History remembers Margaret Beaufort as a devoted mother, a pious noblewoman, a woman who prayed for her son from a distance and wept when he finally came home. That is the story she wanted told. She was also the most dangerous political mind of the fifteenth century, and the two things are not separate.
They are the same thing, seen from different angles.
Margaret Beaufort was born on the thirty-first of May 1443, the only child of John Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, and Margaret Beauchamp of Bletso, a descendant of John of Gaunt through his legitimised Beaufort line: a line that carried royal blood and a complication, because the Beauforts had been explicitly barred from the succession by Henry IV in 1407, a restriction that later Lancastrian monarchs quietly ignored and that would become, depending on whose lawyers you believed, either the foundation of a dynasty or the justification for one.
She was barely a year old when her father died, which means she inherited the shape of his absence before she had language to describe it. She was seven when she was married for the first time, to John de la Pole, a child arrangement annulled before it meant anything. She was twelve when she was married for the second time, to Edmund Tudor, which meant something immediately.
She was thirteen when she gave birth to the only child her body would ever produce, a difficult labour that damaged her so thoroughly she never conceived again. The child was a boy. She named him Henry. She spent the next twenty-eight years getting him a crown.
To understand what Margaret did you have to understand what she survived first. She was a Lancastrian heiress in the Wars of the Roses, which meant she was a valuable piece on a board being played by men who changed sides with the specific frequency of people for whom survival was more important than consistency.
She was married four times. Her first husband, John de la Pole, was a child marriage annulled before it was consummated. Her second, Edmund Tudor, fathered Henry and died of plague in November 1456 while Margaret was still pregnant, three months before the birth. She was thirteen, widowed, heavily pregnant, and in the custody of her brother-in-law Jasper Tudor, and she managed. She always managed.
Her third husband, Henry Stafford, was a decent man who fought at Barnet on the Lancastrian side and died of his wounds in 1471, the year that Edward IV returned to the throne and the Lancastrian cause appeared to be finished entirely. Margaret attended his deathbed and then buried him and looked at the board and calculated her position.
Her fourth husband, Thomas Stanley, was not chosen for love or companionship. He was chosen because he was the most powerful magnate in the north of England and because a woman in Margaret's position needed a protector with real political weight, and because Stanley's particular skill was the careful management of his own interests, and Margaret understood that perfectly and intended to use it.
She conformed. This is the part that is easy to miss if you are reading the surface of her life. Through the 1470s, while Henry was in exile in Brittany and Edward IV was king and the Yorkist settlement appeared permanent, Margaret Beaufort attended court, served the Yorkist queens, performed the loyalty of a woman who had accepted the new order and found her place within it.
She was given back her lands. She was received at court. She moved in the careful, watchful way of someone who understands that the board is not finished and that appearing finished is the most important move available. She was waiting. Nobody watching her would have known she was waiting, because she was very good at not appearing to be the thing she was.
Then on the ninth of April 1483 Edward IV died unexpectedly of what the sources describe variously as pneumonia, a chill caught while fishing, or a general physical collapse brought on by twenty years of eating and drinking in quantities that his body had finally declined to continue processing. He was forty-one years old. He left two sons: Edward, Prince of Wales, aged twelve, and Richard, Duke of York, aged nine. He left a brother: Richard, Duke of Gloucester, thirty years old, experienced, capable, and in possession of the largest private army in England.
He also left a political situation of the specific instability that follows the death of a strong king who has left children too young to rule and adults too ambitious to wait.
What happened next is the question that has occupied historians for five hundred years and that the Tudor narrative resolved with a clean, convenient answer that later evidence has made considerably less clean and considerably less convenient.
Richard of Gloucester took the young king into his protection on the road to London. He placed him in the Tower of London, which was at that time a royal residence as well as a fortress. He secured the person of the younger boy Richard as well. He removed the Woodville faction, the family of the boys' mother Elizabeth Woodville, from power with the efficiency of a man who understood that regency politics required controlling the centre before anyone else did. In June 1483 he declared the boys illegitimate on the grounds that Edward IV's marriage to Elizabeth Woodville had been invalid, and he took the throne as Richard III.
And then, at some point in the summer of 1483, the boys stopped being seen.
