Daughter of York

  Margaret found Elizabeth at her most animated when she arrived, curtseyed and sat in the other high-backed chair. Lady Alice Fogge brought her a footstool and was clearly offended when Margaret did not use it but tucked it beside her chair for Fortunata to sit on. Margaret took no notice of Lady Alice’s stuck-up nose but gave her a brilliant smile, shaming the woman into a curtsey and a “by your leave, my lady.” Elizabeth, too, eyed Fortunata with mild annoyance, but Margaret had to admit the queen had never again questioned the presence of the dwarf since that day on the river. Today, Elizabeth was too keyed up to pay the servant much mind, as she was eager to impart her plan to Margaret.

  “I am so glad you are come, Margaret. I have conceived of a delightful divertissement that I read about in a book Anthony gave me, a chronicle of chivalric exploits. I have no doubt you have read it from end to end, if what I hear about you is true,” she said, her distinctive tinkling laugh lending her a warmth that was not always present. Edward must have constantly made her laugh during their courtship, Margaret had uncharitably decided early in her acquaintance with Elizabeth. It lit up her face and transformed her.

  Margaret smiled. “Was it perhaps Froissart’s Chronicles, Elizabeth? And, yes, I have indeed read them. They are inspiring, don’t you think?”

  “Aye,” Elizabeth dismissed them. “’Twas one exploit that took my fancy, and I have received permission from Edward to re-create it now,” she went on excitedly. “Pray tell me what you think. It involves my brother and a flower of sovenance.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, after High Mass, Anthony answered a command to visit the apartments of his sister the queen. He arrived and was surprised to see so many ladies in attendance, including a smiling Margaret, dressed in a gown that would have put the buttercup’s golden glory to shame. He extended his leg and bowed low in the midst of them, sweeping off his soft velvet bonnet.

  “My sovereign lady,” he murmured, kneeling in front of Elizabeth. “I am your humble servant. How may I serve you?”

  “My Lord Scales, we have called you here for a special purpose,” Elizabeth said, enigmatically.

  Anthony looked up at her quizzically and dared to glance at Margaret despite the presence of his wife on Elizabeth’s other side. Margaret continued to smile and on a signal from Elizabeth slowly rose as another lady stepped forward to present her with a cushion on which lay an exquisite garter of gold garnished with pearls in the form of a flower. Before Anthony knew what was happening, Margaret was fastening the garter around his muscular thigh just above the soft cuffs of his leather boots. At the same time, his wife slipped a piece of parchment tied with gold thread into his hat. They all stood back to see their handiwork.

  Anthony put his hand on his heart and thanked them all for this flower of sovenance, perfectly understanding that in the paper was the manner of his emprise, or adventure, and that he must now seek the king’s consent to carry it out. He rose, kissed Elizabeth’s hand, bowed to Margaret and took his leave, carrying his hat and parchment with him.

  The clucking and twittering broke out as soon as the door shut behind him and the ladies were alone. After enduring the unattractive din for a few moments, Elizabeth stood and held up her hand to silence it.

  “Lady Margaret and I have charged Lord Scales to enter the lists in a two-day tournament in London with a knight of equal valor, the emprise being arranged within the year. The jeweled garter will be the prize for the winner. For those of you who may not already know, my brother is a master of the art of jousting, and I could not have a more admirable champion. We can all look forward to this special event.” Elizabeth was at her most charming, and Margaret found herself applauding with the rest as the queen sat down.

  Margaret did not know that her name would be forever linked to the challenge that was given to Anthony, Lord Scales, that day.

  WITH EDWARD’S CONSENT, Anthony sent the Chester Herald to Brussels to offer the challenge—and the garter prize—to another Anthony, called Antoine in his native Burgundy. He was the illegitimate son of Duke Philip and was known to be the duke’s favorite son, especially since the duke’s falling out with his heir, Charles, count of Charolais. Within the month, the challenge was accepted by the Bastard in front of his senile father the duke and his half brother, Charles, as well as the great lords of Burgundy. After receiving many gifts, Chester Herald arrived back in England a few days before Elizabeth’s crowning, returned the garter and gave Edward and Anthony the Bastard’s assurance that he would be in England within the year as stipulated in the emprise.

