ell had looked round her on her first day at Woking NManor thinking,
Sweet Lord, I have come to work in a very beehive. And Margaret Beaufort is queen bee.
Lady Margaret’s sprawling estate southwest of London was only one of her many splendid properties scattered round England and Wales, properties that had come to her through inheritance from her parents, and three previous husbands before Thomas, Lord Stanley. It was well known that Lady Margaret was a wealthy woman, but it was not until Nell had stepped through the massive stone doorway, and beheld the richness of the surroundings and the constant influx and outgo both domestic and international, that she understood her employer’s stature in the scheme of international politics.
There were pages and couriers, noblemen and women seeking favors, bishops, bankers, guild runners, merchant adventurers, sea captains, and ambassadors, besides mysterious men and women who Nell supposed were spies, coming and going at all times of the day and night.
Lady Margaret herself was in constant motion, a tiny whirlwind. She slept but three hours a night, and prayed for three.
She had to be coaxed away from her office to eat birdlike portions—much of which was left on her plate—perpetually distracted by this or that piece of business that needed handling.
Supremely productive, demanding and exacting to a fault, her mind never ever ceased working. Nell imagined that her dreams must be mere continuations of her day. Indeed, her lady’s maid, Lydia, told Nell that when Margaret Beaufort opened her eyes in the morning, she woke in midsentence, making mental notes to herself and letting fly with a stream of instructions for the coming day. Yet she never tired, and was generally even-tempered with her large staff.
Only when someone was foolish enough to tarry momentarily or make an excuse that a particular task was impossible to accomplish did Lady Margaret reveal her ire. She suffered neither fools nor slouches in her household, and more than one mistake or offense was reason for immediate dismissal.
However—and Nell appreciated this—she offered praise for a job well done. Those she had carefully chosen to work for her seemed agreeable to her terms and not unhappy in her service.
Lady Margaret’s own steward at Woking was in complete charge of domestic cares, the woman of the house having no time for such petty distractions.
That steward was none other than Reginald Bray.
Nell’s first encounter with the man at Woking happened as she unpacked her things in the small but beautifully appointed room she’d been assigned on the third floor of the manor. Her door was ajar, and when she looked up, she found Reggie Bray leaning on the doorsill staring in at her. He actually smiled, showing the large horse’s teeth, and Nell was forced to bite her lip so as not to laugh aloud.
“She’s given you a very fine room of your own,” he said.
“Yes, ’tis lovely.”
“Much finer than the usual servant.”
“Is that so?”
Nell wondered where Reggie Bray’s bedchamber was, and if it was as elegant as her own. Part of her worried that it was not, and that his jealousy would mean trouble for her in the future.
The other perverse part hoped hers was the richer.
“Did you wish a word with me?” she asked.
“I have no need to speak with you, Mistress Caxton,” he replied in the rudest imaginable tone.
“Then, Master Bray,” she said with equal contempt, “leave me to my unpacking, if you please. And shut the door behind you.”
He just stood there and sniffed indignantly.
“You may shut it
now,
” she said.
He slammed the door hard.
“Haw-hee-haw!” she said after him.
Behind a beautiful door intricately carved with angels and demons and dragons, Margaret’s headquarters themselves resembled a beehive, the central office “the Queen’s Cell,” with a warren of smaller rooms surrounding it. A waiting room, a scribe’s chamber, a library, and a locked treasury complete with counting table and chests filled with a fortune in coin, plate, and jewels. There was an armory and a map room. And a luxurious receiving chamber for Lady Margaret’s important visitors, which resembled nothing less than a royal presence chamber.
On arrival, Lady Margaret had personally taken Nell on a tour of the household and offices, and fully explained the position for which she’d been hired. The job of second correspondence secretary was to log all incoming letters, deeds, documents, messengers, and audiences, and the same for all outgoing, in addition to making arrangements for their couriers.
Whilst the first correspondence secretary was privy to the
contents
of these materials and meetings, Nell was allowed only to record their comings and goings.
