Daughter of York (38 page)

“Certes,” she whispered back. As she stepped back from him, she said, “Thank you, I will treasure this, Dickon, and I shall miss you, too. Perhaps we shall see each other in Burgundy ere long.”

Then she was in George’s arms. Neither could speak, Margaret for her tears and George for those he was fighting with all his might to hold back. They stood, arms around each other, looking into each other’s eyes in a silent au revoir. Margaret could feel his fingers digging into her skin through her satin sleeves, and she knew that of all her family, George, for all his weaknesses—or perhaps because of his weaknesses—would be the one she would miss the most.

George gave a tiny resentful cry as Elizabeth gently pulled them apart. “’Tis my turn, George. You cannot have Margaret all to yourself.” The queen kissed Margaret on both cheeks, wiping the tears from them with her kerchief. She, too, pressed a gift into Margaret’s hand. “So you will never forget,” she said, as Margaret looked down on an exquisite enameled white rose brooch, a ruby at its center. “I regret if I have ever offended you, Margaret. And know that I love you in my own way. I pray you will be as fortunate as I in your husband.”

Margaret was taken aback by this speech, and, her tears spent, she smiled and thanked Elizabeth graciously, allowing Edward to pin the brooch to her gown. Then he enveloped her in his big arms and swayed her gently from side to side, her nose crushed on his massive chest.

“I thank you for your tireless work on my behalf, and I promise to put England first if I have any influence with my husband, Ned. In return, I beg of you to honor your promise of my dowry in timely fashion, so that I am not embarrassed,” she said meaningfully. She knew Edward had had difficulty in raising the first portion of her dowry and was afraid, once she was not there to remind him, that he would “forget” to pay the rest. “And now that you have sent me off so magnificently, I pray you look to yourself and to your crown. God keep you, Ned, until we meet again.” She had decided it was useless to advise him further.

“And may God go with you, too, Meggie.” Edward looked down at her oval face and marked the strong nose and chin, sensuous lower lip and intelligent gray eyes. She was not beautiful like his Bess, but she was every inch a princess. Then he said in her ear, “I hope you are pleased I’m sending Anthony as your escort. ’Twas the least I could do.”

“Hush, Ned, please!” she murmured into his thickly padded pourpoint, “but thank you—I think.”

Edward led Margaret out to the courtyard, where the rest of her escort
was mounted and waiting to cover the sixteen miles to the fleet at Margate. He settled her in her carriage with the beautiful duchess of Norfolk, Eliza Scales and their own attendants and then stood with Elizabeth, George and Richard as the procession moved away. She saw her three brothers whispering together for a second, and then they all shouted after her in unison, “Adieu, Mistress Nose-in-a-Book!” Despite her sadness, she smiled and waved.

As soon as Margaret was out of sight and the music that had accompanied the departure had faded away, Edward, grim-faced, turned on his heel and returned to his chamber to prepare for the journey back to London—and trouble.

T
HROUGH THE VILLAGES
along the Roman road to Margate, the people stood awed as the richly decorated carriages, horsemen in multihued clothes and pikemen in the royal colors wended their way to the port. A little girl, her flaxen hair tousled and her kirtle torn and grass-stained, ran to the carriage and reached up to give Margaret a nosegay of white meadowsweet, purple corn cockles and rosy ragged robin. Margaret thanked her, called to one of the escort to give the child a penny and was rewarded by the girl’s look of astonishment as the man bent down to give it to her. She scampered back to her mother, who curtseyed as Margaret passed by.

“God bless you, Lady Margaret,” she called. “We be wishing you happiness.”

Not long after being ferried across the marshy Wantsum Channel to the Isle of Thanet, which formed the tip of Kent, the carriage trundled up a rise in the road. Anthony trotted alongside and directed the ladies’ attention to their left as the sea came into view. Margaret had never seen the sea before. She had lived close by the watery fens of Huntingdonshire at Fotheringhay and along the River Teme at Ludlow, and of course at Greenwich, Shene, Windsor and Westminster on the Thames, but she had never looked over a body of water and not been able to see the other side. There was nothing on the horizon, which struck fear in her heart, and her hand flew to her mouth.

