“It has been a long time, Meg, has it not,” George said, as they strolled between the immaculately manicured beds. “At Canterbury before your departure, I believe. You are still as tall as ever!” He ducked, laughing, as Margaret attacked him with the rosemary stalk. “How does marriage treat you? Rivers tells me Charles is a bullheaded man prone to temper tantrums. You would be enough to try a saint,” he teased again. “But there has been talk in the family about your lack of progeny. Are you barren, Meg?”
Margaret bit her tongue. ’Tis useless. George has still not learned to be diplomatic, she thought. She wanted to divert attention from herself and could not resist asking, “How are all your babes, George?”
George looked sheepish. “You know about my bastard, don’t you Meg? ’Twas folly on my part, I admit, but Isabel was pregnant and would not let me near her—I was very drunk.”
“And you needed a woman. I understand, George. But I hope Isabel is none the wiser. She would be heartbroken. I hear she dotes on you. What have you done for the child—a boy, no?”
George nodded. “Aye, a boy, John or Jehan in Flemish. I only saw him once before Frieda was sent to be married. He has a remarkable likeness to me—or even Ned,” he said. “To answer your question, I have sent the woman money. Unlike Dickon, who talks incessantly about his bastards and intends to have them at court when they are old enough, I am determined this shall remain a secret for Isabel’s sake. I can only imagine Ned or Will Hastings told you about my child. Ah, I am right,” he said, seeing her nod. “Ned is one to talk,” he scoffed. “’Tis common knowledge than he has left bastards the length and breadth of England, and none has been invited to court except for Arthur. I beg of you to keep all this to yourself, Meg. I love Isabel, and she is having great difficulty this time. Her humors are causing the physicians concern. Not to mention the dire predictions my astrologer is giving me. I am afraid if she found out about Jehan, ’twould kill her.”
Margaret said nothing but watched a monk, his black robe proclaiming him a Benedictine, tend a bed with his hoe. She had more on her mind than George’s bastard, but she did not know how to begin. Seeing her distracted, George gratefully changed the subject, giving her the opening she needed.
“You truly have not changed a speck, Margaret,” he said, hoping she would respond to his usual flattery. “In truth, I have missed you. You are the only one who understands me.”
“You have not missed me enough to write or to come and see me before now,” she retorted. “At least I have seen Dickon and Ned since my marriage.”
“Certes, Dickon and Ned saw you in Seventy-one—” He stopped, remembering why he had not been in exile with them.
Margaret seized her opportunity. “Aye, you realize what havoc you caused then, do you not,” she said, pushing him towards a bench and away from the monk. “And as I understand it, you did not learn your lesson after Edward welcomed you back into the fold. I know of your quarreling with Dickon over the Neville estates. The two of you should be ashamed. Edward was most generous, especially with you after your … your wicked alliance with Warwick,” she snapped, finally speaking her mind. “I have warned you before, George, and I will warn you for the last time. ’Tis well you do not continue to anger Ned. I sense his patience is running out where you are concerned.”
George rounded on her. “What has Ned been saying about me? I have conducted myself well on this occasion, have raised more than my fair share of money and men for this infernal invasion,” he said fiercely.
“What is his complaint about me now? I tell you, Meg, I am beginning to hate him. And sanctimonious Dickon.”
“Do not say so!” Margaret cried, shaking him. “They are your brothers. We are all one family, and I do not have to remind you that our father and mother taught us that almost from birth. Oh, why can’t you remember this? Are you so foolish as to think you will one day wear the crown?”
“Here comes Dickon. Why don’t you ask him that question? He will be glad to tell tales about my so-called treachery. Lies, all lies!” George’s blue eyes shone with tears of anger, and Margaret was immediately contrite.
“Pray forgive me, George, I should not have been so harsh. I just worry about you, ’tis all.” She turned and pulled him to her, and she felt him melt.
“Ah, Meggie, I do miss you” was all he could stammer, and he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Then he brushed past Richard. “I’m going fishing,” he called. “The river is full of trout. I will see you at dinner.”
