Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  The company dazzled her eyes as she walked between their bowing figures, and she imagined she had arrived in some earthly paradise. Never in her life had she seen such a display of wealth as she had that day, and it was only half spent!

  The noblest persons from England and Burgundy were seated at two tables on the first dais that she mounted. Her table was upon a third level. Isabella and Mary graced either end, standing and bowing to her as she reached her throne. As wife of Margaret’s presenter, Eliza Scales had been given the honor of serving her that night, the irony of which was not lost on Margaret, and for the Burgundians, the other place was given to Marie de Charny.

  Once on her throne, she could now marvel at the ingenuity of the decorations. At either end of the hall was a rocky mountain on which perched a beautifully constructed castle, the tower of which served as an enormous candleholder. Around the mountain paths were models of men and women on foot or on horseback, farm and wild animals, trees, flowers and shrubs.

  The banquet was a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach. Roast swan and peacock, egret and pheasant were borne in on huge silver platters by servants dressed in the Burgundian crimson and black. Venison, beef and mutton followed great carp and bream wrapped in gold foil and then came decorated jellies and custards. Margaret was happy to nibble at a salat, and she marveled at this mixture of cress, lettuce, nasturtium, leek, fennel and herbs all covered with flowers.

  And the entremets, or between courses, entertained her as she digested each delicacy before being served another. Huge, intricately carved mechanical animals magically rolled through the hall; live animals burst from inside enormous pies; dozens of monkeys raced up and down a tall tower; and the faces of black bears simultaneously appeared at every window, making the women cry out in fear and wonderment.

  Fortunata, who was seated at the bottom of the dais steps, clapped excitedly at each marvel, and when a dwarf dressed to look like the Queen of Sheba rode in on a gilded lion, she rose to her feet and gleefully pointed her out to Margaret. Fortunata found it difficult to maintain silence, which seemed to be the way the court preferred to feast except for music on lutes and viols, but Margaret nodded and smiled at Fortunata, mouthing, “She’s the lady Mary’s” to her. Margaret’s stomach had stopped grumbling, but her head was beginning to pound. She motioned to Lord Ravenstein, who hurried up the stairs to her.

  “I wish to address the company, messire. I trust it will not be breaking with court etiquette?” she asked.

  She saw the softening that she had been certain lay underneath the aloof exterior. I was not wrong, she thought, pleased.

  “Your grace, you make the court etiquette today. I will arrange it. And perhaps you should know, the duke will join you soon to lead you to the tournament for the first day of jousting.” He saw a hint of a grimace flit across her face, but then she was all smiles. He made a note. The new duchess is not enamored of jousting.

  “Of course, my lord. The tournament of the Golden Tree. His grace did tell me. I shall look forward to it,” she murmured, wishing her headache would go away. Ravenstein bowed, took her hand and led her to the edge of the dais. Then he motioned to the trumpeters, who blew a short fanfare. All eyes turned to the tall young duchess, standing so confidently before them.

  “I am humbled by your gracious hospitality and welcome in Bruges, messires et mesdames. I know I can speak for all of my countrymen here today when I say thank you from the bottom of my heart. I shall endeavor to be as wise and kind a duchess as the dowager has been to Burgundy and earn the honor you have done me today. May God give you all his blessing and to my husband, Duke Charles.” Her clear voice rang out across the hall as she raised her goblet, and a thousand voices answered her: “May God bless you, Madame la duchesse.”

  It was the signal to rise and move to the tournament. As Fortunata followed Margaret out, she slipped through the crowd to find Madame de Beaugrand, the other dwarf.

  Charles was at the viewing stand to greet his bride, putting in his first appearance at the occasion after graciously allowing Margaret all the glory. Margaret hardly recognized him. His clothes were made of gold and covered with pearls and jewels. On his hat shone the largest ruby she had ever seen, which she was to learn had a name: the Ballas of Flanders. Despite her lovely gown, fashioned by the best tailors in London, she felt dowdy and insignificant next to him.

