Daughter of York (18 page)

Not long before they all removed to London, George had burst into Margaret’s apartments at Greenwich, waving a letter.

“Meggie, Edward has called for me!” he shouted, causing several of Margaret’s ladies to stab themselves with their needles and Jane’s recorder to hit an unnaturally high note.

“Sweet Mother of God, George, calm yourself. Lady Ann almost fell
off her stool!” Margaret laughed, as Ann grumbled and clutched at her headdress. “Come, sit down beside me and explain.”

Margaret made room for him on her padded bench and gave him her attention, again admiring his handsome profile. She briefly wondered whom he would wed, and the thought made her frown. I should be wed before George! What am I thinking?

“I am not to spend my time with you and Richard any longer,” George said, grinning. “Isn’t it wonderful!”

“Why, thank you, brother, for the compliment. I warrant Richard and I will be glad to be rid of you, too,” Margaret retorted. But then she smiled; she knew this was what George had been waiting a year to hear. “When must you leave, George, and Where will you go?”

“I am to join Ned in York for the winter, beginning at Martinmas, and then I will be at court with him until he finds a use for me. Do you hear? I shall be at court!” He included all the ladies in his statement, and they nodded and smiled at his exuberance. “I am to have new clothes and my own chamberlain. As the king’s brother, I will have influence and power! ’Tis what I dreamed, why I prayed nightly to all the saints. They heard my prayer, Meggie, God be praised!” And he rapidly signed himself.

Resentment that these same saints had not heard her own prayer to change her life was stifled by her pleasure at seeing George so happy. She called to the trio of musicians at the far end of the room to play something more lively, pulled George to his feet and swept him a curtsey. “Aye, my lord duke, I would be honored to dance with you,” she simpered, pretending to be a smitten young woman. George never missed a chance to show off his prowess in the dance and offered her his hand.

Fortunata clapped her hands in time to the
estampie
as the brother and sister trod the flagstone floor in perfect unison. No one had noticed Richard sidle into the room and stand behind the high-backed chair to watch his siblings, his face blotched from crying and his mouth downturned. He knew that George’s leaving would mean their lives would take different paths and that they might never again share the same close companionship.

A
DECORATED LITTER
carried Margaret from the Wardrobe to visit her mother at Baynard’s a few minutes away. It had been a rainy April, and
the streets were puddled and thick with muck and mire. Margaret was relieved the litter-bearers were slopping through it, allowing her to keep her shoes and stockings clean and dry.

A few children gaped at the luxurious canopied chair as it was borne down Athelyng Street to the castle gate on Thames Street, and Margaret felt guilty when she noticed the holes and tears in their mud-spattered hose and skirts. Edward was in debt up to his ears, and his people were constantly taxed to fund his attempts to stay on the throne. Insurrections were commonplace, and he was even now on his way north yet again to help put one down that, rumor had it, was instigated by the traitor Somerset. Margaret vaguely wondered if these children had been reduced to stealing, and she was reminded of Fortunata’s early life in Padua. She reached into the pouch at her waist and threw them a few pennies she kept there for such occasions. Sadly she watched them scrabbling in the mud for the coins, fighting each other off for the treasure.

“Who is Bona of Savoy, pray?” she asked Cecily, once she was ensconced in her mother’s cheery solar overlooking the terraced garden. Cecily had sent for Margaret to bid farewell a few days before the duchess’s departure for a summer at Fotheringhay.

“She is naught but King Louis’ sister-in-law!” Cecily scoffed. “He first offered his own daughter, but I told Edward ’twas folly to negotiate a marriage with a child. He needs an heir quickly or he will never make the throne secure for our house. But Savoy? In truth, Savoy is naught but a duchy and not worthy of a York prince. If Louis thinks to weaken Edward’s friendship with Philip of Burgundy through this alliance, he should think again.”

Cecily’s blue eyes were hard as she stared out of the window contemplating this unfavorable match. Margaret didn’t like her mother at these moments. Her naked ambition and haughty pride lent an ugliness to the beautiful face that made Margaret cringe. She tried to change the subject.

“Cousin Richard is said to be in London, Mother. Jane saw several men-at-arms with the badge of the Ragged Staff in the Chepe the day before yesterday. Do you know his business?”

