Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Except to see me,” Margaret whispered, hardly hearing what he said. “Oh, Anthony, not a fortnight ago, I thought myself a widow. We were told by the first messenger that Charles had died at Murten, and, God help me, I rejoiced. In that moment, I thought we had a chance together, you and I. You have not changed your mind, have you, Anthony?” She turned her head to him and murmured, “How I long to be touched by you again.”

  She felt him stiffen by her side. “Despite the eight thousand others massacred, Charles is very much alive, Marguerite, although,” he admitted grimly, “I came very close to throttling him several times. As for changing my mind, you know I cannot and stay true to the vow I made at Santiago de Compostella.” He was acutely aware that they were the focus of attention, although no one could hear their conversation except perhaps Fortunata, but he was used to that. “You should put me out of your mind. I know I am only causing you pain.”

  She rounded on him then. “Then why did you come?” she said between clenched teeth as loud as she dared. “Each time I see you, the hope in my heart is allowed to flourish.” She turned back to keep step with him and hoped they had not caused any gossip.

  “Forgive me, Marguerite. ’Tis pure selfishness that keeps me coming back. You are what feeds my dreams, my musings and my life. Forgive me.” He sounded so dejected that she moved her hand off his arm and onto his hand, squeezing it gently. “I think I have been to Hell and back these past few years. Edward has shunted me off to Ludlow to care for the Prince of Wales, and although I like the solitude there, I know he is displeased with my behavior of late. ‘Too many pilgrimages, Anthony, too much melancholy’ is what he says.” He sighed.

  “’Tis said I, too, am prone to melancholy. Fortunata despairs of me.”

  Anthony patted her hand. “Let us not dwell on it. I must confess,” he said, changing the subject, “I am again taken with little Mary. She is a fine young woman.”

  Margaret gave him a sideways look. “Now that I am thirty, Anthony, are you looking at younger women?” she asked mischievously and was rewarded with a look of disbelief from him. She did not tease him any longer but poured out her concern for the duchy should Charles die before Mary was safely married. She told him of her meeting with the estates general, of her fear of the hatred for the chancellor, and of her growing reliance on Gruuthuse.

  “He is a good man, Marguerite. Trust in him and Lord Ravenstein. If you are in dire straits, I have no doubt Edward will help you, too. I understand he has finished paying your dowry.”

  “Not before time,” she retorted, and laughed.

  “HE DID WHAT?” Margaret exclaimed. “Ah, now I know he has lost his mind.”

  Gruuthuse shook his head in sympathy. “’Tis indeed hard to contemplate, your grace. The Duchess Yolanda had given him shelter following Murten. As regent of Savoy, she was well disposed towards us, as you know. Astonishing, because she is Louis’ sister.”

  “But kidnapping her! What folly was that?” Margaret paced up and down the red and white tiled floor, her swirling skirts sweeping up the fresh rushes. “Now Savoy is our enemy, and Louis will take this excuse to break the truce, I have no doubt.”

  Gruuthuse nodded. “Louis effected a daring rescue of his sister, and she is now safely with him, I understand. But we stand alone, and I fear greatly for Burgundy.”

  “Why does my father not simply come home, my lord? Lorraine is still ours,” Mary said, from the settle next to the fireplace. Margaret had begun to include her stepdaughter in her meetings with Gruuthuse and Hugonet. Mary needed to be as informed as them all. “He can cross through to Luxembourg and then home.”

  “Aye, that is what he should do,” Margaret agreed, smiling her approval at Mary.

  Although she had no wish to spend another day under a roof with Charles, Margaret could not wish him dead. She could not envision what would be in store for her or Mary if he died. They would be at Louis’ mercy, she knew. He had called her all manner of unkind names because of her resolve and influence over Charles, and she had been highly amused when she had learned of this. Now she feared its consequences. Louis would not treat her kindly, she was certain. Although, she thought, I am Edward’s sister, and Louis wants to keep on Ned’s good side. That could save me.

  “Your grace?” Gruuthuse was looking quizzical, and Margaret realized he had spoken and she hadn’t been paying attention.

