carriage, the wheels finally freed from the mud, the women chattered nervously for the rest of the journey. They all knew that England had become a dangerous place for innocent travelers after the second year of Edward’s reign. The euphoria that had reigned for the handsome young king at his coronation had descended into discontent as Edward continued to tax the people to rid himself once and for all of the Lancastrian threats in the north. The taxes and benevolences he levied drove many into the forests to live as outlaws. Earlier that winter, Edward had started north to quell the uprisings and chase the old king and queen over the border into Scotland, but a case of the measles kept him bedridden while the Lancastrian border castles were surrendered to the earl of Warwick.
“Measles? Do you think he was too frightened to fight?” George asked Margaret maliciously. Margaret had told him to go to confession for his insult.
Cecily hoped her son would not return to his wanton ways of hunting, feasting and womanizing that she so deplored and that she feared would turn his subjects against him. She resolved to speak to him of this during the obit. Perhaps knowing that his mother and sister had been in peril of their lives might bring him to his senses.
An hour later, Margaret looked out through the lightly falling snow and called back to her companions, “I can see the castle keep! I can see Fotheringhay on the hill!”
“Home,” breathed Cecily, contentedly. “I am home at last.”
• • •
M ARGARET’S KNEES WERE beginning to feel the effects of so many hours of prayer the family kept during those days at Fotheringhay. The beautiful church was filled with the sounds of chanting, voices lifted in memoriam for the slain duke and his son. Margaret tried to remember the faces of her father and brother as she prayed for their everlasting life in Heaven, but her memory of them had grown dim and only her father’s words stayed with her.
“Never forget you are a York, Margaret. You have royal blood in your veins from both your mother and from me. Never be disloyal to your family, child. For me, there is no greater crime.”
She glanced around at the others of her family, heads bowed and hands in prayer: Cecily telling her beads with tears flowing down her cheeks; Edward, his handsome face marked by a few lingering measles; her sisters, Anne and Elizabeth, who had arrived the day before with their ducal husbands and who were as strangers to her; and her two younger brothers, George of Clarence and Richard of Gloucester, the one admiring a ring on his thumb and the other mouthing a prayer. Aye, she thought, these are the only people in the world who matter to me. Father was right.
She sank back on her heels to relieve her sore knees and gazed at the magnificent stained glass windows all around her, the cobalt blues, ruby reds, golden yellows and tawny browns melting into a kaleidoscope of patterns, with here and there a figure—her ancestors, she surmised. One, clothed in full armor, was on his knees, just as she was. Something about the face reminded her of Anthony, and she felt a blush begin at the base of her throat. What was it about the man that so intrigued her? He had sent her a short poem with Edward, penned while besieging Alnwick Castle a few weeks before. But there was no romance about it. He had written of the dedication by Warwick’s troops to take the fortress and that only God could show them the way. In the end, God had decided the fighting must desist, and the castle had surrendered before it was attacked. Despite the impersonal nature of the poem, she was excited because he had thought of her, and so she folded it carefully and placed it in her silver casket, where, among other treasures, she had a lock of baby Ursula’s hair, a pilgrim’s badge from her father, and her first lost baby tooth. Shewondered when she would see Anthony again, and she began daydreaming of possible
“Measles? Do you think he was too frightened to fight?” George asked Margaret maliciously. Margaret had told him to go to confession for his insult.
Cecily hoped her son would not return to his wanton ways of hunting, feasting and womanizing that she so deplored and that she feared would turn his subjects against him. She resolved to speak to him of this during the obit. Perhaps knowing that his mother and sister had been in peril of their lives might bring him to his senses.
An hour later, Margaret looked out through the lightly falling snow and called back to her companions, “I can see the castle keep! I can see Fotheringhay on the hill!”
“Home,” breathed Cecily, contentedly. “I am home at last.”
• • •
M ARGARET’S KNEES WERE beginning to feel the effects of so many hours of prayer the family kept during those days at Fotheringhay. The beautiful church was filled with the sounds of chanting, voices lifted in memoriam for the slain duke and his son. Margaret tried to remember the faces of her father and brother as she prayed for their everlasting life in Heaven, but her memory of them had grown dim and only her father’s words stayed with her.
“Never forget you are a York, Margaret. You have royal blood in your veins from both your mother and from me. Never be disloyal to your family, child. For me, there is no greater crime.”
She glanced around at the others of her family, heads bowed and hands in prayer: Cecily telling her beads with tears flowing down her cheeks; Edward, his handsome face marked by a few lingering measles; her sisters, Anne and Elizabeth, who had arrived the day before with their ducal husbands and who were as strangers to her; and her two younger brothers, George of Clarence and Richard of Gloucester, the one admiring a ring on his thumb and the other mouthing a prayer. Aye, she thought, these are the only people in the world who matter to me. Father was right.
She sank back on her heels to relieve her sore knees and gazed at the magnificent stained glass windows all around her, the cobalt blues, ruby reds, golden yellows and tawny browns melting into a kaleidoscope of patterns, with here and there a figure—her ancestors, she surmised. One, clothed in full armor, was on his knees, just as she was. Something about the face reminded her of Anthony, and she felt a blush begin at the base of her throat. What was it about the man that so intrigued her? He had sent her a short poem with Edward, penned while besieging Alnwick Castle a few weeks before. But there was no romance about it. He had written of the dedication by Warwick’s troops to take the fortress and that only God could show them the way. In the end, God had decided the fighting must desist, and the castle had surrendered before it was attacked. Despite the impersonal nature of the poem, she was excited because he had thought of her, and so she folded it carefully and placed it in her silver casket, where, among other treasures, she had a lock of baby Ursula’s hair, a pilgrim’s badge from her father, and her first lost baby tooth. Shewondered when she would see Anthony again, and she began daydreaming of possible
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