Cecily appeared from the hall, and the messenger went down on one knee and doffed his bonnet.
“God keep you, sir herald. At St. Albans you say?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “And what of my cousin of Warwick? God forbid he is not slain.”
“Nay, your grace. The earl and the rest of our force who escaped the slaughter have fled west to find your son, Lord Edward.”
“Praise be to the Virgin for that!” Cecily exclaimed.
“My lord of Warwick had taken the king with him to the battlefield, I know not why,” the herald continued. “He is back with his queen now, as mad as ever. Some said they saw him at the edge of the battlefield sitting under a tree, laughing at his enemies.”
“Sweet Jesu, he is indeed mad,” whispered Cecily, crossing herself. Aloud to the company she cried, “Hear this, loyal friends of York. We are in danger here, and I would command all those who can walk and fight to join this herald and leave London as soon as they have had nourishment. Follow Warwick’s trail and join with my son. Those too wounded to be moved will be looked after here. I do not believe the queen will harm me or those who cannot fight, so we must remain to defend Baynard’s from her looting army. God help us! And may God bless the lord Edward!”
“God bless Lord Edward!” Margaret cheered along with the rest, and a thrill of pride went through her at the deafening sound of loyal voices echoing Cecily’s prayer.
A few minutes later, Margaret joined her mother in the great hall. The duchess was in full command of the servants, who gathered around her, receiving orders. The deference they gave the proud, beautiful woman was not lost on Margaret. She longed to emulate her dignified mother—but not until I am much older, she thought timidly.
“Ah, Margaret, my dear, come here and help me. I want you to go up to your apartments and tell Nurse Anne to ready George and Richard for a journey. Tell her to pack their warmest clothes and one good doublet and bonnet each. I will be there anon.”
“Where will they go, Mother?” Margaret asked, unfortunately.
“’Tis not your place to question me, Margaret,” Cecily retorted. “Pray do as I tell you at once!” A few sympathetic eyes turned to Margaret upon hearing Cecily’s sharp chiding.
Margaret blushed, ashamed that she had been reprimanded in front of so many people. Cecily relented and said less severely, “You will know in a little while. I simply do not have time to explain now.”
Margaret, still smarting, curtseyed and hurried upstairs to the boys’ chambers. Her brothers were appalled that they were to leave for parts unknown without her, for her mother had not told Margaret to prepare herself for a journey with them. It would be one of the rare times in their young lives that the siblings would be parted. Margaret gave the boys the news, and Anne began packing.
Richard was still crying when Cecily joined them half an hour later.
“Where is your York backbone, Richard?” she admonished him. “You are near ten years old and here you are crying like a baby. ’Tis not the first time you have been without me.”
“But … but … Meg has always been with us. Why can’t she come, too?” Richard tried to stop his lip quivering and tears from flowing, but he did not succeed.
It was Margaret who gathered him into her arms and cajoled him out of his fear. “’Twill be an adventure, Dickon! George will be with you, and Nurse Anne, I expect.”
“Aye, Anne will go with you. Although I expect George will not care for that! And your favorite squire, John Skelton, will also keep you company.” Cecily knelt in front of her youngest and took him from Margaret, holding him close. “Hush, child. It will not be for long, I promise, for Edward will come and take London and all will be well.”
At Edward’s name, Richard brightened. “You think he will really come, Mother. I would dearly love to see Ned again!” He blinked back his tears and attempted a smile.
“That’s better, child.” Cecily stood up and drew George to her as well. “Now, would you like to know where you are going?”
“Aye, Mother,” chorused the boys. “And why,” added George.
“’Tis for your own safety, George. If something should happen to Edward—pray God it does not”—they all crossed themselves—“then you and Richard are York’s heirs. And therefore heirs to the crown.”
Both boys looked nonplussed, and Cecily decided not to explain but fussed with the clothes Anne had laid on the bed. “I am sending you to our friend the duke of Burgundy, so you must remember your manners. Aye,” she said, nodding, as the boys’ eyes widened, “you will have your first voyage on a ship!”
