Daughter of York (9 page)

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.”

T
HE 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 with 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.”

Hastings, Edward’s chamberlain, bowed and herded everyone out of the audience chamber. Margaret plucked at her skirt nervously as she
watched the courtiers give Edward reverence and leave. For two years she had enjoyed the life of a royal princess with no real responsibilities except to be the gracious hostess at Edward’s table and court festivities. She had flirted with young courtiers, danced her feet off, availed herself of Edward’s growing library and had almost forgotten that one day she would hear Edward’s plan for her; and perhaps that day was come. For all that time, however, she had never put Anthony Woodville far from her thoughts, although the man had not often been at court. When he had, he had been solicitous, but they had never enjoyed another private conversation such as they had that summer day at Shene.

Will Hastings closed the door on the last two retainers, turned and grinned at Edward. “’Twas well done, your grace. The Frenchman most certainly took note. King Louis will hear of this within the week, I warrant.”

Margaret frowned. “Hear of what, pray? My outburst? Why should he care?” She turned back to Edward. “I beg of you, Ned, do not make me go to Scotland! I promise never to shout at you again. I will pray for your eternal soul daily if you will not send me to Scotland. Besides,” she begged, “you need me here. I’ve been a good sister-consort—or whatever it is I am—have I not these past two years? Please, please, listen to me, Ned.”

Edward threw back his head and laughed. “Will, I pray you take note of the day and the time. My sister penitent is a rarity indeed, and I should remember it always!” He was rewarded by a reluctant smile from Margaret. “Aye, see, she knows ’tis unusual. Think, my dear, dutiful sister, you could become the second St. Margaret of Scotland!” At the mention of that queen’s name, Margaret scowled and crossed herself. “Do not blaspheme, Ned. I am no saint, although ’tis no wonder the poor woman became one after having to live in that godforsaken land. I shall not follow suit. I’d rather cast myself from London Bridge!” Margaret was spluttering so vehemently that she failed to see Edward wink at Hastings.

Then Edward leaned forward and his tone became serious. “Meggie, I fear I have played a diabolical trick on you. You are right, I was jesting. But ’tis necessary for King Louis to think I have King James in my pocket so the frog cannot aid that she-wolf Margaret of Anjou again.” He held up his hand to stop her interrupting. “By pretending to have made a
marriage between you and James, we may avert more bloodshed on our northern borders. Queen Margaret is bound to ask her kinsman Louis for help, but he may be reluctant if he thinks she may not be welcome in Scotland.”

Margaret stared in disbelief. “Diabolical trick? Pretend to marry me off? By the sweet Virgin, I am speechless, brother. What have I ever done to deserve such a trick, pray? You allowed me to make a spectacle of myself in front of everyone!” she cried.

“I told you I would think of something the day of the water tournament at Shene, remember?” he said, pleased with himself. “That day, you made
me
the spectacle! I had not forgotten, little Meg.”

Margaret’s jaw dropped, Hastings chuckled, and Edward rose to take the stupefied girl into his embrace. “Forgive me for discomfiting you, Meg. I suppose you will now not be praying for my eternal soul.”

“Eternal damnation, more like!” came the muffled reply from the folds of his magnificent brocade doublet.

“I promise you, you will not hear of any marriage I make for you in such a public place. Will that make you feel better?” He felt her nod and set her from him. “That’s better,” he said as he saw her smile. “’Tis what I like best about you, Meg. You are never sour-faced for long. Now, I must not keep my subjects outside waiting for the droppings from my royal mouth any longer.”

Margaret gave him a deep reverence and stood aside to watch Hastings open the door. Edward settled back into his throne and for the next hour listened patiently while those who had bought or wormed their way into his presence petitioned him on one matter or another. Edward’s hooded eyes never gave away his boredom or distaste, and he dispensed decisions with an ease that astonished Margaret.

Each time she was with Edward in public, her eyes would scan the groups of courtiers for Anthony Woodville. He was occasionally in attendance on Edward, but other than exchanging smiles or, on the rare occasion, when he was obliged to kiss her hand, she had only spoken to him in her dreams. She had tried to put him from her mind in the two years since Edward was crowned. When he was absent, Margaret hated the thought that he was probably in his wife’s arms and unaware of her existence, but then she fancied a warmth in his touch or in his
smile when he was present at court that buoyed her hopes until the next time. She had yet to set eyes on Eliza Scales, and she hoped she never would. Margaret sighed. No, Anthony was not here today, she realized disconsolately.