Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Her anguish moved him deeply, and he did not know how to comfort her. For the first time in all their meetings, an awkward silence fell between them. It was broken by Jane returning carrying the wolfhound pup, which was already almost as large as Elizabeth’s fully grown Italian greyhound. Margaret put out her arms, and Jane set the wriggling animal into her lap. Its wiry hair matched the color of her eyes, its bony tail waved happily and its legs were too long for its immature body. She laughed at its awkwardness, and it proceeded to slobber her face with affection. For the time being, her marriage was forgotten, and she smiled gratefully at Anthony. She set the pup down, and it immediately began to chase its tail, making Jane and Fortunata laugh.

  “In exchange for your gift, my lord, I must give you something. Fetch my silver coffer, pochina,” Margaret commanded. The dwarf left Jane playing with the dog and brought the chest to Margaret, who rose and drew an exquisite cloth of silver scarf from it. Anthony immediately stood and allowed Margaret to tuck it into his voluminous sleeve, a question in his eyes.

  “Wear this when you joust, Anthony. I would give you more protection if I could, but know I shall be with you every step of the way.” She took his hand and pressed it to her heart. “God keep you, my lord,” she murmured and turned away.

  “TO ACCOMPLISH AND perform the acts comprised in articles set out by him unto the Bastard of Burgundy sent, I command thee to enter and do reverence,” Edward cried to his champion and brother-in-law, Lord Scales, who halted at the list bars first, as was customary, and declared his intentions to the constable and earl marshal.

  The crowd roared as Anthony was permitted to enter the field. He was preceded by the duke of Clarence and another of Queen Elizabeth’s relatives, the earl of Arundel, both carrying Anthony’s crested helmets. Behind them, bearing spears and swords, rode the duke of Buckingham, the earl of Kent and the Lords Herbert and Stafford. Scales bowed low before the king and then withdrew to his blue satin pavilion at one end of the field.

  Good-natured jeers greeted the well-beloved bastard son of Philip of Burgundy as he, too, rode to salute Edward after identifying himself to the constable.

  A proclamation was then made at each corner of the field as to the rules of the joust. The final words were aimed at the spectators. “No man must approach the lists without good cause, or make any undue noise or movement that would either trouble or comfort the combatants unless they wish to risk imprisonment, fine and ransom at the king’s pleasure.”

  Margaret sat with Elizabeth and the queen’s ladies in a canopied box set apart from the king’s stage. She felt hemmed in and hot, and Eliza Scales’s presence nearby added to her discomfort. Although it had rained the previous day and the tournament field was muddy, this day was warm, and the sun glinted on the armor of the jousters and their horses. Maybe if she swooned now, she would not have to witness any carnage, although Anthony had assured her that both he and the Bastard were far too important for the king to allow a fight to the death. That had made her smile. Besides which, he had reminded her, the weapons were blunted for such a tournament. It was too late now. The trumpeters were calling the jousters to their places.

  Margaret could see Fortunata had squeezed her way through the crowd immediately below her box and had a knee-high view of the horses, which were so elaborately caparisoned and armored that it was hard to imagine they would not collapse with the weight of the regalia, the steel cranet protecting their necks and a fully armed man in the saddle.

  The first day’s jousting was to be on horseback in a free course. Gone were the wooden barriers that characterized jousts in bygone days. The combatants that day were to use lances and swords to unseat their rival.

  Once in the saddle, Anthony reached down and took his crested helmet from his squire, and pulling Margaret’s scarf from its hiding place behind his shield, he tied it to the saracen’s scimitar that was his crest. Margaret felt herself flush as Eliza Scales sat bolt upright and gave a little cry of dismay, knowing she had not given the token to Anthony. Elizabeth, guessing it was Margaret’s, gave a delighted laugh. “My brother has not forgotten he is my champion today,” she gushed and waved at him gaily.

  Margaret’s jaw dropped, certain Elizabeth was lying to protect her. She placed her hand over the queen’s and squeezed it lightly. Eliza was satisfied and smiled proudly as she watched her husband place the helm over his chain mail hood and affix it to his shoulder armor. He lowered the hinged bavière so that all but a narrow slit for his eyes protected his head and face. Both knights reined in their mounts at either end of the field, their lances couched, and the crowd held its breath.