  “I crave pardon, messire. My thoughts were flying about like bats in a summer night’s sky. You were saying?” “Our latest intelligence is that the duke of Lorraine has taken heart after helping defeat us at Murten and believes he can claim back his duchy. He is moving to recapture Nancy.” Margaret and Mary both stifled a gasp. “Duke Charles needs reinforcements or he will never get out of there alive.”

  Margaret continued her pacing, muttering to herself and frowning at the floor. She suddenly stopped and snapped her fingers.

  “We shall go north, Messire Louis!” she announced. “North to Holland. We have not drawn on the province for men or money. What think you?”

  Mary grimaced. “And sacrifice more young men to satisfy my father’s lust for power,” she exclaimed, startling Margaret with the vehemence of her condemnation. “But if it will save Burgundy, then you must go with Messire Louis, belle-mère, and Messire de Hugonet and I will stay here and manage things.”

  Gruuthuse nodded approvingly. “Duchess, Madame Mary is right. You and I will go north. My governorship there means I am well known and, I hope, trusted. We can safely leave Flanders in Hugonet’s hands.”

  Margaret did not voice her concern for Hugonet in front of Mary. Instead she asked Gruuthuse to arrange their visit to Holland as soon as possible.

  BEFORE SETTING OUT for Holland, Margaret and Mary spent a few days in September at the Prinsenhof in Bruges. The sun shone on the tall slate roofs of the houses for the six days of their visit, and for the first time, Margaret was invited to the Gruuthuse mansion she had heard so much about. Its imposing stone Gothic exterior rose three stories, a decorated turret at each end of the front that faced the courtyard. She admired the main hall’s carved wood ceiling and the minstrels’ gallery, reached by a carved stone spiral stairway.

  Gruuthuse and his stout wife, Margaretha, stood at the base of the staircase to greet Margaret, who was escorted by Guillaume with Henriette a step behind them. The host first led Margaret to the salle d’honneur, which was hung with glorious tapestries, and offered her some sweet wafers and wine. Margaret noted the sheaves of barley carved into the ceiling acknowledging the family’s fortune acquired over several generations from a beer monopoly. The house was full of light from the many windows that gave tranquil views over the little Arents river with its humpback bridges and the gardens that surrounded the back of the house. She read Gruuthuse’s motto over the massive fireplace, “Plus est en vous,” and smiled to herself. Aye, faithful Louis, there is more in you than any of us knows, I warrant.

  Gruuthuse led Margaret across the gallery over the front hall, through a bridge room to the most recent addition to the house: a small oratory, the vaulted wooden beam ends of it decorated with tiny cherubs, was actually inside the church of Our Lady next door. Cleverly, the mason had lowered the ceiling of a side chapel in the church to create a room above. Kneeling in front of the leaded windows, the party could look down on the altar below and take part in the service without leaving the house. Margaret was intrigued. She thought perhaps this was how God felt looking down on his bishops and all the people assembled to worship.

  After Mass, Gruuthuse showed her his renowned library, which Margaret had wanted to see since her arrival in Burgundy. She spent an hour carefully taking books down from the shelves and admiring the illuminations, the beautiful script and the embossed leather bindings. Another visitor was announced, and Margaret was delighted to see William Caxton bowing before her. She had suggested to Gruuthuse that he might be made welcome that day, and the councilor had readily agreed. She saw Fortunata disappear into th
e shadows as Caxton nodded a greeting to her. His eyes are kind, Margaret noted, but it is sympathy not love in them.

  “Master Caxton, ’tis a pleasure to see you again. I thought we had lost you to London until Messire Louis told me otherwise. I trust your new venture is thriving.”

  William’s brown eyes were bright as he extolled the success of his new press and presented her with a printed book in English on the rules of chess. Margaret took it eagerly, but then she had an idea.

  “I would like you to approach my brother George on your return to England for patronage, Master Caxton. And as an introduction, I shall send this to him as a gift from me. He has much to learn about the game,” she said, chuckling. “He will see the humor in the gift, I promise you. I thank you for your indulgence. Shall we take a turn in the garden?” He offered her his arm immediately, and she turned to Gruuthuse. “Will you permit me to steal him for a few minutes? I know not when I may see him again.”

