Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Indeed she would, Mary,” Margaret cried. “I expect she is looking down from heaven and glowing with pride, sweetheart.”

  Charles harrumphed and almost dragged Margaret through the doorway and into the palace beyond. Margaret sent up a prayer to the Virgin to protect her later from Charles’s famous temper.

  HE CAME TO her that night after three hours of banquet, music and dancing.

  “Out! Out!” he bellowed to Margaret’s women when he burst into the room with a few of his squires. Margaret was already propped up on the silk pillows, her golden hair loose about her shoulders and a cap tied under her chin.

  “Good luck, madonna,” Fortunata whispered as she smoothed the embroidered, fur-lined satin bedspread one more time. “I will be near if you need me.” More loudly she said, “Good night, your graces. May God bless you both.”

  She curtseyed first to Margaret, then to Charles, and with a last disdainful sniff at one of the squires holding the door for her, stalked out. Margaret covered a laugh with a cough. Charles had hardly noticed the attendant. He lolled in a chair while his boots were removed and points untied, sipping a glass of wine. He was amiable with his gentlemen and even threw a genial comment her way now and again. Margaret breathed more easily. All is well, she decided.

  Finally they were alone. Hardly had the door closed behind the last squire when Charles flung back the bedcovers and pulled Margaret out of bed. She cried out as his cruel grasp pinched her wrist. Before she could protest his treatment of her, he crushed her to him, grinding his hips into hers and gripping her buttocks under the fine lawn chemise. She thought he would eat her tongue and mouth and knew he had bitten her when she tasted blood. She was enraged and terrified at once. There was no denying his lust; she could feel it hard between her thighs. Her extra inches made it easy for him to lower his mouth to her breast, which he sucked at noisily through the cloth.

  “Charles … my lord … you … are h-hurting me,” she stammered, her eyes full of tears.

  “Quiet, wife! It seems you need to know who is lord here. I am about to show you!” he growled, taking her hand and forcing her to touch him under his shirt. “When you are alone, you may do as you please, but when I am here, I am master. Do you understand?”

  Rage overcame the terror and she let go of his prick and slapped him hard across the face. “How dare you treat me like a whore!” she hissed, guessing there were several ears pressed to the door. “I am a Plantagenet and just as royal as you—”

  She got no further. Fighting with him did nothing more than inflame his desire for her. A military machine, he was all muscle and sinew, and she was dismayed with what ease he picked her up, pinned her legs around his waist and slammed her against the wall. She could not have conceived of such a coupling in her worst nightmares, and as he forced her down upon him, she felt as though he would tear her apart. With a few lusty thrusts, he loosed his desire into her with his usual bark of pleasure and, sated, leaned panting against her. Then surprisingly gently he lowered her body to the ground.

  “’Twas your fault, Margaret,” he apologized. “Your boldness at the door today aroused my anger—and my lust. I trust you are not hurt.”

  Margaret lay crumpled on the floor, her thighs still trembling, her tears flowing freely. Anthony, she wanted to cry, how did I come to this? Why did you let me wed this beast? Oh, God, maybe all men are like this. Maybe Anthony … But she refused to believe it. She was aware that Charles was speaking to her quietly, as though nothing had passed between them. He knelt down, stroked her hair and begged her to get into bed.

  “I shall leave you to your rest, Margaret. And I believe I need to bathe my cheek with cowslip water. What will the servants think if they see your fingers imprinted on it tomorrow?” He was chuckling as he helped her across the room and between the soft sheets. “May God keep you safe until the morrow. I am looking forward to showing you the Forest of Soignes, ma mie. The hunting is superb.”

  She could not believe her ears. He had just violated her in a most despicable manner, and now he was talking about hunting and calling her his love. She could not speak but lay there with her eyes closed, wishing him far from her.

  “Ah, I see you are tired. You need to rest for tomorrow’s sport.” He bent and kissed her forehead before padding quietly from the room.

  Margaret slipped her hand beneath the covers and gingerly felt herself for any signs of bleeding. She jumped when the door opened again but breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Fortunata slip into the room with a copper ewer. Margaret was sure the whole palace had heard their bestial fornicating, so she was not surprised the dwarf was there to help her expunge the evidence.

