Daughter of York (31 page)

“My lady, what ails you?” she asked gently, her hands resting lightly on Margaret’s shaking shoulders. Hearing the sympathy in Beatrice’s voice made matters worse, and Margaret found she could not control her sobs.

“Oh, Beatrice, I am … so-so-sor-sorry,” she managed to say. “I know not what has come over me, truly I don’t.”

Beatrice raised her mistress from the kneeling cushion and took her in her arms. There was nothing she would not do for this lovely young woman. She is the best of mistresses, she had told Cecily in a letter, kind, caring and dutiful. It was her honor and pleasure to serve her, she had written. Cecily! Certes, the poor girl needs her mother, Beatrice decided, and sent a page running to the duchess’s apartments to fetch her.

Cecily came hurrying through the draughty rooms, a velvet bed robe wrapped against the early-winter chill, and took charge when she saw the scene in Margaret’s solar.

“Come along, child. Stop weeping. Why, crying is for babies! You have naught to cry about, Margaret. Now let me see what we can do about your face.” There was no disparagement in her tone, but the sensible words sank in, and Beatrice could see Margaret responding to them immediately. Cecily had always been calm in a crisis, it was true, and Beatrice had seen much of her mother in Margaret over the years. Dabbing at her daughter’s eyes with a lawn kerchief and making her blow her nose on it, Cecily fussed around her, bringing Margaret’s sobs to an end. But it was clear that a deep melancholy had overtaken her. Cecily shooed everyone from the room, and even Fortunata dared not disobey. Then mother and daughter sat down on the bed, their arms around each other, and Cecily rocked Margaret back and forth as she had been wont to do in years past.

“You are a little old for this, my dear. But it has been a while since I have held you in my arms, and I confess some of this is for me.”

This made Margaret laugh, and she pulled away, shamefaced.

“Oh, Mother, I am so glad you are here. I know not what came over me. One minute I was praying and the next minute …” She was horrified to find herself crying again. “What is the matter with me, Mam,” she sniffed, using the old nickname for the first time in ten years.

“’Tis naught but an ill humor, I warrant. But I will tell you, Margaret, that in a life like ours there will be more tears. Your life is in an unsettled place today, but you must trust in God to show you the way to the next stage of it. I have come from Edward, who tells me all is not right yet for the Burgundy offer, and Warwick is still angling for one with France, so it appears you are safe for a spell, my dear. Now, dry your eyes and think on the entertainments Edward has in store for us this Yuletide season. I am invited, so we may have more time to talk about being a wife and mother. I am certain this is what is confusing and upsetting you. Am I right?”

Margaret could not tell her about Anthony, so she nodded and blew her nose loudly enough to cover a “Forgive me, Lord” for her lie, although, she admitted to herself, becoming the wife of a stranger did fill her with trepidation.

I
T WAS NO
good. God and his Son and all his saints were unable to give Margaret comfort or sensible advice. She spent hours at her prie-dieu trying to keep her melancholy in check and seeking answers from the
luminous Virgin and Child who stared out of the painting in front of her. As she concentrated on the work of art, she found herself wishing the Virgin could speak. ’Tis always I who speak to you, sweet Mary, but I want someone to speak back to me. I am always so alone. She heard two of her ladies whispering together on the other side of the room and felt Fortunata move her position on her cushion next to her, and she almost laughed aloud. Alone? I am never alone!

She tried to read her prayer book and hoped the words would give her courage and focus her love on God. But it was no good; Anthony’s face floated behind her eyes and filled her with longing. She snapped the book closed, causing Fortunata to jump from her cushion and pick up the trailing end of her mistress’s dress.

“I know why you cried,
madonna,
” Fortunata whispered to Margaret’s surprise.

“Don’t be impertinent, Fortunata. You cannot possibly know, because I do not know myself,” Margaret retorted. “I pray you, fetch my cloak and inform Master Vaughan that I wish my litter to be readied. We shall be visiting St. Bartholomew’s hospital today.”

Fortunata curtseyed and was gone.

A few flakes of snow were drifting down from the heavy sky when Margaret was helped into her litter by Steward Vaughan and the burly bearers picked up the chair as if it were nothing but a basket of cherries. They began their rhythmic stride out of the Wardrobe courtyard and into Carter Lane, and Margaret settled back on the cushions with Fortunata at her feet. The dwarf had thoughtfully tucked a copper footwarmer in among the fur covers, and the coals gave off a delicious warmth in the enclosed space.

