Daughter of York (29 page)

Margaret laughed outright. “Aye, Sir John, I, too, pity her.” She paused as she contemplated what she had recently learned of her prospective bridegroom, Dom Pedro. He, too, was in constant conflict with the other king of Aragon—another country with two kings, she thought. And as it did every time she thought of her possible marriage, her stomach heaved. “So the war of the League is not yet over?” she continued bravely. “These wars are tedious, in truth. I am much relieved we live in a time of peace at home now,” she said, holding her thumb up between her fore and middle fingers to make the sign of the cross. “I am certain your lady wife is of the same mind, Sir John. I do not recall having met her yet,” she said, aiming to turn the subject away from Burgundy. “You keep her hidden away in … Suffolk, is it?”

“Aye, you have it right, my lady. My dear wife, Catherine, is, I am glad to say, as fond of Tendring Hall as I am. ’Tis an honor to serve the king’s grace, and I do it willingly and humbly, but I confess I am never happier than when hunting on my own land, fishing in my own streams or overseeing the building of a new ship in my yard at Ipswich. You are gracious to ask, but it distresses me to tell you that my wife is ailing at present, and I shall be returning to her as soon as his grace, the king, regains London and gives me leave.”

“I wish I had the authority, Sir John. I would send you home immediately. But selfishly, I beg a little more of your time, for there is more I need to know.”

Jack found his hour with Margaret invigorating and the time flew by. If she hadn’t been surrounded by her ladies—all busy sewing and uninterested in talk of taxes and turmoil—he might have forgotten she was not a man. Her clear gray eyes brooked no dissembling, and he did not mince his words or hold information back from her. She learned he was concerned about the rise in the fortunes of the Woodville family, although he was diplomatically uncritical of Edward. As well as the ludicrous marriage of Elizabeth’s nineteen-year-old brother to his elderly duchess, Edward had bestowed enormous sums of money for the new queen’s household
and wardrobe as well as giving her the palaces of Greenwich and Shene, all of which pragmatic Jack Howard disapproved.

By the time their conversation had come to an end, Jack was wishing Margaret could also sit on Edward’s council. Before he left her, Margaret insisted Fortunata show him her newest trick of the disappearing coin. The conjurer showed them a silver penny, placed it on the back of her hand and proceeded to rub it into her skin until it had vanished. She then turned her palm up and the coin was nestled in it. After he had asked her to repeat the trick three times and still could not fathom how she accomplished it, he laughed and tossed her a coin from his money pouch. Fortunata tested it between her teeth, drawing a reprimand from Margaret and a chuckle from Jack.

“Nay, she has a right to try it—’tis a new angelet and one of the monies his grace ordered issued to help with the shortage of bullion. We have yet to see if the new mintings will keep more gold at home,” Jack said, nodding and smiling at Fortunata when her cocked head asked if she could keep the coin. “But, my lady Margaret, that is for another conversation. I need to catch the tide back to my house in Stepney, by your leave. As always, it has been a pleasure to be in your company.”

He bowed low and kissed Margaret’s hand before signaling to his squire, Tom, to refrain from flirting with a dainty young woman with eyes the size of rose nobles and follow him. His mustache, now flecked with gray, twitched as he watched the young man ardently press the lady’s hand to his lips and obey his master. Jack left the room with his characteristic short but determined strides.

E
LIZABETH WAS PREGNANT
and all England awaited an heir to Edward’s crown. Elizabeth was uncomfortable and unpleasant during the months before her confinement, although her physician, Domenico de Sirego, foresaw few problems since two healthy boys had been born to her as Elizabeth Grey. Margaret sent Fortunata to entertain her, and she even visited the queen at her town house, Ormond’s Inn, to sit and talk or read to her. The two women gradually developed a friendship that pleased Edward greatly. Margaret’s initial reluctance to attend the queen came more from hostility to her lady-in-waiting, Eliza Scales, than to Elizabeth. She was reminded of Anthony every time she saw the woman, and it was
only her good breeding that prevented her from showing Eliza anything but civility.

One afternoon in December, in front of a roaring fire, Margaret read Elizabeth
Troilus and Criseyde
. She could not resist telling the company that “my Lord Scales was generous enough to present me with this volume, and I trust your grace will enjoy the beautiful poem.” She was gleeful when she saw Eliza’s fashionably invisible eyebrows shoot heavenward.

