Daughter of York (35 page)

“’Twas a sour potion for the earl to swallow, Meg,” Richard told his sister a few weeks later. “My lord is not accustomed to stooping to apologize to one as low as Rivers. His jaw was set for days following, and I blame him not.”

“Certes, Dickon, but Ned needs to keep the peace between the two. He owes Warwick his throne and Woodville his wife. I do not envy him,” Margaret told him. “Your lord is a greedy man, and by all that is holy, Ned
has rewarded him well, but he needs to know who is king, in my view.”

“Do not think I am disloyal to Ned!” Dickon cried anxiously. “I am torn by my duty to my liege lord Warwick, who has me under his roof, and my brother and sovereign lord, to whom I owe everything.”

“You have but one allegiance, Dickon, and that is to your family. Never forget that. I shall never forget I am a York and a princess of England when—if—I go to Burgundy.”

Richard nodded, understanding her well. Then he lowered his eyes and said softly, “I fear George needs to be reminded, Meg. He is constantly in Warwick’s company and talks of Isabel interminably. I do not think he will rest until he has her.”

“Ned will never sanction it. And besides, she is too close in kin by far. I am told Charles had his troubles with a dispensation for us to wed—and I wish it had been denied,” she sighed, “and we are far more distant than George and Isabel.”

Richard grinned. “But you will love Bruges, Meg. Duchess Isabella—the older one—was so kind to George and me. You will live like a queen there.”

“I live like a queen here, Dickon. What can you mean?” Margaret retorted.

“Aye, we live well, but not half so well as the duke. You will see. But,” he said in a quieter tone, a faraway look in his eyes, “I do not think having so many riches is as important as being happy, do you?”

Margaret heard a warmth in his voice she had not heard before and looked at him intently. Was it possible? she thought. After all, he is fifteen now. She smiled, her own woes forgotten. “Why, Dickon, I do believe you are in love! Who is the lady? Someone in the north? Do I know her?”

Richard was all business once more. He laughed a little too heartily, rose and evaded her questions. He was such a private young man, she often did not understand him, but she appreciated he was being loyal to whomever had taken his fancy and so did not press him further. Nonetheless, she was intrigued and so convinced he had fallen in love that she asked Fortunata to ferret out any information she could about Richard’s paramour. Fortunata came up emptyhanded, but one foggy day in late February, while Edward was still haggling over her contract, Margaret herself found out a little more.

Jack Howard was back at court after many weeks of recuperation from a nasty hunting accident in Suffolk, where he was gored by a charging wild boar, and he had volunteered to give her his impressions of his many visits to Flanders. Margaret insisted on improving her French in preparation for her new life, and Jack found himself floundering in front of her fluency. His mistakes led to much laughter, and they spent a merry afternoon in conversation.

“I was sorry to hear about your accident, Sir John,” Margaret said, pointing to his still bandaged leg. “I believe there is nothing more ferocious than a wild boar when it is cornered.”

“Aye, the creature is courageous in the face of death, I grant you, and I liked not the look in his eye as he came at me. Your brother, Gloucester, has decided upon the boar for his device, he told me during his visit to Nayland a fortnight ago. ’Tis a noble animal indeed and a good choice.”

“Dickon was with you, Sir John?” Margaret asked, innocently. “’Tis strange he did not mention it the other day when we talked.”

Jack unexpectedly colored and stammered, “’Twas but a short visit, my lady, and he has much to occupy him these days. He had no reason to tell you of it.” He thought quickly and rushed on, “And now, let me talk to you of the merchant adventurers in Bruges, with whom you are sure to have discourse as they are the English merchant representatives there.”

Margaret did not miss the flush and fluster in his voice. Aha! she thought, whoever Dickon is dallying with has a connection to Howard. For his part, Jack cursed himself, because, as Margaret had correctly guessed, Richard had met a young woman at Tendring Hall, had sworn him and Lady Howard to secrecy, and Jack had almost let the cat out of the bag.

“’T
IS FINALLY
signed, Meg,” Edward told his sister on the afternoon of the fourteenth day of March. “I have ratified the treaty with Charles and you will marry him in early May at Bruges.”

He observed her as the news sank in. Her back was long and straight as a Roman road, her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes stared unblinking at the red and gold tapestry in front of her. “Aye, your grace,” she eventually whispered and crossed herself. “As you wish.”

