Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

Margaret knew he was talking of Warwick.

  “I fear they will never be reconciled and I fear he will soon be caught in a web of his own making—or of the spider over the water.”

  Louis of France, Margaret thought. How clever Anthony has been to disguise the names in the letter in case it fell into unfriendly hands.

  “Your young brothers are well, but the older’s loyalties concern us all.”

  George, George, did you not heed my words last summer?

  “’Tis rumored the younger is a father, but doubtless he fears your mother’s wrath and so keeps his peace.”

  Dickon a father, ’tis hard to believe. She smiled, remembering the young woman with the beautiful voice. She did not blame Dickon for keeping his peace with Cecily, whom she had overheard rail at Edward when his little bastard Arthur was born and acknowledged.

  “As for myself, I yearn to travel and go on a pilgrimage, but your brother has much work for me, so I will have to wait. Would my travels took me to you, my love, but in the meantime,

  I am your devoted, Lancelot.”

  The letter with the daisy was now tucked inside her bodice, rumpled and tear-stained from so many readings. She knew she should burn it as agreed, but she could not bring herself to part with it just yet.

  THE VILLAGE OF Hesdin was situated at the confluence of the Canche and Ternoise rivers. Its castle, in earlier centuries a stronghold with high walls and ramparts impregnable from the valley below, rose sentinel over the town like an extension of the strategic hill it sat upon.

  When they first arrived in November, Mary could not wait for Margaret to experience the surprises at the castle. Duke Philip was a man with an impish sense of humor, Lord Ravenstein had told her before they journeyed there.

  “But I will not spoil it for you, your grace,” he said, his grave face belying the twinkle in his eyes. He was wearing a chaperon of such enormous proportions that Margaret wondered how his head could support it. He was a stiff-necked man at the best of times, but that day he had to turn his whole torso to summon a waiting page and ask for wine. Margaret imagined a whole nest of mice might happily reside in the hat’s many folds.

  “I hope they are pleasant surprises, messire,” Margaret said, unwittingly, “like the delightful mechanical animals that carried in the dishes at my wedding banquet.”

  “Aye,” Ravenstein nodded. “But these mechanical contraptions are less visible. Just do not believe everything you see there, ’tis all I will say.”

  Margaret thought back to that statement as she stood in the exquisite great hall at Hesdin with Mary by her side, gazing up at the wooden vaulted ceiling painted in brilliant azure and studded with stars of gold leaf. The paneled walls were polished like burnished chestnuts and the wall hangings were even more beautiful than the ones at the Coudenberg.

  “Mary, where are the surprises I was told about?” she asked, looking about her and seeing nothing unusual. Mary grinned and with a grand gesture entreated Margaret to go ahead of her.

  “Come, Fortunata, let us see what no one dares tell us about,” Margaret called to the dwarf, who tiptoed behind her mistress, suspicious of every chair and stool. One of the ladies had told her about the tricks at Hesdin, and she was ready for anything.

  They walked through the hall, eying every nook and cranny as though ghosts would jump out at them, to the threshold of a gallery beyond. Again Margaret was struck by the beauty of the painted walls and ceiling. Six statues stood on either side of the gallery, and as she walked through the doorway to admire them, she suddenly felt icy water spurt up under her dress. As she looked down in dismay, one of the statues squirted water from its mouth, its spout hitting her in the arm. She shrieked and ran to a lectern on which rested a magnificent book. Fortunata had not avoided the water spouts from the floor either, and she ran helter-skelter into the center of the gallery, wiping her legs with her petticoats, and was then confronted by a mirror that distorted her poor stunted body into that of a four-feet-wide and two-feet-tall midget. Curious, she stepped forward to touch the strange mirror, which triggered a small bag of soot that she had not noticed above her to empty its contents onto her head. She screamed and turned to see Mary still outside the room, now creased over with laughter. When Mary looked up, she saw Margaret about to turn a page of the book and too late cried out to her not to touch it. A white cloud of flour was puffed into Margaret’s unsuspecting face and she jumped back with another cry of dismay.

