Daughter of York (16 page)

After people had wandered away, John Hawkins saw Fortunata begging nearby and noticed several stopped to give her a coin, pointing back at him and laughing. She was obviously a crowd-pleaser, he explained to her later, after he had offered her the chance to travel with him in the circus and learn to be his assistant.

“I was so happy—I am
fortunata!
” she said, but her face did not register happiness. “He was not a good man. Not good to me. He beat me many times.”

“Beat you. Why? Did you steal from him? Or were you lazy?” Margaret was curious but not shocked. Servants at the palace were regularly beaten for indolence or insolence.

“
Non, madonna
. He liked to drink—plenty. All the money pay for drink every time. When he drank, he beat me. Then he laughed when I cried. He was cruel. I helped with … how you do say, treeks?” She cocked her head to see if Margaret understood.

“Tricks, aye.” Margaret nodded.

Fortunata also learned tumbling from another performer in the traveling circus. Her deformity, acrobatics and magic skills brought Hawkins larger and larger audiences, and he raked in the money. He made her cook, wash their clothes, take care of the two donkeys and fetch and carry for him.

“I ate,
si,
and I rode the ass,
si,
but he did not give me any money. I had nothing.”

“More of a slave than an assistant, ’tis true,” Margaret agreed, “but Master Hawkins taught you English, and that is worth much. He should not have beaten you if you did not deserve it, but he rescued you from the gutter, Fortunata. And now you are here. God be thanked for Master Hawkins!”

Fortunata understood most of Margaret’s words, but she shook her head violently at the end.
“Che sciocco!”
she spat, balling her fists and assuming her mistress would not understand the obscenity but not caring if she did. “Do not thank Hawkins. He
sold
me! He is a bad man. Sorry for the bad word,
madonna,
” she said sheepishly.

As the vulgarity meant nothing to her, Margaret laughed. “In truth, I believe John Hawkins was relieved to have lost you. You have quite a temper, Mistress Frown-face!”

A
FEW DAYS
later, as Margaret was attempting a new tune on the recorder, there was a knock at the door, and one of the gentlewomen rose from her stool and padded across the floor to open it. A squire stood on the threshold and announced, “My master, Lord Scales, is recently arrived, madam. He craves pardon of the Lady Margaret for disturbing her but wonders if he might have an audience at her convenience. My master is traveling to his estate in Kent and is here on the king’s business.”

“Anthony, here!” Margaret gulped, making Fortunata curious. Then more loudly she called, “Tell your master I will be with him anon.”

The man bowed and left the room. As soon as the door closed,
Margaret jumped up and sent Ann to fetch her favorite dove-gray silk gown. Jane set to brushing through the waves of waist-long fair hair as Margaret sat on a cushioned stool and chose earbobs, rings and a necklace from a mother-of-pearl-inlaid box offered her by another lady-in-waiting. Jane finished braiding Margaret’s hair and tucked it under a cap while Fortunata readied an elaborate butterfly hennin to place over it. There were shoes to match the gown, their points peeking out from beneath the vair-fur hem. Jane touched her mistress’s cheeks with a rouge made from dried berry skins and used her wooden tweezers to pluck away a few regrown eyebrow hairs. Plucked foreheads and a minimum of eyebrow was the look all high-born ladies aspired to, Margaret had told Fortunata one day, who was now watching Margaret’s toilet with a critical eye.

“Certes! We shall have to soften Fortunata’s brow, ladies. Then perhaps her frown would not be so fearsome,” Margaret said. Jane nodded, Ann smirked and Fortunata unconsciously proved Margaret’s case with a scowl. “But now, are we finished? And am I presentable to meet Lord Scales?”

The women stood back and smiled their approval.

“You are beautiful,
madonna. Non, non! Bellisima!
” Fortunata exclaimed, clapping her hands and turning an exuberant somersault. Ann clucked her disapproval as all glimpsed skin under the flurry of petticoats, but the dwarf was so fast that no one could swear to what they actually saw. Margaret admired herself in the silver mirror one last time before beckoning Fortunata and Jane to accompany her. Ann was crushed to be left out, and she glared after the trio, her resentment of Fortunata growing.

