Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Despite his increased girth, Margaret noticed that Edward’s face reflected the heavy burdens he had had to bear in the past year, and she put her hand up to stroke his cheek.

  “You look tired, Ned. Come and sit by the fire. I would hear how Lord Gruuthuse has been treating you.”

  Charles had allowed his wife a private audience with her brother at Hesdin during the frozen month of January, and Edward was grateful to have the chance to speak English alone with Margaret. He filled her in on his exile and how Gruuthuse had welcomed him and Richard with all courtesy. They were now guests in his town house in Bruges.

  “And have you heard,” he exclaimed, a grin spreading over his handsome face, “that Bess gave me an heir in November? Young Edward is healthy, it appears, and looks like his mother.”

  “Aye, I heard, Ned. You must be relieved and happy. How I wish I was able”—She broke off and changed the subject. “How is Anthony?” she asked nonchalantly.

  “Rivers remained in Bruges to deal with some shipowners,” Edward replied, unsuspecting. “’Tis vital we get a fleet together and go and reclaim the throne. Your dear husband seems to be dragging his feet on this. I was hoping you had used your womanly wiles on him,” he chortled.

  “Ha! You jest, Ned. Charles has not the slightest interest in me as a woman, nor in any woman, it seems. But he does seem to appreciate my brain, big brother. Something you never did,” she retorted.

  “Not interested in women?” Ned sat up in the cushioned settle. “Do not tell me Charles is a sodomite, Meg?” He groaned. “What have I sent you to? No wonder you have not produced an heir.”

  “Nay, he is not that … hideous word,” she said, and chose to ignore his final remark. “He does not seem to need to bed anyone. He is happier to be in a tent, on a battlefield, riding fully armed on a horse and with his precious soldiers than at home with his wife and daughter, ’tis all. There is no love between us, but he respects me, in truth.”

  “I am sorry for you, Meg. But now I understand why the man received me in Aire wearing the most elaborate suit of armor I have ever clapped eyes on. All but the codpiece sparkled with jewels. I was glad of my six feet three inches, otherwise I swear to you I might have felt small.” They both laughed, and Edward asked, “So have you taken a lover?”

  He was so matter-of-fact that Margaret laughed again. “’Tis your way, I know, and it is not that I do not crave love, I do, but I am the duchess, in case you have forgotten. I must set an example to my ladies and most of all to Mary.” She paused, apparently sizing him up for a second. He was intrigued; she was about to reveal something, he was sure. But she said nothing.

  He suddenly remembered he had something for her. “I almost forgot,” he said, pulling a letter from the pouch on his belt. “I promised to give you this. ’Tis from Rivers, who—” He got no further, for Margaret had snatched the missive away from him. “God’s bones, Meggie, you are behaving like a bitch in heat!” Then his eyes widened. “So that is the way of it. You and Rivers did finally rumple the bedsheets before you left our shores. Certes, I should have guessed.”

  “You guessed nothing, Ned,” Margaret retorted, but she was blushing. Edward studied his nails and waited, amused. “Anthony and I … well, we … well, we love each other,” she finally blurted out. “But that is all! We have never consummated that love, I swear to you. I came to Charles a virgin. Just ask him!”

  “Meggie, Meggie, calm down.” Ned laughed. “I believe you, although I trust you now regret not giving in to Anthony when you had the chance.”

  “He is an honorable man, Ned, and you would do well to emulate him,” Margaret replied. “He believes in his marriage vows, unlike some I know.” She raised an eyebrow and grinned at him. “But enough about me. What is the news of home—of England.” She said the word wistfully, and Edward reached over and patted her hand.

  “There is some hope for us, Meg. Warwick released poor mad Henry from the Tower and set the crown back on his head. Then he waited for her high and mightiness, Queen Margaret, to appear from France with an army. I believe he still waits. The people are not happy being governed by a puppet king, I am told, so as soon as I can get some ships, we shall return and take back what is ours. I know not what keeps the She-Wolf in France, but I pray daily she dallies with Louis until I can leave here.”

  “And George?” Margaret had dared not say his name till then. “That foolish boy.”

