Daughter of York Page 12

  “Anthony, here!” Margaret gulped, making Fortunata curious. Then more loudly she called, “Tell your master I will be with him anon.”

  The man bowed and left the room. As soon as the door closed, Margaret jumped up and sent Ann to fetch her favorite dove-gray silk gown. Jane set to brushing through the waves of waist-long fair hair as Margaret sat on a cushioned stool and chose earbobs, rings and a necklace from a mother-of-pearl-inlaid box offered her by another lady-in-waiting. Jane finished braiding Margaret’s hair and tucked it under a cap while Fortunata readied an elaborate butterfly hennin to place over it. There were shoes to match the gown, their points peeking out from beneath the vair-fur hem. Jane touched her mistress’s cheeks with a rouge made from dried berry skins and used her wooden tweezers to pluck away a few regrown eyebrow hairs. Plucked foreheads and a minimum of eyebrow was the look all high-born ladies aspired to, Margaret had told Fortunata one day, who was now watching Margaret’s toilet with a critical eye.

  “Certes! We shall have to soften Fortunata’s brow, ladies. Then perhaps her frown would not be so fearsome,” Margaret said. Jane nodded, Ann smirked and Fortunata unconsciously proved Margaret’s case with a scowl. “But now, are we finished? And am I presentable to meet Lord Scales?”

  The women stood back and smiled their approval.

  “You are beautiful, madonna. Non, non! Bellisima!” Fortunata exclaimed, clapping her hands and turning an exuberant somersault. Ann clucked her disapproval as all glimpsed skin under the flurry of petticoats, but the dwarf was so fast that no one could swear to what they actually saw. Margaret admired herself in the silver mirror one last time before beckoning Fortunata and Jane to accompany her. Ann was crushed to be left out, and she glared after the trio, her resentment of Fortunata growing.

  Margaret’s serene entrance into the king’s antechamber by the river belied her sweating palms and racing pulse. Absolutely nothing has passed between us, so why am I so nervous, she thought, as she walked towards a smiling Anthony, who bowed low over his shapely outstretched leg and swept off his tall, coned-shaped hat. He wore a short green doublet, its padding and tight waist accentuating his well-proportioned torso, and he came forward to take her hand.

  “Well met, Lady Margaret,” he said, brushing her fingers with his lips. “I trust I find you well.”

  Again his touch sent pleasant vibrations through her. She inclined her head and tried to sound nonchalant. “Well enough, my lord.” Lowering her voice she added, “And better for seeing you.”

  Anthony was taken aback. They were not alone, and Margaret was most certainly flirting with him. He was amused and flattered. He took in all of her long, lithe form in a sideways glance as he led her to the heavy oak chairs facing the window. She would have been happy to know the dove-gray gown did not go unnoticed, for his approving look registered acknowledgment of her exquisite taste.

  Margaret brought Fortunata forward, and for the first time at Greenwich, the dwarf was accorded nothing more than a nod of the head and a friendly “Good day, mistress” from the newcomer as though she looked like everyone else, and it made Fortunata Anthony’s devoted slave. She perched on her customary footstool beside Margaret’s chair and surreptitiously observed him. She was curious about a man who had made her mistress catch her breath upon hearing his name.

  Surrounded by courtiers, the princess and the baron made polite conversation about the weather and Anthony’s journey from Fotheringhay. Soon, some drifted away in search of refreshment or talked among themselves, and Margaret began a more personal discourse about her new favorite work, the tales of the Canterbury pilgrims that Master Geoffrey Chaucer had so eloquently penned. Needless to say, she did not mention the particular passage in the wife of Bath’s tale that had surprised her, although she was sorely tempted. There was something about Anthony that made her want to tell him everything, but Cecily’s lessons in courtly etiquette forbade her to cross intimate boundaries. Instead she praised Chaucer’s poetry and ability to make a character come to life on the page.

