Yolande sat across from her sister. To Margaret’s eyes, she looked more adult, as if marriage worked some strange alchemy, or perhaps because Yolande was now a countess in her own right. Her husband Frederick sat on the bench seat, looking stern in a dark tunic and with his sword across his knees. Margaret noticed he still wore the whiskers, stretching from his ears right down to his jawline. He’d said his father’s set were much admired in their parish and Margaret wondered if her sister would ever succeed in getting him to shave them off. Yet his sternness faded when he looked at Yolande. The affection between them was touching and obvious as they clasped hands and shifted with the coach on the potholed roads.
The morning had passed in a flurry of excitement, with William riding back and forth to the abbey on his own horse to see to the last details, then washing and changing into clean clothes in one of the upper rooms. Margaret had already been introduced to a dozen men and women she did not know as the wedding party filled Wetherby House, laughing and talking all the while. Her status was a delicate matter when it came to meeting noblemen and their wives. Not yet a queen, Margaret had curtsied to the Duchess of York, as she might have to any of her mother’s generation. Perhaps she only imagined Cecily York’s disdain as she complimented Margaret on her dress in return. Lord York was scrupulously polite and had bowed to her, saying how pleased he was to see her at her second marriage as well as her first. His wife had muttered a few words Margaret did not quite catch, but she saw it made York smile as he bent over her hand to kiss it. Something about their private amusement had irritated her.
With an effort, she put such thoughts aside. She would meet her husband today. She would see his face. As the cart rocked back and forth, she prayed silently that he would not be ugly or deformed. William had promised her that Henry was handsome, but she knew he could say nothing else. Fear and hope mingled in equal measures and she could only watch the hedges pass and the black rooks flying. Her forehead itched where her maids had plucked it back, but she dared not scratch marks in the white powder and bit her lip against the irritation. Flowers had been woven into her hair and her face felt stiff with all the paints and perfumes that had been applied since she’d bathed at dawn. She tried not to breathe too hard against the confining panels of her dress in case she fainted.
Margaret knew when they were growing close to the abbey of St Mary and St John the Evangelist because the local families had come out to see her pass, gathering on the road that led into the vast farmland owned by the monks. Apprentices had been given the day off from their labours in her honour and townsmen and — women had put on their church clothes just to stand and wait for the woman who would be queen of England. Margaret had a view of a cheering, waving crowd before her carriage swept past on to a drive that led for miles through woodland and fields laid in dark furrows.
The well-wishers did not cross that invisible boundary, and as the road dipped, Margaret could see carriages ahead and behind, fourteen of them travelling together to the abbey church in the distance. Her heart hammered against the dress and she touched her hand to her chest to feel it race. Henry would be there, a twenty-three-year-old king. She looked past her sister and Frederick to strain her eyes for the first glimpse of him. It was pointless, she knew. King Henry would be already inside, warned by the sight of the carriages on the drive. He could well be waiting at the altar, with William at his shoulder.
Margaret felt light-headed and feared she would faint before she could even arrive at the church. Seeing her distress, Yolande took out a fan and wafted cool air over her while Margaret sat back and breathed with her eyes closed.
The abbey church was part of a much larger complex of buildings. On that day, the monks were not working in the fields, but Margaret saw fishponds, walled gardens and vineyards, as well as stables and a dozen other structures. She found herself getting out of the carriage, helped by Frederick, who raced round to take her hand.
The carriages ahead had emptied and though many of the guests had gone inside, there was still a crowd at the church doors, smiling and talking amongst themselves. She saw Derry Brewer standing close to the Duke of York. Derry waved to her as Margaret swept forward with her sister and a gaggle of maids in tow. She saw him say something to York that made the man’s expression harden. As Margaret approached the church door, they all went into the gloom beyond, like geese ushered in by a goosegirl, so that she was alone with her sister and her maids.
‘Bless you for being here, Yolande,’ she said with feeling. ‘I would not have liked to stand alone.’
‘Pfui! It should have been Father, but he is away searching for his foolish titles once again. He is never satisfied. My Frederick says … No, that does not matter today. I only wish Mama could have stood here with us, but Father insisted she stay and run Saumur. You are in her prayers, Margaret. You can be sure of that. Are you ready to see your king? Are you nervous?’
‘I am … and I am, yes. I am dizzy with it. Just stay with me while I catch my breath, will you? This dress is too tight.’
‘You have grown since last summer, Margaret, that’s what it is. It was not too tight before. I see a bosom developing and I swear you are taller. Perhaps it’s true that English meat is good for you.’
She winked as she said it and Margaret gasped and shook her head.
‘You are shocking, sister. To make such jokes when I am waiting to be married!’
‘Best time, I think,’ Yolande said cheerfully. She switched to English with a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Now will you bloody hell be married?’
‘That’s not how you say it,’ Margaret said, smiling. She took another breath as best she could and inclined her head to the monks standing at the door. Inside, bellows were pumped and the most complicated device in the world built up pressure. The first chords sounded across the church congregation and they turned almost as one to see the bride enter.
Baron Jean de Roche was a happy man, though even brandy could not keep out the cold wind. Spring was coming, he could feel it. No one fought in winter. As well as being practically impossible to feed a marching army in the cold months, it was a brutal time to go to war. Hands went numb, rain soaked down and there was always a chance that your men would simply up and vanish in the night. He looked around at his little band of ruffian knights and smiled widely, showing his pink upper gum where he’d had all the teeth pulled. He’d hated those teeth. They’d hurt him so badly that he hated them even when they were gone. The day he’d agreed to have the pincer man yank them all had been one of the happiest of his adult life. A mouthful of blood and having to dip his bread in milk was a small price to pay for release from agony. He was certain his life had begun to improve from that day on, as if his teeth had been holding him back with all their poisons and swellings. He sucked in his top lip as he trotted on, folding it back along the gum and chewing the bristles. He’d had a few taken out below as well, but just the big ones at the back, where they’d rotted. He still had the teeth at the lower front and he had perfected a smile that revealed only that neat yellow row.
Life was good for a man with healthy teeth, he thought, complacently. He reached back and patted the saddlebags behind his hip, enjoying the fatness of them. Life was also good for a man with the initiative to ride ahead of the army into Maine. De Roche had been amazed at the results of looting homes in Anjou. It seemed the English did nothing but amass stores of coins, like the greedy little merchants they all were. De Roche had seen knights made rich in a single day and the French lords had learned quickly that it was worth their while to search carts heading north away from them. Families tended to take their most valuable possessions and leave the rest. Why spend time smashing a house apart when those who knew had already taken the best pieces? The noblemen gave a portion of whatever they found to the king, of course, but that was exactly the problem, at least as far as de Roche was concerned. They could afford it. Those men were already rich and would be much richer by the time they finished taking back English farms and towns.