Daughter of York (59 page)

Her joy at hearing that Edward was on his way to England was dampened by despair of ever holding Anthony again. And as if to seal their ill-fated love, she had awakened not long after their tryst to find she would not bear his child after all.

As soon as she heard the news from England, Margaret ordered celebrations and fireworks in the city of Ghent. Other cities and towns followed suit in honor of their duchess’s family.

“To her grace, the right worthy and beloved dowager duchess Isabella, my dear mother-in-law, I give you greetings. Today I received the happy news that my brother’s enemies are at last vanquished and he sits again on the throne of England.”

Margaret paused, nibbling the top of her quill as she pondered the next sentence.

Isabella had Lancastrian blood in her veins. Margaret did not wish to offend her mother-in-law, knowing that it was she who had championed
Charles’s marriage with a York princess. During the week at Sluis, when Isabella and Mary had visited her every day, Margaret had discovered that the dowager had no love for Queen Margaret. So she decided to write about the She-Wolf’s downfall and not dwell on poor Henry. Margaret was determined, however, that Isabella should receive the news by her hand alone, so she knew she could not tarry in her task.

“As I have heard, Edward and his company became separated during the voyage to England but all were safely landed along the coast of Yorkshire and eventually gathered together. My brother George of Clarence was in the west country.”

She stopped again, lifted her head and studied the wall hanging in front of her, barely noticing the finely woven thread in so many glorious colors.

George had finally come to his senses, it seemed, though not without much fence-sitting on his part. Once he knew Warwick’s new plan to ally himself with Queen Margaret and put Henry back on the throne, he must have given up his dream of becoming king, she thought. She hoped that some of his decision to return to Edward’s side was also due to the three impassioned written pleas she had sent him at Edward’s behest. She was not to know that George had also been influenced by several visits from Cecily during those months Edward was in exile, and, as everyone knew, Cecily was a matriarch whose influence was hard to ignore.

“But when he heard of Edward’s arrival and that men were flocking to him, he was determined to reunite with Edward, praise be to God. ’Tis said he fell on his knees when he approached Edward and Richard, and the king raised him up and they embraced.”

Margaret dabbed at her eyes upon imagining the scene of her three brothers together once more and wished she could have been there to witness it.

“Edward now had an army to be reckoned with, although sadly, ma chère belle-mère, you will remember that Warwick’s brother, the once faithful Lord Montagu, was now Edward’s enemy, having reunited with his brother in the autumn. Edward was marching south towards London, and those citizens were much afraid. Warwick commanded the mayor to parade the feeble King Henry through the streets to give them courage, but I fear it had the opposite effect. As Edward approached, the magistrates and other leaders opened the gates to him, and he rode in triumph with George, Richard, Lord Rivers and Will Hastings by his side.”

Margaret frowned, wondering if she would bother to go into detail about Edward’s meeting with Henry, and how Henry had embraced the surprised Edward and with a warm welcome had said he knew he had nothing to fear from his cousin of York. Putting Henry and his advisers in the Tower “for safe keeping” might not reassure Isabella when she read the letter further. But she decided to be honest and related the incident faithfully.

She dipped her pen in the inkwell and continued.

“’Twas then that Edward proceeded to Westminster sanctuary, where Elizabeth and her children were residing still, and held his son for the first time. What a happy moment that must have been for them all, belle-mère, and I pray little Edward will prove a worthy heir to the throne. Every great leader needs a son to follow him.”

Nay, I should not write thus, seeing that I seem unable to bear Charles one, she thought grimly, and she crossed the words out with bold strokes until they were illegible.

“Edward, fearful that Queen Margaret was to land from France with another army, knew he must fight the two Neville brothers as soon as he could. Fortunately, Warwick and Montagu followed Edward to London, and you should know that a battle was fought on Easter Sunday at a place called Barnet, a few miles north of the city. My brother’s army was now twelve thousand strong, and I am proud to say my little brother Richard, at only eighteen, led the vanguard for Edward. It was a great victory for us, but it is tempered by the knowledge that two noble English brothers met their ends there. Because my lord the king and brother had heard that no one in the city believed that Warwick and his brother Montagu were dead, he had their bodies brought to St. Paul’s, where they were laid out and uncovered upwards from the chest in the sight of everybody.”

