Daughter of York (28 page)

Anthony’s name seemed to calm Margaret. She turned her too-bright eyes on Elizabeth. “He said that? Truly?”

Elizabeth smiled and nodded. “Aye, he did. That’s better. Now I pray you let your ladies carry you to your bath.”

The women watched in astonishment as Margaret sat up and allowed herself to be helped out of bed and to the copper bathtub. How had the promise of a silly book made her comply with the doctor’s orders? She squealed as her heated body slipped beneath the frigid water, her already
clammy nightgown clinging to her burning skin, and only her turbaned head above the surface. She tried to extricate herself immediately, but Jane and Beatrice held her shoulders down at the end of the bath and Elizabeth stood guarding her feet. Fortunata, her sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, proceeded to sponge her mistress’s neck and face with the cool, scented water. As Margaret became accustomed to the cold, she smiled sheepishly up at Elizabeth.

“You may tell Lord Scales that as soon as I am well he can send me that book,” she said. “Elizabeth, I thank you heartily for taking the time to come and see me. I know you would not have permitted me to kneel for so long at the feast if you had had an inkling that I was ill.” She could not resist the reproach but was concentrating so hard to sound coherent that she did not catch the fleeting expression of hurt on Elizabeth’s face. “In truth, you must have other duties where you are needed more. I shall endeavor to give these ladies no more cause for complaint.” She saw Elizabeth’s eyebrow rise skeptically and added, “I am not promising, but I shall try.”

The tinkling laugh floated back to those around the bath long after Elizabeth had left the room.

It took a few weeks before Margaret was hale again, and she was dismayed that some of her gowns needed to be taken in.

“I look like Ambergris, in truth,” she groaned, staring at herself in the polished silver mirror.

She was still at Westminster enjoying the luxurious apartments set aside for her recuperation. The walls were covered in rich tapestries. Her bed had a high canopy above it under which the damask curtains were looped up and out of the way. One had only to loose the string, and they spread around the bed as if by magic. As a bachelor, Edward had never paid much attention to his surroundings, although he was not above spending huge sums on his personal wardrobe, but Elizabeth’s presence spelled many changes. She insisted on clean rushes on the floors every day, was extravagant in the use of candles and would not tolerate dogs in her solar for fear of fleas. She imposed strict etiquette on all the court, which caused Beatrice to remark to Jane one day that the queen was behaving just as she would have expected from a member of the gentry who had come up in the world.

Today Margaret was confined, not because of her illness, but because
of her monthly courses. She sat by the window, a view of the abbey framed in it, and opened the richly illustrated book Anthony had promised.

Her heart had jumped into her throat when she saw what he had chosen for her. Master Chaucer’s
Troilus and Criseyde
was a love story of infinite beauty and tragedy. It was not among her mother’s books, and after a few stanzas, Margaret quickly knew why. The story of the love between a prince of Troy and a beautiful widow and how the lady’s uncle helped them consummate their love was full of powerful descriptions of desire. The book would certainly not have fitted in with Cecily’s library of treatises and writings of holy women, Margaret smiled to herself. She was fond of
The Canterbury Tales,
but this work thrilled her with the poet’s ability to write so perfectly about love, from Troilus’s first glimpse of Criseyde:

“And from her look, in him there drew the quick

of such desire and such affection

that in his heart’s bottom began to stick

of her his fixed and deep impression …

he was glad now his horns in to shrink:

he hardly knew how to look or wink.”

to the night of passion they shared before Criseyde betrayed him with another. Margaret hardly dared read the words, they stirred so much in her:

“Her slender arms, her back straight and soft,

her long flanks, fleshly smooth and white,

he began to stroke, and blessed full oft

her snowy throat, her breasts round and slight.

Thus in his heaven he started to take delight,

and with that a thousand times he kissed her too:

so that for joy he scarce knew what to do.”

Nay, Cecily would never have allowed such a book in her collection. Margaret could not put the volume down, and she didn’t dare to guess why Anthony had chosen to send her this. Tears filled her eyes as she lifted her head from the pages. Did she weep for Troilus in his agony of betrayal or did she weep for the intimacy she could never have with Anthony?

