“The trouble with an empty head, my dear brother, is that it can so easily be filled with other people’s ideas and ambitions,” she had told Edward one day. “I trust you have noted the friendship between George and our cousin Warwick? When you have finally found me a willing husband and I am out of reach, who will be close enough to warn you then? But you are right to keep George close by you. ’Tis when he is out of earshot of your wisdom that he may heed the wrong man’s counsel.”
“Meggie, I am going to miss you,” Edward had told her, giving her a smacking kiss. “I pray your husband, whoever he is, appreciates your wisdom,”—he winked at her—“as well as your other charms, naturellement. Never fear, I shall watch George.”
She thought of that conversation as the earl of Warwick took her hand and told her he had no doubt she was the finest export England could offer. She was surprised at the warmth and sincerity in his voice and eyes. “I fear you flatter me, my lord. But I will try and live up to your kind compliment,” she replied. “It is particularly important to me that I have your approbation for this marriage. Know that I am forever grateful for the work you have done on my behalf that did not bear fruit. Your loyalty to my father and brother will keep you always in my prayers.”
Warwick gazed into Margaret’s eyes and knew he could do no less than give her marriage his complete approval. Her honesty and diplomacy took his breath away, and he took her hand again and pressed it to his lips. “As I said, Lady Margaret, England’s finest export,” he murmured and bowed low to her.
Margaret could not help noticing the chill between him and Ned as he then gave the king a curt bow. He was plainly angry, and she knew that he had been embarrassed by Edward after his return from France with French envoys in tow and offers of new negotiations, to which Edward had given short shrift. He was convinced Edward’s Woodville family were causing the rift between him and his king, and his hatred of them was barely concealed when he deigned to visit the court. He had disappeared up to his northern estates soon after Elizabeth was delivered of another daughter in August, and George had followed close behind. However, he could not refuse the command to attend the Great Council, and so he had returned, bringing his enmity with him. Margaret watched him go sadly. He had such an overpowering magnetism, and she was dismayed that a man so powerful and fiercely loyal to her father’s and brother’s cause had now turned his back on them. The earl’s burning ambition to rule his protégé, Edward, from behind the throne was now patently obvious.
Edward introduced her to the two chief negotiators from Burgundy, and she avised them both for a few minutes, committing to memory the long, aquiline nose and sheep’s eye of Lodewijk van Gruuthuse, also known as Lord of Bruges, and Lord Halewijn’s jowls and bad teeth. These two lords would be part of Charles’s council and thus very much part of her life when she arrived in Burgundy. They, too, avised her for themselves, noting her height, the clear, gray eyes, generous mouth and loop of blond hair on her forehead. She was lovelier than they had been led to believe by other foreign envoys who passed through Bruges from the English court. Perhaps they had not been this close to her flawless English skin. The mutual scrutiny was not unusual, and both parties subjected themselves to it unperturbed.
The other councilors filed past her now, bowing and kissing her hand. Edward stood by proudly as each had a word for her: Will Hastings, who took her hand in both of his and thanked her; John Tiptoft, who told her Duke Charles was a lucky man; Jack Howard, who promised to give her knowledge of the court at Burgundy if it would help her; Chancellor Neville, recently restored to his office after some questionable dealings, who gravely wished her well; and the other Neville brother, George, archbishop of York, who gave her a blessing.
And then Anthony stood in front of her, and their eyes met in a silent moment of understanding and sadness. Whatever has been between us must be forgotten, his eyes tried to tell her. But he did not read the same message in hers. I will love you always, Anthony, they said. He bowed over her hand, and she resisted the temptation to turn it over and feel his lips on her palm. The other councilors passed by in a blur, but all were clearly awed by the tall, graceful princess, who seemed to be accepting her fate with perfect equanimity. They could not see her knocking knees or the perspiration streaming down her sides. They certainly did not guess she had cried herself to sleep the two previous nights, except for Anthony, who received a one-line response to his poem.