She relished reciting the passionate prose. Towards the end, as Criseyde was about to betray Troilus, she was touched to see tears falling freely down Elizabeth’s face.

“Are you unwell, Elizabeth?” Margaret asked anxiously, putting the book down and kneeling by her side. “Is it the babe?”

Elizabeth brushed the tears away impatiently. “Nay, sister, I am quite well, thank you.” She hesitated before looking into Margaret’s kind eyes and telling the truth. “The poem is moving, certes, but my mind is on Edward at present. Forgive me.”

“Ned? Why, he is hale and safe on his throne, my dear. He tells everyone he is impatient to be a father,” Margaret assured her, although there was talk that Edward had already sired a daughter with one of his conquests. “What could possibly make you cry?”

“Look at me, Margaret,” Elizabeth muttered miserably, tapping her distended belly with disgust. “I am hideous, and Edward does not look at me. I know he is at Westminster with one of his … whores,” she cried, causing her ladies to look anxiously at her. “Every night, ’tis someone new. He has not come to me for a month. Certes, I fear he no longer loves me.”

She finished with a wail that took Margaret aback. Elizabeth was always the model of cool control, haughty and confident, and until she reddened her eyes with crying, more radiant and lovely in her pregnancy than she was before it. Her alabaster skin glowed, her breasts were full and soft, and her eyes less cold. Margaret saw her own shortcomings in that lovely face, and, if the truth be told, she was jealous of Elizabeth’s motherhood. Negotiations with Dom Pedro dragged on, and she was no nearer to being wed or a mother than she had been six months earlier, although she was still not looking forward to leaving home.

As she tried to coax Elizabeth out of her melancholy, she was aware of
a commotion in the courtyard but paid no heed as she patted the dejected queen’s hand and soothed her. “Such foolishness, Elizabeth. Edward adores you.” She silently cursed her brother for his blatant infidelities. “And …” She did not finish. The object of their discussion was being announced with a flourish at Elizabeth’s solar door.

“Your grace,” intoned implaccable chamberlain, Lord Berners, “The king requests an audience. Will you receive him here?”

Before Elizabeth had a chance to straighten her simple coif and veil, wipe her nose or dab rosewater on her breast, Edward strode in.

“Bessie, my sweet wife, you look magnificent!” he said, sweeping her out of her chair and planting a kiss on her astonished mouth. “I have never seen a more beautiful woman. We shall have to keep you with child always, my love.”

The company was still giving him full obeisance when he raised Margaret up next and folded her into an embrace. “You, too, Meg, are looking magnificent,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “But not for the same reason, I hope. Ha!” he laughed, seeing Margaret’s eyebrows shoot up. “Come, Bess, may we have some privacy? I have been searching London for my sister all day, and how happy I am to find the two of you together, the best of friends.”

He was clearly in a good mood, Margaret thought, relieved. And Elizabeth’s unhappy mood was chased off by his cheerful presence and loving words. She waved her ladies away and they bowed their way from the room. Lord Berners stood at a discreet distance, eyeing Fortunata, who did not include herself in Elizabeth’s dismissal. As if by her own magic, she made herself invisible in the folds of Margaret’s gown.

“Oh, Edward, I am right glad to see you,” Elizabeth exclaimed, her sad mood chased away. “’Tis a fortnight since you were last here.” She did her best not to accuse, but Edward looked sheepish anyway.

“Aye, my love. I confess time caught me by surprise. But there is a good reason, and as you may infer, Meg is part of the reason.”

“Me? How can I be blamed for the neglect of your poor wife, Ned?” Margaret was indignant but intrigued.

“Because I have been in more negotiations for your hand, dear sister. Now there are two dukes vying for your hand, and I could not be more pleased,” Edward crowed.

Margaret was speechless.

“Aye, eloquent Margaret, I have taken your breath away, I can see.” He winked at Elizabeth. “Bess, I knew I could
count
on you to keep the cat in the bag.”

Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide and a smile curved her perfect mouth. “So that is the way the wind blows, in truth. From the east this time. Pray do not test your sister’s patience any longer, my love. Tell her.”

