Daughter of York

  Charles leapt to his feet and began to pace. A vein stood out dangerously on his forehead, his face was red and from the look in his eye, Margaret was afraid he might approach and strike her. His fists were clenched and his mouth grim. But he said nothing; he merely continued to pace with short, deliberate steps. She sat there awaiting his ire, but it did not come. Slowly he unclenched his hands, and the vein receded. He blinked a few times, and she thought she could hear his mind working.

  Finally he turned to her and in a calm, even voice that surprised her said, “It has never occurred to me to want a son, Margaret. I believe I am destined for glory, and when the time comes, Mary will have a husband who will look after my—I mean, her—interests.” He paused for a full minute, fingering the golden sheep and unnerving her with his steady gaze. “It has, however, occurred to me on more than one occasion that I have married a political equal. ’Tis your brain, not your birth, that prevents me from chastising you for your outburst.” Then his tone turned pleasant, surprising her yet again. “However, your logic is hard to argue with, my dear. Therefore I shall indeed come to your bed tonight.”

  Her emotions strung out by this man’s bizarre behavior, Margaret watched him stride away, his retainers hurrying to keep up with him. She trembled. She had won a small victory, she knew, and perhaps it might lead her to the joy of motherhood. But she did not relish the act that would achieve it.

  She was pleasantly surprised, however, when Charles joined her in the sumptuous bed in her brightly lit chamber that night and treated her with the utmost respect. She had still never climaxed again since John Harper showed her the way in the garden at Greenwich, but hers and Charles’s lovemaking was not without its pleasure, and she fell asleep with a happy assurance she had conceived.

  “I BRING YOU messages of love and devotion from your family, your grace, with especial greetings from my aunt, your mother,” the earl of Warwick said, bowing over Margaret’s hand before the banquet in his honor at Hesdin a few days later. Huntsmen and fishermen, falconers and fewterers had used their skills for three days to provide a feast for the noble English guests, and the aromas wafting from the huge kitchens under the great hall were making Margaret’s stomach rumble.

  “Pray tell me more, my lord!” Margaret said eagerly, thinking that her cousin had aged in the year since she had seen him. One eyelid drooped markedly and gave her the impression he was winking at her. His noble profile and ready smile that mostly reached his eyes were still the same, but at age forty, his hair was sparse and gray and his shoulders stooped. He turned and beckoned to his squire, who stepped forward bearing a small carved chest with a silver lock.

  “I was instructed to put this directly into your hands, Lady Margaret. Your brother George insisted upon it. I was so afraid it might have been damaged by the rough seas en route to Calais that I carried it with me day and night.” Again that wink—or was it a wink?

  Margaret held out her hands. “I fear you tease me, my lord. I cannot imagine what George has sent me.” She took the box, stroked the silver tracings with her fingers and then turned the key. Inside were three jars of her favorite rosepetal jam. Instantly she was back in the little orchard at Greenwich with Anthony, licking the sticky delicacy off her fingers. She closed the lid quickly and smiled gratefully at Warwick. “George spoils me,” she said. “Tell him thank you for me.”

  Anne Neville, Warwick’s wife and mother of his two daughters, Isabel and Anne, was next presented to Charles. It was through her that Warwick had inherited his title, and Margaret was impressed that the middle-aged countess gave Charles just the obeisance due his ducal title but told the world she was the daughter of an earl. Margaret recognized the same indomitable spirit in Anne that she admired in Cecily, and she went forward to kiss the countess with genuine affection. When Anne smiled briefly, Margaret saw she had lost many of her teeth, and having already had one pulled at the back of her own mouth, prayed she would not be as unlucky as the countess.

  It was Anne’s first visit to Hesdin, and she gazed around her in wonder at the rich wall hangings, the velvet canopy above the ducal seat emblazoned with the arms of Burgundy and the brightly painted ceiling. It paled beside her castles of Middleham and Warwick.

  “You look magnificent, your grace,” Anne whispered to Margaret as they processed from the presence chamber to the great hall for the banquet. “I feel like a plain mouse beside you.”