  “Laissez aller!” cried the herald. The two coursers sat back on their haunches, their riders precariously balanced in the heavy armor, and pawed the air with their front legs before being spurred to leap forward into a gallop full tilt at each other. Halfway down the field, hooves thudding and dirt flying, the men couched their spears, settled them under their arms and lowered their heads for the best view through the visor. Impatient for the inevitable clash of arms, the horses did not run true and veered away from each other, causing no score. A groan of disappointment came from the spectators, but Margaret closed her eyes and thanked St. George, the patron saint of soldiers, to whom she had prayed the night before.

  At the ends of the lists, the knights slowed their mounts and came to a standstill. Anthony turned and removed his bavière and arm guard to be ready for the next course, which was to be fought with swords. The Bastard similarly prepared himself and grasped the sword offered him on a golden cushion. Once again the horses were spurred into action, and this time it seemed the two knights would clash directly in front of the king. Closer and closer they came, swords raised. Seconds later, they met with a loud clash of steel upon steel. Anthony’s sword looked to have dealt a deadly blow to the Bastard’s throat, but the Bastard’s young, excitable horse had run headlong into Anthony’s saddle and leg armor, crushing its own armor into its head. It emitted a ghastly scream, reared up and then came crashing down. Blood gushed from the wound, and the beast toppled to the ground, bringing the heavily weighted knight under it. A gasp of horror went up as the horse died, its lifeblood spouting in scarlet torrents.

  Edward was on his feet and commanded that Antoine be helped from under his horse. The knight’s face was like thunder when he was finally back on his feet, and he accused Anthony of harmful and unfair trappings on his mount. Anthony rode straight to the king, dismounted and allowed his horse to be examined to prove no hidden device could have killed the other animal, a practice strictly prohibited in jousting. Nothing untoward was found, and it was decided that an unlucky movement of the horse’s head at just the wrong moment during the first clash of the riders had caused its death. The Burgundian was offered the chance to use one of the other twelve horses he had brought with him but, shaken and saddened by the demise of his favorite destrier, he declined, and the disappointed spectators were told there would be no more fighting that day.

  “But it has only just begun,” Fortunata groused to Margaret, as they watched the poor horse being dragged off the field by ropes and climbed back into the litter. “I will not find such a good place again tomorrow!”

  Margaret said nothing. She had been horrified by the horse’s death, and to think there might be human blood shed before this was all over made her feel sick. She had been proud of Anthony’s behavior after the Burgundian’s accusations. Antoine had declined the use of another horse, and after hearing many viewpoints, took back his harsh accusations and asked to be excused for the day. Anthony had walked the length of the lists side by side with his opponent to see him safely to his tent. There they were seen to exchange some friendly words and a handshake before Anthony turned and walked back to his own pavilion amid flowers and cheers from his admiring countrymen.

  The next day, the trumpets sounded bright and sharp. The king’s party once again took their places on the stage, and the ladies in their box. Margaret had chosen
a pale blue silk gown, cut low to allow the breeze to cool her skin, and her hair was coiled in braids around her head and covered with a flimsy gauze veil. Next to her, Elizabeth was once again magnificent in purple silk with gold trim, a jeweled crown encircling her steepled hennin. Margaret knew no one would notice her while she sat next to such a beautiful creature, so she sank back in her chair and wished she was a hundred leagues away.

  Lucky Dickon, she thought. He chose not to come from Middleham to witness this. “I learn the skill of arms, Meg,” he had told her on a recent visit, “and I am good at it, but I would rather use what I know in the defense of Edward and England, not for sport.” Always the little diplomat, Margaret smiled, remembering. I pray he never has to use those skills. She was jolted from her reverie by the trumpet fanfare and the reading of the rules again.

  Today, the duelling would be on foot, and this was where Anthony would be in the most danger. The Bastard was broader, stronger and had a longer reach. However, it was well known that Anthony’s skill hand to hand was unmatched in England, and he was faster and nimbler than his older opponent. No one had seen Antoine in action, so he was an unknown.

