Daughter of York (58 page)

Margaret hid her smile in her beaver-lined hood. “I am sorry we will not have time to see your
cousin
, sir. You will have to look him up the next time we come this way.”

“Aye, your grace,” Guillaume said, relieved that he had caught his blunder. He pointed right. “There, now you can see the slate roof shining in the moonlight.”

They left the main path, and soon Guillaume reined in his horse under the first group of trees. Margaret and Caxton drew alongside him, and the horses pawed the ground, their flanks heaving. Guillaume put his finger to his lips, and they continued quietly through the trees, the sound of hooves muffled by the mossy ground. They skirted the walled garden and came to an orchard. Taking their cue from Guillaume, Margaret and William dismounted, and they all led their horses, Fortunata still on Guillaume’s, through the apple trees to a field beyond. There they could see a charming cottage that was reflected eerily in a small lake.

“’Tis beautiful,” Margaret exclaimed, drawing her cloak more tightly around her, “but I would warm my poor feet. Let us go inside.”

The house had been built for the children of the lord to play in. It had two small rooms with furnishings that were in a sad state of repair.

“A fire!” Margaret cried, as she stepped into the larger of the two rooms. “Come, Fortunata, warm yourself with me.”

“My cousin, your grace,” Guillaume murmured, explaining the fire, and Margaret raised an eyebrow and replied, “Ah.”

The four chilled travelers stood companionably around the hearth, and in the strange circumstances, they all forgot their positions for a moment. Margaret was dressed in a plain woolen gown that was too short
for her, her braids were coiled up under a simple linen coif and she had removed all her jewelry. Only her fur-lined cloak would have given away her status if they had been stopped on the road, but she had counted on her escorts to keep everyone away from her in such a situation. They were to be a merchant family caught after curfew far from their home in Ghent had anyone asked, although both Guillaume and William were necessarily armed.

William went back to his horse and returned with a leather flask of wine that he thought would be welcome, and Guillaume went to a dresser and found some child-sized cups. He certainly has been here before, Margaret thought to herself, but said nothing.

“Soft, I think I hear someone,” Guillaume said, moving into the first room, his hand on his shortsword. He returned in a flash. “There are two horsemen, your grace. I pray ’tis your friend. I am not in the mood for a fight.”

“Take my cloak and keep Fortunata warm,” Margaret commanded, her color rising and her pulse racing. “I pray you indulge me once again, my trusted friends. You must be outside this room and not try to know my visitor. ’Twill serve me and you better if you are ignorant of his identity. Do I have your word on this?”

They all nodded their assent and filed out, passing the closely hooded man who was hurrying in the direction of Fortunata’s pointing finger.

Margaret was in Anthony’s arms before Guillaume had barely closed the door on them. Without saying a word, Anthony threw off his heavy gloves and took her face in his hands. He carefully caressed it as if to remind himself of every precious part: the curve of her mouth, the soft hair on her cheek, the finely plucked brows, the dark gray of her eyes and her delicate skin glowing in the firelight.

Margaret wilted under his intense gaze, love flowing from her eyes as she took in every inch of that handsome face. She touched the scarred ear as if it were something holy and then let her fingers entwine themselves in his long, soft hair. She could feel the whole length of his body through her gown as he pulled her face to his and kissed her, gently at first and then, feeling her lips part, with a passion that took her breath away. She thought she would faint in the heat of their desire. She felt his hand on her breast and she took it and guided it under her bodice so that he could
touch her skin and her hardened nipple. He moaned into her mouth, and she knew he needed more.

“Anthony, my love,” she said, gently pulling away, but still holding his hand to her breast. “Should we do this?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. “I thought we would spend the night talking,” she said with a chuckle. “How foolish was that?”

“’Twas foolish, Marguerite,” he whispered, kissing her again. He untied the ribbon under her chin and drew off the coif. The thick braid toppled and began to unwind, just as Fortunata had hoped it would when she had only used a single pin to secure it. “I knew when I saw you I must have you,” he told her as he combed his fingers through the braid and let it loose. He stood back to look at her. “Before God, I thought I would never break my marriage vow, but before God, I know I love you more than any vow I have ever taken, and everything tells me ’twould be a sin to deny this love. What say you, my heart, my dearest love? Do not deny me, I beg of you, for we may never have this chance again.”