  “’Tis a pity more people cannot enjoy his work, my lord. I am told the common folk have not the means to own such a book, and it is lamentable how few can read,” Margaret said, regret in her voice. “It takes many weeks to complete one book, I understand, and the scribe must be paid, the parchment purchased and the powders ground for the paints and inks. Why, they even take my favorite lapis stone and grind it up for the brilliant blue that so pleases me. And do not forget the gold leaf and then the leather binding. ’Tis no wonder the ordinary man cannot afford such a treasure!”

  “I am inspired by your concern for the common man, Lady Margaret,” Anthony answered cynically. He had never given the less fortunate much thought. He was who he was, and they were who they were, and there was not much he could do about it. He looked around the room and called to his squire, who hurried over the marble flagstones to his lord. “Fetch my small saddlebag, Francis. I have something for the lady Margaret from her brother.”

  Margaret was delighted. “From Ned for me? I thought he had forgotten all about me!”

  Anthony smiled. “Nay, lady, you are too modest. When Francis returns, will you not walk with me apace? I will tell you news of him.”

  Margaret was intrigued. Anthony must have some private information to pass on, she thought. She nodded and then tapped Fortunata on the shoulder.

  “Show Lord Scales your magic trick with the cups while we wait, Fortunata. She is a woman of many skills, Sir Anthony, as you will see.”

  The court gathered closer, always entertained by the dwarf, and a page ran forward with a small table and three cups. They had seen this trick before. Fortunata picked a polished pebble from a pouch at her waist, placed it under one of the downturned cups and told Anthony to watch that cup carefully. Then she moved the cups around slowly and deliberately at first, stopping every now and then to cock her head at Anthony and make sure he was still watching the correct cup. He grinned and pointed to it each time, and she lifted it up to confirm that he was right. Faster and faster her hands moved, and finally she stopped and stood back.

  “E ora? Now, my lord?” she asked, smiling and spreading her hands. “Where is the stone?”

  Anthony leaned forward and confidently upturned the cup. His face was a picture of astonishment when he saw the empty space on the table. The company clapped and laughed at his expense, and his expression registered chagrin. Fortunata stood by proudly, her hands on her hips.

  “But I was certain!” Anthony cried. “I never took my eyes from it. Ah, perhaps you did not even put one underneath a cup, mistress,” he added with a sly smile. “Perhaps I have guessed your trick.”

  “Ha!” exulted Margaret. “You are wrong, my lord. Fortunata, show him the stone.”

  “Here!” her servant replied, and lifted the correct cup to reveal the pebble.

  Anthony made her perform the trick all over again, quite certain he would not err this time. But he did—and took it in good sport. Margaret sat back and quietly observed him, noticing for the first time that his left ear was disfigured. A battle scar, she assumed, and it reminded her that he was more than a courteous and literate gentleman: He had killed and maimed others. She shivered and hoped she would never have to see that side of him. But now Anthony the courtier was turning to her, and the soldier had disappeared. He offered her his arm, and she rose and laid her fingers on it. A different shiver ran through both of their bodies simultaneously, and both looked down at her hand as though it had magical powers. Their eyes met in an instance of recognition, and Margaret could not control her blush. Sweet Virgin, let no one notice, she panicked.

  If anyone had, it was not apparent, for Fortunata had chosen the moment to turn several cartwheels and leaps, drawing all eyes off the couple. Her black eyes had seen her mistress’s blush begin, and she had taken immediate action. By the time Margaret and Anthony had processed to the door, she was waiting there, making her courtesy. Anthony raised her up, reached into his saddl
ebag and pressed a half-angel into her palm. Fortunata’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she saw the gold coin.

  “Thank you, milord,” she stammered and followed them out into the late September afternoon.

  As they walked, Anthony glanced back at Margaret’s faithful shadow from time to time and lowered his voice to ask about Fortunata. Margaret told him the short version of the tale; she was far more interested in what he had to say about Edward. She eyed the finely tooled saddlebag he was swinging with his free hand as he strolled through the gardens with her and resisted the urge to ask what was in it. Jane and Ann, who had joined them, followed a few lengths behind with Francis and another member of Anthony’s small retinue. Oh, to be alone, Margaret thought resentfully.