“I shall grieve for you forever. Elaine.”
MUCH OF MARGARET’S daily routine after Michaelmas comprised learning about Burgundy. Even though Duke Charles had not yet signed a contract, it was presumed this was only a matter of time—and a dispensation from the pope. She learned that her future husband had always leaned to Lancaster to flout his father’s preference for York and uphold his mother’s heritage as a granddaughter of Lancaster. She also learned that unlike England, which was ruled by a king and a parliament with London as its capital, Burgundy was a hodgepodge of city states and territories, each of which had been autonomous until the Valois dukes of Burgundy had seized them during the previous hundred years. What was even more surprising to Margaret and a little hard to understand was that the duke was a vassal of the king of France and the Habsburg emperor of the Holy Roman Empire.
“Much of Burgundy’s lands once belonged to France or the empire,” John Tiptoft told her. “The dukes became so powerful that not even their two liege lords could stop them from acquiring more territory.”
“And yet the dukes owed allegiance to those two rulers, my lord?” Margaret repeated, to make sure she understood. Tiptoft nodded and Margaret shook her head in disbelief. “What good is a king or an emperor if a mere duke can snatch land from him? It could not happen here. The king is all-powerful.”
The councilor said nothing. It would not be politic to tell the king’s sister that many people thought the earl of Warwick capable of it. There were rumors that he had treated with Louis of France during the June meetings and might even form a devilish alliance with the She-Wolf of Anjou in exchange for owning territories in Holland and Zeeland. But it was only rumors, and no loyal subject of Edward’s could possibly believe in such a tale. Instead, he went on to explain to Margaret that the lands now ruled by Duke Charles encompassed a vast area that included the counties of Charolais, Artois and Flanders, the duchies of Burgundy, Hainault, Holland, Zeeland and Brabant, and boasted the extremely wealthy cities of Bruges, Ghent and Brussels. Upon her marriage, Tiptoft told her smiling, Margaret’s titles would far exceed those of her brother, the king of England.
“But my fiancé’s true allegiance should be with the king of France. And what happens if I do not marry Duke Charles or do not produce an heir, my lord? Charles has but one daughter from his two previous marriages. Can she inherit a duchy?”
“Aye, in principle, but should anything happen to Charles and young Mary has no husband to protect her, I cannot imagine that Louis and the Emperor Frederick would not swoop in to reclaim what they consider theirs.” The astute politician saw the fleeting look of fear that crossed Margaret’s face. “But, my lady, do not dwell on this. You are from a prolific line and will bear the duke a son, we all have no doubt.”
Margaret inadvertently shivered. “I pray you are right, my lord.”
That night, she prayed to the patron saint of barren women, Felicitas, to protect her.
MEANWHILE, THE ILL will between the Woodvilles and Warwick became too acrid for even easygoing Edward to tolerate, and in January of 1468, he called a meeting of his council at his castle in Coventry during which he commanded that Earl Rivers and the earl of Warwick make an attempt at a reconciliation in public.
“’Twas a sour potion for the earl to swallow, Meg,” Richard told his sister a few weeks later. “My lord is not accustomed to stooping to apologize to one as low as Rivers. His jaw was set for days following, and I blame him not.”
“Certes, Dickon, but Ned needs to keep the peace between the two. He owes Warwick h
is throne and Woodville his wife. I do not envy him,” Margaret told him. “Your lord is a greedy man, and by all that is holy, Ned has rewarded him well, but he needs to know who is king, in my view.”
“Do not think I am disloyal to Ned!” Dickon cried anxiously. “I am torn by my duty to my liege lord Warwick, who has me under his roof, and my brother and sovereign lord, to whom I owe everything.”
“You have but one allegiance, Dickon, and that is to your family. Never forget that. I shall never forget I am a York and a princess of England when—if—I go to Burgundy.”
Richard nodded, understanding her well. Then he lowered his eyes and said softly, “I fear George needs to be reminded, Meg. He is constantly in Warwick’s company and talks of Isabel interminably. I do not think he will rest until he has her.”
