Daughter of York (55 page)

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L
ATER THAT AUTUMN
she learned that Warwick had indeed captured Edward and was keeping him in confinement at his own castles of Warwick and Middleham. However, the earl had not taken full control of the government, preferring to let Edward be his mouthpiece, to which Edward was unusually agreeable. At least the rumor that Warwick was planning on crowning his son-in-law, George, in Edward’s place was just that, a rumor, Margaret thought, relieved. She even hoped Edward would come to terms with the earl and they could once again be friends.

It was puzzling, therefore, that nothing came of the coup, neither an uncrowning nor a reconciliation. Instead, a complete loss of control ensued up and down the country, with Londoners rioting and violence breaking out even in quiet backwaters. Margaret had sent a frantic appeal to Charles in Holland, where he was administering his Dutch territories, to give aid to Edward. Charles sent a threat to London that it should remain loyal to Edward and the Burgundian alliance or London would expect his retaliation. Warwick’s power was negligible without the crown behind it, and more than once Margaret questioned why the earl did not take it for himself. He was the wealthiest and thus the most powerful noble in England, and yet he stopped short of taking the crown. Perhaps he has honor after all, Margaret decided.

And by the middle of September, it appeared she was right. Edward was allowed to go free, but not before a force put together by Will Hastings, Richard of Gloucester and Jack Howard had begun to move north and threaten Warwick. The earl capitulated and bowed once again to his sovereign lord, Edward.

Margaret breathed a sigh of relief for her brother without a thought for her own position, which could have been an embarrassing one, as the Burgundian alliance had been made with Edward and no one else. And Edward had still not paid her dowry.

She got down on her knees that night and thanked God the head of her family was once again safe on the throne of England.

16

Spring 1470

Mary gave Margaret a bouquet of marguerites for her birthday on that chilly third day of May. Margaret was disappointed in having to spend it traveling from Louvain to Brussels, but she was charmed when Mary asked to get down from her horse to gather the early daisies for her stepmother. Margaret promised that they would celebrate soon at Coudenberg.

Traveling always tired Margaret, and so she was sleeping still when Mary ran into her bedchamber in Brussels two days later, followed by an embarrassed Jeanne, and jumped on the bed.

“
Belle-mère
, please wake up! You promised we would celebrate, and Madame de Halewijn and I can wait no longer to spoil you, and here you are still in bed!” she cried, as Margaret opened her eyes to see her stepdaughter’s sweet face smiling at her. She rose up on one elbow and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The sun was already filtering through the pretty stained glass windows in her chamber, and her maids had lit a cheery fire to take the chill off the room. Margaret retied the strings of her nightcap and reached out her arms to embrace Mary. Margaret caught Jeanne’s look of apology and smiled it away.

“I did not hear the cock crow, my dove,” Margaret said, using the term of endearment she had chosen not only “because your eyes are the color and softness of one, but because in English dove rhymes with love,” she had told Mary not long after they arrived at Coudenberg the year before. Mary had clapped her hands and declared she was delighted to have a
surnom.
“Papa calls me child, and
grandmaman
just calls me Mary. My mother,” she had said, her eyes sad, “called me her treasure.”

Now she reminded Margaret of a rabbit as she hopped up and down on the colorful carpet beside the bed.

“What do you have in mind?” Margaret asked, laughing at her stepdaughter’s enthusiasm. “Let me see if I can guess.” She pretended to think hard. “I wonder if it has anything to do with a horse, a dog and a bird.”

Mary clapped her hands. “Aye,
belle-mère,
you are so clever!” she cried. “We are going hunting. Madame de Charny’s husband has arranged everything. So please hurry.”

Everyone laughed at her eagerness, knowing full well that the dressing of a duchess was not a hurrying matter. But Margaret threw off her bedcovers, put her feet into her satin slippers and tripped off to the privy in the garderobe next door. The chamber became a hive of activity as the duchess’s toilet was readied. Astolat and Mary’s favorite greyhound, Doucette, added to the commotion by tussling on the flagstone hearth while Marie did her best to quieten them. Margaret reappeared to laughter and Fortunata’s flying skirts as the dwarf performed some tumbling feats for Mary’s delight.