Margaret gasped and put her hand on his mouth. “Do not say so, Anthony. I could not bear it.” He took the hand and one by one caressed the fingers with his tongue, causing her knees to wobble and a wetness between her legs. She told him, “I, too, have prayed for divine guidance in this, my love, and if He has brought you to me here, then I cannot deny you.”

Slowly he undressed her by the fire, kissing each part of her as it was revealed until she stood naked in front of him, her lithe body exactly as he had pictured it those years ago in London when, dressed in her clinging robe, she had fainted in his arms. He stroked her flat belly and then ran both hands over her hips and around to her buttocks. She stood there mesmerized by his touch, unashamed of her nakedness while he was still fully dressed. How different from Charles, who had not cared what she looked like dressed or undressed.

“Anthony.” She whispered his name as though it were a prayer. “Let me disrobe you, too.”

His body was beautiful, she thought, touching the auburn hairs on his chest, the well-defined muscles of his arms, and the hard abdomen. Her eyes lowered to his groin, and with infinite care she took him in her hand, gently moving back and forth, and felt him grow. Anthony fetched
a moth-eaten coverlet from the little bed and laid it on the floor in front of the fire as though it were made of the finest velvet, covered it with his fur-lined cloak and drew her down. Their bodies threw strange shadows on the wall when they came together as though they were Adam and Eve or the first lovers upon the earth, exploring and discovering each other with wonderment and delight.

Neither thought of their respective spouses that night. There was no need. They both knew God had made the one for the other, and in that lost place and time, their places in the real world were forgotten as they became as one for a few fleeting hours.

T
HE THREE HORSES
and their cargo galloped hard for Peteghem to arrive before the cock crowed. A few early risers at the stables glanced at them curiously, but when they recognized Guillaume, whose size was difficult to disguise, one of the ostlers quipped, “Monsieur le chevalier has been out hunting again! Did you find any game birds, monseigneur?” He spotted Fortunata, her face buried against Guillaume’s broad back. “Ah, I see you brought one back with you.”

“Silence, you measle!” Guillaume snapped. “My passenger is but a child and a sickly one at that. Enough of your insolence. Now take the horses and wipe them down, sirrah.”

The groom bowed low, hat in hand, until Guillaume had helped Margaret down, her hood hiding her face, and William had also dismounted. Then Guillaume carried Fortunata, who took her cue from him and groaned in pain, into the palace kitchens. Within a very few minutes, William was once again ensconced in his chambers, and Guillaume had seen Margaret and Fortunata to theirs. For such a big man he is remarkably nimble, Margaret thought, watching him sprint catlike along the passageway to his quarters. The guards Fortunata had drugged the night before were still sleeping peacefully as she quietly lifted the latch and opened the door to Margaret’s chamber. The two women slipped inside, and Fortunata quickly undressed Margaret and then threw off her own gown and slipped into the bed with the snoring Beatrice.
Santa Maria,
but I am happy I was gone, she thought, putting her hands over her ears, although she had no trouble falling asleep as soon as her head hit the mattress.

Margaret shut herself into the privacy of her curtained bed and was too pent up to sleep. She could still smell Anthony’s scent through her shift and feel his seed on her legs. Her body tingled at the thought of him as she tried to remember every thrilling moment of their illicit encounter. She was afraid to sleep in case she woke up and found it had all been a dream. But nay, she had another gift from him to reassure her it was not, and it lay under her pillow, waiting to be read night after night. He had written his own
Chanson d’Amour
to her and had had the pages beautifully illuminated with flowers and birds, with their secret M and W a recurring emblem through the little book.

She wondered if she would be with child from the night of passion, but she did not need to worry if she were, she realized. She had lain with Charles at Hesdin only a few weeks before, and there were enough members of her family with red-brown hair and blue eyes should the child resemble Anthony. A child! Anthony’s child, she dared to imagine. She hugged herself, and curling up into a ball and tucking her cold feet into her chemise, she finally fell asleep.