  Her hand shook as she took his to be presented to the jubilant spectators and the splendid array of knights lined up in front of them on the muddy ground. One by one they were announced and stepped forward to kneel to the duke and the duchess before walking stiffly in their armor back to the gaily colored pavilions set up around the edge of the field. Anthony bowed his head, holding his helmet under his arm, and she almost gasped when she saw the torn silver scarf fluttering from it. He must have kept it from the Smithfield tournament, she thought with a thrill. As her official escort, Margaret decided Anthony warranted a special word.

  “God’s greeting to you, Lord Scales. May fortune be with you this day. All England is counting on you!” she called coolly.

  Anthony bowed gravely, a small smile on his lips. “We are honored to represent our sovereign lord—and you, your grace. With God’s help, we shall not let you down on this auspicious day. Surely, my lord duke,” he said, now addressing Charles, “what we are witnessing today”—and he swept his arm to encompass the city—“is as close to Camelot as it can come.” A thrill went through Margaret, knowing he was speaking directly to her. A small smile told him she understood and made him bolder. “And rest assured, Lady Margaret, that we will carry you in our hearts as we fight—and back to England with us,” he said into her eyes.

  Charles nodded, his generous mouth curved in a smile, but then he waved his hands impatiently. “Well said, milord. But now I pray you no more pretty speeches. Let us witness your skill.” He would not fight today, but he was anxious to show off his prowess to Margaret later in the week, he told her. “God be with you all,” he cried, and signaled for the first joust to begin.

  As Anthony strode to his tent, Margaret heard one of her new ladies whisper: “Sweet Jesu, but he is handsome.”

  FORTUNATA COULD NOT wait to talk to Margaret later that night as the ladies were readying their mistress for her marriage bed. No one dared approach Margaret at the prie-dieu. Her English women were used to Fortunata always at her side there, and so they had explained this to the fierce Marie de Charny, who on the first night in Sluis had attempted to remove Fortunata. Margaret deduced this was going to be the only time in her crowded life when she could have a private conversation with her confidante, and she used it as often as she could. Consequently, the Burgundian ladies were impressed by the new duchess’s piety.

  “What?” Margaret whispered, incredulously. “Who said such a thing?”

  “Madame de Beaugrand told me this, milady. She does not lie. Everybody has heard about it. I told her it was not true, and maybe she will tell others. I hope.” Fortunata shrugged. Margaret bowed over her rosary, but her mind was not on her prayers. She could not believe her ears. It seemed a rumor had been started after the marriage contract was signed that she was not coming to Charles’s marriage bed a virgin! The rumor went further. It was common knowledge at the English court that Margaret had had a child. Sweet Jesu, she panicked, how can I face Charles now? She took heart knowing that as soon as he bedded her, he would know she was in fact a virgin, but it did not lessen her worry. In her anxiety, she forgot the civil way he had greeted her every day in Sluis, even kissing her each time and conversing quite amicably. What must he think? She was mortified.

  Fortunata was tugging at her skirt. “Madonna, you are not listening to me. There is more.”

  Margaret lifted her head and stared at the exquisite diptych in front of her. “Go on,” she murmured disconsolately. “It cannot get worse, in truth.”

  “Nay, milady, this is better.” Fortunata’s eyes twinkled. “Madame de Beaugrand said Duke Charles was so
angry when he heard the rumor, he shouted that if anyone said it again he would throw them in the river.” She finished triumphantly, “Maybe your husband is not so bad, madonna.”

  Maybe he believed it and that was why he became so angry, Margaret thought miserably. And for the next hour, as she was bathed, perfumed and dressed in a silk chemise, she wondered how she could face him. She was exhausted, homesick and unnerved by so many strange women fussing about her, touching her, stroking her hair.

  Suddenly, Cecily’s face appeared to her, and Margaret almost cried out in anguish for her mother. She gritted her teeth, held back her tears and called for wine. Fortunata was there in a flash with a goblet. Margaret was vaguely aware that the vessel was encrusted with jewels, but her mind was unable to absorb any more luxury after everything she had seen that day. It was all one golden blur.