“Ned will never sanction it. And besides, she is too close in kin by far. I am told Charles had his troubles with a dispensation for us to wed—and I wish it had been denied,” she sighed, “and we are far more distant than George and Isabel.”
Richard grinned. “But you will love Bruges, Meg. Duchess Isabella—the older one—was so kind to George and me. You will live like a queen there.”
“I live like a queen here, Dickon. What can you mean?” Margaret retorted.
“Aye, we live well, but not half so well as the duke. You will see. But,” he said in a quieter tone, a faraway look in his eyes, “I do not think having so many riches is as important as being happy, do you?”
Margaret heard a warmth in his voice she had not heard before and looked at him intently. Was it possible? she thought. After all, he is fifteen now. She smiled, her own woes forgotten. “Why, Dickon, I do believe you are in love! Who is the lady? Someone in the north? Do I know her?”
Richard was all business once more. He laughed a little too heartily, rose and evaded her questions. He was such a private young man, she often did not understand him, but she appreciated he was being loyal to whomever had taken his fancy and so did not press him further. Nonetheless, she was intrigued and so convinced he had fallen in love that she asked Fortunata to ferret out any information she could about Richard’s paramour. Fortunata came up emptyhanded, but one foggy day in late February, while Edward was still haggling over her contract, Margaret herself found out a little more.
Jack Howard was back at court after many weeks of recuperation from a nasty hunting accident in Suffolk, where he was gored by a charging wild boar, and he had volunteered to give her his impressions of his many visits to Flanders. Margaret insisted on improving her French in preparation for her new life, and Jack found himself floundering in front of her fluency. His mistakes led to much laughter, and they spent a merry afternoon in conversation.
“I was sorry to hear about your accident, Sir John,” Margaret said, pointing to his still bandaged leg. “I believe there is nothing more ferocious than a wild boar when it is cornered.”
“Aye, the creature is courageous in the face of death, I grant you, and I liked not the look in his eye as he came at me. Your brother, Gloucester, has decided upon the boar for his device, he told me during his visit to Nayland a fortnight ago. ’Tis a noble animal indeed and a good choice.”
“Dickon was with you, Sir John?” Margaret asked, innocently. “’Tis strange he did not mention it the other day when we talked.”
Jack unexpectedly colored and stammered, “’Twas but a short visit, my lady, and he has much to occupy him these days. He had no reason to tell you of it.” He thought quickly and rushed on, “And now, let me talk to you of the merchant adventurers in Bruges, with whom you are sure to have discourse as they are the English merchant representatives there.”
Margaret did not miss the flush and fluster in his voice. Aha! she thought, whoever Dickon is dallying with has a connection to Howard. For his part, Jack cursed himself, because, as Margaret had correctly guessed, Richard had met a young woman at Tendring Hall, had sworn him and Lady Howard to secrecy, and Jack had almost let the cat out of the bag.
“’TIS FINALLY signed, Meg,” Edward told his sister on the afternoon of the fourteenth day of March. “I have ratified the treaty with Charles and you will marry him in early May at Bruges.”
He observed her as the news sank in. Her back was long and straight as a Roman road, her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes stared unblinking at the red and gold tapestry in front of her. “Aye, your grace,” she eventually whispered and crossed herself. “As you wish.”
Edward chuckled. “You look as though you were about to be put on the rack. Come now, Meg, marriage is not so bad. Bess and I are very happy together, as are her mother and father, and I can give you other examples, including our own parents. Certes, Jack Howard and his new wife, Margaret, dote on each other.
“You have spent time with Antoine of Burgundy, and you told me you liked him. Why should you think his half brother will be any different? For one so intelligent, you are being addle-pated about this, Margaret. Now, smile for me; I cannot send you to Bruges looking so sour-faced.” He clapped his hands, startling her out of her trance and silencing the buzz of conversation at the other side of the room. Edward called for music, the soft notes from lutes and viols broke the tension and the courtiers resumed their quiet talking.
