First of the Tudors

‘We are royalty,’ he retorted when I questioned this. ‘The king confirmed it last night. We are “in the purple”.’

‘We have not yet been knighted or belted,’ I persisted. ‘You will be considered presumptuous.’

‘Bah! I do not care what people think. The colour suits me and I will wear it. I guarantee the queen will compliment me on my choice.’

To ensure that his appearance attracted even more attention he wore the same yellow hosen that had frightened the sheep in Wales. The belt slung around his hips was set with amethysts and the doublet was trimmed with something that looked suspiciously like sable, which was in the same sartorial category as purple, but Edmund claimed it was marten.

My own appearance was probably unremarkable beside my brother’s but I was pleased with the belt I had found, studded with stones of polished green agate to match my emerald green doublet with cream-panelled sleeves and with my parti-coloured hose of dark red and blue. The barber had trimmed my hair and shaved my cheeks smooth and I had bathed in lavender-scented water for the occasion.

Mellow with food and wine from the feast, I stood aside to observe Edmund lead the queen onto the floor and tried to steady my nerves at the prospect of doing the same in my turn. Judging by her dimpled smiles, Queen Marguerite was delighted with the nimble-footed Edmund, and I feared my ability on the dance floor would not match his, despite much effort on the part of a French dancing master.

However, I forgot these qualms as my attention was drawn to the charming sight of a tiny girl with long dark chestnut hair, which swung as she danced and was held off her perfect little face by a slim gold circlet. I recognized the man she danced with as one of the king’s household knights who rejoiced in the name of Sir John St John but it was the girl who caught my interest. Her pink gown was trimmed with pearls and figured with gold daisies, and the bodice was cut straight across her chest in the fashion ladies adopted to show off the swell of their breasts. But this girl was too young for breasts. She could have been no more than ten years old and I wondered what she was doing at court at such a tender age; then I forgot my curiosity, absorbed in the gracefulness of her dancing. Erect and straight-backed, her small feet seeming barely to touch the floor, she danced the estampie, a lively French dance involving intricate stamping steps as the name implied, that built to a crescendo of energetic jumps and whirls. The girl’s slender body began to sway and leap with supple strength, keeping perfect time as the pace increased, completely at one with the music, smiling all the while, a sweet, secret smile as if delighted with the place it took her to. The girl’s demure presence seemed dominant in the dance; she was always in the right position, yet she seemed unaware of who took her hand or with whom she turned but danced as if she alone were on the floor. Even the queen’s glittering and glamorous figure was outshone. I could not take my eyes off her.

‘Congratulations on your impending ennoblement, Master Jasper; I see you are enjoying my daughter’s dancing.’

I turned in surprise. At first glance the woman who stood beside me appeared to be an adult version of the same girl, except her hair was hidden under a black turban headdress studded with jewels and her gown was a darker pink with old-fashioned trailing sleeves. She stood as slight and straight as her daughter but her face was wrinkled and faintly mottled.

I made her a bow. ‘You have the advantage of me, my lady, in that you know my name.’

‘I am Lady Welles but my daughter’s name is Beaufort, Lady Margaret Beaufort. Her father was the first Duke of Somerset, the present duke’s late brother.’

The music raced to a climax, accompanying my moment of enlightenment. ‘Ah – the Somerset heiress,’ I found myself saying and then wished I had not.

Lady Welles frowned. ‘Indeed. Most men measure her worth by her estates but I thought you had discerned something more. You did not appear to be counting her fortune as you watched her.’

‘She is very young,’ I said, feeling the accursed blush creep up my neck. ‘But even so, yes, there is certainly something remarkable about her.’ The music crashed onto its final chord. It was over, and the dancers made their acknowledgements. I bowed politely again to Lady Welles. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I am obliged to the queen for the next dance. I hope we meet again.’

Walking away, I cast a last glance at Margaret Beaufort as her partner escorted her from the dance floor. She was not in the least out of breath. Suddenly I wished it was her rather than the queen that I was pledged to dance with, naively believing that so young a girl would not judge me or compare me with my brother. She appeared to be a creature of the air rather than the earth, reminding me of one of the hovering angels illuminating my psalter.

