Margaret looked William straight in the eye and smiled brightly. “I could not begin to understand the earl’s motive, Master Caxton, but I will ask him when I next see him. I thank you for your choice.” She folded the paper and tucked it in her belt. She looked around and made sure they were out of earshot of Guillaume and Caxton’s employees before saying, “There is another reason for my visit.”
William was curious. What could the duchess have to say to him of a private matter? She did not beat about the bush.
“I have something to give you, sir, and I trust you will hold it as dear as the person who willed it to you was to me.” She pulled a small velvet pouch from the bag at her waist and offered it to him, noticing his somber expression. “Aye, I feel certain you heard about Fortunata’s death. This was her last wish, and I did not want to put her gift into anyone else’s hands but yours.”
William stammered his thanks. His eyes were sad as he opened the pouch and tipped the lovely ring onto his palm. He was astonished. “This was Fortunata’s?” he asked. “Are you certain ’twas I she willed it to? ’Tis very valuable, in truth.”
Margaret nodded. “I gave it to her many years ago for her faithful service to me. You must have meant much to her, sir.” Her gaze was intense. “I hope you were kind.”
Caxton lowered his eyes. “Not as kind as she was to me, your grace. I did not deserve her love, I know that.” He looked up. “I should have liked her to know that in as much as I am capable of love, I felt some for her, too. But in truth, there was no one she loved more on this earth than you, duchess.”
Margaret was moved. “Then keep the ring safe, Master Caxton, and every time you look on it, pray for Fortunata’s soul.” Caxton nodded and reverently placed the token back in its velvet pouch and tucked it inside his pourpoint.
As she was leaving and William was bowing over her hand again, she murmured, “Thank you for holding a secret, Master Caxton. You are a good man.”
“TELL ME HOW your little charge is faring, Meg,” Edward asked one day as they rode out together in the pleasant park that climbed the hill behind Greenwich to the tower built by a former owner of the land, Duke Humphrey of Gloucester. Margaret and Richard had explored the building many times during their years at the palace, rudely snatched from Humphrey’s possession by a spiteful Margaret of Anjou soon after her wedding to Henry. The view from the crenelated watchtower had never failed to awe Margaret, and today was no exception. She and Edward stood by a crenel in a short wall that afforded them a perspective on London ordinary people could never have. In twelve years, Margaret could see the city had expanded farther beyond its walls and was creeping towards the Isle of Dogs.
Edward had noted the light in her eyes when she spoke glowingly of her little Jehan. “I named him for your other gift to me, Ned, remember?” she said, winding her flapping liripipe around her neck. Ned’s hair was windswept into a golden halo about his bare head. He had almost lost his soft velvet hat to the strong breeze. Two of his squires stood at the opposite side of the tower looking towards the estuary and the fields of Kent, and Margaret was certain they were out of earshot. “You sent Jehan Le Sage with me to Flanders.”
Edward frowned and then laughed. “Aye, so I did,” he said. “I seem to recall that Fortunata …” He paused, remembering. “I was sorry to hear about Fortunata, Meg. She was a dear little thing—quite ugly, but amusing.”
“With you, all women must be startlingly beautiful to be interesting, Ned,” Margaret retorted. “Many of us who are not so believe we have more to offer than rosy lips, blue eyes and flaxen hair, not to mention tits as large as musk melons. ’Tis true, Elizabeth is not well endowed, but she seduced you with her beauty, you cannot deny it.”
Edward demurred with a grin. “There are those who think you are striking, my dear sister, therefore no false modesty from you, pray,” he chided her. “Those I have in mind include the now rather pompous Anthony Woodville. He will be joining us here soon, you may like to know.” She did like to know, and she hugged herself in anticipation. “As you know, he governs my son at Ludlow, and admirable work he is doing, I will admit. But the fellow bores me now with his piousness and poetry.”
Margaret said nothing. After witnessing his current lifestyle during the short time she had been in London, it did not surprise her that Edward was unimpressed. He had now taken a new mistress, one Elizabeth—sometimes called Jane—Shore, and she had also seen Will Hastings dally with her. The two cronies egged each other on, seeming to revel in revelry, the more debauched the better. Margaret felt sorry for the queen, who, although not in the first flush of youth, was still very beautiful. What puzzled Margaret was that Edward obviously still loved his wife. How can he love her and yet dishonor her so? she asked herself. He was not even discreet about it.