  Fortunata seeing her mistress’s white face could not forbear to laugh. “You look like a dead woman, madonna,” she said.

  Margaret laughed. “And you look like a Moor, pochina. Come, let us go quickly before anything else befalls us.” Taking hands, they made for a door at the other end of the gallery. But Duke Philip had not finished with them. Thunder and lightning suddenly erupted overhead and water rained down on them from the ceiling as they reached the door and pushed it open. Something padded thwacked Margaret on her backside and then hit Fortunata on the head before they emerged into another chamber to face an anxious group of courtiers whom Mary had made sure would be there. Seeing their faces, and knowing Mary had meant no harm, Margaret, who was now drenched from head to toe and had flour dripping like glue down her face, began to laugh. Relieved, the company laughed with her, while Jeanne ran forward with a dry cloak to wrap around Margaret’s shivering body.

  “Wait until I get my hands on young Mary,” Margaret said, hurrying up the stairs with Jeanne and leaving a water trail behind her. “Certes, I am thinking up a few surprises of my own for her.”

  Jeanne might have been worried for her charge but for the chuckle she heard from Margaret as they reached the door to her chamber.

  AT THE END of February, Charles came to Hesdin. He made an effort to spend time with both his wife and his daughter, but only after the business of the day was ended. He invited Margaret to sit with him one morning as he heard petition after petition from his subjects, who came in an unending stream while he dispensed decisions arbitrarily.

  For her part, Margaret was slowly beginning to understand the magnitude of Charles’s ambition for himself. She learned how ruthlessly he had amassed territory in his short time as duke and that he was intent on joining the northern part of his duchy with the south and east, even if it meant taking large parts of the Habsburg empire or France. Making war was his raison d’être, Ravenstein had confided in her, and Margaret had heard the disapproval in his voice. Ravenstein had acknowledged that although Charles was a hard worker, he insisted on being in control of all facets of the government: judicial, financial, secular and most of all the military.

  “As he has done, you must learn to adapt to each city’s and province’s culture and political traditions when you are representing your husband. Of course, you will have help from those the duke has left in charge, but each place has a different way of doing things—running their economies, their armies—and then you have the difficulty of language. I am pleased, your grace, that your Flemish is improving with Madame Mary’s help. It will be invaluable to you, especially with the Gantois, the people of Ghent, who are proud and tend to be the duke’s most rebellious subjects. ’Tis why Madame Mary must remain here so often, and you, too, will be in Ghent more than any other city. ’Tis most necessary to have a ducal presence there often.” He sighed and returned to his concern about his overlord.

  “I believe the duke thinks he can conquer the world, your grace. I think ’tis a vain hope, and perhaps you can persuade him to end these military exploits, which cost us dearly in men and money, and be content to govern the land he has.”

  “Messire Ravenstein, you are gracious to trust me with this knowledge of my husband. I know you do so out of love and devotion to Burgundy and the former duke. Certes, your integrity is unquestioned by me, and if I feel I can have the slightest influence on my husband, you have my word I will try and steer him to a more peaceful course. I have a horror of war—my family has been embroiled in it for most of my life—and yo
u may count on me.”

  Ravenstein smiled. “I have no doubt, madame.” Under his breath he said, “Burgundy does not need a caesar.”

  Margaret looked at him quizzically, but he was already bowing and walking away.

  Now she understood. As she sat in the great hall with Charles, she was astonished and dismayed to hear the number of comparisons her husband made of himself to the great leaders of the past in his long, meandering diatribes: Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Charlemagne and his favorite, Alexander the Great.

  “Like me, Alexander had a father named Philip,” he pronounced to one petitioner, who had been kept kneeling on the marble floor for almost half an hour. “And like me, Alexander devoted his life to expanding his territories. I shall succeed in joining our northern territories to our southern ones, and I shall be known one day as the most glorious leader of Burgundy”—he paused, scanning the room—“nay, of all Europe.” He lowered his gaze from the courtiers to the kneeling figure in front of him. “Mark this, sirrah,” he bellowed. “There are only three lords in the world: God, Lucifer and me.” The man stared balefully at his lord and crossed himself. “And now, out of the goodness of my heart, I will grant you what you have asked. Hugonet, see that my wishes are carried out,” he shouted to his chancellor. “Next!”