She awoke from a dream in a sweat of fear. She was with Anthony in front of the fire, but they were in her castle of Male, not at Ooidonk. A year before, a conflagration in her chambers there had frightened her more than she would admit. She had lost some of her precious belongings from home, including many of her clothes and jewels as well as the book of prayers Richard had given her on her departure from England. In her dream, the flames surrounded her and Anthony’s naked bodies, and a voice so terrible it could only have been the Devil shrieked at them, “These are the fires of hell you will know for your sin this night.” Dear God, Margaret thought, rising to her knees behind her bed curtains. Look down upon us and forgive us our trespass, she begged.

A
NTHONY HAD BEEN
right. He and Margaret were not destined to see each other again during Edward’s enforced exile in Burgundy. Although Charles promised publicly not to aid his brother-in-law and allowed the Lancastrian dukes of Exeter and Somerset to return to England thinking he was on their side, Charles in fact sent Edward fifty thousand florins and turned a blind eye to the fleet his brother-in-law was mustering. Anxious for any news of the English party, Margaret was happy to see
Louis de Gruuthuse’s ovine countenance in her audience chamber at Ten Waele a month to the day after she had lain with Anthony.

“Messire Louis, we greet you well.” Margaret’s voice was warm as she extended her hand for him to kiss. “What news of my brothers? I understand you have housed them these past few weeks together with others of their entourage, and for that you have my deepest gratitude.”

Gruuthuse’s black velvet houppelande swamped his slight form, but he carried himself with immense dignity and was never without the collar of the Golden Fleece about his shoulders. Ravenstein always spoke of him with utmost respect and had told Margaret that Messire Louis had one of the best minds and libraries in Europe.

“Your grace,” Gruuthuse began, his voice surprisingly deep for his small body, “I bring happy tidings. King Edward has left our shores for his own kingdom. I left him on board my father-in-law’s ship, the
Antony,
in Flushing earlier this month. He was well provisioned and had a goodly number of ships, thanks to the diligence of Earl Rivers—.”

“Another Anthony!” Margaret interrupted excitedly. Seeing several of her courtiers looking askance at her outburst, she attempted to explain with more nonchalance than she was feeling. “Earl Rivers is Anthony Woodville, King Edward’s brother-in-law. Do you see, my friends. My brother’s ship is now the
Antony
and—” She stopped, seeing several people nodding and giving her false, patronizing smiles. She cleared her throat, for once embarrassed in front of her household. “Excuse me, messire, I did not mean to …”

Gruuthuse came to the rescue and smiled brightly at her. “No need for apology, your grace. ’Tis indeed a happy coincidence of names. I had not thought on it until you so astutely connected them.” He turned and raised his voice so that all could hear. “Let us all now beseech St. Anthony that her grace’s brother has a fair wind for England!” The court all signed themselves earnestly. “A fair wind,” they echoed.

Margaret could have kissed the little man for his diplomacy and kicked herself for her foolishness. Since her night at Ooidonk, she was certain her adultery was visible to all, and so any moment of behavior that was not usual for her must surely add fuel to any fire of scandal that might be whispered about her. She glanced around the room, searching faces for signs of suspicion, but no one was boring holes in her and many of them
were looking bored instead. Part of her wanted to cry out to them, Can you not see I am different? Can you not see I am finally fulfilled? Can you not see I have experienced the ecstasy only poems can convey?

She brought her wandering focus back to Gruuthuse, who was looking questioningly at her.

“What say you, your grace? Would it please you to come and enjoy my library when next you are in Bruges? Our mutual friend, William Caxton, used to come often until you whisked him away from us.” His round eyes studied her as she gathered her wits.

“Your library, messire?” she managed. “Certes, I have heard much about your library. Of all things, I would like to see it. Master Caxton shall advise you when next I am in Bruges. My brother of Gloucester spoke enthusiastically of your collection, and Edward I know has plans to enlarge the one at Windsor and Westminster now that he has seen yours.” A kind man and intelligent. I wonder if he and Anthony spent time in the library, she mused. Anthony, Anthony! All she thought of these days was Anthony. Suddenly she realized Gruuthuse was waiting for dismissal. “
Adieu,
Messire de Gruuthuse. I am in your debt, in truth, for my brothers’ safe keeping and for your good news.” Gruuthuse bowed his way from the dais, and she watched as he stopped to greet some of his acquaintances.