  Edward exploded, leaping to his feet and startling Astolat from his warm spot near the fire. The dog barked and frolicked around Edward, expecting him to play.

  “Down, Astolat!” Fortunata commanded, appearing from nowhere and grasping the hound around its neck. “Lie down.”

  Edward strode about the room, his hands locked behind his back and his face grim. “George has committed treason, Margaret. He was prepared to overthrow me and have Warwick put him on the throne. Foolish boy? Nay, I am ashamed to say my brother is a measly-mannered man, more’s the pity. And to think Dickon is the younger. Why, he has more strength of character in his little toe than George. I know he is your favorite, Meg—no, do not deny it—but I fear your loyalty is misplaced. I have given him everything, the ingrate.”

  “Except a role to play, Edward,” Margaret said quietly. “I do not condone his treachery, but all of us have contributed to his dissatisfaction with his lot. I can see that now from a distance. He was spoiled by our mother and by me and by all who admired his good looks and charm. But he had no role to play in your court. Warwick took advantage of that and offered him a chance for glory. I suppose I cannot blame him.”

  Edward stopped pacing and looked at her. “You certainly do have all the brains in the family, Meg. Your explanation is so simple and yet so true. I believe that with Henry on the throne and no chance left for George, his family ties may yet bind him to me. Let us all work together on that. Will you write to him? He will always listen to you. And Mother is trying to turn him back to me. Sweet Virgin, I hope we succeed. I would dearly love both my brothers by my side when I rout the Lancastrian rebels out of England once and for all.”

  “Amen to that, Ned, amen,” Margaret nodded.

  SHE OPENED THE heavy oak door into the private chapel and stepped inside. It was cold and dark at the back where she and Fortunata were standing. The altar at the other end of it was illuminated, as she had hoped, and wrapping her mantle around her, she dipped her finger into the holy water, genuflected and signed herself before moving forward into the candlelight. Fortunata stood guard at the door.

  “Salve Virgo virginum,” she began to intone, glancing towards the vestry door near the altar. There was no sign of a chaplain and it being long after Compline, she suspected the holy fathers were all abed, as was the rest of the ducal household. She prayed to St. Margaret that Charles would not take it into his head to visit the chapel at the same time, because she would not want him to catch her reading another man’s love note. “St. George, saint of England and Charles’s own favorite, pity this poor woman in sin. But I have need of your protection for just a few minutes. Let me not be disturbed, I pray you.” All was silent.

  “Marguerite, I must see you. I cannot bear to be so close and not have the chance to see you in the flesh. Say you will meet me. I will be wherever and whenever you wish. But hurry, my love, Edward will soon have ships enough to return to England and I must away with him.”

  A familiar verse ended the letter and Margaret remembered reading Love for a Beautiful Lady one rainy day in Greenwich and being much moved.

  “So fair she is and fine,

  A lovely neck she has to hold,

  With arms and shoulders as men wold,

  And fingers fair for to enfold.

  Would to God that she were mine.”

  “’Tis my devout wish, Anthony,” she whispered and kissed the words. Her heart pounded, and she looked around, wondering if Fortunata could hear it. The dwarf was on her knees in prayer as well, and it seemed only Margaret was aware of her noisy
heart. Seeing Anthony was all she fantasized about every night before she fell asleep. When she had knowledge he was indeed escaped to Holland with Edward, she imagined a meeting, a joyous reunion. Only in your dreams, Margaret, she told herself. Not for the first time she cursed that her life was not her own, that she could not go and come as she pleased. But now he was asking her to arrange a meeting. She thought quickly and then called to Fortunata.

  “Pochina, I need your help.” As she relayed Anthony’s message, she took a taper from the altar and held the flame up to the letter. As soon as the parchment caught fire, she let it drop to the floor and watched it disintegrate into ashes. “Next month we go to Lille and then to Ghent. I need you to find a suitable place en route where I can meet Anthony. It must be in secret, you understand, and I think ’tis easier for me to escape when we are on the road and not at Lille or Ten Waele. The most difficult problem is escaping from Marie. I cannot allow her to suspect anything. She is like a coiled snake, waiting to sink any poison into Charles that will lower me in his eyes.”

