Daughter of York (37 page)

Edward waved his assent and Margaret thanked him. A few minutes later, a young woman of no mean beauty was propelled forward by Jack Howard. She clutched a harp to her bosom as if her life depended upon it and sank into a deep, graceful curtsey at the dais. A stool was brought for her, and she sat alone facing the king and settled the harp in her lap. With a practiced hand, she swept the first chords of her song and then began to sing. Margaret was spellbound. The song was an eerie tale of two sisters who fall in love with the same man. The younger is promised to him, and the jealous elder sister lures her to the edge of the river and pushes her in. Her body is found in his dam by a miller, and he is so moved by her beauty that he makes himself a harp from her breastbone and uses the beautiful hair to make the strings. The harp then takes on a life of its own, and in the last scene, the miller takes it to the castle where the young man lives now with his wife, the elder sister. And the harp sings all by itself,
recognizing her father, the king, her mother, the queen and her sweet William. But then, in a denunciation of her murderer, the harp turns to William’s wife and sings:

“And woe to my sister, the false Helen …”

The superstitious, including Margaret, crossed themselves. As she gazed down at the talented girl sitting quietly on the stool watching Edward with more than a little awe, something made her glance at Richard, and she gasped when she saw the look on his face. Such love she could recognize in her own gray eyes when she dared to look at Anthony! It was as plain as a pikestaff, she thought gleefully, here is Richard’s paramour. And as if to confirm her suspicion, he left his seat and graciously went to raise Dame Haute from her stool and present her to her appreciative audience.

“Methinks Dickon has found himself a mistress,” Edward whispered to Margaret, who nodded. “He has good taste.”

Margaret frowned at him for his clumsy remark, not blaming Elizabeth for clicking her tongue and turning away. Edward’s smile vanished. “’Twas well done, Dame Haute,” he said loudly and then called to Howard, who was returning the woman to her seat, “Jack, you were right. She sings like an angel.”

Later, when they were dancing, Margaret teased Richard. “Dickon, you should learn not to wear your heart on your sleeve. Do not deny you are in love with Katherine Haute. And if I am not mistaken, she looks to be with child. Yours, I presume.”

Richard was so taken aback that he simply flushed, giving himself away. Margaret chuckled.

Anthony was next to claim a dance. As their hands touched, a quiver of excitement passed through them, and Margaret had to keep her eyes firmly glued to the floor to avoid those blue eyes.

“How now, my sweet Marguerite,” he murmured as the steps brought them close. “Do you know how beautiful you are tonight?”

They danced apart, but he saw the deep flush on her cheeks and was satisfied. Every eye was upon the bride that night, and no one must ever guess what was between them. Only Edward watched them both with empathy. To be so close yet not to own was excruciating, he knew all too
well. Then, rising, he turned to his beautiful wife. “Bess, come dance with me. And then we shall to bed!” he said, a gleam in his eye.

C
ECILY JOINED THE
festivities on the final day, watching as George and Richard competed at archery, wrestling and swordplay. George never revealed the promised wager, because Richard was the winner in every instance except wrestling. Even at the hunt, Richard’s skill with his falcon had won the praise of all who rode that day, most of all from Edward, turning George inwards and worrying Margaret more. Why does Ned not see the chasm opening between them, she thought woefully. He is not stupid, and yet his life of hedonistic adventure with wine, food and women must addle his wits, she concluded. What will happen when I am not here? She sent a prayer to St. Joseph to be a father to her family and guide them through these dangerous times. All royal men came into the world knowing that by their very rank they courted an early death, Cecily had told her. “Be thankful you were born a woman, Margaret,” she said, while still in mourning for her husband.

Richard unexpectedly bested George in the sword fight. Margaret watched her favorite brother walk away without acknowledging Richard’s win, and once again her heart went out to him. He can’t win even against Dickon, she thought sadly. Poor George.

C
ECILY HAD PLEADED
tiredness and begged to be excused from the journey into Kent, so Margaret’s first farewell was to her mother, who had taught her everything. Cecily was standing in front of her still tall and regal, her blue eyes shining with pride in her daughter. “Go with a mother’s blessing, my child. You are from a proud house, Margaret. Never forget your ancestry and teach your children well. Your father would have been so pleased with you. He never doubted your promise.” As always when Cecily talked of her husband, the love in her eyes never failed to inspire Margaret.

“Mother …” She hesitated but then plunged on, knowing this might be her last chance of intimacy with Cecily. “I do not remember Father very well now. Am I a bad child? I only remember the feeling of warmth and safety. But I cannot see his eyes or hear his voice. Only sometimes I have the terrible nightmare, but there is no face on that hideous skull
anymore.” She paused, certain Cecily would stop this sudden flow of feeling. But Cecily’s eyes tenderly told her to continue. “I am afraid that by going so far away, I will also forget your face—and Ned’s, and George’s.” She broke down and wept. “More than this,” she sobbed, “I fear I shall never see any of you again.”

And then Cecily’s protective arms were round her, making her feel like a little girl again, and they clung to each other for several minutes. “There, there,” the mother soothed her child. “God will give you strength to bear whatever fate has in store. Have faith, Margaret.”

Her mother’s love and strength gave Margaret the confidence to stop crying and compose herself. She inhaled the familiar scent of lavender and oranges, as if trying to imprint it on her memory forever. Cecily gently untangled Margaret’s fingers from her gown and softly kissed her on the forehead. “There, ’tis done. Remember, you are to be a duchess—and mother to young Mary. You cannot behave thus with her. You must be her model, just as I was yours.” Nodding, Margaret wiped her eyes and nose.

“Do your duty by me and write often,” Cecily said, becoming the stoic noblewoman once more. “Beatrice will be with you, and I shall hear about you from her, I have no doubt. And before long, I shall hear that you are to be a mother. God and his saints keep you safe. Farewell, Margaret.”

She put out her hand stiffly for her daughter to kiss, and Margaret sank into a deep curtsey as she touched her mother’s fingers to her lips, the familiar formality buoying her. Then with Fortunata and Astolat in tow, she held her head high and, without a backward glance, she left her mother alone in the room.

Thus, no one saw Cecily crumple to the ground as her last drop of courage dissolved into a stream of shameless tears.

H
ER ESCORT STRETCHED
out for half a mile as the colorful cavalcade left the abbey courtyard. Lords and ladies, knights and soldiers on horseback, in carriages, on carts and on foot picked their way across the marshes of Essex to Tilbury, where they took boats across to Gravesend and continued on land to Canterbury along the Pilgrim’s Way. Many seeking to salve their souls at Canterbury stood by the wayside, allowing the royal procession through, and Margaret thought back fondly on Chaucer’s amusing tales.

The cathedral rose out of the summer mist, the lack of a tower giving it an odd appearance. Margaret learned the old tower had been pulled down thirty years before and the new tower was under construction. It was Margaret’s first time at the cathedral that was considered the pinnacle of Gothic architecture in southern England, and she stood in the nave and marveled at its fluted arches soaring, as it were, to heaven. She lit candles at St. Thomas à Becket’s tomb to her father and brother and made her confession for the last time on English soil.

“
Ignosce mihi, Pater, quia peccavi.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned …”

The priest behind the curtain heard the young woman confess that she was to be married to a man she already hated in her heart because she could not have the one she loved.

“Have you fornicated with the second man, my child?”

“Nay, Father, he is married, and I am a virgin before God.”

The priest smiled. “Then, my child, your mortal soul is not in danger. Go in peace and say the rosary with Christ and His mother in the chapel of St. Anselm’s, where you will not be disturbed. Pray to St. Monica for guidance in your marriage, and she will help heal the hate in you.” He had seen the king’s sister enter with her ladies to light candles at St. Thomas’s tomb and was well aware to whom he was speaking. He wondered briefly who was the object of Margaret’s love. A quiet click told him she had left the confessional, and he let the black velvet curtain over the dividing screen fall back into place.

Margaret spent another hour on her knees, praying and listening to the choir practice. The music reached down to her deepest core and filled her with a golden glow as she told her beads and stared up at one of the exquisite stained glass windows. She felt God’s presence all around her, and it gave her courage to go to Charles with peace in her heart.

She heard a gown swish along the stone floor behind her, and then Fortunata was tugging at her skirt. “
Madonna, madonna.
I must talk to you.”

Margaret frowned at the interruption, but when she saw Fortunata’s worried face, she hastily crossed herself and rose from the kneeler. “What is it,
pochina?
”

Her other ladies began to close their prayer books and get up off their aching knees, but Margaret stayed them. “Nay, ladies, you must remain
for a little longer and pray for our journey across the sea. Fortunata and I will be back at my chambers when you have finished.” As soon as she exited the church, the others gratefully stood and stretched.

“Something has happened, milady. I think I must tell you,” Fortunata said urgently. They made their way to a wooden bench under a huge beech tree and sat down. Fortunata spread her skirts carefully with her hands before launching into her tale.

“Jehan and me, we are friends, you know?” she began. Margaret nodded. “Jehan knows the king like I know you, you understand. He told me something I think will interest you. But I promised not to say anything.” She looked around a little anxiously for the Devil.

“Fortunata, do not tease me thus. Either you will break your promise to Jehan or I will break your neck!” Margaret said, chuckling. “Nay, come back here,
pochina,
I am only jesting. But you cannot leave me hanging like a fish on a hook.”

“A fish?” Fortunata sat back down, confused.

“Never mind, just tell me!” Margaret said, exasperated for once.

The dwarf took a deep breath and crossed herself for good measure. “The king has received news of a lady’s death. An important lady to him, Jehan told me. Eleanor … but I forget her other name. She was a nun.”

Margaret furrowed her brow, trying to think who this important lady was. She shook her head. “Did Jehan say why she was important? And what did Edward do when he heard?”

“Jehan said the king was very happy she is dead, because she could be big trouble for him. I am sorry, but he did not say what trouble.”

Suddenly Margaret was transported back to the night in the garden with John Harper, when she had seen Eleanor Butler and Edward facing each other in the window, their hands clasped together.

“Sweet Jesu, it cannot be,” she muttered. Surely Ned would not have promised himself to Eleanor just to bed her. It would mean his marriage to Elizabeth was … Dear God, I hope I am wrong. I must be wrong.

But then she recalled Edward’s anger when she innocently mentioned Eleanor’s name that evening at Shene when she had rejected poor John Harper. Her heart sank. Oh, foolish, lustful boy—aye, boy—for when it came to satisfying his pleasures, Ned acted like a spoiled one, she admitted finally. How she wished he would take his king
ship a little more seriously, especially now. Several alarming events had occurred throughout the kingdom in the past weeks that should have given Edward pause for thought, she knew, not least of which was the growing schism between Edward and their cousin of Warwick. Margaret of Anjou was still a threat somewhere in Europe, with her Lancastrian adherents never far away. In fact, shortly before the festivities at Stratford Langthorne, a man had been captured carrying treasonable letters from Queen Margaret.

“
Pochina,
you must swear not to tell another living soul. I know not the significance now, but ’tis well to keep this a secret between you and me. Swear to it!” Margaret watched as Fortunata crossed her heart and promised on Giorgio and Tomasina of Padua’s graves. Her face was so earnest and her eyes so guileless as she gave her mistress her promise that Margaret had to smile. She was remembering those first days at Greenwich when she wondered whether Fortunata was a spy. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that the dwarf was more loyal than any of the English servants. She knew she could trust Fortunata with her life.

Margaret sat under the airy branches of the majestic beech tree and contemplated the state of her beloved England at this troublesome time, knowing that in a few days she would be powerless to help Ned weather the brewing storms. And now, the fate of a beautiful young woman, who must have turned to Christ after Edward tired of her, seemed insignificant beside the fate of England. And yet instinctively Margaret knew she was significant all the same.

A magpie hopped into view, and Margaret looked about her for a second bird. “One for sorrow, two for joy,” she muttered. “Oh, magpie, where is your mate?” But there was none.

O
NE BY ONE
, the family said their private farewells in the archbishop’s palace, where they had been housed. Dickon pressed a small book into her hands. “’Tis a book of prayer for your journey, Meg. I will miss you,” he said simply. As he embraced her, he whispered, “You will keep my Kate a secret, won’t you?”