As I had anticipated, the next dance was a slow one. Edmund had performed all the leaps and kicks demanded by the estampie and now I was able to relax into a bass, performed to a largo given by a piper and a solo singer. It began with alternate men and women holding hands and circling in a series of short and long steps first one way then the other, interspersed with graceful individual spins and regular changes of position through the centre, couples forming the spokes of a wheel and turning back and forth. The moves were intricate but the pace was slow, the intention being for the dancers to show off their balance and posture rather than their stamina. Happily there was little opportunity for conversation as we weaved across, around and between each other, passing with smiles and nods, until the dance ended and we found ourselves once more with our partner for a final bow.

‘Thank you, brother,’ Queen Marguerite said, raising her hand in mine ready to be escorted from the floor. ‘That was a pleasant, easy dance. You and your brother are not in the least alike are you? Neither on or off the floor.’

I wondered where this was leading and if I was about to receive an unfavourable comparison with Edmund. ‘Well, we are close in age, your grace, but not twins, as you know,’ I replied.

‘No, you are not.’ She gave me a sideways glance. ‘Edmund is a charming companion – witty and amusing – but I know which brother I would prefer as a father to my children.’

Alarmed by this extraordinary remark, I swallowed hard, wondering if I had heard her right; then I managed to gather my faculties enough to smile and make my response. ‘You mean our brother the king obviously, your grace.’

Her lips pursed and her voice dropped almost to a whisper, so that I had to bend my head to hear her. ‘The king will be the father of my children of course, when God permits it, but we have waited a long time as you cannot have failed to notice. Too long.’

Conversation all around us effectively prevented her words reaching any ears but mine; even so the blood rushed to my cheeks and I suddenly felt hot all over. The subject seemed far too intimate for such a public situation; too intimate for discussion between us at all. Instinctively I glanced across at King Henry on his throne, removed from the dancing and conversing with the Duke of Somerset, who perched beside him on a stool. As we drew nearer Queen Marguerite tightened her grip on my hand and drew me to a halt. We stood isolated in the respectful space preserved between the energetic activity of the dance floor and the raised dais with its royal presence, alone in the midst of many.

The queen took a deep breath and locked eyes with me. ‘We have been married nearly seven years and I have been a true wife to him only as many times. How can Henry imagine we will ever give England an heir? Yet it is not him the people blame, it is me. You can help me in this matter, Jasper, I know you can.’

I felt the room spin around me. Could I trust what I was hearing? Was the queen actually suggesting that I might get her with child? I could not believe this was what she meant but I perceived deep desperation in her dark eyes. Outwardly she was the glamorous, twenty-one-year-old Queen of England but inwardly perhaps she was still the girl of just fifteen who had married a king, with no one to turn to for help in achieving the one thing she must to fulfil her life’s purpose. Except now she had chosen me. What could I say? What should I say?

My throat constricted and I swallowed again. ‘I am flattered that you think so, your grace. It will always be my intention to serve you but in this matter I cannot immediately see how.’

She squeezed my hand again and turned to glance at King Henry who, alarmingly, was gazing straight at us with a puzzled look on his face. ‘No, I can see that you do not,’ she said, suddenly flashing me a dazzling smile, ‘but perhaps you will give it some thought. It is a matter of some importance that the kingdom has an heir. I asked my lord of Somerset’s advice but he is still thinking about it.’ She aimed her social smile at the king and he turned hastily away. ‘For now, perhaps you might get Henry to enjoy himself a little? It is Christmas and people like to see him laugh at such a time. Now you may take me back to the king.’

Queen Marguerite’s ladies materialized as if from nowhere and helped settle her voluminous skirts between the arms of her throne. The king half rose to greet her return and the Duke of Somerset took the opportunity to slip away in the direction of a servant who was circulating with a flagon of hippocras.

‘I enjoyed the dance you did with Jasper, my lady,’ King Henry said. ‘It was very graceful, but the first dance was a little – err – vigorous was it not? Rather undignified for a queen.’

