Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Beautiful, my lady,” Beatrice said for them all. Margaret managed a small smile, but her knees were knocking as she waited to meet the first of her new subjects. She fingered the white rose brooch pinned on the ermine trim of her bodice between her breasts for courage. She thought of her York heritage and felt the familiar swell.

  “Et maintenant, mes chères dames de compagnie, tout en français dès ce moment,” she said. Fortunata cocked her head and nodded. She had never been far from Margaret’s side during the months Margaret was improving her French, and as an Italian, she found the new language easier to understand than English. They would have to get used to speaking French now.

  They were joined by the duchess of Norfolk, the bishop of Salisbury and others to wait for the ducal party to be presented. Anthony knocked again and once bidden to enter, stood on the threshold in a magnificent velvet gown trimmed with marten, his plumed hat in the very latest fashion. Blue eyes gazed into gray in a moment of mutual appreciation. They did not need to communicate; each knew what the other was thinking. Margaret’s hand fluttered for a second in a secret salute before Anthony bowed.

  “My lady, I have the honor to present to you his grace Duke Charles’s esteemed chamberlain, Seigneur de Montigny,” he said in French and stepped aside, a playful smile on his lips that she did not miss. Then she knew why.

  It took all of her control to not laugh when the lord made his entrance. He had to turn sideways to fit his enormous frame through the cabin doorway, and the foot-high hat that perched precariously above his flabby face hit the low lintel and fell to the floor. The bailiff of Sluis, who followed him in, snatched it up, hiding it behind his back. Montigny’s greasy brown-gray hair swung limply in front of his face as he executed as low a bow as his larded body would allow. Margaret was, however, impressed by his clothes, the many jewels on his fingers and the heavy gold collar around his shoulders. His piggy eyes regarded her solemnly as he straightened up, and, with relief, she saw admiration in them. He took her slim hand in his massive paw and kissed it with reverence.

  “Princess Margaret, God’s greeting to you. I am sent by his grace, Duke Charles, your fiancé, to bid you most welcome into Burgundy.”

  The comical scene broke Margaret’s reserve and she gave him a brilliant smile. In a voice—to those who knew her—tinged with laughter, she responded, “God’s greeting to you, Messire Montigny. I will be happy to finally set foot in your country and off this rocking ship. May I now present.” She introduced the other members of her train. Her first duty was over, and she had to admit, it had been easier than she’d expected.

  As Anthony handed her into the barge for the short way to shore, he whispered, “Your control was admirable, Marguerite. I am glad to see you still have your sense of humor. Remember, I am here—officially—whenever you need me.”

  “And unofficially?” she murmured. He shook his head. “’Tis not possible.”

  Once on land, she was greeted by two of Duke Philip’s twenty-five illegitimate offspring, the Bishop of Utrecht, who intoned a blessing for the princess’s safe crossing, and the Countess Marie de Charny. Both bore a resemblance to Antoine, their elder half brother who had fought at Smithfield, Margaret noted, although Charny’s forty-year-old face was harder.

  She gripped Anthony’s arm as they made their way through the cheering crowd along streets that had been carpeted for her comfort. She tried to picture Edward sending his bastards, Arthur and Elizabeth, albeit still children, to meet a future queen, but she could not. It was as well Jack Howard had told her in what high esteem all of Philip’s illegitimate children were held, or she might have been offended. She knew that yet another, Anne of Burgundy, was in charge of Charles’s only daughter’s education. She could not imagine what the dowager Duchess Isabella must think of all these reminders of her late husband’s infidelities being in positions of power around her. It made her wonder whether Charles might have similar leanings, and she inadvertently shivered at the thought of him touching her.

  The countess was alarmed. “Are you cold, my lady? We will soon be inside,” she promised.

  A stage had been set up in front of the rich merchant’s house where she was to spend her first few nights in Flanders, and every day a new pageant was performed for her enjoyment. As the duke’s third wife, Margaret had not been expecting her arrival to generate much interest, and the lengths to which the little town of Sluis had gone to make her welcome touched her heart. She made a point of walking out every day, passing by the tableaux and complimenting the players.

