“You are angry with me, Marguerite, and I cannot blame you. But if there was a chance that my pilgrimage would heal Eliza and at the same time save my soul, I had to take it. I do not believe Eliza will survive, but I did find peace. Santiago de Compostella is truly a holy place,” he finished, staring off into the distance, and it was then that she recognized the other look in his eyes that she had not been able to name before. It was fanaticism.
And she understood. He had been visited by the Holy Spirit, and there was nothing she could do about it. She put her head in her hands, and it was her turn to weep. Thus they sat side by side, unable to touch or comfort each other, until Anthony stood up and said he must go.
“Tell me, my love, did God give me any hope?” she asked, feebly grasping at any straw. How could they never again experience the ecstasy they had enjoyed that night in the miniature castle in front of the fire? She had relived it night after night in her waking dreams, certain that one day they could steal another tryst. After all, that hope was all she lived for, if the truth be known. Otherwise her life was meaningless.
Anthony hesitated, and she looked up at him quickly. A flicker of his former self showed in his face, and her heart leapt.
“If we were both free, I cannot believe He would not grant us a little pity,” he murmured, and then his face lit up with humor. “Nay, Marguerite, do not even think it. God would not condone the murder of your husband!”
“How did you know I was thinking exactly that?” Margaret said, reluctantly laughing. As they looked at each other for one long moment, they both understood it was because their souls were somehow bound together.
“Farewell, Marguerite,” Anthony spoke first. “I know not if you still have my attempts at poetry, but if you do, then remember your Lancelot by them. I fear he is no more.”
“They are in my heart, Anthony,” she whispered, “as are you—always.” He turned and walked away as she said, “I shall never give up hope.”
He did not look back.
CHARLES, IN THE meantime, was expecting one of the greatest triumphs of his life. He was fresh from capturing Guelders’ main cities and had entered into a treaty with the duke of Lorraine that allowed him free movement of his troops through that duchy whenever he needed to cross between his northern and southern territories. Now he had succeeded in persuading the Habsburg Emperor Frederick III to meet him at Trier. He was expecting Frederick to give him a crown.
Two-thirds of the Burgundian lands were part of the Holy Roman Empire, and Frederick recognized that Charles was now a dangerous man.
Charles was certain that by offering Mary—and thus all the Burgundian territories upon Charles’s death—to young Maximilian, the emperor’s son, Frederick would bestow a crown and title of king of the Romans upon him—or at the very least, king of Burgundy. Not satisfied with the promise of a crown, Charles was also proposing that Frederick name him heir to the empire. Their meetings lasted more than a month, many of them purely ceremonial as each ruler tried to outdo the other in lavish show and politeness. But while he acquiesced to the marriage alliance and made a few minor concessions, Frederick granted no kingship and no coronation took place.
In fact, one misty morning in late November, Frederick rose early and sailed away down the Rhine. Dismayed, Charles sent his man after him in a rowboat, to no avail. The emperor had had enough of all the posturing and did not trust Charles’s motives. It was a bitter blow and made Charles all the more resolved to show the world he could build his own empire.
“MASTER CAXTON, you do not know how happy this book makes me,” Margaret enthused, turning the pages and studying the even print. There were smudges and in places the type had not been lined up correctly, but she was overcome with awe at beholding the first book ever to have been printed in the English language.
William’s grin split his usually serious face in two. His eyes are always merry, Margaret had noticed, but with his lack of teeth, ’tis no wonder he does not smile more. She had lost one of her bottom teeth recently due to the toothworm and could not stop exploring the new gap with her tongue. Experimenting in front of her mirror one day, she had discovered that unless she laughed or yawned widely, it was not noticeable. Poor Beatrice had lost nearly all her teeth, despite chewing mallow and rinsing with vinegar, as they all did.
“May I draw your attention to the introduction, your grace,” William said. “I trust you will approve.”
