Daughter of York (85 page)

Staring unseeing at the newly printed first page of William Caxton’s most recent book,
Chronicles of England,
Margaret’s mind was not on “
When Albyne with his susters first entered into this isle
” but on her tantalizing conversation with Anthony during the
basse danse.
It had been arranged that Edward would indeed escort his sister into Kent and that a stay at The Mote was sanctioned. Ever since she had heard, she chafed at having to stay in London longer.

In the early part of August, Edward finally agreed to several points of the mission, and Coldharbour became a hive of activity as Margaret began to make the arrangements to recruit and transport the English archers that were promised. She was exultant. Her Burgundian advisers helped identify ships’ captains to sail the soldiers across to the Low Countries, and she began to look forward to her journey home.

O
NE BUSY MORNING,
as her ladies put the final touches to Margaret’s intricately wound turban, Beatrice gave a shriek of pain and fell to the ground in a heap. One of the English attendants told Henriette later, “The hale old goes as do ellum boughs.” She translated, “The branches of the elm are known to snap off even when they seem healthy.”

“Sweet Mother of God,” Margaret cried, pushing Henriette aside and kneeling on the carpet beside the old woman. “Don’t just stand there, someone fetch the physician and the chaplain!” A page ran off to do her bidding while Margaret cradled Beatrice’s head in her lap, willing her to open her eyes. “Dearest Beet, can you hear me? Is she still breathing, Henriette? Fetch a looking glass.”

Henriette handed her a little copper mirror, and Margaret held it to Beatrice’s mouth, hoping to see a telltale mist from her breath. There was nothing, and in a very few moments, Margaret knew she had lost the person who had served her the longest.

“Go!” she commanded everyone in the room. “Leave me with her. We can do nothing more for her. I would see the priest when he comes, but that is all.” She did not need to tell them twice. They all crossed themselves and scurried from the room. Margaret did not want them to see her cry, but as soon as the door closed, she allowed her tears to fall on the now calm but cold face of Lady Beatrice Metcalfe. She had been a surrogate mother to Margaret, and despite her quiet manner, Margaret knew Beet had loved her like a daughter.

“Ah, Beet, at least you saw England again,” she wept. “You shall be buried here, and English roses will grace your grave.”

She prayed for the old woman’s soul to rest in peace, and then she asked St. Margaret to buoy her own spirits at the closing of yet another chapter in her life.

“Y
OUR GRACE, MY LORDS,”
Margaret cried, dismayed. “I pray you believe me when I say I was not informed of Maximilian’s intentions.” She was on her feet and appealing to the fixed stares of an angry Edward and his equally vexed councilors. “When did this happen?”

“Your stepson signed a treaty with Louis not three days ago, duchess,” Jack Howard told her, regretting it was he who had to give her the news. He knew how hard she had worked to secure terms, and he knew she had been blindsided by both Edward and Maximilian, and he felt sorry for her. No man could have achieved as much as she had at Edward’s court at this point in time, and all present had gained an enormous respect for her. “A seven-month truce is assured and peace negotiations are to be worked out in October.”

“Well, then,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders and turning to Edward with a smile. “’Tis obvious to me that Maximilian was forced into the truce because he had not received your latest terms, your grace. I do not believe he did it to deceive you. He did it because he thought he had no alternative.”

Inside she knew this was not true, and her bile rose and her anger grew. She felt betrayed by Maximilian and was reminded of Lord Louis’ warning. For her dearest Mary’s sake, she could not allow these councilors to know that or to suspect her of wasting their time.

Edward’s narrowed eyes bored into her own. “Does this mean that Burgundy, as an
ally
of France”—he emphasized the word to drive home the odd suggestion—“will support Scotland’s war against us?” He paused and then deliberately added a snide “duchess?”

Margaret swallowed hard. So that was it: Scotland was the issue. She did not feel Maximilian had even given it a moment’s thought, but she promised to write to Maximilian and ask for his support for Edward’s campaign. To her intense relief, that seemed to satisfy her brother, although there was some muttering among the councilors. How she missed Ravenstein. He had been right, this was more difficult than she had imagined. She caught Jack’s eye and was astonished when he gave her an imperceptible bow. Praise indeed, she thought a little more happily.

