Daughter of York (21 page)

“Too precious for the best servant a woman could ever ask for? No, Fortunata, you deserve it. If something should happen to me, I want to know you will not have to beg on the streets again. Now hang it around your neck on this—under your clothes, you understand,” she said and pulled out a long gold chain from the box. “If God blesses us and we come through this safely, and if you are ever in trouble, you have only to send it back to me and I will help you. Do you understand?”

Fortunata searched Margaret’s face for any signs of dissembling, and when she was satisfied Margaret was serious, she tentatively took the gift. She sank into a curtsey and kissed the hem of Margaret’s gown.

“Thank you,
madonna.
God bless you.”

“And now, let us pray to our Lord Jesus Christ and all the saints to keep you safe, to keep us all safe until we may leave this place.” Margaret knelt on the cushion and Fortunata on the stone floor, holding their peace in silent prayer.

S
EVEN IN
M
ARGARET’S
household died during the next few days, including one of her older ladies-in-waiting. When the messenger arrived bearing Edward’s permission for his two siblings to move to Greenwich, the latest victim of that July plague was being carted from the Wardrobe to be thrown into the communal pit and covered with lime for quick disintegration of the infected flesh.

It took Margaret many hours of planning with her steward to ready the two small households to move to the country. Rather than wind their way through the streets and risk more infection, Margaret sent to Baynard’s
to ready the barges for the next day’s journey. Cartloads of furnishings, coffers and chests rumbled down Athelyng Street to the Yorkist castle on the river, and once Margaret received word the baggage had been loaded onto the boats, she climbed into her litter, drew the curtains around her and was whisked down to the water’s edge. Holding her nose against the stench of rotting flesh, she then gratefully stepped into the luxurious barge with twenty of her illness-free retinue. Only Fortunata was missing. Margaret had not seen her masked face gazing glumly from an attic window as the litter was borne away. The faithful servant had turned back sadly to attend to a dying laundry woman.

Margaret’s barge led the convoy, Richard following closely, and others piled with the trappings of a royal household on the move bringing up the rear. They could hear the bells of the more than a hundred churches and monasteries in London tolling for departed souls, priests and friars chanting the last rites, the weeping of wives and mothers, and the carters jingling their little bells and calling, “Bring out your dead!”

When they approached London Bridge, the water bucked and chopped as it prepared to shoot through the many arches of the stone structure. Margaret always held her breath at this point, watching as the oarsmen lifted their oars in unison at the command of the captain to keep them safe from the slimy bridge walls and the sturdy man at the rudder steered them expertly into the rapids.

As they were about to pass under the bridge, a body in a crude shroud was tipped from the window of a house directly above them into the river below. The captain bellowed, “Heave to! Heave to!” and shook his fist at the disappearing figures in the window who had thus divested the house of a plague victim. The women cried out in alarm, but the rudderman deftly evaded the missile, and within a few seconds, the party had navigated the dangerous passage and shot through to the other side, leaving the weed-covered walls behind.

Calm water in London’s wide Pool was greeted with smiles and a smattering of applause for the crew as the boatmen again took up the chant of “rumbelow, furbelow” to regain their rhythm. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief as the towers and spires of London receded behind her and the watermen expertly avoided the many tall-masted ships and their anchor lines as they pulled for the marshy flats of the Isle of Dogs on the left
side of the river and the wooded banks of Greenwich on the other. Her thoughts were all of her faithful dwarf left behind to care for the sick. She had sent a message to Fortunata commanding her to stay until it was safe for her to join the rest of the household.

“I believe you do have God’s grace, my little friend,” she had written. “I shall see you again anon, have no fear. God stay with you.”

But she was by no means certain she would see Fortunata again, and as the boatmen kept up their long, lazy rhythm, Margaret slipped into a melancholic doze.

E
VEN THE INVIGORATING
air at Greenwich could not seem to bring Margaret out of her lassitude. She spent hours at her prie-dieu surrounded by candles, and her ladies could hear her weeping.

“’Tis not right to be so devoted to a servant, and a malformed servant at that,” Ann remarked to Beatrice one day in early August. They were walking along the river, having left Margaret seated under a huge beech tree, her back against the smooth bark, her book unopened on her lap and her eyes closed. She did not want anyone near her, and for the first time in her service, her ladies feared her tongue. Once comfortable under the tree, she had shooed the women away. It worried her that she had fits of melancholy that she could not control. Often they began with a headache, and then a black humor would descend and stay with her for hours. She gazed through the rustling leaves to the flower garden beyond, and self-pity overcame her.

Ann and Beatrice strolled through the stone arch in the garden wall to the quay that ran the length of the palace grounds. A flotilla of ships was slowly making its way past them up the river to London, passing the slower shouts, laden with cargoes of stone, grain and timber. The standard flying on the lead vessel bore the unmistakable Ragged Staff badge of the earl of Warwick. “Coming from Calais,” conjectured Beatrice. The women waved, and a few of the soldiers leaning over the gunwales shouted greetings. They watched the convoy’s progress for a few more minutes before turning back to their path.

“It has been four weeks since we left the city, Ann. It would seem to me Fortunata would have come if she were still alive. The pestilence has run its course, so one of the boatmen told me. Lady Margaret must
believe she is dead and so is mourning her friend. You should not be so spiteful, mistress.”

Beatrice Metcalfe was a spinster from a knight’s family near Raby, where Cecily Neville had grown up. Cecily had offered Beatrice, who was about her own age, the opportunity to leave her father’s draughty hall in the dales of Yorkshire to serve the young Margaret. Beatrice kept a motherly eye on her charge, although as an older woman, she was not a confidante. She was grateful for the chance to serve the great York family and kept her own counsel among the much younger ladies-in-waiting. If Margaret did but know it, Beatrice was as devoted to her mistress as Fortunata, but she chose to keep in the background. Cecily received letters from her periodically, keeping Cecily informed of Margaret’s comings and goings.