  “You do yourself a disservice, countess. But thank you for the compliment.”

  In her new purple gown trimmed with ermine, the tightly fitted bodice sewn all over with seed pearls, and her heart-shaped headdress trimmed with gold, Margaret eclipsed every woman in the room. She wore her wedding necklace—its lost M since replaced—and her fingers were heavy with rings. Anne was immensely proud of her countrywoman, and she noticed the deference with which Charles treated his wife. A queen could not have been more regal than Margaret that night.

  Warwick was charming, flattering and diplomatic throughout the twenty courses that were brought in, each more elaborate than the next. Charles was ready to show this powerful noble how wealthy he was. Indeed, he had greeted Warwick on the steps of the castle wearing a hat encrusted with so many jewels that he complained of a stiff neck the first time he wore it.

  When the feast ended and the tables were pushed aside, Warwick led Margaret out for the first dance. It was a stately basse danse, and much of it allowed for conversation to take place. As was customary, Margaret’s eyes were cast down, but Warwick found her very far from demure.

  “There is talk, my lord, of an imminent invasion of France by my brother. Can this be true?”

  She felt Warwick’s fingers in hers tighten slightly, but his tone was light. “I do not believe Edward will attempt such a thing, your grace. Although it may be to your husband’s benefit if he did, Edward has more domestic matters to attend to. And besides, until Duke Charles repeals the edicts against our cloth, Edward is not well disposed to helping him.”

  “Domestic matters, my lord? Are you meaning his family—my family?” Margaret knew all too well the earl was referring to the little rebellions that had festered throughout the autumn months, which had been quelled easily, but she feigned innocence. She was unprepared for the vehemence in Warwick’s response.

  “The Woodvilles, aye,” he hissed. “Upstarts and ladder climbers, all of them. Your brother did himself and the country a disservice when he married into that family, your grace. Surely you must agree.”

  “’Tis not for us to judge the king’s decisions, my lord. I believe that is called treason,” Margaret murmured, wondering how far the earl’s obvious hatred was leading him. “But I will forgive you, as, certes, you are a loyal Englishman and devoted to our house. Your close friendship with George is proof of that.” Her meaning was clear. “And he is intent on wedding your Isabel, is he not?—against Edward’s wishes.”

  Warwick missed a beat in the steps and almost stumbled. Only Margaret noticed. “Have a care, duchess. ’Tis not a woman’s place to meddle in politics.”

  “Ah, but these are family matters, my lord, not politics,” she said coyly. And for a second she lifted her head and gave him her most disarming smile. How she wished she could entice him to walk through Duke Philip’s mechanical chamber. She almost laughed imagining him soaked through and covered in soot.

  WARWICK VISITED CHARLES several times in April and early May while at Calais, and when news came later that summer of more serious rebellions in England, no one except Margaret imagined the affable earl had anything to do with them. On the thirteenth of May, Charles was honored by proxy with membership in the order of the Garter in Warwick’s presence, and it was said Edward once again sought Warwick’s advice. Why should Edward have suspected him?

  MARGARET KNEW BY the time her twenty-third birthday came and went that she was not with child. She could not believe her prayers had gone unanswered and found herself melancholy for several weeks afterwards. Every night, Fortunata h
eld her mistress’s head on her short lap and comforted her. The dwarf was back in Margaret’s good graces, and even Marie no longer tried to come between them. Although she still helped other servants with their ailments, she accepted her punishment and had not attempted to prescribe for Margaret since her return from Bruges.

  Spring was turning to summer, and on a beautiful late May day, Margaret was given a joyeuse entrée into Ghent, the political center of Burgundy, with Mary by her side. She chose to wear her scarlet cloth of gold mantle and the little gold crown Edward had had made for her wedding. Until they saw the towers of Ghent and the enormous twelfth-century castle that dominated the landscape come into view, Margaret and Mary had traveled on horseback.

