Ann and Beatrice strolled through the stone arch in the garden wall to the quay that ran the length of the palace grounds. A flotilla of ships was slowly making its way past them up the river to London, passing the slower shouts, laden with cargoes of stone, grain and timber. The standard flying on the lead vessel bore the unmistakable Ragged Staff badge of the earl of Warwick. “Coming from Calais,” conjectured Beatrice. The women waved, and a few of the soldiers leaning over the gunwales shouted greetings. They watched the convoy’s progress for a few more minutes before turning back to their path.
“It has been four weeks since we left the city, Ann. It would seem to me Fortunata would have come if she were still alive. The pestilence has run its course, so one of the boatmen told me. Lady Margaret must believe she is dead and so is mourning her friend. You should not be so spiteful, mistress.”
Beatrice Metcalfe was a spinster from a knight’s family near Raby, where Cecily Neville had grown up. Cecily had offered Beatrice, who was about her own age, the opportunity to leave her father’s draughty hall in the dales of Yorkshire to serve the young Margaret. Beatrice kept a motherly eye on her charge, although as an older woman, she was not a confidante. She was grateful for the chance to serve the great York family and kept her own counsel among the much younger ladies-in-waiting. If Margaret did but know it, Beatrice was as devoted to her mistress as Fortunata, but she chose to keep in the background. Cecily received letters from her periodically, keeping Cecily informed of Margaret’s comings and goings.
“I doubt my lady would grieve this much for you or me,” Ann retorted. “I wish the precious little thing had never come here, in truth!”
“Aye, Ann, you do not need to tell me this, for you wear your heart upon your sleeve. You should beware if you would keep your position. Lady Margaret is as sharp as a needle, and I have no doubt she knows exactly how you feel.”
“Pah!” Ann scoffed. “I am to be married shortly and shall soon be gone from this stifling life. I shall have my own household and, God willing, soon hold my own babes.” She stopped to look back at the receding ships and put up her hand to shade her eyes. “But look, there is a boat pulling for the pier.” She pointed at a small boat with one oarsman ferrying a single passenger making for the palace. “Let us go and see who visits us from London. At least it will be a change of pace.”
The two women hurried along the stone walk to the jetty and waited for the boat to pull alongside. Crouched in the middle of the boat, her face gaunt and her coif askew, sat Fortunata.
“Speak of the Devil,” muttered Ann under her breath, crossing herself for conjuring him up.
“Fortunata!” cried Beatrice, hurrying forward. “Oh, Fortunata, we thought you were dead.”
The dwarf sat up when she heard her name, and her expression brightened when she saw Beatrice.
“Beatrice, Beatrice,” she said, almost falling out of the boat in her hurry to exit the hated craft. “I am so happy to see you.”
Beatrice embraced the younger woman, who was now a good deal thinner, and called to Ann to come and greet Fortunata. Ann grudgingly gave her a smile and a greeting, but Fortunata was already asking for Margaret.
“Your mistress is under the big tree in the garden.” Beatrice pointed back the way she and Ann had come. “Oh, Fortunata, she will be so glad to see you.”
Her words were lost to Fortunata, who was running towards the garden.
“Madonna, Madonna Margherita! Where are you?” she called as she ran.
“Fortunata?” Margaret jumped to her feet when she heard the familiar voice from the other side of the wall. “Fortunata, is that really you?”
The two women ran into each other’s arms between the rose bushes and the hollyhocks, crying and laughing at the same time.
“I thought you were dead, pochina,” Margaret said, using her new nickname for Fortunata when she found out the Italian word for “tiny bit.”
“Non, madonna, quasi—but almost.” She unwound the scarf from her neck and pointed to where an ugly sore was visible but healing. “I prayed—tanto—as you told me, and now I am here, safe with you!”
“Aye, you are lucky, like your name,” Margaret said, her black depression lifting. “Come, we must fatten you up again, my small friend. Ah, here are Ann and Beatrice. Do you see, ladies? Fortunata is restored to us.”
“We are so glad, are we not, Ann?” Beatrice said, digging her companion in the ribs with her elbow.
“Aye, that we are, my lady. Fortunata, welcome back,” Ann said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
Fortunata inclined her head in acknowledgment, but as she turned to walk with Margaret, she arched a skeptical brow.
7
1464–1465
Margaret was overjoyed to receive Edward’s summons to meet him at Westminster before he journeyed to Reading Abbey for a meeting of Parliament.
“Come with but a few of your attendants, Meg. I have made provision for you to stay at the abbott’s house, where I shall also be. The abbey will be filled with members of the parliament, and the town will also need to host a great many. Richard is to remain at Greenwich this time. He will have many chances to take his seat with the peers when he is older.”
She had broken the news to Richard, who accepted his fate with his usual calm. Unlike George, he was not one to make a fuss, Margaret thought, watching his expression change from interest in the missive to resignation to the content. “Certes, Ned must have good reason to leave me here,” he said, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “You will have to tell me all when you return, Meggie.”
He had been at the wharf to see her off, promising to keep an eye on her other ladies while she was gone. “Gladly.” He had grinned at her. “How close an eye?”
“Why, Dickon, you are still but a boy and much too young to flirt yet!” Margaret retorted, but she winked at him as she stepped into the barge. “Farewell, and may God keep you safe.”
“And you, Meg,” he called, as the boat was pushed away from the dock and the oarsmen began their rhythmic stroke.
She watched the swans glide by and saw a heron rise from the bulrushes on the Essex side of the river as her thoughts returned to Edward’s letter. She was intrigued; Ned had been mysterious.
“The reason for this summons will become clear to you when we meet,” he wrote, giving her no clue. He ended abruptly with,
“God speed, little sister, until I see you at Westminster on the tenth day of September.
Edward R.”
There was only one reason, she decided. He had found her a bridegroom. She had lain awake for two nights imagining who the man could be, and she vacillated between trepidation and curiosity. One moment he was a handsome Englishman with a face not unlike Anthony Woodville’s, and the next he was a fearsome foreigner with black eyes, stout frame and stubby legs. Aye, he might free her from the monotony of life in Greenwich and offer her the joys of motherhood, but at what price? She sighed, settled back into her comfortable cushions and fell asleep. Fortunata curled up under Margaret’s cloak at her feet and tried to forget she was once again in un battello molto brutto, which loosely translated to “beastly boat.”
“WELL MET, WELL met, my dearly beloved sister,” Edward enthused from the steps of the dais as if he had not seen her for years. He came forward to raise her from a deep curtsey and almost tripped in his haste. “By the rood!” he exclaimed with an overly loud laugh. “I shall have the cordwainer’s guts for garters, I swear.” He pointed to the long points on his blue leather ankle boots. “How I detest this fashion!”
“Then change it, Ned,” Margaret retorted as she went into his arms and received two smacking kisses on her cheeks. “’Tis glad I am to see you, too. And in such good spirits.”
“Well met,” he said again.
“And I you, your grace,” Margaret said, smiling at his unusual excitement. “I thought you had forgotten me in my backwater. Dickon and I were plotting some mischief to relieve our boredo
m when your letter came. ’Twas perfect timing.”
Edward gave a shout of exuberant laughter. Margaret was not sure how to react. ’Twas not that amusing, she thought. She was spared the effort when Edward’s eye fell on Fortunata, still prostrate on the floor next to Jane.
“Ah, this must be the unfortunate Fortunata,” he said, chuckling at his own wit. “Some saint must have been looking after you, mistress, when you were rescued by Jack Howard. Jack!” he bellowed to the group of gentlemen gathered below his throne. Jack turned warily at the king’s raised voice. “I commend your charity in charging Margaret with such an unusual gift.” He pointed to the dwarf. “You shall be rewarded in Heaven, I have no doubt!”
Jack Howard laughed, relieved, and bowed his thanks. “If I ever get there, my liege!” he exclaimed. The company laughed heartily, and Will Hastings thumped him on the back.