Mary chattered on from her perch on the bed while Margaret’s ladies prepared their mistress’s wardrobe for the day. Over her lawn chemise, they laced her into a simple scarlet gown with a modest square-cut neck, dropped waistline and a long girdle loose about her waist. At the end of the silver and leather belt hung a velvet purse, in which she carried her rosary, her bone-handled table knife, a kerchief and a few coins for beggars or pilgrims she might encounter. As she was dressed, she tested Mary’s English and then tried out her Flemish. She pointed to each item. “Belt—
de ceintuur.
Knife—
het mes.
Table—
de tafel.
” Her vocabulary was increasing, and she enjoyed practicing the gutteral sounds. Mary nodded vigorously each time Margaret found the correct word, and Margaret’s gentlewomen encouraged her with applause.

She had told Ravenstein during the ride to Brussels that she would spend her birthday in leisurely pursuits with Mary. She would not hold
any audiences and gave permission for many of her servants to visit their families in the town or enjoy a walk in the Warende. Marie sniffed, but she turned it into a fake sneeze when Margaret swiveled round in her saddle to look at her. “I realize it is breaking with etiquette, Messire Ravenstein, but it was a tradition in my family to spend our birthdays thus, and I intend to continue it.” Ravenstein bowed his head. He was glad of the time to check on the progress of his new town house being built in the shadow of the palace.

Today it was Marie’s turn to brush Margaret’s fair hair. Margaret dreaded those days, but she refused to change court etiquette by forbidding the countess to do it. It was an honor to dress the duchess’s hair, and Margaret was sensitive to the fact. But she also knew Marie had not forgiven her for requesting Pierre be assigned to her household, thus ruining her dalliance with Guillaume, and the woman liked to take out her resentment by pulling none too gently on any knot she encountered in the duchess’s waist-long hair. She grimaced once or twice, but because of young Mary’s presence, she did not reprimand Marie. Once her thick tresses were in coiled braids and a fetching cap and jeweled headband were arranged on top, she studied herself in the silver mirror Beatrice held for her. She nodded her satisfaction, and the two women curtseyed and stood aside.

Fortunata stepped forward, made obeisance and offered her gift. “For you,
madonna.
” She held up a kerchief embroidered with a daisy and two initials. “You see, I made the M this way and then”—she turned the kerchief upside down—“M from this way.” But from Margaret’s angle, all she saw was an M and a W: Margaret and Woodville. Margaret looked quickly at Fortunata, now innocently studying the ceiling, but the servant tilted her head to one side when she lowered her gaze to Margaret’s laughing eyes. “Do you like it,
madonna
?”

“Aye,
pochina
, I like it very much,” she said, kissing the monogram and tucking the gift well up into her long sleeve. “Thank you.” She turned to Mary and held out her arms. “Let us break our fast and then ride like the wind, my dove.”

Pierre de Bauffremont, Count of Charny, had organized a splendid day of riding and hunting with falcons. Although only twelve, Mary was such an accomplished horsewoman that she had her own mount, a small
palfrey that pranced on delicate legs, ready for some exercise. Margaret’s jennet was more sedate, she was happy to note, for although comfortable on horseback, she was afraid of falling.

“’Tis such a long way down for me,” she said to Mary as they trotted on the path through the vast forest. “Not only is my horse bigger, but my head is much farther from the ground than yours.”

“Cowardly custard, Mistress Longneck!” Mary cried, loving the English term for a faint heart. “I shall teach you how to gallop, for ’tis the most exciting feeling in the whole world.”

“Hmmm, I am quite certain it is,” Margaret replied, adjusting her knee around the sidesaddle pommel. “But not today, Mary. I am not in the mood today.”