A
ND THEN IT
was time to go.

While her household readied itself for the journey back to Ghent, Margaret was feted once again by the city of London in heartfelt farewell. The merchant guilds gave her a purse of gold in thanks for her negotiating new trade terms for them and their Burgundian counterparts.

She took almost the same route as she had taken from Stratford on her first journey. This time Edward’s barges joined her at Tilbury, and the flotilla made its slow way out of the Thames estuary and into the mouth of the River Medway. Wheeling flocks of gulls and terns accompanied them in the air, while grebes, teals and ducks paddled alongside. Rochester was Kent’s largest city after Canterbury and not long after a deep bend in the river, the Norman castle with its many keeps and the twin-towered cathedral came into view.

“On to The Mote, Meg?” Edward said after lingering two days in the city.

Margaret had received yet another missive there from Maximilian requesting that Edward join in a peace conference in October. Margaret showed her impatience with a terse reply that outlined her successes, which included a betrothal ring for Philip, but concluding,

“I have to point out to you that during these negotiations you have left me and your ambassadors very troubled.”

She was truly beginning to understand Gruuthuse’s parting remarks to her. Maximilian needed to be taken in hand. She had quickly folded the letter and used her heavy betrothal ring to seal the wax before she changed her mind about sending it. She said nothing to Edward.

“To The Mote,” she murmured, savoring the thought. “Have you sent word to Anthony?”

“What do you think, O innocent one?” Edward laughed down at her. “Certes, he has been expecting us this sennight. I plan on voiding his forest of game, and I do not expect to be entertained every minute of our stay. I accepted to come only because ’tis a chance for me to rest apace and I knew it would please you, Meg. As I told you, I find Rivers much changed of late, and I shall be happy to leave you two to your books and prayers.” A chuckle was followed by a sigh of resignation. “Then I suppose I must join Dickon in the north.” He grunted. “Although he does not seem to need my help anymore. Certes, I would trust that lad with my life, Meg.”

Margaret nodded, but for once her mind was on what she would be wearing when she and Anthony spent time with their books and prayers.

T
HE ROAD FROM
Maidstone led through woods, past the hamlet of Grove Green, its fields under the plough, and on towards Otham. Trotting the final mile, the riders caught glimpses of The Mote’s fanciful turrets beckoning in the distance between the trees like so many fingers.

Margaret was riding with Guillaume, seated upon her new blue and violet cloth of gold pillion saddle, a gift from Edward. They rode side by side with Edward, and Margaret badly wanted to kick her palfrey into a gallop. Behind them trailed a small retinue of servants and several horses stacked high with baggage. The rest of the Burgundian entourage had moved on to Canterbury, where Margaret would join them later.

She turned back to look at the train and sadly noted Beatrice’s absence. She had arranged for burial in the little churchyard of All Hallows, a stone’s throw from Coldharbour, where Beatrice had taken to attending Mass. A white rose was planted over her grave, as Margaret had promised. Henriette saw her mistress’s sorrowful face gazing at the place Beatrice usually had behind one of Guillaume’s squires and smiled in sympathy. I shall have to rely on Henriette now, Margaret thought with a sigh and nodded her thanks.

Margaret realized this was to be the first time she would see Anthony in his own element. These were his lands and this was his magnificent house, its warm sandstone walls protected by a narrow moat and gate tower. Standing on the short steps leading to the entry into the great hall, Anthony, his steward and squires waited to welcome the king and his sister.

“God’s greeting to your graces!” Anthony called. “You honor us with your gracious presence. I bid you most welcome to my humble house.”

“Humble, my arse,” Edward murmured, but smiled and waved.

“Hush, Ned. I pray you behave yourself whilst we are here for my sake,” she begged. “’Tis of great importance to me, as I know you are aware.”

Ned harrumphed as two burly squires helped him dismount and watched as he stretched up his arms and bent his back this way and that to relieve the stiffness from the ride. In contrast, Anthony ran nimbly down the steps and came to kneel before his king.

“Up, Anthony, up!” Ned said impatiently. “This is not an official visit. As soon as I have dined, I shall be seeking some sport in your forest. We saw a herd of bucks along our path. Have your master of the hunt attend me soonest. Messire de la Baume will accompany me but you must stay so that we do not all abandon Margaret.”

