“Pirates!” Margaret squeaked. “Dear God, what am I doing?”
“Take no notice of him, Lady Margaret,” Eliza Scales piped up, having said very little the entire journey. “Anthony, you are cruel to frighten us thus, in truth. I beg you to leave us and ride on.”
Nay, Margaret wanted to contradict, let him stay! But she turned her head to gaze out over the green water and trusted that with enough company to fill fourteen ships, they would surely be too daunting for pirates to attack. The sun low in the west now cast an amber glow on the rippling waves, and she found the unfamiliar salt air invigorating. By the time they descended the slight incline into Margate harbor and glimpsed the proud ships that were to carry the wedding party at anchor in the sheltered bay, she was almost excited about her first sea voyage.
Margaret spent a restless night in the house of Margate’s wealthiest shipowner. By the time she went aboard the New Ellen, all the cargo had been loaded and the ships crowded with mariners and passengers. On board her three-masted carrack were, among others, Elizabeth, duchess of Norfolk, Sir Edward Woodville, Anthony and Eliza, and, at Margaret’s request, Sir John Howard. Quarters had to be made for all on the small ships, for the crossing to Flanders could take up to four days, depending on the weather. Others aboard the many other carracks and caravels included Lord Wenlock, Lord Dacre, and Sir John Paston and his wife. One ship carried the horses and all the trappings of those knights who would be competing in the Tournament of the Golden Tree, as well as the entourage’s baggage.
With Astolat by her side, Margaret stood on the poop deck, the royal standard flying proudly in the wind, and watched the mariners ready the vessel for sail. Men swarmed up the masts like monkeys, readying lines, untying the heavy canvas as they obeyed the commands from below. She saw Jehan Le Sage and Edward’s other jester, Richard L’Amoureux, talking and laughing together. Ned had insisted they go with her “in case you are sad, Meggie. I have commanded them to keep you smiling,” he told her. “Besides, I think your little Fortunata has been flirting with Jehan from what I have observed, and she will feel at home if they are there with you.” Margaret was astonished by her brother’s thoughtfulness, and the thought of him now brought the tears back behind her eyes and a lump to her throat. Steady, Margaret, she told herself, I forbid you to cry again.
A rasping sound from the front of the ship made her take notice, and the master told her the anchor was being hauled in. The command to unfurl the sails was given and she watched as little by little the great canvas on the mid-mast began to fill. Shouts of farewell came to her from the people waving from the harbor piers, hanging from second-story windows and from the small boats that clustered around the fleet. Margaret felt the ship creak beneath her feet as the wind pushed it inch by inch away from the shore. A rising panic filled her, and she turned to look over the stern. Standing alone, her back straight and proud, she gritted her teeth bravely as she watched the land she loved get smaller as it slipped farther and farther away in the twilight.
The lump in her throat grew so that it engulfed her whole chest and evolved into an anguished sob that was mercifully lost in the wind. She knew with sad certainty that a door in her life was closing.
PART TWO
A Bride for Burgundy
1468–1470
11
Summer 1468
Margaret turned away from the view of the distant shore of her homeland and looked for Fortunata in the knot of passengers on the deck. Fortunata was usually attached to her skirts—or keeping Jehan company of late—and Margaret was concerned because she was nowhere to be seen.
“Beatrice, where is Fortunata?” she called to her lady-in-waiting, one of the few who would be allowed to remain with her in Burgundy. “She did come on board, I know, because she was in my rowing boat.”
Beatrice laughed, climbing the steps to join her. “Aye, my lady, and she no sooner stepped on board than she ran to the other side of the ship and was”—she lowered her voice—“sick over the gunwale. I sent her down to your stateroom to sleep.”
“Poor little thing,” Margaret said. “I hear the mal de mer is a terrible affliction. Praise God, I feel nothing.”
Three hours later, Margaret thought she was going to die.
