Daughter of York (54 page)

She took a step back and said in a measured, icy tone, “I am going to pretend I did not hear you say anything, my lord. But before I do, I would give you two pieces of advice. Do not underestimate Edward’s love for his wife; and do not come between Edward and George. You will rue the day if you do. If you believe I am a mere woman with no influence, you should think again. I may be just as dangerous as my brother. But given our kinship and your friendship with my father, I will try to forget this conversation. And now, if you will excuse me, I have letters to write.”

She turned and walked sedately back over the bridge and into the palace, her ladies and Guillaume hurrying behind her. Her heart was pounding and perspiration dripped down her back; she was glad Warwick could not see how unnerved she was. How could she get a message to Edward? Should she go to Charles?

Stay, Meg, she admonished herself. I must have read the situation all wrong. The earl must have informed me of his idea simply to keep my good opinion. Then again, if I am right, surely he would know I would pass on this information. No, his intentions must be honorable, she concluded; he would not be so stupid. She shook her head to get the confusing thoughts out of it, took off her straw sun hat and hurried up to her chamber to change out of her sweaty gown.

The earl of Warwick stared after her, his eyes hard and his mouth a thin line. Then he called for his horse and within the hour was galloping back to Calais.

At her desk, Margaret scribbled hurriedly.

“My dearest Lancelot, my mother’s nephew was here today and I liked not the way of things with him. My heart tells me the man plans mischief so I beg of you to warn my brother.

“A year ago today, I was lost to you forever. ’Tis hard to believe how my life has changed. Know that I keep you in my heart and in my prayers daily—my love, my all. On this third day of July,

ever your Elaine.”

T
HE VERY NEXT
day, the duke and duchess moved on to Bruges, where Margaret had another visitor.

“Master Caxton, I am pleased to see you again,” Margaret said, extending her hand for him to kiss as he knelt before her. As he looked up at her after brushing her fingertips with his lips, she made a mental note: a badger! With his black and white streaked beard and curly hair, he looked like a badger. She felt a movement beside her and thought, I must tell Fortunata tonight. The dwarf stepped forward, executing a little curtsey. “And I think I am not the only one pleased to see you,” Margaret said, remembering Fortunata had seen Master Caxton on more than one occasion during her stay at St. John’s. “Fortunata, give Master Caxton greeting.”

Fortunata curtseyed again, and Margaret was puzzled to see the dwarf look shyly at the floor. “Good day, Master Caxton,” she said, coloring.

Margaret was intrigued, no less because William also seemed at a loss for words. What is this all about, she wondered?

Finally he replied, “God’s greeting, your grace. And you, Mistress Fortunata.” Kneeling still, he was looking eye to eye with Fortunata, a smile hovering on his lips.

“Rise, Master Caxton, and join me in some wine,” Margaret said, determined to worm the explanation for this little scene from her servant later. “I would know how your translation of the history of Troy is progressing.”

Although he was impressed that the duchess had remembered his little enterprise, William’s face fell. “I regret it has not progressed very far, your grace. My work as governor of the adventurers does not allow me much time for leisure pursuits. Would that it could, but it can’t,” he said sadly.

“I have but five or six quires completed.”

“I would see them, sir, if I may be so bold. To have such a collection of stories translated to English is an important undertaking, and you must pursue it.” She was pensive for a moment as she chose her words carefully. William quaffed his wine, marveling at its quality and admiring the silver goblet. Fortunata was on the stool at her mistress’s feet, and Caxton watched her over his drink. She was looking quite attractive in a black and white patterned dress, the emerald green plastron at her breast complementing her dark looks. In all ways but one she was his ideal of a beautiful woman. She had intelligence of expression, gentle yet humorous eyes and lustrous dark hair that she had allowed him to touch that night under the merchant’s hall when he had given in to an urge to kiss her. She was ripe for the plucking …

“So what think you, Master Caxton?”

Startled, William almost spilled his wine on his best blue jacket. He had not heard a word as he thought on the memories of his dalliance with Fortunata. Christ’s nails, he grimaced, women will be my downfall!

“Your pardon, my lady. I do not think I heard you correctly. A defect in my left ear, you know,” he lied frantically. “I should like to answer you as succinctly as I can, if only you would be so kind as …”

“I am sorry about your hearing loss, sir,” Margaret said, not believing him for a moment, as she had seen him ogling Fortunata. “Let me try again.” She raised her voice so much that the others in the room stopped talking, and William had to control an urge to put his finger to his lips. “I offered you a position in my household that would allow you to continue with your writing, Master Caxton. Did you hear me this time?”

Caxton stared at Margaret in disbelief. “I-I did, your grace. Th-thank you, your grace,” he stuttered. “But how … I mean why … no, I mean … what would I do? The adventurers?”

Margaret laughed. “Why, I do believe I have rendered you speechless, sir. The adventurers will find another governor, perhaps not as adept as you, but they will nominate someone competent, have no fear. I have need of your advice in all things commercial, Master Caxton, and I would have that advice in English, so I can better serve my subjects here—and our own English merchants. You will be granted time to work on the
recueil
, and I shall be here to help you. Your French, if I may say so upon listening to you last year, is not as good as mine.”

“Nay, certes, it is not,” William said unabashedly. “But I thought ’twas fair enough for translation. Perhaps not. I should be delighted to show you the work, Lady Margaret.” He went down on one knee again, his hand on his heart. “Your grace, how do I deserve this privilege—nay, this honor—to serve you? ’Twould be the crowning of my career.”

“Do I understand you are accepting the position, sir?” Margaret’s eyes were merry, knowing poor Caxton in fact had no choice in the matter. But she was content that the change in his fortune was not displeasing to him and rose to end the audience. Using the movement to take a letter from her sleeve, she slipped it to him as he kissed her hand. “Then as soon as you can put your affairs in order, I would have you join me in Ghent next month. God go with you, Master Caxton.”