  The day after her arrival was Sunday, and Margaret insisted on attending Mass in the quaint stone church with her English entourage. Townspeople once again lined the street to stare at the tall young woman on the arm of one of the handsomest men they had ever seen, a dwarf on the end of an enormous wolfhound’s leash following behind. However, as their Flemish language was incomprehensible to her, Margaret did not know if they were complimenting or insulting her. She resolved to learn a few phrases once she settled in.

  It was drizzling when they returned from church and hurried up the narrow stairs to the front door of the house. Margaret was glad to wrap her fingers around a steaming cup of hot mulled wine. She was now surrounded by ladies and gentlemen of both the English and the Burgundian courts, and the rooms in the modest house were full to overflowing. How she longed for some privacy! But upon skimming the formidable manual of etiquette written by one of Isabella’s ladies that Countess de Charny had thrust on her the night before, she knew the more relaxed ways of the English court were behind her forever and she would never enjoy that luxury. She resolved to make it a game that she and Fortunata would play.

  Shouting was heard in the street below and then cheering, and Margaret got to her feet to go to the window. Even that was not allowed, it seemed, as Charny tut-tutted through her pursed lips and wagged her finger at Beatrice, who was already peering out.

  “Such improper behavior!” she said. “My lady, do you permit your servants to gape out of windows like fishwives?”

  Margaret hurriedly sat down and begged Beatrice to behave herself. Beatrice was affronted, but sensing her mistress’s dilemma, she curtseyed and demurred. When Charny’s back was turned, Margaret winked at her faithful lady, and Beatrice smiled gratefully.

  A kerfuffle was heard at the door as word reached the solar that her grace the dowager duchess and her granddaughter, Mary, were slowly processing along the road from Bruges to visit the English princess. Her heart beating so loudly that she felt sure everyone in the room could hear it, Margaret rose and instructed Fortunata to fetch the little gift she had brought for eleven-year-old Mary. Beatrice and Eliza Scales hovered around Margaret, tweaking the gossamer gauze covering her butterfly hennin and smoothing the skirts on her blue damask gown decorated with marguerites. Again Margaret touched the rose brooch at her bosom and sent a prayer to her own patron saint to help her through this next step of her new life.

  The old duchess was nearing seventy, and Margaret was surprised with what agility Isabella was able to negotiate the steep staircase to the front door. The two women met on the threshold and each knelt before the other in observance of court etiquette. The courtiers remained silent as the dowager duchess and the duchess-in-waiting avised each other for several minutes. Then Isabella smiled out of her long, wizened face and looked to her escort to raise her off her knees, nodding to Margaret to do the same. Anthony came forward, bowed and took Margaret’s arm possessively as a sign that he was her official escort.

  “Madame Margaret, God be with you and welcome to Burgundy.” Isabella spoke French with a hint of a Portuguese accent. “Lord Scales, commend us to your sovereign, for he has sent us a beauty,” she said graciously, tilting her head and eyeing Margaret with a twinkle. “My grandfather, John of Gaunt, was a tall Plantagenet, and I see you are indeed a descendant,” she said, intending to be kind. Instead, she realized she was referring to the patriarch of the hated Lancastrian line, and her smile
faded in a moment of elderly confusion.

  “Madame, I beg your … ,” she began, but Margaret took a tiny step forward and gently interrupted her. “’Tis of no import, your grace. I believe your grandfather was a great man and a true Englishman. I am proud you think I am like him.”

  Anthony moved his arm so slightly that only Margaret was aware of his approbation. It gave her reassurance, and when Isabella chose the moment to embrace her future daughter-in-law, Margaret knew she had made a friend. It was only then that she noticed the young girl waiting patiently on a lower step, her bright gray eyes taking in every detail of the scene above her, and her button mouth trembling on the verge of a smile.

  Margaret lifted her hand from Isabella’s shoulder and wiggled her fingers at the girl in a secret wave. The smile broke free, and Mary ran up the steps to her grandmother’s side.

