Daughter of York (32 page)

“’Tis so beautiful, is it not, Fortunata,” she murmured to her companion, who was standing on a stool to reach the window. “I love this place, and I know not how I shall bear to leave it.” It seemed inevitable that she would and that France or Burgundy would be her home. Even losing her language weighed on her, although she had an easy facility with spoken French. In her parents’ time, the court spoke French more than English, but gradually English had become the preferred conversational language, she was happy to say. She took one more long look at the scene in front of her and sighed.

“’Tis time for sleep,
pochina
. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?”

I
T BROUGHT THE
Bastard of Burgundy at last. Accompanied by Garter King-of-Arms, Antoine de la Roche sailed to Blackwall from Gravesend where, despite the fact that the king was still at his hunting lodge in Kingston, he was given a grand reception by a large party of lords that included one of Edward’s most trusted advisers, John Tiptoft, earl of Worcester. Word of the arrival whistled along the streets and alleys, and when Margaret was told, she sent Fortunata off to witness the event. It was at times like these that her lofty station chafed at her.

“You will run all the way there and remember every detail, you understand. I want to know what he looks like, who was there, what language did they speak. Everything,
pochina
. I will be waiting,” Margaret said, shooing Fortunata out of the room.

Later, with Margaret’s closest women around her, Fortunata told how the barge carrying the visiting dignitaries arrived at Billingsgate wharf and how the group had to make its way through the fish market to East-cheap, Watling Street, the Ludgate and to the Bishop of Salisbury’s magnificent town house, which was at the disposal of the Bastard for his visit. Fortunata followed the procession.

“Make way, make way for my lord Anthony of Burgundy!” A voice rang above the cheering crowds, and a swathe was cut for the party to pass through. Fortunata immediately recognized Sir John Howard, striding ahead of the challenger from Bruges, the English knight’s velvet-trimmed scarlet gown and elaborately rolled hat setting off his graying hair and black
eyes. She spoke warmly of the earl of Worcester, the king’s close councilor, describing his emerald short houppelande, large soft hat and liripipe and his many jewels so minutely that Margaret became impatient.

“’Tis enough about the earl, Fortunata. I know you admire him because he speaks your language, but we are more disposed to hear what the Bastard wore, are we not, ladies?”

“Aye!” was the unanimous response. Fortunata looked crestfallen until Margaret patted her hand and encouraged her to continue.

The Bastard, it seems, was even more magnificent than the English lords, and his jewels larger and more profuse. He wore an elaborate collar from which hung a gold and enameled medallion representing a sheepskin, “The order of the Golden Fleece,” explained Margaret, and Fortunata looked blankly at her. “’Tis like our order of the Garter,
pochina
. A very great honor for a knight to receive. But go on. Is he handsome?” Margaret was anxiously awaiting a description of the man she thought might give a clue to his half brother Charles’s looks.

“
Si,
very handsome. Not as young as milord Scales,
madonna
. Ten years older maybe. He has long hair to here,” she said, touching her shoulders, “and brown like mine. Not as tall as the king, but big here.” She indicated her chest. “Strong, you see.”

Margaret suddenly felt cold. This is the man who could hurt Anthony, she thought. The women were surprised by her change in tone when she brought the conversation to a halt. “Enough, Fortunata. Ladies, apply yourselves to your books, please, we have heard enough!” she commanded.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, Edward and his retinue entered the city with heralds, clarions and trumpets preceding the colorful cavalcade. As king’s champion, Anthony rode in front of his sovereign and received the accolades of the excited citizenry. He and Edward dismounted at St. Paul’s and went inside to make an offering. Margaret was in her litter, surrounded by her pikemen in the York murrey and blue, watching the scene from in front of a chandler’s shop, its gaily painted signboard swinging above her. Women leaned from casements on the second floor of the houses opposite St. Paul’s and waved scarves and kerchiefs when the king came out on the steps leading to the courtyard, a small gold circlet on his shining hair. He was still the most striking man in the entourage that followed him
out, Margaret thought, although Anthony was the more handsome. Ned saw her across the street and lifted his hand in greeting, placing it on his heart. She smiled and waved back.

At that moment the Bastard of Burgundy’s group joined the throng at the entrance to the courtyard. A hush came over the crowd. Back in his saddle and swinging his great mount round to lead the procession with Edward, Anthony wondered at the silence, and when the reason for it was pointed out to him, he saw his antagonist for the first time. The two men locked gazes for a moment, and the Londoners watched with interest. The Englishman unsheathed his sword, kissed the hilt and saluted the Burgundian, who smiled briefly and bent in an elegant bow. The mounted company regrouped behind Edward and Anthony, and with fanfares and the beating of tabors moved off towards Ludgate, Fleet Street and on to Westminster.

L
ONDON BUZZED WITH
tournament gossip and every inn, tavern and lodging house was full to bursting. A tournament was a treat for the hard-working citizens. It was a sporting event carried out with meticulous rules, and although injuries and even death could occur, the sport was in the skill of the jousters, not in bloodshed.

On one side of the Smithfield lists, a canopied section of seats was raised for the royal party, and on the opposite, a smaller stage for the mayor and aldermen. Count Antoine had an audience with the king and attended the opening of Parliament in the Painted Chamber at Westminster as part of his official visit to England. Two days later, Lord Scales made another grand entrance, from the river this time, coming up from Greenwich by barge to St. Katherine’s Wharf just east of the massive outer Tower wall. John Howard, acting on behalf of his patron, the duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of England, escorted the queen’s brother to the Bishop of Ely’s palace at Holborn, where he would lodge until the tournament.

And so the citizens waited and waited. For six more days they waited.

A
NTHONY WAS ANNOUNCED
, much to the astonishment of the steward, who hurried to Margaret’s solar to tell her of Lord Scales’s visit.

“Such an honor, my lady. In this time of preparation that he should seek you out is a singular honor.”

Margaret was fond of the old man and she did not point out that to the contrary, it was an honor for Anthony to be accorded an audience with the king’s sister. Instead she smiled and asked for Anthony to be admitted. “We will have wine, Master Vaughan. I pray you find a good one,” and, seeing the man’s white eyebrows lower in a frown, for he watched over the household spending with a thrifty eye, she teased, “for such an honored guest, sir.”

It happened that she was accompanied only by Jane and Fortunata when Master Vaughan ushered Anthony in. He swept off his high hat to make her obeisance. “My lady,” he said. “Lady Jane, Mistress Fortunata, I give you good day.”

The steward fussed around him, beaming, and pulled a chair forward.

“God’s greeting, my lord. We are indeed honored by your visit.” Margaret smiled, catching a satisfied look on Master Vaughan’s face. “You may leave us, master steward, and send up some wine, as we discussed.”

Master Vaughan bowed first to Margaret and then to Anthony and continued bowing as he backed out of the room, his face pink with pleasure.

“What have I done to deserve that?” Anthony laughed, putting the chair closer to her and sitting down.

“All London is at your feet. Certes, do not dissemble, sir. You must know it. Poor Master Vaughan is quite overcome with pride that you should choose our humble house to set your magnificent foot in.” Margaret chuckled. Then she turned serious. “But I am glad you came, Anthony. I have had nightmares about the tournament and I fear for your life.”

“Faint-hearted Marguerite. Have you no faith in me? I trounced your brother at Eltham in April, do you not remember? I live for the chance to use this God-given talent to all who challenge me. If I fight in His name, I cannot lose. If my heart is pure, I cannot lose. Have faith, sweet lady. I will accomplish my emprise and receive the flower of sovenance, you will see.”

“If you say so, Anthony,” Margaret said, meekly. She had observed the fire in his eyes when he talked of his passion for the joust and wished it could be directed at her. “But do not think ill of me if you see me with my hands over my eyes. I do not understand the need for men to prove themselves by fighting. I think God would prefer we use our tongues to resolve our differences.”

“I cannot explain a man’s desire, Marguerite. It is in our nature to fight, I believe, and is another cross God asks us to bear. All I know is that I will fight as fair and true as God gives me strength and courage to do.”

“Like Sir Lancelot,” Margaret said, nodding. “I remember.”

A page entered with wine, and Fortunata took the jug and told him to go. Then she served them in the silver goblets and drew Jane to the window on the other side of the room. Anthony watched her, silently praising the clever servant.

“Aye, like Lancelot,” he repeated. “’Twas our first meeting by the river at Shene,” Anthony said quietly, looking at her over the brim of his cup. “I was entranced by your eyes, Marguerite. Their color is mysterious, changing with your moods. But most of all they are filled with wit and kindness and mirror who you are. I wanted to know all about you from the moment I met you.” He put the wine down and leaned close. “I still do.”

Observant Fortunata opened the window wide and pointed something out to Jane in the garden below. Anthony seized the moment and took Margaret’s face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Margaret could taste the sweet wine on his lips and closed her eyes. This time she allowed herself no interference from her head as she let his tongue lightly play between her lips. All she prayed was that the moment would last for ever.

Of course, it did not, and he sat back in his chair just as Jane turned her head and said, “Lady Margaret, there is a sweet pup lost in the garden. May I go down and rescue it?”

Margaret jumped at the sound of her voice. For a second, she had thought she and Anthony were completely alone. How had Jane not seen Anthony’s kiss? She turned and saw Fortunata’s innocent gaze on the ceiling and knew the dwarf must have diverted the other woman’s attention. She laughed, her heart filled with gratitude for Fortunata and love for Anthony. She had no doubt she must be—in Fortunata’s word—shining at this moment.

“Aye, Jane. Bring the little thing here. I wonder whose it can be?” She heard her own voice but knew not what she said. She dared not look at Anthony, but she was certain he understood her even better now, although she did not understand him. Their first kiss had elicited immediate regret and contrition, but this time, he appeared not to have been affected. Why the change? she wondered. She had no qualms about kissing
him, although she knew she would have to confess it on the morrow. It was worth it to experience the sensual thrill his touch gave her. Touch me again, she wanted to say, touch my breast, my … She dared not name where else she wanted to be touched.

She held her hands tightly in her lap and forced herself to look at Jane. Anthony rose and drained his cup as Jane skipped out of the room. He began pacing, watched intently by Fortunata from the window. She wanted her mistress to be happy, and although she liked Anthony, she did not know yet whether she trusted him.

“I thought you might like a dog of your own, Marguerite,” Anthony said, his voice betraying none of the emotion of the kiss. “This little pup is from Norfolk. My wolfhound, Tarquin, sired a litter two months ago, and I kept the prize of it for you. Say you will take him in.”

The precious moment of passion was over, Margaret realized, and taking her cue from Anthony, she clapped her hands with delight. “Thank you, my lord, with all my heart. I shall name him something that will remind me of you. Let me see,” she thought for a few moments and then her eyes lit up. “Astolat! That shall be his name.”

Anthony looked puzzled. “Astolat. I cannot think why I know that name.”

“Remember? Elaine of Astolat fell in love with Sir Lancelot, but he did not return her love. She died of a broken heart and floated down to Camelot on a flower-strewn barge, carrying a love letter to him.”

“Aye, now I remember.” Anthony was pensive. “’Tis a sad story.” He leaned over and whispered, “Do I make you sad, Marguerite?”

“When you are not with me, my lord,” she murmured, “and there are times when I believe I shall die for love of you.”

“Nay, do not say such things,” Anthony said, harshly. “Or God will punish us for certain.” He glanced at Fortunata, who was now standing on a stool to look out of the window.

“Does he punish us for what we think, Anthony?” Margaret asked, her eyes sad. “I cannot control my thoughts, and they are constantly of you. There have been times when I have been present at court that you appear to ignore me, making me think you do not care.”

He took a deep breath and sat down again. “Do you think ’tis easy for me to see you day after day at court and watch you from afar?” he
whispered. “I have no wish to hurt or shame Eliza, and so simply to see you there must satisfy me. I do not dare pay you more attention than is correct. But never doubt I care,” he swore into her eyes. “If you think it would ease your mind, I will pen my devotion to you and write to you as Elaine.” Margaret’s eyes widened with pleasure, giving him his answer. “But,” he repeated, “I swear that I care.” Then louder he said, “Where is Lady Jane with the pup?”

Margaret’s sunny tone told him she believed him as she answered, “Perhaps she is having trouble catching the dog. I could not wish for a more precious gift, Anthony, except perhaps a book. And,” she called out purposely, “perhaps Fortunata will lose her fear of dogs.”