“A ship, Georgie!” Richard cried ecstatically, his tears forgotten. “We are going to sea, like the game we played yesterday!”
George was less enthusiastic, old enough to understand that he was to miss events at home that might carve out his future. But he put his arm about Richard’s shoulders protectively, giving his mother’s back a resentful stare. “Aye, Dickon. And I will protect you, never fear.”
“I am not afraid, George!” Richard exclaimed. “I am a York. And us Yorks are never afraid!”
“There’s a brave boy, Richard.” Cecily turned, beaming. “Only it should be we Yorks, but no mind. Now, both of you say good-bye to Margaret and come with me.”
Margaret watched, stunned, as the trio left the room, followed by Anne and a servant carrying the clothes chest. How could her life change so quickly? Only a few weeks ago, she had a father and another brother. Now they were gone. Then Edward had triumphed at Mortimer’s Cross, giving Yorkists hope of winning the crown of England, and now the disastrous news of St. Albans had turned their world upside down again. She shook her head in disbelief. A mere hour ago, she had been relatively carefree and experiencing her first sensual thrill of womanhood. Now her world was falling apart, and as if the news weren’t bad enough, her brothers were to be taken from her.
“George! Dickon!” she cried, “Wait for me!”
She picked up her skirts and ran down to the castle quay, where she was just in time to give both boys a last kiss. The boatmen dipped their heavy oars into the water and pulled away from the pier towards the scores of ships moored in the Pool on the other side of London Bridge. Cecily sat with her black fur-trimmed cloak wrapped around her frightened children as they huddled together for warmth against the damp February evening.
“I will be back with the tide, Margaret,” Cecily called. “You must take care of everything until I return. You know what to do. You have learned well!”
Margaret nodded and waved, her eyes brimming with tears, as she watched the boat and the small figures of her brothers recede into the diminishing light. “God go with you, boys. Until we meet again!” she cried. Then she turned, held her head high and walked sedately up the stone steps and back into the castle. For the next few hours, she was in charge of the York household, giving orders—a little timorously, but still with enough authority—and presiding over the evening prayers. She prayed to St. Margaret to help her during Cecily’s absence. She looked around at the expectant faces all waiting for her to dismiss them after the chaplain had intoned the blessing, and she realized in that moment that her childhood was over.
2
1461
Queen Margaret had missed her chance again. Instead of marching her victorious army the twenty miles into London immediately following the battle at St. Albans, she hesitated. For the next ten days she parlayed with the mayor and aldermen, attempting to negotiate an entry. The city elders were loath to resist the queen—fearing reprisals for having lent the preferred Yorkists vast sums to equip their army—and agreed to meet her to suggest that four of her deputies negotiate with the London magistrates, acting on behalf of its citizens, to allow only the royalist leaders into the city. The London elders, however, had reckoned without their fellow citizens. Londoners shut up their shops, hid their jewels and money and turned on the mayor, taking the keys of the city gates for themselves and refusing to let anyone in or out.
At Baynard’s Castle, the York household held its breath and waited. Surely the lord Edward could not be far now. Cecily attempted to continue the daily routine of the castle, and she and Margaret spent time plying their needles, walking about the orchard and terraces, visiting the wounded and attending Mass. Margaret was relieved to know George and Richard had been taken on board a vessel bound for Burgundy, and Cecily assured her that Duke Philip would treat them kindly. Cecily had had to negotiate personally with the captains of two or three ships lying in the harbor before one going to the Low Countries agreed to her price. Her mother’s bravery and resolve to protect her family even in the face of danger left an indelible mark on Margaret, and she hoped that when her turn came, she too would be as fearless.
She missed her brothers, even their squabbling, and kept expecting to see them as she went through the days. She had escaped a few times to the bridge room window—empty each time, although she did once see the servant girl hurrying down the corridor near the duchess’s apartments. Over the thatched roofs across Thames Street, Margaret could see the lofty tower of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a mere stone’s throw from Baynard’s and reputedly the tallest in all Europe. Thames Street had been seething with people the first day following the St. Albans battle: citizens scurrying in and out of houses, closing their shutters and their shops, fetching buckets of water from the conduit, carrying baskets of food from the market, calling to their children to go inside in anticipation of the queen’s pillaging soldiers. Then came the calm, when the city gates were locked and people slowed to their usual gait, the shutters were unbolted and the children went out to play. Margaret never tired of watching life in the street and envied the commoners their freedom. She could not leave the castle yard without at least one lady companion and two retainers, and she was never permitted to talk to people or inspect the colorful offerings on market stalls. It did not occur to her that the townsfolk might envy her luxurious life behind the castle walls.