Guillaume looked pleased, Anthony surprised and Margaret amused. Guillaume had handed Margaret down from the palfrey, and she was receiving Anthony’s obeisance, her hand trembling as he bent over and kissed it.

“Whatever your grace desires,” he said pleasantly. “I shall enjoy showing Duchess Margaret the house and garden, although,” he apologized, “since Eliza’s death, the garden has been sadly in need of a woman’s touch.” Margaret’s heart leapt. Was this an overture? Should she read anything into the otherwise flippant remark? She smiled into his sapphire eyes and said for the benefit of Edward and the others who were watching them, “Perhaps I can speak to your gardener while I am here, Lord Anthony. It would be the least I can do to thank you for your kind hospitality.”

Tucking her arm into his, Anthony led the way into the house. It was lavishly furnished and Edward raised an eyebrow. “It seems I may have been rewarding Bess’s family a little too generously, Anthony,” he remarked. The smile left Anthony’s face, and for a second Edward let him stew before laughing uproariously. “I am jesting with you, Rivers, you addle-pate. Pay me no mind.”

Anthony grinned in relief and invited the guests to enter his private solar, where a table mounded with food awaited. Edward’s piggy eyes lit up greedily, and he immediately snatched up a tempting duck drumstick and began chewing on it.

“H
OW LONG WILL
you stay, Marguerite?” Anthony whispered to her while Edward was in enthusiastic consultation with the master of hunt.

“A precious three days, Anthony. We are expected in Canterbury on Sunday and will sail for Calais on Monday. God willing, the negotiations are concluded and I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. It has not been easy. But I do not wish to talk of diplomacy with you.”

“Anthony, by your leave,” Edward called out. “De la Baume here and I will hunt immediately. Master Simpson has the hounds ready, and we can fend for ourselves. We shall be gone a few hours. I beg of you do not bore Meg with too many of your moral philosophies.” He laughed and strode from the room, followed obediently by Guillaume and Master Simpson.

Anthony led Margaret into the garden, which was looking rather neglected, she admitted, and on the pretense they were in search of the head gardener, the two evaded Margaret’s attendants and disappeared into the small maze. Without a word, Anthony took Margaret into his arms and crushed his mouth on hers like a man desperately seeking to find his life’s breath in her. She moaned as the familiar sensation in her breasts traveled down to her loins and made her knees give way.

“We cannot … we should not … not here,” she tried to say, but she did not stop his fingers unlacing her gown and reaching into her bodice to fondle her. She could hear voices not far from them but not near enough to understand words. They might be discovered at any moment, she knew, but what did she care? For the first time in almost ten years, she was again knowing what it was like to be desired—to feel herself drown in the scent, the touch, the essence of the man she had always loved.

Gently Anthony pushed her to the ground, the thick untended grass cushioning her underneath him. He kissed her nipples hard under her chemise and she writhed in pleasure, arching her back and willing him to come into her. He knelt between her legs, her skirts high and exposing the soft hair of her pubis, and relinquished his hold on her as he swiftly untied his codpiece to loose his prick. Then he was in her, both muffling their groans of pleasure but moving in unison to the natural rhythm of love. Both had waited so long for this moment that they could not savor the sweetness slowly enough, and as one they climaxed in an ecstasy Margaret could never have imagined possible.

“My dearest love, my Marguerite, you are my life, my love, my soul. In truth, I know I must be dreaming, but let me not wake and find that I was right.” Anthony held her face in his hands, their bodies still throbbing together, and poured his love into her eyes. “Say I am not dreaming.”

“You are not, my love. I am here and we are real.” She reached up and kissed him, teasing his mouth with her tongue.

“Madame la Grande!” Henriette’s voice was clear as a bell. “Are you lost in there?”

The lovers stopped kissing. Anthony rolled off Margaret and pulled her skirts down. With nimble fingers they retied their loose clothing. Margaret called out, “Aye, we were lost but are no longer. Lord Anthony believes he knows the way. We shall be there anon, do not fret.” To Anthony she whispered, “Do you know the way out of this, Anthony? And I am not talking about the maze.”