Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “There is not enough time to call Parliament or a representative council,” Edward explained to a puzzled Margaret. “It’s those in command at hand in the city and others who give financial and moral support who can vote.”

  Chancellor George Neville, younger brother to the earl of Warwick, was addressing an assembly consisting of all peers currently in the city, the mayor, aldermen, merchants and anyone else wishing to participate in the election of the next king—Edward.

  Margaret was not sure this was very fair, as, in the current climate in London, King Henry would not have a chance of being elected, but she nodded and held her tongue.

  A few hours later, it was all over. George Neville had addressed the crowd as his brother had instructed: “Is King Henry fit to rule over us, as feeble as he is?”

  The cry had been “Nay!”

  “In his feebleness, the queen has all the power. Do you want to be ruled by her?”

  “Nay!” was the emphatic reply.

  “Will you take Edward, heir of Richard of York and rightful heir to the crown, as your king?”

  “Yea!” was the overwhelming response from the people.

  And so it was decided. Edward would be king. When Edward and his friend William Hastings arrived, Cecily rose and faced her son. “Your grace,” she said, and sank into a deep reverence. Margaret quickly followed suit. Edward laughed, hauled his long body out of the chair and strode from the room, followed by Cecily and Will. Margaret stared after them, dumbfounded. Sweet Jesu, she thought incredulously, I will be a princess.

  WHERE, IN ALL of this, was King Henry and his queen? Margaret wanted to know. Cecily was proud of Margaret’s keen perception and the intelligent curiosity that had prompted the question. They both looked at Edward. He was relaxing for a few hours in front of the fire in his mother’s solar with his favorite wolfhound lying on the tiled floor beside him, using Edward’s foot as a pillow.

  “The She-Wolf is on her way north, Meg. Turned on her tail, with Henry tied tightly to it, and went back north. Word has reached me of more devastation in her army’s path as they retreat. I can never forgive her for her disregard for our people. In truth, what can you expect from a French woman! God’s nails, but I hate her!” He hissed the last comment and drew a frown and a “Hush, Edward” from his mother.

  “What happens now, Ned? Does England have two kings?” Margaret asked, innocently.

  Edward grinned at her. “’Twould appear so, my dear sister.” Then he turned serious. “Nay, the business is not finished until one or other of us kings is defeated completely. The queen is not finished, I can promise you that. And,” he paused, shifting his weight so the dog had to move, “neither am I!”

  “More fighting then?” Margaret lamented. Edward nodded and reached for his wine.

  IN THREE WEEKS, Edward’s call to arms had brought thousands of new followers to London, who were eager to rid the realm of the hated Margaret of Anjou. Almost immediately after Edward’s victory, Warwick had taken his force to the Midlands, intending to gather more men along the way. Messengers to Baynard’s regularly came and went, keeping Edward informed of Warwick’s progress and the whereabouts of Henry and his queen. Edward learned that the Lancastrians had now amassed a greater army in Yorkshire than the one they had taken to the gates of London, bolstered by the duke of Somerset rallying new troops to the cause.

  On the thirteenth of March, Cecily and Margaret watched grimly as Edward led his personal meinie out of Baynard’s courtyard. The tabors beat a slow march and the shawms alerted the citizens that York was on the move. Londoners gathered to cheer him out of the city as loudly as they had cheered him in. He twisted round in the saddle and waved to his mother and sister, looking every inch the young warrior on a crusade. He had ordered a new badge for his men, a blazing sun in splendor chosen because of the three suns phenomenon at Mortimer’s Cross. All of them wore the badge proudly on their tunics.

  “God speed, my son! And may He hold you safe!” Cecily called, drawing her sable cloak close to shield herself from the biting wind. “I pray, dear Mother of God, that he is safe,” she whispered, her lip trembling.

  “Have no fear, Mother,” Margaret tried to sound cheerful. “How can Edward lose? Look at him!”

  Cecily gave her a grateful look and turned back into the hall. How many times would they, as women, have to watch their men march off to do battle? Certes, she sighed, there must be another way!

