Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  The feast following outdid the rest, and afterwards the company danced until they dropped. Charles led Margaret out for a basse danse, and in the line she saw Anthony partnering an excited Mary. The girl was graceful and full of poise, her dove-gray eyes shining with pleasure, and Anthony gravely treated her as if she were a fully grown woman. Margaret caught his eye when she dared and sent him a tender look of gratitude. Charles was not light on his feet, and Margaret could tell he was only doing his duty as a dance partner, much like his duty to her in bed. Those visits had numbered three since their marriage, and although there had been no more pain for Margaret, neither had there been any passion in the act. She hoped she would find herself pregnant in no time.

  “I regret I must leave you tomorrow, Margaret,” Charles told her as they returned to the dais. “I have assigned you a competent knight of honor in Guillaume de la Baume. I trust he will be agreeable and serve you well. My sister Marie seems to have your ladies in hand.” He winked at her. “In truth, she is bit of a dragon, is she not!”

  Margaret nodded, diplomatically refusing to tell him the woman resembled quite another species of winged creature entirely.

  “How do you like my daughter?” he asked. “I regret my skill as a father does not allow me confidences with her. She was so close to her mother, ’tis true, but ma mère tells me she is not unhappy with my choice of stepmother for her.”

  This was the longest conversation they had had so far, and Margaret was encouraged by Charles’s attempts at friendship. He was not so bad, she thought, as she thanked him for the compliment and told him she had already formed an attachment to Mary.

  “’Tis happy news, Margaret, for you and she will be together constantly now. Those are my orders. I hope she grows to be as gracious as you. She will be duchess one day, and she needs someone strong to guide her.”

  Margaret’s stomach lurched. Was Charles not expecting her to bear him a son? This was a shock, and her face must have registered a change, for he asked if she was unwell. She was spared the lie of a response as Lord Ravenstein, managing as much of a smile as his grave face could handle, approached them, bowed and requested permission to present the governor of the English merchant-adventurers to the duchess.

  A short, neatly dressed man stood at Ravenstein’s elbow, bowing. Margaret guessed him to be in his mid-forties. His thick curly hair was graying and his full beard more so. When he straightened up, Margaret looked into a pair of intelligent brown eyes that observed her from under beetling brows, the more surprising because they were still black, and over a fine, aquiline nose. She knew instantly she had found a friend in Bruges and smiled her pleasure at meeting him. Charles greeted him cursorily, excused himself—to avail himself of the garderobe, Margaret guessed—and was followed from the hall by all of his squires. Ravenstein watched him go with an eagle eye but remained behind with Margaret.

  “We have a mutual friend, Master Caxton,” she said in English. “My brother’s loyal councilor, Sir John Howard, has told me of you. God’s greeting to you.”

  William Caxton grinned, glad to be conversing with her in his native tongue. “Aye, your grace, Sir John has had some discourse with me here, in truth, and it is my honor to serve you. I bring you hearty greetings from all the English merchants. They are proud to welcome our sovereign’s sister to these shores, especially”—he lowered his voice—“a daughter of York.”

  Margaret glanced quickly at Ravenstein, but realizing he did not speak English, she was relieved to see him yawn discreetly while watching for Charles’s return. “I thank you, sir,” she acknowledged his emphasis on York. She knew the English merchants favored her house over Lancaster because of the good relations between Duke Philip and her brother.

  “You have my word I will do what I can for you with regard to trade, sir,” she murmured. “My brother has charged me with the task of keeping the negotiations in process on an even keel. I pray you attend me in my quarters while I am still at Bruges, and we will talk more on it.”

  She held her hand out for him to kiss and was gratified to see his look of astonishment at her forthrightness and perspicacity. She could see he was not expecting her to be much more than a pretty pawn in this Burgundian alliance.

