Daughter of York (83 page)

Margaret nodded, grateful for the queen’s concern. Her glance fell on the small boy at Elizabeth’s elbow and her eyes widened in astonishment. Sweet Jesu, George was right, she thought, Jehan could have been Ned’s judging by this child’s features. Covering her confusion, she said cheerfully, “And this is …”

“Richard, duke of York,” the little boy told her gleefully and without guile. “And I will be theven in …” He carefully counted his fingers and then his face fell. “Mother, when will I be theven?”

“On the seventeenth day of August, child. Soon,” Elizabeth said sweetly. Ah, here is the favorite, Margaret thought, seeing the affection on Elizabeth’s face.

“Then I shall be here to celebrate your birthing day, Richard,” Margaret said, taking in every inch of the tow-haired, blue-eyed boy with his bold manner. “We shall have to do something special.” Richard grinned up at her, showing the gap where his baby front teeth had fallen out and given cause for the lisp.

Ned waved his son away. “Go and play with your puppy, Dickon, there’s a good boy. The dog needs to learn when not to relieve himself in here,” he said, pointing to where a wolfhound pup was taking a piss in the rushes. The boy ran off. Margaret was introduced to her nieces, Elizabeth, Cecily, Mary, Anne and Catherine, as yet none as comely as her parents, although fourteen-year-old Elizabeth showed a quiet charm and promise of beauty that pleased her. She also met George’s and Isabel’s two little orphans and gave them a special kiss each.

There was activity at the doorway to the chamber, and those nearby stood aside as newcomers entered.

“His grace, the Prince of Wales,” announced the usher, “and Lord Rivers.”

Margaret’s heart sang when she heard Anthony’s name.

“Edward!” cried Queen Elizabeth, holding out her arms to her elder son, who, under the watchful eye of his governor, walked stiffly to his mother. Changing her demeanor to match his, she put out her hand to be kissed and accepted his formal bow. “How you have grown, my dear child,” she murmured. “Has he not grown, Ned?” she turned to ask the king, who was observing the scene from his comfortable chair in the center of Elizabeth’s private watching chamber.

“Certes, he has grown, Bess, we have not seen him for months,” Ned responded. “Here, boy, let me take a look at you.”

The pale prince flamed red at being thus addressed. “Aye, your grace,” was all he said, however, as he approached his huge parent, who was resplendent in a purple satin doublet trimmed with ermine that need not have been fashionably padded.

“Do you know who this is?” Ned asked, pointing a fat finger at Margaret seated on his other side.

“My Aunt Margaret, Father,” the boy responded, turning his limpid blue eyes on the imposing figure with the tallest hennin he had ever seen. “My Lord Rivers has told me all about her.”

Now it was Margaret’s turn to blush, and to cover it, she bent forward with outstretched arms to take nine-year-old Edward’s shoulders and pull him towards her. “No bows for me, Edward. I should like a kiss,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile. “Your brother has given me several since I arrived in England, and I hope you will oblige your old aunt.”

She was dismayed to see the boy eye her with suspicion.

“I fear you must blame me, your grace,” said the voice that always sent the blood galloping through her veins. “Young Edward has recently learned correct court manners, and kissing strange women is certainly not correct.” Anthony bowed, but he kept his eyes on her from under his lashes.

“Edward,” he said to the boy, “her grace, the duchess of Burgundy, should receive a bow and a brush of the lips on her hand, like this.” He bowed again as Margaret extended her hand. Neither was prepared for the shock they both received when he took it, making Anthony clutch it
in a most incorrect fashion before he pressed it to his mouth. The sensuality of his touch was so unmistakable that Margaret thought she would faint. Instead she managed a clear, though a little high, “Lord Anthony, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

She was horrified to hear Ned’s imperceptible “I’m sure it is,” said on stifled laughter. She withdrew her hand quickly, and Anthony stepped aside, recovering his composure. She turned her attention to the boy in front of her, who mimicked his uncle in all but the seductive touch.

“Good boy,” Ned said approvingly. “Now you may give your aunt a proper kiss.”

