Daughter of York (60 page)

“Certes, you have finished the History of Troy!” Margaret cried delightedly when she beheld the book, beautifully bound in tooled leather. She rose and eagerly put out her hands to take it, lovingly caressing the binding and breathing in the smell of new leather.

Caxton was beaming and nodding. “Aye, your grace, I have. But I could not have finished it without your guidance and superior French,” he said, bowing awkwardly over his knee. “You were truly the inspiration for the work, Lady Margaret,” he murmured.

Margaret was amused. “Pshaw! I know not whether you are a mere toady or an inspired diplomat, in truth. ’Tis no wonder my brother employs you as an emissary on occasion.” She turned the neatly scripted pages and rejoiced in reading the English words Caxton had so painstakingly copied. She read his preface out loud, even though only a few in the room understood.

“‘My pen is worn, my hand weary and not steadfast, mine eyes dimmed with overmuch looking on the white paper and my courage not so ready to labor as it hath been. Age creepeth on me daily.”

She looked at him, her eyebrow lifting. “How old are you, Master Caxton? Nay, you need not answer, but I fear you will have many more white hairs after copying this tome many times. For you will, you know. ’Tis very fine indeed, and there are those who will pay you dearly for a copy in our mother tongue,” she told him, smiling. “You must stay awhile so I may read some of it before I will relinquish it.”

“I am at your grace’s service,” he replied. “And yet I have a boon to ask. Will you grant me leave to journey to Cologne to learn the art of the new printing invention? My friend in the Guild of St. John, Master Mansion, has tasked me to learn what I can. He is the finest scribe in Bruges and with your blessing, we may set up in business together. I shall see to it that this book is the first English book to be set in type.”

William’s earnest face and impassioned plea made Margaret lean towards him and raise him to his feet. She felt a thrill of excitement at his words. A printing machine! She and Anthony had spoken of such long ago at Reading Abbey. The thought of her patronage enabling the first books in English to be set for posterity was exhilarating yet humbling.

“Certes, you have my blessing, Master Caxton. Take as much time as you need in Cologne and keep me informed at all times. In truth, I am as passionate—” She got no further. A small brown creature had flung itself at William and pulled off his feathered bonnet, running off with it and chattering with delight. It ran among the musicians and one tried to knock it over the head with his lute, but the little monkey was too fast. Dropping the hat, it jumped onto a chess table and sent the ivory pieces flying, eliciting curses from the player about to pronounce “check.”

“Cappi! Ritorno qui, pronto!”
Fortunata cried, emerging from her spot behind Margaret’s chair, where her new pet had slipped out of its leash. The animal had no intention of returning, however, and eluding capture for ten more minutes, it scrambled up tapestries, swung from a wrought iron chandelier, and perched precariously on the sloping chimney vent before scampering back across the floor and seating itself jauntily in Margaret’s throne.

Margaret did not know whether to laugh or to lambast Fortunata, and she tried to look stern. But seeing the monkey sitting so comfortably in her seat, its bright eyes looking enquiringly at her, she could not forbear to smile. She turned to see William still on one knee with tears of merriment rolling down his face, and, following his lead, the rest of the court gave way to mirth.

Margaret found herself laughing heartily, too. “You have brought the sun into my heart with your visit, sir, and I thank you for it,” she said, holding out her hand and ending the audience.

As he bent over her hand again, he whispered, “I believe your grace will especially enjoy the chapter about the Trojan horse. Do not delay in reading it, I pray you.” And replacing his hat on his head, he bowed out of the chamber.

M
ARGARET COULD NOT
wait to escape from her duties and spend a few minutes with Master Caxton’s book. Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages to find the passage he had alluded to and was not disappointed when the book naturally fell open to reveal a different piece of parchment. Her heart was in her mouth as she broke the seal and read:

“My fair Elaine, you are not forgotten. How could I forget our night together? I fall asleep each night with the memory of your lips on mine, our bodies entwined and warmed by the fire in the hearth and the flames of our passion. Sweet lady, I have never known such a love could exist and for all I have read every romance ever written! One day, we shall write our own, I swear.

“The turmoil that was April and May has softened into summer and your brother is once again very much in the saddle.”

Margaret knew that was code for being securely on the throne.

“His wife is once again with child, and we all pray for a brother to be a playmate for young Edward.”

You mean another boy to ensure the succession. Aye, I will say an Ave for that, she thought.

“Your other brother—your favorite, ’tis rumored—and his wife are guardians of her sister, Anne. As you know, her husband was killed at Tewkesbury. She is a prize, and your brother guards her jealously. ’Tis a cause of much anxiety for all, due to young Dickon’s interest in the girl.”

So Richard wants to marry little Anne Neville, Margaret thought. That would mean George and Richard would share the massive Warwick inheritance. Aye, I think there might be cause for concern. She remembered well the constant quarreling between the brothers in their youth, but those were childish quarrels. What would come of adult quarrels? She frowned.

She looked down at the page again and ran her fingers over the script, imagining her lover dipping his pen in the ink and carefully wording his text. She pressed the vellum to her cheek and whispered his name. “Anthony. My love. How I long for you.” She felt the familiar ache in her belly when she thought of him and their night together. At least I have that, she consoled herself. No one can take that from me. She smoothed the letter out on her knee and read the closing words.

“I trust this finds you well, my dearest Elaine, and still in love with your Lancelot.”

Aye, Anthony, for ever, she vowed.

A
WEEK BEFORE
Christmas, with Charles, Margaret and Mary by her side, Isabella of Burgundy, princess of Portugal and granddaughter of John
of Gaunt, passed away peacefully at her palace of Aire at the age of sixty-six. Although Margaret knew the dying woman had loved her, Isabella’s parting words to her daughter-in-law, spoken in labored whispers from her enormous canopied bed, chilled Margaret.