  And in yet another overt sign to Warwick that Edward’s friendship with Burgundy would not be tested, the king had invited to the coronation a delegation from the Burgundian court that would include Elizabeth’s St. Pol kin on her mother’s side. The invitation was ostensibly to lend weight to Elizabeth’s claim to a distinguished lineage, but when Jacques de Luxembourg arrived at the English court to take part in the celebrations, he also came with an alliance offer from Count Charles. Now reconciled with his doddering father, Charles—sometimes nicknamed the Bold for his exploits on the battlefield—had decided to forsake his former Lancastrian leanings and hoped an alliance with Edward would help him fend off the unwanted attentions of Louis. However, Edward had not tipped his hand one way or the other, and so the earl of Warwick and William Hastings were dispatched to Calais on a commission to see what Edward could gain from both sides at once.

  Margaret gleaned all of this from Anthony one early morning at Greenwich the day before Chester Herald’s reappearance in England. The situation was so complex that she wished she hadn’t asked him for the news, although her quick mind was always eager to understand everything that would keep her brother on the throne. She always wrote diligently to her mother of what she learned, and Cecily’s letters to her were full of questions but also praise for her grasp of politics. Her latest showed Margaret that Cecily had her own spies.

  “You do know, my dear, that Charolais and Francis of Brittany were conspiring to attack Louis at the same time, which would be most inconvenient for the Spider, squeezed as he is between the two duchies. And just when Louis thought he had won both of them over. Why is it that men do not see treachery when it is under their noses? Edward does well not to commit to anyone, but it seems to me our commerce is all tied up with Burgundy’s and keeping the trading lines open will bring England more stability and wealth than anything France can offer. I have never liked Louis, Margaret, and more to the point, I do not trust him. I pray the earl, my nephew, will effect an accord with all parties, and we may all live in peace. It is my daily prayer.

  “In other news, I have not been well these past weeks. A malaise of some kind, but nothing that rest and good Fotheringhay air will not cure, but I fear it will keep me from the coronation. I am not unhappy about that for you know all too well what I think about Edward’s foolish marriage.”

  Aye, mother, you let us all know quite emphatically how you felt about it, Margaret chuckled to herself.

  “God keep you well, my child. Your loving mother, Cecily.”

  “What do you know about the count of Charolais, Anthony?” Margaret asked, curious about a man who would so oppose his father and who now appeared to have had a change of heart. “He is called Le Téméraire—the Bold—is he not?”

  Anthony confessed he had never met the man, but from everything he had heard, he was more at home in a tent than in a solar. “His father is known for his penchant for pretty women. Charles has a penchant for war. In truth, I have heard he has only one child, a daughter, Mary, and that his mother, Isabella, holds great sway over him. ’Twas she who helped reconcile father and son. But more I cannot tell you. I have, on the other hand, knowledge that his half brother, the Bastard, is a far gentler, wiser man than Charles. I am proud he has accepted my challenge, and I shall look forward to tilting with him, for he is a worthy opponent.”

  Margaret turned anxious eyes on him. “I shall be afraid for you, Anthony. But I shall not worry yet
, for ’tis a long way off.”

  Anthony answered by taking her hand, turning it up and kissing her palm. She was thrilled and shocked at once. With her thumb she stroked his cheek, and he lifted his eyes to meet hers in a moment of quiet understanding.