Margaret lifted her head and smiled sweetly at her brother, though tears shone on her lashes. “Will this do?” she asked. “I can keep this up for as long as you like. But you cannot prevent the pain in my heart, Ned. ’Tis not a fear exactly, ’tis a deep melancholy I have in here”—she touched her heart—“that I will leave all that is near and dear to me for ever.”
“Your tears are wasted on me, Margaret. I am fast losing patience—”
Edward was interrupted by a scuffle at the far end of the room, and they both turned to see all four of Astolat’s gangly legs flailing wildly as he tried to release Fortunata’s grip on the tether that was keeping him from reaching Margaret’s side. Finally gaining a footing on the slippery flagstones, with rushes flying, the dog achieved his goal by simply dragging the poor Fortunata on her rump along the floor behind him. Brother and sister forgot their disagreement and laughed at the scene, and when the dwarf saw her mistress in merrier spirits, she encouraged the dog to go faster by picking up a long rush and using it as a whip.
“That’s better, Meggie,” Edward whispered as the courtiers cheered the dog on. “I am counting on you to win Charles over to the York cause. ’Tis vital for England.”
10
Spring and Summer 1468
Margaret’s favorite green and gold spring came and went so quickly that she hardly had time to savor it, as preparations for her marriage took up most of her days. Despite the problems Edward had in raising the first fifty thousand crowns Charles had demanded as dowry, he could not let his sister arrive in Burgundy—the most cultural and fashionable province in Europe—with an inadequate trousseau. Gowns of cloth of silver and gold, underdresses of damask, satin and silk, velvet mantles lined with fur, hennins adorned with pearls and jewels and shoes of every color had to be measured and made for her.
Edward had told her at the time of the signing in March that there was a problem with the dispensation for her and Charles to marry, and it was still wanting. The couple were related in the third and fourth degrees of consanguinity, and somewhere in the application process, Charles had made an error.
“Christ’s nails!” roared Edward, when he had heard of yet another delay at the end of April. He swung around to face his council, and his eye rested on Anthony Woodville. “Scales, go and find my sister and tell her she will not be wed on the fourth of May. I warrant your shoulder is as good as anyone’s for her to cry on. Duke Charles fears Louis may have had something to do with this, and if he has, I shall flay him alive—next time I see him. Now, let us choose another date for the marriage. I cannot believe the pope will make us wait more than a month, so I propose the twenty-fourth of June. Aye, tell Lady Margaret she has a reprieve until then, Anthony.” And he waved
his brother-in-law away.
Anthony hurried through the halls of Westminster Palace to where Margaret had her apartments. Master Vaughan greeted him warmly in the waiting room. Margaret had told Anthony after the tournament that her steward now held him in higher esteem than Edward, at which Anthony had laughed and called her a flatterer.
“I must see the Lady Margaret at once, Master Vaughan, I have a message from the king. Pray announce me without delay,” Anthony commanded, clapping the old man on the shoulder as he would a friend.
“I regret, my lord, but the Lady Margaret is unable to give an audience at this moment,” the steward replied. Then he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “For she is in her bath!”
“Then please send Fortunata to me, sir, so I may ascertain how long I must wait.”
Within a few minutes, Fortunata slipped through the door and curtseyed to Anthony, who was inspecting a large tapestry that was strewn with tiny flowers. In a low voice so the steward could not hear, she said, “Madonna Margaret will let you come in and speak to her, but you cannot see her, milord.” To the steward she said brightly, “Master Von, my mistress is ready to see Lord Scales. Thank you and farewell.”
Vaughan bowed to Anthony and stomped off down the hall, his head jutting forward and his hands clasped behind his back. Anthony entered Margaret’s chamber, and Fortunata announced him. Several of her ladies were hovering around a silk-covered screen, one holding a large steaming pot and another waiting with drying cloths. Fortunata scurried around the screen and told Margaret that Anthony was there.
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