Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “’Twas foolish, Marguerite,” he whispered, kissing her again. He untied the ribbon under her chin and drew off the coif. The thick braid toppled and began to unwind, just as Fortunata had hoped it would when she had only used a single pin to secure it. “I knew when I saw you I must have you,” he told her as he combed his fingers through the braid and let it loose. He stood back to look at her. “Before God, I thought I would never break my marriage vow, but before God, I know I love you more than any vow I have ever taken, and everything tells me ’twould be a sin to deny this love. What say you, my heart, my dearest love? Do not deny me, I beg of you, for we may never have this chance again.”

  Margaret gasped and put her hand on his mouth. “Do not say so, Anthony. I could not bear it.” He took the hand and one by one caressed the fingers with his tongue, causing her knees to wobble and a wetness between her legs. She told him, “I, too, have prayed for divine guidance in this, my love, and if He has brought you to me here, then I cannot deny you.”

  Slowly he undressed her by the fire, kissing each part of her as it was revealed until she stood naked in front of him, her lithe body exactly as he had pictured it those years ago in London when, dressed in her clinging robe, she had fainted in his arms. He stroked her flat belly and then ran both hands over her hips and around to her buttocks. She stood there mesmerized by his touch, unashamed of her nakedness while he was still fully dressed. How different from Charles, who had not cared what she looked like dressed or undressed.

  “Anthony.” She whispered his name as though it were a prayer. “Let me disrobe you, too.”

  His body was beautiful, she thought, touching the auburn hairs on his chest, the well-defined muscles of his arms, and the hard abdomen. Her eyes lowered to his groin, and with infinite care she took him in her hand, gently moving back and forth, and felt him grow. Anthony fetched a moth-eaten coverlet from the little bed and laid it on the floor in front of the fire as though it were made of the finest velvet, covered it with his fur-lined cloak and drew her down. Their bodies threw strange shadows on the wall when they came together as though they were Adam and Eve or the first lovers upon the earth, exploring and discovering each other with wonderment and delight.

  Neither thought of their respective spouses that night. There was no need. They both knew God had made the one for the other, and in that lost place and time, their places in the real world were forgotten as they became as one for a few fleeting hours.

  THE THREE HORSES and their cargo galloped hard for Peteghem to arrive before the cock crowed. A few early risers at the stables glanced at them curiously, but when they recognized Guillaume, whose size was difficult to disguise, one of the ostlers quipped, “Monsieur le chevalier has been out hunting again! Did you find any game birds, monseigneur?” He spotted Fortunata, her face buried against Guillaume’s broad back. “Ah, I see you brought one back with you.”

  “Silence, you measle!” Guillaume snapped. “My passenger is but a child and a sickly one at that. Enough of your insolence. Now take the horses and wipe them down, sirrah.”

  The groom bowed low, hat in hand, until Guillaume had helped Margaret down, her hood hiding her face, and William had also dismounted. Then Guillaume carried Fortunata, who took her cue from him and groaned in pain, into the palace kitchens. Within a very few minutes, William was once again ensconced in his chambers, and Guillaume had seen Margaret and Fortunata to theirs. For such a big man he is remarkably nimble, Margaret thought, watching him sprint catlike along the passageway to his quarters. The guards Fortunata had drugged the night before were still sleeping peacefully as she quietly lifted the latch and opened the door to Margaret’s chamber. The two women slipped inside, and Fortunata quickly undressed Margaret and then threw off her own gown and slipped into the bed with the snoring Beatrice. Santa Maria, but I am happy I was gone, she thought, putting her hands over her ears, although she had no trouble falling asleep as soon as her head hit the mattress.

  Margaret shut herself into the privacy of her curtained bed and was too pent up to sleep. She could still smell Anthony’s scent through her shift and feel his seed on her legs. Her body tingled at the thought of him as she tried to remember every thrilling moment of their illicit encounter. She was afraid to sleep in case she woke up and found it had all been a dream. But nay, she had another gift from him to reassure her it was not, and it lay under her pillow, waiting to be read night after night. He had written his own Chanson d’Amour to her and had had the pages beautifully illuminated with flowers and birds, with their secret M and W a recurring emblem through the little book.

