Daughter of York (30 page)

1466–1467

Elizabeth delivered a lusty daughter on the eleventh day of February, and if Edward was disappointed not have a male heir, he did not show it. In fact, to prove his love for his queen and disavow any rumors that he was displeased, he named the baby Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth is a fine name for a queen, and it may be we have another Elizabeth to reign over us, eh, my pretty?” Edward was lounging on his wife’s bed, holding the baby and smothering the tiny face with kisses. Elizabeth was clothed in a blue silk damask bed robe, her hair cascading down around her from under a tiny jeweled coif. Margaret and George had been invited to meet the newborn in the privacy of Elizabeth’s chamber, and when it was Margaret’s turn to hold the baby, she thought her heart would burst. The dark blue eyes stared vacantly up at her as if taking in her aunt’s purple overdress and the flimsy gauze covering the black velvet pillbox. Margaret rocked the child as she slowly walked around the room and was rewarded when her niece closed her eyes and slept.

“She is beautiful, Elizabeth,” Margaret told the queen. As she turned to give the child to the nurse, she felt a tug on her dress. Fortunata, who
had been given permission by the queen to attend Margaret, was standing on tiptoe to get a glimpse of the child. Margaret bent down to present the bundle and saw Fortunata close her eyes and sway for a few seconds. A slow smile spread over her saturnine features, and when she opened her eyes again, she touched the baby’s cheek.

“She will be a great lady,
madonna.
Aye, she will be a queen,” she pronounced, and scurried back to her place behind the tall oak chair. The king and queen crossed themselves, and Edward looked pleased.

“Mayhap she will be queen of France!” he cried. “But she cannot be queen of England, because Bess and I plan to have many more children, and there is bound to be a boy among them somewhere. Forgive me, George, I know you of all people are content we have a girl and your place as my heir is secure,” Edward teased, throwing the remark over his shoulder, “but I cannot think your luck will hold.”

Elizabeth’s mouth turned down, deciding Edward must be truly disappointed with a girl, and Margaret glared at her brother for his insensitivity. Turning to look at George, she was puzzled to see him standing by the fire gazing at the crackling logs with his hand gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

•   •   •

“My lord of Warwick placed me not among the guests at the Archbishop’s board for the feast following his enthronement at York Minster, but as the only man of rank with the ladies of his household, to wit, the Countess Anne and her two daughters, Isabel and Anne, as well as our sister, Elizabeth of Suffolk, and our aunt of Westmoreland. My lord of Warwick, who was steward at the feast, gave me the singular honor of sitting at the head table in the chamber of estate. The banquet was the most sumptuous I have ever seen—but pray do not tell Ned this, he would not think kindly on the Nevilles if he thought they were trying to outdo him!”

How true, Margaret thought, raising her eyes from Richard’s letter and focusing them on the exquisite new arras from Brussels on the opposite wall. Ned does not need any more reasons to drive a wedge between him and the earl. She read on.

“’Tis said my lord archbishop employed sixty-two cooks to provide food for us, and such food, Meg, as would feed a thousand. More than a hundred oxen, a thousand sheep, three hundred veals, two thousand pigs, hundreds of stags and a dozen porpoises were served along with a hundred peacocks, thousands of geese, chickens, quails and pigeons, all washed down with a hundred tuns of wine, and three hundred tuns of ale. I must have eaten a great deal, for I could not move for hours following, and my horse complained when I sat him next.”

Margaret’s mouth watered while her eyes popped out of her head at the details. She chuckled at his last remark. He writes as he speaks, she thought, missing her earnest younger brother in that moment. The last time she had seen Warwick, he had complimented Richard on his ability with the short sword and mace. Margaret had smiled politely, but she would rather have heard that his reading and dancing had improved. Now she could see that his writing certainly had. He would spend another year or two under the earl’s mentorship, she guessed. She hoped there would not come a time when Richard would have to choose between his master and his brother. The schism was growing daily, it seemed. She sighed, folded the letter and put it in her silver coffer along with those from her intended, Dom Pedro. The Warwick worry was still there.

E
DWARD’S PREDICTION TO
her in December was proved correct. None of the marriage negotiations had moved forward by June, and Margaret still had not seen the promised betrothal ring from Aragon. There were whole days when she was able to forget she would have to leave England, and these were her favorite times. Then the day came when she knew she would never see the ring or her bullfrog bridegroom.

Will Hastings caught up to her one cloudless June morning as she was enjoying a stroll in the Wardrobe gardens.

“God’s greeting to you,” he said, after bowing low. “I regret I bring bad tidings, Lady Margaret. Dom Pedro is dead.”

Margaret stood stock-still, thoughts tumbling in her head, her emotions raw. Relief, disappointment, frustration and sorrow crowded her heart. She tried to sort out the emotions, but a desire to sit down won the day, and she looked around for an excedra. Will stood quietly as he watched her process the news. Her face betrayed nothing, and he was afraid she had not heard him correctly. But then he noticed the busy fingers pulling apart a daisy she had plucked from the grassy wall she had sunk down on, and he realized she was indeed thinking hard about what the information meant to her.

Margaret had begun to like Dom Pedro for his neat turn of phrase and down-to-earth wooing in his letters. She had prayed to her own feast-day saints, St. James and St. Philip, to St. Monica, patron saint of wives, and even her own St. Margaret to guide Edward’s negotiations in the direction of Aragon. It would be the better of two evils, she believed. Everything she had learned thus far of Charles of Burgundy was enough to turn even a stout-hearted woman’s stomach, she thought, let alone someone as sensitive as she. She hoped she would experience with a lifelong mate at least a little of the pleasure John Harper and Anthony had aroused in her. She had witnessed the love between her mother and father, who hated being apart and fell into each other’s arms when in private, even in front of their children. She had seen the grief in Jack Howard’s face when his wife had died the previous year. Now she was witnessing the fulfillment of desire between her brother and his wife. She knew it was possible, but how could it be possible with a man happier on a horse in battle than in bed with her? A pox on Dom Pedro, she thought resentfully, and then was immediately contrite.

Will Hastings waited patiently for her response. Margaret had almost forgotten he was there except for his heavy breathing.

“Dead, my lord? How can he be dead? He was only thirty-eight. He was to have married me. I received a letter from him only last month, and he said nothing of sickness or dying. God rest his soul,” she ended, crossing herself.

“We know not how he died, my lady. ’Twas a shock for all of us. Your brother sent me here as soon as we had the news. I am sorry for you. You have been anticipating your formal betrothal to him for almost a year—eagerly I must believe.”

“Aye, my lord, I was,” she lied, and held her thumb between her fingers for it. “But my grief must pale beside his family’s. It cannot have been expected.” She rose suddenly when she knew what she must do. “If you would be kind enough to escort me over the bridge to the good friars next door, I would be grateful. I am given leave by the abbot to pray in the little chapel when I need. I must light a candle and beg indulgences for Dom Pedro’s soul through Purgatory.”

“With all my heart, Lady Margaret,” he said, offering his arm.

They walked along comfortably enough, and she pointed out flowers
and plants of particular beauty to him while her mind sorted through her feelings. Beatrice and Fortunata followed a few paces behind them, and as they processed to the Grey Friars, Margaret glanced sideways at Will. His many pleasures in life—eating, drinking and philandering—had done little to keep him in fine fettle, Margaret had thought many times. The fashionable padded jacket added to his girth, despite the narrowing of the garment at the waistline. The king had legislated that no man under the status of lord could dress to draw attention to his privy parts, and thus, unfortunately, the new regulations set by Edward for dress in England allowed this overweight nobleman to wear the short cotehardie, exposing his rather large buttocks and exaggerated codpiece. ’Tis unflattering, Lord Hastings, Margaret had wanted to tell him on more than one occasion, but today she simply found the councilor a large, comforting presence. She could think of nothing but her deceased fiancé and the abrupt change in her fortune. She suddenly felt very cold and alone.

W
HILE
E
DWARD TOOK
his time about deciding Margaret’s future, he had wasted none in elevating his parvenu Woodville relations.

In March, he had given the profitable office of Treasurer to Lord Rivers, who was then created Earl Rivers in May. By August the new earl, already a king’s councilor, was named Constable of England for life, and his annual income exceeded one thousand pounds. But it was the marriages that rankled with the old nobility and especially with Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, who had two eligible daughters of his own to provide for. Elizabeth’s sister, Katharine, was married to Henry Stafford, heir of the duke of Buckingham; Anne took William, Viscount Bourchier, heir to the earl of Essex; and Eleanor was given to the heir of the earl of Kent. In September, Mary Woodville was betrothed to the son of William Herbert, and Edward gave him the title of Lord Dunster. Elizabeth paid a handsome sum for Anne Holland, daughter of Edward’s sister, the duchess of Exeter, for her oldest son, Thomas Grey. This was the last straw for Warwick, for Anne had been promised to his brother, Lord Montagu’s son, who would become earl of Northumberland one day.

“My lord of Warwick did all but blow steam from his nostrils when he heard of the Holland purchase,” George told Margaret as they sat together at Baynard’s, awaiting their mother’s arrival from a visit with
Edward. “And who could blame him, in truth? Elizabeth has learned her greedy ways from her father and mother. Rivers is the worst bootlicking, power-grasping parasite it has been my misfortune to know. ’Tis all because Edward is besotted with the Woodville woman, and I hate her.”

“Soft, George, someone may hear you. Why do you rail so against her? She is only protecting her family. It cannot affect you, so why put hatred in your heart when there is no need. You must learn to keep your temper, my dear George, and you should not question Ned’s decisions or speak your mind so openly or ’twill land you in hot water. Heed what I say. Ned is dangerous when he is crossed. Believe me, I know.”

She glanced around the ducal waiting chamber, but other than Fortunata, who was seated in her usual spot, no one was paying them much heed.

“Aye, you are right, Meg, but I think I know Warwick now even better than Ned does. I have made it my business to be in his company and seek his advice. I am determined to marry well, and now that Mary of Burgundy has been denied me, I need the earl on my side.” He declined to reveal that the earl had filled his head with ideas of a marriage with his elder daughter, Isabel, and that as heir-male to the throne, it was prudent to ally himself with the most powerful lord in the realm. Perhaps together they could set Edward against the Woodvilles and bring him back into Warwick’s fold. Margaret would have been deeply concerned to know how easily the earl had turned George’s handsome head.

“Imagine my happiness if you and I could have been together in Burgundy,” Margaret replied. “In truth, I wish the negotiators for my marriage with Charles would all drown in a butt of malmsey!” she whispered, forgetting for a moment she was wishing Anthony would drown with them, as he was now the chief negotiator. “I am so frightened I will have to wed him.”

George laughed. “Why, Meg, you would be the richest woman in Europe once the old dodderer daddy dies. Charles cannot be as bad as you paint, although ’tis certain he has put two wives in the ground already, and he is not even forty.”

Margaret groaned. “Don’t speak of him anymore, George. It sends me to the depths of despair.”

“Very well, my lady. I am yours to command,” he cajoled. “Cheer up,
my dear Meg. Let us speak instead of malmsey,” George cried, motioning to a squire. “Wine, sirrah, if you please!”

Later, she and Fortunata knelt together at the prie-dieu and prayed first for Dom Pedro’s soul and then for strength to face a possible future with Charolais. Despite wanting the negotiations to fail, she sadly admitted that the English merchants needed an alliance with Burgundy to rally the economy. Duke Philip’s restrictions on English exports were hurting everyone’s pockets. As they often did, her thoughts turned to Anthony, who was now so closely involved with her future. She hoped he knew she did not want this betrothal because it would take her away from him.

And without warning or truly knowing why, Margaret began to cry. At first a few tears hung on her long eyelashes and then slowly rolled down her cheeks, but once they were released after months of damming, more and more followed, until she was weeping as though her heart would break. Fortunata quietly got up and went to find Beatrice. She had not seen her mistress cry before and for once was at a loss how to help her. There was something motherly about Beatrice that was comforting, Fortunata knew, as more than once the older woman had put her arm around the dwarf when an unkind taunt from another lady or squire had wounded her. Beatrice was in the next room, readying Margaret’s bed for the night, and she came hurrying in at Fortunata’s request.