  “I think you must be Mary,” Margaret said, as Isabella released her to turn to the girl. “I am so pleased to meet you, my dear. It seems you and I will see much of each other now. I hope we may be friends.”

  Mary was unprepared for such a down-to-earth greeting and could only respond with “Aye, my lady” and a deep reverence. Margaret thought she heard a “tut-tut” from the usual source behind her but ignored it. The child had been separated from her mother as soon as Margaret’s predecessor had been diagnosed with the wasting sickness. It had taken Isabelle of Valois a year to die, and that had been three years ago. Margaret saw a sadness about the child, and her motherly instincts refused to be suppressed by the formality of the occasion.

  “Come, my child, I think we can do better than that,” Margaret said, and bent down to give Mary a kiss on each cheek. Duchess Isabella smiled broadly, took Margaret’s hand and together they walked into the house, courtiers and ladies bowing before them, and Mary skipping along behind.

  Margaret had passed her second test with flying colors. The third, she knew, would not be as easy.

  CHARLES CAME UNANNOUNCED the next day, cantering up to the house with a small escort. He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, and Margaret’s chamberlain only had time to cram on his hat and make a hurried bow before flinging open the solar door to announce him. Charles strode past him to see Margaret standing alone in the middle of the room while her small entourage bowed low to the visitor. She held her head high for a second and looked him straight in the eye before sinking into a deep reverence.

  Charles swept off his high hat and made her a low bow in return. Then he raised her up and to her astonishment kissed her on the lips. An audible sigh of relief was heard from the English courtiers.

  Margaret gazed on her fiancé and he on her for a full minute. Her fears of a monster were unfounded. In his mid-thirties, he was broad-shouldered with a thick neck and a strong head of dark, curly hair. His piercing blue eyes dominated his broad, handsome face as he took stock of his intended, and his full, sensuous mouth curved into a smile. He leaned toward her, having to stand on tiptoe to reach her ear, and whispered, “Maman was right, you are tall.”

  All Margaret’s adolescent insecurities about her physique came rushing back, and her confidence crumpled. “Do I displease you, my lord duke?” she stammered, also in a whisper.

  Having no idea his crude remark might have disturbed her or knowing he should reassure her, he laughed and turned his attention to the others, leaving her bewildered. He had learned from his ambassadors that the English kissed everyone and often, and so he set about kissing all the ladies present before turning back to Margaret, who had regained her composure. He does not care about women, she surmised in a moment of intuition. He does not know how to behave around them. Poor Isabelle, she thought, and poor Mary.

  “I hope you are treated well here, Lady Margaret,” he said, when he returned to her side. “I assure you, the people of Burgundy are ready to accept you and have planned magnificent wedding festivities for you. I think you will be pleased.”

  “I expect nothing, your grace. But I have been treated with kindness here in Sluis from the moment I stepped ashore.” He is trying, Margaret thought, and she smiled at him for the first time since his entrance. Having no notion how a smile softened her face, she wondered why his expression changed as he picked up her hand and kissed it more pleasurably.

  “Then I am content, madame,” he murmured. Still holding her hand, he turned to Anthony and said, “We have business to transact, I believe, Lord Scales.”

  Margaret cast her eyes down to the hand that held hers, its tapered fingers adorned with surprisingly long nails. She could not look at her love, as it pained her that he must witness this. Anthony suggested the betrothal take place in the garden because the chamber was too small to accommodate so many.

  “My lord bishops,” Charles addressed the prelates from Salisbury, Utrecht and Tournai in the pleasant garden at the back of the house, “you may begin.”

  Salisbury moved forward with a parchment and solemnly read the formal betrothal. Margaret and Charles affirmed their willingness to be wed and signed the document in front of the witnesses.

  Without more ado, the duke bowed to Margaret, and she was surprised to realize he was preparing to leave. Margaret observed his confident stride on short muscular legs bowed to fit a saddle as he walked through the garden to the gate. On the threshold he stopped, thought for a moment and then called back to her: “My compliments, madame, your French is very good.”