Margaret decided to leave out the disturbing news that for the first time in any battle that Edward had led, he had given the commoners no quarter. Unlike Charles, who thought nothing of massacring whole towns in punishment for rebelling against him, Edward’s treatment of the common people had always given her heart that not all leaders were cruel. She
looked up at the tapestry again, its bucolic hunting scene a world away from the slaughter that must have been witnessed at Barnet. God rest their souls, she prayed. She sighed, reread her words and continued.

“Even so, the danger was not over for Edward, for news of Queen Margaret’s and her son’s arrival from France sent him chasing after her army. They met on the field of Tewkesbury, and this time all was lost for young Edouard, the hope of the house of Lancaster, who was killed while fleeing the battle. Queen Margaret and her new daughter-in-law, Anne Neville, were found hiding in a convent nearby and taken prisoner.”

She did not think it was of interest to Madame la Grande, as the dowager was now styled, that Anthony Woodville had been wounded at Barnet, as had Richard of Gloucester. Neither wound was mortal, but Anthony had not gone with Edward to Tewkesbury. She learned that he had been ordered to stay behind and defend London from an attack by another Neville, known as the Bastard of Fauconberg, with a rabble army of Kentishmen. Anthony and his men had fought off the assault and chased the rebels from the city.

Margaret suddenly shivered. A cold draft told her she was no longer alone, and she turned to see Beatrice curtseying to her.

“What is it, Beatrice?” she asked, smiling at her attendant. “I will be finished with this letter soon.”

“’Tis Fortunata, your grace, and Azize. That monkey …” Beatrice held out her hands in despair.

“Sweet Jesu,” Margaret said, exasperated, “Fortunata will not be happy until she has her own monkey, in truth. I will be there anon, Beatrice, I promise. In the meantime, pray ask Guillaume to attend me. I will need someone to carry this letter to Aire.”

Beatrice curtseyed again and hurried out.

Margaret penned her final sentence.

“The strangest happening of all, belle-mère, was that when King Henry was advised of his son’s death and his wife’s capture, he fell into a deep melancholy and died within a day.”

I hope ’twas simply a happy coincidence, she thought, as she dripped wax on the folded letter and used her heavy gold signet ring to seal it.

By the Holy Cross, I pray Edward had nothing to do with his death. She shook off the unpleasant thought and replaced it with one of rejoicing in the happy change in her family’s fortune.

“Now to deal with duelling dwarfs and a monkey,” she muttered to herself. She met one of Guillaume’s men-at-arms at the door, a sturdy fellow with an ear missing and a scar across one cheek, and gave him instructions to proceed at once to the Duchess Isabella. As she watched him go, she realized with a pang that she had not had very much contact with the old woman since those festivities in Bruges three years before, and she resolved to ask Charles if they might visit her that summer.

C
HARLES FINALLY MADE
time for his mother in October after a summer of campaigning on his borders with France. Margaret joined him for part of the month of August, and she took advantage of Le Crotoy castle’s position near the fishing village on the bay of the Somme by taking daily walks or rides on the south-facing beach and filling her lungs with fresh sea air. She loved going barefoot, digging her toes into the warm, fine sand with Astolat gamboling beside her and her ladies dabbling their feet in the cold English Channel. It was a happy time—unless Charles was with her. If he noticed a change in her he said nothing, but he left her to her own devices after one night of indifferent intimacy.

“I see you are bored with me already, my dear,” he said sarcastically, after mounting her and finding her limp and uninvolved.

“I have a headache, Charles. Pray forgive me. I shall feel better on the morrow, I promise,” she said without enthusiasm. Charles grunted and, losing his erection, he called for his gentlemen and quit her chamber. He did not return, and Margaret was relieved but guilt-ridden. She spent many hours on her knees and even visited the tiny new church in the village to confess her longings for her lover. The priest, who had heard many such admissions in his years behind the screen, yawned and gave her absolution. He had no idea the duchess of Burgundy was unburdening her soul to him.