“When we lose sight of England, how shall we know if we are going in the right direction, my lord?” she asked. “And what if there is a storm?”

Anthony saw her consternation and so refrained from laughing. “The ships’ masters have been plying these waters all their lives, my lady, and in the
Ellen
you will be in good hands. They have a device called an astrolabe that helps them navigate by heavenly bodies, and in the day they use the cross-staff that can measure the sun’s height from the horizon. Rest assured, we shall be across in no time, unless we are unlucky enough to run into pirates.”

“Pirates!” Margaret squeaked. “Dear God, what am I doing?”

“Take no notice of him, Lady Margaret,” Eliza Scales piped up, having said very little the entire journey. “Anthony, you are cruel to frighten us thus, in truth. I beg you to leave us and ride on.”

Nay, Margaret wanted to contradict, let him stay! But she turned her head to gaze out over the green water and trusted that with enough company to fill fourteen ships, they would surely be too daunting for pirates to attack. The sun low in the west now cast an amber glow on the rippling waves, and she found the unfamiliar salt air invigorating. By the time they descended the slight incline into Margate harbor and glimpsed the proud ships that were to carry the wedding party at anchor in the sheltered bay, she was almost excited about her first sea voyage.

Margaret spent a restless night in the house of Margate’s wealthiest shipowner. By the time she went aboard the
New Ellen,
all the cargo had been loaded and the ships crowded with mariners and passengers. On board her three-masted carrack were, among others, Elizabeth, duchess of Norfolk, Sir Edward Woodville, Anthony and Eliza, and, at Margaret’s request, Sir John Howard. Quarters had to be made for all on the small ships, for the crossing to Flanders could take up to four days, depending on the weather. Others aboard the many other carracks and caravels included Lord Wenlock, Lord Dacre, and Sir John Paston and his wife. One ship carried the horses and all the trappings of those knights who would be competing in the Tournament of the Golden Tree, as well as the entourage’s baggage.

With Astolat by her side, Margaret stood on the poop deck, the royal standard flying proudly in the wind, and watched the mariners ready the vessel for sail. Men swarmed up the masts like monkeys, readying lines, untying the heavy canvas as they obeyed the commands from below. She saw Jehan Le Sage and Edward’s other jester, Richard L’Amoureux, talking
and laughing together. Ned had insisted they go with her “in case you are sad, Meggie. I have commanded them to keep you smiling,” he told her. “Besides, I think your little Fortunata has been flirting with Jehan from what I have observed, and she will feel at home if they are there with you.” Margaret was astonished by her brother’s thoughtfulness, and the thought of him now brought the tears back behind her eyes and a lump to her throat. Steady, Margaret, she told herself, I forbid you to cry again.

A rasping sound from the front of the ship made her take notice, and the master told her the anchor was being hauled in. The command to unfurl the sails was given and she watched as little by little the great canvas on the mid-mast began to fill. Shouts of farewell came to her from the people waving from the harbor piers, hanging from second-story windows and from the small boats that clustered around the fleet. Margaret felt the ship creak beneath her feet as the wind pushed it inch by inch away from the shore. A rising panic filled her, and she turned to look over the stern. Standing alone, her back straight and proud, she gritted her teeth bravely as she watched the land she loved get smaller as it slipped farther and farther away in the twilight.

The lump in her throat grew so that it engulfed her whole chest and evolved into an anguished sob that was mercifully lost in the wind. She knew with sad certainty that a door in her life was closing.

PART TWO

A Bride for Burgundy
1468–1470

11

Summer 1468

Margaret turned away from the view of the distant shore of her homeland and looked for Fortunata in the knot of passengers on the deck. Fortunata was usually attached to her skirts—or keeping Jehan company of late—and Margaret was concerned because she was nowhere to be seen.

