Daughter of York (17 page)

“You also have my permission to go to the Wardrobe at the time of All Souls. It will be warmer in the winter than at Greenwich. From there I trust you to make arrangements for Richard to join you. Mother is at Baynard’s. I will see you there anon and I shall be calling on you to help me with the entertainment at Yuletide.

Your faithful brother, Edward.”

The Royal Wardrobe! It was a few steps from Baynard’s and hard by the friary off Carter Lane. She would be in the center of things again and could hardly wait until November to move there. She called to Anthony, who was munching on an apple. He picked up a second and came back to his seat, holding it out to her.

“I trust your brother had good news for you, my lady,” he said, knowing full well what Edward had written.

“Oh, do stop calling me my lady. If I may call you Anthony, I would prefer you call me Margaret,” she said, teasing. “I know not if the news is good, for Ned has asked you to tell it!”

Anthony’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, has he now. Well … Margaret. Nay, I must tell you I always think of you as Marguerite. Like the dog-daisy in a summer meadow, you stand tall and independent, your skin as white as a swan’s feather, and there is something golden at the heart of you, a generosity of spirit that cannot be denied.”

“Flatterer! You do not know me well enough to know whether or not I am generous.” Margaret’s eyes were on the ground; her head was in the clouds.

“Well enough to see how kind you are to that unfortunate dwarf, who obviously worships you. Well enough to mark how you consider the plight of the poor. And I have heard you visit your sickly servants unheeding of your own health. Nay, I do not flatter you, Marguerite, I speak the truth.” As he concluded his compliment, he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Dare I presume that I am fortunate enough to be called your friend?”

“Aye, Anthony. I thank God for your friendship daily,” she murmured, letting his hold on her hand linger. “You are always in my prayers. But now,” she said, replacing her hand in her lap, “you must tell me what you know. Is Ned well? Is he in danger? I think not, for he would not have sent one of his best soldiers from his side.”

She, too, could flatter, she thought happily.

Anthony was serious. “Aye, he is in danger,” he said slowly, but grinned
when he saw her anxiety. “He is in danger of falling in love with my sister! And Elizabeth is no simpering wench waiting to be bedded, let me tell you. And I fear Edward will not rest—or leave Northampton—until he has lain with her.”

Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “Anthony! Such talk. Did Ned allow you to say this to me?”

Anthony was at once contrite. “I have shocked you, Marguerite. Forgive me, but the king told me you would understand plain speaking.”

Margaret removed her hand to show a wide grin. “I am teasing you, sir. But tell me more of your sister. Does she know about Eleanor Butler? The last I saw of Edward he was pursuing her ruthlessly.”

“Aye, I believe the lady capitulated,” Anthony said. “I was surprised, as she was not shy about rejecting the king’s advances for many weeks. In truth, I admired her spirit and her morals greatly. But I fear your brother has a charm that cannot be denied, and eventually he has his own way.”

He did not tell Margaret that Elizabeth had informed him of Edward’s attempt to bed her at knife point one day. Margaret might truly be shocked by that, he decided. He had been aghast when Edward had laughingly recounted the episode but did not think it prudent to challenge the king as an outraged brother.

“Aye, and the crown on his head may also have something to do with it,” Margaret admitted, almost to herself. “And ’twill be so with your sister, you think?”

Anthony shrugged. “I know not, Marguerite. But I will confide in you that my mother hopes Edward will marry Bess.”

Now Margaret was dumbfounded. “Marriage! Why, of course he cannot marry her, ’twould be folly!” Again her hand covered her mouth. “I am so sorry, Anthony, I forgot to whom I was speaking. I did not mean to insinuate that your sister …”

She looked so miserable that he took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “I understand completely, Marguerite. ’Tis indeed folly for a king to marry with a widow of no import. Although,” he admitted, “my mother was married to the duke of Bedford before she wed my father. She is the daughter of a count. My grandfather was count of St. Pol in Luxembourg, and my father was knighted by King Henry at the very same time as your father, you know.”

Margaret nodded. She knew all about Anthony’s parents. The old duke of Bedford had taken seventeen-year-old Jacquetta as his bride and died two years later. The young widow had fallen in love, probably before the duke’s death, with Sir Richard Woodville, son of lesser-known gentry of Grafton in Northamptonshire, a soldier in the duke’s service. King Henry had returned her dower to her at the time of the duke’s death provided that she remarried only with the king’s assent. His anger had been great when the beautiful Jacquetta finally confessed that she and her lieutenant—then called the handsomest man in all England—had married in secret. She paid a hefty fine and forfeited some manors to win her Woodville knight. It sounded to Margaret as though history might repeat itself, but at what cost? Edward should look to an alliance with another royal family; he should shore up allies that he sorely needed. I pray he would not be so foolish, she thought.

Instead she said, “I admire your sister’s courage in face of such an assault on her virtue. Ned is incorrigible, and I understand your dilemma. But I hope you will steer him right, Anthony. I fear Will Hastings is not a good influence, for I see a look of lust in his eyes also.”

Anthony was too diplomatic to agree with her. Will Hastings was Edward’s closest adviser—although the earl of Warwick would be surprised to know his position had been usurped—and Anthony would not dare come between them. Margaret was forgetting that Anthony had no reason to push Edward away from Elizabeth; as a man of the times, he would benefit greatly from such a match with his family.

“I must write to Ned and tell him to beware of acting with such reckless abandon,” Margaret went on. “I am sure your sister is delightful, and ’tis certain she is beautiful, but if our mother should hear of this, I fear for Ned’s safety.” She gave a nervous laugh. “You know my mother, Anthony. She would not countenance such a match. Nay, Ned will just have to satisfy himself elsewhere. What happened to the Butler woman?”

“I believe he tired of her once she—” he broke off. This was no subject to be discussing with a lady.