  The courtiers were restless, Margaret could see. She was grateful that Charles allowed her to sit on a throne next to him. No one else was allowed to sit in his presence, and she guessed they had been there three hours. Charles’s head jutted forward on his bull neck and shoulders, scanning the company for signs of lack of interest, but everyone appeared to be giving him rapt attention. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands together, waited for the next petitioner to be announced and prepared his next oration.

  DURING ONE OF the private times Margaret had with him, she asked that Marie’s husband be assigned to her household.

  “Marie frets when he is not close, Charles,” she lied, hoping she was not risking hellfire for it. “I believe she will be happier if he is with us, in truth. Can you spare him?”

  Charles was feeling magnanimous. It was a mild March day, and a passing shower had left diamond droplets on the primroses that bordered the path where they were walking. He was pleased with Margaret’s grasp of her duties and had had an excellent report of her from Ravenstein. He was also relieved that his daughter had taken to his new wife, which alleviated his guilt with regard to his lack of attention to the child.

  “Marie pining for her husband?” Charles guffawed, taking her arm and walking through a garden to a path that girded the castle wall. “I think you must be mistaken, Margaret. Pierre is a courageous soldier and loyal, but he is almost in his dotage now, and I cannot think Marie craves his attentions. But if you believe this is so and it would please you, then I shall spare him. What is he to do for you?”

  “Aye, Charles, it would please me. And I am grateful. Do you think the count would chafe as captain of my knights of honor?”

  “He will do as he is told, Margaret. It surprises me that you should even ask the question. I will have the papers drawn up. Were you aware that Pierre fought in one of the most famous jousts of our age?” Charles’s eyes lit up whenever fighting was in question, and Margaret let him describe it to her in gory detail. He was looking at her, but she was quite sure he did not see her or he would have noted the look of tedium in her face. She waited patiently until he had finished, smiling and making little noises of exclamation wherever she could. However, her ears pricked up when he began to talk of his father. She was quite convinced she would have preferred being married to a profligate patron of the arts than to this bellicose bore.

  “I hated my father, Margaret,” Charles began quietly. “I hated what he did to humiliate my mother first and foremost, and I made a solemn vow that I would be everything he was not. If he liked white, I liked black; if he laughed, I scowled. He liked your house, I was all for Lancaster—although now I see he was right to distrust France and ally with England.” He saw the fleeting expression of dismay on her face, and qualified his remark. “It has nothing to do with you, my dear. Nothing, I promise.

  “I hated that he gave Louis, as Dauphin, sanctuary here for so many years just because Louis could not get along with his own father. Louis made me squirm with his obsequiousness, always bowing and scraping to my father but secretly spying on us. You know that I left the court and went north while Louis was here? While he fawned and smiled, he was learning our ways and how he could defeat us,” he spat. He picked up a stone from the path and flung it over the castle wall near which they were walking. “Now he is king and thinks I will lick his boots. Never!” he shouted, startling Margaret and causing Mary beside her to cringe.

  “I do not think it is wise to cross him, Charles. Pray calm yourself, for you are frightening Mary,” she chided him. Mary had indeed let go of Margaret’s hand and had fallen back to take Jeanne’s.

  “Watch your step, Margaret,” Charles warned, avoiding a large puddle and leaving Margaret to wonder if he meant the puddle or her admonishment. She drew herself up to her full height, which meant she had to look down on him when she next spoke. It gave her courage.

  “Mary is a sensitive little thing, Charles. You forget she is almost exclusively in the company of women, and your outbursts are unpredictable and thus frightening to her.” She paused and was pleased to see his expression matched the baleful one on the sheep that represented the order of the Golden Fleece he always wore about his neck. “I am sorry you hated your father. ’Tis incomprehensible to me. All of us loved and admired both our father and our mother, although Mother has been known to beat George and Dickon herself if they warranted it,” she chuckled.