It was hard to believe, she wrote Bessie after several days, that so narrow a task could take up every moment of the working day. But narrow as the job was, Nell found it utterly fascinating. She had, in the past four months, lived in two royal households, and Woking, aside from the absence of royalty, was itself a miniature court.
Nell had been given a workplace in the scribe’s chamber, where two young men on stools hunched over their desks, each requiring several extra candles, even on the sunniest days, to illuminate their never-ending piles of documents.
Nell’s was a long, broad table, and it was always covered with paper and parchment letters and documents, ledgers and leather courier pouches. It astounded Nell how voluminous was Lady Margaret’s correspondence, and she became immediately curious about the contents of each and every article she handled.
Of especial interest were the number of letters she sent and received from her son, Henry Tudor, an exile abroad in Brittany for more than fifteen years. Mother and son wrote to each other every single day, which seemed to Nell—herself a loving and diligent daughter—somewhat excessive.
There were regular, perhaps once weekly, letters from Margaret’s husband, Lord Stanley, who was rarely at home. He lived at Westminster Court now, again in King Richard’s favor—his steward. Nell, remembering the role he’d played in the Hastings plot, wondered if the king kept the man so close by him because he trusted Stanley . . . or because he
mis
trusted him.
Whilst no letters arrived from, or were sent to, Lady Margaret’s nephew Harry Buckingham during the first week of her employment, Nell found a sheaf of old correspondence from him, tied with a leather thong. All she could surmise was that these letters were of some import to Margaret Beaufort, as they occupied a shelf close to letters from her son and husband. How she wished to lay her eyes on these!
Besides written correspondence, Nell was expected to schedule all of Lady Margaret’s appointments, which she termed, to Nell’s amazement, “audiences.” The woman quite clearly regarded herself as royalty. She was, after all, descended from the same ancestor as the York kings, and only the tricks of fate and vagaries of military action during the War of the Roses had kept Margaret Beaufort and Henry Tudor from the throne.
Margaret was careful, however, infinitely careful, to prove her loyalty to the Yorks every day. Nell had guessed at this, but was granted confirmation the same evening Lord Stanley returned home after a long absence at court. Nell, still learning her job, had stayed in her office long after the scribes had gone to their supper. Indeed, the “beehive” was quiet, and Nell believed she was alone.
Margaret had, however, stayed behind as well, for shortly Nell heard two voices, one her employer’s and another Nell recognized as Lord Stanley’s. She quickly went to the scribe’s door to tell Lady Margaret she was there. Nell had been told on her first day that sound carried very effectively down the corridors of Lady Margaret’s offices. She had planned it that way, surely so that nothing that went on there escaped her.
It would not do to be found eavesdropping on her employer and Lord Stanley. But the moment Nell showed herself at the doorway, Lady Margaret, seeing her, made what appeared to be a signal to her secretary, behind her husband’s back.
Could it be?
thought Nell.
I must be mistaken.
Margaret had touched her ear as though to say
listen,
but, with a subtle flick of the same finger, waved Nell back behind the scribe’s door.
There
it is again! The same signal.
Heart pounding, Nell silently stepped back out of sight, but the couple’s voices carried with perfect clarity down the hall to her.
“Are you writing to Henry?” Lord Stanley asked.
“I am. Shall I send him your regards?”
“If you would.”
“I only wish you knew my son,” said Margaret wistfully.
“ ’Tis been so long that even
I
have seen him. I wonder sometimes that if I came upon him without knowing it was Henry, I would even recognize him. Shameful, that.”
“Not shameful, Margaret. Simply the price of exile.”
“I suppose.”
Nell heard the scraping of wood on stone, and she imagined Lord Stanley pulling a bench beside his wife, who had gone silent, probably back to letter writing.
“How does King Richard like our little gift?” Lady Margaret inquired. The inflection with which she spoke the monarch’s name left no question in Nell’s mind that he was despised by her.
“How can he not like one of the loveliest estates in Suffolk?” Lord Stanley answered. “Of course he knows the purpose of the gift is an apology.”
