“Good morning, Anthony,” Margaret called. “Forgive my nonappearance, but the steward told me you had important news to give me. Beatrice, Fortunata, stay with me. The rest of you may go.”
Anthony remembered that Jane was no longer with Margaret, having been wed several months ago and taken up her new residence with her husband in Lincolnshire. He was sorry. He liked Jane and told Margaret he thought Beatrice was a dragon. He had to admit the older woman obviously adored her mistress, and perhaps, Margaret had countered his unkind moniker, she was simply being protective when Anthony was near.
“The news can wait if this is awkward, my lady. Certes, ’tis not easy to speak to a voice behind a curtain.” He chuckled. He could hear the water splashing as Fortunata sponged her mistress. Just then, the sun came out from behind a cloud, and the window behind the screen revealed the three women in silhouette just as Margaret stood up to be dried. He could clearly see the outline of her small breasts and the slight swell of her belly projected on the screen before the women wrapped her in towels. He felt the familiar ache he would experience when he had imagined her in his arms, and he instantly regretted he was wearing a doublet and hose and not a concealing gown.
“Nay, you may tell me, Anthony. It takes too long to clothe me and I am impatient to know.” And without warning, she came out from behind the screen, a white silk wrap clinging to her damp body and her glorious fair hair falling to her waist. He gasped. He had never seen her hair uncovered before, and it gave her face a softer, more vulnerable look. He could not speak as he gazed at her, and only his rigid upbringing and moral fiber stopped him from taking the few strides into her arms. It was Beatrice’s disapproving eyes on his telltale codpiece that made him lower his eyes from Margaret’s lithe body, bow and turn discreetly to the window.
“The king’s grace sent me,” he began in a voice that was not his own. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Your brother has received word that the papal dispensation is still not given. Your marriage must therefore be postponed, my lady. I am sorry to be the bearer of this bad news. However, the king has named a new date. June twenty-fourth.”
He heard a sound and swung round to see Margaret crumple to the floor. He was there before Beatrice could move, picking up her limp body and cradling it to his chest. Fortunata, who had been hanging the towels behind the screen, cried out when she saw Margaret and ran to pull back the bed curtains so that Anthony could lay Margaret down. Beatrice hurried to the door, calling for a page to fetch the physician.
“There is never anyone when you want them,” she grumbled, looking up and down the long waiting room. “I suppose I shall have to go myself. Lord Scales, you must leave,” she called back over her shoulder.
Anthony ignored her and instead sat on the bed beside Margaret, patting her hand and imploring her to open her eyes. Fortunata fetched wine and tried to make her drink it, but then crouched down out of sight on the other side of the bed, giving Anthony precious time with her mistress. It was only a matter of seconds before Margaret fluttered her eyelids and looked up into Anthony’s anxious face.
“Praise be to God, Marguerite, you frightened us all,” he whispered so close to her that his lips brushed her cheek.
“What happened?” she asked, putting up her free hand and touching his hair. Sweet Mary, how soft it is, she thought. She dragged her attention back to her circumstances and sat up in a panic, pulling her skimpy robe around her. “Why am I in bed? And why are we alone? Oh!” she exclaimed, “now I remember. You came to tell me news, Anthony.”
“You are not alone, madonna, I am here!” cried the dwarf, popping up from her hiding place. “I am a good chaperon, no?” she asked Anthony, who smiled and nodded.
“You are right, Marguerite, I came to tell you about the postponement of your marriage, and you fainted clean away. Beatrice has gone to fetch the doctor.”
Margaret gave a moan of helplessness. “Wed this one, wed that one! Wed this day, wed that day! Why can’t they just leave me alone? Maybe I should go to a nunnery, and then I would never have to leave England and”—she impulsively took his face between her hands—“you, my lord … nay,” she whispered, “my love.”