The wind was fair and the seas calm when they stood out from the harbor. And when Anthony came to stand with her, she was elated. They spoke for only a few minutes, Anthony showing her the astrolabe and cross-staff. As the navigator, whose eyes had been reduced to mere pinpricks in his face from squinting at the sun for so many years, demonstrated his skill for her, the waves began to grow steadily off shore. Jack Howard waved at her from the deck below, his smile wide as he swayed with practiced ease in rhythm with the rolling ship.
“Sir John loves the sea, his lady wife told me,” Margaret said, as she smiled and waved back. “But she was not willing to endure the rigors of the voyage to come with him. This is a pleasant sensation, and I think I was born to it.”
Margaret groaned now as she remembered those words. After their conversation on the poop deck, Anthony had escorted her to the captain’s table, where she sat with Eliza and the duchess and other ladies. They feasted on cold meat and fish, bread and cheese, all washed down with some strong ale. It was then, in the stuffy interior of the cabin, that Margaret’s stomach began to turn somersaults. She begged the captain’s pardon and tried to rise to seek her own bed, but a wave of nausea forced her to sit down again. Recognizing the signs, the captain gently helped her up again and half carried her to the stateroom, which he had given up to her. A bucket was found quickly, and soon Margaret was making full use of it. Fortunata had crawled under the bed as soon as she had come aboard and had already emptied her stomach several times. Beatrice hovered over her mistress, seemingly immune to the seasickness, and gave her sips of water whenever Margaret could bear to sit up. It seemed to Margaret that the cabin walls were closing in on her, the ceiling was revolving and the bed was tossing her up and down. She passed the night in fitful sleep and puking.
“My lady,” the captain called through the door to her the next morning. “May I suggest you try and take some fresh air? ’Twill do you the world of good, and now the sun is up and the sea calmer, I recommend you stay on deck so that you can focus your eyes on the horizon. ’Twill help your discomfort, I promise.”
The idea of even trying to stand up caused Margaret to retch again, but with Beatrice’s help, she managed to sit on the side of the bed and allow herself to be washed. Her hair was matted with the foul-smelling remains of her supper, but once Beatrice had cleaned her up, put on a fresh gown and tied her hair up under a coif, she was ready to put her feet on the ground and try to stand. She was astounded by how weak she felt. Her legs wobbled and she was light-headed. But believing the captain knew his business, she staggered to the door and climbed the companion-way to the deck. The North Sea wind slapped at her face and blew under her skirts, dragging her forward to a group of courtiers, who bowed when they saw her. Jack Howard took her arm, and she leaned gratefully on his sturdy frame. He could see she was in no mood for trite conversation, so he guided her silently around the main deck until she felt stronger.
“It may be of consolation to hear that half of the company spent the night in the same manner as you, Lady Margaret,” he said, and then whispered, “including my Lord Scales, but he would not like that put about.”
That made Margaret chuckle, and she sucked in the fresh air, stared at the horizon and began to feel a little better. She sensed the familiar movement behind her and turned to see Fortunata, her face as green as her gown, bravely standing sentinel, and the seated Astolat’s head as high as hers.
“Good girl, pochina,” she murmured. “Together we shall beat this. ’Tis too undignified for ladies to be thus afflicted.”
It was Jack’s turn to chuckle. “Perhaps you know now why my own dear Margaret would not join me, my lady. I took her on my favorite ship out of Ipswich—the one you saw at Greenwich—and
she, too, turned the color of Fortunata’s gown. And we were still moored at the wharf.” He threw back his head and laughed merrily. “She will be cheered to hear she keeps good company.”
Later in the day, the wind died completely, and the ships drifted helplessly until the following morning, when creaking timbers and flapping sails moved the crew into action. All fourteen ships had managed to stay together overnight, and the passengers cheered as the canvas billowed out again in a west wind, and they felt the ship’s forward movement.
Anthony had finally recovered and walked with Eliza up and down the crowded deck, giving Margaret pangs of jealousy, especially when she heard Eliza’s high-pitched whinny. Once in a while, Anthony’s eyes met hers, and a silent greeting passed between them, giving her some solace. She had her sea legs now and, to pass the time, she conversed with the master about all the ports he had visited.