“I cannot blame Lord Anthony, my dear Ned,” Margaret said quietly. “Your court has no morals that I can see. I do not consider myself a prude, but I cannot approve of it. Does Mother ever visit? No, I did not think so.” She chuckled. “Imagine the lectures you would have to endure.”
“You will have the chance of hearing one next week, Meg, when she comes for a splendid banquet I am planning for your homecoming. Dickon is even leaving his beloved Yorkshire to attend in your honor. Do keep him off the subject of George, though. He still hasn’t forgiven me.”
“I am not sure if I have, Edward,” Margaret said softly. “And every time I see my little Jehan I am reminded of my lost brother.”
“‘Lost’ is a good word for George, Margaret. He lost his way, his loyalty and his conscience, in truth, and found himself standing on a precipice of his own making. I had no alternative but to gentle him over. I hope you believe I made it as painless as possible.”
Margaret heard the regret in his voice and reached out her hand to his puffy one resting on the crenel stone. “I believe you, Ned. I pray daily to God to forgive you and to our Lord Jesus that He eases George’s entry into the kingdom of heaven.”
Edward removed his hand and gave a short, sharp laugh. “Now you sound like Anthony, Meg. I did what was right for England, nothing less.” But more gently, he whispered before walking to the spiral staircase, “It pleases me that you are taking care of George’s bastard. It is a small atonement, don’t you think?”
“Aye, Ned,” Margaret said. “And one day, when Jehan is ready, I will tell him only of George’s attributes, have no fear.” She tucked her arm in his to be guided down the steep, narrow steps. “And now tell me who else is invited to the Banquet of the Age.”
MARGARET’S DAYS WERE spent in close counsel with Edward and his advisers, and her negotiation skills on behalf of Maximilian and Mary were the talk of the council chamber. One hot July day, a familiar figure greeted her at the start of that day’s session.
“Sir John! Your pardon, I mean Lord Howard,” Margaret cried upon seeing Jack, his hair a good deal grayer than she remembered. “I greet you well, my lord. I have missed your wisdom and knowledge in this chamber and I know Edward has. Where have you been?”
Jack Howard bowed over Margaret’s outstretched hand. She felt his mustache tickle her fingers. His smile was quizzical as he told her, “I have been on a diplomatic mission of my own, your grace. Were you not apprised of my whereabouts?”
“I asked, but I regarded the answer as vague.”
“Ah, out of sight, out of mind, I’ll warrant,” he smiled, now wondering why his mission to France had not been discussed with Margaret. He did not tell her he had returned with Edward’s annuity and a promise of fifteen thousand more crowns to sweeten the proposed marriage with Louis’ heir. “How are the negotiations, your grace?” he asked, deflecting her questions. “The king is driving a hard bargain, I have been told.”
“Certes! He has us—I refer to Burgundy, my lord,” she said, seeing an eyebrow raised in query, “between the Devil and the deep sea. He wants Maximilian to compensate him for his French pension should he choose to support us, which I can understand, b
ut now he wants one of his daughters betrothed to my little Philip, the heir of Burgundy, and not pay a penny’s worth of dowry. I cannot see Maximilian agreeing. And I am curious to know how Ned expects Louis to sanction a marriage between the Dauphin and his own Elizabeth if he is negotiating with us. He is playing with a two-edged sword, Lord Howard, and I like it not.”
Jack chuckled at her vehemence. “Always thinking, duchess. We should never have let you go to Burgundy. You are right, in truth, although I should not say anything so treasonous here in this palace,” he said, lowering his voice though his eyes still twinkled.
Margaret grinned. “This was the very room where you gave me Fortunata all those years ago.” Her tone softened then. “You heard that she died?” Jack nodded and offered his condolences.
As they talked, Margaret’s eyes wandered to a group of courtiers talking quietly in a far corner. One of the men seemed familiar to her although his portly figure in its padded pourpoint and the graying hair over a once-handsome face did not immediately trigger a memory. She gently nudged Jack and nodding in the man’s direction, asked if he knew who it was.