She skimmed the lines, reading here and there, “‘… meekly beseeching the bounteous Highness of my said Lady’—Master Caxton, you flatterer,” she teased him. “‘… that of her benevolence … to accept … this simple and rude work here following.’ Ah, have a care, I helped with the translation, sir,” again she teased, not wishing to show how moved she was by his words of dedication. “‘And if there be anything written or said to her pleasure, I shall think my labor well-employed.’” Despite her best efforts, however, she could not stop the tear that fell onto the parchment, and she hurriedly brushed it away. “I know not what to say, Master Caxton. I think you must see how truly humbled I am.”
“I thank you, your grace. ’Twas a labor of love, albeit a difficult one.”
“You have my profound gratitude, sir. Now walk with me and tell me what you hear in the streets of Bruges.” She handed the book to Henriette de la Baume, and as she did so she noticed for the first time that the young woman was with child. She would be losing Henriette for a time before long, she knew. The girl had blossomed since Marie de Charny’s departure the year before, and the mood among her company of ladies had also improved markedly. She was sorry when the news had come that Pierre, Lord of Charny, had succumbed to his apoplexy after several months of careful nursing, because he had been a good man and a pillar of Burgundian society. But in a letter to Charles she had been firm that Marie was no longer welcome at her court. Charles had not dared to contradict her, although if the truth were told, he was now far too occupied with acts of aggression by the Swiss to worry about his half sister’s hurt feelings.
“What news from England, Master Caxton?” Margaret asked, choosing a piece of sugared galingale and nibbling on it as they began walking around the hall. She was pleased to be back in Bruges after all this time, despite the rain bucketing down outside. She had forgotton how pleasant the Prinsenhof was. It was not as large as the other ducal residences but more sumptuously decorated.
“I have been so engrossed with this book, my lady, I do not have much to tell you.”
“Then tell me what your intentions are to Fortunata, Master Caxton.” Margaret chuckled as she watched the man’s face blanch and both eyebrows shoot heavenward. “She is dear to me, as you must know, and I cannot have her appearing before me red-eyed and mope-faced as she has done this week.”
“Your gr-grace, you have taken me off guard,” William stammered, hoping a hole would appear in front of him and he could conveniently disappear. “What has Fortunata told you?”
Clever man, Margaret thought, he has thrown the ball back to me. Now I must reveal how much I know.
“She tells me you have plans to quit Bruges and indeed Flanders and return to London and that you intend to find a wife there. Is this correct? As your patron, I hope you would inform me of your plans to leave my service.”
Caxton’s mouth dropped open. He had no idea that the dwarf shared such confidences with the duchess. He wondered what else the little minx had divulged. True, he was no longer an adventurer and as such had no obligation to remain celibate, but he had never dreamed that his pleasant dalliance with Fortunata would lead to her falling in love with him. Much as he enjoyed her most unusual attributes—and possibly Margaret would be generous with a dowry for her favorite servant—he had no intention of taking her to wife. He hoped to have children, and he was certain it would be impossible with a dwarf.
“My plans are but dreams at present, your grace. Certes, I would not make them until I had begged your leave to do so.” He paused, searching for the right
thing to say. “But in the matter of Fortunata, in truth, she and I have become … ah … close,” he began. ’Twas a good choice of word, he thought. “But I did not promise her anything, and ’twas my understanding that she is bound in service to you, and therefore could not return to England with me—if indeed you gave me leave to return,” he added hastily, “if any mention of marriage had arisen. ’Tis true she is bound to you, is it not, your grace?”
Margaret sighed. If the man had expressed any feeling for her pochina, she would have reluctantly released her from service and given her over to William. But she accepted William was no different from other men of his rank: he would not consider a low-born dwarf a suitable marriage partner. Poor Fortunata, she thought, she has no more luck than I when we give our hearts.
“I will speak to Fortunata, Master Caxton. We shall be leaving Bruges soon, and perhaps it is well that you remain here. And if you do return to London, I will commend you to my brother and Lord Rivers, as I promised.” Margaret stopped and turned to him. “It is a small way of showing my appreciation for the other services you performed for me, sir.” She smiled, the pain of Anthony’s change of heart no longer so piercing. “I do not think the Lady Elaine has a need to correspond further with Sir Lancelot.”