Queen Marguerite smiled blandly and ignored the implied criticism. ‘Your brother is going to procure some hippocras, my liege. I think a digestif might be good for all of us.’

She looked at me and moved her eyes meaningfully in the direction the duke had taken and I needed no second bidding, quickly commandeering the servant’s flagon before sending him off to fetch sweetmeats as well. As I poured the wine into the cups set out on a table between the two thrones the musicians struck up again. It needed surprisingly little persuasion on the part of the queen for Henry to accept a measure of the sweet, spiced hippocras and I obeyed his invitation to take the duke’s vacated stool. In due course the servant provided a heaped platter of almond wafers and the three of us nibbled and drank as we watched the dancing.

Fortified with the heady wine, Somerset had taken to the floor with his niece Margaret Beaufort, and Queen Marguerite was quick to remark that they made an odd couple.

‘I am reminded of the story of the ogre and the little maid my nurse told me when I was a child,’ she said. ‘Do you know it?’

She held out her cup, which I hastily rose to fill, and it was the king who answered.

‘I cannot allow you to call Somerset an ogre, my lady!’ he protested, looking shocked but amused at the same time. ‘He is a man of culture and refinement.’

‘Perhaps, but his appearance has become quite craggy. His niece is a pearl, however. There must be forty years between them. I would wager that she considers him an ogre.’ Marguerite took another good gulp of wine. ‘Do you not agree, Jasper?’

I nodded and smiled and offered sweetmeats. The hippocras was working quickly. ‘I am surprised to see a girl of such tender years at court,’ I remarked. ‘Young ladies do not usually attend until they are marriageable.’

Out of the king’s line of sight Queen Marguerite was nodding in his direction and making urgent pouring movements. King Henry put down his empty cup and I leaned behind his throne to refill it. She nudged it towards him and smiled encouragingly. To my surprise he picked it up and drank again. The whole occasion had taken on a bizarre, carousing quality and I began to wonder if I had imagined what had passed between the queen and myself only minutes before.

‘The king invited her mother to bring Lady Margaret to court,’ Marguerite revealed.

‘I wanted to take a look at her,’ Henry said, his eyes following the girl as she glided through the intricate steps of another dance. ‘She was contracted in infancy to the Suffolk heir but Somerset suggested that I have the match annulled.’ I thought I detected a slight slur in his voice.

‘Did he?’ The queen sounded astonished. ‘He surely can’t want her for his own heir – they are too closely related.’

‘No but she is fatherless and his niece and he thinks she could do better. Young Suffolk shows little promise, neither in arms nor intellect.’ Henry gulped more wine and nursed his cup, his eyes on his new protégée. ‘She certainly dances well.’

This observation surprised me further. It was always understood that Henry disapproved of dancing and yet it seemed that he might have been watching Margaret Beaufort just as intently as I had.

‘Will you now make her a royal ward, then?’ the queen asked.

Henry cast a glance at me over the rim of his cup and swallowed another gulp. ‘No. I thought to give her as ward to Edmund and Jasper,’ he said and I nearly choked on my wine. ‘She can go on living with her mother of course but in the meantime the revenues from her estates will supplement their incomes nicely. Edmund’s Richmond holdings are not vast and some of your Pembroke estates are tied up in legal wrangling, Jasper, so the Somerset lands will provide you both with enough immediate funds to establish your new households.’

‘Your grace is more than generous,’ I spluttered. ‘You have already shown us immense favour.’

A wry smile lifted one side of the king’s mouth. ‘It might seem logical for the Duke of Somerset to hold the lands that pertain to his title but that would not work in the present political climate. I was content for him to assume the dukedom after his unfortunate brother died but if I grant him the lands as well, the Duke of York will find more cause to accuse me of favouritism. No, I wish my brothers to have them and they shall.’

It occurred to me that he would never have confided these thoughts had he not freely partaken of the Christmas spirit but I was certainly not going to argue with him. Being recognized as the king’s nearest relatives was likely to prove a costly business and any grant of extra funds was welcome.