“Of all the places I have been, my lady, Bruges is one of the most beautiful,” he declared, a steady hand on the tiller. “’Tis named the Venice of the north, in truth. I have a friend there who is the governor of the English merchant-adventurers. William Caxton is his name.”
“I presume he is a wool merchant, Master Cooke, if he is the merchant-adventurers’ chief. I have been told of these merchants of England who represent the many trades abroad. He must indeed be a fine man and experienced merchant to take the governorship of them all.”
“Aye, he is, although he seems to be more taken with books and reading, in truth, which I cannot think will bring him fame and fortune, can you, my lady? Far better to stick to selling wool.”
Margaret smiled. “You are addressing the wrong person, sir. Books are a passion of mine—”
“And mine,” said a voice that always set her pulses racing. “And why were you talking of books with Master Cooke, Lady Margaret? I warrant ’tis not a subject he can wax poetic on, am I right, Master Cooke?” Anthony teased, joining them—alone. Margaret could see Eliza standing with a group being entertained by Jehan the jester. “He is far too busy sailing damoiselles to their weddings and keeping a true course.”
The captain bowed and smiled ruefully. “Aye, my lord, I fear my skill at reading allows me to follow charts, ’tis all. And you are right, I should set my mind on the swiftest course for Sluis, or we shall be late for that wedding.”
“Then let me relieve you of a distraction, sir,” Anthony said, taking Margaret’s arm and walking her the length of the deck to the prow, where the proud figurehead fixed her eyes on the horizon. As her official escort, Anthony had a reasonable claim to Margaret’s exclusive attention, and in view of so many witnesses, including his wife, everything appeared circumspect. In fact, the two had an hour of uninterrupted time together that not even Eliza could gainsay. Only Fortunata, standing guard behind them, could hear the passion in Anthony’s voice as he ended the tête-à-tête.
“I have wrestled with Satan over my desire for you, Marguerite. That day in your chamber, he almost won. I am ashamed to say I wish he had.” Margaret clutched the rail, staring at the water below, as Anthony continued, “I wish I knew what it was like to feel your skin next to mine, to let your hair cover us both as we pleasure each other.” Margaret drew in a sharp breath. Surely I am dreaming, she thought, but he continued, “I am consumed by love for you, and it comes from my mind as well as my heart. I love the way you think, I love that you always have the right word for the right time, I love your generosity, your caring and your piety. Most of all, I love that you love me.”
“I do, Anthony,” was all Margaret could whisper back.
“In a few days, you will belong to another—another man, who will know you as I cannot. Already I hate this man, and I fear God’s wrath for even thinking such thoughts, let alone saying them out loud.” Margaret crossed herself, knowing he was indeed tempting the Devil. She did not look at him for fear he would stop, and she didn’t want him to stop.
“I have met this man, and it grieves me sore that although he is a duke, he is not good enough for you, my love,” Anthony said. “You and I were destined to meet, but we were not destined to be together. Both of us must pray to God the Father, God the Holy Ghost and our Savior Jesu Christ to help us accept this destiny and live our lives in His way. If ever there comes a time when you and I are free of the bonds of marriage, I promise you I will come to you if you so desire. I pray you send me word of you whenever you can—as Elaine to Lancelot. Here is an address where you may send me letters without fear of discovery.” He gave her a scrap of parchment, which she pushed into the pouch she carried. “I shall instruct my contact that anything addressed to Lancelot is for me. He is a good friend and will not ask questions.
“When you are comfortable, find a safe place for me to send mine. But let us vow to destroy these letters. Do you agree?” He saw her nod. “’Twas cruel of Edward to make me your escort. He tried to please you because he thought, like him, you enjoyed a passing fancy. He has no notion of our true natures or how painful this is for both of us. We do not need anyone else to know, except for Fortunata here”—he turned to the dwarf, who tried to look the innocent but crossed her heart to reassure him of her silence—“and now I beg of you, my love, laugh heartily at this speech, so all present will know I am but entertaining you on this voyage of Hell.”
So Margaret laughed. She laughed and laughed until the tears flowed down her cheeks and blew behind her in the wind.