Still the boy stood straight as a pike, a flush suffusing his thin face. His black satin gipon hung on him like an old man’s skin, and his patterned hose drooped on scrawny legs. He does not look healthy, Margaret decided, and he certainly has no intention of kissing me. She was reminded of George’s and Dickon’s return from Duke Philip’s court and how George was embarrassed to be kissed. It must be common with boys turning into young men, she thought, so patted Edward’s hand and winked at him. “’Tis no matter, Edward. I am happy to meet you, Richard and all your sisters. I pray you, go and greet them, for I am sure they are anxious to hear about Ludlow.” The boy bowed and walked off, relieved.

Anthony stood by awkwardly for once, not knowing where he belonged. Ned rescued him by inviting him to pull up a stool, and then stood, offering Elizabeth his arm to “see what the children are doing. Certes, you two must have much to talk over,” he said, grinning. Elizabeth looked puzzled but joined her husband to wander over to where the children were playing marbles and fox and geese. No one in the room was aware of the charged atmosphere that seemed to Margaret must be visible. She forced herself to look into Anthony’s eyes and swam in the emotion she saw there.

“I must first say how sorry I am for the loss of your husband, Marguerite,” he said. “A bully and a warmonger, but your husband nevertheless. Your life must have changed in a moment, and a day does not go by that I do not think of you and pray for you. But I was sorrier to hear about Fortunata. She must leave a large hole in your life.”

Margaret nodded sadly. “Many times larger than her dear little body took up on earth.” She took a deep breath. “What next, Anthony?” she asked. “What is there for us?

“For us? ’Tis your decision, my dearest Elaine, not mine. You are a dowager duchess and a princess of England, and I am a mere earl. Your brother may not like it.”

“My sister Anne was allowed to divorce her traitorous husband and wed her lover, Thomas, may God rest her soul,” she said, signing herself. She had not mourned Anne’s passing four years before as she had hardly ever seen her eldest sister. “You and I are free to wed, Anthony. And now Mary has Maximilian—” She broke off and said as loud as she dared, “Are you saying that if I desired it, you would agree?” She could not believe she was actually speaking these words and that they were not part of one of the many waking dreams she had had alone in her curtained bed since becoming a widow. And so calmly were they talking about marriage that she laughed at the release of her pent-up hopes.

“His grace, the duke of Gloucester!” The announcement cut off any more conversation, and all eyes were on the door as Richard walked into the room, his long leather boots covered in the dust of travel and his spurs ringing on the flagstones. The courtiers gave him reverence as he came purposefully to Margaret, his smile broad and his hands outstretched.

“Margaret!” he cried. “I did not believe my eyes when I read Ned’s letter summoning me to a banquet in your honor. What brings you back to England?”

“Duty, Dickon.” Margaret had risen when she saw him and stayed Anthony’s answer with her hand on his arm. She went to her youngest brother and embraced him fondly. She was taken aback at the change in him. New lines creased his sharp features, his mouth was hard, and his shoulders stooped a little. She had the impression the weight of responsibility that Edward had put on him in the north had aged him. But when he smiled, it still brightened his dark features and reached the eyes whose color matched hers. Ned came forward to greet him, and they grasped forearms and clapped each other on the back.

“Uncle Richard!” cried Ned’s eldest, as young Elizabeth ran unheeding into his arms, earning a frown from her mother. “Uncle Richard, I am so happy to see you.”

“And I you, my poppet.” Richard kissed the top of her head, while Ned smiled benignly on them. “Now let me greet my sister properly, child, and I hope you will look after Johnny while we are here.”

Margaret had noticed a youth follow Richard into the watching chamber and thought he was a page. Now she saw Richard take the boy gently around the shoulders and lead him to her for inspection.

“This is my son, John,” Richard said proudly. “Anne was not feeling well when I left and begs to be excused,” he told Ned, “and my little Ned is too young to come without his mother, so I thought I’d introduce you to another member of the family, Meg. John, this is your Aunt Margaret, my sister, who lives over the sea in Burgundy.”

“I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lady,” the sturdy youth said, unafraid. He gave a little bow over an extended leg, also encased in long leather boots. “John of Gloucester, an it please you.”

“Why, it does please me, John of Gloucester!” Margaret exclaimed. She gave him her hand to kiss and bent to ask, “Tell me, do you sing as well as your mother?”

Richard coughed nervously, but he had forgotten his wife was not there. John furrowed his brow, obviously thinking hard. “I do sing, my lady, but no one sings as well as my mother,” he finished earnestly, reminding Margaret so much of Richard as a boy that she chuckled. He turned to Richard, gray eyes expectant. “Will Katherine be here, Father?”