  Margaret left her mother’s side and, under the pretext of using the garderobe, hurried to the bridge room, where she could catch a last glimpse of the cavalcade as it disappeared from view. She waited until she could no longer hear the shawms and tabors and then went back to her own apartments.

  EDWARD MARCHED NORTH towards York, joining with Warwick’s force along the way, and on Palm Sunday on a plateau known as Towton Field, the two armies finally faced each other. It was said that fifty thousand men were arrayed that day in the snow, with Edward’s force two-thirds the size of Henry’s.

  • • •

  “NEAR TWENTY THOUSAND slain? ’Tis pitiable!” Cecily exclaimed, when she heard the news. “God rest their poor souls.”

  “Aye, God rest their souls,” the messenger echoed, crossing himself, after Cecily had read the letter from Edward.

  But even the dreadful toll could not dampen her joy at Edward’s stunning victory. “You say the snow helped Edward in the fight, sir. How, pray?”

  “’Twas the wind, your grace. When the Lancastrians let fly their arrows, the blizzard was in their faces and the arrows fell short. Our side picked them out of the ground and with the wind behind us shot them back with far more success.”

  Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “Killed with their own arrows? ’Tis horrible.”

  “Nay, lady, when you are fighting, you do not think on such things. Why, in the snow, ’twas difficult to tell who was with who. Many of us may have slain those of our own side, I know not! Somerset was on the higher ground, but when the archers failed to breach York’s ranks, they charged downhill to fight hand to hand. Arms and legs were hacked off, if you were fortunate. Heads, if you were not. When you thought you had broken through a line, another one was there. My lord Edward was our rallying point, never losing ground, always pressing forward and encouraging us loudly until his voice was hoarse. What was begun in the morning did not end until evening, when my lord of Norfolk arrived to reinforce us with his East Anglian force, God be praised. That is when things turned black for King Henry, for his weary men turned and ran, leaving pink snow in their wake. The pity of it was, the only place to run was down the steep sides of the other hill to the Cock Beck stream, full to bursting its banks. Many drowned in their heavy mail, and I saw others using the dead bodies to form a bridge over which they attempted to flee. The water ran red that day, your grace, red with the blood of good Englishmen. Their only fault was fighting for the wrong cause.”

  Margaret and Cecily sat in silence, transfixed by the scenes of carnage so vividly described by the messenger. Cecily, still clutching the letter, gripped the arms of her chair, her thoughts all of her late husband and how he, too, must have died thus. Margaret shuddered as she tried to imagine losing an arm or a leg—although growing up she had seen several of Baynard’s soldiers with limbs, hands or feet missing.

  “What happens to all those dead men?” she suddenly asked. “How do their families know if they are safe or killed? They cannot send messengers to every village.”

  “The wounded are cared for by the field surgeons, although butchers might be a better word, my lady,” the man said, holding up his hand and showing the stumps of two fingers, still black with the tar used to cauterize the amputation. Margaret winced, and the man grinned. “But we have to dig pits for the dead. This time, it took nigh on two days before all were buried. ’Tis presumed if a man does not return to his home that he perished,” the messenger said softly.

  Everyone in the hall crossed themselves, and Cecily fingered her
rosary. Then she asked, “Where are King Henry and Queen Margaret?”

  “The king, queen and their son, the prince of Wales, are fled to Scotland, your grace, and their troops scattered. Many of the lords of Lancaster were slain that day, and those who are not dead or fled have asked pardon of the lord Edward and joined our ranks. ’Tis truly a victory for the house of York!”

  “Aye, a great victory for York,” Cecily pronounced proudly and called for wine for the assembled company.

  “I charge you all to drink to”—she hesitated, savoring the thought—“to King Edward!”

  “God save King Edward!” shouted the triumphant household as one.

  Margaret felt the swell of pride again.

