to him and he lifts me up and helps me to sit astride. When I am safely in the saddle, he pulls down the hem of my gown so it falls evenly on either side of the horse and covers my boots. “There,” he says. “Now keep your legs still, but gently pressed against him. That way he knows you are there, and you hold yourself steady. Take up the reins.”

I lift them, and Arthur’s big head comes up, alerted by my touch. “He won’t go off, will he?” I ask nervously.

“Only when you give him a gentle kick, to tell him you are ready. And when you want him to stop, you make a gentle pull on the reins.” Jasper reaches up and moves my hands so the reins are threaded through my fingers. “Just let him walk two steps forwards so you know that you can make him start and stop.”

Tentatively, I give a little kick with both heels, and I am startled by the first big rolling stride forwards, and I pull on the reins. Obediently, he stops at once. “I did it!” I say breathlessly. “He stopped for me! Did he? Did he stop because I told him?”

Jasper smiles up at me. “He will do anything for you. You just have to give him a clear signal so he knows what it is that you want him to do. He served my father loyally. Edmund and I learned to joust on him, and now he will be your tutor. Perhaps he will live long enough and baby Henry will learn to ride on him. Now walk him out of the stable yard and into the courtyard before the castle.”

More confidently, I give Arthur the signal to start, and this time I let him go on. His huge shoulders move forwards, but his back is so broad that I can sit firmly and steadily. Jasper walks at his head, but he does not touch the rein. It is me, and me alone, who makes the
horse walk to the courtyard and then through the gate, and then out to the road that leads down to Pembroke.

Jasper strolls beside me as if he is out to take the air. He does not look up at me, nor glance at the horse. He gives the impression of a man walking beside a perfectly competent horsewoman; he is just there for company. Only when we have gone some distance down the road does he say: “Would you like to turn him around now, and head for home?”

“How does he turn?”

“You turn his head by pulling it gently round. He will know what you mean. And you give him a little squeeze with your leg to tell him to go on walking.”

I do no more than touch the rein and the big head turns and Arthur circles around and heads for home. It is easy to walk back up the hill, and then I steer him through the courtyard and to the stables, and without telling, he goes to stand beside the mounting block and waits for me to get off.

Jasper helps me down and then slips me a heel of bread to give to the horse. He shows me how to keep my hand flat so Arthur can find his titbit with his gentle lips, and then he shouts for a stable boy to take the horse away.

“Would you like to ride again tomorrow?” he asks. “I could come out with you on my horse; they could go side by side and we could go farther. Perhaps down to the river.”

“I should like that,” I say. “Are you going to the nursery now?”

He nods. “He is usually awake about now. They will let me undo the swaddling and he can kick for a bit. He likes it when he is free.”

“You do like him very much, don’t you?”

He nods shyly. “He is all I have left of Edmund,” he says. “He is the last of us Tudors. He is the most precious thing in the castle. And who knows? One day he might be the most precious thing in Wales, even in England itself.”

In Henry’s nursery I see that Jasper is a welcome and regular visitor. He has his own chair where he sits and watches the baby being slowly unwrapped from the swaddling bands. He does not flinch from the smell of the dirty clout nor turn his head away. Instead, he leans forwards and inspects the baby’s bottom carefully for any signs of redness or soreness, and when they tell him they have greased the baby with the oil from the sheep fleeces as he ordered, he nods and is satisfied. Then when the baby is cleaned, they put a warm woolen blanket on Jasper’s knees, and he lays the baby on his back and tickles his little feet and blows on his bare tummy, and the baby kicks and squirms with joy at his freedom.

I watch this like a stranger, feeling odd and out of place. This is my baby, but I don’t handle him easily like this. Awkwardly, I go to kneel beside Jasper so I can take one of the little hands and look at the tiny fingernails and the creases in the fat little palm, the exquisite little lines around his plump wrist. “He is beautiful,” I say wonderingly. “But are you not afraid of dropping him?”

“Why would I drop him?” Jasper asks. “If anything, I am most likely to spoil him with too much attention. Your lady governess says a child should be left alone and not played with every day.”

“She’d say anything that meant she could sit longer over her dinner or sleep in her chair,” I say acidly. “She persuaded my mother that I should not have a tutor for Latin because she knew it would make more work for her. I won’t have her tutoring him.”

“Oh no,” Jasper says. “He’ll have a proper scholar. We’ll get someone from one of the universities, Cambridge probably. Someone who can give him a good grounding in everything he’ll need to know. The modern subjects as well as the classics: geography and mathematics as well as rhetoric.”

He leans forwards and plants a smacking kiss on Henry’s warm
little belly. The baby gurgles with pleasure and waves his little hands.

“He’s not likely to inherit, you know,” I remind him, denying my own belief. “He doesn’t need the education of a prince. There is the king on the throne and Prince Edward to come after him; and the queen is young, she can easily have more children.”

Jasper hides the baby’s face with a little napkin and then whisks it away. The baby gives a little shout of surprise and delight. Jasper does it again, and again, and again. Clearly, the two of them could play this game all day.

“He may never be more than a royal cousin,” I repeat. “And then your care of him and his education will all have gone to waste.”

Jasper holds the baby close to him, warmed in his blanket. “Ah no. He is precious on his own account,” he says to me. “He is precious as my brother’s child and the grandson of my father, Owen Tudor, and my mother, God bless her, who was Queen of England. He is precious to me as your child—I don’t forget your sufferings as you gave birth to him. And he is precious as a Tudor. As for the rest—we will learn the future as God wills. But if they ever call for Henry Tudor, then they will find that I have kept him safe and prepared him so that he is ready to rule.”

“Whereas they will never call for me, and I won’t be fit for anything but to be a wife, if I am even alive,” I say irritably.

Jasper looks at me and does not laugh. He looks at me and it is as if, for the first time in my life, someone has seen me and understood me. “You are the heir whose bloodline gives Henry his claim to the throne,” he says. “You, Margaret Beaufort. And you are precious to God. You know that, at least. I have never known a woman more devout. You are more like an angel than a girl.”

I glow, the way a lesser woman would blush if someone praised her beauty. “I didn’t know you had even noticed.”

“I have, and I think you have a real calling. I know that you
can’t be an abbess, of course not. But I do think you have a calling to God.”

“Yes, but Jasper, what good is it being devout, if I am not to be an example to the world? If all that they will allow for me is a marriage to someone who hardly cares for me at all, and then an early death in childbed?”

“These are dangerous and difficult times,” he says thoughtfully, “and it is hard to know what one should do. I thought that my duty was to be a good second to my brother, and to hold Wales for King Henry. But now my brother is dead, it is a constant battle to hold Wales for the king, and when I go to court the queen herself tells me that I should be commanded by her and not by the king. She tells me that the only safety for England is to follow her and she will lead us to peace and alliance with France, our great enemy.”