“I pray you take the Newgate way today, Master Bull. The smell of the ditch beside the Old Bailey was most unpleasant last week,” she called out to the lead bearer as she held her tussie-mussie to her nose and inhaled its sweet scents.

Fortunata glowed with pride that her mistress knew all the servants by name. She was also proud that Margaret never forgot to visit the sick at the priory hospital near Smithfield Market every week. If the truth be told, Fortunata thought the hospital far inferior to the one she had grown up at in Padua. Most of the sick and infirm were crammed sometimes four to a bed, the floors were swept daily by the monks, but still the wards
smelled of human waste, and how anyone left there alive Fortunata could not understand. She kept her thoughts to herself, though, when Margaret traveled from cot to cot dispensing fresh water and words of comfort and prayers during her visits.

Margaret tapped Fortunata on the shoulder, startling the servant, who had been peering through the curtains to watch the citizens of London go about their business. “Now,
pochina,
let us return to your audacious statement that you know why I cry,” Margaret said. She had not been able to think of anything else since. She didn’t really care about the stink of the ditch—the stench in the wards was far worse, in truth, and she suffered that weekly—she wanted to go the longest route today, so she could quiz Fortunata on her confident remark.

“Auda—? What did you say,
madonna?
I did not understand,” Fortunata frowned.

“Ah, yes, perhaps a rather advanced word for you yet. Bold, daring, impertinent. You understand now?” Seeing the nod, Margaret went on. “Why do you think I am sad?”

Fortunata plucked at the fur coverlet nervously and then raised her dark eyes to her mistress. “Because you love milord Scales,
madonna.
I see it every time when he is with you. You smile always, and always you … shine,” she said, happy with her choice of word. “Aye, shine—from here,” and she touched her heart. “Your brother wants to send you away. He wants you to marry a stranger. You do not want to leave your family. You do not want to leave London. But more than this, you do not want to leave your Anthony.
Allora,
it is simple—you cry!”

Anxiously, Margaret probed her further. “Does everyone notice that I … shine? Does
he
notice? Is it that obvious? Please say no or I shall not be able to face Anthony again.”

“I watch you all the time, milady. Forgive me, but I know what you think all the time. I know you do not like the queen, that you do not trust my lord Warwick, and that you hate the Bold one of Burgundy. I know you love your brothers King Edward and Lord Richard. But you love Lord George more. And,” she said expansively, lifting her chest, “I know you love your
pochina
the best of all!” She ended her little speech by kissing the tips of her fingers to the wind. Then she cocked her head and waited for Margaret’s reaction.

Margaret sat gazing at her prodigious little servant and knew the Virgin in the painting had sent her an answer after all. She had found her confidante, and she knew she could face anything as long as she had this wise young woman to talk to. She crossed herself and marveled.

T
HE WINTER WAS
cold and snowy and took a toll on the poor and sick. Margaret spent Christmas at Windsor with Edward, Elizabeth and Cecily. George and Richard were invited to accompany the Neville family to their estates in Cambridge, and Edward, though uncomfortable with the arrangement, saw little reason to deny Warwick’s request. However, when it became obvious that the earl was allowing the king’s two brothers to become more acquainted with his daughters, Edward recalled the pair to his side. Both denied emphatically that Warwick had mentioned marriage to either of them, although Margaret knew from her conversations with George that the earl had already discussed it with him. Edward was adamant, declaring angrily for all to hear that neither brother would ever wed a Neville and that he wanted to hear no more on the subject. Margaret had seen George’s sulky face when he sought her out to commiserate after his audience with Ned, but for once she refrained from saying anything. “I told you he was dangerous” was on her lips, but she kept her eyes on her book as he stalked from the room.

On her return to London in March, Margaret and her ladies rode in her carriage to the Tower for an unusual viewing there. The Patriarch of Antioch had visited Edward in December and had brought with him as a gift to the king of England: camels from his native land. The menagerie at the Tower already boasted several lions and leopards, but no one had ever seen a camel in England before. Margaret and Fortunata were entranced by the creatures. “’Tis higher than a horse,
pochina.
Certes, you would be afraid up there,” Margaret said, and Fortunata nodded vigorously. “’Tis truly one of God’s little jests. How does one ride such an animal? And yet, I hear the people use them like horses in their country. Strange indeed.”

