appointment was the Duke of York’s idea, Jasper,’ he whispered. There was still a fresh scar on his neck where the arrow had so nearly severed a vital blood vessel. ‘He is very angry about our royal dignity being disparaged in Wales. I thought it best not to argue with him.’
In making my response I swapped my usual cheerful tone for what I hoped was a gently persuasive one. ‘I understand completely, my liege, but on this occasion I believe second thoughts are needed. Highly as I know you regard Edmund, I submit that he is not the man for this task. He makes no secret of the fact that he does not like the Welsh, which must seriously affect the chances of successful negotiations with the local chieftains.’
Henry frowned. ‘But he is Welsh himself and the appointment has been made public. It cannot be changed.’
I tried not to sound exasperated. ‘You are the king, Henry. If you believe an error has been made then you can cancel the appointment.’
He shook his head vehemently, as if trying to eject a buzzing insect from his ear. ‘No. No, I will not do that, Jasper. I cannot.’
Reluctantly I let the matter drop. A time was to come when I would wish that I had not.
Bletsoe Castle, Bedfordshire
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE regrettable clash of arms at St Albans, Edmund and Margaret stood before the altar in the chapel at her mother’s castle of Bletsoe in Bedfordshire. It was a cold day and the bride’s blue and silver mantle embroidered with the Beaufort portcullis swamped her small frame; a jewelled circlet secured her long dark hair. She was twelve and a half years old and dwarfed by Edmund who stood tall and magnificent and twice her age, at his physical and fashionable fittest. During our two-day ride from Westminster to Bletsoe, I had asked him why Lady Welles had agreed to the wedding while her daughter was still so young but he informed me gleefully that Margaret had more or less demanded to be married.
‘She says her prayers have been answered. I think she is somewhat in love with me.’
The look of smug satisfaction on his face stung me to anger and my right fist developed a sudden desire to make contact with his chiselled chin, which I resisted only with difficulty. ‘But you must not bed her until she is older, Edmund.’
Edmund gave a noncommittal shrug, avoiding my gaze. ‘That rather depends on Margaret. Lady Welles confides that her daughter has flowered – a rather coy euphemism I think – but it does imply that both nature and the law deem her ready for deflowering.’ He turned to face me then, delighted with his own coarse wit.
I swallowed an explosion of wrath and fought to keep my voice steady. ‘She is not though, Edmund, is she? And you know it. You only have to look at her. She is still a child. Where are the breasts? Where are the womanly curves? And apart from anything else, whatever the Church’s rule on canonical age, conception would endanger Margaret’s life and that of the child.’
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