Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Do you believe the emperor will give Charles a crown, messire?” she said during their latest conversation a few days previously. “Would Charles not then have a kingdom within the borders of the Holy Roman Empire? ’Twould seem to me Frederick might be placing himself in a dangerous situation, knowing my husband’s penchant for expanding his boundaries,” she said almost to herself.

  Ravenstein was impressed, although he did glance over his shoulder to make sure this treasonous remark had not been overheard. “My thoughts exactly, your grace,” he murmured, “although perhaps not politic to broadcast to the world,” he finished with a smile. Margaret had smiled fondly back at him. “Perhaps not, Messire Ravenstein.”

  No, she thought, returning to the matter at hand, Mary does not need to know something that might never come to pass. Emperor Frederick’s other promise was to unite his son, Archduke Maximilian, with Mary as part of the bargain. Poor Mary, she thought, Maximilian had been the first of Mary’s intendeds, when she was only six! If he did indeed become Mary’s husband, the wheel would have turned full circle. How complicated our lives are, she mused, and not for the first time did she wish she had been born outside the palace walls.

  She came out of her reverie to find Mary gazing expectantly at her. Margaret’s heart went out to the girl. She reached over and unhooked a corner of the starched gauze that was caught on one of the metal prongs of Mary’s elegant butterfly hennin.

  “’Twould seem we will be at Ghent for several months more, my dove. My duties are growing more time-consuming, and therefore you and Jehan might have some opportunities to talk,” she said. “I cannot guarantee Madame de Halewijn’s turning a blind eye, however. You may tell her that I have asked you to spend more time riding in the fresh air. Astolat needs exercising a lot these days, does he not?” And she winked.

  Mary fell into her arms again. “You are the best stepmother a girl ever had,” she cried. Then she gave a secret smile and whispered, “I wish you knew how wonderful it is to feel love like this!”

  Ah, but I do, Mary, I do, Margaret thought, kissing the soft cheek offered her and watching her diminutive figure skip out of the room. How long ago Ooidonk seems now.

  19

  Autumn 1473

  The hottest summer anyone could remember finally turned to fall. On that September day, Fortunata was admiring the huge carp in the lake inside the palace walls when she saw the horseman admitted at the gate. She instantly recognized the badge of scallop shells on the messenger’s sleeve and ran to her mistress, who was enjoying a quiet read on an excedra in the pretty rose garden. Cappi clung to his mistress’s back, and Fortunata admonished the monkey for digging his little toes uncomfortably into her shoulder.

  “Madonna,” she cried breathlessly, when she reached Margaret’s grassy seat, “a man has come from Lord Anthony! I saw him going to the stable.”

  Margaret jumped up, almost dropping her book on the ground. She instinctively straightened her turbaned headdress and smoothed her skirts.

  “Are you sure, pochina? How do you know?”

  “I am not boil-in-the-brain,” Fortunata answered indignantly, and Margaret hid a smile. She loved it when Fortunata attempted idioms. “I am right, conchiglia is the sign of Lord Anthony, no?”

  “Aye, it is!” Margaret nodded, and draping the train of her gown over her arm, she hurried down the path and into the palace, Fortunata close on her heels.

  She was calm and collected when Francis, Anthony’s squire, was ushered into her presence chamber, followed by curious courtiers and Guillaume. She waited patiently until everyone had quietened before speaking, pleased with her nonchalance.

  “We give you welcome to Ten Waele, sir. I trust all is well with your master, Lord Rivers.”

  The man had been instructed to go down on both knees to the duchess, and he looked up in awe from his lowly position at the regal woman standing on the dais under the richly embroidered canopy. He was relieved to be addressed in English and broke into a smile. “Aye, your grace. My master is returning from Compostella and has made the journey overland from that place of pilgrimage.”

  Don’t tell me Anthony is here! Her heart was in her mouth. Dear St. Margaret, what a joyous thought.

  She continued coolly, however. “Is the earl nearby? He is right welcome to lodge with us if he is.”

