Daughter of York (81 page)

Beatrice opened her eyes and put her hand to her meager breast. “Your grace, dear cousin Cecily, I will be well tomorrow, I promise.”

“Cecily?” Margaret gasped, looking wildly at Henriette, who shrugged.

“She keeps calling me Marie, your grace. She is living in the past but seems to know we are leaving tomorrow. ’Tis strange.”

“Have Doctor de Wymus come immediately. She has obviously had a spasm.” Margaret looked down at her faithful attendant. She felt guilty. I should have sent her home a year ago when I first noticed how old she was, she admonished herself. How selfish I am. She reminded me of Mother and home. That is why I kept her by me, but now I may have killed her.

De Wymus bustled in on his short, stumpy legs, out of proportion to his long torso. He clicked his tongue when he saw the patient and loosened the tight ribbon around the neck of Beatrice’s chemise. Her breathing eased when he gave her a foxglove tincture.

Relieved, Margaret gave the old woman a bright smile. “There now, Beet. I pray you listen to the doctor and get better.” She felt as though she were addressing a child, but it seemed to soothe Beatrice.

Suddenly her hand reached out and grabbed Margaret’s gown. Her eyes were desperate. “England! I must go home to England! Please do not leave me behind, my lady. Swear to me you will not leave me behind!”

Margaret looked at the doctor. He shrugged and turned his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.

“I promise you shall go home to England, my dear Beet.” She did not add that it might be in a shroud. “Now let us pray for your swift recovery.”

Beatrice was sleeping peacefully when she left, and the next morning astounded Margaret by appearing as usual to help her dress.

“You frightened us all, Beatrice. I am pleased you are better,” Margaret said. “Are you certain you can travel? We have to go to Calais today, and it will be a tiring two days. But you can rest in the carriage and will be relieved of your duty to me.”

As she left the room to say good-bye to Mary, she did not see Beatrice sink onto the settle, fatigued by the hour of playacting. She was determined to return to England, and nothing was going to stop her.

S
IR
E
DWARD
W
OODVILLE
and Sir James Radcliff were the first to greet her on the quay beside the
Falcon.
The many mariners and soldiers that manned Edward’s impressive ship had all been specially decked out in new purple and blue velvet jackets and provided an honor guard for the duchess and her party from the harbor yard to the gangplank. Sir Edward bowed gracefully and took her hand from Guillaume’s to lead her up the sturdy plank to the rough, hardened grasp of Captain William Fetherston on the main deck. Her pulse had quickened when she first saw Sir Edward, having forgotten how like Anthony this youngest Woodville brother was.

“Thank you, Sir Edward,” she said, and turned to the weatherbeaten face of the captain. “I greet you well, Captain. I pray we have calm seas, for I am not a good sailor.”

Fetherston grinned. Margaret was dismayed to see that he had not a tooth left in his head. “If the wind holds, we shall have smooth sailing to Dover, your grace. Our sovereign lord commanded it so,” he said boldly and gave her a broad wink.

Margaret chuckled. For some reason, he reminded her of Jack Howard, and then she remembered he was another old friend she would see again. She breathed in the sea air, hearing the gulls crying overhead as they watched for fish in the murky harbor water or quarreled over a dead one on the dock. She felt the gentle rocking of the boat beneath her feet, and her dread of the
mal de mer
resurfaced.

“Doctor Lambert has prepared this for you, Margaret,” Mary had told her when Margaret had gone to bid her stepdaughter farewell at the Prinsenhof. She gave Margaret a vial and explained it was advisable to take it before the ship set sail. “’Tis ground galingale, and you must take it in water or ale.” Margaret thanked her gratefully.

Mary had the two children brought in to say good-bye to their godmother, and Margaret found she was almost more loath to leave them than Mary. Philip at almost two was an engaging child, and he lisped a farewell prettily. Then it was time for her to say good-bye to Mary, and the two women embraced tearfully. Both thought back on that fateful day in Ghent when they had wondered if they would ever see each other again.

