“Mistress Nose-in-a-Book, Nose-in-a-Book,” the two boys chorused. Margaret flung a red damask cushion at them.
“Enough!” roared Edward, rising suddenly out of his chair. His siblings cringed, and the conversation at the back of the room stopped. “If we fight among ourselves like this, how do you think others will serve us? We must be united. Our father taught us to love and respect one another, and I will see his wishes carried out. ’Tis difficult enough to hold on to what we have earned through fighting others. We do not need to fight each other. Dickon and George, shake hands immediately! And Margaret, you are the eldest; you must set an example.”
The boys meekly shook hands, and Margaret turned the color of the cushion.
Cecily rose, curtseyed to her son and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Bonne nuit, Edward, I will take these baggages away to bed and leave you in peace.”
“A fair night to you, too, ma chère mère. Margaret, I pray you stay awhile. I would talk to you.”
An usher opened the door for Cecily, and she shooed the boys out before her and was followed by her ladies. Margaret sat straight and still, wondering if she was to be punished for her cushion-throwing. Edward waved his attendants away after filling two cups with wine.
“Have them prepare the all-night, Jack,” Edward called after Sir John Howard, the last to leave the room. “I shall not be long. And tell them to make sure the bread is fresher than last evening’s!”
“Aye, your grace,” Howard assented, bowing.
Edward handed Margaret one of the cups and sprawled his six-foot-three-inch body on a velvet settle, twirling his own cup between his big hands, causing a sapphire to flash in the candlelight. Edward’s expression softened as he surveyed her, and Margaret relaxed a little.
“Do you like being a royal princess, Meggie?” he asked.
“I do not feel any different, Edward. How am I supposed to feel?”
“Proud! Proud our family has finally achieved what was rightfully ours all these years,” he insisted. “But you are right to be modest, little sister.”
“Not so little,” retorted Margaret. “I am as tall as Mother, as you love to point out.”
“Aye, you are, you are,” chuckled Edward. “And though no one will ever hold a candle to her, you have your own beauty, Meg. ’Tis in your eyes and your spirit. I believe you are as intelligent as a woman can be!”
“Ned! Do you really believe men are always more intelligent than women? What of King Henry and his queen? From everything I have heard, I know which one is more boil-brained!” Margaret’s ire was roused. “Besides, who has been talking to you about my intelligence?”
“Anthony Woodville, my dear.” Edward let that sink in while he watched, amused, as Margaret colored. “Aye, he spoke highly of you the other day. I hope you have not been flirting with him, Meg. He’s a married man, you know. Although,” he muttered as an aside, “Eliza Scales sounds as dull as ditchwater and a sickly hag.”
“I have no interest in Sir Anthony, Ned! We had a pleasant conversation about King Arthur, that was all,” Margaret protested.
“Ho, ho! No interest, eh? Then why the blush, ma soeur!” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Listen, Margaret, I have learned to take my pleasures as they are presented. I may die in battle or be murdered in my bed tomorrow. I love women and women love me. If you choose to dally with Sir Anthony and are discreet, you will not be rebuked by me!”
Margaret was shocked into dropping her jaw. Edward had obviously escaped Cecily’s lectures about chastity and morality that she, George and Richard had been subjected to time and time again. Why, he must be in peril of his mortal soul! But he didn’t look very worried about it, she admitted. She chose to say nothing but smiled back at him, hoping to elicit more confidences. She was awed and fascinated by the assured ease with which her big brother grasped life by the horns. She wanted so much to be like him, and yet …
“Just be careful, Meg. In truth, I will be needing you for some future marriage negotiations, and a virginal bride is usually part of the bargain.”
“Ned!” was all Margaret could manage. She felt the familiar icy fingers of fear brush her heart with the mention of marriage. Why must I be used as a pawn, she wondered miserably. Surely it would not be so if I were a commoner.
She was startled from her thoughts by Edward’s next statement. “I see you looking at men, Meg. I know you have carnal feelings like me. We are alike, you and I, so I am just asking you to be careful.” He smiled at her embarrassment. “And I have a favor to ask of you.”
