Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  ELIZABETH WAS PREGNANT and all England awaited an heir to Edward’s crown. Elizabeth was uncomfortable and unpleasant during the months before her confinement, although her physician, Domenico de Sirego, foresaw few problems since two healthy boys had been born to her as Elizabeth Grey. Margaret sent Fortunata to entertain her, and she even visited the queen at her town house, Ormond’s Inn, to sit and talk or read to her. The two women gradually developed a friendship that pleased Edward greatly. Margaret’s initial reluctance to attend the queen came more from hostility to her lady-in-waiting, Eliza Scales, than to Elizabeth. She was reminded of Anthony every time she saw the woman, and it was only her good breeding that prevented her from showing Eliza anything but civility.

  One afternoon in December, in front of a roaring fire, Margaret read Elizabeth Troilus and Criseyde. She could not resist telling the company that “my Lord Scales was generous enough to present me with this volume, and I trust your grace will enjoy the beautiful poem.” She was gleeful when she saw Eliza’s fashionably invisible eyebrows shoot heavenward.

  She relished reciting the passionate prose. Towards the end, as Criseyde was about to betray Troilus, she was touched to see tears falling freely down Elizabeth’s face.

  “Are you unwell, Elizabeth?” Margaret asked anxiously, putting the book down and kneeling by her side. “Is it the babe?”

  Elizabeth brushed the tears away impatiently. “Nay, sister, I am quite well, thank you.” She hesitated before looking into Margaret’s kind eyes and telling the truth. “The poem is moving, certes, but my mind is on Edward at present. Forgive me.”

  “Ned? Why, he is hale and safe on his throne, my dear. He tells everyone he is impatient to be a father,” Margaret assured her, although there was talk that Edward had already sired a daughter with one of his conquests. “What could possibly make you cry?”

  “Look at me, Margaret,” Elizabeth muttered miserably, tapping her distended belly with disgust. “I am hideous, and Edward does not look at me. I know he is at Westminster with one of his … whores,” she cried, causing her ladies to look anxiously at her. “Every night, ’tis someone new. He has not come to me for a month. Certes, I fear he no longer loves me.”

  She finished with a wail that took Margaret aback. Elizabeth was always the model of cool control, haughty and confident, and until she reddened her eyes with crying, more radiant and lovely in her pregnancy than she was before it. Her alabaster skin glowed, her breasts were full and soft, and her eyes less cold. Margaret saw her own shortcomings in that lovely face, and, if the truth be told, she was jealous of Elizabeth’s motherhood. Negotiations with Dom Pedro dragged on, and she was no nearer to being wed or a mother than she had been six months earlier, although she was still not looking forward to leaving home.

  As she tried to coax Elizabeth out of her melancholy, she was aware of a commotion in the courtyard but paid no heed as she patted the dejected queen’s hand and soothed her. “Such foolishness, Elizabeth. Edward adores you.” She silently cursed her brother for his blatant infidelities. “And …” She did not finish. The object of their discussion was being announced with a flourish at Elizabeth’s solar door.

  “Your grace,” intoned implaccable chamberlain, Lord Berners, “The king requests an audience. Will you receive him here?”

  Before Elizabeth had a chance to straighten her simple coif and veil, wipe her nose or dab rosewater on her breast, Edward strode in.

  “Bessie, my sweet wife, you look magnificent!” he said, sweeping her out of her chair and planting a kiss on her astonished mouth. “I have never seen a more beautiful woman. We shall have to keep you with child always, my love.”

  The company was still giving him full obeisance when he raised Margaret up next and folded her into an embrace. “You, too, Meg, are looking magnificent,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “But not for the same reason, I hope. Ha!” he laughed, seeing Margaret’s eyebrows shoot up. “Come, Bess, may we have some privacy? I have been searching London for my sister all day, and how happy I am to find the two of you together, the best of friends.”

  He was clearly in a good mood, Margaret thought, relieved. And Elizabeth’s unhappy mood was chased off by his cheerful presence and loving words. She waved her ladies away and they bowed their way from the room. Lord Berners stood at a discreet distance, eyeing Fortunata, who did not include herself in Elizabeth’s dismissal. As if by her own magic, she made herself invisible in the folds of Margaret’s gown.