  3

  June 1461

  The palace of Shene was situated far from the city on a beautiful bend of the Thames, where islands thick with hazelnut and oak trees floated in the river. It was early June, and the field on the opposite bank was carpeted with buttercups. Yellow water lilies floated below Margaret’s vantage point above the water, and she watched a pair of swans glide along, regally ignoring a family of coots chugging upstream. The blue wing of a kingfisher flashed from a willow as it neatly dived and speared a fish. Then a gray heron lifted out of the rushes as effortlessly as down and obligingly flew across the scene, making her smile with pleasure. How she loved it here!

  Cecily had been instructed by Edward to leave Baynard’s and make royal Shene their own. He would join her there. Built by Henry the Fifth, it was not a fortress but an elegant palace with high, timbered roofs and intricate spires. Overlooking the river and flanked by orchards and herb gardens, it afforded the king a haven from the heat and sickness of London in the summertime. One of the royal hunting parks, teeming with deer and other game for the king’s pleasure, bordered the orchards.

  One early morning the royal barge, hastily redecorated with the white rose of York, had conveyed Cecily, Margaret, and their attendants up the river, past Westminster and the villages of Chelsea and Kew and to the great bend that hid the palace from view. As the oarsmen pulled the boat to starboard and the three-story, gleaming white structure shimmered through the light mist rising from the water, the women gasped with delight. Only in a fairy tale could a palace be so beautiful, Margaret thought, staring at the many octagonal and round towers capped with pepperpot domes and turrets, which were graced by ornamental weather-vanes and carvings.

  Once inside, she ran from room to room, admiring the fluted ceilings, carved columns and colorful, tiled floors. Servants, who had accompanied the household baggage overland on huge carts, carried in furniture, chests and wall hangings brought from Baynard’s. Cecily assigned Margaret the chamber overlooking the river where she now sat, and after a week she still had not tired of watching the wildlife teeming below her.

  Today, however, was special. Edward was coming. She had chosen to stay out of the way all morning while her mother commanded the preparations for a royal welcome. Not long after Prime, boats had begun to arrive filled with barrels and sacks, boxes of animal carcasses, fowl and fish of all kinds, fruits and spices, and great hogsheads of wine. Neverending relays of servants carried the food from the dock into the kitchens behind the palace.

  Now, later in the afternoon, Margaret heard music wafting softly on the wind. Ned must be coming, she thought, and checked her appearance in the polished silver mirror. She tucked a stray lock of hair under her short hennin, pulled her pointed sleeve cuffs over the backs of her hands and smoothed her gray mourning gown. Like her mother, who was known to outspend even Queen Margaret on her wardrobe, Margaret took great pains with her dress and made sure her seamstress kept her in the latest fashions. She lightly bit her lips to give them some color, checked that her eyebrows were exactly the right thinness and wished her cheeks weren’t so plump.

  The music was louder now; Margaret could distinguish viols, lutes and gemshorns. She heard voices, laughter and Ned booming, “Ho, there! Mother, Margaret, where are you?” Hurrying Ann and Jane along, she went down to the great hall to greet the king. Cecily had told her to curtsey low, which she did, making a graceful picture as Edward strode in.

  “As is befitting my status, Lady Margaret,” he teased. “Nay, Meggie, rise and give your brother a kiss!” He gave her an appraising look as she stood back from their embrace. “That gown becomes you right well. You are all grown up, in truth! What do you think, friends? My little sister is growing into quite a beauty.” He whispered, “But I would halt the growing part, Meg, or I shall have to find you a giant for a husband.”

  Margaret was stunned by this reception. Her mother had instructed her that etiquette at a royal court was very different from the more informal way in their ducal household, and she had expected Edward to pay little attention to her in public. She found her tongue and managed, “I thank you,” despite the hurt of his last comment, for she was sensitive about her inches. She put it from her and gave him her warm smile. “You are right welcome home, Ned.”

  “Ah, there you are, ma mère. Well met!” Edward greeted Cecily, who had not been waiting by the window for her son’s arrival, as Margaret had, and thus was caught napping, literally. She hurried into the hall. Her widow’s wimple was askew, and she had obviously slept in her overdress. Edward grinned and, picking her up as if she were a child, kissed her openmouthed astonishment.