“I am so afraid something will keep in you England, Margaret. I have worried that Edward will find you a new husband and you will never return to us. I have prayed to the Virgin to bring you back safely. Your home is here with us. We could not live without you. You must believe this.” Mary was gripping Margaret’s arms as she looked deep into her stepmother’s eyes. She really could not imagine life without this rock in her life. “Promise me you will return!” she entreated.

Margaret shook her gently. “Certes, I shall be back and bothering you, my dove. What could possibly keep me in England now?” she said. Anthony, she thought guiltily. I would stay for Anthony. “Now kiss me and let me go. Farewells are so final.” And Mary had kissed both cheeks and held Margaretha up to receive her godmother’s blessing.

“Your grace, would you like to go below?” Sir Edward interrupted her thoughts. “The captain thinks we can catch the tide and a fair wind for Dover.”

Margaret laughed. “Nay, I shall stand on deck and watch the horizon as the captain of the
New Ellen
taught me. Oh, sweet Jesu,” she said, as it dawned on her. “’Twas exactly the same day of June but a dozen years ago. Do you remember?” Sir Edward grinned and nodded. “’Tis a good omen, I hope, and bodes well for my mission. And now I should like some ale to go with my magic potion, Sir Edward, if ’tis possible. Your brother and I share a sad lack of sea legs.”

25

England, Summer 1480

The cliffs of Dover shone white in the sun. This time the wind was stiff and fair and they made the crossing in only a few hours. Margaret and Beatrice hung over the rail of the quarterdeck and gazed in silence at the place of their birth.

“Not too tired, Beet?” Margaret asked after a moment.

“Tired but happy, your grace,” Beatrice replied. “I prayed all night when I was struck down that I would see you safe in London and with your family. It seems our blessed Lord heard my prayer.” She sighed as she turned back to look at the magnificent chalk cliffs rising above them as the captain brought the ship safely past the treacherous Goodwin Sands and into the harbor, where the castle dominated the town.

Margaret’s party was rowed ashore and spent the night in the castle. The next day, they continued their sailing along the Kentish coast and around the headland on the Isle of Thanet, past Margate—the port of Margaret’s long-ago departure—and into the Thames estuary as far as Gravesend. The ginger powders had done their work, and Margaret enjoyed the voyage. But she was ready to land and begin her diplomatic task.

The last leg of the journey took place on the royal barge. The two dozen bargemen, in York murrey and blue jackets decorated with white roses, pulled them easily up the Thames past banks of wild celery, mead-owsweet and yellow iris. Margaret’s eyes misted when she recognized the lime-washed walls of Greenwich Palace and saw her brother waving at the top of the water steps with Will Hastings by his side. She took out her kerchief and waved back as the oarsmen deftly pulled in their oars in unison and held them upright to form an honor guard for her.

“Welcome! Welcome, Meg,” Edward called from his perch above her. “Careful now, those steps are slippery.”

Guillaume de la Baume, Lord of Irlain, was not about to let the dowager duchess of Burgundy slip into the Thames, and Margaret caught a look of annoyance on his face.

“He is merely being helpful, Guillaume. I pray you show these English how you can smile.” They negotiated the six steps without mishap, and then Margaret found herself enveloped in Edward’s embrace, the breath almost squeezed from her.

“My dearly beloved sister, we greet you well!” he exclaimed once he had let go. “Will, you were right, she hasn’t changed a whit. What think you, Jack? Still the same dignified lady, I would say. Every considerable inch a duchess, every inch a York!” Edward was in his element, his booming voice including the whole gathering on the quay. “What say you, sirs? Shall we give my sister of Burgundy a whooping London greeting?”

Margaret was warmed by his exuberance and those present were enthusiastic in their hurrahs. She bowed this way and that, acknowledging the smiling faces. And then the cry went up “
A
York,
á
York!” and she felt the familiar swell of pride.

“Home!” she thought, exultant. “I’m home.”