Margaret’s voice grew icy. “An expensive apology, Thomas, one that was unnecessary had you listened to me at the outset.”
“I grant the Hastings affair was an unfortunate blunder.” Stanley sounded like a boy being chastised by his mother. “But I think your nephew’s suggestion of so overgenerous a mea culpa was unnecessary.”
“Dear Harry Buckingham is uniquely positioned just now.
He has the king’s ear and the king’s entire trust, both of which you sadly no longer possess.”
“I intend for this to change.”
“It had better. And soon.”
“Watch your tongue, Margaret! And temper your scolding.” Stanley was bristling. His wife was strong, but he recognized his own importance. “Remember,” he cautioned, “why so high-and-mighty a Lancaster as you still sits so close to the York throne.
Sits with her head still attached to her shoulders!”
“You’re quite right,” Margaret demurred. “You know that I’m very grateful.”
Margaret might be grateful, thought Nell, and she was wise enough to keep relations with her husband cordial, but the woman knew very well who ruled this household.
“Richard has gone north to Yorkshire for a time,” Stanley announced.
“He’s left London after three weeks on the throne?” Margaret said with genuine surprise. “Is he mad?”
“It has gone well enough for him here. Protests against the usurpation have been minimal, and his policies are more than acceptable to his subjects, both noble and common.”
“Then why is he leaving?” Margaret demanded.
“Our King Richard has a tough shell and a soft heart,” Stanley replied. “He may be acceptable to Londoners, but he’s keen to feel the warm embrace of people who
love
him. Only in the north can he find such people.”
Nell could imagine Lady Margaret wearing the look she assumed whilst she was thinking hard. The eyes were open, as though staring into an abyss or, conversely, a vast cauldron of opportunity. Her fingers would drum on the document upon which she was working. A serpentine tongue would flick over her thin lips. “Will you go north with him?” Nell finally heard her ask.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be leaving tomorrow.” There was yet another silence before Stanley continued.
“Will you at least pretend that you’ll miss me?” he said.
“Who would that fool, Thomas? But I do love you.”
“In your way,” he said.
“Is that enough?” Margaret Beaufort asked dispassionately.
“More than enough,” he answered.
“Good.” The single word was deliberate and final. Clearly it had ended the conversation.
Nell heard the stool scrape and footsteps retreat from the office. The heavy door closed.
“Mistress Caxton. Come in here, please,” Lady Margaret called. Her tone was brusque.
Oh, I am in trouble now,
Nell thought.
I must have misread Lady
Margaret’s signal. Two weeks on the job and I am finished. Disgraced
for eavesdropping.
Nell walked down the corridor to the main office, trying to wipe what must have been a look of pathetic confusion from her face.
Margaret Beaufort looked up, a mild expression in her steely eyes. “Be assured, Nell, that there was nothing in my conversation with Lord Stanley that I did not wish you to hear.” Lady Margaret executed that which served as her smile. “You are in my service now, and I expect your complete loyalty and utter discretion.”
“You have it, Lady Margaret. I assure you.”
“Why do you think I hired you, Nell?”
“Your previous second correspondence secretary—”
“It had nothing whatsoever to do with Master Childs.”
“Why
did
you hire me, Lady Margaret?” Nell was relieved to have found her voice, and not left standing tongue-tied and stupid before her employer.
“Because your mind is sharp,” Margaret answered. “Because you are brilliantly educated. Because you are a woman. But most importantly”—Lady Margaret looked Nell dead in the eye—“because I perceive that you can be useful to me.”
“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” said Nell, humbled by the answer. “I hope I will prove your trust and your very generous belief in my abilities.”
“As do I,” Margaret said, returning to her letter writing, thus dismissing her secretary.
Nell turned toward the scribe’s chamber.
“Leave the work and go have your supper, Nell.”
“Yes, madam.”
Nell turned back again to find Lady Margaret gazing up at her. She smiled feebly at the noblewoman, aware of how insignificant she felt in the woman’s presence. As she opened the office door to leave, she heard Margaret say, “Approach men with a fine balance of humility and boldness. This balance
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