Today, as she watched, there seemed to be an excitement in the air. People nodded and smiled or stopped to talk to one another, pointing to the west. She looked towards the western wall of the city and thought she saw a metallic glint in the far distance. Then a little boy hared around the corner shouting, “Soldiers! Soldiers approaching the Ludgate!”
“At last!” cried a stout man in the boy’s path. “’Tis Edward of York you see, boy, ain’t it?”
“Aye, sir! And the earl of Warwick with him, they say! They are opening the gates!”
Margaret turned on her heel and ran to her mother’s solar, bursting in unceremoniously and earning a frown from Cecily. “Walk, don’t run, Margaret. ’Tis undignified.”
“But Mother, Ned is come! I was watching from the bridge room, and I can see the army approaching from the west. May we go to the Ludgate and watch his entry?”
“Certes, you may not! We shall wait here until Edward calls for us,” Cecily said, continuing to ply her needle as though Margaret had merely announced it was another cold day. Her mother’s calm amazed Margaret, who was hopping from one foot to the other. But then she saw her mother wince and a drop of blood fall on her dress. Aha! she thought happily, Mother is as excited as I am!
Her mother caught her watching and said haughtily, “Go to your chamber and wait. I must make arrangements for Edward’s arrival.” She sucked on her pricked finger.
Margaret curtseyed and remembered to walk out of the room. “Go to my room and wait?” she muttered. “I shall not!”
She took off running down the corridor and up a short flight of stairs to what was known as the children’s apartments. Her two young ladies-in-waiting were gossiping by the window of the solar that overlooked the river. They were unaware of events unfolding on the other side of the castle. They broke off their conversation and curtseyed as Margaret came in.
“Jane,” she addressed the taller of the two, “help me off with my gown. And take off your own so that we can exchange clothes.”
The women gawped at her. Margaret waved her hands impatiently. “Do not stare at me like beetle-headed clack-dishes! Jane, do as I say, and Ann, stand by the door and see that no one enters.” She wasted no time unbelting her gown and backed towards Jane, who helped her with the heavy garment. Then Jane took off her plain woolen gown, and Margaret slipped it over her own head. Margaret was tall, like her mother, and she had small breasts that showed off the current high-waisted fashion to advantage. Jane’s gown was a little short, she noted, but it would do. Jane, on the other hand, would be tripping over the hem of Margaret’s dress, and she sent up a prayer that the duchess would not choose to visit the apartments any time soon.
“But what if someone comes? What if they notice I am wearing your dress? Oh, ’tis unfair, Lady Margaret,” Jane whined, fluttering her hands and close to tears. Margaret scoffed at her dismay.
“Don’t be such a goose! Ann, lock the door behind me, and if someone comes, say you are indisposed.” Ann nodded conspiratorially, pleased that Margaret was entrusting her with the more important task of protecting her mistress. “Besides,” Margaret continued happily. “Mother is far too busy to pay attention to us this afternoon. Ned is come!”
The news made the girls forget their concerns for a moment as they clapped their hands and squealed with excitement, causing Margaret to scold them for making so much noise. She went to the armoire built into the wall and selected as drab a cloak as she could find. Winding it around her and pulling the hood down over her face, she would pass muster as a merchant’s daughter, she thought.
“If anyone asks, you do not know where I am. Do you understand?”
“But we do not know where you are going, Lady Margaret,” Jane said, her face a picture of woe again.
“Then you will not have to lie, will you?” retorted Margaret and swept out as Jane collapsed on the bed sobbing and Ann ran to her to commiserate. “Ninnies!” Margaret muttered as she closed the door.
