Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Later, seated next to Margaret at the banquet with Madame Ravenstein on his left, Anthony, with his long, fashionable sleeves tied behind him to avoid trailing them in the food, listened as Margaret plied him with questions about the English invasion. She told him she was certain that once the year-long truce with Louis ended in June, that wily king would not hesitate to attack Charles wherever he felt Charles was vulnerable.

  “How many men will Edward bring?” she asked eagerly, making Anthony smile.

  “Enough, your grace,” he said loudly and then whispered, “’Twould not do to reveal too much at this time, you understand.” He glanced around at their immediate neighbors and seeing they were engrossed to the right and left said, “May I see you in private, Marguerite?”

  The silver goblet trembled in her hands and she set it down for fear of spilling the contents. “Mary and I will take you hunting tomorrow, Anthony. We can arrange to become separated, I have no doubt.” Her eyes were shining.

  He avoided them. “Then we shall speak tomorrow.” Raising his voice again, he said, “May I present my compliments to your chef, your grace. This meat is the finest I have ever eaten, and I consider myself a connoisseur of venison.”

  Margaret caught Ravenstein’s eye and smiled her thanks.

  HER BIRTHDAY DAWNED gray and cold, but Margaret was determined nothing would deter her from riding out with Anthony. Fortunata splashed her with rosewater and Margaret rubbed a liquorice root on her teeth to remove the taste of sleep from her mouth. She dressed against the chill. The gray vair lining of her cloak would protect her from the wind and a large velvet hat, its liripipe wrapped around her neck, would keep her head and ears warm. Mary joined her just as Henriette and Beatrice were helping Margaret into her soft leather boots, and Margaret nodded in approval at Mary’s sensible clothing.

  A little while later, both women were hoisted into their sidesaddles and Mary was given her falcon. The bird sat quietly on her gloved hand, its little cap blinding it until that moment when it would be let free to hunt its prey. Mary attached a leather string with a bell around its leg and to the ring on her glove. Margaret watched admiringly. She had never taken to falconry, although she had ridden out many times with Dickon at Greenwich. She felt sorry for the smaller birds the hawks preyed upon, she decided, and preferred hunting with the hounds. Astolat was getting old, his whiskers graying around his face, but he was still game to accompany Margaret into the woods and had learned to flush out the birds for the falcons.

  Anthony strode into the stable yard calling an apology for being late. “I was searching for a word to finish a poem,” he told Margaret as he swung easily up into his saddle. Pegasus danced around, impatient to be off, but Anthony reined him in, and the beautiful animal responded immediately. Anthony’s black felt bonnet sported an egret feather pinned in place by an elaborate ornament. When Margaret moved closer, she was alarmed to see that it was her gift to him from her marriage necklace.

  “’Tis a W, your grace, for Woodville,” he teased her, knowing Mary was listening. “What did you think it was?”

  “It is handsome, Lord Anthony,” Mary called. “I like it. Now, we go, please?” She clicked her tongue, kicked her horse’s flank and set off at a fast walk with her escort.

  Following behind, Margaret arched her eyebrow at Anthony, and he grinned. “I had it arranged so that I could wear it,” he said in a low voice. “Say you do not mind, Marguerite.”

  She laughed gaily. She had not felt so happy for years, she realized. She encouraged her horse, and soon the group was cantering along the river, followed by three grooms, leaving Ghent behind. They passed dozens of fishermen casting their lines in the gentle river; several paniers were already filled with trout and bream.

  Margaret had told Jeanne that Lord Anthony and her grooms would be ample escort for that day.

  “My mother once told me that if the wind changed when one’s face was in an unpleasant expression, it would stay that way. Surely you do not want to go through life looking disapproving, Jeanne.” Jeanne laughed. “That is better, my friend. I promise to look after Mary. I know what you are thinking, and do not deny it. Lord Anthony may soon be free, and we do not want any scandal to mar Mary’s betrothal to Maximilian, do we? Certes, that is why I am along for the day. To keep an eye on them. And Guillaume has given us that odd-looking fellow Hugues for extra protection, so do not fret.”

  Margaret chuckled now, thinking back on the conversation. If only Jeanne knew her guilty secret, she thought. It was the one thing she had kept from her friend.

