She was determined to honour the Earl of Somerset and her hatred of the Duke of York was deep. She enjoyed reviling him; she revelled in her hatred. She thought that if he would only go far enough she would have his head on London Bridge.

One cold March day she was at her writing-table. She was trying to make a match for one of her serving-women. She so much enjoyed matchmaking and she found the very man for her woman. She would break the good news to them, get them married and perhaps attend the christening of the first child.

She had several protégées for whom she had made marriages.

She loved to dabble in their affairs, to watch over them, to listen to their troubles and to follow the course of their lives. When they had children she was pleased but often a little envious. It did not seem right that the common people should be able to bear children while those to whom children were of the utmost importance remained barren.

Neither she nor Henry were passionately interested in the act of procreation. It was to them both a necessary duty, but she was growing rather disheartened. It was nine years and in spite of their dutiful efforts there was still no sign of a child. If she could have a son what a joy that would be. York would be silenced forever.

As she rose from her writing-table she wondered whether to summon her woman and tell her the good news. ‘You are to be married,’ she would tell the astonished girl; and she hoped she would be suitably grateful.

She sent for the woman. While she was talking to her one of her attendants came in to say that a messenger had arrived and was asking for an audience with her.

She dismissed the woman and said she would deal with her affairs later. In the meantime she would receive the messenger.

She was delighted to see that he came from her father, but when she looked into his face she realized at once that it was not good news.

‘My lady,’ he said bowing low, ‘I come from the King of Sicily your noble father. Here are letters for you but he said it might be better if I prepared you for the news.’

‘Then do so,’ she commanded.

‘Your noble mother the lady Isabelle is very ill.’

Margaret looked steadily at the messenger. ‘Do you mean she is dead?’ she asked.

‘My lady, I fear so.’

She nodded. ‘Give me the letters,’ she said. ‘Then go to the kitchen where they will refresh you after your journey.’

She took the letters from the messenger and saw that they were indeed in her father’s hand. She glanced through them. She would read them thoroughly later.

Her mother dead. She could scarcely believe it. Not that strong, vital woman.

Memories crowded into her mind. She remembered her mother more from her very early days. She would never forget that journey to the French court when Agnès Sorel had accompanied them.

Agnès...beautiful Agnès, beloved of a King.

She rose from her writing-table and as she did so she felt suddenly weak and dizzy. She clutched it for support and then slid back into her chair.

One of the women was running to her. Vaguely she heard her exclamation of alarm.

When she awoke she was resting on her bed and the doctors were there.

They were not sure, they told her. But there were signs. There was a possibility.

‘I am pregnant,’ she whispered.

‘My lady,’ was the answer, ‘it could well be so.’

She felt bewildered. Coming so soon on the shock of her mother’s death she could scarcely grasp it. Death on one hand and the possibility of birth—glorious birth—on the other. No wonder she felt bemused.

She must not become overexcited. She must wait until she could be certain before she told Henry.

There came a day when she was sure. She hurried to Henry and embraced him. He smiled gently at her.

‘It would seem that you have heard good news,’ he said.

‘The best possible news,’ she told him. ‘It has happened at last. Henry, I am with child.’

‘Forsooth and forsooth,’ he cried. ‘Can it really be so?’

‘I believe it to be so. The doctors do also.’

‘So long we have waited. So much effort...’

‘Nevertheless it is true. I am going to have a child. Think what this will mean. Think of York’s face when he hears of it. What use for him to flaunt his white rose now? This will change everything.’

‘If the child is a boy,’ began Henry.

‘It will be a boy,’ cried Margaret. ‘It must be a boy.’

###

She was right. York was stunned when he heard the news. If this child were a healthy boy it would destroy his hopes. A son...after nine years! But it was not born yet. It might never be and if it were a girl that would not be so dangerous, but a boy would be disaster.

‘Do you think it can be true?’ he asked Cecily.

‘I will believe it when I see the child,’ she retorted.

‘It is possible, of course. Perhaps it is just a rumour. I can’t believe that just at this time.’

‘You don’t think it is someone else’s?’

‘Somerset’s you mean?’

‘Can it be Henry’s? They say he is getting more and more feeble.’

‘He certainly is not interested in women. He has never had a mistress and I believe he has had to force himself to sleep with the Queen.’

Lusty Cecily laughed aloud. Then she said seriously: ‘The Queen is capable of anything, I do believe.’

‘We must wait in patience. For one thing the rumour may not be true, for another the child might not live.’

‘And if it does, Richard, and if it is a boy?’

‘Then it may be necessary to take the crown by force,’ answered Richard grimly.

‘So thought I at the time when there was that hostility in the Temple Gardens between the wearers of the white and red roses.’

‘Civil war is the last thing I want.’

‘But the alternative...?’

‘If we cannot settle by peaceful means then we shall have to resort to arms.’

Cecily nodded. ‘They are laughing, these Lancastrians, at their good fortune.’

‘They may not be laughing for long,’ answered Richard.

###

Henry was pleased with life. He refused to see the trouble all about him. Somerset fretted about York and declared that he was fomenting trouble. Henry did not believe him really. Henry liked to feel that men were good though now and then a little misguided perhaps, but he could not accept the fact that his kinsman of York meant any harm to him. Margaret, of course, agreed with Somerset. She was always telling him that he must not be so gentle, so ready to believe the good in everyone. Margaret was so fierce at times—only because she was fond of him, of course, and cared so much about the prosperity of the country.

This summer they were taking a long progress through the land. Henry liked to visit the monasteries and abbeys and colleges as he passed through the countryside and promised himself that he would build more. He was glad that they were getting out of France. Let others deplore their losses if they would; he thought that when they no longer had anything to fight for in France, it would be so much the better.

He felt rather strange now and then, so listless that all he wanted to do was to be alone with his books. Then he would sometimes find himself half asleep in the middle of his reading. Sometimes he would awaken with a start and wonder where he was and for some time be unable to recall.

He was delighted to see Margaret so contented now that she was to have a child. It was what she had desired more than anything.

‘At least now,’ she said, ‘they won’t be able to criticize me for my barrenness.’

He tried to tell her that they were not really criticizing her. They were merely anxious for there to be an heir to the throne. It was love of the country that made them sad about there not being one. Now it would be very different.

They were at Clarendon in the New Forest. Margaret was happy here. She loved to hunt but she was dispensing with that pleasure now for she was six months pregnant and growing larger every day. Some of the wise old women said that the way she carried the child indicated that it was a boy.