  “He travels with the duke’s safe-conduct through Burgundy on his way to Calais and merely wished to send greetings.” He paused and pulled a missive from his belt. “And to give you this. I am instructed to wait for a response, your grace.”

  Margaret had to use every bit of self-control to prevent herself from snatching the letter from the squire’s hand. Instead, she waved to Guillaume, who took the letter and bowed.

  “Pray see to it that this good squire is fed and refreshed,” she called to her chamberlain. “I thank you for your good offices, Francis. I will send my chevalier with a response anon.”

  Francis rose and bowed backwards from the room, taking in the lavish surroundings with wide eyes. Margaret called for music from her favorite gemshorns, and two musicians harmonized skillfully with the polished bones. The haunting sound always soothed her, and she was able to regain her composure and hear a petition from a merchant who thought he had been taxed too highly on his tiny shop.

  Margaret was aware that the people of Ghent hated Charles and the outsider councilors such as Hugonet and Humbercourt, who taxed them unbearably to fund the wars and put rebellions down with undue harshness. Charles had instructed her many times not to give in to “those trouble-making Gantois,” but today she was so impatient to read Anthony’s letter that she was the soul of brevity and magnanimity. Astonished, the merchant’s mouth fell open, revealing only six teeth left in his mouth. The guard standing beside him pulled him roughly to his feet, and the man stumbled to the door, bowing and babbling his thanks.

  “’Tis enough for the day,” Margaret announced, descending the two steps of the dais, and taking the ever-present Guillaume’s arm. “I will see the other petitioners on the morrow. My letter, Guillaume.”

  At her desk, she broke open the familiar seal and frowned as she read the greeting.

  “To the high and gracious duchess of Burgundy, Margaret of England, I greet you well.”

  Then she smiled. Certes, this was not a secret letter. She read on eagerly.

  “The Lord our God has blessed this humble pilgrim upon his way to the shrine of St. James in Spain, and my spirit is much lifted.”

  I am happy for you, Anthony, but this is not what I want to hear.

  “I am in need of your counsel, if you would grant it. I am resting at Halle before continuing to Calais and home to England.”

  Margaret nodded. She herself had prayed at the Church of Notre Dame there, which housed the Virgin’s thighbone.

  “I have much to tell you that is overlong for this message. I must continue straight, but if you can come to Enghien at week’s end, I will tarry there until you do. Send word with Francis, my squire, and I shall know your mind.

  Your humble servant, A. Rivers.”

  Margaret looked up at the paneled wall in front of her and stared at the painting by Meester van Eyck that graced it. Something was wrong, she could sense it. The words were dull and lifeless, even if they had to be formal. And why would he not pay his respects in Ghent? Her heart told her it was because he wanted a repeat of their last meeting; her head told her he did not want the court to wonder why he would make a detour to see her. He was not on a diplomatic mission, and he had no business in Ghent.

  She picked up a quill, trimmed it and dipped it in her favorite sepia ink. She wanted to see him. But how to escape the trappings of her usual journeys? She could not leave Ghent without informing Ravenstein, and if she did, he would insist on traveling with her. She chewed the end of the quill and contemplated the tapestry on the far wall.

  “Lord Anthony, we greet you well,” she began as formally as he. What next? she thought, looking back u
p at the bucolic scene in the wall hanging. It gave her an idea. She rang the little silver bell next to the inkwell on the green and red woven table covering, and Fortunata appeared before she could put down her pen.

  “Is it good news, madonna?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

  “I know not, pochina. Lord Anthony speaks like another man, but he wants to see me. We must, however, be clever, because no one must know ’tis he I will go and see. I have come up with a plan and you must help me.”

  “Certes, I will help!” Fortunata said, rubbing her hands and making Margaret laugh.

  Francis was dispatched without delay with a verbal response for his master. “I hope no one tries to torture it from him,” Margaret whispered to Fortunata as they watched the squire leap gracefully into his saddle and canter back through the palace gate and onto the road to Halle.

  THE SMALL ENTOURAGE that escorted Margaret from Ten Waele the next day included Guillaume de la Baume and Fortunata. Mary stood at the window of her chamber and waved them off.