• • •
“SHIPS AHOY, STARBOARD,” cried the boy in the crow’s nest, pointing south. He had carefully counted all fourteen in his flotilla and thus knew three new ships were bearing down on them at a run.
Sweet Jesu, pirates! Margaret thought, her heart in her mouth. As the crew and passengers watched anxiously, the new ships drew ever closer.
“’Tis the French, not pirates!” Jack Howard cried first. “God’s bones! How did Louis know where to find us? Surely they would not attack so close to port and to sundown.”
He hurried to the stern and climbed the steps to speak to the captain, advising him to thread their ship with its precious royal cargo through her sister ships and evade a possible skirmish. The French ships were taking a risk by threatening to attack such a large fleet, but Jack had weathered many a naval fight with the French and knew they were not cowards.
“Ladies, go below!” bellowed the captain, who was now on the foredeck, sizing up the situation. “Close the shutters tight and lock the doors. Master-at-arms, ready weapons for the crew and any others prepared to fight.”
Margaret found herself on her knees, her ladies around her, staring out to sea and at the advancing ships. She heard the captain, but she had to pray first. “St. Brendan, I beg you to protect these good people, who are only following the king’s command. Preserve us from harm and let us find our harbor in peace,” she cried out.
Anthony heard her and sighed. Marguerite, where is your common sense, he silently asked her. Running to where she knelt, he hoisted her up none too kindly and sternly told her to “obey the captain and go below, for mercy’s sake!”
An arrow thudded a few feet from them. Beatrice screamed. A few more followed as the women scrambled, tripped and fell down the companionway in their frenzy to reach the safety of the stateroom. Anthony closed all the shutters and admonished them to be quiet so that if they were boarded, the Frenchmen would not know they had Margaret of York aboard. He left the room to find his sword, leaving the group of women in a state of terror.
Through a chink in a shutter, Margaret saw one of the French ships so close to the Mary that those men armed with pikes could almost impale the enemy. But the English captain had anticipated the ramming and already his ship was responding to his “Hard a-lee!” The French ship missed them completely.
The New Ellen was now far out of range. Another cry went up from the lookout: “Harbor lights ahead!” In the evening twilight, the French, who were not willing to follow the fleet into Burgundian waters in the dark, gave up the fight. They had no wish
to repeat the defeat of their fleet by the English in Sluis harbor on that very same day a century before.
The English ships sailed away without injury to anyone aboard and into the wide bay before Sluis as the light faded. The ladies went back to their knees to offer thanks for their escape.
MARGARET WAS NOT prepared for the reception that greeted her in the harbor. Torches, beacons and lanterns were lit to guide the ships in, the little town was festooned with banners and garlands, and even though it was dark, townsfolk lined the wharves and hung from windows to greet the English princess. Margaret went below, and for the next hour, her ladies dressed her and decked her in jewels to satisfy the Burgundians that she was indeed a royal princess and show she was grateful for their tribute. She briefly wondered who would be greeting her, and she felt her stomach lurch. No one had told her what to expect, and she was arriving many days ahead of the third of July wedding date. But if the people of Sluis were ready to receive her, then perhaps Charles was there, too. It had already been explained to Margaret, however, that according to the strict court etiquette, she would not see her bridegroom immediately, which at once relieved and unnerved her. The longer he was absent, the more terrifying he grew in her imagination.
There was a knock on the door, and Anthony called out that a barge was approaching their vessel and perhaps she should be ready for an audience. “I know not who, my lady, but, judging from the trumpeting, ’tis people of importance. I will bring them to you as soon as they come aboard,” he said.
Fortunata opened the door a crack, curtseyed and said with enough authority to make Anthony’s mouth turn up, “Milady Margaret is almost ready, milord,” and closed the door again. A few minutes later, a scraping on the side of the ship and sounds of people coming aboard were heard in the cabin. Arranging the skirts of her crimson gown trimmed in black and purple—the three Burgundian colors—and coaxing the veil on her jeweled headdress into perfection, Margaret’s ladies stood back to admire their handiwork and nodded happily.
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