  Now her chariot was brought to the front of the cavalcade, and Marie and Beatrice put her mantle around her and settled her onto the upholstered chair, Mary on cushions beside her. The gilded and silk-draped chariot framing the two young women seated in it received the acclaim of the more than fifty thousand citizens of Ghent as they traveled along the River Lys and into the port, where ships unloaded wheat onto the Korenlei quay or vegetables and herbs onto the Graslei on the other side. The massive castle of Gravensteen had been visible for at least a mile, and now they stopped on St. Michael’s Bridge so that Margaret could see straight up the river to the fortress that was the judicial seat of the city.

  “I am happy that is not to be our home. ’Tis rather forbidding,” she said to Mary, who nodded. Any more conversation was drowned out by hundreds of musicians and singers who welcomed Margaret into their midst by singing the song of Burgundy, which Margaret was beginning to tire of because Charles insisted it begin and end every ceremonial occasion.

  “Long live Burgundy is our cry,

  So be it in thought and deed,

  none other shall we have, for thus we feel, And thus we wish it ever to be …

  All together, we pray you, let us sing

  To this great and joyous entry. Long live Burgundy.”

  But she smiled and waved to the cheering crowds on either side of the river. A stage had been set up and a play was enacted, the three tall spires of Ghent visible in a line behind the stage: the Belfort, St. Bavo’s Cathedral and St. Nicholas’s Church. Margaret looked about her and admired the step-gabled houses along the quays reflected in the still, dark water, the long low Butchers’ Hall just visible at the bend in the river.

  A huge procession of merchants, guilds, priests and city dignitaries accompanied her out of the bustle of the thriving center and to the gate of the Ten Waele Palace on the outer edge of the city. There she was honored with speeches and gifts from the burghers and mayor before her chariot and household disappeared through the porticoed gatehouse.

  Once inside the palace wall, Margaret asked to leave her vehicle and stretch her legs for the final entry into the palace. Guillaume handed her out onto the wide walkway that bordered the moat. The graceful three-story palace rose out of the water beyond. She walked slowly over the little wooden bridge and admired the island with its hexagonal formal garden on the southern side of the palace. Indeed, the whole palace seemed to be floating in the lake, its crenelations of step-gabled facades reflected in the dark waters that were home to dozens of swans and flocks of geese and ducks.

  “I think I shall like being here, Mary,” she said to her stepdaughter, who was holding her hand and looking expectantly up into her face.

  “Aye, belle-mère, I know you will. And see over there”—she pointed to a group of buildings at the far end of the palace walk—“that is where we keep the wild animals. My pet giraffe is there and lions.”

  “Lions!” Margaret cried. “We have lions here? I shall have to keep Astolat by my side always. But later, when we are rested, ma chérie, we will go and visit the lions.”

  “And my giraffe, belle-mère,” Mary enthused. “I have missed Raffi.”

  Margaret suddenly laughed and turned to seek out Fortunata, but she need not have worried. Her shadow was there. “Oh, pochina, you remember our game? Perhaps I shall add my own name to the list—Mistress Longneck. I think I must look like a giraffe. Especially with this spire on my head.” She tapped the two-foot-high hennin anchored securely to the black velvet band that covered the front of her hair. She continued to laugh at her own joke as she processed through another gate and into the inner courtyard.

  “At last, Beatrice, our mistress is losing her melancholia,” Fortunata whispered in English to the older woman, and Beatrice crossed herself and nodded thankfully.

  CHARLES EVENTUALLY JOINED her in Ghent, and soon they had another visit from Warwick. This time, though, the earl wanted to speak with Margaret alone. They took a turn about the wide, white-stoned walkway, both acutely aware that the other was wary.

  “I could not let this anniversary of your marriage last year go by without congratulating you, your grace. From all accounts it was a splendid affair, was it not?”

  “Aye, my lord, it was. I had not expected such a celebration, especially knowing that Charles had no love for the house of York,” she acknowledged. “But I doubt you have come to talk to me of my wedding day. Am I right?”