  Fortunata nodded. “Madonna, do you know de Charny’s mother is dying?” Margaret shook her head, but then she saw the possibility.

  “’Tis perfect, pochina! I will be the kind duchess and allow her leave to go and visit her dying mother. You are so clever,” Margaret exclaimed, clapping her hands. Then, remembering where she was, she looked around nervously. “Come, let us go to bed, and in the morning you will fetch Master Caxton—you will not be unhappy to do that, I imagine—and I will send him to Bruges to take care of my business.”

  “And you will send a letter to Lord Anthony with him, milady?”

  “Aye, Fortunata, he shall indeed have a letter for Lord Anthony.” Her heart singing, Margaret took Fortunata’s hand, and they hurried back to the duchess’s apartments.

  A FULL MOON guided the small party on horseback through the flat countryside along the Leie River shimmering with moonglow as it flowed towards Ghent. Margaret prayed she could count on the discretion of the three people in her company. She had spent many hours on her knees praying to St. Valentine to intercede for her with God for the sin she was contemplating.

  Once her mind was made up, Margaret enlisted Fortunata’s help in setting her plan in motion, and now there was no turning back. Fortunata was the only one of the three she knew would die before betraying her mistress, and she had to believe the dwarf’s assurances that William Caxton could be trusted as well. She turned back in her saddle to look at him, and he raised his hand in salute.

  Out of sight of the little village of Peteghem, William’s eyes scanned the meadows for any sign of ruffians. The hard life inside the cities had made outlaws of many a poverty-stricken man, and in the dead of night, a traveler was doubly at risk. He had been surprised one evening a fortnight before when Fortunata had asked him to receive the duchess in his little scriptorium. He assumed she wanted to see his progress on the Recueil translation and so, after asking a servant to sweep out and replace the old rushes in his sparsely furnished room, he had laid out several pages for her perusal. He changed into his best pourpoint, ran a comb through his curly hair and checked to see there were no holes in his hose. Not long after, Fortunata had knocked on the door and Margaret swept in. Marie had already left the palace to go to her mother’s deathbed, and no one else in Margaret’s train would ever have questioned any of her movements, let alone a private visit to her English adviser.

  William had bowed and then knelt on the floor as was customary, but Margaret told him to rise while she walked slowly around the table, inspecting the manuscript. “You have a neat hand, Master Caxton, and I look forward to reading this at my leisure, but I confess this is not why I came.” She had then proceeded to ask for his help.

  William stared at Margaret’s back now as they galloped towards Ooidonk Castle, a stronghold of the lords of Nevele a few miles from Peteghem, where the duchess had stopped for the night. He grinned to himself. He had not been an adventurer all those years for nothing, and they were most certainly on an adventure tonight. He hadn’t asked for any details except those concerning Margaret’s safety, and he was happy to put himself at her grace’s disposal. The duchess had given him a new lease on life when she asked him to join her household, and it was a dream come true to be able to delve into his beloved writing with the blessing of his patron. In addition, she was his rightful sovereign’s sister, he reminded her that night in his chambers; therefore he would ride anywhere and do anything she desired. He had been rewarded with a smile that charmed him.

  The one Margaret most worried about was Guillaume, who rode beside her with Fortunata in the pillion saddle clinging on for dear life. Guillaume de la Baume, Lord of Irlain, and member of a noble FrancheComté family, had been married to Henriette de Longwy in Margaret’s and Charles’s presence in the private chapel at Hesdin a little before the Christmas celebrations.

  Margaret was pleased with her choice for him. Henriette was sixteen and one of her own maids of honor, a pretty young woman who had all but swooned when the match was proposed. Guillaume was grateful that Margaret had not dismissed him over the Marie de Charny affair nor had ever mentioned it again, and he was ready to do anything she asked. Henriette was descended from the old counts of Burgundy and would bring a substantial dowry to the marriage. In return, the girl fulfilled her fantasy of attracting and winning the most desirable young man at court.