  “Really, Edward!” she admonished him as he set her down again, before she remembered his rank and sank to her knees. “I mean, your grace.”

  He raised her up. “Edward suits me well, Mother. It always has. I am not used to this new state, and until I am, I shall not expect my family to treat me any differently from before. Besides,” he said, as he set her down and appraised her, “how can I take your lecture seriously when you come before your king in such disarray?”

  Margaret gasped and expected Cecily to upbraid him again, but Cecily pretended not to have heard his last remark.

  “Then I shall school you in the way things should be at court,” Cecily retorted, rearranging the folds of her wimple. “You now are king of En—gland, and I shall expect you to behave like one!”

  “Oui, ma mère,” Edward said meekly, winking at Margaret. “But first, I have a gift for both of you.”

  “You are incorrigible, my son,” Cecily replied, hiding a smile. Margaret made a note to ask her mother what the word meant; she liked the sound of it.

  Edward whispered to his chamberlain, Will Hastings, who in turn sent a page running back outside. Everyone waited as Edward stood between his mother and sister, a sly grin on his face. Those closest to the door began to cheer as two small figures clothed in velvet doublets and bonnets entered the hall.

  “George! Dickon!” squeaked Margaret, forgetting where she was and running the length of the hall to embrace them. Highly embarrassed, the boys forestalled the dreaded kissing that was sure to follow and both bowed low.

  “Lady Margaret,” George said, hoping to avert the inevitable. “Greetings.”

  But to no avail. In a trice, they were both bowled over by their sibling’s exuberance, and Richard ended up on his backside. Tears streamed down Margaret’s cheeks as she hugged George to her. She knew she had missed them, but until she had seen them again she had not realized how much. George extricated himself from her and straightened his bonnet, while Richard scrambled to his feet and ran past Margaret headlong into his mother’s waiting arms. Edward stood by quietly, pleased his surprise had been so successful. George bowed to his mother and gravely kissed her hand.

  Cecily smiled. “I see you have learned some nice manners with Duke Philip, George. Was he kind to you?”

  “Aye, Mother,” George said enthusiastically. “The court at Bruges was so magnificent and everyone was very kind. Madame la duchesse gave us these clothes when we left. She said she could not have the brothers of the king of England looking shabby upon their arrival home.”

  Edward laughed. “Aye, I fear we now owe Burgundy a favor for this kindness. Let m
e see, what can we send him? His son already has a wife or I’d offer him our Meg!” He chucked Margaret under the chin, and she was furious with herself for blushing.

  “I shall stay in England, Ned. This is where I belong!” she told him firmly. “Anyway, I am much too young to be wed yet.” She sent a prayer to the Virgin to delay the dreaded arranged marriage she knew was her lot in life and let her stay at home for many more years.

  “Oh, no, you are not, my beauty! But I have other things on my mind at present”—he paused and grinned down at her—“like hunting in the park! Tell me, Anthony, have you hunted here?”

  A hush came over Edward’s companions, and all eyes turned to a newcomer about the same age as Edward. Margaret looked at the man curiously as he stepped forward. Sir Anthony Woodville and his father, Lord Rivers, had fought for the Lancastrians until not long after the battle of Towton, when, knowing their cause lost, they swore allegiance to Edward. Edward had not yet officially granted them pardons, but he felt safer having the two men in his train rather than at liberty to rejoin any Lancastrian faction still at large, should they decide to change their allegiance yet again. For his part, Anthony was understandably anxious in the new king’s presence, and to be singled out like this because he must have known Shene under the old regime was unsettling.

  “Well, Woodville, is the hunting good?” Edward repeated the question, but his tone was warm, and Anthony breathed more easily.

  “Certes, your grace. There is a red deer for every man in London! I know there are wild boars, though none taken in my sight.” Anthony turned in a circle as he spoke, including all in his view. “And as many hares”—he paused and looked at Edward, smiling—“as you have on your head, sire!”