“You must bear Charles a son, my dear, or all will be lost. Too many hate and misunderstand my son for his search for glory, and Louis will think naught of overrunning our lands if Charles”—she paused, a tear escaping from her rheumy eyes—“should Charles die before you can give him a male heir. France’s Salic law does not recognize a woman as a ruler, as you know.” She took another shallow breath between the almost transparent lips. “This will place little Mary in great danger. Promise me, Margaret, promise me you will do all you can to give Burgundy a son,” she rasped, her eyes boring into Margaret’s worried ones. “Swear on the life of St. Waudru, savior of barren women, that you will not fail in your duty to your husband, even if ’tis distasteful to you.” Seeing Margaret’s surprise, and with every breath an effort, she wheezed on, “I love my son, but I am not blind to his faults, in truth. Isabelle told me how neglected she was in matters of the flesh.”

Margaret was horrified that this woman who had lived her life with such excruciating attention to etiquette was talking to her of such intimate matters. She stared at the wizened old dowager, who was holding the cross around her neck for Margaret to swear upon, and she did not know how to respond. She prayed she could be saved from a vow she had no intention of keeping. Dear St. Jude, rescue me, she begged the saint of desperate situations.

Watching Margaret’s face, Isabella attempted another comment, but instead a spasm of coughing overcame her as Margaret reached out her hand to touch the crucifix, and three doctors appeared as if by magic, gently forcing her aside to minister to their patient. Margaret gratefully made her obeisance to the pathetic figure gasping for breath in the bed and hurriedly left the room. An hour later, Isabella breathed her last, with Charles holding her hand and a bishop anointing her with holy oil.

18

1473

Margaret thought of the dowager’s words as she lay half submerged in a copper bathtub full of soothing hot, herbal water, a tented screen around her. She ran her hand over her white belly and fancied she could feel the new life inside her. A green woodpecker’s laughing call outside the window of her chamber was a welcome spring sound. Knowing herself with child, she had chosen to come to St. Josseten-Noode to spend a few weeks at the charming hunting lodge, built by Duke Philip for himself and his family, before the responsibility of carrying Charles’s child became a public matter.

She had been cheered when she passed the point at which she had begun to be so ill during her first pregnancy, and other than an occasional cramping in her belly, she felt well. The first experience had made her wary, however, and she would not tell a soul until she felt the baby was really safe in her womb.

Her bathing had become a weekly ritual that she looked forward to. It was the only time she had a modicum of privacy, for she let only Beatrice and Fortunata wash her, and even then she would ask them to let her soak
by herself for a while. She did much of her thinking and planning there, hoping her cares would be washed away along with the week’s grime. Unlike the larger of the ducal residencies, St. Josse-ten-Noode did not have water piped into the house, so Fortunata and Beatrice took turns replenishing the bath with ewers full of hot water, making the steam rise around her and shutting Margaret into her own blissful state. It will be a boy, Madame la Grande, she smiled to herself, and I will have fulfilled your wish—if not the vow, she admitted ruefully, remembering well the night she must have conceived.

Charles had spent most of the autumn campaigning in the south and east, keeping his borders strong against France, and Margaret had been greatly relieved by this after his rather frequent presence all that year. He missed his mother, she knew, and more than once he had broken down and cried with her. Twice his mercurial temperament had turned his tears into a tirade against his father and his own lot and then into a need to be loved. And twice Margaret found herself drenched in his tears as he failed to achieve a climax at the end of these humiliating scenes. Far from distancing her from him, he seemed to seek her out for counsel even more, calling her his
sage femme
and laughing ruefully at his poor choice of pun.

And then at the end of January, he had joined her in Ghent to welcome Edward’s ambassador and old friend, William Hastings, to the court. It was then that Margaret found out that Anthony’s wife, Eliza, was ill, and Anthony was talking of a pilgrimage to the Spanish shrine of St. James of Compostella to pray for her. Will Hastings had no time for Woodvilles after their land dispute, Margaret knew, and she was puzzled as to why he even mentioned Anthony.

“He seems to be much changed, your grace,” Will told her. “I heard a rumor Rivers may have had something on his conscience. He believed it might send his wife to her grave and that he should atone for his sin. I wonder what it might have been.” He was staring straight at her and could not fail to have seen the blush that wended its willful way up her neck and into her face. You weasel, she thought, you know exactly what it was, knowing my brother’s wagging tongue. Damn you, Ned, a family secret is a family secret. And once again, the memory of the scene between Ned and Eleanor Butler came into her mind, although Ned had no idea she had witnessed it, ’twas true.

Responding to Hastings, she had somehow managed to announce, “Lord Anthony is a pious man, my lord; I cannot think his pilgrimage has aught to do with any untoward behavior. I am surprised you listen to such rumors, especially when you, too, are the subject of one, and ’tis fortunate Edward does not employ a court chronicler, as we do here,” she said, pointing to a small man at a nearby table, whose beady eyes were taking in everything he could see or hear and occasionally putting pen to parchment. His predecessor, Philippe de Commynes, who was Jeanne de Halewijn’s cousin, had left Charles’s service overnight and gone over to Louis the previous year. The scandal had rocked the court, Charles was furious and Jeanne had been worried for her own safety.

Margaret paused for effect before driving her point home. “The poor fellow would have a hard time distinguishing who at the English court has not had their way with Mistress Shore.” She was satisfied to see Will wince. “Aye, we hear rumors, too, Lord Hastings—all the way from London.” She arched her brow and dared him to respond.