  The woods were carpeted with bluebells, which always reminded her of England. The horses slowed as they wove in and out of the trees, disturbing a small herd of deer and several highly nervous squirrels. Anthony regaled the ladies with stories about his charge, the Prince of Wales, for whom he had now been appointed governor at Ludlow Castle. Mary got bored listening to the daily life of young Edward Plantagenet and felt sorry for him.

  “Sermons and schooling and sleep is all you speak of, Messire Anthony,” she said in more comfortable French. “Does he have a companion other than old men? Poor boy.” She was longing to get to her favorite hill, free of trees, where larks and pigeons, quails and warblers were easy prey for her merlin, and she spurred her horse onward. Hugues and the two other grooms seemed unconcerned about leaving Margaret and Anthony as they cantered after the young heir of Burgundy, all intent upon the hunt.

  Skirting the hill, Margaret led the way to an abandoned hermit’s hut, its roof suspect and the door long since broken off its hinges. They could hear Mary’s high-pitched laughter in the distance. Margaret hoped she and Anthony would not be missed for a quarter hour. The thought of being alone with him for even that short a time was exhilarating, and feeling his arms around her as he lifted her from her horse wreaked havoc on her senses. She hoped he would kiss her, but he did not. He took her hand and led her inside the ramshackle shelter, dusted off a stone ledge and invited her to sit down with him.

  “Anthony,” she whispered, leaning close, but he put his finger to her lips.

  “Nothing has changed for us, Marguerite,” he began and felt her body sag with disappointment. “I cannot hide my love from you, that I know, but I cannot demonstrate that love and still be a humble servant of God. Call me a coward, if you will, but I fear the hellfire more than my miserable life can bear. Although I have committed the sin of adultery once with you—nay twice, for I sinned against Eliza and condoned your sinning against Charles—I cannot repeat it.”

  Margaret moaned and put her head in her hands. “I must have led a sinful life to warrant this much pain,” she said. “And yet I believe the love we share is God-given, not Hell-bent.” She had been so hopeful last night. She had knelt by her bed and prayed to the infant Jesus to forgive her if Anthony made love to her again. Aye, she knew it was wrong, but so was her marriage to Charles.

  “Marguerite, you must be content to know I love you and want to be your friend. What pain is it, other than me, that you speak of? You are possibly the wealthiest woman in Europe and have everything you could ever wish for in land and treasure. More than this, you have your wits and your health.

  “’Tis true your husband is a belligerent man who spends most of his time at war, but he seems to respect and cherish you. He told me three times how delighted he was with your gift of the canopy, and in fact I was privileged to see him walking among his troops in his jeweled armor underneath it. A truly regal picture, but un peu trop, don’t you think?” he said, chuckling. “However, I deduced from my short time with him that he could not respect you more highly.” He paused, moderating his tone. “So other than this pain of ours, what afflicts you so?”

  Margaret had been listening to Anthony’s observations with cynicism and gave an unattractive bark of laughter. “Cherish? Respect? Aye, he respects my brain and he cherishes my brother’s aid, but there is an end to it.”

  She got up and paced the few steps to the door and back, tel
ling Anthony of Charles’s cruelty to his subjects, and then boldly described his abuses in the bedroom. Anthony was outraged by the latter and full of compassion for her, but he was not surprised by the cruelty. He had seen Charles throw a mailed gauntlet in a fit of rage at a squire who had disturbed him and a moment later smile pleasantly at Anthony as if nothing had occurred. Anthony had been curious about Charles’s distaste for those who used God and His saints in their cursing when the man thought nothing of using violence.

  “I think I could bear all this if God would see fit to grant me children. I have none, and it appears I will not have them.” Margaret looked at him.

  “You have no children either, Anthony. Does it not pain you?” She could have bitten her tongue when she saw him redden. Certes, she had forgotten about his bastard daughter, also named Margaret. It was so long ago, and he was so young, she wondered if he even saw the woman.

  “We shall be missed, Anthony,” she said, changing the subject. “Let us join the others. Only God knows what is to become of us.” When he cupped his hands for her foot and she was ready to mount, she held his eyes with hers. “Will you keep to your promise of the New Ellen that you will come to me should we both be free?”