  “I would be yours if you asked me,” she whispered. “I think I would forsake all for your love, if you were free.” She could hardly believe her daring. She could not conceive from what shameless part of her this had been unearthed. She held her breath, expecting him to be shocked. A slight tension in his jaw was all she could discern, but he did not leave and he was not angry. He looked intently at her hand, but he did not drop it. He said simply, “Ah, but I am not free, Marguerite, and ’tis my cross to bear every time I am with you. By the sweet Virgin, if I could—” he stopped, seeing her expression change to one of warning. A movement among the flower beds had caught her eye, and she saw Eliza Scales approaching. She sucked in her breath and quickly removed her hand from his. She and Anthony were virtually unaccompanied, unless one counted Fortunata, who was making a daisy chain at a discreet distance from the bench, and Francis, who was intently studying a pale-blue iris with his back to them.

  “Your wife, Anthony,” she murmured and rose to take her leave, pretending she had not seen Eliza. In a louder voice she said, “I would be delighted to borrow the book, Lord Scales. I shall send Fortunata to fetch it later this morning. I thank you. Good day.”

  Before Anthony could rise, bow or kiss her hand, she was gone, Fortunata running behind her to keep up with her mistress’s long strides.

  Damn that woman, Margaret thought, she must be spying on us. But her frustration was fleeting as her heart and mind tried to wrap themselves around those last few precious moments. By all that was holy, she knew now that Anthony loved her, and her whole being was suffused with pleasure. But the few seconds of ecstasy were soon replaced by despair. She knew they could never consummate their love unless they were both free.

  And with Eliza Scales very much alive, Anthony would never break his marriage vow, she knew that.

  THERE WAS NO time to ponder her hopes and dreams. The palace was in a frenzy during the last days before the coronation. Edward rode to London on Thursday, the twenty-third of May, and created more than forty knights of the Bath in honor of his queen.

  Margaret, together with her sisters, joined the queen and her ladies on the barge that transported them to London the next day. There, the mayor and aldermen gathered to escort Elizabeth to the royal apartments in the Tower for one night before she was carried through the banner-festooned streets that were strewn with flowers to Westminster Palace. Margaret had never seen London more crowded. Everyone flocked to the procession route along Tower Street to Eastcheap, past St. Paul’s massive Gothic facade and through the Ludgate to the Strand and Westminster beyond. The citizens’ cheers, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones and the dozens of musicians blowing their lungs out were barely distinguishable above the hundreds of pealing church bells all over the city.

  Merchants and their wives, apprentices, journeymen, hawkers, beggars, prostitutes and priests all strained to catch a glimpse of the fair Elizabeth as she passed by. Petals rained down on them as if from heaven. Margaret saw hundreds of spectators hanging precariously from windows holding baskets from which they flung the flowers. She thought her heart would burst with pride. These were Edward’s subjects—York’s subjects, she thought, wishing her father could have witnessed this—and they welcomed his new queen with affection. She thought it must be the throngs of people so closely packed together and the sun on her head that made her perspire more than usual. She wiped her brow with the back of her sleeve, a heaviness behind her eyes. Aye, the air was oppressive.

  The next day, following her coronation, with a closed crown upon her head and her silver hair streaming down her back to below her waist, Elizabeth processed from Westminster Abbey to Westminster Hall. She wore robes of a traditional cotehardie with sideless gown of vermilion cloth, the entire front of which was of ermine. The white fur trimmed the hem of the gown and lined the deep blue velvet cloak bordered at the neck with gold filament. She carried the heavy orb in one hand and the scepter in the other. She was greeted by more cheering as she stepped out into the May sunlight.

  “God save the queen!” the people cried, dazzled by the sumptuously robed beauty who stood acknowledging their homage to her.

  Margaret, in cloth of crimson gold with the golden gauze of her butterfly hennin creating a halo around her, held Elizabeth’s train with her two elder sisters. Edward greeted his wife at the steps of the hall and escorted her to the feast. There she sat on a dais in solitary splendor and ate from dishes of gold and silver. Unlike Edward’s boisterous and merry coronation feast, as ordained by Elizabeth, the feast was to be conducted in total silence, an old etiquette that Edward had eschewed. Margaret and her sisters, as the highest born ladies at the feast, were her honored servers that day, much of which they spent on their knees waiting for a signal from the queen that she required something. When Margaret’s sister from Suffolk, nicknamed Lizzie by her family, was told what her place would be at the banquet, she had raised her head and let forth the well-known neigh of laughter that reminded Margaret of her father. “Tell me ’tis not true, Meg. This upstart demands that I, a duchess, spend the entire feast at her beck and call on my knees!” she cried in disbelief.

