the king had fallen, and a moment later, the grinning Edward popped up on the other side of the boat, waving a handful of weeds. Margaret started the laughter that erupted after seeing their sovereign safe. She ran to the bank to where Edward was swimming and placed the chaplet of flowers on his dripping golden hair.
“You are naught but king of the water sprites today, Ned,” she teased him. “And here is your scepter!” She plucked a bulrush from the bank and gave it to him, curtseying mockingly. The spectators applauded and bowed as well.
Edward was amused. This was a new side to his little sister. She had indeed matured in the two years he had been busy helping his family win the crown. “I have a good mind to pull you in with me, Meg!” he murmured, as she offered her hand and helped him gain his footing on the slippery slope.
“Ned! You would not dare!” she retorted, and promptly let go of him. Surprised, Edward slid back into the water. The onlookers gasped, expecting a torrent of fury from their soldier king, but Edward just laughed. “ Touché, ma soeur! But see if I don’t repay your courtesy,” he said, winking at her.
By this time, George and Richard had run forward to help Edward, and the crowd looked on with admiration at the handsome family group.
“These Yorks stick together,” one man told his neighbor. “It seems the family ties bind strongly.”
“Aye, ’twould seem they have turned the disaster of six months ago into a triumph of courage. Certes, King Edward will serve us better than the addle-pated Henry and the French bitch, God save his simple soul.”
E DWARD SPENT THE next two weeks planning his coronation and setting up his household. For one so young, he had assumed the mantle of kingship with an ease ascribed to men twice his age. He enjoyed having his family around him, and so Margaret found herself taking a keen interest in meetings she witnessed. She would sit quietly with her needlework and listen while Edward and his chief councilors discussed the merits of one man over another for a certain position at court. He asked Cecily’s opinion on several occasions, and Margaret learned that a woman could wield quiet power from behind a veiled hennin.
When she grew bored with the details, she would excuse herself and take her book to sit by the water’s edge. Kept clean in a velvet bag, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was her constant companion. She loved the feel of the vellum under her fingers and would pore over the beautiful illuminations of the Arthurian story and marvel at the meticulous lettering. Mistress Nose-in-a-Book was what George often called her when he would come upon her reading. “Look, Dickon,” he said once, “Meg’s eyes are crossed and her nose is black from the hours she spends in books!” And he would laugh at her. Little Dickon, however, wasn’t listening. He was busy turning the pages and gazing in wonder at the colorful illuminations.
Camelot must have looked just like this, Margaret mused, twiddling a grass stalk between her fingers and observing the scene around her. She was sorry to think that Edward could not compare to King Arthur. She had noticed in the last few days that Edward flirted with any passably pretty young woman he encountered. She had heard a rumor that he had a bastard daughter, and she hoped her mother hadn’t heard it, too. King Arthur had been modest and chaste—so claimed all the stories about him—and had been betrayed by his beautiful queen Guinevere. No one had mentioned a bride for Edward as far as she knew, but Margaret pitied the poor woman, for she would have to keep a tight rein on her handsome bridegroom, she knew.
Her thoughts turned to her own burgeoning emotions. John Harper had danced with her one night, and she found his nearness tantalizing. When he had approached her after gaining Edward’s permission, she had been sure he would change his mind once he got closer. She was, she estimated, two inches
“You are naught but king of the water sprites today, Ned,” she teased him. “And here is your scepter!” She plucked a bulrush from the bank and gave it to him, curtseying mockingly. The spectators applauded and bowed as well.
Edward was amused. This was a new side to his little sister. She had indeed matured in the two years he had been busy helping his family win the crown. “I have a good mind to pull you in with me, Meg!” he murmured, as she offered her hand and helped him gain his footing on the slippery slope.
“Ned! You would not dare!” she retorted, and promptly let go of him. Surprised, Edward slid back into the water. The onlookers gasped, expecting a torrent of fury from their soldier king, but Edward just laughed. “ Touché, ma soeur! But see if I don’t repay your courtesy,” he said, winking at her.
By this time, George and Richard had run forward to help Edward, and the crowd looked on with admiration at the handsome family group.
“These Yorks stick together,” one man told his neighbor. “It seems the family ties bind strongly.”
“Aye, ’twould seem they have turned the disaster of six months ago into a triumph of courage. Certes, King Edward will serve us better than the addle-pated Henry and the French bitch, God save his simple soul.”
E DWARD SPENT THE next two weeks planning his coronation and setting up his household. For one so young, he had assumed the mantle of kingship with an ease ascribed to men twice his age. He enjoyed having his family around him, and so Margaret found herself taking a keen interest in meetings she witnessed. She would sit quietly with her needlework and listen while Edward and his chief councilors discussed the merits of one man over another for a certain position at court. He asked Cecily’s opinion on several occasions, and Margaret learned that a woman could wield quiet power from behind a veiled hennin.
When she grew bored with the details, she would excuse herself and take her book to sit by the water’s edge. Kept clean in a velvet bag, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was her constant companion. She loved the feel of the vellum under her fingers and would pore over the beautiful illuminations of the Arthurian story and marvel at the meticulous lettering. Mistress Nose-in-a-Book was what George often called her when he would come upon her reading. “Look, Dickon,” he said once, “Meg’s eyes are crossed and her nose is black from the hours she spends in books!” And he would laugh at her. Little Dickon, however, wasn’t listening. He was busy turning the pages and gazing in wonder at the colorful illuminations.
Camelot must have looked just like this, Margaret mused, twiddling a grass stalk between her fingers and observing the scene around her. She was sorry to think that Edward could not compare to King Arthur. She had noticed in the last few days that Edward flirted with any passably pretty young woman he encountered. She had heard a rumor that he had a bastard daughter, and she hoped her mother hadn’t heard it, too. King Arthur had been modest and chaste—so claimed all the stories about him—and had been betrayed by his beautiful queen Guinevere. No one had mentioned a bride for Edward as far as she knew, but Margaret pitied the poor woman, for she would have to keep a tight rein on her handsome bridegroom, she knew.
Her thoughts turned to her own burgeoning emotions. John Harper had danced with her one night, and she found his nearness tantalizing. When he had approached her after gaining Edward’s permission, she had been sure he would change his mind once he got closer. She was, she estimated, two inches
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