  Margaret was relieved when Edward declared one of the weapons—the casting spear—right dangerous and refused his permission for it to be used. This left battle-axes and daggers.

  “For St. George!” Scales shouted, somewhat muffled from inside his helmet. His armor jangling as he walked towards his foe, he raised his battle-ax above his head and attempted to bring it down on Burgundy’s head. His opponent evaded the blow and brought his ax around in a sweeping motion, striking Scales in the side. Anthony bent double, clutching his side, and staggered back. Margaret half rose in her chair, a cry on her lips, but seeing Anthony nod to his opponent that he was able to continue, she inched down into her seat again. His heavily padded aketon and chain mail had protected him. The stroke had sent him off balance but no more. The crowd breathed a collective sigh of relief.

  On foot, the two men were hampered by their heavy armor. The helmets with their high, fashioned crests sat awkwardly on neck and shoulders, the slit across the eyes only allowing limited vision. Time and time again the now weary fighters lunged at each other, the blunted blades occasionally causing a bruising blow but mostly clanging harmlessly on a raised shield. Sweating profusely in the sun inside their metal casing, both men were staggering with fatigue as they raised the fearsome axes with one hand and carried their heavy shields in the other and rained blow upon blow on each other. On and on they came, most missing their mark, as wielding the weighty weapons took all of the combatants’ strength each time. Margaret winced at every clank, silently begging Edward to end her misery by stopping the fight, for it seemed no one could win. People had started to drift away, their interest waning.

  Elizabeth, who was pregnant, was as anxious as Margaret to leave by this time, and she sent her page to Edward to beg him to bring the fight to a close. He listened to the boy and turned to look at the ladies’ box. Elizabeth was white, and Margaret’s hand was over her eyes. He grinned but did not act.

  It was as though Anthony had also had his fill, for after evading Burgundy’s next stroke, he swung his ax in a high circle and brought it down with all his force on the Bastard’s helm, cutting through it as though it were a blade of grass and bringing the knight to his knees, one side of his perspiring face exposed. The ladies were on their feet now, crying to Edward to stop the fight. Anthony circled his foe, his movements menacing, but as if he had just begun the day, the Bastard jumped up and ran towards Anthony with a loud war whoop. Their interest renewed, the spectators screamed encouragement, and Margaret, sure she was about to see Anthony killed, ran from her place to the stairs at the back of the box and vomited as delicately as she could onto the ground below.

  “Enough!” the king suddenly commanded, getting up from his throne and throwing the staff he was holding onto the field. With the deafening sounds of metal on metal ringing inside their helmets, the jousters did not hear him. Then an officer ran forward and put his pike between them, only to have it sliced in two by one of the axes. Edward cried again, “Whoa! ’Tis enough, I say. Enough!” This time, his voice penetrated both combatants’ helmets, and they immediately put up their weapons and took off their helmets. They eyed each other with respect before walking slowly to the king.

  Edward commended their bravery and skill and then commanded them to shake hands. “Love each other as brothers in arms, my friends,” he said, smiling at them. “You have fought well today, but we want no bloodshed. You may both carry your weapons back to your pavilions, for ’tis not clear which of you is the winner.” He leaned forward and chuckled. Jerking his thumb towards Elizabeth and Margaret, he muttered, “Now go before the ladies all swoon away.”

  The two exhausted men clasped arms in friendship and swore never to cross swords again. Anthony strode back to his pavilion, great gashes visible in his armor. He stopped and bowed to Elizabeth and Margaret, who had taken her seat again, and he was followed by loud applause for his knightly exploits. Later, the day was awarded to Anthony, and thus he claimed his jeweled-flower prize.

  After two more days of jousting and feasting, the tournament came to an unexpected close. “Make way, make way for the king’s messenger!” the cry rang out. The sea of people parted to allow a dust-covered rider and his equally filthy steed to gallop up to the royal dais.

  “Your grace, I beg leave to give you bad tidings.” The breathless messenger slid from the saddle and onto his knee in front of his sovereign in one graceful motion. The drifting masses regrouped behind him and listened expectantly. The king stiffened and nodded curtly.