Anthony could not help himself. He crushed her to him, not heeding Fortunata’s openmouthed stare, and kissed her waiting lips, forcing his tongue deep into her mouth. Now her moan was one of pleasure, and they were able to control their longings only because Fortunata began shaking Margaret’s shoulders roughly. “Madonna, Beatrice and the doctor are coming!” The lovers sprang apart, and Anthony strode to the window and pretended to be looking out as several hurrying feet could be heard approaching the room. Margaret was sitting on the farther edge of the bed, her back to Anthony, when Beatrice, the doctor and some of her other ladies entered. They all stopped as one, stared at Margaret on the bed and then all turned to look at Anthony, who acknowledged their presence with an innocent smile and a bow.
“You see, Master Fryse and ladies, your mistress is quite recovered,” he said, cheerfully. “’Twas the bad news that her marriage has been postponed that disheartened her. ’Twas a simple swoon, ’tis all. And now, I must bid you all a good day. My lady.” He bowed to Margaret and strode from the room.
The doctor gazed after him and did not miss the blush on Margaret’s cheek when he turned back to look at her. So the rumors are correct, he told himself, the princess Margaret has her brother’s profligate tendencies and may not be going to her marriage bed a virgin. He tee-heed to himself and could not wait to repeat what he had seen to his colleagues.
BY THE TIME the dispensation was finally given, it was late May, and Edward had again changed the date for the wedding. This time, he promised Margaret, it would take place on July third. Her two-month reprieve was over. At this point, Margaret was resigned to her fate and just knowing Anthony returned her love gave her the tranquility she needed to accept it with equanimity.
CHEAPSIDE, LONDON’S LARGEST thoroughfare, was ablaze with color from the rooftops to the cobbled street with garlands of flowers, tapestries, banners, streamers, and pennants of York murrey and blue, royal scarlet and gold, and merchant guilds’ colors draped from windows and doors of a city ready to bid farewell to a beloved princess, a princess who had lived among them at Baynard’s Castle and the Royal Wardrobe for many of her twenty-two years. The tall young woman was well known in the hospitals and almshouses as she had gone about dispensing cheer, money and prayers to the sick and poor.
“She be one of us,” one old woman remarked to a group near Mercers’ Hall, who waited for the royal cavalcade to arrive from the Wardrobe at the Market Cross in front of Goldsmiths’ Row. “Margaret is a Londoner. We must see her off right.” Her companions nodded in agreement. “God bless the Princess Margaret!” By the time the procession came into view from St. Paul’s, the cheer had been taken up the length and breadth of the wide street, past the waiting rows of merchants, aldermen and the mayor, and swelled to a roar that drenched Margaret in its support and devotion.
Riding pillion behind the earl of Warwick on his magnificent black destrier, whose trappings rivaled those of its riders, Margaret was overcome by the reception on that eighteenth day of June. In a shimmering gown of scarlet cloth of gold, the train of which was spread over Saladin’s back, she smiled through tears of joy and waved to her countrymen until she felt her arm would surely drop off.
The incongruity of the king’s choosing the earl to escort his sister was not lost on the canny Londoners. It was whispered in the taverns and the stews that no love was lost between the two these days, but nevertheless they cheered the earl and pretended all was well for the sake of the young woman riding with him today. Behind them, equally magnificent, rode some of the most powerful earls and barons in the land. By this show, Edward proclaimed how significant this alliance with Burgundy was to him.
At the Cross, the earl reined in Saladin and allowed Margaret to face the mayor and aldermen, who presented her with a gift of silver basins con
taining a hundred pounds of gold. The mayor and several merchants gave warm, flowery speeches, making Margaret blush and the people cheer with every compliment and good wish. Finally, Warwick put up his hand for Margaret to speak and a fanfare sounded. Turning as far around as she could while sitting sidesaddle to include as many as possible, she cried, “Loyal subjects of my brother and your sovereign, Edward, I thank you for this gift and most of all for your love. I will go to Flanders a true Englishwoman and carry this day in my heart always. God bless you all,” she ended, choking on a sob.
“God bless Margaret, God bless Princess Margaret!” The people cheered again and showered her with flower petals that fluttered to earth around her, mingling with her tears.
EDWARD AND ELIZABETH greeted Margaret affectionately at the entrance to the great abbey at Stratford Langthorne, a half-day’s journey into Essex from the Aldgate. It was here Margaret’s family would celebrate with her before their valediction.