The question of what happened to them is the hinge on which the entire reputation of Richard III swings, and the Tudor answer, that Richard had them murdered to secure his throne, has the advantage of simplicity and the disadvantage of logic.
Richard needed those boys alive. As long as they lived and were in his custody they were hostages, leverage, proof of his control over the succession. A living Edward V was Richard's best argument against any claimant who might challenge him from outside: I have the king. Dead, they became martyrs and a rallying point for every Lancastrian and disaffected Yorkist who needed a cause. Richard was not a stupid man.
Stupid men do not govern the north of England for a decade and command the loyalty of the men who fought under them. And yet the Tudor narrative requires us to believe he committed the one act that converted his greatest political asset into his greatest political liability, for no discernible strategic gain.
Consider instead what was happening elsewhere in the summer of 1483.
Margaret Beaufort was in London. She was in communication with the Duke of Buckingham, Richard's own most powerful supporter, who rebelled against Richard in October 1483 in a rising so poorly coordinated it collapsed almost immediately, but whose timing, the autumn of 1483, the same period in which the princes were last reliably sighted, is a detail that sits in the historical record waiting to be noticed.
Margaret's role in the Buckingham rebellion is documented. She used her physician Lewis Caerleon as a go-between to open negotiations with Elizabeth Woodville, the boys' mother, proposing an alliance: Henry Tudor would invade and take the throne, and he would marry Elizabeth's daughter Elizabeth of York, uniting the Lancastrian and Yorkist claims. Elizabeth Woodville agreed. She agreed to support the man whose claim to the throne was weaker than her own sons', which she would only do if her sons were already dead or if she had been persuaded they could not be saved.
Margaret was also, through her husband Thomas Stanley, positioned at the heart of the Yorkist court while conducting these negotiations. Stanley attended Richard III's council. Stanley was informed of military dispositions. Stanley knew what Richard was planning and when. And when Henry Tudor landed in Wales in August 1485 and marched toward Bosworth, Stanley did not commit his forces to either side until the battle had already begun to turn, at which point he committed them to Henry.
His brother Sir William Stanley charged Richard's flank at the decisive moment. Richard, who had been told that Stanley would support him, led his cavalry charge based on intelligence that was not accurate, into a trap that could not have been a trap without the Stanleys' coordination, and he died on the field with his crown on his head, which is either the most heroic death of the fifteenth century or the most preventable.
Northumberland commanded a significant force at Bosworth and did not engage. He stood on the hill with his men and watched Richard die. The reasons he gave afterward were tactical. The reasons historians have suggested are more various. A man with Northumberland's forces, committed at the right moment, changes the outcome of the battle. He did not commit them. He had negotiated his position in advance, or someone had negotiated it for him.
Margaret Beaufort was at her husband's side throughout. After Bosworth she was the first woman to ride into London beside the new king's mother. She wept at his coronation. She kneeled at his feet in the public performance of maternal submission and the court watched her do it and understood that this woman had brought her son to this throne, and the court was right, and what the court did not know and what Henry may not have fully known either was the specific price of what she had done.
She never confessed. She left no document, no letter, no private account that names what she did or did not do in the summer of 1483.
What she left instead is the shape of events: two boys who disappeared at a convenient moment, a rebellion that served her interests, a betrayal at Bosworth so precisely timed it could not have been accidental, a son who arrived in England from fourteen years of exile and won a battle he should by rights have lost, and a crown that passed to a dynasty whose claim to it was, by any strict reading, considerably weaker than the claim of the two boys in the Tower.
She died on the twenty-ninth of June 1509, seven weeks after the son she had made a king and one day after her grandson Henry VIII had turned eighteen. She had outlived Richard III by twenty-four years. She had watched Henry reign. She had founded colleges at Cambridge, endowed scholarships, built institutions that bear her name still. She had been, by every visible measure, the devoted, pious, brilliant woman that history records her as.
She was also, possibly, the woman who cleared the path. The two things are not a contradiction. They are the whole of her. She loved her son enough to do whatever the path required, and she was intelligent enough to ensure that what the path required was never written down, and she was patient enough to wait twenty-six years for the story to belong entirely to the people who had survived to tell it.
History is written by the people who win. Margaret Beaufort won. She was very good at a great many things, and controlling the story was not the least of them.