“I doubt my lady would grieve this much for you or me,” Ann retorted. “I wish the precious little thing had never come here, in truth!”

“Aye, Ann, you do not need to tell me this, for you wear your heart upon your sleeve. You should beware if you would keep your position. Lady Margaret is as sharp as a needle, and I have no doubt she knows exactly how you feel.”

“Pah!” Ann scoffed. “I am to be married shortly and shall soon be gone from this stifling life. I shall have my own household and, God willing, soon hold my own babes.” She stopped to look back at the receding ships and put up her hand to shade her eyes. “But look, there is a boat pulling for the pier.” She pointed at a small boat with one oarsman ferrying a single passenger making for the palace. “Let us go and see who visits us from London. At least it will be a change of pace.”

The two women hurried along the stone walk to the jetty and waited for the boat to pull alongside. Crouched in the middle of the boat, her face gaunt and her coif askew, sat Fortunata.

“Speak of the Devil,” muttered Ann under her breath, crossing herself for conjuring him up.

“Fortunata!” cried Beatrice, hurrying forward. “Oh, Fortunata, we thought you were dead.”

The dwarf sat up when she heard her name, and her expression brightened when she saw Beatrice.

“Beatrice, Beatrice,” she said, almost falling out of the boat in her hurry to exit the hated craft. “I am so happy to see you.”

Beatrice embraced the younger woman, who was now a good deal thinner, and called to Ann to come and greet Fortunata. Ann grudgingly gave her a smile and a greeting, but Fortunata was already asking for Margaret.

“Your mistress is under the big tree in the garden.” Beatrice pointed back the way she and Ann had come. “Oh, Fortunata, she will be so glad to see you.”

Her words were lost to Fortunata, who was running towards the garden.

“
Madonna, Madonna
Margherita! Where are you?” she called as she ran.

“Fortunata?” Margaret jumped to her feet when she heard the familiar voice from the other side of the wall. “Fortunata, is that really you?”

The two women ran into each other’s arms between the rose bushes and the hollyhocks, crying and laughing at the same time.

“I thought you were dead,
pochina,
” Margaret said, using her new nickname for Fortunata when she found out the Italian word for “tiny bit.”

“
Non, madonna, quasi
—but almost.” She unwound the scarf from her neck and pointed to where an ugly sore was visible but healing. “I prayed—
tanto
—as you told me, and now I am here, safe with you!”

“Aye, you are lucky, like your name,” Margaret said, her black depression lifting. “Come, we must fatten you up again, my small friend. Ah, here are Ann and Beatrice. Do you see, ladies? Fortunata is restored to us.”

“We are so glad, are we not, Ann?” Beatrice said, digging her companion in the ribs with her elbow.

“Aye, that we are, my lady. Fortunata, welcome back,” Ann said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.

Fortunata inclined her head in acknowledgment, but as she turned to walk with Margaret, she arched a skeptical brow.

7

1464–1465

Margaret was overjoyed to receive Edward’s summons to meet him at Westminster before he journeyed to Reading Abbey for a meeting of Parliament.

“Come with but a few of your attendants, Meg. I have made provision for you to stay at the abbott’s house, where I shall also be. The abbey will be filled with members of the parliament, and the town will also need to host a great many. Richard is to remain at Greenwich this time. He will have many chances to take his seat with the peers when he is older.”

She had broken the news to Richard, who accepted his fate with his usual calm. Unlike George, he was not one to make a fuss, Margaret thought, watching his expression change from interest in the missive to resignation to the content. “Certes, Ned must have good reason to leave me here,” he said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “You will have to tell me all when you return, Meggie.”

He had been at the wharf to see her off, promising to keep an eye on her other ladies while she was gone. “Gladly.” He had grinned at her. “How close an eye?”

“Why, Dickon, you are still but a boy and much too young to flirt yet!” Margaret retorted, but she winked at him as she stepped into the barge. “Farewell, and may God keep you safe.”

“And you, Meg,” he called, as the boat was pushed away from the dock and the oarsmen began their rhythmic stroke.

She watched the swans glide by and saw a heron rise from the bulrushes on the Essex side of the river as her thoughts returned to Edward’s letter. She was intrigued; Ned had been mysterious.

“The reason for this summons will become clear to you when we meet,” he wrote, giving her no clue. He ended abruptly with,

“God speed, little sister, until I see you at Westminster on the tenth day of September.

Edward R.”

There was only one reason, she decided. He had found her a bridegroom. She had lain awake for two nights imagining who the man could be, and she vacillated between trepidation and curiosity. One moment he was a handsome Englishman with a face not unlike Anthony Woodville’s, and the next he was a fearsome foreigner with black eyes, stout frame and stubby legs. Aye, he might free her from the monotony of life in Greenwich and offer her the joys of motherhood, but at what price? She sighed, settled back into her comfortable cushions and fell asleep. Fortunata curled up under Margaret’s cloak at her feet and tried to forget she was once again in
un battello molto brutto,
which loosely translated to “beastly boat.”

“W
ELL MET, WELL
met, my dearly beloved sister,” Edward enthused from the steps of the dais as if he had not seen her for years. He came forward to raise her from a deep curtsey and almost tripped in his haste. “By the rood!” he exclaimed with an overly loud laugh. “I shall have the cordwainer’s guts for garters, I swear.” He pointed to the long points on his blue leather ankle boots. “How I detest this fashion!”