Fortunata had not dared look at the king when he graciously offered his hand to raise her from her knees. Towering above her, he made her feel even smaller than she was, and she stared at the ground, quaking in her shoes. She dared herself to look at his feet and almost uttered an amazed madre mia! Why, she could have sailed all the way home to Italy in one of his long, pointed shoes. This amusing fancy made her less afraid, and she gradually lifted her head as he chatted to Margaret and found her eyes only came on a level with—madre mia! she thought again—his rather substantial codpiece. Despite her olive complexion, her face reddened.
“Aye, this is Fortunata, and later she will give your Jehan some competition. Pochina, show the king how you can tumble,” Margaret said, rolling her arms to illustrate. The dwarf ran a few steps and then executed a dazzling assortment of leaps, somersaults and cartwheels, landing deftly in Jack Howard’s arms. The company applauded. Edward cheered the loudest of all. Margaret glanced at him, again puzzled.
“Ned, what ails you?” she whispered over the din.
“Patience, ma petite!” He grinned sheepishly at her. “Attend me later privately. But now come and sit. Tell me about Dickon.”
Margaret sat on a cushioned stool next to him on the dais and sent Jane to see to her wardrobe. She motioned to Fortunata to sit on the floor next to her, and the dwarf settled herself out of sight of the company, hidden by Margaret’s sumptuous gown. She had learned to be invisible in the physicians’ consulting chambers at the university, and she was quickly forgotten by those who came to talk to her mistress. Out of sight, out of mind, her doctor mentor had told her. “You can learn much, piccolina Fortunata.” She observed the other members of Edward’s retinue, noting the hearty laugh and long, drooping mustache of her savior, Jack Howard; the handsome but aging features of Richard Woodville, Lord Rivers; and the large nose and wandering eye of Edward’s chamberlain, Will Hastings. She guessed Will was at least ten years his master’s senior, but it was clear the man was devoted to Edward and—judging from the winks Edward shared with Will—was also held in the highest regard by the king.
“Is Anthony here?” Margaret finally had the courage to ask softly after answering Edward’s many questions. She watched as he nervously pulled on and off an enormous ring she had not seen before. She thought he wasn’t paying attention, so she tried again. “Lord Scales, Ned? Is he here?”
“Aye, Meg, I heard you the first time,” he answered. “He is here. You will see him anon, have no fear. But I will warn you, little sister, so is his wife. In fact, it seems his whole family is here.”
“To go with you to Reading, Ned? My lords Scales and Rivers must needs be at the council, I see that. Who else? Anthony has many brothers and sisters.”
Edward jammed the ring back on his finger and stood suddenly. “You will see. Now I must talk with Hastings and Howard. Your pardon, Meg.” And he almost fell down the steps to the floor in his hurry to leave her. “Come to me at supper. I will have Jack accompany you.”
Margaret stared after him as he strode down the length of the presence chamber, gathering his councilors in a colorful procession behind him. He had been so distracted, she had not dared ask him the most important question: Whom was she to marry?
JACK HOWARD WAS admitted to Margaret’s apartments a few hours later and bowed over her hand, his mustache tickling her fingers. He stood up and again found himself eye to eye with the princess, something he found reassuring. Certainly her intelligence would serve England well when Edward came to find a bridegroom for her, but her height and bearing added a confidence that would be an asset at any foreign prince’s court. His frank expression must have told Margaret that she had chosen her wardrobe well, for she smiled and said, “Thank you, Sir John.”
His black eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Forgive me, my lady, I was unaware I had spoken. Certes, scarlet is dear to my heart as it is one of the Howard colors! May I say you wear it well.”
“Sir John, if you flatter me any more I shall outgrow this monstrous confection,” she said with a laugh, pointing up to her butterfly hennin, its starched gauze protruding a foot from her head. Her fingers glittered with rings of every precious stone as she turned and swept the mink-trimmed train of her gown behind her and out of her path. Fortunata kept her distance as the small group wended its way through several antechambers until they reached the king’s private rooms. An usher sprang to open the heavy wooden door and announced them in ringing tones.
Edward was conferring with Will Hastings. A number of scrolls were scattered over the table and a tawny greyhound was lying beneath it. The dog eased itself off the floor and tentatively wagged its tail as Jack went forward to bow to the king.