  “’Twill be my honor, your grace,” he answered, bowing and backing away from her. He turned and walked back to the group of English guests, and Margaret saw Jack Howard clap him on the shoulder and share a few words. Charles had not returned, and Margaret felt sorry for Ravenstein, standing first on one leg and then the other. She tried to engage him in conversation about the day’s jousting, but he was taciturn, and she gave up. She watched as a new group of dancers took the floor, the musicians retuning their instruments before launching into a lively saltarello, her favorite dance. As the dancers began to form groups of six, she bent down to say something to Fortunata, who was seated on her customary footstool behind Margaret’s skirts. She had to say the dwarf’s name twice before Fortunata pulled her eyes off the receding figure of William Caxton and responded to her mistress, stammering, “Forgive me, madonna. I did not hear you.” Margaret followed Fortunata’s gaze and was intrigued to see it was directed at the stocky merchant. She was about to ask her servant to explain the love-lorn look when a familiar voice made her heart leap into her throat and Fortunata was forgotten.

  “Would her grace the duchess of Burgundy favor me with this dance? There is a group in need of a third couple.” Anthony stood before her, bowing first to Ravenstein before extending his leg and giving Margaret deep obeisance. “Is it permitted, my lady?” he asked again, not giving Ravenstein any inkling that his motive was not merely a formality.

  “Is it permitted, messire?” Margaret asked the stiff Burgundian. “Can you sanction my dancing with Lord Scales without my husband’s permission?” Margaret was only half serious, but she was unprepared for Marie de Charny’s intrusion and was taken aback when the countess superseded any answer Ravenstein may have had.

  “Certes, your grace. No one would think it untoward if you accepted a dance with one of such nobility as Lord Scales.” And she gave Anthony a low curtsey, as Ravenstein gritted his teeth and stalked away.

  “Marguerite, I fear I leave you here in severe hands. I know not who is more peevish, Ravenstein or Charny. But for the next few precious moments, let us think of no one but ourselves.”

  “As you wish, Anthony. I shall not gainsay you,” Margaret said quietly. “There is nothing I would deny you, I hope you know.”

  Their hands met as the dance began, and Margaret, casting her eyes down as was customary, felt their love flow freely one to the other through their fingers.

  “Never forget that I love you, Marguerite, although you are lost to me now.”

  He moved away with the dance but saw her nod imperceptibly. For the next few minutes, as the hundreds of guests watched the English princess and her handsome partner with admiration, she frantically sought for a way to see him alone before the English contingent set sail for home the next day. She glanced up and saw Charles back on the dais, his large eyes fixed on her, and she quickly looked down again. He looked none too pleased, she noted, and from the sulky look on Marie’s face, she could see he had given his sister a dressing-down.

  The dance came to an end all too soon, and she looked up at Anthony, who bowed solemnly and muttered under his breath, “Send Fortunata to me.” Then he escorted her back to her seat, cheerfully greeting Charles with: “My lord duke, I am deeply grateful. I could not return to England without allowing your countrymen to witness the finest proponent of the saltarello in Christendom! ’Twas a pleasure, Lady Margaret,” he said. “Your grace, I shall look forward to our appointed meeting on the morrow, and now, with a long day ahead, I wish you both a good night.”

  Before Charles could object, he was gone.

  • • •

  MARGARET WAS MELANCHOLY for days after watching the departure of her beloved compatriots. Even Fortunata’s successful meeting with Anthony just a
fter Mass on the final morning and the resulting gift of a belt ornament fashioned into a marguerite did not lift her spirits. She took to her bed early every night and cried herself to sleep while reliving those last moments over and over.

  She had kissed the duchess of Norfolk tearfully, instructing her to give Ned a good account of her reception in Burgundy, and then had a few words with several members of the company, asking them to pray for her and wishing them a safe voyage home.

  “No more French attacks, I hope, Sir John,” she said to Jack Howard, smiling fondly at him. “And I hope if you visit us here again, you will bring your delightful wife with you. In the meantime, I must thank you for commending me to Master Caxton. I think we have much to talk about and I shall seek his counsel when I am homesick. ’Twill be a comfort to speak English with him. Now go, sir, before I embarrass myself and cry.”

  Jack held her hand in both of his before he respectfully kissed it. “As I have said before, your grace, magnificent. You are truly magnificent.”