Margaret’s serene entrance into the king’s antechamber by the river belied her sweating palms and racing pulse. Absolutely nothing has passed between us, so why am I so nervous, she thought, as she walked towards a smiling Anthony, who bowed low over his shapely outstretched leg and swept off his tall, coned-shaped hat. He wore a short green doublet, its padding and tight waist accentuating his well-proportioned torso, and he came forward to take her hand.

“Well met, Lady Margaret,” he said, brushing her fingers with his lips. “I trust I find you well.”

Again his touch sent pleasant vibrations through her. She inclined her
head and tried to sound nonchalant. “Well enough, my lord.” Lowering her voice she added, “And better for seeing you.”

Anthony was taken aback. They were not alone, and Margaret was most certainly flirting with him. He was amused and flattered. He took in all of her long, lithe form in a sideways glance as he led her to the heavy oak chairs facing the window. She would have been happy to know the dove-gray gown did not go unnoticed, for his approving look registered acknowledgment of her exquisite taste.

Margaret brought Fortunata forward, and for the first time at Greenwich, the dwarf was accorded nothing more than a nod of the head and a friendly “Good day, mistress” from the newcomer as though she looked like everyone else, and it made Fortunata Anthony’s devoted slave. She perched on her customary footstool beside Margaret’s chair and surreptitiously observed him. She was curious about a man who had made her mistress catch her breath upon hearing his name.

Surrounded by courtiers, the princess and the baron made polite conversation about the weather and Anthony’s journey from Fotheringhay. Soon, some drifted away in search of refreshment or talked among themselves, and Margaret began a more personal discourse about her new favorite work, the tales of the Canterbury pilgrims that Master Geoffrey Chaucer had so eloquently penned. Needless to say, she did not mention the particular passage in the wife of Bath’s tale that had surprised her, although she was sorely tempted. There was something about Anthony that made her want to tell him everything, but Cecily’s lessons in courtly etiquette forbade her to cross intimate boundaries. Instead she praised Chaucer’s poetry and ability to make a character come to life on the page.

“’Tis a pity more people cannot enjoy his work, my lord. I am told the common folk have not the means to own such a book, and it is lamentable how few can read,” Margaret said, regret in her voice. “It takes many weeks to complete one book, I understand, and the scribe must be paid, the parchment purchased and the powders ground for the paints and inks. Why, they even take my favorite lapis stone and grind it up for the brilliant blue that so pleases me. And do not forget the gold leaf and then the leather binding. ’Tis no wonder the ordinary man cannot afford such a treasure!”

“I am inspired by your concern for the common man, Lady Margaret,” Anthony answered cynically. He had never given the less fortunate much thought. He was who he was, and they were who they were, and there was not much he could do about it. He looked around the room and called to his squire, who hurried over the marble flagstones to his lord. “Fetch my small saddlebag, Francis. I have something for the lady Margaret from her brother.”

Margaret was delighted. “From Ned for me? I thought he had forgotten all about me!”

Anthony smiled. “Nay, lady, you are too modest. When Francis returns, will you not walk with me apace? I will tell you news of him.”

Margaret was intrigued. Anthony must have some private information to pass on, she thought. She nodded and then tapped Fortunata on the shoulder.

“Show Lord Scales your magic trick with the cups while we wait, Fortunata. She is a woman of many skills, Sir Anthony, as you will see.”

The court gathered closer, always entertained by the dwarf, and a page ran forward with a small table and three cups. They had seen this trick before. Fortunata picked a polished pebble from a pouch at her waist, placed it under one of the downturned cups and told Anthony to watch that cup carefully. Then she moved the cups around slowly and deliberately at first, stopping every now and then to cock her head at Anthony and make sure he was still watching the correct cup. He grinned and pointed to it each time, and she lifted it up to confirm that he was right. Faster and faster her hands moved, and finally she stopped and stood back.

“
E ora?
Now, my lord?” she asked, smiling and spreading her hands. “Where is the stone?”

Anthony leaned forward and confidently upturned the cup. His face was a picture of astonishment when he saw the empty space on the table. The company clapped and laughed at his expense, and his expression registered chagrin. Fortunata stood by proudly, her hands on her hips.

