Daughter of York Page 5

  Margaret involuntarily clapped her hands and laughed, the first to understand the joke. Anthony looked at her with interest but was interrupted by Edward’s merry laughter, and he turned to acknowledge the compliment. Edward put his arm about Anthony’s shoulders, and they moved towards the door. “Then let us to the hunt, my friends!” he cried, “and see what we can find for tomorrow’s dinner.”

  Anthony looked back over his shoulder at the king’s sister; his lively blue eyes met her equally intelligent gray ones. They both smiled, and Margaret’s heart skipped a beat.

  “WELL MET, MY lady,” a young man murmured in Margaret’s ear a few days later. “Have you placed a wager on anyone as yet?”

  Margaret swung round and found herself eye to eye with the herald-messenger who had brought them news of Towton and Mortimer’s Cross. He bowed over her hand. “John Harper, if it please you, madam. And these ladies?”

  “Well met, sir.” She nodded at Ann and Jane, who curtseyed quickly. “Mistress Herbert and Mistress Percy.” John Harper gave them a cursory glance and bowed.

  Margaret was nervous. She was intrigued that he should seek her out, but she was taken aback by his audacity. It was not usual for one of his lower rank to thus address her. Although she knew she ought to rebuff him, she decided to answer his first question after checking to see her mother was nowhere in sight. Ann and Jane’s presence provided her safety and a measure of courage. “I do not wager, Master Harper, but if I did, I would pick my brother to win the day.”

  He was standing very close to her, and she could smell a mix of sweat, horses and rosewater. Her pulse raced, and she found her palms were clammy. She held on tightly to the chaplet of flowers she and her ladies had woven earlier as a crown for the victor and tried to appear nonchalant. Calm down, Meg, she told herself, ’tis a man of no import and a bold one at that. But her senses were aroused, although she tried to concentrate on the sport taking place on the river. Tell him to leave, she admonished herself, he has no right to unnerve you thus! Go away, herald, oh, please go away! It did not help that Jane was fluttering her eyelashes at him. Margaret felt like slapping her.

  As if he had sensed Margaret’s plea, he said pleasantly, “Aye, the king has a fair chance, Lady Margaret, but my money is on Sir Anthony. I shall bother you no further. Farewell, ladies.” And he bowed and walked away. Margaret experienced first disappointment and then the familiar twinge of shame about her height, putting the blame for his sudden departure squarely on her lack of desirability.

  Ann and Jane twittered as they watched him go. “’Tis a pity he left so quickly, my lady,” Jane whispered. “A handsome young man indeed!” agreed Ann.

  “Jane!” Margaret retorted. “He was out of bounds, in truth. And I should not have answered him. But I grant you, he is handsome,” she murmured, looking after him wistfully.

  A fanfare of trumpets, shawms and sackbuts drew their attention from the herald to the impending competition. Edward had declared that a water tournament would be the sport of the day, and several contestants had stepped up to participate. A boat was anchored in the middle of the river with a wooden quintain target attached, and one by one the tilters would try their luck at hitting the target with their lances—long, dry sticks for this occasion. Margaret and her ladies found seats on a bench close to the riverbank and watched as the first tilter stepped into the small boat equipped with four oars. The boatmen were given the signal, and William Hastings, standing in the center of the boat, was propelled toward the target, lance poised. The crowd began to cheer and the tilter readied himself for the impact, making the boat wobble precariously. Loud laughter accompanied his failed attempt to hit the quintain. He gave a mock bow to the spectators and was rowed back to shore.

  Next in line was Anthony Woodville. Edward encouraged the cheering for his new friend, and Anthony was helped into the boat by his father, a striking figure in green silk who gave him a few last-minute pointers. Margaret could see from whom the younger Woodville had his looks, and although not present to prove it, Anthony’s mother, Jacquetta, was reputed to have been the most beautiful woman at court in her day. Anthony’s chestnut hair gleamed in the sun, and, clothed only in hose and shirt, his physique was admired by all the ladies present, including Margaret. Ann nudged Jane. “Sweet Jesu, I have not seen so fair a man this many a month!” she exclaimed, and then remembered her place. “Excepting our lord Edward, of course.” And she gave a nervous laugh.

  Margaret patted her hand. Why do I feel so much older than these two? she asked herself for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time she wished she had a sister. “No need to flatter me, Mistress Herbert. Sir Anthony is far fairer than my brother, in truth. Tut, tut, but you are fickle, Ann. Two minutes ago you were expounding on Master Harper’s good looks. But we should not prattle on thus! Mother would not approve.” They all laughed happily. After the winter of uncertainty, death and despair, it seemed the summer of that year would be a warm and carefree one indeed.

  The signal was given, and Anthony’s oarsmen pulled hard while he kept his balance in the middle of the boat. This time, the lance hit the quintain squarely in the middle, and the wooden stick crumpled in his hand. He weaved back and forth for a few seconds before recovering his stance, and the crowd threw flowers into the water and roared their approval. He waved his bonnet and blew kisses to the ladies. Margaret found herself clapping enthusiastically, raising an eyebrow from Ann. “My lady, surely you are for our lord, the king.”

  “Oh, aye, Ann. But ’twas nicely done, nonetheless!” Margaret tossed off.

  Now it was Edward’s turn. The musicians piped him on board his boat, and he shouted, “Sir Anthony, now you shall see some real tilting!” and the crowd cheered him on. Again the oarsmen rowed their erect passenger forward, and Edward stood like a sturdy oak, not wavering one inch. He approached the quintain and lifted his lance, thrusting it at the target. This time, the green branch did not break. The force of the hit threw Edward off balance, and he fell ungracefully into the river. A gasp of horror went up. The crowd was on its feet as he disappeared under the dark surface. A few seconds went by, and everyone held their breath while the oarsmen sat rigid, their oars up. One peered anxiously into the water where the king had fallen, and a moment later, the grinning Edward popped up on the other side of the boat, waving a handful of weeds. Margaret started the laughter that erupted after seeing their sovereign safe. She ran to the bank to where Edward was swimming and placed the chaplet of flowers on his dripping golden hair.

  “You are naught but king of the water sprites today, Ned,” she teased him. “And here is your scepter!” She plucked a bulrush from the bank and gave it to him, curtseying mockingly. The spectators applauded and bowed as well.

  Edward was amused. This was a new side to his little sister. She had indeed matured in the two years he had been busy helping his family win the crown. “I have a good mind to pull you in with me, Meg!” he murmured, as she offered her hand and helped him gain his footing on the slippery slope.

  “Ned! You would not dare!” she retorted, and promptly let go of him. Surprised, Edward slid back into the water. The onlookers gasped, expecting a torrent of fury from their soldier king, but Edward just laughed. “Touché, ma soeur! But see if I don’t repay your courtesy,” he said, winking at her.

  By this time, George and Richard had run forward to help Edward, and the crowd looked on with admiration at the handsome family group.

  “These Yorks stick together,” one man told his neighbor. “It seems the family ties bind strongly.”

  “Aye, ’twould seem they have turned the disaster of six months ago into a triumph of courage. Certes, King Edward will serve us better than the addle-pated Henry and the French bitch, God save his simple soul.”

  EDWARD SPENT THE next two weeks planning his coronation and setting up his household. For one so young, he had assumed the mantle of kingship with an ease ascribed to men twice his age. He enjoyed having his family around him,
and so Margaret found herself taking a keen interest in meetings she witnessed. She would sit quietly with her needlework and listen while Edward and his chief councilors discussed the merits of one man over another for a certain position at court. He asked Cecily’s opinion on several occasions, and Margaret learned that a woman could wield quiet power from behind a veiled hennin.

  When she grew bored with the details, she would excuse herself and take her book to sit by the water’s edge. Kept clean in a velvet bag, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was her constant companion. She loved the feel of the vellum under her fingers and would pore over the beautiful illuminations of the Arthurian story and marvel at the meticulous lettering. Mistress Nose-in-a-Book was what George often called her when he would come upon her reading. “Look, Dickon,” he said once, “Meg’s eyes are crossed and her nose is black from the hours she spends in books!” And he would laugh at her. Little Dickon, however, wasn’t listening. He was busy turning the pages and gazing in wonder at the colorful illuminations.

  Camelot must have looked just like this, Margaret mused, twiddling a grass stalk between her fingers and observing the scene around her. She was sorry to think that Edward could not compare to King Arthur. She had noticed in the last few days that Edward flirted with any passably pretty young woman he encountered. She had heard a rumor that he had a bastard daughter, and she hoped her mother hadn’t heard it, too. King Arthur had been modest and chaste—so claimed all the stories about him—and had been betrayed by his beautiful queen Guinevere. No one had mentioned a bride for Edward as far as she knew, but Margaret pitied the poor woman, for she would have to keep a tight rein on her handsome bridegroom, she knew.

  Her thoughts turned to her own burgeoning emotions. John Harper had danced with her one night, and she found his nearness tantalizing. When he had approached her after gaining Edward’s permission, she had been sure he would change his mind once he got closer. She was, she estimated, two inches taller. But he had smiled into her eyes and asked for the honor of a dance. Her feet hardly touched the floor when she stepped out with him. Almost like her waking dream, he had kissed her fingers afterwards and run his thumb along her palm at the same time. She felt a warmth between her thighs, and she was sure the whole room knew her for a wanton.

  “Good day, Lady Margaret,” a pleasant voice interrupted her thoughts. “I hope I am not disturbing you?”

  Margaret looked up into Anthony Woodville’s smiling face and smiled back unconsciously. “Why, Sir Anthony, I am delighted to have company,” she said, patting the grass. “I pray you sit down.”

  Anthony murmured his thanks and carefully eased his long limbs onto the ground. Margaret had not been this close to him before, and she appraised him at her leisure. Aye, he was possibly the handsomest man she had ever seen, but what she liked more was the openness of his expression. She saw no guile in the wide eyes and upward-turned mouth, simply confidence and a modicum of arrogance. She was also intrigued by the dimple that appeared in his left cheek as he smiled. Thank you, dear Mother of God, for letting me be seated, she thought. Perhaps he will not notice my height.

  “I saw you with a book, my lady, and as books are my passion, I could not resist coming to see what you were so earnestly reading.”

  Margaret wondered vaguely if he was flattering her, but his tone was sincere, and so she offered the book to him.

  “Ah, so you, too, are enthralled by Arthur and his knights,” he said, turning the pages reverently. “Tell me, who is your preferred knight?”

  “Galahad, sir. Certes, who could not favor a man who searches so long and valiantly for the Grail? And you, Sir Anthony?”

  “I commend your choice, Lady Margaret. Mine is Lancelot du Lac for his gentleness, courtesy and courage. If I may be so forward as to tell you, my aim is to model myself upon him. You do know he was also the greatest fighter of all Arthur’s knights, do you not?”

  Margaret scrutinized his face for signs of falseness, but she was rewarded with a direct look and serious expression. “Aye, my lord,” she answered him with equal directness, “although I cannot fathom why men have to prove themselves by fighting each other. But your goal is honorable and long may it continue. But”—she paused, and a small smile changed the tone of her response—“you must guard against falling in love with the queen—when my brother chooses one!”

  “Ah, yes. Guinevere. But you see, I am married, and that is where Lancelot and I differ.”

  At the mention of his wife, Margaret was brought back to earth. How stupid she was not to have remembered! She lowered her eyes. “Aye, so I have heard. We have not yet had the pleasure of your lady wife’s company at court. Will she be joining you here, sir?”

  “Eliza’s health has not been strong of late. She has been keeping to our estates in Norfolk much of the time,” was all he would say. Baroness Scales was the only daughter of Thomas, Seventh Baron Scales, and had inherited the title when her Lancastrian father was murdered by boatmen on the Thames in the year of her marriage to Anthony in 1460. By rights and by marriage Anthony should have been granted the title of baron, but King Henry had more on his mind at that precarious juncture with the Yorkists than to spend time on granting this right to such an insignificant young man. He sighed and looked down at the book, running one immaculately manicured finger over the gold leaf of one of the illustrations. “This is beautiful, Lady Margaret. I can see why it is a favorite.” Then he closed it and handed it to her. “Now I must go.” He could see questions in Margaret’s eyes and had no desire to go into details about his lack of title for fear of reminding Edward’s sister of his recent Lancastrian leanings. He winced as he rose to leave.

  Concerned, Margaret said, “Edward tells me you were wounded at Towton field, sir. I see it pains you still.”

  “’Tis nothing, in truth. A flesh wound to the leg, and it heals gradually.” He grinned. “I am unused to sitting on the ground, ’tis all. You thought I was looking for sympathy from a lady, perhaps? I am a poet, ’tis true, but I have not tried my hand at mummery yet!”

  Margaret laughed up at him. “Good day, my lord. I should like to read some of your verses.” She added shyly, “Certes, if you share them.”

  “I would have to know you a good deal better before inflicting them on you, Lady Margaret,” he murmured, bowing over her outstretched hand. “Good day to you.”

  Margaret was unprepared for the fire that ran up her arm to her heart as he kissed her fingers. She drew in a sharp breath but covered it with a cough. Anthony turned and walked away, his short cote swinging rhythmically around his knees and his head held high.

  “LEAVE US!” EDWARD’S shouted command was heard clearly in Margaret’s chamber three doors away. It was not the first time she and her ladies had heard angry outbursts from the new king. Cecily informed her that the king of France had made good on a promise to aid Queen Margaret and had laid siege to one of the Channel Islands, and the news had reached Edward not long after his arrival at Shene. It was feared that an invasion of England would be France’s next move. A few Lancastrian lords were thought to be inciting the West Country to insurrection against Edward, so Edward had sent troops to the area to resist the French—who never came.

  Today, the messengers had brought news of an even more alarming nature. Queen Margaret and her son, Edouard, had led an army of Scots over the border to Carlisle, and after laying waste to the land, they threatened the city. Powerful Lancastrians in the north had rallied to her banner and were preparing to march south and reclaim the throne for Henry, left out of harm’s way over the border in Scotland.

  “Christ’s nails! When will I be rid of that she-wolf,” Edward growled later, when the family ate supper in the royal apartments. The atmosphere was tense, and Edward’s attendants kept a respectful distance, talking with Cecily’s ladies. “Where is Warwick when I need him?”

  “Hush, my son,” Cecily soothed. “My lord of Warwick gives you good service. You would not be where you are now without him. You
know he is loyally serving you from Middleham. I warrant he is on the march now to rout the queen.”

  Edward grunted. “Oui, ma mère, you are probably right. But I cannot sit idly by while the bitch is snapping at our heels. I have given orders for my coronation to be brought forward, and we will postpone the parliament until November so I may join Warwick in the north.”

  Cecily raised an almost invisible eyebrow. “How soon do you propose to be crowned, Edward? I thought the Relic Sunday date was set. You will stretch the poor lord marshal to his breaking point, if you do not give him sufficient time to crown you with all due ceremony!”

  “May he rot in hell!” Edward swore, and then apologized to his horrified mother. “Mowbray is a stalwart; he will be ready on the twenty-eighth.”

  “The twenty-eighth? Have you taken leave of your senses? That is no more than a sennight hence. How can we be ready so soon?”

  “When have you cared how you look, mother?” Edward grinned at her. “You are the most beautiful woman at court, and you do not know it.”

  “Pah! Flatterer,” Cecily retorted and then caught George twisting Richard’s arm painfully over a sweetmeat. Richard’s face was grim as he silently bore the torture, not wanting Edward to see him weak.

  “Let Dickon be, George!” Cecily cried. “You deserve a whipping for that!”

  “Nay, mother,” piped up Richard, rubbing his arm. “It did not hurt, I promise you. And I will pay him back one, you see if I don’t.” He stuck his tongue out at George, snatched the sweetmeat and turned away. George put his thumb on his nose and waggled his fingers at Richard.

  Edward frowned. “Do they squabble like this often?”

  “All the time,” Margaret said, looking up from her book. “It is tiresome, and I wish they would grow up!”