Daughter of York Read online

  Margaret listened spellbound, imagining the scene and thrilling to the romance of it all.

  “Two rather unkempt women ran into the room and shooed the men out, telling Tom to boil water. ’Twas too late for that. Five minutes later and I held you in my arms. A beautiful and healthy little girl!” Cecily’s face clouded for a second, and Margaret knew she was also remembering the six children she had lost: Edmund in battle, and William, John, Henry, Thomas and baby Ursula, who had all died in infancy. Sweet Mother of God, I pray all my children are healthy and live to be a ripe old age, Margaret thought. She was yearning to be a mother, although she decided that Cecily’s twelve were perhaps six too many.

  Margaret looked about her with interest at Hunsdon, gazing at the big tester bed where she was born and touching the heavy damask curtains with reverence. Cecily was tired but watched Margaret at the bed, a soft smile playing around her mouth.

  “Would you like to share my bed tonight, Margaret? Lady Isabel will not mind sharing with your ladies, will you Isabel?” Cecily asked a tart older woman sweetly.

  Isabel, countess of Essex, Cecily’s sister-in-law, raised a haughty eyebrow but bowed her assent. “As you wish, Cecily.”

  Margaret ran and hugged the countess and then her mother, who at once admonished her for such a show of emotion. “Really, Margaret, you must learn to restrain yourself! I pray you forgive her, Isabel, she lacks discipline still.”

  Isabel sniffed and, giving orders to Cecily’s attendants to ready the duchess for bed, refrained from comment.

  Later, snuggled in private behind the bed curtains, Margaret took advantage of the intimacy to ask Cecily about being a wife and mother. “Did you love Father very much?” she ventured. “We all thought you and Father were the happiest people in the world.”

  Cecily sighed. “Aye, Meg,” and Margaret glowed at the unaccustomed use of her nickname by her mother. “Your father and I loved each other deeply, because we had known each other since children. Your father was a ward of my father’s, as you know, and came to live with us at Raby when he was four. We were so fortunate. But I must caution you that it may not be so for you, my dear. When Richard was away, I felt as half a person, as though I were missing a limb or something akin. I foolishly risked myself and my children to be with him whenever I could. You should know, Margaret, that your children are the most precious things you have, and I beg of you, when you become a mother, do not imitate my folly. I might have lost George and Richard at Ludlow had I not insisted on staying with your father. You were safe at Fotheringhay then, but I took a chance that the queen would not harm a woman and two little boys when your father was betrayed and had to flee with his army, leaving me at the castle to face the enemy.”

  “You hate Margaret of Anjou a great deal, do you not, Mother? I almost wish I did not bear her name, for you and Edward speak it with such hatred.”

  “Aye, we should all hate her. ’Twas she who turned King Henry against us. I must tell you, though, that during the time when your father and Henry were on good terms and you were born, we thought it would flatter the young, beautiful queen to name you after her. To no avail. Now, because you are so very different from that she-wolf, when I say your name, it doesn’t even sound the same as hers. So never believe I think of her when I say it.”

  “I long to have children, Mother,” Margaret whispered. “But I am afraid of who Edward will choose for me. Suppose I hate him on sight?”

  “You must always pray to the good Lord to give you strength for such eventualities. How do you think I have survived these two years without your father? My strength and my only comfort is my faith, and you would do well to spend more time reading your Bible and attending Mass than you do, my dear. I am not there to guide you in this every day, I understand, but instead of reading about King Arthur and Sir Gawain—aye, I have my spies, Meg—I would suggest you look to the writings of St. Catherine of Siena or St. Bridget of Sweden. Promise me you will.”

  “Aye, Mother,” Margaret said, stifling a yawn.

  “Now, let us say an Ave together for your father’s and brother’s souls.”

  Ave Maria, gratia plena

  Dominicum tecum

  Benedicta tu in mulieribus …

  By then Margaret was asleep. Cecily, however, prayed on.

  “FOTHERINGHAY HAS NEVER seemed so far,” Cecily complained, peering out of the carriage over the flat, marshy fens. “I do not recall it taking this long. I hope we are on the right road.”

  “Mother! Ermine Street is the only road from London to Huntingdon, and we turned off to take the Corby road a few miles ago. We are not far now. ’Tis strange how I remember the road after all this time. I was not ten years old the last time I traveled it.”

  The wheels were stuck again, and while some of the servants attempted to move the heavy chariot, others chose to dismount, relieve themselves and let their horses chomp the coarse fenland grasses. The cold rain was turning to sleet, and Cecily was afraid they would have snow before reaching Fotheringhay.

  Margaret poked her head through one of the side openings to watch the progress with the wheel and failed to notice a shadowy figure emerge from behind a tree some thirty paces from her and let loose an arrow. The thwack three feet from her head alarmed her, and when she saw the still quivering arrow, she screamed. All at once, several more men came running from the forest towards the royal group, waving sticks and knives. Margaret, Cecily and their ladies huddled in a corner of the chariot and listened to the skirmish outside. Shouts, groans and clanging of weapons behind the chariot told the occupants that their armed escort was valiantly defending them. Cecily led the women in prayer, telling her rosary and entreating the Virgin to spare them. When one knife-wielding ruffian peered into the dark interior of the vehicle, they all shrieked in terror.

  “What ’ave we ’ere?” he snarled, his mouth curling into a menacing grin. “Oooh, tasty morsels! Pretties! Prizes!” He was reaching for Jane, who was the closest, when suddenly his filthy face contorted in pain. As the women watched in horror, he fell forward with an anguished grunt into Jane’s lap, his lifeblood flowing from a sword wound in his back. Jane swooned, but Margaret didn’t hesitate to move forward and heave the man off her attendant.

  “Have a care, Margaret,” Cecily cried. “He may still be alive!”

  “I doubt it, your grace,” a familiar voice came from the outside. “I ran the measle through from stem to stern.” He pulled wide the curtained door. “Our men have run the vagabonds off, madam. You have no cause to be afraid any longer.”

  “John Harper!” Margaret laughed, relieved. “Mother, ’tis the messenger from Towton field.”

  Cecily had not the faintest recollection of the man, but whoever he was, he had saved them from certain death, she was sure. “Thanks be to God!” she said, and allowed John Harper to escort her out of the chariot.

  “And to Master Harper!” Margaret called after her and could have bitten off her tongue.

  “Don’t be impertinent, Margaret,” her mother scolded. “Certes, ’twas our prayers answered, and God led Master Harper to us!”

  “Aye, Mother,” Margaret said, meekly. “Thanks be to God.”

  She was next out of the carriage. John put his hands around her waist and lifted her down, lingering a second more than necessary. Margaret again smelled the scent of sweat and rosewater, and with her senses heightened from the adventure, his nearness intoxicated her. She allowed him to hold her longer than was seemly, but Cecily was already commending her soldiers for their bravery and did not notice Margaret’s lapse of etiquette. John’s tawny eyes looked admiringly at her, and Margaret felt her pulse race.

  “I am at your service, my lady,” he said graciously. He bowed over her hand and went to join the other retainers, calling one to remove the body from the chariot. Four outlaws, including the one inside, had been slain. Cecily commanded that they be buried right there in the woods. “Certes, this is where they belong. Surely they will rot in hell f
or their misdeeds eventually,” she said. The two soldiers who had been killed were strapped onto their mounts to be buried at Fotheringhay.

  Back in the bloodstained carriage, the wheels finally freed from the mud, the women chattered nervously for the rest of the journey. They all knew that England had become a dangerous place for innocent travelers after the second year of Edward’s reign. The euphoria that had reigned for the handsome young king at his coronation had descended into discontent as Edward continued to tax the people to rid himself once and for all of the Lancastrian threats in the north. The taxes and benevolences he levied drove many into the forests to live as outlaws. Earlier that winter, Edward had started north to quell the uprisings and chase the old king and queen over the border into Scotland, but a case of the measles kept him bedridden while the Lancastrian border castles were surrendered to the earl of Warwick.

  “Measles? Do you think he was too frightened to fight?” George asked Margaret maliciously. Margaret had told him to go to confession for his insult.

  Cecily hoped her son would not return to his wanton ways of hunting, feasting and womanizing that she so deplored and that she feared would turn his subjects against him. She resolved to speak to him of this during the obit. Perhaps knowing that his mother and sister had been in peril of their lives might bring him to his senses.

  An hour later, Margaret looked out through the lightly falling snow and called back to her companions, “I can see the castle keep! I can see Fotheringhay on the hill!”

  “Home,” breathed Cecily, contentedly. “I am home at last.”

  • • •

  MARGARET’S KNEES WERE beginning to feel the effects of so many hours of prayer the family kept during those days at Fotheringhay. The beautiful church was filled with the sounds of chanting, voices lifted in memoriam for the slain duke and his son. Margaret tried to remember the faces of her father and brother as she prayed for their everlasting life in Heaven, but her memory of them had grown dim and only her father’s words stayed with her.

  “Never forget you are a York, Margaret. You have royal blood in your veins from both your mother and from me. Never be disloyal to your family, child. For me, there is no greater crime.”

  She glanced around at the others of her family, heads bowed and hands in prayer: Cecily telling her beads with tears flowing down her cheeks; Edward, his handsome face marked by a few lingering measles; her sisters, Anne and Elizabeth, who had arrived the day before with their ducal husbands and who were as strangers to her; and her two younger brothers, George of Clarence and Richard of Gloucester, the one admiring a ring on his thumb and the other mouthing a prayer. Aye, she thought, these are the only people in the world who matter to me. Father was right.

  She sank back on her heels to relieve her sore knees and gazed at the magnificent stained glass windows all around her, the cobalt blues, ruby reds, golden yellows and tawny browns melting into a kaleidoscope of patterns, with here and there a figure—her ancestors, she surmised. One, clothed in full armor, was on his knees, just as she was. Something about the face reminded her of Anthony, and she felt a blush begin at the base of her throat. What was it about the man that so intrigued her? He had sent her a short poem with Edward, penned while besieging Alnwick Castle a few weeks before. But there was no romance about it. He had written of the dedication by Warwick’s troops to take the fortress and that only God could show them the way. In the end, God had decided the fighting must desist, and the castle had surrendered before it was attacked. Despite the impersonal nature of the poem, she was excited because he had thought of her, and so she folded it carefully and placed it in her silver casket, where, among other treasures, she had a lock of baby Ursula’s hair, a pilgrim’s badge from her father, and her first lost baby tooth. She wondered when she would see Anthony again, and she began daydreaming of possible circumstances.

  She caught Cecily’s eye, who frowned at her to raise herself up again, and as she turned to see what her hem was snagged on, she was unnerved to find John Harper staring straight at her from his position at the back of the church. The essence of a smile crossed his face before he lowered his eyes. Margaret inadvertently smiled back. Mother of God, she panicked, forgive me! ’Twas not seemly of me. I pray he did not see. But she knew her plea was too late.

  A splendid feast followed the final ceremonies. Edward invited the gentry among his neighbors to dine with the royal company. Cecily had suggested that he might gain support from the landowners in the surrounding region with the gesture and that word of his goodwill might spread. Edward loved a party. “The more the merrier,” he had cried upon hearing the idea.

  The large company overflowed into antechambers and the noise was deafening. Margaret could see the musicians blowing and bowing away on their instruments, but they were drowned out by the loud conversation. She had consumed one too many glasses of wine, and the din was giving her a headache. Despite the freezing temperature outside, she wanted some air and thought she would go up to the ramparts. She left the table when Cecily’s head was turned and slipped past the arras that hid the staircase to the family’s private chambers. The heavy tapestry instantly dulled the noise from the hall and she felt better. She mounted the circular stairway in the tower to an arrow loop where she could feel some fresh air through its narrow opening. She leaned into the deep sill of the loop and breathed deeply.

  “I hope you are not ill, Lady Margaret.” John Harper’s voice held quiet concern. “I saw you leave and you looked pale. Forgive me if I intrude.”

  Margaret jumped at the sound of his voice. She saw him standing a few steps below her, the trailing train on her red velvet gown preventing him from coming nearer. His black, curly hair disappeared into the shadows behind him, and the torchlight flickering on his face gave it a ghostly look. They were alone, and Margaret was suddenly aware of all the implications of her action. She should have asked Jane or Ann to leave with her, she knew, but her need for air had caused her to be impetuous. However, she reasoned, she did not fear harm from John Harper, and so she let down her guard a little.

  “I thank you, Master Harper. I had need of some fresh air, but now I am feeling better, I would ask you to escort me back to the hall.” She hoped she sounded as regal as her mother.

  She lifted the train of her dress and draped it gracefully over her arm, revealing a white satin underdress embroidered with marguerites, her own special flower. She had put out her hand for him to help her descend the winding steps when her foot slipped. In a second, she was in his arms, feeling the strength in his shoulders as he stopped her from falling. Again the rosewater, and again her pulse raced. He had her captive, and she found she could not pull away. The urge to be kissed was too great. She closed her eyes and their lips met. Her fingers caressed his curls as she pulled his tongue deeper into her mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered how she knew to do this, but the thought was lost in the wonderful sensation she was experiencing all through her body. Then, without warning, Cecily’s face intruded on her brain, and shame suffused her. One of John’s hands was fondling her breast and the other held her buttocks firmly against him. She could feel something hard through the layers of clothing pressing against her thigh, and his desire was mounting as surely as her panic. Then Edward’s familiar, lazy voice pierced the moment.

  “Why, Margaret, ’tis early in the evening for such sport. Our lady mother inquires after you. I do believe ’tis time to return to our guests.”

  John released his hold instantly and tried to bow awkwardly on the narrow circular stairs. On the landing below, Edward laughed. “’Tis John Harper, is it not?” John nodded, speechless. “You fought beside me at Towton and St. Albans, and I would not deny you a prize. But I fear my sister may be too high a one! Kiss her if you must, but I forbid anything further.”

  John gasped, and Margaret sank down on the step, her hand flying to her head to right her steepled hennin as she stammered, “’Twas my fault, Edward. Pray do not be angry with Master Ha
rper.” Margaret knew in her heart that she had encouraged the young man, and she did not want to add another sin to the list she must confess on the morrow by pretending she had not.

  “Nay, Lady Margaret, the fault lies with me,” John protested. “I confess I could not help myself. If I have offended you or your grace, I am heartily sorry. My loyalty to your house is unswerving, I swear. Punish me as you will, my lord.” John had descended the few steps to the landing and was now kneeling before Edward, his hand on his heart.

  “Punish you? Punish you for what, pray? Don’t be such an addle-pate, sir. You have not offended me, and as I did not hear her screaming for help, my sister is quite obviously not offended either. I am correct, Margaret?” He saw her look of acquiescence and continued, “Who am I to gainsay young love? Come, Meg, we shall be missed. Good evening, Master Harper.”

  He offered his arm to Margaret, who carefully climbed down the last two steps to join him. They walked silently back to the great hall, leaving a mortified John Harper in their wake. As Edward held the arras aside for his sister, he turned, and John could have sworn his sovereign winked at him.