“Then watch me!” the girl cried, and urged her horse into a canter. Her bright blue skirts billowed out over the horse’s back, and her flapping short mantle gave the impression she was flying.

Jeanne de Halewijn gave a frustrated groan and took off after her, as did several squires. The rache hounds put their noses to the ground and, long ears flopping, followed the horses at a safe distance. Astolat never strayed far from Margaret, and she enjoyed his company on these outings. It was as though Anthony was with her, she thought, ashamed of herself for such a silly fantasy. She longed for a letter from him, but none had arrived for months now. He was at sea, she knew, and there was no way to reach her.

A falcon-caught hare and several quails later, the hunters were ready to fill their stomachs. Pierre de Charny did not disappoint them, and they followed the horn to a clearing where an al fresco banquet of cold pies, fowl, jellies, tarts, fruits and nuts were set out in a brightly colored pavilion in the middle of the forest. They were glad of the tent, as the breeze was chilly and very little sun penetrated the newly leafed-out trees. The horses grazed on the forest grass nearby, and Margaret stretched out on cushions after all had had their fill and slaked their thirst. Mary picked up a plate of figs and Jeanne a pomegranate and they knelt by Margaret, feeding the fruit to her one by one and making them all laugh. Margaret loved the shiny pink pomegranates that came from the eastern Mediterranean and could be kept fresh for many months in the cool northern winters.

“I feel like Caesar’s wife!” Margaret exclaimed at one point. “’Tis the way the Romans feasted, in truth.”

“You
are
Caesar’s wife, your grace,” Jeanne said softly, “if Duke Charles would have his way.”

Margaret frowned but put her finger to her smiling mouth. “Soft, Jeanne, you do not want Marie to hear you. She will tell my husband, mark my words.” Then she clapped her hand over her smile. “See, I truly am becoming my husband’s mouthpiece. I am even speaking like him.” Mary did not understand the conversation, but as Jeanne laughed merrily, so did she.

A distant horn interrupted their pleasant bantering, and an answering one from their little encampment led two horsemen to Margaret’s tent a few minutes later. They were Lord Ravenstein and his squire.

“I would not spoil such a pleasant day, Madame la duchesse, but I thought you should hear the news.”

Margaret let Jeanne and Fortunata help her to her feet, and she brushed pomegranate seeds from her skirts and straightened her cap.

“I am obliged to you, Messire Ravenstein, for coming all this way. It must be important. What is your news?”

“The earl of Warwick and your brother of Clarence have fled England and are, if our intelligence is correct, making their way at this moment along the French coast to Honfleur. As Captain of Calais, the earl thought he would be safe there, but the garrison refused to allow him to land, so it is said, as word of his probable arrival as a traitor to King Edward had already reached them. ’Tis said his wife and two daughters are with him and even that the Lady Isabel, your sister-in-law, I think, was delivered of a dead child on board the earl’s ship.”

“I did not even know she was with child, my lord, but no matter. I am sorry for her.” Margaret dismissed the Lady Isabel for she could not believe her ears. “George a traitor!” she groaned and paced about the pavilion. “’Tis incomprehensible. What can he gain from it?” Then she raised wide eyes to Ravenstein, who was already nodding. “The crown! Warwick must have promised him the crown. What wickedness!”

Ravenstein grunted his assent. “And on the way to France, the earl captured many of our own ships and has kept them as booty. The duke will not be happy when he hears this news. ’Tis said there was quite a sea
battle between Lord Warwick and King Edward’s admirals, the new Earl Rivers and Sir John Howard.”

For a few seconds Margaret’s heart was warmed when she thought of these two favorites of hers fighting together to defeat Edward’s new enemy. In ten short years, who would have conceived that Edward’s kingmaker would turn his coat? And George! She could not bear to think of George at this moment. To turn traitor to one’s brother—’twas a heinous crime. What must Cecily think? She was angry and humiliated, no doubt. Poor Mother!