“Tell me what? Ned—Elizabeth—do not taunt me so!” Margaret implored. Her hands were clammy and her breath shallow with fear. The bullfrog did not entice her, but she had spent many months learning about Catalonia, Aragon and her prospective husband’s Portuguese lineage. She had even begun to learn a little Spanish, although the letters Dom Pedro had sent her had been written in perfect French. There had also been a promise of a fabulous diamond betrothal ring, although nothing yet had been forthcoming.

“Who are you bartering me off to this time, Ned? I am flattered to be so desirable,” she said, her tongue finding its bite again as she tried to sound flippant while fighting back panic. “I can only be in one place at a time, in truth, no matter how clever you think me!”

“Have a care, Meggie.” Edward was smiling but his eyes were glittering. “You are at my command, and you will go where I tell you. Because I know you well, I spared you the other possible matches I could have made for you.”

Margaret’s eyes widened in disbelief as Edward continued relentlessly, “Aye, Louis had his own ideas—certes, he has no wish to see me ally with Burgundy, whom he looks on as his rebellious vassal—so he gave me an array of eligibles to choose from: his brother-in-law, Philip of Bresse; René, count of Alençon; his nephew, Philibert of Savoy; and, last but not least, the Italian, Sforza, duke of Milan,” he gloated, knowing he had taken her breath away. “It seems you are a desirable partner, my dear.”

“Hush, Edward, there is no need to frighten your sister.” Elizabeth jumped to Margaret’s defense and Margaret shot a grateful glance her way. “You forget, my dear, you made your own choice. Women are not always so fortunate. Be gentle, Edward,” she cajoled with a seductive smile. “I know how you can be.”

Margaret could see Edward had a hard time resisting that smile. He
reached out and stroked his wife’s face, cupping her chin in his big hand and running his thumb along her bottom lip. Margaret cleared her throat in an attempt to distract him, and Edward turned his attention back to her.

“I wanted the best for you, Meg, and so I rejected Louis’ offers.” He did not need to add that these choices were only rejected because he had no intention of being caught in the French king’s web; it was as clear to Margaret as spring water that Edward cared nothing for her feelings in the matter. “But now,” he continued, “it seems we do have a choice, Meg. Dom Pedro is still very anxious to have you, but he is now a small fish compared to the other duke.”

Recovering her composure, Margaret’s curiosity got the better of her. “Two dukes, Ned? There is only one of any import to the east of us, and that is Philip of Burgundy, who I am told is not much longer for this world, ’tis true, but his duchess is very much alive. I know this because Dom Pedro is her nephew and, prolific letter writer that he is, he would have told me of her death.”

“’Tis true, Duke Philip is the only duke to the east of us, and he and his wife are still living, but you may not know that their son, Count Charles, was widowed not two months ago. I have been approached by Philip on behalf of his son, Meg. You could be duchess of Burgundy one day and the richest woman in Europe!”

“Charolais?” gasped Margaret, her hand over her mouth. “But Ned, Sir John Howard told me he goes to bed in his spurs! In truth, I would rather have the frog!” She was so stupefied, she thought she might swoon. She grasped the arms of the chair for strength and stared dejectedly at the flames licking their way hungrily around the logs in the fireplace.

“But he is a frog, Meg,” Edward laughed, pleased at his joke and insensible to her feelings. “He is a Valois duke, and thus French through and through. Except for the English on his grandmother’s side and Portuguese on his mother’s,” he remembered. “But sweet Meg,” he went on, trying to coax her out of her dejection, “we have only just begun to talk. These things take time, as you have seen with Dom Pedro, and we shall not show our hand one way or the other until an agreement is signed, until you have consented and all parties are content. ’Tis said Charolais is not as set on an English marriage as his father is. It may come to naught, but
I thought I must tell you. Be of good cheer, Meg. We have the Yuletide season to look forward to and our first child,” he said, taking Elizabeth’s hand again. “And now, why do I not have wine? Lord Berners, you run too sober a household. I pray you fetch us some wine. We need to drink to Lady Margaret’s good health, she is looking a little green!”

Margaret, feeling the bile rise in her throat, jumped up from her chair and ran from the room.

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