Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Now that I have taken Alsace, Guelders and Zutphen, I shall attempt to conquer the Rhinelands and claim more territory for my duchy,” he announced airily. This did not surprise Margaret, but his next statement did. “You are the first to know—after my council, of course—that I will soon change the name of Burgundy to Lotharingia and I have every expectation that the Emperor Frederick will crown me king of the Romans in the not too distant future. What say you, Margaret? You will be a queen!”

  Margaret was speechless. The man’s ego was beyond belief. Charles rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “My clever wife has nothing to say for a change,” he said, but the sarcasm was lost on Margaret, who was too tired to respond. “Perhaps I should tell you why this is possible, my dear.” Not waiting for an answer, he began regaling her with his achievements, and as Margaret listened politely, she wondered how she could prop open her eyelids to look as though she were still awake. When he came to describing how he had remodeled his army, Charles’s eyes blazed with fierce pride. “It is divided into numbered companies of about nine hundred men, and within each company are four squadrons,” he enthused. Margaret mouthed “oh” as many times as she felt were necessary to sound interested. “I have put twenty-five men-at-arms, valets, coustiliers—light horsemen, you know—archers with crossbows and archers on horseback, pikemen and gunners in each squadron. It is brilliantly conceived, don’t you think? And I must have the only army with bowmen who can fire their weapons at the same time as dismounting their horses,” he said proudly. “And you should see the uniforms I have designed. Am I boring you, Margaret?” he frowned as he saw her stifle a yawn.

  “Nay, my lord,” she protested unconvincingly. “’Tis fascinating, but it has been a long day.” She was too tired to recognize the pout and the flushing up his neck that signified his choler mounting. She rose, stretched up her arms languidly and yawned again. “Does the bed not look inviting, my lord? Fortunata has warmed it,” she said, removing the copper box full of embers. “Would you not like to rest your—”

  She got no further, for Charles had leapt out of his chair, his fists clenched and his blue eyes bulging. “You dare to rise before I give you permission,” he shouted. “Do you know my subjects now must address me as ‘most dread lord’? Perhaps you should do the same, lady. I perceive you need another lesson in wifely duty.”

  Margaret froze in her tracks. “Nay, Charles, I beg of you. Let us not quarrel,” she tried to sound calmer than the rising panic she felt. She might be taller than he, but she knew she was no match for his brute strength, as she had found to her cost on more than one occasion. He advanced towards her, and she put up her hands to fend him off. “Forgive me if I offended you, my lord, please—” But her words fell on deaf ears. She found herself once more flung on the counterpane, her wrists pinned to the bed. As he sat astride her, staring down into her terrified face, he grinned in triumph.

  She tried to appeal to his noble birth. “Please, Charles, let me be,” she gasped. She tried flattery. “You are a great leader—one of the greatest the world has ever seen—but surely you demean yourself with such behavior.” She protested loudly as in one swift movement, he turned her over on her belly and pulled her towards the bottom of the bed. Sweet Jesu, what will he do to me? she thought, as she tried to grasp the sheets and heave herself forward and out of his grip. He immediately pinned her arms down again and lifted her chemise, exposing her bare buttocks. Reason with him, she thought desperately, bile rising in her throat.

  “What would your soldiers think, treating your wife this way? Is this how you behave with them?” Far from mollifying him, it enraged him further.

  “My soldiers?” He gave his short bark of laughter as he untied his codpiece. “They warm me well on a cold night in the field—just like this.” And without further ado, he attempted to demonstrate what he meant. Her piercing scream was muffled by the pillow.

  Her arms still pinned, she turned her head painfully and pleaded, “Stop! Stop! I beg of you, in the name of the blessed Virgin!” She could not move and she could not breathe. I must have died and gone to Hell, she thought, and she moaned helplessly. Dear God, are you punishing me for my one night with Anthony?

  “I cannot breathe,” she tried to tell him, as she felt herself going limp. I am going to die. But perhaps t’would be better to die now than live with this humiliation every time, even though our meetings are blessedly few and far between. God help me. Somebody help me!