  “Oh, Edward, I am right glad to see you,” Elizabeth exclaimed, her sad mood chased away. “’Tis a fortnight since you were last here.” She did her best not to accuse, but Edward looked sheepish anyway.

  “Aye, my love. I confess time caught me by surprise. But there is a good reason, and as you may infer, Meg is part of the reason.”

  “Me? How can I be blamed for the neglect of your poor wife, Ned?” Margaret was indignant but intrigued.

  “Because I have been in more negotiations for your hand, dear sister. Now there are two dukes vying for your hand, and I could not be more pleased,” Edward crowed.

  Margaret was speechless.

  “Aye, eloquent Margaret, I have taken your breath away, I can see.” He winked at Elizabeth. “Bess, I knew I could count on you to keep the cat in the bag.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide and a smile curved her perfect mouth. “So that is the way the wind blows, in truth. From the east this time. Pray do not test your sister’s patience any longer, my love. Tell her.”

  “Tell me what? Ned—Elizabeth—do not taunt me so!” Margaret implored. Her hands were clammy and her breath shallow with fear. The bullfrog did not entice her, but she had spent many months learning about Catalonia, Aragon and her prospective husband’s Portuguese lineage. She had even begun to learn a little Spanish, although the letters Dom Pedro had sent her had been written in perfect French. There had also been a promise of a fabulous diamond betrothal ring, although nothing yet had been forthcoming.

  “Who are you bartering me off to this time, Ned? I am flattered to be so desirable,” she said, her tongue finding its bite again as she tried to sound flippant while fighting back panic. “I can only be in one place at a time, in truth, no matter how clever you think me!”

  “Have a care, Meggie.” Edward was smiling but his eyes were glittering. “You are at my command, and you will go where I tell you. Because I know you well, I spared you the other possible matches I could have made for you.”

  Margaret’s eyes widened in disbelief as Edward continued relentlessly, “Aye, Louis had his own ideas—certes, he has no wish to see me ally with Burgundy, whom he looks on as his rebellious vassal—so he gave me an array of eligibles to choose from: his brother-in-law, Philip of Bresse; René, count of Alençon; his nephew, Philibert of Savoy; and, last but not least, the Italian, Sforza, duke of Milan,” he gloated, knowing he had taken her breath away. “It seems you are a desirable partner, my dear.”

  “Hush, Edward, there is no need to frighten your sister.” Elizabeth jumped to Margaret’s defense and Margaret shot a grateful glance her way. “You forget, my dear, you made your own choice. Women are not always so fortunate. Be gentle, Edward,” she cajoled with a seductive smile. “I know how you can be.”

  Margaret could see Edward had a hard time resisting that smile. He reached out and stroked his wife’s face, cupping her chin in his big hand and running his thumb along her bottom lip. Margaret cleared her throat in an attempt to distract him, and Edward turned his attention back to her.

  “I wanted the best for you, Meg, and so I rejected Louis’ offers.” He did not need to add that these choices were only rejected because he had no intention of being caught in the French king’s web; it was as clear to Margaret as spring water that Edward cared nothing for her feelings in the matter. “But now,” he continued, “it seems we do have a choice, Meg. Dom Pedro is still very anxious to have you, but he is now a small fish compared to the other duke.”

  Recoveri
ng her composure, Margaret’s curiosity got the better of her. “Two dukes, Ned? There is only one of any import to the east of us, and that is Philip of Burgundy, who I am told is not much longer for this world, ’tis true, but his duchess is very much alive. I know this because Dom Pedro is her nephew and, prolific letter writer that he is, he would have told me of her death.”

  “’Tis true, Duke Philip is the only duke to the east of us, and he and his wife are still living, but you may not know that their son, Count Charles, was widowed not two months ago. I have been approached by Philip on behalf of his son, Meg. You could be duchess of Burgundy one day and the richest woman in Europe!”