“I quite understand, your grace, and I thank you for the chance to serve you.” He bowed over her hand. “Should you have any other printing requests, I am at your command.”
She watched him limp away, his stubby legs shown to no advantage under his short robe. She smiled to herself: those legs are only good for reaching the ground. She felt a tug at her skirt. She turned and saw Fortunata’s expectant face looking happily up at her. Her heart lurched, but she smiled fondly at the dwarf.
“You and I have much to talk about, pochina. I think we should go and pray in the chapel for a while.”
This time it was Margaret who was able to console Fortunata in her pain.
IT WAS HARD to believe that Charles was still besieging the small city of Neuss on the Rhine.
He had set up his camp on two islands in the river facing the city. The rest of his army encircled the walls on the land side. He had begun the offensive on the last day of July the previous year, and there he sat through the warm autumn and into a bitter cold winter that eventually turned to spring, a spring that brought flooding and caused Charles to remove his two-room tent to the mainland. But still he threatened the starving people even into May. His wife continued the work of ruling the duchy with the help of councilors such as the Lords Ravenstein, Gruuthuse, Humbercourt and Hugonet. Margaret knew about duty and loyalty, and none was lacking from this daughter of York.
However, Charles seemed blissfully unaware that other enemies were beginning to conspire against him and form alliances to attack his territories far to the south, not the least of whom was Louis of France.
“Earl Rivers is at Neuss, your grace,” Ravenstein told Margaret one day in early May. “It seems your brother, King Edward, is heeding the duke’s call for aid against France. The earl is the king’s emissary. We expect him in Ghent as soon as he and the duke have consulted.”
At the mention of Anthony’s name, Margaret felt the heat in her face and knew she was blushing. Sweet Jesu, it has been a year and a half since Enghien, and I have prayed to every saint every night to remove this love for a man who is lost to me. Ravenstein winced as he concentrated on shifting his weight off his bad leg, allowing Margaret a moment to take her kerchief from her belt and fan herself with it.
“Fortunata,” she called. “Have a page open the window. ’Tis warm in here.”
She almost laughed out loud when she saw Fortunata’s incredulous expression. The last few days had seen a return of the cold north wind, and Margaret had ordered that fires be kept burning in all her rooms to ward off the chill. The dwarf curtseyed and summoned a page loitering near the door to open a window. Ravenstein noticed nothing—or if he did, his face remained impassive.
“We must see to it that we welcome the king’s emissary with all due respect, my lord. I happen to know Lord Anthony is particularly fond of venison. I will instruct the cook accordingly. And we must have music—I shall ask Meester Busnoys for a special anthem. His choir is something the earl will enjoy. Let us invite Seigneur de Gruuthuse. He and Lord Anthony have books in common.” In her excitement to organize the banquet, Margaret rose without thinking, causing all those present in the audience chamber to fall to their knees. She quickly sat down, silently cursing court etiquette.
“Meester Busnoys and his choir are unfortunately with the duke at Neuss, your grace,” Ravenstein reminded her. “’Tis said they do much to relieve the soldiers’ tension there. But I will make sure Lord Anthony has music, never fear,” he added warmly. He and his wife, Anne, another of Philip’s bastards, were great lovers of music, and Anne had been the one to talk of Charles’s skill on the harp. Ravenstein could have sworn Margaret’s mouth dropped open when this had been revealed.
Margaret gave him one of her lovely smiles, and once again Ravenstein thanked heaven and Charles for allowing him to be in constant attendance upon the duchess. If not, I’d be freezing in a tent on the banks of the Rhine, he thought, rubbing his gouty leg.
“And so you believe my brother will finally bring an invading army over the Channel?” Margaret asked. “I have written to him reminding him of his pledge to Charles several times, but Edward is not as good a correspondent as my younger brother George. Sending Lord Anthony is perhaps a good sign.”
• • •
IN A GOWN of satin brocade, its murrey and blue pattern of roses and marguerites proclaiming her ancestry, with shimmering gold silk floating over a jeweled heart-shaped headdress, Margaret watched as Anthony came towards her in the great hall at Ten Waele accompanied by his squires and several knights. To one side of her Mary sat in a gold and brown brocade overdress, crimson silk beneath. Her dark hair was coiled around her head and a little gold chapelet encircled the braids. Behind them stood Guillaume de la Baume, hovering like a guardian angel.
Clothed all in white but for a crimson gipon and shoes, with a jeweled collar draped over the ermine about his shoulders and the glittering order of the Garter clasped on his thigh, Anthony drew every eye in the room. Margaret noted that the padded doublet tapering to his trim waist showed off his physique to better advantage than the circular journade fashionable in Burgundy, which Margaret thought unmanly. And she especially hated the way the young dandies carried their tall hats on the end of a cane. “C’est à la mode,” Jeanne had shrugged. “It will pass, I dare swear.”
Trumpets blew a fanfare as Anthony approached the dais and bowed low over his extended leg, and Margaret thought her heart would burst with love. How could she have imagined her feelings for him had dimmed? As the fanfare’s last notes died away, he raised his eyes to hers, taking her breath away. In the past day and a half she had pondered this moment. How would she receive him? How would he treat her? Would she know in an instant whether love endured or had died? On his return to England and following Eliza’s death that September, he had written one poem to her, which had brought her to tears.
“I saw my lady weep
And Sorrow proud to be advanced so
In those fair eyes where all perfections keep
Her face was full of woe:
But such a woe, believe me, as wins more hearts
Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.”
Before his signature, he had written cryptically, “Verba volant, scripta manet.” She did not know why he was stating the obvious—everyone knew that words spoken disappear and only written ones remain—but she prayed he was telling her that what he had said in the lissier’s garden was not forever.
Now she knew she was right, for his eyes today told her he loved her still. She gripped the arms of her chair to steady herself. Who is speaking, she wondered resentfully, and breaking this spell. Then she realized it was she who was intoning the usual high-flown greeting.
“You are welcome at our court, Lord Rivers. We trust your meeting with Duke Charles was mutually satisfactory.” Her voice sounded calm, she thought, but how can that be when my mouth is parched and my throat in a vise?
Anthony was smiling. Margaret panicked. Sweet Jesu, what have I said? I know not what I said!
“I bring you greetings from your husband, the duke, your grace,” Anthony said in his clear, pleasant voice. “I trust I find you well.” His eyes said, “You are the most beautiful creature here, and I want you.”
She gasped, and then she quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed. On her stool, half hidden by Margaret’s ermine-trimmed train, Fortunata gave an imperceptible smile. She had read those eyes as well.
Margaret held out her hand for Anthony to kiss and hoped he would notice that his gift was adorning her belt that night. She reluctantly withdrew her hand in the requisite amount of time and presented him to Mary, who blushed and stammered a welcome in English. Mary had not seen Lord Rivers since the marriage, when she was a child, and she had certainly not realized how handsome her stepmother’s presenter was at that time. Even Jehan might be eclipsed by this knight, Mary thought.
“Lady Mary, ’tis indeed a pleasure to see you again,” Anthony said. “May I say you are far lovelier than I remember. Your eyes are the color of a dove’s wing—”
“Lord Anthony,” Mary cried, interrupting and earning a stern look from Jeanne de Halewijn, “’tis also how belle-mère is telling me and why she is calling me her dove!” She looked excitedly from one to the other, and then, remembering her manners, put her hand out for Anthony to kiss, said shyly: “I thank you, sir, for your compliment.”
“Your English is excellent, Lady Mary, but I think you have a good teacher,” he said, stepping away and smiling at the young woman. He was charmed by her dimpled prettiness.
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