  “Why can’t I go?” she had asked Margaret that morning. “I have come with you to Notre Dame of Halle before.” Her mouth was turned down and her eyes were resentful.

  “I will travel faster without you, my dove. And my reason for visiting the shrine is very personal. Besides, you are old enough to understand why you must stay in Ghent as much as you do.”

  “Aye, I am a sort of hostage to these ghastly Gantois!” she retorted. “Father explained. Someone of the family must always be here.”

  “Ten Waele is your favorite residence, Mary, do not deny it. I shall only be gone three days, I promise. Then perhaps we can go apple-picking or hunting,” Margaret conceded, and was happy to see Mary’s eyes light up. “And perhaps you will find time to see Sir Galahad,” as she had nicknamed Jehan. “Now, give me a kiss and wish me God speed.”

  Mary smiled to herself as she watched the last of the group trot through the courtyard, the sun glinting on the escorts’ halberds. She would find ample excuse to spend time with Jehan, she thought gleefully. Who would want to go all that way for a few hours at a shrine and then on to Enghien to talk to a tapestry master, even if the tapestry was to be part of an elaborate canopy Margaret was planning to send to Charles? Nay, she was content to stay behind, she decided.

  WHEN THE DUCHESS’S little cavalcade trotted into the marketplace of the ancient town of Enghien, just ten miles from Halle, the citizens ran out of their houses, shops and stables to catch a glimpse of Margaret. She was riding a white jennet, her mantle of crimson and black spread over its rump and almost down to the ground.

  Guillaume led the way to an official-looking man in a green gown and enormous hat, assuming he was the mayor. He was right. As the man bowed low, Guillaume waved his hand grandly and announced Margaret’s wish to be taken to the workshop of Maître Jean Lanoue, weaver of Enghien. The mayor’s eyes started from his head. This was an honor indeed for the duchess to choose a lesser known tapestry workshop to patronize. It was well known that Tournai and Brussels offered the largest and the best choice of weavers in the duchy. He positively groveled as he pointed the way, and then, to Margaret’s amusement, he decided to lead her to the workshop himself. Soon the riders were being followed by all the children in the town, some pushing hoops, some riding hobbyhorses and others carrying younger siblings. A visit from the nobility was rare indeed in this out-of-the-way place.

  Someone had run on ahead to warn Maître Lanoue that her grace, the duchess of Burgundy, was coming, and the old man laughed himself silly.

  “Taisez-vous, Georges. Why would the duchess visit my humble workshop?” he asked between laughs. And then the words froze on his lips when he saw the blond giant on the magnificently caparisoned horse turn the corner of their street followed by a woman in the colors of Burgundy and looking every inch a queen.

  “Mother of God!” he stammered. “’Tis no jest.”

  He turned to his weavers and told them to work twice as hard.

  “Pedal that loom, Jacques. Wind that hank, Michel. Pick up those bobbins, Madeleine,” he cried. Then he noticed a stranger was in his shop, looking through the finished work that was spread on the counter in front of the opened shop shutters.

  “Messire, you must leave, I pray you. Her grace, the duchess, will be visiting my shop any second. You may return when she is gone, and I will give you good service then.” He was dismayed when the tall, handsome man ignored his words and continued inspecting the tapestries. “Messire, please!” Before he could physically push Anthony out of the door, Guillaume was handing Margaret down from her horse, and Jean had to hurry to welcome her into his humble workshop. Behind him, his weavers and apprentices scurried about obeying his orders.

  Margaret had to bend her head at the low doorway and was therefore surprised to be in such a large room. She looked about her with interest. She had no idea that the looms were so big or that pedals were used to separate the warp from the weft, and she exclaimed with delight at the myriad colored threads that the lissiers had to choose from. Maître Lanoue enthusiastically described in minute detail the process of weaving a tapestry, and far from being bored, Margaret was fascinated. She knew she would never again look at the many beautiful wall hangings in her palaces in the same way. She loved the weaver’s passion for his work and determined that even though the visit was a ruse to meet Anthony, she would commission this little man to make the canopy for Charles to use while on campaign.