  He hoisted her into the saddle, and his mood lightened. “Or you come to me,” he retorted, his eyes twinkling up at her. “Lady, I know your worth, and there is naught that would keep you from me if the Fates are kind.”

  With that modicum of hope planted in her heart, Margaret kicked her horse into a canter. Another ruined birthday, she grimaced, calling Mary’s name.

  20

  Summer and Autumn 1475

  St. Omer straggled along the last hillside beside the River Aa before miles of marshes and sand dunes led down to the sea and the English-held port of Calais. The new tower on the cathedral commanded the countryside and could be seen by the English in their territory around the staple town. It was in the small town that Margaret waited for Charles to come and meet Edward.

  With Emperor Frederick threatening Charles in nearby Cologne, he had finally given up the siege of Neuss after the better part of a year, and Edward was expecting him to arrive with his full army at any time to honor their treaty of July 1474. The main aim of this treaty was to unite against Louis in combat, have Edward reclaim his French lands—lost to England by Edward’s predecessor—and thus lessen Louis’ ability to attack Charles’s borders along the Somme. In fact, Edward was angered that Charles was not now waiting for him. He must have ignored the strongly worded message Edward had sent with Anthony to Neuss telling Charles to give up the siege and join him against France. Edward knew that Charles was peeved because he should have honored their alliance sooner. Charles had demanded that Edward land in Normandy and attack Louis directly. Edward had no intention of putting his smaller army in such danger; Calais was the safer landing choice. It seemed things did not bode well for a successful campaign.

  Margaret wasted no time in traveling the few miles to Calais to greet her brother. He was surprised to learn that it was Margaret, not Charles, who had ordered Burgundian ships to England to carry the English force over the Channel. Margaret knew she must soothe Edward upon his arrival and hoped that her smiling face and beautiful gifts would mollify him. Edward was pleased to see his sister and embraced her fondly when they met, although he groused at the absence of Charles and his troops.

  “We have been waiting for you for two years, Ned. What took you so long?” she teased, once they were ensconced in the chamber set aside for the king in the massive castle.

  Edward growled. “Christ’s nails, Meg, don’t push me.” Then he laughed. “You still have your wits about you, Meggie, in truth. Anthony told me that power and wealth had not changed you.”

  Margaret colored and turned away. “Is that all he said?” she said flippantly. “I went to a great deal of trouble to entertain him royally. Did he not even mention the venison?”

  “I see my little sister is still lovelorn. You are not the only one, my dear. He is now the most eligible bachelor in all of England after my little Edward,” he chuckled. “Fathers are positively throwing their daughters at him! But he does not seem to be disposed to take another wife. Have you bewitched him, Meg?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ned. We have seen each other three times in the past five years, ’tis all.” She didn’t count their midnight adventure or the meeting at Enghien, only the ones the chroniclers would record. “’Tis hardly the stuff of a great romance,” she joked. “Now, tell me how Mother is? She has not written of late.”

  “Mother is lost to us, I fear. She is now firmly cloistered at Berkham-stead and is content to give her life to God. I miss her sound advice, but in truth, she will always be able to make me feel small.” Edward’s laugh turned into a wheezing fit and Margaret regarded him with concern.

  He continued, “George and Richard are here with me, as you know, and they will wait upon you at St. Omer in a few days. I thought you would prefer to see them away from this busy scene. Both are responsible for parts of the army and are now supervising the billeting of such a large force. ’Tis said no king of England has ever brought so many dukes and earls over the Channel to invade before.”

  “You trust George with your soldiers, Ned? My sources have informed me that he is still a thorn in your side and that he and Dickon have not forgotten how to squabble. Both have inherited fortunes in house and land from their Neville brides. Can they not be happy with their lot?” she asked.

  “They are happy enough with their wives, it seems, and Richard is a tower of strength for me in the north, Meggie. He is much loved and respected there, and he eschews the court these days. He and Anne have a son—aye, another Edward! All three of us York brothers have given the same name to our heirs.”

  “Ah, but doesn’t Dickon have a bastard son from the young woman with the harp? I thought his name was John.”