“Ambergris!” squeaked Margaret when she saw the hound, and upon hearing its name, the dog loped over to her, sat down and offered a long, elegant paw.
“See, he remembers!” Margaret exclaimed. “I taught him that, Ned, when we were all at Baynard’s. What a sweet dog!” She put her arms about its neck and Ambergris licked her nose.
Behind her, Fortunata drew in her breath. “Holy Mother, you are sure to die, madonna!” she whispered, fear in her voice.
“Nay, Fortunata, there is naught poisonous about a dog’s wet kiss,” Edward said, going to greet Margaret and hearing the dwarf’s frightened exclamation. “No more than our own, in truth.” Fortunata was already on the floor in an obeisance but allowed herself to look up at Edward this time. “Come, child, let me show you not to be afraid.”
Margaret was impressed by Edward’s kindness. She watched with delight as he led Ambergris to Fortunata, made the dog lie down and gently placed Fortunata’s hand on the dog’s soft head. The tail batted the floor happily, and Edward nodded. “Certes, he likes you.”
The dog’s nonchalance calmed Fortunata, and she smiled as she lightly stroked its head. But then it decided to lick her hand, and she squeaked and backed away again. Everyone laughed, and Ambergris wagged his tail harder. He rose and went to get some more petting from his new friend, and as Fortunata was now backed up against the arras on the wall, she raised her hand in fear. To her amazement, instead of eating her alive, the dog sat down and offered her his paw again.
“That is the signal, pochina! See, he obeys you. He is now your friend,” Margaret exclaimed. She turned back to talk to Edward as Fortunata cautiously put out her hand to touch the dog.
“God’s greeting to you, Will,” she said, smiling at Hastings, who bowed over her outstretched hand. “I trust you are taking care of my brother when I am not there to keep him in hand.”
Will laughed. “Aye, my lady, we go on well enough without you.”
“But now, good sirs, I would spend time alone with my sister. I bid you both a pleasant evening,” Edward said and acknowledged their bows as the two men left the room. “Is it safe to talk in front of Fortunata?” he murmured as he led Margaret to a chair. “What I am about to tell you must not leave this room.”
Margaret stiffened, her expression full of concern. “Fortunata is my faithful servant, Ned. She knows all my secrets, and I would trust her with my life.” She began to doub
t the mystery had anything to do with a bridegroom for her.
“Very well. I think I am going to shock you when I tell you the news. But I think it will be more shocking to my councilors, especially my lord of Warwick.”
Margaret frowned. “Shocked, Ned? What can be so shocking that you cannot even share it with Will?” And then she knew. “Oh, no!” she cried involuntarily.
Edward was already speaking. “I am married, Meggie. I married Dame Elizabeth Grey—Woodville that was—and I have told no one.”
“Oh, no!” she cried again. “Anthony was right! He thought you were contemplating this. How could you, Ned? How could you marry a nobody?”
Edward reacted angrily. He rose, kicked over a stool and slammed his hand on the table, sending scrolls all over the floor. Ambergris retreated hurriedly under the table, taking Fortunata with him.
“How dare you question your king, Lady Margaret?” he barked. “’Tis not your place, in truth!” He began to pace, controlling his anger and lowering his voice, knowing full well there were curious ears pressed to the door. “You do not know my lady! She is good and kind and … I … love her,” he finished quietly, now looking shamefaced. “Meggie, I am telling you because I thought you would understand. You are like me, I know. And besides”—he sulked, staring out of the window into the darkening sky—“she is not a nobody. Her mother used to be the duchess of Bedford.”
Margaret took a deep breath and went to him, gently taking his arm. She turned him to her and looked up into his eyes. “Forgive me, Ned, I should not have spoken thus. ’Tis such a shock, in truth. We—nay, all England—had hopes of a great alliance for you. You will dash many people’s hopes and perhaps even make some new enemies. And”—she paused, her eyes widening—“I dread to think how Mother will take this.” She finished on a chuckle, which made Edward laugh, too, albeit nervously.
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