Relieved that he was not asking her to admit to those carnal feelings, she nodded readily. “What favor, my lord? You have only to ask.”
“Although Mother will still rule the roost”—the siblings grinned in unison—“she has no desire to act as my hostess until I take a wife. As soon as she feels you are ready to take her place, you will serve me in that capacity, and she will keep her court at Baynard’s. You will have your own household when the time comes. We shall miss her, but she says she has lost interest in being my helpmate since Father died. Unless she knows I have need of her, she prefers to keep her own company.”
Margaret was stunned. She had not envisioned life without Cecily at her elbow, showing her the way. “Certes, ’tis hard to believe, Ned,” she exclaimed. “George, Dickon and I still need her. You cannot let her go. Edward, please!”
“Me, stop as stubborn a woman as Proud Cis? I may be able to win battles, Meg, but those are simple skirmishes compared with battling our lady mother! Nay, her mind is made up. With your sisters Anne and Elizabeth having ducal households of their own to manage, Mother and I believe you will, with their help, serve the court well—until I find myself a suitable bride, that is.” He grimaced at the thought.
As Ann and Jane prepared her for bed a little while later, Margaret’s mind was in a whirl. First lady at court! She would be a queen of sorts. Holy Mother of God, she panicked, and I told him aye! At her prayers that night, she begged the sweet Virgin to keep her mother from retiring until Edward found a queen. Then she allowed thoughts of Anthony Woodville to flit through her head as she snuggled into her feather pillow and breathed the scent of sweet herbs tucked into it. Anthony’s face became confused with John Harper’s, and a smile curled her mouth as she drifted into slumber.
THE SUN SHONE on Edward’s triumphant entry into London on the last Friday of June. He started at Lambeth Palace, then rode across London Bridge and along Eastcheap and Tower Street to his royal apartments in the Tower of London. Then on Saturday afternoon, like every king of England before him, Edward, mounted on a richly caparisoned horse, wended his way from William the Conqueror’s palace through the city streets to Westminster, accompanied by the newly dubbed knights of the Bath. Among the knights, clothed in blue gowns with white silk hoods, were the small figures of George and Richard. George strutted purposefully behind Edward, nodding graciously from left to right at the cheering crowds. Cecily, Margaret and her sisters watched from the canopied dais set up in Westminster Palace’s courtyard in front of the great hall.
“I am assuming Edward has told George he is to be duke of Clarence,” Cecily said. “Look at him, as proud as a peacock!” The description could have fitted his mother as her eyes followed George.
Margaret, too, had been watching George with affection. She thought he had never looked so handsome. He should always wear blue, she decided.
“Ah, but Dickon is more humbled by his knightly honor. See, he stares straight ahead with his hands in prayer. He’s a solemn little boy, in truth, but I like him.” Elizabeth, duchess of Suffolk, looked fondly at her youngest sibling. “He does not demand attention as George does. And he is kind-hearted.”
A fanfare of trumpets caused Edward’s horse to shy, but its master’s hands expertly calmed it. The whole household was lined up to greet Edward, and the great bells of the abbey pealed over the acres of palace buildings and grounds and over the river beyond the walls. The noise was deafen
ing, and Margaret shivered with excitement. Edward rode up to the steps of the dais, dismounted and bowed low to his mother, sweeping off his purple velvet bonnet. Cecily inclined her head, descended the stairs and took his arm to be led into the great hall.
The palace was abuzz with activity the morning of the coronation a day later, and those at Prime thanked God for another fair day. Margaret was given several responsibilities before she was finally able to dress for the ceremony. Edward had given her permission to come out of mourning for her father after six months, and she had chosen a shimmering blue cloth of silver for her gown, trimmed at hem and neckline with marten, the train of which trailed several feet behind her. Her butterfly hennin was sewn with pearls and draped with a silver veil. Edward had given each of his sisters a necklace for the occasion, and hers was graceful loops of sapphires and pearls that draped delicately at the nape of her neck. She decorated each finger with rings and stood back to study herself in the full-length polished copper mirror.