•   •   •

M
ARGARET RETURNED TO
Greenwich for the summer of 1465, but Edward didn’t let her rest there for long.

He sent a barge for her, and this time he also called for Richard to attend him. Brother and sister chatted amiably about the reason for Ned’s command. Margaret guessed Edward was ready for Richard to go north to Middleham for his knight apprenticeship with Warwick. Richard’s face lit up at her conjecture, and Margaret was charmed by his sweet smile.

“Certes, Dickon, I have foretold the reason for your journey, ’tis only fair you should guess the reason for mine,” Margaret said, fanning herself in the heat of the early July day. “I wager Elizabeth has something to do with it, although I can’t imagine what I can accomplish that her other ladies or her formidable mother cannot.”

Richard was unfamiliar with both ladies and murmured a vague assent. He was deep in thought about how his life was about to change forever. Margaret’s prediction turned out to be correct, and following his short audience with Edward, he was seen running along the wide terrace overlooking the river whooping for joy and throwing his bonnet in the air.

Later, Margaret was ushered into the king’s presence chamber, where Edward and Elizabeth sat on thrones surrounded by a goodly number of courtiers. It was not the private scene she had imagined, and for a moment she worried that she had displeased the king somehow. When she saw Elizabeth’s smile, she was relieved. She gave them both obeisance.

“My dear sister, God’s greeting to you,” Ned said affably. “I told you I would not forget you.”

A marriage proposal, Margaret realized in that instant. She had waited so long for this, but now that the moment had arrived, she had butterflies in her stomach and her mouth was dry. Chin up, my girl, she told herself, and then sent a prayer to St. Catherine—the saint of unmarried girls—that Edward had found her a pleasant young husband. In her trepidation, she forgot Edward had promised a few years ago not to surprise her with this news in public.

The king nodded to his chancellor, who ushered a small, haughty man with an olive complexion and a great beak of a nose to the dais.

“Martyn Berenger, knight of Catalonia, emissary of Dom Pedro of Aragon, if it please your graces,” Chancellor Neville announced.

The man, who was dressed in the Spanish manner, swept off his high velvet hat and bowed low first to Edward, then to Elizabeth and finally to Margaret, who bowed her head in acknowledgment.

“Margaret, Señor Berenger is sent to us from Dom Pedro of Aragon, nephew to the duchess of Burgundy. I am considering his offer for your hand in marriage. Thank you, señor, I would have further discussions in private with my sister. I will have my councilors review the proposal and send you home with our response.”

Señor Berenger stepped forward and kissed Margaret’s hand. The top of his balding head only reached Margaret’s nose, and he was plainly taken aback by her stature. She found herself blushing as the knight studied her from the top of her gold silk hennin to the long-toed points of her fashionable crakows as if to commit to memory a description that would please his master. She was glad she had told Jane to loop a small lock of hair on her forehead when she had chosen her wardrobe for her audience with Edward, so the Catalonian could see she had fair hair, but she hoped he would disregard her too-large nose and stubborn chin. She also prayed Dom Pedro was taller than his compatriot, or they would indeed make a mismatched couple.

But the emissary’s admiration showed in his satisfied expression, and he turned to his servant, who ran forward carrying a small ebony box decorated with carved roses and daisies. Margaret gave a little cry of delight as she accepted it. Señor Berenger smiled for the first time and revealed four missing teeth. He helped her to open the box, and inside, nestled in green velvet, was an exquisitely painted miniature of her bridegroom.

“I pray you convey my thanks to your master, señor, and tell him I will treasure this until we meet in person,” Margaret said, closing the lid quickly. Neither her smile nor her tone betrayed the desperation she felt after seeing the likeness of her intended. He was not in the first bloom of youth and appeared to have inherited his looks from a bullfrog she had once tried to catch at Greenwich.

Señor Berenger bowed to her again, murmuring, “Milady Margarita,” turned and bent almost double, backed away from the king. Margaret, painfully aware that she was the focus of attention in the middle of the room, could hear whisperings all around her and was unsure of what to do next. The moment seemed like an age before Edward whispered some-thing
to Elizabeth, stood and stepped down from the dais to enfold her in an embrace. The queen rose, nodded to her ladies and returned to her chambers.