“Was George crying?” Richard asked, a mischievous grin spreading over his face. “What did you say to him, Meg?”
“We were reminiscing, Richard, ’tis all. I was reminding him of our childhood and our choices in life. But come, let us not be morose. You have filled out, my lad, and are quite handsome now,” she said, appraising him. “Come and sit by me and tell me about your children.”
“Would that not pain you, Meg? I know from our time together in Bruges that you long for a child. But with Charles besieging every city he comes upon, ’tis no wonder you have not been able to conceive,” he said, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted. “But as you ask, I will tell you that little Edward is the apple of Anne’s eye. He is a happy boy, and everything one could want in a son. He is two now, and we have hopes that he will outlive us both. As for my other two, Katherine is the image of her mother, beautiful and willful.” He paused as a wistful smile crossed his face. “And John, I believe, takes after Kate’s father. Nay, Meg, I see your question. I have not been with her since I wed Anne. Do you think me very sinful?”
“I am not your mother nor your confessor, Richard,” Margaret said, patting his arm. “I am no saint either. But we do the best we can, little brother. All will be judged in the end, praise be to God.”
The brother and sister sat contemplating this truth and enjoying the shade of the St. Bertin Abbey until the bell of the cathedral nearby signaled Matins.
WHEN CHARLES ARRIVED a few days later, he came with only a small group of men, which Margaret knew would infuriate Edward. The king and his nobles were entertained a day later, and after polite conversation at dinner, angry voices could be heard behind the closed doors of Charles’s private council chamber. Charles was surrounded by his chief councilors, Hugonet, Humbercourt, Ravenstein and the lord of Chimay. Jack Howard, Anthony, Will Hastings, George and Richard were behind Edward.
“God damn you to Hell, Charles!” Edward railed, the vein standing out from his forehead. “We had an agreement. Where is your army? Christ’s nails, Louis must be wetting himself.”
Charles’s eyes were blue-black and glittering as he faced the irate king of England. Seated on a window seat, Margaret was watching the two and forgotten by most. Anyone else but Edward, she thought, and Charles would have struck him. She was keenly aware of Anthony’s presence in the chamber and once or twice had caught him eyeing her. In those instances, they both quickly looked away.
Edward towered over the stocky Burgundian by almost a foot, but Charles was unafraid. “I do not tolerate anyone taking God’s name in vain in my presence, Edward,” he shot back, staring up at Edward’s flushed face. “But ’tis well known, you Englishmen have the manners of pigs. If it were not for the respect I bear your sister, I would dismiss you from my sight forthwith.”
Edward threw back his head and laughed in derision. He stood, arms akimbo, and stared down at Charles. “A duke dismiss a king?” he roared. “Only in your dreams, you, you”—Edward lapsed into English to properly convey his feelings—“bat-fowling, lily-livered skainsmate!”
“Enough! Edward, Charles, I beg of you!” Margaret was on her feet and forcing herself between the two men. “You are both behaving like pribbling brats.” Her hennin poked Edward in the eye, and he yelped and jumped back. Charles’s mouth dropped open as he felt Margaret give him a manlike shove in the chest that made him totter backwards. “You are both unworthy of your office,” she cried.
She was vague
ly aware of George’s and Richard’s amusement as they stood together observing this unusual scene. She glowered at them, and they stopped laughing.
“Come and help me, you craven clotpoles!” she called to them in English. “If word gets to Louis that England and Burgundy are at each other’s throats, then all is lost. Certes, if only men had our common sense,” she opined, “perhaps we would not have so much fighting.”
Her dignity and voice of reason calmed the two leaders, who stood stock-still listening to her. In that moment, Margaret was quite unaware that she had fulfilled her wish of long ago, in another time of crisis, to one day be like her mother.
“Come both of you, make a plan to defeat Louis, not each other,” Margaret entreated them. “Together you can do it.” She took the right hand of each man and looked from one sheepish face to the other. “I beg of you, shake hands.” When they had effected the gesture, she sighed. “Now, pray forgive me for leaving you and seeking some solace by the sea. And you, messires,” she swept the room with her gaze, “are stalwart enough to take charge in my absence, I dare swear.”
