Daughter of York (39 page)

It was Jack’s turn to chuckle. “Perhaps you know now why my own dear Margaret would not join me, my lady. I took her on my favorite ship out of Ipswich—the one you saw at Greenwich—and she, too, turned the color of Fortunata’s gown. And we were still moored at the wharf.” He threw back his head and laughed merrily. “She will be cheered to hear she keeps good company.”

Later in the day, the wind died completely, and the ships drifted helplessly until the following morning, when creaking timbers and flapping sails moved the crew into action. All fourteen ships had managed to stay together overnight, and the passengers cheered as the canvas billowed out again in a west wind, and they felt the ship’s forward movement.

Anthony had finally recovered and walked with Eliza up and down the crowded deck, giving Margaret pangs of jealousy, especially when she heard Eliza’s high-pitched whinny. Once in a while, Anthony’s eyes met hers, and a silent greeting passed between them, giving her some solace. She had her sea legs now and, to pass the time, she conversed with the master about all the ports he had visited.

“Of all the places I have been, my lady, Bruges is one of the most beautiful,” he declared, a steady hand on the tiller. “’Tis named the Venice of the north, in truth. I have a friend there who is the governor of the English merchant-adventurers. William Caxton is his name.”

“I presume he is a wool merchant, Master Cooke, if he is the merchant-adventurers’ chief. I have been told of these merchants of England who represent the many trades abroad. He must indeed be a fine man and experienced merchant to take the governorship of them all.”

“Aye, he is, although he seems to be more taken with books and reading, in truth, which I cannot think will bring him fame and fortune, can you, my lady? Far better to stick to selling wool.”

Margaret smiled. “You are addressing the wrong person, sir. Books are a passion of mine—”

“And mine,” said a voice that always set her pulses racing. “And why were you talking of books with Master Cooke, Lady Margaret? I warrant ’tis not a subject he can wax poetic on, am I right, Master Cooke?” Anthony teased, joining them—alone. Margaret could see Eliza standing with a group being entertained by Jehan the jester. “He is far too busy sailing damoiselles to their weddings and keeping a true course.”

The captain bowed and smiled ruefully. “Aye, my lord, I fear my skill at reading allows me to follow charts, ’tis all. And you are right, I should set my mind on the swiftest course for Sluis, or we shall be late for that wedding.”

“Then let me relieve you of a distraction, sir,” Anthony said, taking Margaret’s arm and walking her the length of the deck to the prow, where the proud figurehead fixed her eyes on the horizon. As her official escort, Anthony had a reasonable claim to Margaret’s exclusive attention, and in view of so many witnesses, including his wife, everything appeared circumspect. In fact, the two had an hour of uninterrupted time together that not even Eliza could gainsay. Only Fortunata, standing guard behind them, could hear the passion in Anthony’s voice as he ended the tête-à-tête.

“I have wrestled with Satan over my desire for you, Marguerite. That day in your chamber, he almost won. I am ashamed to say I wish he had.” Margaret clutched the rail, staring at the water below, as Anthony continued, “I wish I knew what it was like to feel your skin next to mine, to let your hair cover us both as we pleasure each other.” Margaret drew in
a sharp breath. Surely I am dreaming, she thought, but he continued, “I am consumed by love for you, and it comes from my mind as well as my heart. I love the way you think, I love that you always have the right word for the right time, I love your generosity, your caring and your piety. Most of all, I love that you love me.”

“I do, Anthony,” was all Margaret could whisper back.

“In a few days, you will belong to another—another man, who will know you as I cannot. Already I hate this man, and I fear God’s wrath for even thinking such thoughts, let alone saying them out loud.” Margaret crossed herself, knowing he was indeed tempting the Devil. She did not look at him for fear he would stop, and she didn’t want him to stop.

“I have met this man, and it grieves me sore that although he is a duke, he is not good enough for you, my love,” Anthony said. “You and I were destined to meet, but we were not destined to be together. Both of us must pray to God the Father, God the Holy Ghost and our Savior Jesu Christ to help us accept this destiny and live our lives in His way. If ever there comes a time when you and I are free of the bonds of marriage, I promise you I will come to you if you so desire. I pray you send me word of you whenever you can—as Elaine to Lancelot. Here is an address where you may send me letters without fear of discovery.” He gave her a scrap of parchment, which she pushed into the pouch she carried. “I shall instruct my contact that anything addressed to Lancelot is for me. He is a good friend and will not ask questions.

“When you are comfortable, find a safe place for me to send mine. But let us vow to destroy these letters. Do you agree?” He saw her nod. “’Twas cruel of Edward to make me your escort. He tried to please you because he thought, like him, you enjoyed a passing fancy. He has no notion of our true natures or how painful this is for both of us. We do not need anyone else to know, except for Fortunata here”—he turned to the dwarf, who tried to look the innocent but crossed her heart to reassure him of her silence—“and now I beg of you, my love, laugh heartily at this speech, so all present will know I am but entertaining you on this voyage of Hell.”

So Margaret laughed. She laughed and laughed until the tears flowed down her cheeks and blew behind her in the wind.

•   •   •

“S
HIPS AHOY, STARBOARD
,” cried the boy in the crow’s nest, pointing south. He had carefully counted all fourteen in his flotilla and thus knew three new ships were bearing down on them at a run.

Sweet Jesu, pirates! Margaret thought, her heart in her mouth. As the crew and passengers watched anxiously, the new ships drew ever closer.

“’Tis the French, not pirates!” Jack Howard cried first. “God’s bones! How did Louis know where to find us? Surely they would not attack so close to port and to sundown.”

He hurried to the stern and climbed the steps to speak to the captain, advising him to thread their ship with its precious royal cargo through her sister ships and evade a possible skirmish. The French ships were taking a risk by threatening to attack such a large fleet, but Jack had weathered many a naval fight with the French and knew they were not cowards.

“Ladies, go below!” bellowed the captain, who was now on the foredeck, sizing up the situation. “Close the shutters tight and lock the doors. Master-at-arms, ready weapons for the crew and any others prepared to fight.”

Margaret found herself on her knees, her ladies around her, staring out to sea and at the advancing ships. She heard the captain, but she had to pray first. “St. Brendan, I beg you to protect these good people, who are only following the king’s command. Preserve us from harm and let us find our harbor in peace,” she cried out.

Anthony heard her and sighed. Marguerite, where is your common sense, he silently asked her. Running to where she knelt, he hoisted her up none too kindly and sternly told her to “obey the captain and go below, for mercy’s sake!”

An arrow thudded a few feet from them. Beatrice screamed. A few more followed as the women scrambled, tripped and fell down the companionway in their frenzy to reach the safety of the stateroom. Anthony closed all the shutters and admonished them to be quiet so that if they were boarded, the Frenchmen would not know they had Margaret of York aboard. He left the room to find his sword, leaving the group of women in a state of terror.

Through a chink in a shutter, Margaret saw one of the French ships so close to the
Mary
that those men armed with pikes could almost impale
the enemy. But the English captain had anticipated the ramming and already his ship was responding to his “Hard a-lee!” The French ship missed them completely.

The
New Ellen
was now far out of range. Another cry went up from the lookout: “Harbor lights ahead!” In the evening twilight, the French, who were not willing to follow the fleet into Burgundian waters in the dark, gave up the fight. They had no wish to repeat the defeat of their fleet by the English in Sluis harbor on that very same day a century before.

The English ships sailed away without injury to anyone aboard and into the wide bay before Sluis as the light faded. The ladies went back to their knees to offer thanks for their escape.

M
ARGARET WAS NOT
prepared for the reception that greeted her in the harbor. Torches, beacons and lanterns were lit to guide the ships in, the little town was festooned with banners and garlands, and even though it was dark, townsfolk lined the wharves and hung from windows to greet the English princess. Margaret went below, and for the next hour, her ladies dressed her and decked her in jewels to satisfy the Burgundians that she was indeed a royal princess and show she was grateful for their tribute. She briefly wondered who would be greeting her, and she felt her stomach lurch. No one had told her what to expect, and she was arriving many days ahead of the third of July wedding date. But if the people of Sluis were ready to receive her, then perhaps Charles was there, too. It had already been explained to Margaret, however, that according to the strict court etiquette, she would not see her bridegroom immediately, which at once relieved and unnerved her. The longer he was absent, the more terrifying he grew in her imagination.