  Her passivity robbed Charles of his triumph and his climax—and saved her life, she was later convinced. He released his hold on her and slid off the bed and onto the floor panting, while Margaret turned on her side and lay still, breathing freely again. It took all her strength to raise herself up, carefully tie her cap back on her tangled mass of hair, and rearrange her nightgown. She stared down at her fully clothed husband, with his privates limply exposed out of their cloth harness, and her heart hardened.

  “I have heard tales of your cruelty, my lord. How you threw men tied together off the ramparts of Dinant. How you massacred the innocent of Liège and set fire to the city. How you hanged the men of Nesle on a tree you bought for the purpose. I have refused to believe these stories because I did not want to. Now I know that they are the truth and that I am married to a monster.

  “Most dread lord,” she taunted him. “As a princess of England and daughter of York, I order you to leave my room and”—she paused for effect—“never return!”

  Charles was dumbfounded at her speech. But with his characteristic change of mood after a fit of violence, he mumbled an apology, got to his feet and walked slowly to the door, holding the points of his codpiece in one hand and his hat in the other.

  He took a deep breath. “God’s good night to you, Margaret. I will see you for the final Fleece ceremony on the morrow, I trust,” he said, as he turned the heavy handle. “You have a duty to me.”

  “I know my duty, Charles. Burgundy will not lack my loyalty, I swear to you. But any love that was possible between us is lost forever. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, made her a curt bow and left the room.

  Margaret ran to the door and turned the key in the lock and after blowing out the candles, climbed back into bed, bruised and angry. Gradually anger turned to despair and tears began to fall. She heard the watch call out the midnight hour. My birthday, she realized with a pang of self-pity. She buried her head under the pillow and wept, thinking back to happier Mays when she had been carefree and her parents had spoiled her on her special day. Dear God, what do I have to live for? I am wife to a cruel madman who does not love me, nor I him. I cannot have or even see the man I love. I cannot bear a child. My family has surely forgotten me. Oh, sweet misery, why was I put on this earth?

  Suddenly Cecily’s beautiful face floated through her mind, and her sobs began to subside. She had not thought of her mother for a long time. Now the memory of their tearful farewell came flooding back, and she remembered worrying that she would forget all of their faces. Then Cecily’s words came to her with startling clarity. “God will give you strength to bear whatever fate has in store. Have faith, Margaret.”

  She thought of the shrines she had visited to pray that she might not be barren, the charity she had provided to the poor and the sick, and the relic she had given to St. Ursmer’s Church at her dower town of Binche, and yet still God was not pleased with her. I do have faith, Mother, she reasoned, but it does me no good. She pummeled her pillow in frustration. What else did you tell me, Mother? She tried to remember.

  “You should know, Margaret, that your children are the most precious things you have.” Ah, such cruel reminder. But I have no children, Mother, she wanted to scream, no children at all … except Mary.

  “Mary!” she cried, sitting up and calling the name into the darkness. “I do have a child. A dear, dear child, and I have selfishly forgotten all about her.”

  • • •

  MARY RAN DOWN the palace steps at Ten Waele to m
eet her stepmother as soon as she heard the cavalcade ride through the gate and into the courtyard. She was surprised by the intensity of Margaret’s embrace and laughed delightedly as she pulled away.

  “You missed me as much as I did you, belle-mère,” she cried, her eyes dancing. At sixteen, although still petite, her maturity and womanly curves meant she could no longer be considered a child. But to Margaret she would always be her gentle dove, and Mary was content to love Margaret as a child would her mother.

  “You have no idea, Mary,” Margaret said softly. It was hard to imagine this sweet thing was possibly born of a night similar to one she had experienced with the father. She shook the thought from her head. She would not denigrate Mary thus.

  “And I you, my dove.” She had been gone only a month and yet she felt she had aged a year. She had visited Notre Dame au Bois on her way back to Ghent and had begged forgiveness of the Virgin for her lack of faith. The solitude in the beautiful little church had allowed her time to think how to proceed with her life. Reconciling herself to barrenness, she recognized it was imperative that Mary find a good husband so that she could produce a male heir for Burgundy. She wondered if Nicholas of Lorraine was the man. Charles had betrothed his daughter to him that summer. But the alliance was tenuous at best. In the meantime, to ensure the safety of the duchy, she resolved to work hard to keep Charles alive until an heir was born.

  “Look who has come to visit me, chère belle-mère,” Mary now said, pulling Margaret up the palace stairs and into her private solar.

  Philip of Cleves stood waiting to greet the two women, bowing low over Margaret’s hand. Lord Ravenstein’s son had virtually grown up with his cousin, Mary. His stepmother, Anne, another of the late duke of Burgundy’s bastards, had been in charge of Mary’s governance until Jeanne de Halewijn had assumed that role. Philip was just like his father: tall, aristocratic and blessed with the same hawk nose. A year older than Mary and a baronet, he would have made an excellent match for the heir of Burgundy but for their close kinship. Margaret felt sorry for Philip, because she could see the young man was head over heels in love with her stepdaughter. Mary, on the other hand, looked up to Philip as a big brother and adored him in quite another way.

  “Philip, how good to see you,” Margaret said. “What brings you to Ghent?”

  “My uncle of Cleves is taking me to join the duke’s army at Maestricht in a few days, your grace,” Philip said pleasantly, “and I thought I would visit my father along the way.”

  Ghent is not exactly on the way to Maestricht, my lad, Margaret thought, amused, and I doubt ’twas your father you came to visit, but never mind. “I have yet to know my husband’s intentions in Germany, Philip.” She gave a false laugh, which perplexed Mary. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  Before Philip could answer, a yelp of excitement heralded the entrance of Astolat, who, upon hearing Margaret’s laugh had pushed open the door with his large hairy snout and bounded into the room to greet his mistress.

  “Astolat!” Margaret cried, going on her knees and hugging the hound. “You naughty dog, how did you escape?”

  A squire knocked and entered, panting, his face almost as purple as his livery. “I crave your pardon, your grace,” he mumbled, when he saw Margaret, and he immediately went down on one knee. “He was too quick for me.”

  Margaret laughed and relinquished her hold on the dog to the young man, who quickly attached the leash. As she got off her knees, she happened to glance at Mary and was astonished to see her stepdaughter’s eyes cast down to the floor and her cheeks as red as the young squire’s. So that is the way of things, she thought. Poor Philip! I wonder how far this has progressed. ’Tis high time Mary and I had a talk, she decided, thanking and dismissing the squire.

  “What is your name, young man?” she asked as he held open the door.

  “Jehan de Mazilles, your grace,” the squire said, effecting a bow.

  “Mazilles? Aye, I remember, your father is the duke’s cupbearer, is he not?”

  Jehan’s cherubic face glowed with pride. “He is, your grace. He is at present with the duke’s army, and I hope one day to fight alongside him.”

  “Do not be too much in a hurry, Jehan. Fighting is not the only way to win an argument.” Margaret could not resist lecturing the youth, whose beard wasn’t even tough enough to scrape as yet. “Now, I pray you take Astolat outside for a walk.”

  She turned back to Mary, who was fiddling with the silver brooch on her belt. She has grown up so quickly, Margaret thought, noting proudly how the rich blue overdress showed off the young woman’s creamy skin. “Come, children,” she addressed Philip, who could not take his eyes off Mary. “Let us sit awhile. I see I interrupted your game of fox and geese,” she said, walking to the table on which sat the cross-shaped board. “Who is winning?”

  “NICHOLAS IS DEAD!” Mary’s anguished cry echoed through the palace rooms, causing courtiers and servants to stop in their tracks and eye one another meaningfully.