A bold household knight appeared beside the queen’s throne and, with a deep bow, begged the favour of a dance, which she graciously conceded. Henry took the opportunity of her absence to suggest that he and I retire to his private chamber. ‘I have more to discuss with you about the Somerset wardship, Jasper. Send a message to Edmund to join us – and order more hippocras,’ he added, standing and signalling the alert heralds to lower their instantly raised trumpets. ‘We do not need a fanfare. Let the merrymaking continue without interruption.’

I collared a page to carry out the king’s orders and we made our exit from the great hall via the privy door at the back of the dais. A cloister and a stairway led to the royal apartments and King Henry walked there in silence, giving me an opportunity to ponder my extraordinary conversation with the queen. Had she actually hinted that in a desperate attempt to conceive an heir to the throne I might take her husband’s place in her bed, or had she made a cry for help of another kind? The first possibility appalled me. I had found little opportunity to sow wild oats, my life being governed in recent years by tutors and masters at arms, and had no reason to think that I would be any more successful at procreation than Henry. And, far more importantly, beautiful though Marguerite was, the very notion of cuckolding my brother went against every Christian principle those greybeard governors had been so careful to instil. I decided to cling to the idea that the queen’s true intention had been that I should use brotherly privilege and every ounce of tact I possessed to encourage Henry to try a little harder and certainly more often in the queen’s bed, if not for his own satisfaction, then for the benefit of the kingdom. As a waiting chamberlain threw open the door to the royal chamber I took a deep breath and made a vow to seize the moment, hoping Edmund would not arrive too soon and interrupt my efforts.

The sharp winter cold of the open cloister seemed to have dispelled Henry’s slight slur and so when the fresh supply of hippocras arrived I quickly poured another measure, which he showed no hesitation in accepting.

‘I find warm spiced wine an excellent soother of the stomach after the over-indulgence of Christmas fare,’ he confessed a little sheepishly, taking a chair beside the glowing fire. ‘Please tell me if I begin to appear inebriated, Jasper. I so dislike drunkenness in others.’

‘There is never any question of you appearing anything but sober, my liege,’ I assured him.

Henry leaned closer, his brow creasing in concern. ‘It is not necessary for you to address me so formally when we are alone, Jasper. I like to think that in circumstances such as this we can converse freely together as brothers. And please sit.’ He waved at the chair on the opposite side of the hearth.

I sat. It was now or never. I wet my lips with the hippocras and gave a nervous preliminary cough. ‘Thank you, Henry; if I may call you Henry, sire?’ How foolish that sounded but he gave me an encouraging wave and so I ploughed on. ‘Forgive me for asking but I wonder whether your promotion of Edmund and me and your interest in Margaret Beaufort may have come as a result of concern at your own isolation? The throne must be a lonely place when you do not have close family, whose loyalty you can rely on.’

At this point Henry’s attitude became avuncular rather than brotherly. ‘For a young man you are very perceptive, Jasper. Yes, I have certainly felt the lack of relatives of the kind that many of my nobles seem to rely on in large numbers. That is why I have come to value you and Edmund so highly.’

I took the plunge. ‘Of course there would be no such lack if you and the queen were to have a family of your own …’

My words hung between us like feathers caught in an up draught, hovering weightless, before their slow, hesitant descent into meaning. Henry resorted to another large gulp from his cup. Then, after due consideration and yet more alcoholic encouragement, his response came like a bolt from the blue. ‘Was this what you were talking about with Marguerite after your dance together?’

In future it would be hard for critics of his reign to persuade me that Henry was always an arrow short of a full quiver. ‘No. Well yes, indirectly,’ I stuttered. ‘She told me how happy she was that you were favouring your brothers and mentioned how much she regretted you having no children of your own as yet. She seems to think that the people blame her for this.’

Henry’s brow creased deeply and at first I thought it was in anger. I steeled myself for his reprimand but instead he drained his cup and then replaced it with careful deliberation on the table. ‘She obviously already trusts you with her confidences, Jasper, and I am going to do the same,’ he said. ‘And what I am going to tell you must never be repeated to anyone, not even your brother and certainly not Marguerite. Do I have your word on that?’