  She managed a smile as she accepted Anthony’s farewell, thanking him graciously for his support as her escort. She took a small velvet pouch from her wide sleeve and, with Charles and the lords and ladies looking on, offered it to him. “’Tis but a small token, my lord, but I shall never forget how you brought me into Burgundy and unto my lord, the duke. God speed to you and to all the company,” she said. She had not felt guilty in prying off a gold and enamel M from her wedding necklace to give him as it might easily have fallen off during one of the many days of dressing and dancing. Anthony bowed and slipped the pouch into the bag at his waist. He read in Margaret’s eyes not to open it there.

  Then, with Charles, Duchess Isabella and little Mary beside her, she stood as if in a stupor and watched the love of her life mount his beautiful Pegasus and turn and wave one more time before trotting off at the head of the procession back to Sluis.

  Margaret felt a small hand take hers in the folds of her silk brocade gown. She looked down to see Mary smiling shyly up at her.

  “Courage, belle-mére. Je suis là,” the girl said. “You have me to love you now.”

  12

  Late summer 1468

  The following day, Margaret waved good-bye to Charles, who set off north to Zeeland and Holland to see to state affairs in those lowlands of marshes and peat bogs. He had kissed Margaret soundly on the lips before leaving, a practice he kept up with all the English ladies every time he saw them. It was the only endearing thing about Charles that Margaret could find in those first days as his wife. He had a violent temper, which he had certainly not turned on her yet, but some of his retainers were still smarting from something he had thrown at them in her presence.

  With his household of more than two hundred gone from the Prinsenhof, the palace seemed empty and quiet. But her days were far from empty and quiet. Lord Ravenstein immediately began instructing her in the expectations Charles had of her as duchess, including how to manage her own household of more than one hundred and forty people. For days she sat in the lavishly decorated audience chamber with Ravenstein and her chevalier by her side and tried to remember names and faces of maids of honor, maîtres d’hôtel, ushers, sommeliers or housekeepers, provision ers, seamstresses, laundresses and all the kitchen staff. Then there were her priests, her doctors and surgeons, not forgetting the stable boys, farriers and falconers who would look after her dogs, horses and hunting birds. She was told not all of them would be on duty at once. They would work in three-or six-month shifts, and some of the lesser members would come from the local area surrounding each palace she would live in.

  Used to moving a few times a year in England but mostly from the Wardrobe to Greenwich, Westminster or Shene, Margaret pricked up her ears. “How many residences are there, messire,” Margaret asked Ravenstein.

  “I could not say, your grace. Let me see, there is this one and Male, Mons, Ten Waele in Ghent, Aire, Oudenaarde, Dendermonde, Hesdin, Cassel, La Motte, Brussels, Binche, Ter Elst near Antwerp, Bellemotte, St. Josse ten Noode—”

  “Enough, messire! You are making my head spin,” she laughed. “I understand the duchy is well endowed with estates, but, certes, I need only know about those I shall be residing in.”

  Ravenstein eyed her with something akin to pity. “I hope you like traveling, madame, because you will never be in one place for very long.”

  Margaret sighed. She was beginning to lose faith in her ability to win over this humorless man, and she could see he was irked by having to play tutor to her when he should have been with Charles. She rose and said brightly, “Come, messire, if you must spend time in my company teaching me my duties—which I am certain is tedious for you—let us enjoy the garden. I need to stretch my legs after this morning’s work.”

  Ravenstein quickly assured her he was honored to be her guide. He was disconcerted yet impressed that the duchess had seen right through him, as he prided himself on his unfailing civility no matter the circumstance. He bowed and offered her his arm with a little more enthusiasm now.

  Immediately Margaret’s ladies sprang into action. She was beginning to find some humor in constantly being trailed by ten or twelve people, and as Fortunata twitched her mistress’s train behind her, Margaret winked at the dwarf. She loved it when a smile brightened Fortunata’s sallow face as though the sun had suddenly come from behind a dark cloud. The little procession walked into the sunlight and through a rose-covered arbor to an immaculately kept lawn and flower garden beyond. ’Twas a pity we did not have a day like today for my entry into Bruges, Margaret thought, remembering the downpour.