  “My mother is a saint!” exclaimed Charles. “And although I love my siblings, I have to remind them from time to time that they are all my father’s bastards. Marie is no exception. I hope she is giving you good service, Margaret.”

  “Aye, good enough,” Margaret murmured. “But let us talk of my family, I beg of you. What is the news from England?”

  “Ah, I wish I knew. Methinks my lord of Warwick still plays your brother for a fool, for I have heard he is in Calais and is in secret dealings with Louis while he is on a mission from Edward.”

  “I pray you are wrong. My lord of Warwick is Captain of Calais, so perhaps he is making an assessment of the garrison there for Edward.”

  Charles gave a short bark of laughter. “Aye, and I am the queen of Sheba. Nay, he is to visit us here on a diplomatic mission from Edward, so the messenger tells me. I shall be curious to see him again. I doubt he knows how much I dislike him. He is a dangerous man, and I fear he will bring Edward down, my dear. Mark my words.” He seems to like that expression, Margaret thought.

  “Then stop him, Charles,” she begged. “Swear on our marriage vows that you will help Edward should he need you. Is that not what this union is all about?” Her voice was raised—as was one of Charles’s eyebrows. She quieted down. “’Tis for the good of Burgundy that we help Edward, is it not? He hates Louis as much as you do. Both of you can be strong against Louis if Edward is on the throne. Warwick has always been a friend of France. If he has the power in England, then you will regret it.”

  Charles looked astonished at this outburst. Ravenstein is right, he thought, she is well versed in politics.

  “Never fear, I will help Edward if he will help me,” he said, patting a spot next to him on a bench and inviting her to sit. Their retinue had stopped at a respectful distance and conversed among themselves, while Jeanne helped Mary gather primroses. Margaret took the seat and settled her hands in her lap as Charles continued, “In the meantime, we must prepare to receive the earl and his lady wife here in a matter of days.”

  “Here at Hesdin?” Margaret exclaimed, rising up again. “Sweet Mother of God, why did you not tell me before? I must make preparations. Does he come alone? How long will he stay? We must fete him with all honor.” Despite her misgivings about Warwick, the prospect of se
eing one so close to her family again was exhilarating.

  Charles pulled her down and watched her face closely. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks tinged with excited pink. He suddenly leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, cupping her breast in his hand. Margaret was too stunned to move, but even with their mouths locked in a kiss, their eyes were wide open, avising each other. You are mine to do with as I will, his seemed to tell her. I am a princess of England and not to be trifled with, hers told him. They pulled apart, and Margaret put her hand up and straightened her turbaned headdress, with the ever-present rose brooch pinned to the front.

  Charles studied her. “Have I told you how that shade of blue becomes you?”

  It was Margaret’s turn to be astonished. Charles had not once paid her a compliment since they had met, except for that first night, when he had praised her unintentional movements in bed. Although, she acknowledged, that was hardly flattering.

  She blushed. “Why, thank you, Charles,” she said spontaneously and could have kicked herself for sounding so coy. More boldly, and as they were out of earshot of the others, she said, “May I ask if you intend to visit my chamber while you are here?” Charles’s eyebrow lifted again, but she hurried on. “These nine months have told me we will not be a daily part of each other’s lives, and I must point out that if you have wed me with the intention of siring an heir …”

  Charles’s eyes bulged. “Margaret, you presume too much,” he said coldly. “I already have an heir, my daughter, Mary, in case you have forgotten.”

  Stinging from the reproach, Margaret was scornful. “It seems to me, Charles, that you have not thought things through very clearly. You are intent on making war with whoever gets in your way of glory—no, pray let me finish—and having lost a father and a brother in this way, I know there is a good chance you may be killed before you grow to be an old man. With only a girl, and one as young, vulnerable and unmarried as Mary, to inherit this duchy, all you are working to achieve will be torn apart by your enemies and”—she spread her hands—“where is your glory then? If I give you a son, a son whose uncle is the king of England, for your good subjects to rally around, Burgundy might be saved.” She sighed. “I see you are angry with me, but you are an intelligent man, Charles. Can you not acknowledge I am right?”