  During the ablutions, Fortunata kept up a patter of inane gossip, hoping to keep Margaret from sinking into melancholy. She fed Margaret a hot posset she had prepared and made her drink it all. Gradually, as Fortunata sat quietly at her feet, patting her hand, Margaret pulled herself together. She invited her servant to kneel and pray with her again before she allowed herself to be tucked into bed and the candles to be extinguished.

  “Thank you, pochina,” Margaret whispered, as Fortunata slipped out of the room. “A thousand thanks.”

  Then she fell into a deep slumber, brought on by Fortunata’s potion of henbane, skullcap and lemon balm.

  The old dream of the fleshless head on top of the Micklegate returned to her that night, and this time it was Charles grimacing in agony. It failed to disturb her sleep.

  13

  Autumn 1468

  “I think I am with child, pochina,” Margaret whispered to the dwarf at prayers one day in September.

  “I think you are right, madonna,” Fortunata replied. “I knew before you did.”

  Margaret smiled and shook her head. “You are incorrigible,” she murmured.

  Fortunata bent closer. “In what, madonna. I did not understand.” “I will explain later. Now pray to the Virgin for me, Fortunata, that I bear a healthy child.” She raised her voice so the others could join in. “Ave Maria, gratia plena …”

  Margaret bowed her head and prayed that the memory of the night she must have conceived be washed from her mind forever. She was afraid she would look at her child and only remember the pain. As the comforting prayers she uttered gave her peace, the joy in knowing she was to be a mother buoyed her spirits, and she resolved to let God guide her through the next eight months.

  • • •

  HER JOY WAS short-lived. Margaret’s and Mary’s households were on the move again, and her morning sickness was not helped by the trundling along rutted roads for a week to reach Aire in Artois province. By the time her carriage pulled into the enclosed courtyard of the palace, she was cursing the growing seed inside her. She barely noticed her new surroundings, although she had remarked on the beautiful aspect of the towering castle on the banks of the pretty river Lys as they approached.

  Soon the nausea that began as a morning annoyance erupted into violent vomiting, and the palace was abuzz with the news that the new duchess was ill. Margaret and Fortunata had kept the secret of the pregnancy to themselves for a time, although both Beatrice and Marie were convinced Margaret was pregnant. Margaret had trouble keeping anything in her stomach, and she spent days lying in her huge bed in a darkened room, wondering why God was punishing her thus. Fortunata finally persuaded her to tell the doctors of her condition, and they congregated in a corner of the room to discuss the situation.

  “’Tis worse than the mal de mer,” Margaret told them when they returned.

  The learned men shook their gray beards over her bed, calling for bloodletting to realign her humors, and one consulted an astrological chart. Fortunata had seen this extreme nausea once before at the university in Padua, and she knew the bloodletting her mentor had performed on the patient had done nothing to alleviate it. The woman had continued to vomit for many days, but she had recovered and eventually given birth to a large boy with monstrous deformities. Marie had scoffed at the story and tol
d Fortunata to hold her tongue, but she did not protest when Fortunata took charge of the slop bucket and would not leave Margaret’s side. The dwarf shook her head when Master Roelandts approached with basin and knife, but he glared at her and insisted on bleeding Margaret.

  “She is carrying Duke Charles’s heir, mistress. She must be in our hands alone now. No more of your potions, do you understand?” Roelandts told Fortunata sternly.

  He did not recognize the mulish glint in Fortunata’s eyes, but she moved away to allow him to prepare Margaret’s arm.

  “We should get word to the duke as soon as possible,” the physician said to the others. “This is great news for Burgundy.”

  At that Margaret sat up and heaved once again. “Not yet, Master Roelandts, I beg of you. Wait until I am well again.” The Dutchman grunted an assent and hoped Charles would not blame him for delaying the news.