“Aye, my nephew Warwick has already been here to see me. ’Twas from him I learned of the proposed Savoy match. He sets much stock by it, in truth, but he is more concerned that Edward heeds his advice less
and less. Such folly, when we owe the throne to the man. Ned appears bent on thwarting him at every turn. Warwick is here to meet with the French envoys, but I know not if it is concerning the marriage idea. I cannot think he is wanting Ned to make a French alliance—Neville has always been for Burgundy. But ’twould be just like our Ned to gainsay him and do something rash. Foolish boy!” She gazed out of the window.

Sweet Jesu, she thinks of nothing but politics, Margaret said to herself, but smiled and nodded politely. “Something rash, aye,” she repeated, picking up an apple from a bowl and polishing it. She glanced over at Cecily before blurting out, “Mother, shall I ever have a bridegroom?” causing Cecily to blink at the non sequitur and turn back.

“Oh, don’t be so impatient, Margaret. Of course you will. I daresay it will happen very soon. In the meantime, you should learn to curb that tongue of yours, in truth. I shall speak to your tutor, for you must have learned your boldness at your lessons. Certes, you have not learned it from me! ’Twould not do to speak thus in some foreign court where etiquette is stricter.”

“Stricter than here?” groaned Margaret, suppressing her urge to point out her mother’s own forthrightness. “Where is it stricter than here?” She took a bite of apple.

“I hear the court at Bruges is run with the Portuguese customs of formality. The duke’s wife, Isabella, is a stickler.” Cecily did not mention that the duke himself was less strict with his own morals and had had several mistresses. “But don’t looked so worried, my child; Philip’s son, Charles, already has a wife!”

Margaret blushed. “I will go where I am told, Mother, have no fear. I just hope Edward finds me someone kind. And handsome. And intelligent.” She stared off into space, chewing on the piece of apple, and imagined the paragon with whom she would have many sweet children.

“Pah!” Cecily retorted. “There isn’t a man in Europe that fits that description. But”—her voice softened—“your father came close. For now, child, apply yourself to your studies and think less about the male of the species. Don’t think I have not noticed the way you look at young men. You are as bad as Edward, may God forgive you.”

Margaret almost choked on the apple.

•   •   •

M
ARGARET LOVED
M
AY
Day. Despite Cecily’s piety and religious fervor, she turned a blind eye to the gaiety of the old pagan holiday. Nurse Anne had told Margaret of the traditions in her native Normandy, and Margaret begged her mother to let Anne take her to the village outside Fotheringhay Castle when she was a child. Cecily had agreed, and Anne had taken her to watch the villagers spend the day dancing and singing around the tall maypole. A beautiful young woman was chosen from among them, crowned with a garland of flowers and conveyed on a flower-laden cart to a makeshift throne set up on the green. There she ruled over the proceedings, smiling and waving, and Margaret had dreamed of being Queen of the May for years afterwards.

This May Day eve, Margaret’s restlessness made her reckless. She was free of her mother’s presence as Cecily had already left for Fotheringhay. When Fortunata described an Italian May Day custom, Margaret made up her mind.

“The girl who washes her face in … the water on grass in the morning, you know?” Fortunata looked from one face to another.

“Water on grass? Rainwater, Fortunata?” Margaret asked.

“
Non, non!
Every day, in the early morning there is water on grass …”

“Dew,” squeaked Jane. “She means dew.”

“
Si,
d’you. If you wash your face in d’you on this day, you may marry the man you love,” she declared.

Margaret felt her palms moisten. “Marry the man you love,” she repeated under her breath. “Is this true, Fortunata?”

Fortunata nodded her head vigorously. “It is true,
madonna,
” she said, crossing her heart.

Margaret went into action. She told Fortunata, Ann and Jane that they would test Fortunata’s tradition and then secretly participate in the day’s festivities at Smithfield. Fortunata turned a somersault, Jane giggled and Ann grumbled.

“Certes! We shall be caught, and then what?” Ann said, biting her nails. It was a habit Margaret loathed, and she slapped Ann’s hand from her mouth. “I am sorry, madam,” she muttered.

Margaret glared at her. “Very well, Mistress Spoil Sport, you do not have to come. You can stay here and sew with the old ladies they have
saddled me with. But if you breathe a word to anyone of this, ’tis the dungeon for you! I mean it!” Ann’s chagrin was so great that Margaret could not keep a straight face. “By all that is holy, Ann, you cannot believe I was serious.”