  Then in a clatter of hooves and flying mud he and his escort were gone.

  NOW SHE WAS addressed as “your grace” and “duchess,” for the betrothal contract was as formal for the couple as the civil ceremony would be. Duchess Isabella and Mary visited her every day during the week as the region waited for the wedding day. Mary was enthralled by her stepmother and then clapped her hands with glee when Fortunata was presented to her.

  “I, too, have a little person to wait on me at Ten Waele Palace,” she cried. “They will become the best of friends, I am certain. Madame de Beaugrand is from Constantinople, but she is not pretty like Fortunata.”

  Fortunata flashed one of her sweet smiles. “Thank you, milady,” she said, and promptly produced a flower from behind Mary’s ear and presented it to the astonished girl.

  “Tell me about Edward, my dear,” Isabella said, while pinching Mary’s cheek. Margaret noticed the adoration in the old woman’s face when she watched her granddaughter. Having a child and then a grandchild must be one of the joys of being a woman, she thought. But for her, having children meant bedding Charles, and although the fear of him had diminished since his few visits during the week, the dread of intimacy still weighed heavily on her.

  She told Duchess Isabella about all her brothers, and Isabella saw the wistfulness in Margaret’s face when she came to describe George.

  “He is your favorite, I can tell, madame. I remember him and Richard when they were here as boys. But we hear he makes Edward angry.”

  “Aye, your grace, he is a vain boy, in truth. And he is too much in my cousin of Warwick’s company to please Edward.” Margaret sighed, and Isabella tactfully changed the subject. She was remembering her own arrival at Sluis as a young bride-to-be all those years ago and how homesick she felt. She recognized the look now on Margaret’s face and patted her hand kindly.

  By the time Margaret and her little court removed to Damme, a tiny port at the head of the waterway leading to Bruges, the three women had grown closer, and Isabella was grateful that Margaret was so taken with Mary. She knew she was not long for this world and was afraid for Mary, an only child and the female heir of the huge wealthy territory that was Burgundy. She had no wish to see Mary disinherited, but she nightly prayed that Margaret of York had her mother’s ability to bear healthy children. Charles needed a son if he was to continue his rash military campaigns to win himself more and more land. She had no doubt his dangerous luck would run out one day.

  The dowager loved her son, but she was wise enough to know that Philip had neglected him in favor of m
any of his bastard children, and so Charles had grown up bitter and autocratic. At the end, he had so hated his father that he had sworn to live his life as differently as possible. Where Philip had loved women, Charles rejected them. Where Philip had loved personal finery, Charles eschewed it, except on state occasions, and wore somber black and brown, albeit of the finest velvet and silk, and only a small gold chain around his neck on which hung the order of the Golden Fleece. Philip had favored the York house in England, Charles had supported the Lancastrians. Isabella wondered what Margaret would think had she known Queen Margaret of Anjou’s most trusted lords were only now being asked to leave Bruges, where they had been living on Charles’s charity. What worried Isabella most of all was that Charles scoffed at diplomacy, at which Philip had been a master, and favored going to war.

  Isabella listened politely to Margaret’s discourse about her family and England and was daily more and more intrigued by the young woman’s intelligence. Margaret’s predecessor had been a sweet person but even in good health had been ineffectual in matters of state and would not have made Charles a useful duchess. The dowager well knew the rigors of maintaining order in this diverse group of conquered nations, duchies and city states, and she had worked tirelessly and traveled independently to keep a constant ducal presence in the spread-out dukedom. Isabella had pushed Charles for this Yorkist alliance and now congratulated herself on Burgundy’s good fortune.

  “HOW WILL I ever learn all the names and faces here, Fortunata?” Margaret asked the rhetorical question at their daily prie-dieu ritual. “I smile and greet each one, but some of the names are so difficult and it seems everyone is named Jehan or Jean.” She sighed. “There must be a way.”

  “When I was a little girl at the university, there were too many doctors, professores, so I played a game. Each person reminded me of some animal or a thing. I remembered faces by the thing they looked like, sometimes the name, too, and so the person.”