  “You are well informed, Meg,” Edward said. “Kate Haute is her name. Even though Dickon chose to hide his leman away in the country—close to Jack Howard, I might add—he has treated his two children by her honorably.” He paused, studying his hands. “’Tis George who has surprised us recently.”

  Margaret saw Edward was weighing what to say next. “What is the surprise, brother? Do not talk in riddles, I beg of you,” she urged him.

  “Perhaps I should not tell you, Meg, but you two are close. I know ’twill go no further.” He saw Margaret cross her heart and continued, averting her gaze: “It seems George sired a bastard on a Flemish girl one wild night in a tavern favored by those weavers. Aye, you may look astonished, as was I when a wine-sodden George confessed his guilt to me not long afterwards. He does drink to excess, Meg, and then his temper and his tongue run away with him.”

  “And his prick, by all accounts,” Margaret said, chuckling. More seriously she said, “I hope he provides for the babe at least.”

  Edward shrugged. “How should I know? ’Tis his problem, not mine,” he said, and again Margaret noticed he avoided looking at her. “I doubt not he sends Frieda a coin or two on occasion, and it seems her merchant parents have arranged to wed her to a man in Tournai so she can disappear and not shame them.”

  For someone who had just declared this affair was not his problem, Edward seemed extremely well informed, Margaret thought fleetingly, but she did not doubt he had his spies.

  “I pray Isabel is ignorant of the bastard,” Margaret said. “She so dotes on George.”

  Edward nodded, pulling his ring on and off—a habit Margaret knew he only did when he was nervous. Why would George’s infidelity cause Ned’s unease, she wondered?

  “He will no doubt tell you himself, Meg,” Edward, said sighing. “The two of you have always had a special bond, although I am puzzled by it. You could not be more different. He has never understood the meaning of loyalty. But God’s truth, he can be a charmer with his looks and disarming ways.” He shifted in the chair and it groaned. “I would have thought you would be closer t
o Dickon. But he was so much younger than you, I suppose.” As he stretched his legs out, the chair suddenly collapsed under his weight, leaving him sprawled on the floor in a most unkingly heap.

  Margaret laughed and went to help him up. “Ned, why do you not look after yourself? If the truth be told, I am shocked by your girth. And you sound as though every breath is your last. Has Mother seen you thus?”

  “’Tis not for you to comment on my person, Meg. Have a care,” he warned, and Margaret, recognizing the signs of anger in him, brought the conversation to a close.

  “Shall we walk around the ramparts, Ned? ’Tis overly warm in here. I want to tell you about the gifts I have brought for you. The tapestry is from one Maître Lanoue in Enghien.”

  “Do you think I don’t know stalling tactics when I hear them, Meg? Even though your company is right welcome, my anger against your husband is rising by the minute. Not only has he failed to keep his end of the bargain here, he has behaved despicably to my favorite sister. I have half a mind to treat with Louis instead of him.”

  Margaret’s eyes flew wide with dismay, and Edward threw back his head and laughed. “Do not fret, my dear, I know my duty.”

  And that is to do what is best for England, he did not add aloud.

  RICHARD HAD GONE to see to his horse, which had thrown a shoe on the sandy road to St. Omer. “He does not trust anyone with his horse,” George whispered to Margaret. “’Tis why we have grooms and smiths, Dickon,” he called after his brother, who shrugged and continued to the stables, his stride purposeful.

  Margaret led the way to the herb garden beside the monastery. They could hear monks chanting inside the old stone building. She plucked a sprig of rosemary and crushed the leaves between her fingers, inhaling the pungent aroma.

  “I am glad we are alone for a few minutes, George. We have much to talk about.”

  George smiled and put his arm about her shoulders as they walked. A hedgehog was caught unawares as they trod softly along the dusty path, and it curled itself into a ball, daring anyone to come near its spiny form. Margaret bent close to inspect it, but observing the fleas that infested the little animal, she hurriedly moved away and unconsciously scratched at an old bite on her leg. She must remember to tell Fortunata to gather more tansies to hang in the garderobe to ward off the pests, she thought. ’Tis too hot to wear fur now.