Daughter of York (5 page)

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.

•   •   •

M
ARGARET 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.

“There is not enough time to call Parliament or a representative council,” Edward explained to a puzzled Margaret. “It’s those in command at hand in the city and others who give financial and moral support who can vote.”

Chancellor George Neville, younger brother to the earl of Warwick, was addressing an assembly consisting of all peers currently in the city, the mayor, aldermen, merchants and anyone else wishing to participate in the election of the next king—Edward.

Margaret was not sure this was very fair, as, in the current climate in London, King Henry would not have a chance of being elected, but she nodded and held her tongue.

A few hours later, it was all over. George Neville had addressed the crowd as his brother had instructed: “Is King Henry fit to rule over us, as feeble as he is?”

The cry had been “Nay!”

“In his feebleness, the queen has all the power. Do you want to be ruled by her?”

“Nay!” was the emphatic reply.

“Will you take Edward, heir of Richard of York and rightful heir to the crown, as your king?”

“Yea!” was the overwhelming response from the people.

And so it was decided. Edward would be king. When Edward and his friend William Hastings arrived, Cecily rose and faced her son. “Your grace,” she said, and sank into a deep reverence. Margaret quickly followed suit. Edward laughed, hauled his long body out of the chair and strode from the room, followed by Cecily and Will. Margaret stared after them, dumbfounded. Sweet Jesu, she thought incredulously, I will be a princess.

W
HERE, IN ALL
of this, was King Henry and his queen? Margaret wanted to know. Cecily was proud of Margaret’s keen perception and the intelligent curiosity that had prompted the question. They both looked at Edward. He was relaxing for a few hours in front of the fire in his mother’s solar with his favorite wolfhound lying on the tiled floor beside him, using Edward’s foot as a pillow.

“The She-Wolf is on her way north, Meg. Turned on her tail, with Henry tied tightly to it, and went back north. Word has reached me of more devastation in her army’s path as they retreat. I can never forgive her for her disregard for our people. In truth, what can you expect from a French woman! God’s nails, but I hate her!” He hissed the last comment and drew a frown and a “Hush, Edward” from his mother.

“What happens now, Ned? Does England have two kings?” Margaret asked, innocently.

Edward grinned at her. “’Twould appear so, my dear sister.” Then he turned serious. “Nay, the business is not finished until one or other of us kings is defeated completely. The queen is not finished, I can promise you that. And,” he paused, shifting his weight so the dog had to move, “neither am I!”

“More fighting then?” Margaret lamented. Edward nodded and reached for his wine.

I
N THREE WEEKS,
Edward’s call to arms had brought thousands of new followers to London, who were eager to rid the realm of the hated Margaret
of Anjou. Almost immediately after Edward’s victory, Warwick had taken his force to the Midlands, intending to gather more men along the way. Messengers to Baynard’s regularly came and went, keeping Edward informed of Warwick’s progress and the whereabouts of Henry and his queen. Edward learned that the Lancastrians had now amassed a greater army in Yorkshire than the one they had taken to the gates of London, bolstered by the duke of Somerset rallying new troops to the cause.

On the thirteenth of March, Cecily and Margaret watched grimly as Edward led his personal meinie out of Baynard’s courtyard. The tabors beat a slow march and the shawms alerted the citizens that York was on the move. Londoners gathered to cheer him out of the city as loudly as they had cheered him in. He twisted round in the saddle and waved to his mother and sister, looking every inch the young warrior on a crusade. He had ordered a new badge for his men, a blazing sun in splendor chosen because of the three suns phenomenon at Mortimer’s Cross. All of them wore the badge proudly on their tunics.

“God speed, my son! And may He hold you safe!” Cecily called, drawing her sable cloak close to shield herself from the biting wind. “I pray, dear Mother of God, that he is safe,” she whispered, her lip trembling.