A
BOATMAN TOLD
his customer, who told the fishwife, who told her neighbor, who passed on the news in the tavern that night: Margaret of York was to arrive in the city the next day. When the royal barge landed at Haywharf near Coldharbour House, which Edward had refurbished for his sister’s visit, hundreds of people lined the lane and Thames Street, along which Margaret had to walk to enter the residence.

“God bless you, duchess!” they cried, waving and cheering her. A little girl ran out and shyly gave her a few buttercups she had found near the river, and Margaret stopped to talk to her. Awed, the crowd watched quietly as the duchess in her patterned gold and black silk gown and her high headdress took one of the flowers and held it under the girl’s chin. “I see you like butter, child,” she said softly. “I do, too.” She turned to Guillaume and asked him for a candied ginger she knew he always carried with him and gave it to the girl. “I thank you for the flowers,” she said, watching the enjoyment on the little face as the first bite of the sweet was taken. “What is your name?”

“Mary,” pronounced the girl boldly. “Mary, an it please you.”

“A good name, in truth,” Margaret said, sighing for her own Mary far away.

She moved on, and the applause was enthusiastic. “She be one of us,” someone called after her. “She ain’t forgotten us.”

Margaret gave them a smile before disappearing inside Coldharbour. Nay, I have never forgotten, and you are in my heart always, it said.

She exclaimed with pleasure at each room in her temporary home. Edward had ordered new beds with red and green curtains and hangings. Tapestries adorned the walls, and she was especially taken with one depicting the history of Troy. It reminded her of William Caxton.

“Certes,” she told Beatrice and Henriette as soon as the ladies had unpacked Margaret’s personal effects, “we must pay a visit to Master Caxton. I should like to see him again.”

Like a child on spree, she had to explore every nook and cranny in the house that had once belonged to Warwick’s father. She climbed the turret steps and looked out from the top window, where she had a magnificent view of London Bridge and could hear the boatmen calling “rumbelow, furbelow” as they picked up their rhythm after shooting under it. Opening the other window, she leaned out over the roofs and spires spread before her. A glow suffused her as she remembered the time she and Fortunata had done the same thing at the Wardrobe the night before she left. London, she called to the city, I never thought to see you again. Her only regret in this homecoming was that Fortunata could not share it with her.

Edward had sent her a pipe of his own wine, and she invited Guillaume
to sit and enjoy it with her that first night. He was turning out to be pleasant company, she had to admit, and decided that Henriette had been good for him. Maximilian had even sent him alone on a diplomatic mission to the English court the year before, so he was becoming more appreciated.

In one corner of the room, a trio of musicians were playing lute, rebec and recorder. Beatrice and Henriette were talking quietly under the arras. She sometimes wondered what had become of Marie de Charny, but she was certainly not a subject she would ever discuss with her chevalier. Her lips twitched now as she thought of the scene in Marie’s room, and she gave Guillaume a sidelong glance of appraisal. Aye, he still is a handsome devil, she decided.

Edward had allowed her a few days to get settled before her official visit began, and she chose a fine one to take the royal barge to Westminster to find Caxton’s print shop. Walking near the great abbey brought back so many memories for her, and it gave her a thrill to hear the English language all around her again. It was music to her ears.

“We are to seek the sign of the Red Pale,” Margaret told Guillaume. “Ah, ’tis over there,” she said, pointing to a wooden board on which was painted a shield with a thick red stripe down the center hanging from a wrought-iron arm over the door. Guillaume had the small escort wait outside while the duchess paid her visit.

William Caxton could not believe his eyes when he saw the duchess and Guillaume stooping to enter his premises. Smiling broadly as he came towards her, his limp a little more pronounced than before, William bowed over Margaret’s hand.

“I never thought to see you here, your grace. Let me show you my press and how it works, if you will allow.” And for the next hour, Margaret listened and watched, enthralled, as William had his workers print a page especially for her from the setting of the letters to the inking process, to the pressing and finally to pulling the paper away carefully from the type. Margaret read the words: