Fortunata curtseyed again, and Margaret was puzzled to see the dwarf look shyly at the floor. “Good day, Master Caxton,” she said, coloring.
Margaret was intrigued, no less because William also seemed at a loss for words. What is this all about, she wondered?
Finally he replied, “God’s greeting, your grace. And you, Mistress Fortunata.” Kneeling still, he was looking eye to eye with Fortunata, a smile hovering on his lips.
“Rise, Master Caxton, and join me in some wine,” Margaret said, determined to worm the explanation for this little scene from her servant later. “I would know how your translation of the history of Troy is progressing.”
Although he was impressed that the duchess had remembered his little enterprise, William’s face fell. “I regret it has not progressed very far, your grace. My work as governor of the adventurers does not allow me much time for leisure pursuits. Would that it could, but it can’t,” he said sadly.
“I have but five or six quires completed.”
“I would see them, sir, if I may be so bold. To have such a collection of stories translated to English is an important undertaking, and you must pursue it.” She was pensive for a moment as she chose her words carefully. William quaffed his wine, marveling at its quality and admiring the silver goblet. Fortunata was on the stool at her mistress’s feet, and Caxton watched her over his drink. She was looking quite attractive in a black and white patterned dress, the emerald green plastron at her breast complementing her dark looks. In all ways but one she was his ideal of a beautiful woman. She had intelligence of expression, gentle yet humorous eyes and lustrous dark hair that she had allowed him to touch that night under the merchant’s hall when he had given in to an urge to kiss her. She was ripe for the plucking …
“So what think you, Master Caxton?”
Startled, William almost spilled his wine on his best blue jacket. He had not heard a word as he thought on the memories of his dalliance with Fortunata. Christ’s nails, he grimaced, women will be my downfall!
“Your pardon, my lady. I do not think I heard you correctly. A defect in my left ear, you know,” he lied frantically. “I should like to answer you as succinctly as I can, if only you would be so kind as …”
“I am sorry about your hearing loss, sir,” Margaret said, not believing him for a moment, as she had seen him ogling Fortunata. “Let me try again.” She raised her voice so much that the others in the room stopped talking, and William had to control an urge to put his finger to his lips. “I offered you a position in my household that would allow you to continue with your writing, Master Caxton. Did you hear me this time?”
Caxton stared at Margaret in disbelief. “I-I did, your grace. Th-thank you, your grace,” he stuttered. “But how … I mean why … no, I mean … what would I do? The adventurers?”
Margaret laughed. “Why, I do believe I have rendered you speechless, sir. The adventurers will find another governor, perhaps not as adept as you, but they will nominate someone competent, have no fear. I have need of your advice in all things commercial, Master Caxton, and I would have that advice in English, so I can better serve my subjects here—and our own English merchants. You will be granted time to work on the recueil, and I shall be here to help you. Your French, if I may say so upon listening to you last year, is not as good as mine.”
“Nay, certes, it is not,” William said unabashedly. “But I thought ’twas fair enough for translation. Perhaps not. I should be delighted to show you the work, Lady Margaret.” He went down on one knee again, his hand on his heart. “Your grace, how do I deserve this privilege—nay, this honor—to serve you? ’Twould be the crowning of my career.”
“Do I understand you are accepting the position, sir?” Margaret’s eyes were merry, knowing poor Caxton in fact had no choice in the matter. But she was content that the change in his fortune was not displeasing to him and rose to end the audience. Using the movement to take a letter from her sleeve, she slipped it to him as he kissed her hand. “Then as soon as you can put your affairs in order, I would have you join me in Ghent next month. God go with you, Master Caxton.”
William quickly put the letter into his hat as he bowed his way out of her presence. Then he hurried back to the Engelstraat to boast of his good fortune to his fellow merchants. All his life he had worked in the cloth trade. He was apprenticed at sixteen to a silk mercer in London and was then sent to trade in Bruges, where, at the age of thirty, he was finally admitted to the powerful Mercers Company. As governor of the English nation—as the company of merchant-adventurers in Burgundy was called—he was the wool trade’s negotiator for commercial treaties with the duke, and he had been on several diplomatic missions to England during his tenure. Now it seemed he was to embark upon a new career, and the prospect made his spirits soar as high as St. Donatian’s spire in the Market Square.
One niggling thought spoiled his enthusiasm, however. He would have to put his lust for Fortunata out of his mind. His new mistress would not condone a dalliance in that direction, he was sure.
IT DID NOT take Margaret long to get the truth from Fortunata. The dwarf was mortified that her mistress had guessed something had transpired between her and the merchant and expected another punishment.
“Aye, I should put you out on the street where you belong,” Margaret scolded her. “Did you know the merchant-adventurers are supposed to be celibate, Fortunata? Did you perhaps think Master Caxton would take you to wife?”
“Wife? Non, non, madonna. I will never leave you.” Then she glanced up at Margaret under her thick lashes and smirked. “But William and me had a nice evening kissing at the Waterhall. A lot of kissing.”
Aye, and more, if the look in Caxton’s eye had told her anything, but she just shook her head and clucked her tongue as if she disapproved. And now she had invited the man to come and be under her roof. How would she keep the two apart? It would be the talk of the court. Then she was contrite. What a hypocrite I am, she thought. I would do the same with Anthony, if I had the chance.
“Do you love Master Caxton?” she asked carefully. “Once he comes here, he will be free to marry.”
Fortunata was taken aback by the question. She had not really thought about love. She enjoyed the feeling she had when she was with the man, and he was the first one she had been in any way intimate with. She was thankful to know physical love was a possibility, judging by her body’s reaction to William’s touch and she was certain William felt nothing but lust. She decided on a safe answer that might arouse Margaret’s sympathy, for she absolutely wanted to be with the man again.
“I love him, madonna, but I do not think he loves me that much. It makes me sad,” she admitted. “Maybe when he comes here, he will learn to love me.” She busied herself tidying Margaret’s pile of letters so that her mistress could not see her eyes. “You must not worry for me anymore, your grace. Now, excuse me, I must find Beatrice.” She curtseyed and hurried away, leaving Margaret to smile to herself.
Little baggage, she has no intention of giving him up. And in truth, I cannot blame her.
15
Autumn 1469
“Edward captured by Warwick! Surely you jest,” Margaret cried, when Thomas Rotherham, Bishop of Rochester, gave her the news in her audience chamber at Ten Waele. She knew Anthony must not have received her letter in time to warn Ned. “But how could such a thing have happened, my lord bishop? The people followed Warwick? ’Tis not possible.”
The bishop chose his words judiciously. “There were several rebellions in the north and Midlands, and the king went to flush out the leaders. Now we know they were instigated by my lord of Warwick and”—he paused, looking at the floor—“your brother of Clarence.”
“George! Oh, that foolish boy. Why would he oppose Edward?” she thought out loud. “Why?”
“’Tis only a rumor, your grace, but ’tis said the earl offered Clarence the crown.” Seeing Margaret’s stunned expression, he hurried on, “For, as you must know, your
brother and Isabel Neville were wed in July. We—the councilors—believe Warwick intends to make his new son-in-law king in Edward’s place.”
Margaret exploded. “What nonsense is this you speak, my lord bishop! Edward expressly forbade George to marry Isabel.”
The bishop spread his hands. “’Tis a fait accompli, my lady. It happened in Calais in the middle of July. As soon as the wedding was celebrated, your brother and the earl embarked for England with the intent of ridding the country of Earl Rivers, his wife Jacquetta, and the whole Woodville family.”
“Anthony,” she whispered fearfully under her breath. Louder she said, “Pray continue, my lord. I can hardly credit what I am hearing.” And yet she was not surprised. Had not Warwick told her himself he would rid England of Woodvilles?
“There was a battle in a place called Edgecote, and the rebels won. A few days later, Warwick disposed of two of the Woodville family as well as the earls of Pembroke and Devon.”
Margaret gasped, her face ashen. “Which two Woodvilles?” she heard herself ask as if she were floating somewhere above the scene.
“The father and son, your grace.” Again Margaret’s heart lurched, but the bishop continued, “Earl Rivers and Sir John Woodville were executed at Coventry. I came here on behalf of your brother to enlist your help.”
Handsome John, she thought sadly, he was the same age as me. His only crime was that he had married above himself at the queen’s instigation and endured the smirks of the court on the arm of his seventy-two-year-old duchess wife. But rather him than Anthony! Her relief was palpable, but in as calm a tone as she could, Margaret heard herself asking, “And my Lord Scales, is he taken, too?”
“Nay, the king had commanded him to return to his wife’s estates in Norfolk until the rebellion had died down. He thought Lord Anthony would be safer there. He is now, however, Earl Rivers, your grace.”
Margaret nodded. “Certes, the title passed from his father. ’Twill be difficult to style him thus after all these years. He was my escort here last year, my lord bishop, as no doubt you remember, and he discharged his duty to me with utmost honor and courtesy. I believe I can count him as my friend.” Margaret you wanton, she chided herself, the bishop does not need to know this. You are merely talking about him for your own selfish reasons. Speaking his name keeps him and his love alive for you. The bishop smiled politely.
• • •
LATER THAT AUTUMN she learned that Warwick had indeed captured Edward and was keeping him in confinement at his own castles of Warwick and Middleham. However, the earl had not taken full control of the government, preferring to let Edward be his mouthpiece, to which Edward was unusually agreeable. At least the rumor that Warwick was planning on crowning his son-in-law, George, in Edward’s place was just that, a rumor, Margaret thought, relieved. She even hoped Edward would come to terms with the earl and they could once again be friends.
It was puzzling, therefore, that nothing came of the coup, neither an uncrowning nor a reconciliation. Instead, a complete loss of control ensued up and down the country, with Londoners rioting and violence breaking out even in quiet backwaters. Margaret had sent a frantic appeal to Charles in Holland, where he was administering his Dutch territories, to give aid to Edward. Charles sent a threat to London that it should remain loyal to Edward and the Burgundian alliance or London would expect his retaliation. Warwick’s power was negligible without the crown behind it, and more than once Margaret questioned why the earl did not take it for himself. He was the wealthiest and thus the most powerful noble in England, and yet he stopped short of taking the crown. Perhaps he has honor after all, Margaret decided.
And by the middle of September, it appeared she was right. Edward was allowed to go free, but not before a force put together by Will Hastings, Richard of Gloucester and Jack Howard had begun to move north and threaten Warwick. The earl capitulated and bowed once again to his sovereign lord, Edward.
Margaret breathed a sigh of relief for her brother without a thought for her own position, which could have been an embarrassing one, as the Burgundian alliance had been made with Edward and no one else. And Edward had still not paid her dowry.
She got down on her knees that night and thanked God the head of her family was once again safe on the throne of England.
16
Spring 1470
Mary gave Margaret a bouquet of marguerites for her birthday on that chilly third day of May. Margaret was disappointed in having to spend it traveling from Louvain to Brussels, but she was charmed when Mary asked to get down from her horse to gather the early daisies for her stepmother. Margaret promised that they would celebrate soon at Coudenberg.
Traveling always tired Margaret, and so she was sleeping still when Mary ran into her bedchamber in Brussels two days later, followed by an embarrassed Jeanne, and jumped on the bed.
“Belle-mère, please wake up! You promised we would celebrate, and Madame de Halewijn and I can wait no longer to spoil you, and here you are still in bed!” she cried, as Margaret opened her eyes to see her stepdaughter’s sweet face smiling at her. She rose up on one elbow and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The sun was already filtering through the pretty stained glass windows in her chamber, and her maids had lit a cheery fire to take the chill off the room. Margaret retied the strings of her nightcap and reached out her arms to embrace Mary. Margaret caught Jeanne’s look of apology and smiled it away.
“I did not hear the cock crow, my dove,” Margaret said, using the term of endearment she had chosen not only “because your eyes are the color and softness of one, but because in English dove rhymes with love,” she had told Mary not long after they arrived at Coudenberg the year before. Mary had clapped her hands and declared she was delighted to have a surnom. “Papa calls me child, and grandmaman just calls me Mary. My mother,” she had said, her eyes sad, “called me her treasure.”
Now she reminded Margaret of a rabbit as she hopped up and down on the colorful carpet beside the bed.
“What do you have in mind?” Margaret asked, laughing at her stepdaughter’s enthusiasm. “Let me see if I can guess.” She pretended to think hard. “I wonder if it has anything to do with a horse, a dog and a bird.”
Mary clapped her hands. “Aye, belle-mère, you are so clever!” she cried. “We are going hunting. Madame de Charny’s husband has arranged everything. So please hurry.”
Everyone laughed at her eagerness, knowing full well that the dressing of a duchess was not a hurrying matter. But Margaret threw off her bedcovers, put her feet into her satin slippers and tripped off to the privy in the garderobe next door. The chamber became a hive of activity as the duchess’s toilet was readied. Astolat and Mary’s favorite greyhound, Doucette, added to the commotion by tussling on the flagstone hearth while Marie did her best to quieten them. Margaret reappeared to laughter and Fortunata’s flying skirts as the dwarf performed some tumbling feats for Mary’s delight.
Mary chattered on from her perch on the bed while Margaret’s ladies prepared their mistress’s wardrobe for the day. Over her lawn chemise, they laced her into a simple scarlet gown with a modest square-cut neck, dropped waistline and a long girdle loose about her waist. At the end of the silver and leather belt hung a velvet purse, in which she carried her rosary, her bone-handled table knife, a kerchief and a few coins for beggars or pilgrims she might encounter. As she was dressed, she tested Mary’s English and then tried out her Flemish. She pointed to each item. “Belt—de ceintuur. Knife—het mes. Table—de tafel.” Her vocabulary was increasing, and she enjoyed practicing the gutteral sounds. Mary nodded vigorously each time Margaret found the correct word, and Margaret’s gentlewomen encouraged her with applause.
She had told Ravenstein during the ride to Brussels that she would spend her birthday in leisurely pursuits with Mary. She would not hold any audiences and gave permission for many of her servants to visit their families in the town or enjoy a walk in the Warende. Marie sniffed, but she turned it into a fake sne
eze when Margaret swiveled round in her saddle to look at her. “I realize it is breaking with etiquette, Messire Ravenstein, but it was a tradition in my family to spend our birthdays thus, and I intend to continue it.” Ravenstein bowed his head. He was glad of the time to check on the progress of his new town house being built in the shadow of the palace.
Today it was Marie’s turn to brush Margaret’s fair hair. Margaret dreaded those days, but she refused to change court etiquette by forbidding the countess to do it. It was an honor to dress the duchess’s hair, and Margaret was sensitive to the fact. But she also knew Marie had not forgiven her for requesting Pierre be assigned to her household, thus ruining her dalliance with Guillaume, and the woman liked to take out her resentment by pulling none too gently on any knot she encountered in the duchess’s waist-long hair. She grimaced once or twice, but because of young Mary’s presence, she did not reprimand Marie. Once her thick tresses were in coiled braids and a fetching cap and jeweled headband were arranged on top, she studied herself in the silver mirror Beatrice held for her. She nodded her satisfaction, and the two women curtseyed and stood aside.
Fortunata stepped forward, made obeisance and offered her gift. “For you, madonna.” She held up a kerchief embroidered with a daisy and two initials. “You see, I made the M this way and then”—she turned the kerchief upside down—“M from this way.” But from Margaret’s angle, all she saw was an M and a W: Margaret and Woodville. Margaret looked quickly at Fortunata, now innocently studying the ceiling, but the servant tilted her head to one side when she lowered her gaze to Margaret’s laughing eyes. “Do you like it, madonna?”
“Aye, pochina, I like it very much,” she said, kissing the monogram and tucking the gift well up into her long sleeve. “Thank you.” She turned to Mary and held out her arms. “Let us break our fast and then ride like the wind, my dove.”
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