Unusually, Charles came hurrying into her chamber just as she had finished her morning toilette. Her attendants flung themselves on the floor in obeisance.

“Up! Up! And out!” he shouted to them. “I would speak privately with my wife.”

Margaret waited until the door was closed. “What is it, Charles? You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

She was horrified to see him crumple on his knees in front of her and put his arms around her legs like a little child.

“’Tis Mother!” he whimpered. “Mother is ill. They tell me she will not last, and I do not know what I shall do if she dies.” He was crying now. Speechless, Margaret stared down at her almost forty-year-old husband with his head buried in her gown. His behavior never ceased to confound her. She let him cry for a few minutes and then began to stroke his graying hair. She could not imagine any of her brothers collapsing like this at any news of Cecily’s illness, even Richard, who was half Charles’s age. Her touch seemed to calm him, and when he eventually looked up at her, his eyes were dry and his look sheepish.

“I beg your pardon, Margaret. Have I offended you?”

Margaret looked down more kindly at him. “Nay, Charles. I know how fond you are of your mother. But until you tell me the nature of her illness, I cannot assess whether she is as near to death as you seem to imagine. Perhaps ’tis merely a
grippe.
Her physicians will soon have her humors set to rights, you will see. But you must pay her a visit. I understand it has been some time since you have been to Aire.”

Charles stood up and strutted to the window, the thick muscles on his bowed legs not shown to advantage by the tight hose and short pourpoint.

“Aye, too long,” he admitted. “She does not deserve such an unkind son as I am.”

“You are guilty of not showing her your devotion, not of having none, Charles. There is a difference. Mayhap this sickness of hers is a blessing for her if it shows you the error of your ways.”

He let her talk, and her reasonable words penetrated his guilt-ridden mind and made him nod his head. “You are right, Margaret.” He looked across at her, standing tall in her favorite yellow and black gown, simple gold cauls holding her tightly braided hair on either side of her head. Her expression showed no judgment, and so he repeated, “You are always right, my dear. I shall make arrangements to visit my mother this very day.”

In that moment, husband and wife looked at each other and understood the relationship they would have from then on. In that one incident between them, Margaret knew she would take Isabella’s place, should the
old duchess die, and Charles had tacitly acknowledged that a mother was the only female figure he needed or wanted in his life. Margaret’s spirits rose. No more pretense of conjugal love would be a blessing for them both, in truth, other than occasional attempts to give Burgundy a male heir, she thought.

Charles walked back to her, picked up her hand and, bowing, pressed it long and hard to his lips.
“Merci, madame,”
he said humbly, turned and left the room.

W
ILLIAM
C
AXTON GALLOPED
into the castle yard one windy day, the long liripipe on his chaperon streaming behind him and his horse kicking up clouds of sand and dust.

“I crave an audience with her grace, the duchess, sir,” he informed the chamberlain, who eyed his dusty cloak and boots with disdain. “Don’t fret, I shall make myself look respectable for the meeting,” he said. “But I would see her grace as soon as she will receive me.”

“Master Caxton, you may avail yourself of the scriveners’ chamber over the bathhouse across the yard,” the chamberlain said, scratching his groin and adjusting his heavy belt. “Your groom will be housed in the stable. I will inform the duchess you are here.”

William bowed slightly and walked away, clutching his leather saddlebag to his chest.

An hour later he was ushered into Margaret’s presence. Her face lit up when she heard his name called.

“Master Caxton, this is a suprise! Come, tell me the reason for your visit.” She held out her hand for him to kiss, and he came to kneel before her. She looked down on his kindly face with its black and gray beard and was again reminded of a badger. “Judging from your expression, sir, and from the way you are holding your purse, you have something to show me. Am I right?”

Her heart was racing. She had not had a word from Anthony since he had returned to England and helped Edward secure his throne. Caxton must have a letter for Elaine, she surmised, for him to have left Bruges. But what he brought out of the bag was a good deal larger than a letter. The courtiers crept closer, hoping for a glimpse of the gift the Englishman was presenting.