The news of Edward’s coming had streamed through the castle like a welcome shaft of sunlight, and jubilant servants, squires, stable lads and pages were milling around the courtyard, some of them getting permission to run to the Ludgate to watch the entry. The main body of the army would camp outside the city, but Edward was coming home to Baynard’s and would choose to enter at the Ludgate, she knew.
She slipped out unnoticed in a group and ran up Athelyng Street, past Knightridder Street and Carter Lane and into St. Paul’s square. There she was lost among a throng of hundreds awaiting the White Rose of Rouen, as she heard men call her brother—after his birthplace, she assumed. She had never been this close to so many people before, and it frightened yet thrilled her. However, she had to admit that the smell of all these townsfolk was enough to curl her toes, and she regretted not having her bag of sweet lavender on her belt. Even her drabbest cloak received admiring looks from her neighbors, and she noticed most of theirs were of rough wool and patched. Many had none at all, and those unfortunates shivered, huddling close to one another for warmth. But the cold did not dampen their enthusiasm for the occasion, and several shouts of “Long live March! Long live York!” were taken up by others with such volume that Margaret could hardly hear herself think. Her chest again rose proudly at her family’s name.
Something about her bearing made the crowd part for her as she edged her way to the front. She had no idea how conspicuous she was, but no one recognized the tall, attractive young woman with her hood clutched tightly around her face to keep out the wind. Finally, she saw Edward as he passed under the massive, fortified gate in the city’s wall. Hundreds of exuberant Londoners thronged the short distance to St. Paul’s, throwing their hats in the air and chanting his name. Edward wisely entered the city surrounded only by his closest advisers, including his mentor, Warwick. He rode his magnificent gray courser down Bower Row to towering St. Paul’s, waving and grinning at the tumultuous welcome.
As he scanned the crowd, Edward’s eye fell upon a familiar face radiantly smiling up at him
from the throng, and he reined in his mount in astonishment. “Margaret!” he mouthed in disbelief and laughed out loud. “Does Proud Cis know you are here?” he shouted, but Margaret could not hear his words above the din.
Nudging his horse into a walk, he continued to the steps of the cathedral, where the bells had begun pealing. Margaret watched, her eyes shining with tears of happiness. How handsome he was, she thought. His six-foot-three-inch frame sat as if he had been born in the saddle, and he towered over the nobles riding beside him. His bare head was crowned by chin-length, red-gold hair, neatly turned under in the latest fashion, and his features were as beautiful in a masculine way as his mother’s. Margaret fancied every woman in London must be in love with her eighteen-year-old brother, and she hugged herself with excitement, knowing she, as a York family member, was part of this demonstration of affection.
After Edward and the nobles in his train disappeared into the cathedral to give thanks, Margaret wended her way back through the crowd, exhilarated by her foray into London’s everyday life. She ran down the hill to Baynard’s, barely avoiding the contents of a piss pot that was being dumped out of an upstairs window.
“Bah!” she muttered, giving the waste a wide berth. Maybe she was better off at the castle, after all.
• • •
MARGARET DID NOT see much of Edward for the next few days. He was consumed by a whirlwind of activity from the moment he arrived. Meetings Edward held with his mother and with the earl of Warwick went far into the night. When he had first seen Margaret at supper the evening of the entry, Edward crushed his baby sister to him in a long embrace, almost knocking off her headdress, and told her, “You are receiving three hugs in one, for I do not have George and Richard here!” Then he whispered, “Your secret is safe with me, little Meg. But you are headstrong.”
Margaret stood on tiptoe and kissed his freshly pumiced face. “Thank you, Ned!” she whispered back.
That had been two days ago, and during that time, Edward and his councilors decided on a resolution to the extraordinary dilemma that England could have two kings. It had been arranged that an “election by procedure” would take place, a custom that was used before William, called the Conqueror, had changed the ancient system of arranging the succession. Margaret joined her mother and brother in Cecily’s comfortable solar and was told they were awaiting the result of this election. Edward was hoping the people would prefer him as king to Henry, Cecily said, but he wanted it to be legal.
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