Edward tucked her arm in his. “I am pleased with the offer, Meggie. What is more, Señor Berenger assures me Dom Pedro is young, handsome and very kind. I think I remembered your wishes correctly?” Ned grinned, leading her away from the assembly and to his antechamber.

“Aye, Ned, I thank you,” Margaret said meekly, quite sure Edward had not seen Dom Pedro’s miniature. She was still in a daze.

“I wanted to tell you before Bess and I take a pilgrimage to Canterbury next week, ’Tis not set in stone yet, Meg, but you may trust me to do what is best for you—and England,” he said. “And let me tell you why this offer is good for England.”

Margaret, her eyes glazed and her back stiff as a pikestaff, only lent half an ear to his explanation about alliances with Castile and Catalonia against Louis as they walked towards Edward’s privy chamber. For once her usual quest for knowledge was focused on one question.

“When?” she asked the man who held her fate in his hands.

“’Tis early days yet, Meg,” Edward answered, blithely. “Take heart!”

E
DWARD AND
E
LIZABETH
accompanied Margaret and Richard back to Greenwich by boat and then set out on the road to Canterbury. They had not been gone five days when Edward learned of the capture of poor mad King Henry in the wilds of Lancashire. After the Northumbrian castles had fallen the summer before, he had first taken refuge in Scotland and then had wandered alone and friendless in the north of England, taking shelter in the houses of Lancastrian supporters and, for a time, disguised in a monastery. Finally, a so-called friend had betrayed him to his enemies, and after escaping from the man’s house, he was eventually run to earth near Bungerly Hippinstones across the River Ribble. The king and queen announced the news to the citizens of Canterbury inside the cathedral and processed to give thanks at Thomas à Becket’s tomb.

Margaret heard the news from Jack Howard, who, as a king’s councilor, was sent by Edward to report to Greenwich. She received him in her chambers and invited him to dine privately with her. Once again, the
forty-year-old Howard found himself in awe of this young woman’s grasp of state affairs.

“’Tis good for Edward that Henry is captive, Sir John, but I fear he is only the face of Lancaster. ’Tis his wife who is the brain behind the face. He cannot rule with his wits so addled, I know, but he is still a danger while Queen Margaret and young Edouard are still abroad scheming for him.”

Jack nodded. “You are right, Lady Margaret, as always. It did not hurt our cause for the people to see him so pathetically conveyed to the Tower by my Lord of Warwick. He was in plain cloth on a meager mount with his feet bound to the stirrups with strips of leather. ’Twas hard to believe he had once been king of England and ruled us for thirty-seven years.” He shook his head sadly. “And all the while he looked to the heavens and said prayers. He is comfortable at the Tower, and the king has ordered he be accorded respect and gentleness, but even so he must know he is imprisoned. In truth, a sad end.”

Margaret liked Jack Howard all the more for his direct speech and kindness. “A sad end, indeed, Sir John,” she replied. “But is it the end? My sister Anne’s husband is abroad with his Lancastrian friends, Edmund Beaufort for instance. She tells me John is with Charolais in Burgundy. Can Queen Margaret be far behind? And if the old duke dies, will his son turn against Edward? Already he is in control there. What news of the League of the Public Weal?” she asked referring to the conspiracy of the dukes of Burgundy, Alençon, Berri, Bourbon, Brittany and Lorraine to stop their overlord, King Louis, from encroaching on their territories and weakening their independence. There was talk that the rebellious dukes would divide France up among themselves and place the weak duc de Berri on the throne. Charles, count of Charolais, and Francis of Brittany had been the main instigators of the conspiracy.

Jack Howard chuckled. “You are indeed starved of news here, Lady Margaret. We know the different armies of the League were closing in on Louis, but in the end the royal army was engaged by the impatient Charles alone, who could not wait for his allies. There was a bloody battle at Montlhéri—nay, I do not know where it is, my lady, but ’tis far from Charles’s home in the Low Country—and although Louis was forced to run back to Paris, nevertheless the Burgundians suffered terrible losses.”
He gave a quiet snort of derision. “However, I doubt not Charles will be swaggering back to Bruges, lending much prestige to his reputation among the other dukes. He is a warmonger, Lady Margaret. I pity his wife, for I wager he wears his spurs to bed!”