  She watched a team of gardeners with small razor-sharp scythes expertly cut the grass to an inch high, creating a soft emerald carpet for them to walk upon. Ravenstein led her to a horeshoe-shaped excedra, planted with grass and gillyflowers, and she sat down on it. Her ladies arranged themselves prettily around her feet, their skirts and mantles creating a tableau of vivid colors on a green background—like a tapestry from Tournai, Margaret mused. Just then, a thrush chose to show off his lilting voice, and the repetitive song, the smell of the roses, the cloudless sky and the peaceful garden gave Margaret her most pleasurable moment since leaving England.

  She turned such a sweet smile on Lord Ravenstein that he was momentarily taken aback. He had not properly studied his master’s new wife, so taken up was he with his duties to the duke. Now he perceived the duchess had good looks as well as a good pedigree, and he temporarily forgot the resentment he had harbored earlier for being left behind to tend to her. He brightened and, appreciating her pertinent and perceptive questions about the government of such a diverse state as Burgundy, over the next few days he soon became one of her most ardent admirers.

  Before she left Bruges for Brussels, Margaret received a visit from William Caxton. It was raining again, so they sat in an antechamber in the presence of her chevalier and, as usual, her ladies. She watched him walk across the tiled floor and noted his slight limp before he knelt before her, as was court custom, until Margaret had avised him for several minutes and given him permission to rise. She also noticed that his right eyebrow seemed caught in a permanent arch, lending an appealing cynicism to his expression. She was curious as to why his short, strong fingers were stained black, and, so, after discussing the English wool trade and the new agreement Charles was considering, she asked, “Forgive the non sequitur, Master Caxton, but is it the wool that dyes your hands black?”

  William was taken aback. He could not believe a lady of her rank would notice, much less ask about, his stained fingers. He tried to hide them under the bonnet he was holding and answered her equally directly, his voice carrying the hint of a Kentish accent. “I like to think I have a way with pen and ink, your grace. But much of it seems to end up on my fingers.”

  Then Margaret remembered the captain’s disparaging remark about his friend Caxton’s interest in books, and she smiled. “So ’tis true what I have heard about you, good sir. I, too, enjoy books more than anyt
hing. We shall have to talk more on this whenever I am in Bruges again. I have been told Duke Philip’s library is unmatched in Europe. In truth, when I go to Brussels, I shall feel as though I am in a paradise.”

  “I envy you, my lady. I have acquired but three books, but I hope to copy a few more in my spare time for my own pleasure,” he said. “I am particularly fond of the recueil—the history of Troy by Monsieur Lefevre—and I am making a modest attempt at translating it into English.”

  “One day you must show it to me, Master Caxton. I think it is a splendid endeavor,” Margaret said. She was liking this industrious, plain-speaking man more and more, and by the time his hour-long audience with her was at an end, she had made up her mind to trust him.

  “Walk with me, Master Caxton,” she commanded, rising from her chair and putting out her hand for his arm, which he readily offered. She snapped her fingers and called to Astolat to accompany them, and the dog loped over, sniffing Caxton’s crotch much to the merchant’s embarrassment. “He needs to know you are my friend, sir,” Margaret said as straight-faced as she could, watching him attempt to protect his codpiece from the dog’s huge mouth. “’Tis a particular trait of the breed, I am told,” she lied. “Here, Astolat! Fortunata, I pray you, control him while I talk to Master Caxton.” She was astonished to see Fortunata give William one of her brightest smiles. I must ask her about this, Margaret thought, amused. Sadly, she doubted William Caxton would look on the dwarf with anything more than indifferent kindness.

  As soon as she had risen from her chair, her entourage surrounded them and followed them up and down the long gallery that led from her antechamber and was beautifully hung with tapestries of the hunt of a mythical creature. She doubted she would ever get used to the constant procession that shadowed her all day. However, she had trained Fortunata to walk between her and the rest of the company, so she knew no one would hear her next words to Caxton, even if someone was conversant with English.