  “Charolais?” gasped Margaret, her hand over her mouth. “But Ned, Sir John Howard told me he goes to bed in his spurs! In truth, I would rather have the frog!” She was so stupefied, she thought she might swoon. She grasped the arms of the chair for strength and stared dejectedly at the flames licking their way hungrily around the logs in the fireplace.

  “But he is a frog, Meg,” Edward laughed, pleased at his joke and insensible to her feelings. “He is a Valois duke, and thus French through and through. Except for the English on his grandmother’s side and Portuguese on his mother’s,” he remembered. “But sweet Meg,” he went on, trying to coax her out of her dejection, “we have only just begun to talk. These things take time, as you have seen with Dom Pedro, and we shall not show our hand one way or the other until an agreement is signed, until you have consented and all parties are content. ’Tis said Charolais is not as set on an English marriage as his father is. It may come to naught, but I thought I must tell you. Be of good cheer, Meg. We have the Yuletide season to look forward to and our first child,” he said, taking Elizabeth’s hand again. “And now, why do I not have wine? Lord Berners, you run too sober a household. I pray you fetch us some wine. We need to drink to Lady Margaret’s good health, she is looking a little green!”

  Margaret, feeling the bile rise in her throat, jumped up from her chair and ran from the room.

  9

  1466–1467

  Elizabeth delivered a lusty daughter on the eleventh day of February, and if Edward was disappointed not have a male heir, he did not show it. In fact, to prove his love for his queen and disavow any rumors that he was displeased, he named the baby Elizabeth.

  “Elizabeth is a fine name for a queen, and it may be we have another Elizabeth to reign over us, eh, my pretty?” Edward was lounging on his wife’s bed, holding the baby and smothering the tiny face with kisses. Elizabeth was clothed in a blue silk damask bed robe, her hair cascading down around her from under a tiny jeweled coif. Margaret and George had been invited to meet the newborn in the privacy of Elizabeth’s chamber, and when it was Margaret’s turn to hold the baby, she thought her heart would burst. The dark blue eyes stared vacantly up at her as if taking in her aunt’s purple overdress and the flimsy gauze covering the black velvet pillbox. Margaret rocked the child as she slowly walked around the room and was rewarded when her niece closed her eyes and slept.

  “She is beautiful, Elizabeth,” Margaret told the queen. As she turned to give the child to the nurse, she felt a tug on her dress. Fortunata, who had been given permission by the queen to attend Margaret, was standing on tiptoe to get a glimpse of the child. Margaret bent down to present the bundle and saw Fortunata close her eyes and sway for a few seconds. A slow smile spread over her saturnine features, and when she opened her eyes again, she touched the baby’s cheek.

  “She will be a great lady, madonna. Aye, she will be a queen,” she pronounced, and scurried back to her place behind the tall oak chair. The king and queen crossed themselves, and Edward looked pleased.

  “Mayhap she will be queen of France!” he cried. “But she cannot be queen of England, because Bess and I plan to have many more children, and there is bound to be a boy among them somewhere. Forgive me, George, I know you of all people are content we have a girl and your place as my heir is secure,” Edward teased, throwing the remark over his shoulder, “but I cannot think your luck will hold.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth turned down, deciding Edward must be truly disappointed with a girl, and Margaret glared at her brother for his insensitivity. Turning to look at George, she was puzzled to see him standing by the fire gazing at the crackling logs with his hand gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

  • • •

  “My lord of Warwick placed me not among the guests at the Archbishop’s board for the feast following his enthronement at York Minster, but as the only man of rank with the ladies of his household, to wit, the Countess Anne and her two daughters, Isabel and Anne, as well as our sister, Elizabeth of Suffolk, and our aunt of Westmoreland. My lord of Warwick, who was steward at the feast, gave me the singular honor of sitting at the head table in the chamber of estate. The banquet was the most sumptuous I have ever seen—but pray do not tell Ned this, he would not think kindly on the Nevilles if he thought they were trying to outdo him!”

  How true, Margaret thought, raising her eyes from Richard’s letter and focusing them on the exquisite new arras from Brussels on the opposite wall. Ned does not need any more reasons to drive a wedge between him and the earl. She read on.