Edward chuckled. “You look as though you were about to be put on the rack. Come now, Meg, marriage is not so bad. Bess and I are very
happy together, as are her mother and father, and I can give you other examples, including our own parents. Certes, Jack Howard and his new wife, Margaret, dote on each other.

“You have spent time with Antoine of Burgundy, and you told me you liked him. Why should you think his half brother will be any different? For one so intelligent, you are being addle-pated about this, Margaret. Now, smile for me; I cannot send you to Bruges looking so sour-faced.” He clapped his hands, startling her out of her trance and silencing the buzz of conversation at the other side of the room. Edward called for music, the soft notes from lutes and viols broke the tension and the courtiers resumed their quiet talking.

Margaret lifted her head and smiled sweetly at her brother, though tears shone on her lashes. “Will this do?” she asked. “I can keep this up for as long as you like. But you cannot prevent the pain in my heart, Ned. ’Tis not a fear exactly, ’tis a deep melancholy I have in here”—she touched her heart—“that I will leave all that is near and dear to me for ever.”

“Your tears are wasted on me, Margaret. I am fast losing patience—”

Edward was interrupted by a scuffle at the far end of the room, and they both turned to see all four of Astolat’s gangly legs flailing wildly as he tried to release Fortunata’s grip on the tether that was keeping him from reaching Margaret’s side. Finally gaining a footing on the slippery flagstones, with rushes flying, the dog achieved his goal by simply dragging the poor Fortunata on her rump along the floor behind him. Brother and sister forgot their disagreement and laughed at the scene, and when the dwarf saw her mistress in merrier spirits, she encouraged the dog to go faster by picking up a long rush and using it as a whip.

“That’s better, Meggie,” Edward whispered as the courtiers cheered the dog on. “I am counting on you to win Charles over to the York cause. ’Tis vital for England.”

10

Spring and Summer 1468

Margaret’s favorite green and gold spring came and went so quickly that she hardly had time to savor it, as preparations for her marriage took up most of her days. Despite the problems Edward had in raising the first fifty thousand crowns Charles had demanded as dowry, he could not let his sister arrive in Burgundy—the most cultural and fashionable province in Europe—with an inadequate trousseau. Gowns of cloth of silver and gold, underdresses of damask, satin and silk, velvet mantles lined with fur, hennins adorned with pearls and jewels and shoes of every color had to be measured and made for her.

Edward had told her at the time of the signing in March that there was a problem with the dispensation for her and Charles to marry, and it was still wanting. The couple were related in the third and fourth degrees of consanguinity, and somewhere in the application process, Charles had made an error.

“Christ’s nails!” roared Edward, when he had heard of yet another delay at the end of April. He swung around to face his council, and his eye rested on Anthony Woodville. “Scales, go and find my sister and tell
her she will not be wed on the fourth of May. I warrant your shoulder is as good as anyone’s for her to cry on. Duke Charles fears Louis may have had something to do with this, and if he has, I shall flay him alive—next time I see him. Now, let us choose another date for the marriage. I cannot believe the pope will make us wait more than a month, so I propose the twenty-fourth of June. Aye, tell Lady Margaret she has a reprieve until then, Anthony.” And he waved his brother-in-law away.

Anthony hurried through the halls of Westminster Palace to where Margaret had her apartments. Master Vaughan greeted him warmly in the waiting room. Margaret had told Anthony after the tournament that her steward now held him in higher esteem than Edward, at which Anthony had laughed and called her a flatterer.

“I must see the Lady Margaret at once, Master Vaughan, I have a message from the king. Pray announce me without delay,” Anthony commanded, clapping the old man on the shoulder as he would a friend.

“I regret, my lord, but the Lady Margaret is unable to give an audience at this moment,” the steward replied. Then he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “For she is in her bath!”

“Then please send Fortunata to me, sir, so I may ascertain how long I must wait.”

Within a few minutes, Fortunata slipped through the door and curtseyed to Anthony, who was inspecting a large tapestry that was strewn with tiny flowers. In a low voice so the steward could not hear, she said, “
Madonna
Margaret will let you come in and speak to her, but you cannot see her, milord.” To the steward she said brightly, “Master Von, my mistress is ready to see Lord Scales. Thank you and farewell.”

Vaughan bowed to Anthony and stomped off down the hall, his head jutting forward and his hands clasped behind his back. Anthony entered Margaret’s chamber, and Fortunata announced him. Several of her ladies were hovering around a silk-covered screen, one holding a large steaming pot and another waiting with drying cloths. Fortunata scurried around the screen and told Margaret that Anthony was there.

“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.