“Today you will rival even the beautiful Elizabeth Lucy, my lady!” Ann gushed, citing an acknowledged beauty at court and one of Edward’s mistresses. Jane murmured agreement, but Margaret could see the girl was really admiring her own reflection over Margaret’s shoulder. Margaret sighed. These two were respectful but silly, and she knew they were there only because they were the daughters of loyal friends of her father’s, William Herbert and Robert Percy. I would so love to find a true friend to confide in, she thought yet again. Old Anne had been a gentle influence in her childhood, and she had had fun with George on many occasions, but in all the turmoil of her parents’ lives during the past five years, Margaret’s circle of friends had been limited to her mother’s ladies and these two simpering girls. Let us hope they find husbands soon, she mused, but she smiled her thanks at them for their compliments.
Cecily bustled in, looking every inch a dowager queen in violet silk and ermine. She had refused to come out of mourning for her husband, but to humor Edward she had ordered a gown of violet, the other acceptable color for bereaved widows. Her wimple was crowned with a small diadem, and she looked so imposing that even Margaret sank into a deep reverence.
“Get up, child, and let me look at you,” Cecily said impatiently. She walked slowly round her daughter, tweaking a sleeve, rearranging the long gossamer veil and removing one of the larger rings. “Too ostentatious, my dear. ’Tis quality, not quantity, that defines taste.”
Margaret stoically subjected herself to the scrutiny of her imperious parent, which made her feel like a dowdy mouse. Finally Cecily was satisfied. “Very nice, my dear. You will do. Mayhap we can find a suitable bridegroom for you before long. You will be a credit to the York name, I have no doubt.”
More talk of bridegrooms. Margaret inwardly groaned but smiled sweetly and said, “Aye, Mother. Thank you, Mother.”
THE CORONATION WAS long and, depending where one sat, thrilling or tedious. Edward was imperious in royal purple and godlike when he removed all but a loincloth for his anointing. His muscular arms, livid with recent scars, his smooth, broad chest and shoulders and ringing responses to his vows gave those able to see him confidence that he had the strength of body and mind to rule them. Following the anointing with the holy chrism, Edward was garbed in cloth of gold and knelt at the high altar. Margaret held her breath as the Archbishop of Canterbury dramatically raised the crown from its proffered cushion and held it high. When he finally placed it on Edward’s head, the organ and choir thundered an anthem, praising the Trinity and all the saints. George and Richard were kneeling across the aisle from her, and she tried to catch George’s eye. He was too busy wiggling his hand to make the gemstone sparkle on the ring Edward had given him, and Margaret despaired of him. She glanced at Richard by his side and she was astonished to see tears of joy coursing down his face as he watched his brother rise as king. Margaret unexpectedly found herself also moved to tears by this expression of devotion.
After the king and his court had processed along the red carpet running between the abbey and the palace, Cecily tried to keep a close eye on her youngest during the ensuing feast. However, she was pulled in so many directions that she finally gave up.
“Watch those boys for me, Margaret, there’s a good girl,” she said, on her way to avert yet another crisis with the steward.
Margaret seethed. I’m nothing but a nursemaid, she pouted, knowing that trying to keep an eye on two boys amidst the hundreds of gorgeously arrayed guests who milled about in the great hall and rooms beyond would be a nightmare. She finally spotted them entering one of the antechambers and began to thread her way through the throng. She heard music coming from the room. A young, sweet voice rose over the onlookers around the door, and standing on tiptoe, she saw a small girl, no more than a dozen years, she guessed, entertaining the guests with her harp. She listened for a minute and then squeezed past a large woman with foul breath and tugged at Richard’s sleeve.
“Richard!” she hissed. But Richard ignored her, gazing in awe at the girl with the harp on the stool, who seemingly had no fear of playing on her own. She was surprised to see he was with a strange boy, not George.
“You baggage!” she said in Richard’s ear as the music ended. “Come with me at once! And where is George?” She glowered at the other boy, who shrank from the scowl and hid behind Richard.