Eleven pairs of admiring eyes followed her progress out of the room; the twelfth pair watched her go with longing.
EVENTUALLY THE TWO rulers came to an agreement: Edward would attack Louis in Champagne and march towards Rheims to be crowned, and Charles would invade Lorraine, where Louis had regained a stronghold. They agreed to keep each other apprised of any dealings with Louis, which Edward dutifully did some weeks later.
Later that night at a banquet given by Charles in honor of the English king and princes, Margaret found her way to George’s side. He gave her one of his charming smiles and lifted her hand to his lips.
“You are still a beauty, Meg, no mistake about that,” he murmured. “But I think Charles has his hands full. You were a tigress at that meeting. Dickon and I were impressed. As for Edward, I have never seen him so cowed.”
“Sweet Jesu, George, ’twould not have taken a genius to see we were getting nowhere. If Charles wants Edward here to fight Louis, and Edward wants Charles to help him regain his lands, then quarreling about it is mere folly. They are both big bullies, ’tis all. Are you primed for this invasion, brother? I can see Richard is.”
Clarence grimaced. “Aye, Dickon is always ready for battle.” His irisblue eyes clouded over, and he frowned. “I would be game for a fight except—”
“Except what, George?”
“My astrologer read my charts last night, and his prediction was unnerving. He said I will return to my beginnings when I die—in other words, I will have a watery end,” he told her, gripping her hands in his. “And we are going to the Somme—the river, Meggie. I have never been afraid in battle, but now I fear I am riding to meet my fate.”
Margaret talked reason to him. She said beginnings meant he would die a doddering old man toothless and hairless as a babe in its mother’s womb, and she dismissed the astrologer as a probable charlatan. As always she was able to calm him, although she could not stay the icy fingers that tightened around her heart.
Happily, the music had struck up a piva and she boldly asked him to lead her out, hoping to take his mind off his troubles. After all those years, brother and sister had not lost their step, and after demonstrating the intricate leaps and turns with flair, they were the toast of the gathering that night. Then Charles had astonished the English guests with some fine playing on his harp.
Edward leaned over and whispered to Margaret, “I did not know he possessed a sensitive bone in his body. The only strings I thought he was capable of playing were bowstrings. Certes, he is very skilled.” His eyes came to rest on his favorite brother, Richard, sitting riveted in his chair, and he chuckled, causing Margaret to follow his gaze. “Our little brother is still pining for his Kate, methinks. ’Tis the harp has given him thoughts of her, I dare swear.”
And judging from the faraway look in Richard’s eyes, Ned was right.
CHARLES WAS COLD to Margaret following the altercation with Edward at St. Omer, and they spent the last few days avoiding each other. Margaret was relieved Charles had not taken his humiliation out on her in the bedroom again, but with her brothers near, she assumed he did not dare take the chance. They bade each other farewell in the small castle of Fauquembergues, from which Charles was riding with Edward some way south towards the Somme and Louis before returning to his own troops. He kissed her on the mouth in front of the courtiers present in the room and was quite respectful. She, in her turn, wished him God speed and a swift return, although she knew he was never happier than with his soldiers.
Margaret stood on the steps waving her kerchief as Charles and Edward rode side by side, both magnificent in their own way. They were followed by George, Richard and Anthony, who had been invisible during the meetings at St. Omer, preferring to avoid compromising her duty to Charles. Richard’s eyes were on Edward’s back, and he did not see her. She called George’s name, and when he turned to acknowledge her, something in his face sent a shiver down her spine. It was the face of a man doomed, and she tried not to think about the astrologer’s strange prediction earlier that week as she watched the mile-long army snake its way past her.
Anthony, his chestnut hair gleaming in the sun, turned to look at her and lifted his mailed hand in salute. She blew a kiss. George, thinking it was for him, finally smiled and blew one back.
UPON RETURNING TO Ghent, Margaret found a letter from Anthony waiting for her. Someone—she assumed it was Fortunata—had put it on top of the pile that was ready for her attention. She glanced at the dwarf, who was innocently studying her nails. She must have recognized his script, she thought, amused.