There was a knock on the door, and Anthony called out that a barge was approaching their vessel and perhaps she should be ready for an audience. “I know not who, my lady, but, judging from the trumpeting, ’tis people of importance. I will bring them to you as soon as they come aboard,” he said.

Fortunata opened the door a crack, curtseyed and said with enough authority to make Anthony’s mouth turn up, “Milady Margaret is almost ready, milord,” and closed the door again. A few minutes later, a scraping on the side of the ship and sounds of people coming aboard were heard
in the cabin. Arranging the skirts of her crimson gown trimmed in black and purple—the three Burgundian colors—and coaxing the veil on her jeweled headdress into perfection, Margaret’s ladies stood back to admire their handiwork and nodded happily.

“Beautiful, my lady,” Beatrice said for them all. Margaret managed a small smile, but her knees were knocking as she waited to meet the first of her new subjects. She fingered the white rose brooch pinned on the ermine trim of her bodice between her breasts for courage. She thought of her York heritage and felt the familiar swell.

“Et maintenant, mes chères dames de compagnie, tout en français dès ce moment,”
she said. Fortunata cocked her head and nodded. She had never been far from Margaret’s side during the months Margaret was improving her French, and as an Italian, she found the new language easier to understand than English. They would have to get used to speaking French now.

They were joined by the duchess of Norfolk, the bishop of Salisbury and others to wait for the ducal party to be presented. Anthony knocked again and once bidden to enter, stood on the threshold in a magnificent velvet gown trimmed with marten, his plumed hat in the very latest fashion. Blue eyes gazed into gray in a moment of mutual appreciation. They did not need to communicate; each knew what the other was thinking. Margaret’s hand fluttered for a second in a secret salute before Anthony bowed.

“My lady, I have the honor to present to you his grace Duke Charles’s esteemed chamberlain, Seigneur de Montigny,” he said in French and stepped aside, a playful smile on his lips that she did not miss. Then she knew why.

It took all of her control to not laugh when the lord made his entrance. He had to turn sideways to fit his enormous frame through the cabin doorway, and the foot-high hat that perched precariously above his flabby face hit the low lintel and fell to the floor. The bailiff of Sluis, who followed him in, snatched it up, hiding it behind his back. Montigny’s greasy brown-gray hair swung limply in front of his face as he executed as low a bow as his larded body would allow. Margaret was, however, impressed by his clothes, the many jewels on his fingers and the heavy gold collar around his shoulders. His piggy eyes regarded her solemnly as he straightened up, and, with relief, she saw admiration in them. He took her slim hand in his massive paw and kissed it with reverence.

“Princess Margaret, God’s greeting to you. I am sent by his grace, Duke Charles, your fiancé, to bid you most welcome into Burgundy.”

The comical scene broke Margaret’s reserve and she gave him a brilliant smile. In a voice—to those who knew her—tinged with laughter, she responded, “God’s greeting to you, Messire Montigny. I will be happy to finally set foot in your country and off this rocking ship. May I now present.” She introduced the other members of her train. Her first duty was over, and she had to admit, it had been easier than she’d expected.

As Anthony handed her into the barge for the short way to shore, he whispered, “Your control was admirable, Marguerite. I am glad to see you still have your sense of humor. Remember, I am here—officially—whenever you need me.”

“And unofficially?” she murmured. He shook his head. “’Tis not possible.”

Once on land, she was greeted by two of Duke Philip’s twenty-five illegitimate offspring, the Bishop of Utrecht, who intoned a blessing for the princess’s safe crossing, and the Countess Marie de Charny. Both bore a resemblance to Antoine, their elder half brother who had fought at Smithfield, Margaret noted, although Charny’s forty-year-old face was harder.

She gripped Anthony’s arm as they made their way through the cheering crowd along streets that had been carpeted for her comfort. She tried to picture Edward sending his bastards, Arthur and Elizabeth, albeit still children, to meet a future queen, but she could not. It was as well Jack Howard had told her in what high esteem all of Philip’s illegitimate children were held, or she might have been offended. She knew that yet another, Anne of Burgundy, was in charge of Charles’s only daughter’s education. She could not imagine what the dowager Duchess Isabella must think of all these reminders of her late husband’s infidelities being in positions of power around her. It made her wonder whether Charles might have similar leanings, and she inadvertently shivered at the thought of him touching her.