  “’Tis said my lord archbishop employed sixty-two cooks to provide food for us, and such food, Meg, as would feed a thousand. More than a hundred oxen, a thousand sheep, three hundred veals, two thousand pigs, hundreds of stags and a dozen porpoises were served along with a hundred peacocks, thousands of geese, chickens, quails and pigeons, all washed down with a hundred tuns of wine, and three hundred tuns of ale. I must have eaten a great deal, for I could not move for hours following, and my horse complained when I sat him next.”

  Margaret’s mouth watered while her eyes popped out of her head at the details. She chuckled at his last remark. He writes as he speaks, she thought, missing her earnest younger brother in that moment. The last time she had seen Warwick, he had complimented Richard on his ability with the short sword and mace. Margaret had smiled politely, but she would rather have heard that his reading and dancing had improved. Now she could see that his writing certainly had. He would spend another year or two under the earl’s mentorship, she guessed. She hoped there would not come a time when Richard would have to choose between his master and his brother. The schism was growing daily, it seemed. She sighed, folded the letter and put it in her silver coffer along with those from her intended, Dom Pedro. The Warwick worry was still there.

  EDWARD’S PREDICTION TO her in December was proved correct. None of the marriage negotiations had moved forward by June, and Margaret still had not seen the promised betrothal ring from Aragon. There were whole days when she was able to forget she would have to leave England, and these were her favorite times. Then the day came when she knew she would never see the ring or her bullfrog bridegroom.

  Will Hastings caught up to her one cloudless June morning as she was enjoying a stroll in the Wardrobe gardens.

  “God’s greeting to you,” he said, after bowing low. “I regret I bring bad tidings, Lady Margaret. Dom Pedro is dead.”

  Margaret stood stock-still, thoughts tumbling in her head, her emotions raw. Relief, disappointment, frustration and sorrow crowded her heart. She tried to sort out the emotions, but a desire to sit down won the day, and she looked around for an excedra. Will stood quietly as he watched her process the news. Her face betrayed nothing, and he was afraid she had not heard him correctly. But then he noticed the busy fingers pulling apart a daisy she had plucked from the grassy wall she had sunk down on, and he realized she was indeed thinking hard about what the information meant to her.

  Margaret had begun to like Dom Pedro for his neat turn of phrase and down-to-earth wooing in his letters. She had prayed to her own feast-day saints, St. James and St. Philip, to St. Monica, patron saint of wives, and even her own St. Margaret to guide Edward’s negotiations in the direction of Aragon. It would be the better of two evils, she believed. Everything she had learn
ed thus far of Charles of Burgundy was enough to turn even a stout-hearted woman’s stomach, she thought, let alone someone as sensitive as she. She hoped she would experience with a lifelong mate at least a little of the pleasure John Harper and Anthony had aroused in her. She had witnessed the love between her mother and father, who hated being apart and fell into each other’s arms when in private, even in front of their children. She had seen the grief in Jack Howard’s face when his wife had died the previous year. Now she was witnessing the fulfillment of desire between her brother and his wife. She knew it was possible, but how could it be possible with a man happier on a horse in battle than in bed with her? A pox on Dom Pedro, she thought resentfully, and then was immediately contrite.

  Will Hastings waited patiently for her response. Margaret had almost forgotten he was there except for his heavy breathing.

  “Dead, my lord? How can he be dead? He was only thirty-eight. He was to have married me. I received a letter from him only last month, and he said nothing of sickness or dying. God rest his soul,” she ended, crossing herself.

  “We know not how he died, my lady. ’Twas a shock for all of us. Your brother sent me here as soon as we had the news. I am sorry for you. You have been anticipating your formal betrothal to him for almost a year—eagerly I must believe.”

  “Aye, my lord, I was,” she lied, and held her thumb between her fingers for it. “But my grief must pale beside his family’s. It cannot have been expected.” She rose suddenly when she knew what she must do. “If you would be kind enough to escort me over the bridge to the good friars next door, I would be grateful. I am given leave by the abbot to pray in the little chapel when I need. I must light a candle and beg indulgences for Dom Pedro’s soul through Purgatory.”