“The one in green, duchess? ’Tis John Harper, loyal servant to your brother. Why? Do you wish to meet him?” He was astonished to see Margaret’s head shake vehemently and her merry eyes laugh over the hand on her mouth.
“We have already met, Lord Howard when we were much younger,” she said, not adding “and very foolish.” Jack understood the implication immediately, stroking his gray mustache to hide his amusement. He tactfully changed the subject.
On their way to the next council meeting, Jack’s conscience got the better of him. He knew Edward would be using the information brought from Louis to bargain with Burgundy at the session. “I confess I have not been—well—straight with you, your grace. I am returning from France with a small delegation to persuade the king to refuse your son-in-law’s requests for aid. That is all I can say at present,” he finished hurriedly as he nodded to the guards to open the chamber door and let the indignant duchess of Burgundy pass through. God’s bones, but Edward puts me in precarious places, he thought.
But Margaret never batted an eyelid during the morning discussions. Her face was calm and serene while underneath she seethed and planned Burgundy’s next move.
ELIZABETH WOODVILLE HAD made Greenwich her favorite palace since Margaret left for Burgundy, and her taste was exquisite, Margaret had to acknowledge. Ned had grumbled to his sister when she first arrived, “I will have to go begging in the streets to pay for her furnishings,” but then he had winked.
Edward clearly still adored his wife, despite the presence of his mistress, Jane Shore, at court, which Margaret could not condone. You are such a hypocrite, Meg, she told herself, for ever since Edward had told her Anthony was on his way from Ludlow, she found herself constantly glancing out of windows to the river like a moon-struck young girl in case she might see her own lover coming. She took a bath every day now just in case, exasperating her ladies, whose duty it was to sprinkle her favorite rosemary into the water, sponge their mistress, wash her hair, dry her and smooth her skin with fragrant oil of almonds and rosewater. The whole process of washing and dressing Margaret often took two hours or more, and Henriette asked Beatrice what had caused this sudden change in the weekly bath routine. Beatrice shrugged. She had guessed many years ago that her charge had given her heart to Anthony Woodville, but she had never spoken about it to anyone except God.
Following Mass one drizzly day not long after Margaret’s arrival, Ned and Elizabeth and a small company of close advisers were assembled in the queen’s watching chamber, the largest of the royal family’s private rooms, to spend family time with Margaret. The queen kissed her warmly. “God’s welcome to you, Margaret. You have not changed at all,” she said.
Margaret laughed. “You were always a bad liar, Elizabeth. But thank you for the kind words. Certes, but your beauty still eclipses all others,” she said loudly enough for the favorite, Jane, to hear. “And I see you are again with child.” Ned had told her Elizabeth had been devastated when their third son, George, died soon after his birth the year before. Margaret did not comment on the name but knew Ned was unable to forget his brother, traitor or no. She was glad.
Elizabeth sighed. “Aye, we are hoping for another boy.” She leaned towards her sister-in-law. “There is nothing worse than seeing your baby wither before your eyes, Margaret.” Her expression of sorrow revealed her softer side, and Margaret took her hand and pressed it. Elizabeth suddenly remembered that Margaret had not ever known the pleasures of motherhood and whispered, “I am so sorry you were unable to bear a child, Margaret. It must have caused you untold heartache.”
Margaret nodded, grateful for the queen’s concern. Her glance fell on the small boy at Elizabeth’s elbow and her eyes widened in astonishment. Sweet Jesu, George was right, she thought, Jehan could have been Ned’s judging by this child’s features. Covering her confusion, she said cheerfully, “And this is …”
“Richard, duke of York,” the little boy told her gleefully and without guile. “And I will be theven in …” He carefully counted his fingers and then his face fell. “Mother, when will I be theven?”
“On the seventeenth day of August, child. Soon,” Elizabeth said sweetly. Ah, here is the favorite, Margaret thought, seeing the affection on Elizabeth’s face.
“Then I shall be here to celebrate your birthing day, Richard,” Margaret said, taking in every inch of the tow-haired, blue-eyed boy with his bold manner. “We shall have to do something special.” Richard grinned up at her, showing the gap where his baby front teeth had fallen out and given cause for the lisp.