“Greetings, Meg! I trust Richard Neville saw you through London,” Edward said, after she was helped from her litter into which she had gratefully subsided after leaving London. Fortunata hopped out and curtseyed low to the king and queen.
“Aye, Ned,” she answered, accepting his warm embrace. “My lord of Warwick was the model of chivalry and none would suspect his smile was naught but the gritting of his teeth,” she whispered.
Edward sighed and stood back from her to greet others who were wearily dismounting and entering the abbey.
“George,” he called. “Clarence, viens! Margaret has need of your arm. Pray escort your sister to her quarters, and she can tell you of the Londoners’ farewell. My spies tell me she was fairly feted.” He then winked at George. “But we will not tell her how many bribes it took to encourage people to cheer.”
“Brother, I shall not miss your attempts at wit. Not one whit!” Margaret retorted. “Elizabeth, I know not how you put up with him,” she said, tongue firmly in cheek. “Now, George, what lowly monk’s cell is he able to afford for me to make up for all those bribes he so generously paid on my behalf?”
She and George moved inside followed by Edward’s laughter. As they made their way through the maze of corridors to the abbot’s lodgings, to which the king’s party had been consigned, she took the opportunity to give him some advice about his growing friendship with Richard Neville, earl of Warwick.
“Ned will not countenance it much further, George. You must know the two of them are headed for a rift, if it has not already occurred. You must come back into Edward’s good graces, or you will rue the day. I know not why you are so unhappy—nay, do not deny it, my dear brother. ’Tis in your face and your eyes, for I know you all too well, don’t forget. Wait, let me finish, I pray you,” she said quickly, seeing him ready to interrupt. “Is it because Ned will not let you marry Isabel? Or is there something less plain and simple?”
“Who told you about Isabel?” Clarence rounded on her. He lowered his voice when he realized her entourage of ladies had all come to a standstill, too. “There is no one who knows, except—Dickon! Certes, ’tis Dickon who has tattled. You do not have to defend him, I know. Allow me to tell you something now, Meg. Dickon has his eye on Anne Neville, I know it. But it seems Ned will not let either of us have a Neville daughter.” He turned his blue eyes on her, eyes she always had trouble resisting: “I love Isabel, Meg. And she loves me. ’Tis unfair that Ned can wed where he may, and I cannot.”
Margaret set her jaw. Despite her unwillingness to leave her family, she hoped she would never have to hear George declare life unfair ever again. It was tedious. Instead she patted his hand, walked on and told him, “When you are sent away from your home and family to wed someone you have never even set eyes on, I will listen to what is fair and unfair, George. Until then, let us just enjoy these last hours in each other’s company. I plan on feasting and dancing until I fall into a stupor and am carried on board ship bound for Burgundy.”
George took her hand and kissed it as they arrived at her chamber. “Forgive me for a churl, Meggie. You have greater cause to be angry with Ned than I.”
“But in truth, George, this is where we differ. I have no anger for Ned. ’Tis our place in life to do what is right for our family and what is right for England. That is why I caution you to stay away from my lord of Warwick. I will say no more on it, I promise.” She kissed him lightly on the mouth and swept through the open door, her ladies tripping along behind her. George took a deep breath, scowled and stalked off to find Dickon.
AFTER THE FIRST night’s feasting, Margaret pleaded weariness, and Edward rose to end the festivities early.
Edward motioned to Jack Howard, who had the honor of serving the king that night, to stop the music. Then he stood, and the company scraped back benches to stand in deferential silence.
“My lords, ladies and gentle sirs, my sister is tired and I warrant so are most of you. We shall hunt on the morrow, and all are invited to join us in the courtyard following Mass. And now, to bed! We wish you all God’s good night.” He took Elizabeth’s arm, wrapped it around his and looked for George to escort Margaret. He frowned when he saw George in close proximity to Warwick. Damn them, he thought, with a heavy heart.
George hurried to the dais and helped Margaret down the steps in her heavy golden gown. Fortunata and Beatrice picked up the train, and the royal party processed out of the room, the guests in reverence as they passed.
