Daughter of York Read online

  Mother and daughter had taken a few minutes to rest one day following a rigorous session with the steward regarding the day’s castle business. Margaret had begun to accompany the duchess on her errands around the castle—meeting with the steward, visiting ailing attendants, dispensing justice in petty disputes among the staff—and she sank gratefully into some cushions in a window embrasure overlooking the busy river. Cecily closed her eyes for a moment and fussed with the rosary at her belt.

  “Pray tell me why our house,” and Margaret involuntarily swelled with pride, “is fighting the king, Mother. Is that not treason?”

  Cecily’s eyes flew open. She frowned and glanced about her. “Enough talk of treason, Margaret. Come close and I will explain all. It all began more than three score years ago and involved my grandsire, John of Gaunt, duke of Lancaster.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened and mouthed the hated “Lancaster” back to her mother. Cecily nodded and proceeded to regale Margaret with the beginnings of the civil strife between York and Lancaster. When she told how Gaunt’s son had usurped the crown, Margaret could not but help blurt out, “Usurped? Mother, he was the grandsire of our present king. Oh, for sure that must be a treasonable thought. Have a care!”

  “Do not dare to speak to me thus, daughter!” Cecily scolded her. “We are safe here, and besides I speak the truth. And the king knows it also, for he agreed to make Father his heir, denying his own son the crown. But ’tis Queen Margaret who holds King Henry’s leading strings, for the poor man has bouts of madness and delusion, and she hates your father—and indeed all of us—for disinheriting her son. Understand this, Margaret, and understand it well. Your father had the right to the throne through his grandsire on his mother’s side, the earl of March,” she stated sternly. “He was descended from King Edward’s second son.”

  Margaret had lowered her eyes at the reprimand and absorbed the information for a moment before her quick intelligence found a missing thread. “Then why was Father the duke of York and not the earl of March?”

  Cecily was pleased. “You show much wit, my dear, which will help you greatly when you take your place as wife of some lord. ’Twas from his father’s line, which descends from great Edward’s fourth son, the duke of York, also named Edward. You see, Father had double the royal blood of any of Gaunt’s descendants!” She finished triumphantly. “A pox on them!”

  “But you just said you are one of his descendants, ma mère.” Margaret could not resist and once again paid the price for a willful tongue.

  “Enough of your cheek! Leave us now,” Cecily ordered, and Margaret meekly obeyed until she closed the heavy door behind her, when she ran giggling to her apartments.

  “York and Mortimer, Gaunt and March, Lancaster and Bolingbroke—oh, a pox on them all,” she cried, imitating Cecily beautifully and making her old nurse, Anne, chuckle indulgently.

  Margaret smiled now as she remembered the scene that day, vaguely aware that the din behind her had quietened as George and Richard seemed to have come to a truce and were back at their Latin books. Her smile soon vanished as she saw a company of horsemen at the castle gate on Thames Street calling loudly for the portcullis to be raised.

  “Boys, come and see what is happening below,” Margaret called. “There are some soldiers riding into the courtyard with a herald.”

  The magic word “soldiers” had the boys scrambling to take a perch at the window. They opened it and leaned out dangerously far to hear what news the men brought. Margaret hauled Richard back by his jerkin, and he glared at her.

  “You will not be any good to Edward dead, you idiot!” Margaret told him. “Have a care!”

  “You’re not my warden! You aren’t even my nursemaid! Leave me be, you … you … whey-faced wench!” Richard sputtered at her and instantly regretted it. Cecily had entered the room at exactly the wrong moment, and she was shocked by his speech.

  “Richard! Where have you learned such talk? Apologize to your sister at once and then you may go to bed without your supper. I am ashamed of you. To think your father has only been dead these five weeks! You children have lost all discipline.” It was a common theme of Cecily’s, and Margaret rolled her eyes at George behind Richard’s back. Characteristically, George jumped to Richard’s defense by attempting to distract her. “But, Mother, something is happening in the courtyard. Come, see for yourself.”