  She purposely steered him away from the archway that led into the setting of her tryst with John Harper and instead passed through the gateway under her own apartments into the seclusion of the orchard behind. A grass-covered excedra had been built near the recently harvested fruit trees, and Anthony and Margaret sat down on it with their backs to the palace. Their retainers kept a discreet distance, amusing themselves by picking up dropped apples. Margaret uncharacteristically sent Fortunata to join them and was rewarded by a lowered brow and downturned mouth. But Margaret was firm and shooed her away.

  “May I see what Ned sent for me, my lord?” Margaret asked, when the dwarf was out of earshot. “You have been very secretive about it.”

  Anthony laughed, and opened the bag. He gave her something well wrapped in oiled canvas and a letter. “I hope nothing spilled in the ride here, my lady. Nay, I see it is still whole.”

  Margaret squealed with delight when she revealed an earthenware pot tightly sealed and read the contents written on the cork stopper. “Rosepetal jam! My favorite! How sweet of Ned to remember,” she exclaimed, pulling up the small knife that was tied on a long cord to her belt and prying the lid open. She dipped her finger unceremoniously into the jar and licked off the sticky preserve. “Mmm,” she extolled. “But I forget myself, Lord Anthony, would you like some?”

  Anthony put his finger into the pink jam and then stuck it into his mouth, nodding his approval. They looked at each other like mischievous children and were convulsed with laughter, checking over their shoulders to see if their companions had seen the act. Margaret wiped her finger on the grass, picked up her knife again and broke open Edward’s enormous royal seal. Anthony left her alone to read.

  “Right well beloved sister, we greet you.” Margaret skipped over the rest of Edward’s standard opening line.

  “I have sent Lord Scales to you with a small token that I hope will be to your taste. I could think of no better messenger to send. He will apprise you of what is keeping me here at Fotheringhay longer than anticipated, and you are to keep your peace on it. I demand your promise on this, Meg. Do not delay Anthony’s departure for too long, petite soeur, he is on my business in Kent and then must return with all speed. Enjoy him while you may!”

  Certes! He would push me into Anthony’s bed, Margaret thought drily. We do not all have the morals of a lecher like you, Ned. She read on.

  “You also have my permission to go to the Wardrobe at the time of All Souls. It will be warmer in the winter than at Greenwich. From there I trust you to make arrangements for Richard to join you. Mother is at Baynard’s. I will see you there anon and I shall be calling on you to help me with the entertainment at Yuletide.

  Your faithful brother, Edward.”

  The Royal Wardrobe! It was a few steps from Baynard’s and hard by the friary off Carter Lane. She would be in the center of things again and could hardly wait until November to move there. She called to Anthony, who was munching on an apple. He picked up a second and came back to his seat, holding it out to her.

  “I trust your brother had good news for you, my lady,” he said, knowing full well what Edward had written.

  “Oh, do stop calling me my lady. If I may call you Anthony, I would prefer you call me Margaret,” she said, teasing. “I know not if the news is good, for Ned has asked you to tell it!”

  Anthony’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, has he now. Well … Margaret. Nay, I must tell you I always think of you as Marguerite. Like the dog-daisy in a summer meadow, you stand tall and independent, your skin as white as a swan’s feather, and there is something golden at the heart of you, a generosity of spirit that cannot be denied.”

  “Flatterer! You do not know me well enough to know whether or not I am generous.” Margaret’s eyes were on the ground; her head was in the clouds.

  “Well enough to see how kind you are to that unfortunate dwarf, who obviously worships you. Well enough to mark how you consider the plight of the poor. And I have heard you visit your sickly servants unheeding of your own health. Nay, I do not flatter you, Marguerite, I speak the truth.” As he concluded his compliment, he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. “Dare I presume that I am fortunate enough to be called your friend?”

  “Aye, Anthony. I thank God for your friendship daily,” she murmured, letting his hold on her hand linger. “You are always in my prayers. But now,” she said, replacing her hand in her lap, “you must tell me what you know. Is Ned well? Is he in danger? I think not, for he would not have sent one of his best soldiers from his side.”

  She, too, could flatter, she thought happily.

  Anthony was serious. “Aye, he is in danger,” he said slowly, but grinned when he saw her anxiety. “He is in danger of falling in love with my sister! And Elizabeth is no simpering wench waiting to be bedded, let me tell you. And I fear Edward will not rest—or leave Northampton—until he has lain with her.”

  Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. “Anthony! Such talk. Did Ned allow you to say this to me?”

  Anthony was at once contrite. “I have shocked you, Marguerite. Forgive me, but the king told me you would understand plain speaking.”

  Margaret removed her hand to show a wide grin. “I am teasing you, sir. But tell me more of your sister. Does she know about Eleanor Butler? The last I saw of Edward he was pursuing her ruthlessly.”

  “Aye, I believe the lady capitulated,” Anthony said. “I was surprised, as she was not shy about rejecting the king’s advances for many weeks. In truth, I admired her spirit and her morals greatly. But I fear your brother has a charm that cannot be denied, and eventually he has his own way.”

  He did not tell Margaret that Elizabeth had informed him of Edward’s attempt to bed her at knife point one day. Margaret might truly be shocked by that, he decided. He had been aghast when Edward had laughingly recounted the episode but did not think it prudent to challenge the king as an outraged brother.

  “Aye, and the crown on his head may also have something to do with it,” Margaret admitted, almost to herself. “And ’twill be so with your sister, you think?”

  Anthony shrugged. “I know not, Marguerite. But I will confide in you that my mother hopes Edward will marry Bess.”

  Now Margaret was dumbfounded. “Marriage! Why, of course he cannot marry her, ’twould be folly!” Again her hand covered her mouth. “I am so sorry, Anthony, I forgot to whom I was speaking. I did not mean to insinuate that your sister …”

  She looked so miserable that he took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. “I understand completely, Marguerite. ’Tis indeed folly for a king to marry with a widow of no import. Although,” he admitted, “my mother was married to the duke of Bedford before she wed my father. She is the daughter of a count. My grandfather was count of St. Pol in Luxembourg, and my father was knighted by King Henry at the very same time as your father, you know.”

  Margaret nodded. She knew all about Anthony’s parents. The old duke of Bedford had taken seventeen-year-old Jacquetta as his bride and died two years later. The young widow had fallen in love, probably before the duke’s death, with Sir Richard Woodville, son of lesser-known gentry of Grafton in Northamptonshire, a soldier in the duke’s service. King Henry had returned her dower to her
at the time of the duke’s death provided that she remarried only with the king’s assent. His anger had been great when the beautiful Jacquetta finally confessed that she and her lieutenant—then called the handsomest man in all England—had married in secret. She paid a hefty fine and forfeited some manors to win her Woodville knight. It sounded to Margaret as though history might repeat itself, but at what cost? Edward should look to an alliance with another royal family; he should shore up allies that he sorely needed. I pray he would not be so foolish, she thought.

  Instead she said, “I admire your sister’s courage in face of such an assault on her virtue. Ned is incorrigible, and I understand your dilemma. But I hope you will steer him right, Anthony. I fear Will Hastings is not a good influence, for I see a look of lust in his eyes also.”

  Anthony was too diplomatic to agree with her. Will Hastings was Edward’s closest adviser—although the earl of Warwick would be surprised to know his position had been usurped—and Anthony would not dare come between them. Margaret was forgetting that Anthony had no reason to push Edward away from Elizabeth; as a man of the times, he would benefit greatly from such a match with his family.

  “I must write to Ned and tell him to beware of acting with such reckless abandon,” Margaret went on. “I am sure your sister is delightful, and ’tis certain she is beautiful, but if our mother should hear of this, I fear for Ned’s safety.” She gave a nervous laugh. “You know my mother, Anthony. She would not countenance such a match. Nay, Ned will just have to satisfy himself elsewhere. What happened to the Butler woman?”