  The wine revived her a little, and she allowed herself to be put into bed, which was draped in the Burgundian colors, elaborate entwined letters of C and M embroidered upon them, and made up with sheets of the finest lawn scented with lavender and rose petals. The rich velvet bedspread was trimmed with ermine, and she almost called for her crown, because she felt underdressed lying there.

  And then they waited. And they waited. Margaret could no longer keep her eyes open, and she whispered to Fortunata she was going to take a nap and to make sure she gave fair warning of the duke’s arrival.

  An hour later, with Margaret fast asleep and her ladies dozing on whatever seat they could find in the chamber, the sound of male voices alerted the vigilant Fortunata.

  “Madonna, madonna, wake up. He is coming. Your husband is coming. Oh, please wake up!” she urged.

  Margaret’s eyes flew open and she sat up, allowing Countess de Charny to arrange her hair on the satin pillows. The door was flung open, and Charles and some of his squires strode in, seemingly the worse for drink.

  “Out, out!” he said, waving the women away, his head jutting forward from his thick, muscular shoulders. They all turned to look at Margaret, who nodded, thanked them and watched them leave the room.

  Fortunata was the last to go, her huge eyes expressing compassion.

  Charles was undressed in the small chamber beyond amid whispers and ribald laughter. Finally he appeared in his chemise, his heavy, hairy legs visible from the knees. He stared at Margaret propped up on the pillows and managed an awkward little bow. He closed the door on his servants, blew out several candles and carried a candelabrum to the table near the bed, spilling wax on his hand and cursing.

  “I pray you, my lord, will you not extinguish them all?” Margaret said, annoyed that her voice squeaked.

  Charles gave a short laugh. “Nay, I have paid handsomely for you, my lady. I would see what I have paid for.”

  Margaret gasped at his indelicacy but chose to ignore it, putting it down to too much wine. Perhaps he is nervous, too, she thought magnanimously, and the drink gave him courage. She frantically tried to think of something to say to prolong the conversation—and put off the agony. As Fortunata’s story was foremost in her mind, it came tumbling out. “Before we begin our marriage proper, Charles, I swear to you that I am a virgin and anything you may have heard to the contrary is a lie!” The strength in her voice surprised even her.

  Charles blinked. “Did I hear correctly?” he asked incredulously. “You are acknowledging that you are a virgin? I expected nothing less, my lady, or I would not have signed the contract.”

  Margaret plucked nervously at the ermine trim. “But … the rumors, Charles. You must have heard the rumors.”

  “Rumors!” Charles bellowed, standing over her, his blue eyes bulging and his spittle landing on her hand. “When does a prince listen to rumors.” Seeing her wince, he moderated his tone. “Have no fear, from everything I have witnessed this past week, I have no doubt of your virtue, Lady Margaret. You have exceeded my expectations in every way.” He paused and looked away. “And what of me? I hope I do not displease you?”

  He sat on the bed and began to blow out the candles one by one, relieving Margaret greatly, although the glowing embers of the fire made a grotesque shadow of him on the wall.

  “I am well content, Charles,” she answered, softly. “How could I not be after the day I have experienced. There are no words to tell you how honored and humbled I feel. I can only express my heartfelt thanks—” She was cut off by his rough, fleshy mouth on hers.

  “Enough talking, madame,” he rasped, “I would do my duty by you, and by Christ I am almost too tired to accomplish it.”

  You could not prove it by me, Margaret thought, enduring Charles’s callused hands on her breasts. Sweet Mary, they are not dough, she wanted to tell him, wincing as he kneaded her and pinched her nipples through the flimsy gown. He had pulled back the bedclothes and heaved himself on top of her. She squeezed her eyes shut. He smelled of horses, but unlike John Harper, there was no counterscent of rosewater. He just smelled of horses and wine. I suppose I can bear this, she was just thinking, when her legs were pushed apart and he entered her, gently at first until he was resisted and then with a force that caused Margaret to cry out in pain. Charles grunted and bore down on her, his muscular buttocks driving farther and farther into her until she thought he had pierced not only her maidenhead but her womb as well. Tears of pain rolled down her cheeks, and she was glad there was no light. His grip on her outstretched arms tightened as he neared his climax and she maneuvered her hips into a less agonizing position. This only seemed to increase his pleasure, and finally with a noise somewhere between a bark and a whinny, he gave in to his need. Spent, he lay on her, breathing heavily for several minutes. Margaret was not sure what to do, so she tentatively put her hand on his back and stroked him.