“Beatrice, where is Fortunata?” she called to her lady-in-waiting, one of the few who would be allowed to remain with her in Burgundy. “She did come on board, I know, because she was in my rowing boat.”

Beatrice laughed, climbing the steps to join her. “Aye, my lady, and she no sooner stepped on board than she ran to the other side of the ship and was”—she lowered her voice—“sick over the gunwale. I sent her down to your stateroom to sleep.”

“Poor little thing,” Margaret said. “I hear the
mal de mer
is a terrible affliction. Praise God, I feel nothing.”

Three hours later, Margaret thought she was going to die.

The wind was fair and the seas calm when they stood out from the harbor. And when Anthony came to stand with her, she was elated. They
spoke for only a few minutes, Anthony showing her the astrolabe and cross-staff. As the navigator, whose eyes had been reduced to mere pinpricks in his face from squinting at the sun for so many years, demonstrated his skill for her, the waves began to grow steadily off shore. Jack Howard waved at her from the deck below, his smile wide as he swayed with practiced ease in rhythm with the rolling ship.

“Sir John loves the sea, his lady wife told me,” Margaret said, as she smiled and waved back. “But she was not willing to endure the rigors of the voyage to come with him. This is a pleasant sensation, and I think I was born to it.”

Margaret groaned now as she remembered those words. After their conversation on the poop deck, Anthony had escorted her to the captain’s table, where she sat with Eliza and the duchess and other ladies. They feasted on cold meat and fish, bread and cheese, all washed down with some strong ale. It was then, in the stuffy interior of the cabin, that Margaret’s stomach began to turn somersaults. She begged the captain’s pardon and tried to rise to seek her own bed, but a wave of nausea forced her to sit down again. Recognizing the signs, the captain gently helped her up again and half carried her to the stateroom, which he had given up to her. A bucket was found quickly, and soon Margaret was making full use of it. Fortunata had crawled under the bed as soon as she had come aboard and had already emptied her stomach several times. Beatrice hovered over her mistress, seemingly immune to the seasickness, and gave her sips of water whenever Margaret could bear to sit up. It seemed to Margaret that the cabin walls were closing in on her, the ceiling was revolving and the bed was tossing her up and down. She passed the night in fitful sleep and puking.

“My lady,” the captain called through the door to her the next morning. “May I suggest you try and take some fresh air? ’Twill do you the world of good, and now the sun is up and the sea calmer, I recommend you stay on deck so that you can focus your eyes on the horizon. ’Twill help your discomfort, I promise.”

The idea of even trying to stand up caused Margaret to retch again, but with Beatrice’s help, she managed to sit on the side of the bed and allow herself to be washed. Her hair was matted with the foul-smelling remains of her supper, but once Beatrice had cleaned her up, put on a
fresh gown and tied her hair up under a coif, she was ready to put her feet on the ground and try to stand. She was astounded by how weak she felt. Her legs wobbled and she was light-headed. But believing the captain knew his business, she staggered to the door and climbed the companion-way to the deck. The North Sea wind slapped at her face and blew under her skirts, dragging her forward to a group of courtiers, who bowed when they saw her. Jack Howard took her arm, and she leaned gratefully on his sturdy frame. He could see she was in no mood for trite conversation, so he guided her silently around the main deck until she felt stronger.

“It may be of consolation to hear that half of the company spent the night in the same manner as you, Lady Margaret,” he said, and then whispered, “including my Lord Scales, but he would not like that put about.”

That made Margaret chuckle, and she sucked in the fresh air, stared at the horizon and began to feel a little better. She sensed the familiar movement behind her and turned to see Fortunata, her face as green as her gown, bravely standing sentinel, and the seated Astolat’s head as high as hers.

“Good girl,
pochina,
” she murmured. “Together we shall beat this. ’Tis too undignified for ladies to be thus afflicted.”