When spring arrived, the negotiations for Margaret’s marriage were still in flux. Margaret decided Edward would never make up his mind between France and Burgundy and she would die an old maid in her own bed at the Wardrobe, especially after her twenty-first birthday came and went without a contract. She dreamed one night, after a particularly trying
day with Elizabeth, that Eliza Scales fell off a camel. She dreamed that she laughed and Eliza sat up and screamed abuse at her before sinking down in the grass and expiring. She awoke just as Anthony was putting out his hand to take hers over his wife’s dead body. God help me! she thought, feeling sick. They do say the truth is revealed in your dreams. Sweet Mother of God, I do not wish for Eliza’s death, I swear it! The next time she saw Anthony, she could not look him in the eye, for she was certain he must know she would burn in the hellfires for her wicked thoughts.

Margaret was not at Windsor when the Burgundian herald arrived to announce the Bastard was now anxious to fulfill his bargain in the flower of sovenance challenge. He had gladly been granted a stay by Edward when he had started out on a Crusade the year before on orders from his father. But that had come to nothing. He was now ready. Margaret’s heart sank when the news reached her in London, for she was convinced the visit was also intended as part of the marriage negotiations. But as if Ned didn’t want her to become too complacent, he had once again sent Warwick to France to see what he might negotiate with Louis. If it weren’t so nerve-racking, she might have laughed about it.

Fortunata was puzzled by the constant reference to the Bastard of Burgundy. “I know it is not a good word,
madonna.
It means the father and mother did not wed. It is the same word in Italian,
bastardo.
Bastard Antoine does not care about this?” Fortunata seemed to have forgotten she was one, too.

Margaret chuckled. “Aye, ’tis an insult to be called thus, unless you are of noble blood, so it would seem. Even if one is baseborn of a noble, one is still noble. Count Antoine de la Roche—that is his proper name,
pochina,
—is Duke Philip’s favorite son. He is the half brother of Charles, but a much better man, Anthony tells me. He cannot inherit the duchy from his father, certes, but he is nevertheless very powerful. ’Tis an honor to receive him at our court and an honor for Anthony to compete in the lists with him.”

There were two reasons Margaret feared the upcoming tournament. It could mean the signing of her long-awaited contract and it could also result in Anthony’s injury or, in a cruel stroke of bad luck, his death. Tournaments were not supposed to end fatally, but Margaret knew many
a widow who could disprove that supposition. Anthony was one of the finest jousters in Europe, but so was the count de la Roche. She could not imagine why she had agreed to plan the challenge with Elizabeth two years ago. But two years ago, she was unaware of the depth of her feelings for Anthony.

A little more than a month later, the countryside was awash in color. The old Saxon saying “Ne’er cast a clout ’til the may is out” was pertinent that cold, wet month, but June began in sunshine. Now the blushing hawthorn was in full bloom in the hedgerows and corners of fields, mingling with the sweet, rose-tipped apple blossoms, the last heady-scented bluebells and, higher on the hills, the blazing yellow broom. Margaret hoped the party from Burgundy would notice how beautiful her native land was, and once again she chafed at the thought of leaving it.

London would be mobbed for the tournament, Margaret knew, but she thrilled to the pageantry of it and could not imagine a city that knew how to celebrate more festively than London. Lists were being prepared at West Smithfield, and Fortunata reported to Margaret that she had seen cartloads of gravel and sand trundled towards the marketplace to spread over the ground. Soon the repetitive sound of hammering penetrated the daily noise of London as temporary stages and seating were erected on either side of the jousting field. And then London waited.

One evening, Margaret took her candle and with Fortunata trailing behind her, climbed the tower stairs to a tiny chamber that must have been a watchman’s haunt in times past. She often went up there during the day, for it gave her a bird’s eye view over the thatched and shingled roofs all the way to the Tower to the east, to Baynard’s and the river to the south, the city gates to the west and St. Paul’s to the north. She could name many of the hundred church steeples in the city and recognize their chimes. Compline had rung at seven o’clock, and now all was quiet but for the occasional sounds of laughter and singing floating up to her from the Paul’s Head tavern on Wharf Hill. Like the stars in the sky, pinpoints of light were visible from candles and oil and rush lamps in hundreds of houses, and she wondered what the townspeople could do by their weak beams before retiring. On the river, lights bobbed up and down in lanterns at the front of boats ferrying passengers home in time for the curfew. Here and there a dog barked only to be yelled at by its owner, and a baby cried
for its mother in a house directly below her. She imagined she could feel the pulse of this great city and that she was a tiny part of its lifeblood.