William quickly put the letter into his hat as he bowed his way out of her presence. Then he hurried back to the Engelstraat to boast of his good fortune to his fellow merchants. All his life he had worked in the cloth trade. He was apprenticed at sixteen to a silk mercer in London and was then sent to trade in Bruges, where, at the age of thirty, he was finally admitted to the powerful Mercers Company. As governor of the English nation—as the company of merchant-adventurers in Burgundy was called—he was the wool trade’s negotiator for commercial treaties with the duke, and he had been on several diplomatic missions to England during his tenure. Now it seemed he was to embark upon a new career, and the prospect made his spirits soar as high as St. Donatian’s spire in the Market Square.

One niggling thought spoiled his enthusiasm, however. He would have to put his lust for Fortunata out of his mind. His new mistress would not condone a dalliance in that direction, he was sure.

I
T DID NOT
take Margaret long to get the truth from Fortunata. The dwarf was mortified that her mistress had guessed something had transpired between her and the merchant and expected another punishment.

“Aye, I should put you out on the street where you belong,” Margaret scolded her. “Did you know the merchant-adventurers are supposed to be celibate, Fortunata? Did you perhaps think Master Caxton would take you to wife?”

“Wife?
Non, non, madonna.
I will never leave you.” Then she glanced up
at Margaret under her thick lashes and smirked. “But William and me had a nice evening kissing at the Waterhall. A lot of kissing.”

Aye, and more, if the look in Caxton’s eye had told her anything, but she just shook her head and clucked her tongue as if she disapproved. And now she had invited the man to come and be under her roof. How would she keep the two apart? It would be the talk of the court. Then she was contrite. What a hypocrite I am, she thought. I would do the same with Anthony, if I had the chance.

“Do you love Master Caxton?” she asked carefully. “Once he comes here, he will be free to marry.”

Fortunata was taken aback by the question. She had not really thought about love. She enjoyed the feeling she had when she was with the man, and he was the first one she had been in any way intimate with. She was thankful to know physical love was a possibility, judging by her body’s reaction to William’s touch and she was certain William felt nothing but lust. She decided on a safe answer that might arouse Margaret’s sympathy, for she absolutely wanted to be with the man again.

“I love him,
madonna
, but I do not think he loves me that much. It makes me sad,” she admitted. “Maybe when he comes here, he will learn to love me.” She busied herself tidying Margaret’s pile of letters so that her mistress could not see her eyes. “You must not worry for me anymore, your grace. Now, excuse me, I must find Beatrice.” She curtseyed and hurried away, leaving Margaret to smile to herself.

Little baggage, she has no intention of giving him up. And in truth, I cannot blame her.

15

Autumn 1469

“Edward captured by Warwick! Surely you jest,” Margaret cried, when Thomas Rotherham, Bishop of Rochester, gave her the news in her audience chamber at Ten Waele. She knew Anthony must not have received her letter in time to warn Ned. “But how could such a thing have happened, my lord bishop? The people followed Warwick? ’Tis not possible.”

The bishop chose his words judiciously. “There were several rebellions in the north and Midlands, and the king went to flush out the leaders. Now we know they were instigated by my lord of Warwick and”—he paused, looking at the floor—“your brother of Clarence.”

“George! Oh, that foolish boy. Why would he oppose Edward?” she thought out loud. “Why?”

“’Tis only a rumor, your grace, but ’tis said the earl offered Clarence the crown.” Seeing Margaret’s stunned expression, he hurried on, “For, as you must know, your brother and Isabel Neville were wed in July. We—the councilors—believe Warwick intends to make his new son-in-law king in Edward’s place.”

Margaret exploded. “What nonsense is this you speak, my lord bishop! Edward expressly forbade George to marry Isabel.”

The bishop spread his hands. “’Tis a fait accompli, my lady. It happened in Calais in the middle of July. As soon as the wedding was celebrated, your brother and the earl embarked for England with the intent of ridding the country of Earl Rivers, his wife Jacquetta, and the whole Woodville family.”

“Anthony,” she whispered fearfully under her breath. Louder she said, “Pray continue, my lord. I can hardly credit what I am hearing.” And yet she was not surprised. Had not Warwick told her himself he would rid England of Woodvilles?

“There was a battle in a place called Edgecote, and the rebels won. A few days later, Warwick disposed of two of the Woodville family as well as the earls of Pembroke and Devon.”

Margaret gasped, her face ashen. “Which two Woodvilles?” she heard herself ask as if she were floating somewhere above the scene.

“The father and son, your grace.” Again Margaret’s heart lurched, but the bishop continued, “Earl Rivers and Sir John Woodville were executed at Coventry. I came here on behalf of your brother to enlist your help.”

Handsome John, she thought sadly, he was the same age as me. His only crime was that he had married above himself at the queen’s instigation and endured the smirks of the court on the arm of his seventy-two-year-old duchess wife. But rather him than Anthony! Her relief was palpable, but in as calm a tone as she could, Margaret heard herself asking, “And my Lord Scales, is he taken, too?”

“Nay, the king had commanded him to return to his wife’s estates in Norfolk until the rebellion had died down. He thought Lord Anthony would be safer there. He is now, however, Earl Rivers, your grace.”

Margaret nodded. “Certes, the title passed from his father. ’Twill be difficult to style him thus after all these years. He was my escort here last year, my lord bishop, as no doubt you remember, and he discharged his duty to me with utmost honor and courtesy. I believe I can count him as my friend.” Margaret you wanton, she chided herself, the bishop does not need to know this. You are merely talking about him for your own selfish reasons. Speaking his name keeps him and his love alive for you. The bishop smiled politely.