  Three days later, just before Michaelmas, a strange comet appeared in the western sky, and Margaret prayed it was a sign from God, like the star that had settled over Bethlehem long ago to signal the advent of a child. She had been ten when another such phenomenon had appeared in the heavens, trailing a tail of light. At first, it seemed as though her prayer was answered. The vomiting subsided, leaving her frail and dehydrated but elated. Behind the physicians’ backs, she had taken Fortunata’s medicine diligently after the bloodletting, trusting more in her servant than the doctors.

  During the third night she awoke with strong familiar monthly pain. She called out to be helped to the garderobe. Marie was horrified to see the blood on Margaret’s chemise and the silken sheets, and by the time she and Beatrice had helped their mistress onto the wooden seat over the latrine, she knew the tiny life inside Margaret was lost.

  THE PHYSICIANS WERE dismayed and prayed they would not be blamed. They insisted Margaret remain in bed and not go outdoors. Fortunata grumbled about the bloodletting but otherwise went about her tasks quietly. Marie became suspicious when the dwarf lost her tongue and determined she would get to the bottom of her silence.

  Jeanne de Halewijn and Mary visited her every day, and Mary amused Margaret by bringing a different one of her pets with her. Dogs, monkeys and birds made their way into Margaret’s chamber, and Jeanne whispered to her that she was lucky she had not fallen ill at Ten Waele, where Mary had a pet giraffe. Margaret’s eyes widened with surprise. “I have never seen one, Jeanne. Is Mary not afraid?” She was delighted that Mary’s chief attendant had finally conquered her jealousy and was now becoming a charming companion.

  “It is very tall, your grace, but they are gentle creatures,” Jeanne replied.

  While her ladies, physicians and Mary constantly attended her all day and her chamberlain visited for his instructions, Margaret was able to keep up a semblance of cheerfulness. But at night, as soon as the dark green velvet curtains were drawn around her bed, she cried into her pillow for the loss of her first child. She begged St. Anthony of Padua to protect her from barrenness, and then merely whispering the name conjured up her own Anthony, consuming her with guilt. Please, dear God, do not punish me for what I cannot help. I have done my duty as a wife and endured an ignominious experience as part of it. I understand that as a woman I have no right to complain, but how could You end the innocent life of an unborn child just to punish me? Ah, she acknowledged sadly, but we are taught the sins of the father shall be visited upon the child, and I forgot that lesson. She buried her head into the sweet-smelling mattress and pulled the pillow over her head to muffle her sobs.

  “Perhaps ’twas God’s way of ending your misery, my lady,” Jeanne said to Margaret one day, referring to the prolonged bouts of vomiting, as they finally took a turn about the pleasant gardens with the usual attendants in tow. Margaret’s murrey damask gown hung limply from her shoulders, her breasts having temporarily lost their roundness. “’Twas cruel, but who are we to question His ways?”

  “Aye, Jeanne, perhaps. Certes, I do not understand it, for I was feeling better. I atrributed it to Fortunata’s genius with infusions and potions,” she said. “But I doubt Master Roelandts would give her any credit.”

  Marie’s ears pricked up. So, the little monster had disobeyed the doctor and administered her own medicine. She resolved to visit the dispensary and see if she could ascertain what infusion the dwarf had concocted. And then she went straight to Master Roelandts.

  MARGARET WAS FRANTIC. Fortunata had disappeared. No one had seen her for two days. Margaret asked Guillaume to do some investigating on her behalf. Beatrice was in tears. She had become very fond of the little woman; they often shared memories of London as they went about their tasks or plied their needles during the quiet afternoons. She was quite convinced Fortunata had been kidnapped.

  “She left everything behind, your grace,” she told Margaret. “I share the bed with her, and I know she would not go anywhere without the rosary you gave her upon our arrival in Burgundy. I found it under her pillow.” She pulled it from her bodice and gave it to Margaret.

  Margaret stared down at the pearl and onyx chain with its delicate silver crucifix and then raised frightened eyes to Beatrice’s face. “Kidnapped, you say?” she whispered, tears starting behind her eyes. “Why?”