  Charles roused himself and rolled onto his side. “You spoke the truth, Margaret. I regret if I hurt you, but ’tis the nature of the marriage bed.” He chuckled. “I would like to know how you knew to move yourself in that delicious way. I could almost believe you were practiced.”

  Margaret laughed. Now that it was all over, she had to admit it wasn’t as dreadful as she had imagined. “Nay, Charles. I was merely making myself more comfortable, in truth.”

  Charles liked her honest response and said so. “And in the interest of honesty, Margaret, I must tell you that you will not have to endure my advances very often. I do not need a woman as my father did. If you are happy to be left alone, then I shall have no quarrel with that. I am advised to beget a male heir, however, so you may see me from time to time in your bed.”

  Margaret mouthed a round “Oh.” She could not believe her ears or her good fortune.

  With that, Charles called loudly to his squires, who were so ready to do his bidding—and, thought Margaret bitterly, so close to the door as to have heard everything—that they almost fell into the room in their eagerness to answer his call. Shunning the light of the men’s candles, Margaret turned away, drawing the covers around her head as Charles jumped out of bed, wished her a good night and led the men from the room, leaving her in the darkness.

  She lay perfectly still for several minutes before once again her room was invaded, this time by Marie and her other ladies.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I did not call for you, countess. I wish you to leave me alone. All but Fortunata may go.”

  The authority in her voice left Marie no choice but to usher everyone from the room, but not before Margaret heard the now-familiar “Tut-tut.”

  She watched Fortunata scurry around the room in the flickering firelight, pouring some warm water from the jug near the fire into a bowl and taking it to the bed table.

  “Are you hurt, madonna? Did he hurt you?” the dwarf asked, her brown eyes searching Margaret’s face. “Si, I see you are crying. Poor madonna.”

  She wrung out a cloth and wiped Margaret’s face, and then turned her back as Margaret washed the telltale blood from her thigh.

  “In truth, ’twas not so bad, pochina. You should not b
e anxious on my account. I am no green girl, and I knew what to expect,” she said more bravely than she felt. Did I know what to expect? Her moment of pleasure with John Harper had led her to believe she would experience the same sensation with any man. She had been sadly mistaken. She had not even been aroused by Charles. She knelt by the bed and said her prayers for the second time that night. A sadness overcame her as she realized her virginity was lost forever. Try as she might, she could not put Anthony’s face from her mind.

  FOR NINE MORE days the festivities continued, each day bringing new evidence of the artistic and economic wealth of her new land. Margaret saw the work of artists such as Hans Memling, Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden, heard the music of Dufay and Binchois and wore creations from the workshops of Bruges goldsmiths and jewelers, who were the finest in Europe.

  For her wedding gift, Charles gave her a magnificent necklace consisting of two gold chains three inches apart separated by golden knots and red and white enameled roses studded with pearls. From the lower chain hung the letters C and M in gold and enamel. By this time, she was realizing that the finery she had brought with her from England was a little old-fashioned and of lesser quality. Her own steepled hennins were dwarfed by the three-feet-high ones worn by Isabella and Marie de Charny. She told Fortunata that if she was to adopt the monstrosities, she would have difficulty going through doorways.

  The tournament was the mainstay of the week, which Margaret guessed was planned more for Charles’s enjoyment than hers. At one point during the sixth interminable day of it, the fighting between six knights became so fierce, albeit with blunt swords, that Margaret rose to her feet, waved her kerchief and begged them to stop. The only pleasure the tournament gave her was that it required the English retinue to stay until the end. And how proud she was that an Englishman—Anthony’s twenty-three-year-old brother, John—was declared Prince of the Tournament when the last lance was shattered and the final axe blow had been struck.