  “’Tis true, Mother, look!” Margaret chimed in. Cecily waited in silence until Richard had slipped out of the room to obey her, and then she peered from the casement.

  “What did you hear, George?”

  “I heard Ned’s name, but then Meg pulled Dickon in and they quarreled, so I couldn’t hear any more.” He scowled at his sister.

  How unattractive he is when he does that, Margaret thought fleet-ingly, although no one had ever heard Margaret say an unkind word about George. That she preferred this good-looking boy to Richard was no secret to those close to the children. He was nearer in age, as willful as she, loved to dance and recite poetry, and they both enjoyed the luxuries and limelight that went along with being a duke’s child. Richard was more serious and secretive, rarely putting a foot wrong, so needful he was of his parents’ approval. You never knew what he was thinking, Margaret told George one day. And he preferred the outdoors to indoor pursuits, unlike her and George. But Dickon was fiercely loyal, she’d give him that.

  “George, stay here. Margaret, come with me.”

  The scowl persisted. “But Mother—I am the man—I am the head of the family in Ned’s absence. I should be by your side.”

  “When you look at me like that, George, all you show me is that you are still naught but a babe. Now, do as you are told!” Cecily took Margaret’s arm and swept out of the room, followed by her ladies, who had been tittering in a corner at the family scene. Margaret turned at the last moment and gave George a helpless look.

  “Bah!” sputtered George at the closing door.

  By the time the ladies entered the great hall, the messenger was being attended to by a squire and had rid himself of his dirty cloak and tabard. He knelt as Cecily swept in.

  “What news, master herald? Come you from my son?” Cecily went straight to the point.

  “Aye, my lady. And I have to report a victory for Lord Edward seven days since!” A cheer rose from the assembled company. “At a place near Ludlow called Mortimer’s Cross.”

  “I know that place,” Cecily said eagerly, gripping Margaret’s arm. “A victory you say. There was a battle? Who was there? How many were slain?”

  “My lady, I would tell you all but I am in sore need of some refreshment … if it please you.”

  Cecily clapped her hands for some wine and bade her steward arrange refreshment in the armory for the rest of the troop. Margaret noted how her mother took charge of the situation, giving commands with an authority that was tempered with benevolence. The young woman was beginning to understand how to earn loyalty from the retainers and staff. Cecily treated each servant fairly, her nursemaid had told her young charge once. “’Tis why they would die for her, Margaret. She knows the name of every man, woman and child who serves the house of York here at Baynard’s. Watch and learn,” Anne of Caux advised.

  The herald followed the duchess to her chair on the dais, where she sat flanked by Margaret on one side and her ladies on the other. She bade him to sit on a stool at her feet. He was a handsome young man with a twinkle in his hazel eyes, and he cast a few admiring glances Margaret’s way that made her blush. She stood beside her mother and waited for his tale. After a long draught from a goblet, he began.

  “My lord Edward was marching to meet with the earl of Warwick to stop the king’s army from reaching London from the north when he heard that a large force was moving from Wales under Jasper Tudor to join the king. Lord Edward turned his army and chose to face this force in battle.”

  “His first as head of our house,” Cecily reminded the company proudly.

  “Aye, your grace,�
� the messenger agreed. “He comported himself brilliantly! He knew the country well and chose Mortimer’s Cross for its strategic benefits. There were those who doubted his choice of day, however. ’Twas the feast of Candlemas—a most holy day—and some were loath to fight upon it. But just before the battle began, a strange happening took place that convinced our troops Edward would be victorious.”

  Margaret was imagining her handsome giant of a brother in his armor rallying his men to battle. She leaned forward to hear more. The herald paused for effect and took another draught.

  Cecily impatiently waved him on. “What strange happening? No riddles, sirrah, I pray you.”

  “’Twas close to ten of the clock, and we were chafing at the bit waiting for the enemy to approach when we noticed three suns in the sky—”

  “Three? Do not babble nonsense, man,” Cecily snapped. “How can there be three suns?”

  Others in the room crossed themselves in wonder and awe. It did seem a portent, an omen, and yet their lord was victorious. After the weeks of depression following the loss of their leader, York’s supporters were in need of such good news.

  “I know not how, lady. But I saw them with my own eyes. A hush came over the army, and then my lord Edward turned his horse to us and cried, ‘ ’Tis the symbol of the Trinity, God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost! It means God is on our side! ’Tis a sign.’ And we believed him then. He was so sure and so brave, and the light from the three suns shone bright on his gold-brown head, making him look like … like a young god,” he flattered the duchess, and Cecily nodded proudly. “We routed the Welsh rabble ’tis true, but in all three thousand were slain that day. Their leaders were executed, including that Welshman Tudor.”

  “Good riddance!” Cecily sneered. “I hope they put his head on a pike, like my husband’s.”

  Margaret cringed, her dream remembered. Men are barbarous creatures, she thought.

  “Aye, my lady, they did. ’Tis said a mad woman combed his hair and washed his face as it sat high upon the market cross.”

  “And now, herald? Where is my son now?” Cecily demanded.

  “He gathers men from every village, field and manor to meet with my lord Neville, earl of Warwick, and defend London from the royal army. I know not where he is, in truth, for he sent me from Gloucester to bring these tidings to your grace.”

  “Warwick is still in London—at The Erber,” Cecily frowned. “Does he know where to meet Edward?”

  “Indeed, I was just now at that place afore I came here, your grace, and saw his lordship. My lord Edward has charged him to march his forces out of London, as the king’s—or I should say, the queen’s—army is still plundering what they will on the road south.” He shook his head. “’Twas folly for her not to have marched direct on London after Wakefield. But we are all the stronger for it.”

  “Aye, ’tis true, London would have fallen had she moved swiftly. And with the poor demented king housed safely at the Tower, she would have held all the power here. Herald, I thank you for your news. Gather your men and get you gone to The Erber, where you can help my lord of Warwick best. We are safe here for the time being.”

  The herald finished his wine and took his leave with a graceful bow, giving Margaret a brilliant smile.

  Cecily turned to Margaret and frowned. “I hope you did not encourage that smile, daughter?”

  “Certes, no!” Margaret said innocently, but secretly she knew she had. That night she went to bed and imagined herself being led out for a basse danse by the handsome herald. She reached out her hand under the covers and, pretending the other one was his, she squeezed her own fingers and murmured, “With pleasure, master herald.” She frowned. She didn’t even know his name. Before she could make one up, however, she drifted off to sleep.

  MARGARET WAS BORED. Baynard’s had been under a self-imposed curfew since the earl of Warwick had marched out of London from his residence on the twelfth day of February five days ago. Only those charged with provisioning the castle and its vast stables were permitted to venture into the streets. Cecily was taking no chances. The children were allowed to walk around the ramparts or in the extensive walled garden and exercise their horses by trotting round and round the courtyard. The boys, Margaret noted enviously, never tired of competing with each other at archery in the butts, tilting or with wooden weapons in swordplay, cheered on by idle squires and stable lads.

  She had toiled over a tapestry for more than an hour that morning, attended Mass, and followed Cecily around dutifully as her mother over-saw the smooth running of the castle. She listened to the usual conversation with the steward, who told Cecily about everything from the birth of a child to a beating of an errant page. Then Cecily checked the account books with the comptroller and signed orders for provisions for the entire castle. Margaret did not have an aptitude for figures, but she knew that when she had her own household, she would be expected to oversee not only her own expenses but also those of her husband, should he be gone. But Cecily seemed to enjoy the responsibility, and Margaret marveled at how quickly it was all resolved every day.