  Warwick drew in a deep breath. “You are, Lady Margaret. What I have to say is difficult, but I shall attempt to allay your suspicions.” He felt her stiffen. “Nay, pray allow me to finish, if you would be so kind.” He paused, and Margaret felt her palm sweating atop his silk sleeve. They walked along in step, the earl seemingly comfortable and at ease, despite the awkwardness of his overly long boot points. She did remark, however, that he spoke English with her and he glanced warily over his shoulder before continuing. “I want to assure you that my loyalties are wholly with York, no matter what you hear. What I do from this time forward is for England and no other reason.”

  Margaret stopped still and took her hand from his arm. “And what exactly are you planning to do, my lord, that would require this protestation of loyalty? Does this involve my husband? Are you come to break off the alliance with England?”

  She hoped she sounded calmer than she felt, and she took out her kerchief and wiped her hands to occupy herself. The afternoon was hot, and she was perspiring even in her lightest silk gown and thin cambric chemise.

  Warwick stroked his chin and stared at the ground before he spoke. “There is too much unrest in England, and it is almost all due to the power of those upstart Woodvilles. Surely you must agree.” He did not await a reply. “I fear for your brother’s safety, your grace, and for the throne. Your brother George is with me in this. Therefore it is my intent to return and try to put some distance between the king and his wife’s relatives. I am hoping you might influence your husband to support me in this—for the good of England,” he said again.

  Margaret’s mind was racing. So that was it. Warwick wants to take back power, she thought, but surely he cannot think to use force in overpowering Edward and bending him to his will. More than fearing for Edward she was concerned for Anthony. What form of distance would Warwick stoop to, she wondered, to rid himself of Woodvilles? Certes, he would not dare kill—or would he? She suddenly was aware that her mouth must have dropped open, as she saw Warwick scrutinizing her.

  She took a step back and said in a measured, icy tone, “I am going to pretend I did not hear you say anything, my lord. But before I do, I would give you two pieces of advice. Do not underestimate Edward’s love for his wife; and do not come between Edward and George. You will rue the day if you do. If you believe I am a mere woman with no influence, you should think again. I may be just as dangerous as my brother. But given our kinship and your friendship with my father, I will try to forget this conversation. And now, if you will excuse me, I have letters to write.”

  She turned and walked sedately back over the bridge and into the palace, her ladies and Guillaume hurrying behind her. Her heart was pounding and perspiration dripped down her back; she was glad Warwick could not see how unnerved she was. How could she get a message to Edward? Should she go to Charles
?

  Stay, Meg, she admonished herself. I must have read the situation all wrong. The earl must have informed me of his idea simply to keep my good opinion. Then again, if I am right, surely he would know I would pass on this information. No, his intentions must be honorable, she concluded; he would not be so stupid. She shook her head to get the confusing thoughts out of it, took off her straw sun hat and hurried up to her chamber to change out of her sweaty gown.

  The earl of Warwick stared after her, his eyes hard and his mouth a thin line. Then he called for his horse and within the hour was galloping back to Calais.

  At her desk, Margaret scribbled hurriedly.

  “My dearest Lancelot, my mother’s nephew was here today and I liked not the way of things with him. My heart tells me the man plans mischief so I beg of you to warn my brother.

  “A year ago today, I was lost to you forever. ’Tis hard to believe how my life has changed. Know that I keep you in my heart and in my prayers daily—my love, my all. On this third day of July,

  ever your Elaine.”

  THE VERY NEXT day, the duke and duchess moved on to Bruges, where Margaret had another visitor.

  “Master Caxton, I am pleased to see you again,” Margaret said, extending her hand for him to kiss as he knelt before her. As he looked up at her after brushing her fingertips with his lips, she made a mental note: a badger! With his black and white streaked beard and curly hair, he looked like a badger. She felt a movement beside her and thought, I must tell Fortunata tonight. The dwarf stepped forward, executing a little curtsey. “And I think I am not the only one pleased to see you,” Margaret said, remembering Fortunata had seen Master Caxton on more than one occasion during her stay at St. John’s. “Fortunata, give Master Caxton greeting.”