Margaret went to her silver coffer and took out some coins. She gave them to Ann and said, “You are excused from coming if you do two things. First, you will put it about the house tomorrow that I am unwell and will not see anyone but Fortunata and Jane. Second, you will find a squire you can bribe to accompany us. Do we have an agreement?”

Ann nodded. “Aye, madam. I know just the one.” She winked at Jane and left the room.

Fortunata was sent off to find suitable disguises for the three truants and the squire, and Margaret did not want to know how she obtained them.

“I did not steal,
madonna,
I borrowed,” she said with a laugh. And borrow she did.

Before dawn, Fortunata woke her mistress, and by the time they were dressed in their new clothes, a gentle knock was heard at the door. Ann crept in followed by Henry, a young squire from Richard’s household. He vanished into the garderobe and reappeared in a groom’s chemise, hood, and leather jerkin. Using the secret door in Margaret’s chamber, the foursome felt their way down a dusty spiral staircase in the dark and out into the garden. The dew had fallen heavily, and while Henry gathered a few flowers, as was the tradition at the dawning of this day, Margaret and Jane knelt down, ceremoniously wetting their hands in the grass and rubbing the soft water on their faces.

“Good,” said Fortunata. “You close your eyes, and you will see the man you love.”

The two women closed their eyes, and Anthony Woodville’s face filled Margaret’s mind. She put her hand to her mouth to suppress an exclamation.

“I do not see anyone,” Jane said, disappointed. “I know who I shall marry, but I do not love him.”

The sky was rosy. Fortunata nodded. “It is better before the sun comes,” she said. “It is strong magic. You see a man,
madonna
?” she asked Margaret anxiously.

Margaret crossed herself. “Magic?” she whispered. “Is this sorcery?”
She was suddenly afraid and looked about for the Devil. She thought she saw a shadow under the high wall and whispered to Henry, “Is that a guard? I had not thought about a guard.” Henry froze. They all waited, standing like statues. Silence. Margaret had taken Fortunata’s hand and was walking forward a few paces, certain she had seen something, when Anthony Woodville stepped out of the darkness.

“Who goes there?” he asked in a low voice.

Margaret gasped and crossed herself. Her May Day vision stood in front of her. What sort of an omen was this? She bent her head, hoping he could not see her face in the faint light. She was momentarily stunned by the coincidence.

Anthony walked towards the group, one hand on his short sword. Before he could accost them, the squire leaped in front of Margaret and reached for his dagger, which, dressed as he was as a groom, he did not have. More embarrassing, he was holding flowers. He quickly hid them behind his back.

Thankfully, Anthony had not recognized Margaret, but knowing Fortunata might give them away, Margaret pulled the dwarf behind her and held her there. Fortunata had the sense not to move or make a sound.

“You are trespassing, sirrah,” Anthony said to Henry, just making out the figures of two women behind the young man in the predawn light. “Do you know you are on the grounds of the royal Wardrobe, and the king would have you arrested if he knew you were here?”

Margaret bit her tongue. She knew he would surely recognize her voice if she said anything more, although she dearly wanted to point out that he, too, was trespassing. She bent her head to make herself seem smaller and allowed Henry to answer.

“We be sorry, master, it be my fault. I thought we were in St. Andrew’s churchyard.” Margaret was impressed. Dickon has a clever squire, she thought. But Henry hadn’t finished. He brought out the flowers from behind his back. “My sister and me come to lay these on our mother’s grave. ’Twas her special day today.”

Margaret heard Jane gasp at this lie, and she sent a prayer heavenward that Henry would be forgiven. The sky was brightening, and she knew that if they were there much longer, Anthony would discover the lie, so she pretended to weep.

“Forgive us, your lordship, we meant no harm,” she sobbed in a voice Anthony could never know. “We be on our way to the churchyard and then the maypole at Smithfield and in the dark we lost our way. I beg of you, let us go now.”

Anthony grunted an assent. “Get you gone! And close the gate behind you. St. Andrew’s is down towards the river.”

He watched as the trio, with what looked to be a child, gratefully scurried down the path to the garden door. He then took his own posy of flowers from behind his back and walked through the arch into the main courtyard, hoping for a meeting with Margaret. He heard laughter coming from behind the high garden wall and frowned. He hoped he had not been duped by those peasants, but why would they laugh on their way to put flowers on a grave? But his preoccupation with his own thoughts overtook his instinct to follow them. His journey to London was something of an escape, and he could think of nothing else.