  Then she had played her lute until her fingertips were sore and practiced French with old Anne, the Norman nursemaid who had begun service with the York family at Edward’s birth. Even her beloved books could not keep her mind occupied today. She longed to escape the confinement of her chamber and the castle walls. Cecily had even forbidden the daily outing along the river in the ducal barge—too dangerous in these times of uncertainty, she told the children. We cannot afford to lose any more York family members, she said. Not while your brother is staking his claim to the throne. Margaret’s attendants Ann and Jane had tried to persuade her to play a game of hide and go seek that would include several of the pimply pages they flirted with incessantly, but Margaret found those two girls’ company less than stimulating. They had been assigned to her by Cecily, who recognized her daughter needed companionship of her own age, but their simpering and obsession with clothes and jewels bored her.

  And so that afternoon she escaped her own chambers and wandered through the maze of rooms in the vast castle, avoiding her mother’s apartment, where she knew she would be immediately put to work on an embroidery Cecily had designed to honor Edward’s victory at Mortimer’s Cross. She found her way to the bridge room, a tiny space directly over the castle gate that had a window onto the world outside the castle. She had come here to cry those first few days after the news of Wakefield reached Baynard’s. Although she still found herself close to tears many times a day, she was learning to hide them—like her mother. Cecily did not tolerate displays of emotion in public. “Those of our station must always be in control of our feelings, do you understand, Margaret? ’Tis a sign of weakness to be seen crying,” she had told Margaret after another of Margaret’s nightmares. “How will we deserve loyalty from our servants if we appear weak?”

  Today, her visit to the bridge room was more to alleviate her boredom than to grieve. Perhaps she could watch ordinary townsfolk in their ordinary lives, something that intrigued the privileged young woman. The door was unlatched, so she pushed it open. Unaware of her presence, a young squire and a servant maid were enjoying a passionate embrace. Margaret stared fascinated at the sight. The young man’s bare buttocks were thrusting back and forth at the young woman, who was standing spreadeagled against the wall, her skirt and shift lifted to her neck. “Harder, harder,” moaned the girl, writhing in what seemed to Margaret to be pain. The squire obliged, and in a very few seconds, both lovers climaxed with a cry. As quietly as she had entered, Margaret left the room, her mind in a whirl.

  At the onset of her courses not a year ago, Cecily had given Margaret a perfunctory explanation of the begetting of children, which had terrified her. But this scene did not seem so terrifying; in fact, it had made her pulse race, and she had experienced a strange physical yearning. She touched her breast and was surprised at the warm sensation she felt all the way to her thighs. At once she was asha
med and mumbled an Ave, feeling for the rosary she kept at her waist. Certes, I shall have to confess this when the priest hears me tomorrow, she thought, for if this feels so pleasurable, it cannot be good for the soul. Cecily’s training had been well digested. She wished she had someone to talk to about the experience other than immature Ann and Jane, and she was sure old Anne would not ever have felt as she was now. Not for the first time, Margaret wished she had been born a boy. They have all the fun, she lamented.

  The rattling noise of the portcullis being raised and the shouts of men interrupted her thoughts. She ran down the stairs, taking the narrow steps two at a time and stopping at the open balcony at the foot. Others were beginning to appear at windows and balconies all over the castle, watching as more and more bloodied men limped, hobbled or were borne by others into the courtyard. Cecily’s steward, an imperious man with white hair and bright blue eyes, stood on the top step leading into the great hall, waiting for the herald to extricate himself from the melee and climb the steps. Margaret recognized the smiling man who had brought them news of Mortimer’s Cross. He was not smiling now.

  “I bring bad news to her grace, the duchess, sir,” he addressed Sir Henry Heydon, the steward, loudly enough for all to hear. “My lord of Warwick has suffered a bitter defeat this day at the hands of the queen at St. Albans field. These few of us escaped to bring the news to London, so you can prepare for the advancing army.”