  “How can he be dead, belle-mère? He was only twenty-five!” Mary was confused, and Margaret held her tightly and let her cry. The young Duke Nicholas of Lorraine and Mary had been promised to each other for a year, and Margaret had helped Mary compose a sweet letter upon the betrothal declaring she would have no other husband but him. It was not the first time Charles had promised Mary to someone, and Margaret doubted the young woman had even known of some of the others. History is repeating itself, she thought grimly, as she well remembered her own list of suitors and her reaction to hearing of Dom Pedro’s death. True, neither she nor I knew these intended, Margaret admitted, but at least we felt we had a future. Now Mary must adjust to yet another direction.

  They were alone in an antechamber, where Margaret had broken the news to her stepdaughter.

  “Hush, my dove,” she soothed. “I was told once that crying is a sign of weakness in a great lady. You do not want the servants to disrespect you, do you? ’Twould not do.” She smiled to herself as she knew she must have sounded exactly like Cecily.

  Mary sat up. “But I have seen you cry, belle-mère. Do not deny it,” she said indignantly. “Besides, I have every right to cry!” Her tears began again. “My true love is dead!” she wailed, and she buried her head in her stepmother’s lap, her little greyhound trying to lick the salt on her face.

  “Nonsense, child. I know your true love is not dead. I saw him only a few minutes ago tilting in the castle yard.”

  Mary froze and her crying ceased. Two huge gray eyes, a little red and puffy, stared up at Margaret, and a blush to rival Margaret’s own flamed from her neck to her hairline.

  “Wha-what … what are you saying, belle-mère? How could you know about Jeh—” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “Jehan de Mazilles. ’Tis what you were about to say, Mary?” Margaret arched her brow and attempted a serious tone, but her lip was trembling, which made Mary take her hand from her mouth and giggle.

  “Is he not the handsomest man you have ever seen, madame?” she asked, her face alight with happiness now.

  Margaret’s eyes softened. “I can think of one more handsome,” she said.

  “Father, yes?” Mary exclaimed and was surprised to see her stepmother wince. “No?”

  “It does not matter, little one. What matters is that you do not lose control of your feelings for Jehan.” What a hypocrite, Meg, she thought. But she heard herself pontificate, “You are the heir to Burgundy, Mary, and ’twould not do for you to go to a husband … let me say …”

  “You mean, unchaste. Not a virgin,” Mary blurted out. “I am not so boil-brained! But, certes, a little kissing does not count, does it?”

  “I suppose not, Mary.” Margaret could not lie. She could not bear to think that this lovely young woman might end up in a hateful marriage, as she had. How could she not encourage Mary to experience the joy of real love that she and Anthony knew? But it was her duty to protect Mary as a valuable asset to Burgundy, even though ever
y fiber in her being revolted against it. Those kinds of emotions always made her think of her brothers. Ned had been able to marry for love, as had George. She had heard Dickon and little Anne Neville had tied the knot that spring. But remembering the light in his eyes when he watched the lovely young singer at Langthorne Abbey who, she was told, had borne him two children, she felt sure that his, too, was a marriage of state.

  Mary dried her eyes, got up from the little footstool and sat down next to Margaret on the high-backed settle. “Now I am free, am I not? Perhaps Father would allow me to marry Jehan.” She looked so hopeful, Margaret hated to burst her bubble.

  “Nay, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You are too important to waste on a nobody like Jehan, handsome though he may be.” She weighed whether she should tell the girl that her father had high hopes of being offered a crown by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick.

  She remembered her tutorials from Ravenstein in those first months after her marriage. “Burgundy is not a nation, a kingdom, like England or France, your grace. ’Tis a jumble of duchies, counties, lordships and towns that were all independent at one time. Each has its own political tradition, economy and language. Most are surrounded by hostile nations, such as France, Lorraine and Germany. Often we must cross through those hostile territories when we go from one of ours to another. Your husband is determined to join them all together.” He hoped he had made it simple for her, for there were days when he did not understand it either. Margaret had sat quietly, trying to assimilate the information.