  She wondered if she would be with child from the night of passion, but she did not need to worry if she were, she realized. She had lain with Charles at Hesdin only a few weeks before, and there were enough members of her family with red-brown hair and blue eyes should the child resemble Anthony. A child! Anthony’s child, she dared to imagine. She hugged herself, and curling up into a ball and tucking her cold feet into her chemise, she finally fell asleep.

  She awoke from a dream in a sweat of fear. She was with Anthony in front of the fire, but they were in her castle of Male, not at Ooidonk. A year before, a conflagration in her chambers there had frightened her more than she would admit. She had lost some of her precious belongings from home, including many of her clothes and jewels as well as the book of prayers Richard had given her on her departure from England. In her dream, the flames surrounded her and Anthony’s naked bodies, and a voice so terrible it could only have been the Devil shrieked at them, “These are the fires of hell you will know for your sin this night.” Dear God, Margaret thought, rising to her knees behind her bed curtains. Look down upon us and forgive us our trespass, she begged.

  ANTHONY HAD BEEN right. He and Margaret were not destined to see each other again during Edward’s enforced exile in Burgundy. Although Charles promised publicly not to aid his brother-in-law and allowed the Lancastrian dukes of Exeter and Somerset to return to England thinking he was on their side, Charles in fact sent Edward fifty thousand florins and turned a blind eye to the fleet his brother-in-law was mustering. Anxious for any news of the English party, Margaret was happy to see Louis de Gruuthuse’s ovine countenance in her audience chamber at Ten Waele a month to the day after she had lain with Anthony.

  “Messire Louis, we greet you well.” Margaret’s voice was warm as she extended her hand for him to kiss. “What news of my brothers? I understand you have housed them these past few weeks together with others of their entourage, and for that you have my deepest gratitude.”

  Gruuthuse’s black velvet houppelande swamped his slight form, but he carried himself with immense dignity and was never without the collar of the Golden Fleece about his shoulders. Ravenstein always spoke of him with utmost respect and had told Margaret that Messire Louis had one of the best minds and libraries in Europe.

  “Your grace,” Gruuthuse began, his voice surprisingly deep for his small body, “I bring happy tidings. King Edward has left our shores for his own kingdom. I left him on board my father-in-law’s ship, the Antony, in Flushing earlier this month. He was well provisioned and had a goodly number of ships, thanks to the diligence of Earl Rivers—.”

  “Another Anthony!” Margaret interrupted excitedly. Seeing several of her courtiers looking askance at her outburst, she attempted to explain with more nonchalance than she was feeling. “Earl Rivers is Anthony Woodville, King Edward’s brother-in-law. Do you see, my friends. My brother’s ship is now the Antony and—” She stopped, seeing several people nodding and giving her false, patronizing smiles. She cleared her throat, for once embarrassed in front of her household. “Excuse me, messire, I did not mean to …”

  Gruuthuse came to the rescue and smiled brightly at her. “No need for apology, your grace. ’Tis indeed a happy coincidence of names. I had not thought on it until you so astutely connected them.” He turned and raised his voice so that all could hear. “Let us all now beseech St. Anthony that her grace’s brot
her has a fair wind for England!” The court all signed themselves earnestly. “A fair wind,” they echoed.

  Margaret could have kissed the little man for his diplomacy and kicked herself for her foolishness. Since her night at Ooidonk, she was certain her adultery was visible to all, and so any moment of behavior that was not usual for her must surely add fuel to any fire of scandal that might be whispered about her. She glanced around the room, searching faces for signs of suspicion, but no one was boring holes in her and many of them were looking bored instead. Part of her wanted to cry out to them, Can you not see I am different? Can you not see I am finally fulfilled? Can you not see I have experienced the ecstasy only poems can convey?

  She brought her wandering focus back to Gruuthuse, who was looking questioningly at her.