Ned waved his son away. “Go and play with your puppy, Dickon, there’s a good boy. The dog needs to learn when not to relieve himself in here,” he said, pointing to where a wolfhound pup was taking a piss in the rushes. The boy ran off. Margaret was introduced to her nieces, Elizabeth, Cecily, Mary, Anne and Catherine, as yet none as comely as her parents, although fourteen-year-old Elizabeth showed a quiet charm and promise of beauty that pleased her. She also met George’s and Isabel’s two little orphans and gave them a special kiss each.
There was activity at the doorway to the chamber, and those nearby stood aside as newcomers entered.
“His grace, the Prince of Wales,” announced the usher, “and Lord Rivers.”
Margaret’s heart sang when she heard Anthony’s name.
“Edward!” cried Queen Elizabeth, holding out her arms to her elder son, who, under the watchful eye of his governor, walked stiffly to his mother. Changing her demeanor to match his, she put out her hand to be kissed and accepted his formal bow. “How you have grown, my dear child,” she murmured. “Has he not grown, Ned?” she turned to ask the king, who was observing the scene from his comfortable chair in the center of Elizabeth’s private watching chamber.
“Certes, he has grown, Bess, we have not seen him for months,” Ned responded. “Here, boy, let me take a look at you.”
The pale prince flamed red at being thus addressed. “Aye, your grace,” was all he said, however, as he approached his huge parent, who was resplendent in a purple satin doublet trimmed with ermine that need not have been fashionably padded.
“Do you know who this is?” Ned asked, pointing a fat finger at Margaret seated on his other side.
“My Aunt Margaret, Father,” the boy responded, turning his limpid blue eyes on the imposing figure with the tallest hennin he had ever seen. “My Lord Rivers has told me all about her.”
Now it was Margaret’s turn to blush, and to cover it, she bent forward with outstretched arms to take nine-year-old Edward’s shoulders and pull him towards her. “No bows for me, Edward. I should like a kiss,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile. “Your brother has given me several since I arrived in England, and I hope you will oblige your old aunt.”
She was dismayed to see the boy eye her with suspicion.
“I fear you must blame me,
your grace,” said the voice that always sent the blood galloping through her veins. “Young Edward has recently learned correct court manners, and kissing strange women is certainly not correct.” Anthony bowed, but he kept his eyes on her from under his lashes.
“Edward,” he said to the boy, “her grace, the duchess of Burgundy, should receive a bow and a brush of the lips on her hand, like this.” He bowed again as Margaret extended her hand. Neither was prepared for the shock they both received when he took it, making Anthony clutch it in a most incorrect fashion before he pressed it to his mouth. The sensuality of his touch was so unmistakable that Margaret thought she would faint. Instead she managed a clear, though a little high, “Lord Anthony, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
She was horrified to hear Ned’s imperceptible “I’m sure it is,” said on stifled laughter. She withdrew her hand quickly, and Anthony stepped aside, recovering his composure. She turned her attention to the boy in front of her, who mimicked his uncle in all but the seductive touch.
“Good boy,” Ned said approvingly. “Now you may give your aunt a proper kiss.”
Still the boy stood straight as a pike, a flush suffusing his thin face. His black satin gipon hung on him like an old man’s skin, and his patterned hose drooped on scrawny legs. He does not look healthy, Margaret decided, and he certainly has no intention of kissing me. She was reminded of George’s and Dickon’s return from Duke Philip’s court and how George was embarrassed to be kissed. It must be common with boys turning into young men, she thought, so patted Edward’s hand and winked at him. “’Tis no matter, Edward. I am happy to meet you, Richard and all your sisters. I pray you, go and greet them, for I am sure they are anxious to hear about Ludlow.” The boy bowed and walked off, relieved.
Anthony stood by awkwardly for once, not knowing where he belonged. Ned rescued him by inviting him to pull up a stool, and then stood, offering Elizabeth his arm to “see what the children are doing. Certes, you two must have much to talk over,” he said, grinning. Elizabeth looked puzzled but joined her husband to wander over to where the children were playing marbles and fox and geese. No one in the room was aware of the charged atmosphere that seemed to Margaret must be visible. She forced herself to look into Anthony’s eyes and swam in the emotion she saw there.
Daughter of York Page 62