“’Tis his sister,” young Elizabeth explained to Margaret. “She lives with our other aunt in Suffolk. I like Katherine, she’s amusing.”

“Willful is how I would describe her,” Ned said, returning to Margaret and laughing. “But then she’s very like her mother,
n’est ce pas,
Dickon.” He still loved to tease his little brother, and his eyes danced when he saw Richard’s telltale flush.

Margaret marveled at the growth of her family in twelve years—so many children she had never seen before. A warmth suffused her at being in their midst. It appeared the York succession was safe and, barring her concern for young Edward, strong.

Now if she could only bring the diplomatic negotiations to a fruitful conclusion and finish her conversation with Anthony, she would be as content as she had ever been in her life.

T
HE ROYAL BARGE
came for her at midmorning on the day of the banquet, and the people of London came to wave to her from the wharves and houses on both banks of the river. St. Paul’s dominated the London skyline,
its great belltower topped by a gilded eagle, and Southwark’s mighty St. Mary Overie towered over the gabled roofs of the south bank community, where the stews and taverns attracted those seeking solace with prostitutes and ale. The bells of London rang for Matins, and Margaret was proud she could still distinguish the carillon from St. Paul’s, the bright tones of All Hallows, and the big, booming bell of St. Mary-le-Bow.

She found herself holding her breath as she always had as the barge navigated the treacherous waters under London Bridge, and then, in no time on a waning tide, she was pulled up to Elizabeth’s favorite Palace of Pleasaunce. The river at Greenwich in front of the gleaming white building was teeming with boats and barges of all sizes, and liveried boatmen maneuvered their craft into vacant spaces along the pier to discharge their passengers. The king’s guests had arrayed themselves in brilliant silks and satins, and nary a somber black gown was to be seen.

A cheer went up when the royal barge approached the water steps leading to the royal apartments. Guillaume had begun vicariously to enjoy the attention given his mistress, and he waved before helping Margaret reach the doorway to the tower. He was proud of the duchess in her purple and silver gown, the deep revers of the bodice and slashed sleeves showing the crimson silk of her underdress, and the train trailing many feet behind her. Her enormous butterfly hennin, on which floated a transparent golden gauze, was embroidered with gold thread and sewn with pearls. Around her neck was a ruby and amethyst collar from which hung a sparkling diamond as big as a robin’s egg.

Guillaume’s considerable height was amplified by his high silk hat, and he was the only man there to show off the floor-length gown preferred by the most fashionable court in Europe. It was split from floor to waist in front and belted, exposing his long, muscular legs clad in creamy hose, and sported enormous padded shoulders and sleeves. A heavy triple gold chain necklace adorned his barrel chest, and his shoe points preceded him by a foot or more. He was the perfect escort for the tall, elegant duchess, and many on the pier stood and stared at the picture of Burgundian opulence in front of them before the couple turned and disappeared up to the great hall.

The quiet hum of voices belied the number of people who had gathered to honor Edward’s sister, and when she was announced, she was surprised
to see so many crowded into the king’s watching chamber. The conversation ceased as she waited for Guillaume to present her to the king, who was seated at the other end of the room with Elizabeth beside him.

Then she saw Cecily, regal in black satin, her widow’s wimple white against her face, its folds tucked neatly into the high bodice. She almost forgot herself and called out “Mother!” but instead, to a fanfare of trumpets, she walked sedately on Guillaume’s arm between the bowing guests, amused by the awed glances she and her chevalier were attracting. She could not wait to be with Cecily, but she knew she must play her part first in this courtly charade. And besides, her mother of all people would never condone a public show of emotion.

“Lord Hastings,” she murmured as she passed Will, who grinned in open admiration. “Lord Howard … Sir Edward … Bishop Morton …” she remembered them all and finally she was at the low dais making her obeisance in front of the king. Edward was standing, his hand held out to her in a welcoming gesture. She took it and bowed to Guillaume, who bowed in turn and went to take his place behind her chair. Edward turned her and boomed, “We are here to honor my dear sister, Margaret of York, dowager duchess of Burgundy. Let us give thanks for her visit to us and for a safe return when she leaves us.”