  “’Tis but conjecture on my part, my lady,” Beatrice soothed, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “But I do not think Fortunata has run away. Perhaps she has fallen somewhere and has not been found yet. Oh, no, I did not—” She stopped as Margaret gave a little scream and clutched at her heart. She turned and called to Marie, who was deadheading some late daisies. “Come and comfort her grace, Madame de Charny. You were the last to see Fortunata, were you not?”

  At the mention of Fortunata’s name, Marie went pale, which did not escape Margaret’s notice. “Is this true, Marie?” Margaret used the first name to emphasize her superiority. “Why did you not volunteer this information? Where exactly did you see her?”

  Margaret took the older woman’s arm none too gently and made her walk alongside her. Her mind was racing. Marie hated Fortunata, but surely she would not harm the dwarf? In her short time in Burgundy, Margaret had learned that whereas torture and cruelty were exceptions in England, they were rife here. She had heard Charles praise the captain of his guards for punishing a prisoner on the rack until he talked. She had even heard of red-hot irons being used to loosen a young woman’s tongue. She had questioned Charles about such methods, and he laughed at her.

  “Perhaps your brother would not have so many rebellions to deal with if he used his power as I do. Traitors, assassins, spies, rebels—they all need to know who is their master, and I find torture a very effective way of teaching them, my dear. It keeps the peasants in their place.”

  Margaret had been shocked by this, but had calmly told him, “Do the scriptures not teach us to turn the other cheek, Charles? And our Savior himself said, ‘All they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.’”

  Again her husband laughed. Seeing her dismay, he tempered his response. “This is the way we govern so many divergent territories and people, and I need to know you can handle my affairs when I am away defending them. Tell me that you can.”

  Margaret nodded. “Certes, messire. ’Tis my duty to serve you,” she said meekly. “But I still believe there are kinder ways to rule,” she said under her breath.

  She thought back to that conversation as she steered Marie de Charny to a bench set in a copse of hazelnut and birch trees.

  “Leave us,” she told Guillaume and the attendants. “Beatrice, stay close in case I need you.”

  Marie sat straight as one of the white birch trunks and stared at the river through the trees. She did not fear her new sister-in-law with her unfashionable clothes and accented French. She knew she had Charles’s love—and his ear.

  “Let me remind you that I am the duchess, Marie,” Margaret began politely enough. “But do not forget you are an attendant on my person and are only such because you have some of Duke Philip’s blood in y
our veins. I could dismiss you like that”—she snapped her fingers at the poker-faced woman—“should I so desire. Do I make myself clear? Good, now tell me where you last saw Fortunata.”

  “I saw her talking to Heer Roelandts after Matins two days ago, your grace,” Marie said, furious that her bastardy had been alluded to. “They were near the dispensary and they were arguing. ’Tis all I can tell you.” She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, controlling an urge to slap the younger woman and tell her that her influence with Charles was far greater than Margaret’s would ever be. “You should interrogate the good doctor, not me, madame. He believes Fortunata is a witch,” she added snidely, knowing Margaret had forbidden the word be associated with the dwarf in her presence.

  Margaret stiffened, and Marie wondered if the duchess might strike her. But in a tone as cold as ice, Margaret merely said, “And so I shall. Thank you, Marie. You may go. Send Beatrice to me.” She watched the countess leave with a mounting suspicion that the woman knew more than she was saying. Marie turned once, her facial lines pinched with anger, and then tossed her head and minced onto the lawn to Beatrice. Nay, pochina, you were wrong, Margaret thought. Not everyone resembles an animal. This one looks like a prune. A little sob caught in her throat as she remembered the conversation. Fortunata! What has become of you?

  Heer Roelandts pleaded ignorance when Margaret questioned him later that morning. She could not tell if the question had caught him by surprise or not, but his story matched Marie’s. However, his answers seemed a little too glib, and so she dismissed him with her thanks and immediately called her faithful chevalier to her presence chamber.

  “I want you to watch Heer Roelandts carefully, Guillaume. I believe he knows more about Fortunata’s disappearance than he is telling me.” A thought occurred to her, and her hand flew to her mouth. She wondered if it were true that Roelandts believed the little servant was a witch. “I hope he has not poisoned her!” she cried.