“Henriette, I pray you sing something for us,” Margaret said, hoping her voice sounded weary. “What do you sing to your little Guillaume? I should like to hear something soothing, for I have a headache. Fortunata, Beatrice, help me with my gown. I would lie down for a while.”
Henriette picked up her lute, and in her low husky voice began:
“La flours d’iver sour la branche
Me plais tant a remirer
Que nouvele ramembrance
Me doune amours de chanter …”
The curtains on one side of Margaret’s bed allowed her some privacy. She lay on the embroidered satin coverlet and propped herself up on the pillows, soothed by the music. She broke the seal on the letter, brushing the crumbs off her undergown.
“As I write this, you are entertaining your brothers at St. Omer. I chose to stay and keep vigil at the garrison. I cannot bear to see you with that man who has so defiled you. I fear I would humiliate us all by spitting him on my sword if he so much as looked at you cross-eyed. I know not what the campaign in France will bring, but I need you to know your silver scarf will ride with me in the field, as my heart rides with you wherever you are. Pray for me, my dearest love.
“Have a good day now, Marguerite
With great love I thee greet
I would we might often meet
In hall, in chamber and in the street
Without blame of the contrary
God giveth that it so might be.”
He did not sign it, for with the seal destroyed, it could have been from anyone. She lay staring at the curtains decorated with her daisies and white roses and imagined a day when she might learn of Anthony’s death. She saw his body mutilated on a battlefield and cringed. Then she imagined him old and gray, holding her hand as he lay peacefully dying, and that was the thought she had in her head when she fell asleep.
A FEW DAYS later, she sat in her favorite audience chamber at Ten Waele and waited for Ravenstein to give her the latest news.
“The duke informs us that your brother has treated with Louis, your grace,” Ravenstein told her, his sharp eyes watching for her reaction. “Louis has offered the king a truce of seven years, a large pension and a marriage contract with the Dauphin for the Princess Elizabeth. In return, the English will leave France.” His disgruntled tone showed he bel
ieved Edward had betrayed Burgundy.
Margaret’s English hackles rose. “Certes, Messire Ravenstein, my brother had no choice,” she retorted. “Why, pray, did the duke refuse to open the gates of any of his cities to Edward? What was the English army supposed to exist on during the campaign and into the winter? Grass? Nay, ’twas Charles who betrayed Edward, and I will not hear otherwise. Besides, my brother acted honorably by securing a truce for Charles as well, should he choose to treat with Louis within three months. Nay, you and I will have to disagree on this, messire.” Margaret was firm, and Ravenstein bowed stiffly and left her presence, followed by his squires.
She slumped back into her chair and drummed her fingers on the arm. If the truth be told, she was disappointed in her big brother. He had been bought off without letting loose a single arrow. The two kings had met on a bridge at Picquigny and signed a peace treaty on the twenty-ninth day of August, and now Edward was on his way home. She had heard that only Richard had balked at turning tail without a fight and had refused the pension. Even he, however, did not say no to some other gifts from Louis. What will Mother say? Margaret groaned out loud. And Father would be ashamed. She remembered Edward’s jesting with her at Calais and groaned again. He deceived me, she realized, and scowled.
THE BELL FOR Matins rang, and Margaret called for her prayer book. On her knees in front of the Virgin and Child, she prayed that Charles would take Louis’ offer of a truce.
“Let there be peace, dear God. Burgundy has lost too many of her sons since Charles decided to become Caesar. If you give him the sense to accept what he has and be content, then I swear I will be a good wife to him.” She did not go as far as to promise to give up her love for Anthony, which she realized left the door open for her prayer to be unanswered. As she always did when speaking to God, she ended her private meditation with an Ave Maria and “May the Mother of God have mercy on Anthony, my one true love, and me, a lowly sinner.” Today she added, “And please, sweet Jesu, protect my brother George as he crosses back to England.” His fear of dying in the Somme had been for naught, but there was danger still in the unpredictable waters of the Channel.
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