  “What say you, your grace? Would it please you to come and enjoy my library when next you are in Bruges? Our mutual friend, William Caxton, used to come often until you whisked him away from us.” His round eyes studied her as she gathered her wits.

  “Your library, messire?” she managed. “Certes, I have heard much about your library. Of all things, I would like to see it. Master Caxton shall advise you when next I am in Bruges. My brother of Gloucester spoke enthusiastically of your collection, and Edward I know has plans to enlarge the one at Windsor and Westminster now that he has seen yours.” A kind man and intelligent. I wonder if he and Anthony spent time in the library, she mused. Anthony, Anthony! All she thought of these days was Anthony. Suddenly she realized Gruuthuse was waiting for dismissal. “Adieu, Messire de Gruuthuse. I am in your debt, in truth, for my brothers’ safe keeping and for your good news.” Gruuthuse bowed his way from the dais, and she watched as he stopped to greet some of his acquaintances.

  Her joy at hearing that Edward was on his way to England was dampened by despair of ever holding Anthony again. And as if to seal their ill-fated love, she had awakened not long after their tryst to find she would not bear his child after all.

  As soon as she heard the news from England, Margaret ordered celebrations and fireworks in the city of Ghent. Other cities and towns followed suit in honor of their duchess’s family.

  “To her grace, the right worthy and beloved dowager duchess Isabella, my dear mother-in-law, I give you greetings. Today I received the happy news that my brother’s enemies are at last vanquished and he sits again on the throne of England.”

  Margaret paused, nibbling the top of her quill as she pondered the next sentence.

  Isabella had Lancastrian blood in her veins. Margaret did not wish to offend her mother-in-law, knowing that it was she who had championed Charles’s marriage with a York princess. During the week at Sluis, when Isabella and Mary had visited her every day, Margaret had discovered that the dowager had no love for Queen Margaret. So she decided to write about the She-Wolf’s downfall and not dwell on poor Henry. Margaret was determined, however, that Isabella should receive the news by her hand alone, so she knew she could not tarry in her task.

  “As I have heard, Edward and his company became separated during the voyage to England but all were safely landed along the coast of Yorkshire and eventually gathered together. My brother George of Clarence was in the west country.”

  She stopped again, lifted her head and studied the wall hanging in front of her, barely noticing the finely woven thread in so many glorious colors.

  George had finally come to his senses, it seemed, though not without much fence-sitting on his part. Once he knew Warwick’s new plan to ally himself with Queen Margaret and put Henry back on the throne, he must have given up his dream of becoming king, she thought. She hoped that some of his decision to return to Edward’s side was also due to the three impassioned written pleas she had sent him at Edward’s behest. She was not to know that George had also been influenced by several visits from Cecily during those months Edward was in exile, and, as everyone knew, Cecily was a matriarch whose influence was hard to ignore.

  “But when he heard of Edward’s arrival and that men were flocking to him, he was determined to reunite with Edward, praise be to God. ’Tis said he fell on his knees when he approached Edward and Richard, and the king raised him up and they embraced.”

  Margaret dabbed at her eyes upon imagining the scene of her three brothers together once more and wished she could have been there to witness it.

  “Edward now had an army to be reckoned with, although sadly, ma chère belle-mère, you will remember that Warwick’s brother, the once faithful Lord Montagu, was now Edward’s enemy, having reunited with his brother in the autumn. Edward was marching south towards London, and those citizens were much afraid. Warwick commanded the mayor to parade the feeble King Henry through the streets to give them courage, but I fear it had the opposite effect. As Edward approached, the magistrates and other leaders opened the gates to him, and he rode in triumph with George, Richard, Lord Rivers and Will Hastings by his side.”

  Margaret frowned, wondering if she would bother to go into detail about Edward’s meeting with Henry, and how Henry had embraced the surprised Edward and with a warm welcome had said he knew he had nothing to fear from his cousin of York. Putting Henry and his advisers in the Tower “for safe keeping” might not reassure Isabella when she read the letter further. But she decided to be honest and related the incident faithfully.