  “’Tis news for the Maréchal of Burgundy,” the man hurried on. “Duke Philip, his father, is dead, and he is required to return immediately to the court at Dijon!”

  Within an hour, the mournful tolling of bells filled the air, making very different music for the city. The festivities were indeed over.

  WITH DUKE PHILIP dead, it became more expedient for the widower Charles to take a wife, as he had no male heir, and thus Margaret began to look more and more appealing to him. He might be able to put aside his aversion for the house of York, especially if he were able to persuade Edward as part of the bargain to lift the ban on imports of Burgundian goods into England. This Edward did on Michaelmas Day, sealing Margaret’s fate once and for all.

  “Oh, Fortunata, we are to go to Burgundy,” Margaret told her servant miserably that evening. Edward had summoned her to his hunting lodge at Kingston-on-Thames during a meeting of the Great Council to determine the terms of the marriage contract. Margaret had been demure in front of her brother when he told her the news, but now, with her ladies withdrawn and the silk curtains around the bed closed against the world, she wept. Fortunata let her cry. She alternated between stroking her mistress’s beautiful golden hair and massaging her feet. She hummed a tune she remembered from her childhood, and the repetitive round eventually calmed Margaret, who wiped her nose on her fine lawn chemise, climbed out of bed and onto her knees on the red and blue Turkey carpet.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, a poor sinner. Help me be the princess my brother wants me to be and help me serve England to the best of my ability. And dear St. Monica, help me be the wife I should be to this man, who, if the truth be told, I cannot like. I ask that there be the joy of children for me and that I do my duty to my husband and my new country. All this I ask, Lord, in Your dear Son’s name, Amen.”

  As she crossed herself, she felt a cold nose snuffling her bare feet.

  “Astolat! You are tickling me,” she said, reluctantly chuckling and gathering the dog into her arms, her tears momentarily forgotten. “I am at prayer, my sweet hound. You should not disturb me, but how can I resist you when your very presence daily reminds me of Anthony. I hope Duke Charles likes dogs, my pet, for you shall be with me wherever I go. You and Fortunata.”

  THE NEXT DAY a, page delivered a letter to Margaret; sh
e fancied she could smell Anthony on the fine vellum. Dismissing the young man with thanks, she walked to the window for more light before breaking the seal. There was no greeting, only a simple poem.

  “Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly;

  Far from base earth but not to mount hie

  For thy true pleasure

  Loves in measure

  Which, if men forsake,

  Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure to take.”

  “Ah, Anthony, ’tis folly indeed,” she whispered, sadly. “And I do grieve.”

  TWO DAYS LATER, the Great Council was impressed by the entrance of the mature young woman on her brother George’s arm. Her assent to this great marriage between England and Burgundy was eagerly anticipated.

  “Magnificent,” murmured Jack Howard, catching Margaret’s eye as she swept past him on her way to the dais. “God keep you, Lady Margaret.”

  Margaret smiled at him but said nothing. She stood at the steps of Edward’s dais and made him a graceful curtsey. “Your grace, you summoned me?” she said.

  Edward bade her stand with him on the steps and in a loud voice asked if she gave her assent to the marriage he and his councilors had arranged for her.

  “No, I do not!” she wanted to shout. “How dare you send me away!” Instead she held her head high and said quite clearly, “I do, my liege and my lords. And I do it happily for England.”

  A roar of approval went up, and the councilors gave her three cheers. Edward then presented her with Charles’s ring as a betrothal gift, which Antoine had carried with him from Burgundy and left in Edward’s care.

  The first to congratulate her was George, his wardrobe so elaborate that he outshone the king himself. Margaret often wondered why Ned indulged his brother in this way, but Ned explained that if it kept George happy and close by him, then he could forgive his sartorial impudence. When Edward was present, no one could outshine his larger than life personality, magnificent physique—although Margaret noticed his girth was growing steadily—and genuine charm, not even popinjay George. George still had not forgiven Edward for refusing to allow him Isabel Neville’s hand, and Margaret had warned Edward that George was headstrong enough to defy his sovereign. Edward had scoffed at her fears, saying George was empty-headed and cared only for his looks.