  OTHER THAN MIDDELBURG Island, Margaret had not set foot in Holland since she had been duchess, and by the time her small cavalcade rode into The Hague, she had uncharitably given the low-lying country a two-word description: soggy bog. It had started to rain in mid-October as they crossed the border with Brabant, and the sun had not reappeared until she rode through the city gate of The Hague five days later.

  Preferring to use her carriage to shelter from the winds that blew unimpeded across the miles of bleak flat fenlands relieved only by the occasional windmill, Margaret, Fortunata and Beatrice were able to keep dry. She had left Henriette behind to be near her infant. Two younger attendants rode in a smaller chariot behind hers. Guillaume, too, had remained, sending his captain, Olivier de Famars, to provide armed escort. She lost count of the number of rivers they were ferried across, including the Diep. The mud made for slow going, and thus she had hours to ponder on the gloomy state of affairs in Burgundy, which the climate outside did not help to diminish. Although the rain persisted during her time there, she did not let it dampen her resolve to persuade the Dutch to provide Charles with support. She left a few days later with Gruuthuse’s praises ringing in her ears and was satisfied she had done her duty.

  MARY REJOICED IN her stepmother’s homecoming in November, and Lord Hugonet was impressed by the number of men she had been promised from Holland. Four thousand troops were sent to join Charles’s army in Lorraine, where he was laying siege to Nancy. Margaret was delighted to learn that Charles had finally listened to her. Mary’s wedding arrangements and papal dispensation were now almost complete. Mary and Maximilian would be wed the following spring in Aachen or Cologne.

  As the household prepared for the Yuletide season, an optimism buoyed all their spirits and as the year came to an end, so too, they hoped, would all of Burgundy’s woes.

  PART FOUR

  A Widow in Waiting

  Burgundy and England,

  1477–1480

  22

  Burgundy, 1477

  “Fortunata!” Margaret screamed, coming out of another nightmare. The dream always came to her as the old year came to an end, when she would pray for her father’s soul who died on the thirty-first of December sixteen long years before. The head on the Micklegate was still as vivid as ever, and each year, the horror of it gripped her imagination for days afterwards.

  Holding a candelabrum, Beatrice hurried to Margaret’s bedside and pulled the heavy curtains aside. Soothing Margaret’s forehead with her cool hand, she spoke calmly. “Your grace, ’tis but a dream. Wake now, ’tis I, Beatrice, who will comfort you. Lady Margaret, wake up!”

  Margaret sat up abruptly, her eyes wide open now. “Where is Fortunata?” “She is … well … indisposed,” Beatrice lied, knowing she was probably with Caxton.

  “Oh,” Margaret said, but then she clutched Beatrice’s arm. “Ah, Beatrice, how glad I am to see you. ’Twas the usual dream, as you have guessed. I should be used to it by now, but it shocks me still.” She drew the fur blanket up to her chin and rested her chin on her bent knees.

  “You knew my father. Tell me about him,” she begged, patting the side of the bed and inviting the older woman to sit. Despite her fondness for Margaret, Beatrice still could not lower her strict standards of etiquette and so remained standing, although she put the candelabrum down and wrapped herself in Margaret’s fine woolen bed robe.

  “I knew my cousin Cecily better than your father, your grace, when we were growing up. Your father was sent to their house at Raby as a young man to train, as you do know. Cecily told me she loved your father when she was only thirteen, but I did not think he was very handsome or strong. Your brother Richard reminded me of him, in truth. But I was wrong about him, Lady Margaret. He was strong and able to win people to him with his courage and charm. He used to call me Beet.” She smiled, remembering. “I suppose ’twas because I blushed a lot when I was young.”

  “Beet! ’Tis a splendid name for you.” Margaret had forgotten the nightmare and was watching this old friend of her parents with love. “I have been truly blessed to have you serve me all these years, Beet. You remind me of home.” She looked wistful. “I wonder if I shall ever return to see them all again.”

  “As soon as the duke returns and Lady Mary is married, I think you should plan to visit, duchess. Certes, after all the tireless work you have done on your husband’s behalf, you deserve to go and see your family.” Beatrice was firm. “Surely you have but to ask.”