  She dipped her pen in the inkwell and continued.

  “’Twas then that Edward proceeded to Westminster sanctuary, where Elizabeth and her children were residing still, and held his son for the first time. What a happy moment that must have been for them all, belle-mère, and I pray little Edward will prove a worthy heir to the throne. Every great leader needs a son to follow him.”

  Nay, I should not write thus, seeing that I seem unable to bear Charles one, she thought grimly, and she crossed the words out with bold strokes until they were illegible.

  “Edward, fearful that Queen Margaret was to land from France with another army, knew he must fight the two Neville brothers as soon as he could. Fortunately, Warwick and Montagu followed Edward to London, and you should know that a battle was fought on Easter Sunday at a place called Barnet, a few miles north of the city. My brother’s army was now twelve thousand strong, and I am proud to say my little brother Richard, at only eighteen, led the vanguard for Edward. It was a great victory for us, but it is tempered by the knowledge that two noble English brothers met their ends there. Because my lord the king and brother had heard that no one in the city believed that Warwick and his brother Montagu were dead, he had their bodies brought to St. Paul’s, where they were laid out and uncovered upwards from the chest in the sight of everybody.”

  Margaret decided to leave out the disturbing news that for the first time in any battle that Edward had led, he had given the commoners no quarter. Unlike Charles, who thought nothing of massacring whole towns in punishment for rebelling against him, Edward’s treatment of the common people had always given her heart that not all leaders were cruel. She looked up at the tapestry again, its bucolic hunting scene a world away from the slaughter that must have been witnessed at Barnet. God rest their souls, she prayed. She sighed, reread her words and continued.

  “Even so, the danger was not over for Edward, for news of Queen Margaret’s and her son’s arrival from France sent him chasing after her army. They met on the field of Tewkesbury, and this time all was lost for young Edouard, the hope of the house of Lancaster, who was killed while fleeing the battle. Queen Margaret and her new daughter-in-law, Anne Neville, were found hiding in a convent nearby and taken prisoner.”

  She did not think it was of interest to Madame la Grande, as the dowager was now styled, that Anthony Woodville had been wounded at Barnet, as had Richard of Gloucester. Neither wound was mortal, but Anthony had not gone with Edward to Tewkesbury. She learned that he had been ordered to stay behind and defend London from an attack by another Neville, known as the Bastard of Fauconberg, with a rabble army of Kentishmen. Anthony and his men had fought off th
e assault and chased the rebels from the city.

  Margaret suddenly shivered. A cold draft told her she was no longer alone, and she turned to see Beatrice curtseying to her.

  “What is it, Beatrice?” she asked, smiling at her attendant. “I will be finished with this letter soon.”

  “’Tis Fortunata, your grace, and Azize. That monkey …” Beatrice held out her hands in despair.

  “Sweet Jesu,” Margaret said, exasperated, “Fortunata will not be happy until she has her own monkey, in truth. I will be there anon, Beatrice, I promise. In the meantime, pray ask Guillaume to attend me. I will need someone to carry this letter to Aire.”

  Beatrice curtseyed again and hurried out.

  Margaret penned her final sentence.

  “The strangest happening of all, belle-mère, was that when King Henry was advised of his son’s death and his wife’s capture, he fell into a deep melancholy and died within a day.”

  I hope ’twas simply a happy coincidence, she thought, as she dripped wax on the folded letter and used her heavy gold signet ring to seal it.

  By the Holy Cross, I pray Edward had nothing to do with his death. She shook off the unpleasant thought and replaced it with one of rejoicing in the happy change in her family’s fortune.

  “Now to deal with duelling dwarfs and a monkey,” she muttered to herself. She met one of Guillaume’s men-at-arms at the door, a sturdy fellow with an ear missing and a scar across one cheek, and gave him instructions to proceed at once to the Duchess Isabella. As she watched him go, she realized with a pang that she had not had very much contact with the old woman since those festivities in Bruges three years before, and she resolved to ask Charles if they might visit her that summer.