  She had seen Anthony disappear behind one of the looms and into the back of the shop as soon as she had entered. Even though he was dressed soberly, she recognized every inch of that proud figure, and her knees buckled for a second. She wished she could have dispensed with the business at hand and run after him instead.

  After the tour, she gave Maître Lanoue her design ideas for the canopy, then turned and asked Guillaume to arrange the contract with the lissier.

  “Maître Lanoue, do you have a garden where I might sit awhile with my servant Fortunata here,” she asked, gently putting her hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “I think it must be the heat or the smell of the dye, but I am feeling a little faint. Nay, nay, Guillaume, you stay here as I asked, and I shall seek some fresh air. It will not be for long, but I do not want to be disturbed until I send Fortunata to find you, do you understand? Let the rest of the party visit the town and take refreshment at that pleasant-looking tavern in the marketplace. Now do as I say, Guillaume, I beg of you.” Her voice was imperious, and Guillaume, although puzzled by her odd behavior, inclined his head in acquiescence. Thank heaven he is too dim to recognize a lie when he hears one, Margaret thought.

  Maître Lanoue escorted Margaret through to the back of the house and into a pleasant garden scented with late roses. He seated her on a stone bench and gave her a cup of ale. Then, bowing almost to the ground, he went back inside and called to his wife to bring pen and parchment. This commission would be the making of them, he felt sure, and he thanked his patron saint, Anastasia, for the good luck.

  As soon as the door hasp had clicked shut, Margaret stood up and looked around anxiously. Was this a fool’s errand? she wondered. “Fortunata, you did see Lord Anthony, did you not? I am certain he came this way.”

  “You were correct, my lady,” a pleasant voice said behind her, making her jump. “I did come this way.”

  Margaret spun round, her eyes shining and her arms outstretched. “Anthony, my love, my love!” she cried. Fortunata discreetly tiptoed away and kept watch.

  Anthony stiffened as Margaret reached him. “Nay, I cannot, my dear Marguerite.” His voice broke as he said her name, and she could see a change had come over him. His cheeks were hollow and his mouth unsmiling. But it was his eyes that gave away his melancholy and something else too that she could not name. It was as though they had seen a great suffering that had burned to his very soul.

  “What is wrong with you, Anthony. Are you ill?” she whispered, putting her hand up and stroking his cheek. He moaned as if i
n pain, took the hand and pressed it to his lips.

  “Don’t, Marguerite, I beg of you. Do not touch me. I do not deserve it.” He stood gazing at her anxious face, and then could not help himself. He enfolded her in his arms and wept as if his heart would break.

  “Speak to me, my love. What is it?” she said, holding him close and breathing in the familiar mixture of rosewater and leather. They stood thus for a few minutes until he pulled away and led her to the bench. For the next half hour, Anthony told her of Eliza’s terrible illness—from a cancer, which gave her so much pain that she screamed day and night—and of his descent into the hell of guilt. Her dream of the fire flashed through Margaret’s mind, and she inhaled sharply.

  “In her agony, she has forsaken her faith, Marguerite. She called God a tormenter and swore she hated him. Then she called me an adulterer—nay, I do not know how she knew, and I did not ask her but, God pity me, I denied it. She said her sickness was a sign that I must lose all that is dear to me because of my sin. I knew not how to help her, but I knew what I must do.”

  “What was that, Anthony?” Margaret’s tortured whisper told him she knew already.

  “That you and I should never again …” He did not finish, for she stopped his words with her mouth. He pushed her away, signing himself as he did so. “Nay, I beg of you, do not tempt me. I have spent twelve weeks on this pilgrimage atoning for my sin against God—and Eliza. You should do the same,” he said vehemently.

  Unexpected anger flared in her when she realized that he had run away from his ailing wife to soothe his soul. It was a flaw in her lover she had not recognized before, and she fought the urge to raise her voice.

  “You left Eliza when she most needed you. I trust you added that to your list of transgressions when you reached Compostella,” she said harshly. Seeing him grimace did not make her feel better, and she instantly regretted her words. “I crave your pardon, Anthony.”