“Once she capitulated. Is that what you were going to say?”

Anthony looked sheepish. “Aye, it is.”

Margaret laughed at him. “I do not shock so easily, Anthony. ’Tis the
ignorance and folly of folk that shocks me, not their … natural inclinations,” she finished delicately.

“In truth, the king has much on his mind at present, not the least of which is a possible
détente
with King Louis through—” He stopped when he saw Margaret nodding vigorously.

“Philip of Burgundy,” she ended for him. “Sir John Howard explained it all to me not long ago, you see. I am happy to know that the
rapprochement
is almost achieved. Is that the king’s business you are on, Anthony?”

“Aye. Some of the negotiators are lodged at my manor in Kent, and I have messages from the king for them. My wife is there to serve their needs in truth, but ’tis better if I am there, too.”

He did not notice Margaret flinch at the mention of his wife, for his eye had been drawn to Fortunata, who had boldly climbed into a tree and was trying to pick a rosy red apple that had been missed and was just out of reach.

“Wait, Fortunata, I will get it for you,” he called. And before Margaret knew he had left her side, he was also climbing the tree.

“Anthony! Have a care!” she cried. “Those branches do not look sturdy.”

Somehow, even with her cumbersome skirts, Fortunata effected an acrobatic exit from her branch by hanging upside down on it and turning a circle in the air before landing on her feet. She stood grinning up at Anthony, who was now regretting his gallantry. He plucked the apple and threw it down to her. Then he reluctantly called to Francis to come and offer his shoulder for a step down. Margaret and the others gathered round him laughing. Once safely on the ground, Anthony gave them a good-natured bow and walked Margaret back to her seat.

“Why do you complain of the boredom at Greenwich, my lady? With Fortunata in tow, there can be never a dull moment.”

Margaret looked back fondly at her servant and nodded. “’Tis true, she contents me well. But what more of Ned? Rumor has it he is much taken with our cousin of Somerset, now that he swears allegiance to the white rose. Can we truly be sure of him, Anthony? After all, he is a Beaufort.”

Anthony cleared his throat. He was on delicate ground, having effected exactly the same turnabout after Towton. It was obvious that Margaret had forgotten this and now trusted him implicitly. “Aye, the rumor is true,” he said. “And nay, we cannot be sure of him.”

“Certes! And it was his father who was so … close to the queen, wasn’t it?” Margaret raised an eyebrow.

Anthony nodded. “You have it right, Marguerite. She was distraught when he died at the first St. Albans. She took young Henry under her wing like a son. ’Tis why I cannot think he is true to Edward. I know him as a hotheaded, violent man steeped in his Lancaster heritage, but I could not convince your brother of it. The king is too trusting, in truth. I fear we have not seen the last of Beaufort, but perhaps I am wrong.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, each acutely aware of the other’s nearness. He saw her consternation and changed the subject. “The shadows are lengthening. Come, let me see you safely inside.” He called out to the others, “Walk on with the ladies, Francis. I shall return Lady Margaret to her apartment in a few minutes.”

The small group processed back under the gateway with Fortunata trailing reluctantly behind them while Margaret replaced the stopper in the jam pot and carefully wrapped the oil cloth around it. She was trembling a little. Anthony had commanded they be alone and she was unsure what to expect. She glanced up at the palace windows; surely someone would see them unchaperoned. But Anthony casually picked up his saddlebag and offered to carry the jar and letter back to the palace. Margaret breathed a sigh of relief and walked sedately along the path with him.

Then under the archway, where no prying eyes could see them, he stopped and pulled her to him. All she could see was the shape of his head silhouetted against the opening until the light was obscured as he bent and kissed her waiting lips. Such sweetness she had never dreamed of flooded her whole being. This was not the lustful kiss of a John Harper; Anthony did not touch any intimate part of her but her mouth. Margaret was keenly aware of the difference in her response to this kiss. How she wished her head did not get in the way of her heart so much! Why was she even thinking such thoughts at so precious a moment? She squeezed her eyes shut. Go away, she wanted to tell the chattering brain, and let me savor this fully. Before she could touch his hair with her free hand, Anthony abruptly released her.

“Sweet lady, forgive me. I know not what you must think of me or what came over me,” he whispered bitterly. “Dear God, I have a wife to whom I owe all honor! What was I thinking? I pray you, Marguerite, forgive me.
I break all rules of courtesy.” Margaret could hear he was truly contrite, although she could not see his expression, for he faced the dark.

She tossed her head to show it meant nothing to her. “Certes, Anthony! I do not need to forgive you, for I gave myself fully. You have done nothing wrong but to give a lonely lady solace for no more than—say—a shake of a lamb’s tail!” she said flippantly . “I took it as a kiss of friendship, that is all.” She hoped he could not see her expression either, or he would know she was lying. “Now let us hurry after the others. Then you must be on your way to Kent.”

She picked up her train and ran into the garden from the darkness, hoping he could not see her tears. The kiss meant nothing to him, she thought miserably, nothing! You addle-pate, Meg, slow down or he will know you care. She forced herself to a walk, used her veil to wipe her face and held her head high.

Puzzled, Anthony stared after her.

6

1464

Anthony had been right about Henry Beaufort, duke of Somerset. He turned traitor that Yuletide season while seemingly safe with Edward’s supporters in Wales and bolted to join other Lancastrian lords at Bamburgh Castle, although not before almost being apprehended at Newcastle. Edward spent an uneasy Christmas in York, knowing his enemies were once again threatening north of him.

Margaret, on the other hand, spent Christmas in London. Cecily was at Baynard’s Castle, complaining that Fotheringhay was too cold at this time of year, and as Edward had commanded, Margaret and Richard were lodged at the Wardrobe. It was the first time the three younger siblings had not been together for the season.