  Aye, she is right, Margaret thought. But when do I ever see Charles to ask him such trivial questions? One snowy afternoon at her desk a few days earlier, she had idly gone back over the events of the past two years in her accounts and discovered to her surprise that she had last seen Charles for five days in 1475, almost eighteen months ago. She could hardly credit that it had been that long. And the year before that, why, only twice for a few days at a time. This was not the marriage she had dreamed of all those years ago in her bed at Greenwich. She sighed.

  “Certes, he will be back for the wedding, and then we shall think about England, Beet. I am sorry I woke you. ’Tis cold, and you should go back to bed. God keep you tonight, and God keep the duke and his army encamped in weather like this,” Margaret murmured.

  “Amen,” Beatrice replied, crossing herself and padding back to her bed.

  • • •

  MARGARET WAS READING a passage from her new book to Mary and Jeanne in the cosy solar at Ten Waele a few days later when a commotion downstairs broke her concentration. Margaret called to one of her attendants to go below and chastise whoever was spoiling the tranquility of the afternoon. The young woman did not have time to rise and put away her needlework when the door was flung open and two guards hurriedly stood to attention to let Lord Hugonet and Lord Gruuthuse pass.

  “Pray forgive the intrusion, your grace,” Hugonet said, bowing. “We must speak urgently and in private.” Hugonet’s thin face was pinched with worry as he straightened.

  “Certes, messire,” Margaret replied, concerned. “Ladies, pray leave us at once. Nay, Mary, you should remain.” Margaret put out her hand and gentled Mary back into her chair. She waited until the room was empty before urging Hugonet to speak. “What is it, messire? You are looking peaked.”

  For once Hugonet came straight to the point. “’Tis the worst news, your grace. It would seem the duke has been defeated at Nancy and the army is in retreat.” He paused. “Moreover, there is a rumor Duke Charles has perished.”

  Both Margaret and Mary leapt to their feet, faces ashen. “Charles dead?” Margaret managed to say. Mary was on the verge of tears. Margaret took and squeezed her hand. “I am sure ’tis a mistake, Mary. Who says this, messire?” she demanded. “How can we be sure ’tis not a repeat of the news from Murten?”

  “We cannot as yet, in truth. But the soldiers who have ridden here to tell us of the disaster are speaking of a massacre by the Swiss and Lorraine troops such that ’tis nigh impossible for the duke to have survived.”

  Mary trembled. “Belle-
mère,” she whispered, “what will become of us?”

  “I believe we must maintain order until these rumors can be confirmed or denied. Am I not right, Messire de Hugonet?” Margaret replied, before the chancellor could launch into one of his diatribes. “This means that you must write to your father’s central administration in Malines to make sure the Treasury functions as usual.”

  “Me?” Mary’s eyes were wide. “Why would they listen to me? ’Tis you who knows how to govern, belle-mère.”

  “Madame Mary has a point, duchess. If the letter comes from both of you, and you both use your present titles, then perhaps we may start a rumor of our own that Duke Charles is still alive.” Gruuthuse had not said a word since entering, but now all three turned to him.

  Hugonet’s shrewd eyes crinkled in appreciation. “’Tis well said, Louis. We will write at once. May we convene in my office, madame?” he said, looking at Margaret.

  “Aye, messire. We shall be there directly.” She and Mary acknowledged their bows and watched them leave with mounting anxiety. Mary sank into her chair and stared into the vast unknown of life without her father. Margaret paced and pondered and planned in her usual fashion. She and Mary were helpless without a powerful man behind them, especially as French law did not recognize a female line of inheritance. As soon as Louis hears that Charles is dead, he will not waste a minute in breaking the truce and reclaiming what he thinks is his, she admitted grimly. The question was: where would he attack first? She had not spent nine years as duchess and years before that with Edward without taking the measure of the Spider King. Her mind jumped all over the place as her soft leather shoes padded through the rushes, eventually stopping in front of the protruding chimneypiece where her eyes focused on her device: Good will come of it. She suddenly laughed. If Charles is dead, then I am a widow, she realized. If I am a widow, then I am free.