DRESSED IN GREEN, a jaunty soft hat upon her head, Margaret ran down the stairs to her waiting horse the next morning. She had spent an hour on her knees at the prie-dieu in the chamber, which had been hung with draught-excluding tapestries for the king’s visit. Then she spent another hour getting ready to ride to the hunt. Dickon had taught her to use a gerfalcon at Greenwich, and she loved the sport.
Yelping hounds and whinnying horses greeted her as she breathed in the flower-scented air at the top of the steps. The monks had an extensive herb garden, which was in full bloom, and the fragrances floated on the warm summer air, stimulating her senses. One of Margaret’s squires helped her mount into the cumbersome saddle, and she hooked her leg around the horn and settled into a comfortable position before being handed her hawk. She wound the leather thong of her glove around the hooded hawk’s leg, and it sat there, immobile. Astolat gamboled around her, his long tail waving in anticipation of the hunt. Riders jostled one another, she heard Edward call to Will Hastings and saw Richard’s eager young face ready for the ride. He sidled his horse over to join her and adjusted her glove so that the bird sat more comfortably.
“Stay near me, Meggie. There are too many riders, and I would not wish your mount to be compromised,” he said. At that moment, George appeared and looked scornfully over at Richard.
“I am Meg’s escort here, Dickon. She has no need of a tattle-tale to protect her.”
As Dickon’s face reddened, Margaret snapped. “Enough, little brothers, I want to hear you laugh. Very soon I shall be gone, and if you will quarrel then, I cannot stop you, but now, I want to remember you both happy. I pray you, can do this for me?”
“I wager I will win every sport with you, Dickon, while we are here. Are you game?” George’s mercurial temper turned, and he grinned over at his brother. Richard, not wanting another dressing-down from George, was relieved and nodded gladly. “What are the stakes, George?” he asked.
A horn signaled the start of the hunt, and George spurred his horse forward, shouting back, “I shall tell you when I’ve won!”
• • •
AFTER THE FEAST later that day, Margaret watched as Jack Howard approached the dais. Again she was seated with Edward and Elizabeth, both gorgeously arrayed in purple silk with ermine trim, who were engrossed in each other. She watched enviously as Edward’s hand moved up Elizabeth’s thigh. Would she could be in the same position with Anthony! Enough foolishness, Meg, she berated herself, but she stole a glance at her beloved seated at a table nearby. Edward’s jester, Jehan Le Sage, and Fortunata
were seated on the steps beneath their master and mistress, ready to entertain when commanded.
“Your graces, my lady,” Jack Howard addressed the magnificent trio, and Edward removed his hand from Elizabeth’s leg. “I would offer a divertissement for the Lady Margaret, if you will allow.”
Edward raised his eyebrow at Margaret. “Well, Meg, shall we see what this gammy-legged treasurer of mine has to offer?” he teased Jack. Howard’s wound still caused him trouble, and he could not conceal a limp. His mustache twitched above a smile as he waited for Margaret’s response. She leaned forward and asked, “What do you have in mind, Sir John?”
“My dear wife’s good friend Dame Katherine Haute has a voice to rival the angels. I think with some effort I could persuade her to sing for the company. Would that please you, my lady?” He looked at Edward. “Your grace?”
Edward waved his assent and Margaret thanked him. A few minutes later, a young woman of no mean beauty was propelled forward by Jack Howard. She clutched a harp to her bosom as if her life depended upon it and sank into a deep, graceful curtsey at the dais. A stool was brought for her, and she sat alone facing the king and settled the harp in her lap. With a practiced hand, she swept the first chords of her song and then began to sing. Margaret was spellbound. The song was an eerie tale of two sisters who fall in love with the same man. The younger is promised to him, and the jealous elder sister lures her to the edge of the river and pushes her in. Her body is found in his dam by a miller, and he is so moved by her beauty that he makes himself a harp from her breastbone and uses the beautiful hair to make the strings. The harp then takes on a life of its own, and in the last scene, the miller takes it to the castle where the young man lives now with his wife, the elder sister. And the harp sings all by itself, recognizing her father, the king, her mother, the queen and her sweet William. But then, in a denunciation of her murderer, the harp turns to William’s wife and sings: