Daughter of York (34 page)

Edward commended their bravery and skill and then commanded them to shake hands. “Love each other as brothers in arms, my friends,” he said, smiling at them. “You have fought well today, but we want no bloodshed. You may both carry your weapons back to your pavilions, for ’tis not clear which of you is the winner.” He leaned forward and chuckled. Jerking his thumb towards Elizabeth and Margaret, he muttered, “Now go before the ladies all swoon away.”

The two exhausted men clasped arms in friendship and swore never to cross swords again. Anthony strode back to his pavilion, great gashes visible in his armor. He stopped and bowed to Elizabeth and Margaret, who had taken her seat again, and he was followed by loud applause for his knightly exploits. Later, the day was awarded to Anthony, and thus he claimed his jeweled-flower prize.

After two more days of jousting and feasting, the tournament came to an unexpected close. “Make way, make way for the king’s messenger!” the cry rang out. The sea of people parted to allow a dust-covered rider and his equally filthy steed to gallop up to the royal dais.

“Your grace, I beg leave to give you bad tidings.” The breathless messenger
slid from the saddle and onto his knee in front of his sovereign in one graceful motion. The drifting masses regrouped behind him and listened expectantly. The king stiffened and nodded curtly.

“’Tis news for the Maréchal of Burgundy,” the man hurried on. “Duke Philip, his father, is dead, and he is required to return immediately to the court at Dijon!”

Within an hour, the mournful tolling of bells filled the air, making very different music for the city. The festivities were indeed over.

W
ITH
D
UKE
P
HILIP
dead, it became more expedient for the widower Charles to take a wife, as he had no male heir, and thus Margaret began to look more and more appealing to him. He might be able to put aside his aversion for the house of York, especially if he were able to persuade Edward as part of the bargain to lift the ban on imports of Burgundian goods into England. This Edward did on Michaelmas Day, sealing Margaret’s fate once and for all.

“Oh, Fortunata, we are to go to Burgundy,” Margaret told her servant miserably that evening. Edward had summoned her to his hunting lodge at Kingston-on-Thames during a meeting of the Great Council to determine the terms of the marriage contract. Margaret had been demure in front of her brother when he told her the news, but now, with her ladies withdrawn and the silk curtains around the bed closed against the world, she wept. Fortunata let her cry. She alternated between stroking her mistress’s beautiful golden hair and massaging her feet. She hummed a tune she remembered from her childhood, and the repetitive round eventually calmed Margaret, who wiped her nose on her fine lawn chemise, climbed out of bed and onto her knees on the red and blue Turkey carpet.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me, a poor sinner. Help me be the princess my brother wants me to be and help me serve England to the best of my ability. And dear St. Monica, help me be the wife I should be to this man, who, if the truth be told, I cannot like. I ask that there be the joy of children for me and that I do my duty to my husband and my new country. All this I ask, Lord, in Your dear Son’s name, Amen.”

As she crossed herself, she felt a cold nose snuffling her bare feet.

“Astolat! You are tickling me,” she said, reluctantly chuckling and gathering the dog into her arms, her tears momentarily forgotten. “I am
at prayer, my sweet hound. You should not disturb me, but how can I resist you when your very presence daily reminds me of Anthony. I hope Duke Charles likes dogs, my pet, for you shall be with me wherever I go. You and Fortunata.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
a, page delivered a letter to Margaret; she fancied she could smell Anthony on the fine vellum. Dismissing the young man with thanks, she walked to the window for more light before breaking the seal. There was no greeting, only a simple poem.

“Love winged my hopes and taught me how to fly;

Far from base earth but not to mount hie

For thy true pleasure

Loves in measure

Which, if men forsake,

Blinded they into folly run and grief for pleasure to take.”

“Ah, Anthony, ’tis folly indeed,” she whispered, sadly. “And I do grieve.”

T
WO DAYS LATER
, the Great Council was impressed by the entrance of the mature young woman on her brother George’s arm. Her assent to this great marriage between England and Burgundy was eagerly anticipated.

“Magnificent,” murmured Jack Howard, catching Margaret’s eye as she swept past him on her way to the dais. “God keep you, Lady Margaret.”

Margaret smiled at him but said nothing. She stood at the steps of Edward’s dais and made him a graceful curtsey. “Your grace, you summoned me?” she said.

Edward bade her stand with him on the steps and in a loud voice asked if she gave her assent to the marriage he and his councilors had arranged for her.

“No, I do not!” she wanted to shout. “How dare you send me away!” Instead she held her head high and said quite clearly, “I do, my liege and my lords. And I do it happily for England.”

A roar of approval went up, and the councilors gave her three cheers. Edward then presented her with Charles’s ring as a betrothal gift, which Antoine had carried with him from Burgundy and left in Edward’s care.

The first to congratulate her was George, his wardrobe so elaborate that he outshone the king himself. Margaret often wondered why Ned indulged his brother in this way, but Ned explained that if it kept George happy and close by him, then he could forgive his sartorial impudence. When Edward was present, no one could outshine his larger than life personality, magnificent physique—although Margaret noticed his girth was growing steadily—and genuine charm, not even popinjay George. George still had not forgiven Edward for refusing to allow him Isabel Neville’s hand, and Margaret had warned Edward that George was headstrong enough to defy his sovereign. Edward had scoffed at her fears, saying George was empty-headed and cared only for his looks.

“The trouble with an empty head, my dear brother, is that it can so easily be filled with other people’s ideas and ambitions,” she had told Edward one day. “I trust you have noted the friendship between George and our cousin Warwick? When you have finally found me a willing husband and I am out of reach, who will be close enough to warn you then? But you are right to keep George close by you. ’Tis when he is out of earshot of your wisdom that he may heed the wrong man’s counsel.”

“Meggie, I am going to miss you,” Edward had told her, giving her a smacking kiss. “I pray your husband, whoever he is, appreciates your wisdom,”—he winked at her—“as well as your other charms,
naturellement.
Never fear, I shall watch George.”

She thought of that conversation as the earl of Warwick took her hand and told her he had no doubt she was the finest export England could offer. She was surprised at the warmth and sincerity in his voice and eyes. “I fear you flatter me, my lord. But I will try and live up to your kind compliment,” she replied. “It is particularly important to me that I have your approbation for this marriage. Know that I am forever grateful for the work you have done on my behalf that did not bear fruit. Your loyalty to my father and brother will keep you always in my prayers.”

Warwick gazed into Margaret’s eyes and knew he could do no less than give her marriage his complete approval. Her honesty and diplomacy took his breath away, and he took her hand again and pressed it to his lips. “As I said, Lady Margaret, England’s finest export,” he murmured and bowed low to her.

Margaret could not help noticing the chill between him and Ned as he
then gave the king a curt bow. He was plainly angry, and she knew that he had been embarrassed by Edward after his return from France with French envoys in tow and offers of new negotiations, to which Edward had given short shrift. He was convinced Edward’s Woodville family were causing the rift between him and his king, and his hatred of them was barely concealed when he deigned to visit the court. He had disappeared up to his northern estates soon after Elizabeth was delivered of another daughter in August, and George had followed close behind. However, he could not refuse the command to attend the Great Council, and so he had returned, bringing his enmity with him. Margaret watched him go sadly. He had such an overpowering magnetism, and she was dismayed that a man so powerful and fiercely loyal to her father’s and brother’s cause had now turned his back on them. The earl’s burning ambition to rule his protégé, Edward, from behind the throne was now patently obvious.

Edward introduced her to the two chief negotiators from Burgundy, and she avised them both for a few minutes, committing to memory the long, aquiline nose and sheep’s eye of Lodewijk van Gruuthuse, also known as Lord of Bruges, and Lord Halewijn’s jowls and bad teeth. These two lords would be part of Charles’s council and thus very much part of her life when she arrived in Burgundy. They, too, avised her for themselves, noting her height, the clear, gray eyes, generous mouth and loop of blond hair on her forehead. She was lovelier than they had been led to believe by other foreign envoys who passed through Bruges from the English court. Perhaps they had not been this close to her flawless English skin. The mutual scrutiny was not unusual, and both parties subjected themselves to it unperturbed.

The other councilors filed past her now, bowing and kissing her hand. Edward stood by proudly as each had a word for her: Will Hastings, who took her hand in both of his and thanked her; John Tiptoft, who told her Duke Charles was a lucky man; Jack Howard, who promised to give her knowledge of the court at Burgundy if it would help her; Chancellor Neville, recently restored to his office after some questionable dealings, who gravely wished her well; and the other Neville brother, George, archbishop of York, who gave her a blessing.

And then Anthony stood in front of her, and their eyes met in a silent moment of understanding and sadness. Whatever has been between us
must be forgotten, his eyes tried to tell her. But he did not read the same message in hers. I will love you always, Anthony, they said. He bowed over her hand, and she resisted the temptation to turn it over and feel his lips on her palm. The other councilors passed by in a blur, but all were clearly awed by the tall, graceful princess, who seemed to be accepting her fate with perfect equanimity. They could not see her knocking knees or the perspiration streaming down her sides. They certainly did not guess she had cried herself to sleep the two previous nights, except for Anthony, who received a one-line response to his poem.

“I shall grieve for you forever. Elaine.”

M
UCH OF
M
ARGARET’S
daily routine after Michaelmas comprised learning about Burgundy. Even though Duke Charles had not yet signed a contract, it was presumed this was only a matter of time—and a dispensation from the pope. She learned that her future husband had always leaned to Lancaster to flout his father’s preference for York and uphold his mother’s heritage as a granddaughter of Lancaster. She also learned that unlike England, which was ruled by a king and a parliament with London as its capital, Burgundy was a hodgepodge of city states and territories, each of which had been autonomous until the Valois dukes of Burgundy had seized them during the previous hundred years. What was even more surprising to Margaret and a little hard to understand was that the duke was a vassal of the king of France and the Habsburg emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.

“Much of Burgundy’s lands once belonged to France or the empire,” John Tiptoft told her. “The dukes became so powerful that not even their two liege lords could stop them from acquiring more territory.”

“And yet the dukes owed allegiance to those two rulers, my lord?” Margaret repeated, to make sure she understood. Tiptoft nodded and Margaret shook her head in disbelief. “What good is a king or an emperor if a mere duke can snatch land from him? It could not happen here. The king is all-powerful.”

The councilor said nothing. It would not be politic to tell the king’s sister that many people thought the earl of Warwick capable of it. There were rumors that he had treated with Louis of France during the June
meetings and might even form a devilish alliance with the She-Wolf of Anjou in exchange for owning territories in Holland and Zeeland. But it was only rumors, and no loyal subject of Edward’s could possibly believe in such a tale. Instead, he went on to explain to Margaret that the lands now ruled by Duke Charles encompassed a vast area that included the counties of Charolais, Artois and Flanders, the duchies of Burgundy, Hainault, Holland, Zeeland and Brabant, and boasted the extremely wealthy cities of Bruges, Ghent and Brussels. Upon her marriage, Tiptoft told her smiling, Margaret’s titles would far exceed those of her brother, the king of England.

“But my fiancé’s true allegiance should be with the king of France. And what happens if I do not marry Duke Charles or do not produce an heir, my lord? Charles has but one daughter from his two previous marriages. Can she inherit a duchy?”

“Aye, in principle, but should anything happen to Charles and young Mary has no husband to protect her, I cannot imagine that Louis and the Emperor Frederick would not swoop in to reclaim what they consider theirs.” The astute politician saw the fleeting look of fear that crossed Margaret’s face. “But, my lady, do not dwell on this. You are from a prolific line and will bear the duke a son, we all have no doubt.”

Margaret inadvertently shivered. “I pray you are right, my lord.”

That night, she prayed to the patron saint of barren women, Felicitas, to protect her.

M
EANWHILE, THE ILL
will between the Woodvilles and Warwick became too acrid for even easygoing Edward to tolerate, and in January of 1468, he called a meeting of his council at his castle in Coventry during which he commanded that Earl Rivers and the earl of Warwick make an attempt at a reconciliation in public.