  But had Margaret really bought his loyalty? “How much farther, Guillaume?” she now called to him, her breath a vapor in the cold air. “I thought it was only two or three miles.”

  “You will see the turret through the trees in a few minutes, your grace, never fear. I know my way. I have a wo—I mean, cousin here, madame.”

  Margaret hid her smile in her beaver-lined hood. “I am sorry we will not have time to see your cousin, sir. You will have to look him up the next time we come this way.”

  “Aye, your grace,” Guillaume said, relieved that he had caught his blunder. He pointed right. “There, now you can see the slate roof shining in the moonlight.”

  They left the main path, and soon Guillaume reined in his horse under the first group of trees. Margaret and Caxton drew alongside him, and the horses pawed the ground, their flanks heaving. Guillaume put his finger to his lips, and they continued quietly through the trees, the sound of hooves muffled by the mossy ground. They skirted the walled garden and came to an orchard. Taking their cue from Guillaume, Margaret and William dismounted, and they all led their horses, Fortunata still on Guillaume’s, through the apple trees to a field beyond. There they could see a charming cottage that was reflected eerily in a small lake.

  “’Tis beautiful,” Margaret exclaimed, drawing her cloak more tightly around her, “but I would warm my poor feet. Let us go inside.”

  The house had been built for the children of the lord to play in. It had two small rooms with furnishings that were in a sad state of repair.

  “A fire!” Margaret cried, as she stepped into the larger of the two rooms. “Come, Fortunata, warm yourself with me.”

  “My cousin, your grace,” Guillaume murmured, explaining the fire, and Margaret raised an eyebrow and replied, “Ah.”

  The four chilled travelers stood companionably around the hearth, and in the strange circumstances, they all forgot their positions for a moment. Margaret was dressed in a plain woolen gown that was too short for her, her braids were coiled up under a simple linen coif and she had removed all her jewelry. Only her fur-lined cloak would have given away her status if they had been stopped on the road, but she had counted on her escorts to keep everyone away from her in such a situation. They were to be a merchant family caught after curfew far from their home in Ghent had anyone asked, although both Guillaume and William were necessarily armed.

  William went back to his horse and returned with a leather flask of wine that he thought would be welcome, and Guillaume went to a dresser and found some child-sized cups. He certainly has been here before, Margar
et thought to herself, but said nothing.

  “Soft, I think I hear someone,” Guillaume said, moving into the first room, his hand on his shortsword. He returned in a flash. “There are two horsemen, your grace. I pray ’tis your friend. I am not in the mood for a fight.”

  “Take my cloak and keep Fortunata warm,” Margaret commanded, her color rising and her pulse racing. “I pray you indulge me once again, my trusted friends. You must be outside this room and not try to know my visitor. ’Twill serve me and you better if you are ignorant of his identity. Do I have your word on this?”

  They all nodded their assent and filed out, passing the closely hooded man who was hurrying in the direction of Fortunata’s pointing finger.

  Margaret was in Anthony’s arms before Guillaume had barely closed the door on them. Without saying a word, Anthony threw off his heavy gloves and took her face in his hands. He carefully caressed it as if to remind himself of every precious part: the curve of her mouth, the soft hair on her cheek, the finely plucked brows, the dark gray of her eyes and her delicate skin glowing in the firelight.

  Margaret wilted under his intense gaze, love flowing from her eyes as she took in every inch of that handsome face. She touched the scarred ear as if it were something holy and then let her fingers entwine themselves in his long, soft hair. She could feel the whole length of his body through her gown as he pulled her face to his and kissed her, gently at first and then, feeling her lips part, with a passion that took her breath away. She thought she would faint in the heat of their desire. She felt his hand on her breast and she took it and guided it under her bodice so that he could touch her skin and her hardened nipple. He moaned into her mouth, and she knew he needed more.

  “Anthony, my love,” she said, gently pulling away, but still holding his hand to her breast. “Should we do this?” she asked, although she already knew the answer. “I thought we would spend the night talking,” she said with a chuckle. “How foolish was that?”