“Rob, this is my sister Margaret,” Richard said sulkily and added under his breath, “She likes to lord it over George and me. Take no notice.”
“You come with me this instant, Dickon, or—” Margaret was cut off by a loud fanfare calling the guests to the feast, and Richard was spared telling tales on George. Fortunately George appeared at his seat and no one questioned his truancy.
While the ewerers solemnly tendered their silver basins of water in which the diners rinsed their fingers and trenchermen ran up and down the tables serving food, the royal party sat in silence on their platform, ministered to by the highest peers of the realm. Margaret had never seen such food. Peacocks in full feathers, whole suckling pigs, lambs, haunches of beef, herons, quails, cranes and capons were presented to Edward during the feast, along with eels, haddock, salmon and sardines. Pies, pasties, tarts and fritters followed by dessert, wafers and fruit were all washed down with wines from France and Spain. Each course was ended with a subtlety of spun sugar or marchpane fashioned to represent characters from the Bible or mythology.
She was beginning to feel a little sick when George Neville, Edward’s chancellor and brother of the earl of Warwick, stood to greet the company. The powerful earl was not at the coronation, an odd happenstance as it was he who had virtually helped Edward up the steps to the throne.
“He is keeping the north strong for Edward,” her mother had told her earlier that week. “He and his brother, Sir John Neville, are Edward’s finest generals. Warwick can never be king, and, in truth, I fear he may be a little envious of your brother’s crowning. ’Tis well he remains where he is most needed.”
Margaret now studied the youngest Neville, who appeared to have an intelligent face but none of the swagger of his brother about him. A plain man, she decided.
“My lords, ladies, pray silence for his grace, King Edward,” he cried. As chancellor, the Great Seal of England was in his care, and he wore his office with honor, as befitted his noble family.
All eyes turned to the table on the dais. Edward pushed his chair back and stood towering over his chancellor. On his chin-length hair was a simple gold crown set with a huge amethyst. His fingers were covered with rings of every precious stone, and he wore an elaborate gold collar that hung from his broad shoulders. The guests rose as one and bowed from their benches. Edward waved them down.
“My loyal subjects, my friends! I greet you well and you are right welcome at our table. Tonight I honor my family: my mother, her grace, the duchess of York, to whom I give all obeisance and devotion!” He bowed low to Cecily.
“My dearest sisters, Anne, Elizabeth and Margaret, God be w
ith you all!” He toasted them, grinning over his goblet. “I warrant Margaret will expect me to find a royal bed for her now I am king!” he said behind his hand, and the company roared, thumping the tables.
Margaret didn’t hear what he said next, for her blood was boiling. She stared at her plate as Edward droned on, thanking this person and that, and when she finally raised her head, she looked straight into the sympathetic eyes of Anthony Woodville, seated at the next table. Her heart leaped into her throat, and, feeling herself blush, she cast her eyes down again.
Edward sat down amidst cheering. The chancellor stepped forward and raised his goblet. “God save the king!” he cried over the din. Benches scraped back as the company rose, cups were held high and the shout was taken up on all sides: “À York! God save the king! God save King Edward!”
It was done. Edward was crowned, and England now had two anointed kings.
4
1463
“Scotland? I don’t want to go to Scotland!” Margaret cried. “There are savages in Scotland. I have heard you say so yourself. How could you promise me to King James, Ned? ’Tis not fair!”
Edward sat in his favorite chair, made especially for his large frame, and fixed his hooded blue eyes on his sister’s distraught face. He let her rant. She was right, there were savages in Scotland, he agreed, but her marriage to James might tame them, he suggested. That really riled her, and she stamped her foot, unaware of the attention she had drawn to herself from the courtiers and foreign dignitaries at the other end of the long antechamber.
“Taisez-vous, ma chère soeur,” Edward commanded her with quiet authority. “We do not need the whole court to hear our business.”
The French emissary was looking particularly interested, and a flicker of a smile flitted over Edward’s face as he noticed. More loudly he called, “Lord Hastings, I pray you allow me some private time with my sister.”
Daughter of York Page 6