The solemnity of the moment was striking. I pulled from beneath my doublet the reliquary I wore: it held a trace of the blood of Saint Thomas Becket and had been given to me for protection by the Abbess of Barking when we left her charge to begin our training as knights. The saint’s sister Mary Becket had been a nun at Barking and had received the martyred Archbishop’s bloodstained garments following his murder at Canterbury Cathedral. They had become an object of pilgrimage to the abbey and the tiny scrap of bloodstained cloth that the abbess had snipped from them was my most sacred and treasured possession. ‘You have my oath on holy Becket’s blood, my liege.’

What he saw in my eyes seemed to satisfy him. ‘Good. Then I will reveal to you that I have never liked the process of procreation. It does not come naturally to me as it does to other men and my late lamented confessor, Bishop William Ayscough, encouraged me to steer my energies instead towards the worship of God and his saints. Like Saint Thomas, the bishop was also murdered by evil men you know, outside one of his own churches after he had celebrated Sunday Mass. He was like a father to me.’ He faltered, as though there were a lump in his throat.

I risked a supplementary point. ‘And he was the priest who married you to the queen. Did he not speak as well of the obligations of the marriage contract? Even I, though not yet wed, am aware that between man and wife there is a debt each owes to the other in the marital bed. Is it fair, or even legal, to fail your wife in this debt and expose her to the unjust censure of your subjects when no heir is conceived?’

I was not sure if Henry heard me because he only asked if there was more wine in the flagon. He put the cup to his lips the instant it was full, and it occurred to me then that perhaps an inebriated husband was exactly what Queen Marguerite had in mind when she suggested that I get Henry to enjoy himself a little. Certainly I was not entirely sober myself.

‘Women are strange creatures are they not?’ my royal brother mused, nursing his cup fondly in both hands, as if anxious not to let it out of his sight. ‘Their conversation is all of material matters; who should marry whom, how great will be the dower, of which fabric shall a gown be made. They have little concern for their souls and much for their bodies. Marguerite is no different. I find I cannot bear to use her body in the necessary way to bring about a child when she responds the way she does, with such enthusiasm. Why can I not just take her quietly and discreetly and then return to my prayers?’ He stared deeply into the dark wine, pondering his next words. ‘When I was your age I knew nothing of such things. In truth I know little now and wish to know less. I told your tutors not to let you become corrupted by loose women and feckless companions. They are the ruin of many a young man. I hope you are keeping yourself pure and unsullied, Jasper.’

I stared at him, hearing a maudlin tone in his voice and wondering if he ever really enjoyed himself. I felt a twinge of irritation, combined with a surge of affection for this intelligent yet strangely innocent man who seemed to have become old before his time and who, as a result, had never truly experienced human love. How could he be our mother’s son, the child of a woman who had refused to submit to the restraints imposed on her and had secretly loved and married the man of her choice, a lowly Welsh squire? Our mother had craved happiness and fulfilment, and she had also greatly loved the children who were the result of this reckless passion. I had disappointingly little memory of her face but I vividly recalled her fragrance and the warmth of her embrace. It was a tragedy that this cold and pious Henry could not remember the joy of his mother’s love. It would be so much the better for Queen Marguerite if he did.

‘But achieving the honour of fatherhood, Henry, implies no impurity. Perhaps if you were to try to please your wife a little more often you would find that her enthusiasm is a measure of her sense of duty,’ I suggested, suddenly careless of whether I angered him or not. ‘I know I look forward to finding such a wife myself in due course. Surely every man does.’

The maudlin tone persisted in Henry. ‘But how would I do that, Jasper? Please my wife I mean?’ His pale, greenish-blue eyes pleaded across the hearth, like those of a trembling hound.

It was probably the wine talking but I said the first thing that came into my head, brother to brother. ‘Put God to the back of your mind for an hour or so, Henry, and concentrate on her. You are a man after all. And she is beautiful, you know.’

There was a scratching on the door and it suddenly opened to allow the entrance of the queen, escorted by Edmund. Henry and I both jumped as if caught in some act of petty larceny and Marguerite’s gaze went immediately from the cup in her husband’s hands to my expression of startled guilt. Her delighted smile caused Henry’s jaw to drop in amazement.