  When Margaret nodded, she neighed again but without humor this time and stalked off to find Edward. In no more than half an hour, she returned chastised and grimacing. “Aye, ’tis the Grey Mare’s wish. Meg spoke the truth,” she reported and sighed, “I think my days at court are waning fast, sisters. John does not stand on ceremony and will be glad for us to retire to Wingfield, where we can be ourselves.”

  Anne, duchess of Exeter, was the oldest of the York children. She had been three when Edward had arrived and had since doted on her baby brother. Despite her husband’s position as one of the leading Lancastrian lords now in exile, Edward had allowed his sister to be at court with him. Everyone knew she was in love with Thomas St. Leger and turned a blind eye to her affair. She was amused that Ned had picked a bride older than she was. “He needs mothering,” she told her sisters. “I, for one, am happy he chose someone mature. Although I wish I looked as good.”

  Lizzie did not answer, for indeed there was no comparison. Anne had not inherited their mother’s looks but was a smaller version of her strong-featured father. If she had not been forced to wear a gown, many might have mistaken her for a man. Margaret, though, immediately became the diplomat in situations with her sisters.

  “Anne, none of us can compare with Elizabeth, in truth. ’Tis foolish to even try!” she said, making Lizzie chuckle.

  Besides Cecily, the most notable absentees at the crowning of Elizabeth Woodville that day were Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, and William, Lord Hastings. Margaret had not been surprised when Ned sent both men to Calais on a commission to meet with Louis of France, the count of Charolais and the duke of Brittany to forge a truce among them all at this particular time. Certes, a great deal rested on a truce among those enemies, but Margaret also concluded that Warwick and Hastings were the least pleased by their sovereign’s choice of consort and were well out of the way when Elizabeth would be so feted. She knew Will was a good enough friend to Ned and that his affability would in the end overcome his jealousy of the Woodvilles. However, the high and mighty earl of Warwick, who liked to boast he had made Edward king, was another matter entirely. She had begun to think of this growing schism between the king and his kingmaker as her Warwick worry.

  She and Lizzie gave their knees a rest that night and instead sat on the edge of their shared bed to say their prayers. Margaret chose not to tell her sister that twice during the feasting she thought she would swoon. Certes, it does a body no good to stay that long on one’s knees, she told herself. They said a Paternoster together after several minutes of private meditation, and Lizzie was asleep b
efore the candles were extinguished.

  Margaret’s mind was too busy with the sights and sounds of the day to close her eyes, and besides, her head was pounding. When she finally fell into a fretful sleep, she had the nightmare she had had after Wakefield, only this time the blackened head that grinned down at her from the castle gate was Anthony’s. She awoke in a panic, her side of the bed wet with sweat, and it was then she knew she had a fever.

  • • •

  FACES CAME AND went through her unfocused vision, although Fortunata’s was never far from her side, while Margaret wrestled for three days with her illness. Edward sent one of his own physicians to tend her, and as no rashes or other outward signs of serious disease were apparent, the doctor supposed a simple humor imbalance had left her open to illness. He prescribed bloodletting to correct the harmful excess of humors, several potions—which Fortunata tasted first to make sure this crow of a man was not trying to poison her madonna—and a daily cold bath. In her delirium, Margaret fought all three remedies, and Master Fryse, a dour little German, clucked around her and threw up his hands in despair.

  “She must haf der bad, ladies!” he shouted at Beatrice and Jane. “I vill tell der king, I cannot treat her more. She is impossible. You see, she is hot und dry; haf too much choler!” he said, referring to the yellow-bile humor that caused agitation. He turned to find Fortunata at his elbow. “Mistress, you understand, ja? Lady Margaret must haf bad?”