“But I was certain!” Anthony cried. “I never took my eyes from it. Ah, perhaps you did not even put one underneath a cup, mistress,” he added with a sly smile. “Perhaps I have guessed your trick.”

“Ha!” exulted Margaret. “You are wrong, my lord. Fortunata, show him the stone.”

“Here!” her servant replied, and lifted the correct cup to reveal the pebble.

Anthony made her perform the trick all over again, quite certain he would not err this time. But he did—and took it in good sport. Margaret sat back and quietly observed him, noticing for the first time that his left ear was disfigured. A battle scar, she assumed, and it reminded her that he was more than a courteous and literate gentleman: He had killed and maimed others. She shivered and hoped she would never have to see that side of him. But now Anthony the courtier was turning to her, and the soldier had disappeared. He offered her his arm, and she rose and laid her fingers on it. A different shiver ran through both of their bodies simultaneously, and both looked down at her hand as though it had magical powers. Their eyes met in an instance of recognition, and Margaret could not control her blush. Sweet Virgin, let no one notice, she panicked.

If anyone had, it was not apparent, for Fortunata had chosen the moment to turn several cartwheels and leaps, drawing all eyes off the couple. Her black eyes had seen her mistress’s blush begin, and she had taken immediate action. By the time Margaret and Anthony had processed to the door, she was waiting there, making her courtesy. Anthony raised her up, reached into his saddlebag and pressed a half-angel into her palm. Fortunata’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the gold coin.

“Thank you, milord,” she stammered and followed them out into the late September afternoon.

As they walked, Anthony glanced back at Margaret’s faithful shadow from time to time and lowered his voice to ask about Fortunata. Margaret told him the short version of the tale; she was far more interested in what he had to say about Edward. She eyed the finely tooled saddlebag he was swinging with his free hand as he strolled through the gardens with her and resisted the urge to ask what was in it. Jane and Ann, who had joined them, followed a few lengths behind with Francis and another member of Anthony’s small retinue. Oh, to be alone, Margaret thought resentfully.

She purposely steered him away from the archway that led into the setting of her tryst with John Harper and instead passed through the gateway under her own apartments into the seclusion of the orchard behind. A grass-covered excedra had been built near the recently harvested fruit
trees, and Anthony and Margaret sat down on it with their backs to the palace. Their retainers kept a discreet distance, amusing themselves by picking up dropped apples. Margaret uncharacteristically sent Fortunata to join them and was rewarded by a lowered brow and downturned mouth. But Margaret was firm and shooed her away.

“May I see what Ned sent for me, my lord?” Margaret asked, when the dwarf was out of earshot. “You have been very secretive about it.”

Anthony laughed, and opened the bag. He gave her something well wrapped in oiled canvas and a letter. “I hope nothing spilled in the ride here, my lady. Nay, I see it is still whole.”

Margaret squealed with delight when she revealed an earthenware pot tightly sealed and read the contents written on the cork stopper. “Rosepetal jam! My favorite! How sweet of Ned to remember,” she exclaimed, pulling up the small knife that was tied on a long cord to her belt and prying the lid open. She dipped her finger unceremoniously into the jar and licked off the sticky preserve. “Mmm,” she extolled. “But I forget myself, Lord Anthony, would you like some?”

Anthony put his finger into the pink jam and then stuck it into his mouth, nodding his approval. They looked at each other like mischievous children and were convulsed with laughter, checking over their shoulders to see if their companions had seen the act. Margaret wiped her finger on the grass, picked up her knife again and broke open Edward’s enormous royal seal. Anthony left her alone to read.

“Right well beloved sister, we greet you.”
Margaret skipped over the rest of Edward’s standard opening line.

“I have sent Lord Scales to you with a small token that I hope will be to your taste. I could think of no better messenger to send. He will apprise you of what is keeping me here at Fotheringhay longer than anticipated, and you are to keep your peace on it. I demand your promise on this, Meg. Do not delay Anthony’s departure for too long, petite soeur, he is on my business in Kent and then must return with all speed. Enjoy him while you may!”

Certes! He would push me into Anthony’s bed, Margaret thought drily. We do not all have the morals of a lecher like you, Ned. She read on.