Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Belle-mère, what is so amusing?” Mary interrupted Margaret’s train of thought and made her jump guiltily. Had she said something about Anthony aloud? She turned and hurried to Mary’s side, kneeling down and taking her hands.

  “Nay, I was not laughing. ’Twas more of a cry for help, my dove. Or maybe ’twas because I realize that you are now the duchess. I should be making you obeisance, you see. And that made me laugh.” I am not making things better, she realized, watching Mary’s pinched face. “Oh, I know not. My mind for once is as muddled as a badly spun spindle of wool.”

  There was a long pause as both women sat with their own thoughts of Charles.

  “How old were you when your father died in battle, chère belle-mère?” Mary surprised Margaret with her question. “I remember you telling me about those nightmares once and how you cried when you heard of his death. I ask because I feel no sadness, only shock. Is it because I am near twenty that I do not cry?”

  Margaret put her arms around her. “I was fifteen, Mary. Much younger than you, ’tis all.” She did not add that she had adored Richard, duke of York, who had been a loving father, interested in all his children, unlike Charles, who had never had more than a five-minute conversation with Mary in her whole life. “Come, sweeting,” she said, using the English endearment Mary enjoyed, “let us rejoin the councilors. At least we shall be doing something instead of sitting and brooding.” She rose and offered Mary her hand. When the younger woman stood, Margaret impulsively took her in her arms and they clung to each other for comfort for a few moments before gathering up their trains and walking to the door.

  MARGARET HAD BEEN right. King Louis received the accurate report of Charles’s death several days before Ghent did and attacked and captured the town of Saint-Quentin in Margaret’s dowerlands the very next day. Several more attacks took place in the next week before Margaret and Mary learned definitively of the duke’s demise. He believes any former French lands revert to him because there is no male heir, Margaret thought angrily. How foolish Charles was not to try for a son with her or ensure Mary was safely married to a strong lord.

  “He was found frozen in a pond, your grace,” Lord Ravenstein told Mary, after being received back in Ghent with Lord Humbercourt, who had come directly from the remnants of the army. Ravenstein did not upset the grave young woman now seated on the ducal throne by describing how the naked, half-submerged body had been known by one of his valets de chambre, who had returned to search the battlefield, only because of the scar across the duke’s chest and his extraordinarily long nails. The face had been gnawed beyond recognition by wolves, it seemed. “Pray accept my deepest condolences, duchess,” he said sadly. Then he bowed to Margaret, who was seated on a smaller chair next to Mary. “Duchess, I am sorry to be the bearer of such news, but all of us”—he turned to include Hugonet, Humbercourt, Gruuthuse and those other members of Charles’s inner circle who had not been killed, taken prisoner or, as in the extraordinary case of Antoine, Bastard of Burgundy, turned their coat—“are ready to serve you both in this time of crisis.”

  “Thank you, messires,” Mary said in a clear, strong voice, making Margaret proud. “Tomorrow we shall begin the mourning period for my father, informing our people that he is indeed dead. Duchess Margaret and I are in your hands, ready to hear your counsel.”

  If only the world outside this room could remain as civilized as within it, Margaret thought, listening as the experienced politicians discussed the facts and choices before them. Louis had already asserted his sovereignty over Dijon and threatened to overrun the northern territories as well if Burgundy refused to bow to his rule. Louis had promised to protect his godchild Mary’s rights, but out of the other side of his mouth he threatened Burgundians who did not accept him as absolute ruler. He also offered his seven-year-old son, Dauphin Charles, in marriage. This would mean Burgundy would revert to French rule. All the Flemish and Dutch provinces would balk at such an idea. Already the people of Ghent were grumbling. They did not trust the Frenchmen, Hugonet and Humbercourt, who were counseling Mary.

  With Ravenstein’s help, Mary rejected the Dauphin in a letter to Louis.

  “I understand that the duke, my father, may God pardon him, consented and agreed to the marriage between the son of the Emperor and me, and I am determined to have none other but the son of the Emperor.”

  Louis responded by sending his army into the duchy as far as Dijon, and in the north, he captured the town of Arras.

  THE FIRST MARGARET heard that George’s wife, Isabel, had died was when a rumor reached her that she herself was planning to marry the newly widowed George to Mary.

  “Poor, fragile Isabel,” she said to Jeanne. “I believe she truly loved George, in truth.” She fiddled with her ring and shook her head. “You say the rumor comes from England and France? Although it would please me greatly, I cannot think Edward would sanction the marriage. You see, through Duchess Isabella, Charles—and now Mary—had a certain right to the English throne. A child of theirs would be a threat to Edward’s children. He would be foolish to contemplate it, even to spite Louis.” She had to admit to her chagrin that it was probably George himself who had started the rumor. He would enjoy the power and wealth that being Mary’s husband would bring.

  A few days later, as consequence of an urgent appeal made to Edward by Margaret, an embassy from England arrived to treat with the emperor’s ambassadors there in Ghent to safeguard an earlier peace. Margaret was glad to see it was William Caxton who escorted the English emissaries, Dr. John Morton and John Donne, into the presence chamber. She was not prepared for the second English proposal of marriage for Mary, however.

  “My sovereign lord King Edward, offers his brother-in-law, Anthony, Lord Rivers, as husband to the Duchess Mary,” Morton announced to her, Mary and the assembled councilors.

  The blood drained from Margaret’s face, despite her pounding heart. What was Edward thinking? Before Mary or anyone else could say anything, Margaret heard herself speak in an unnaturally high voice.

  “Lord Rivers!” she cried. “Pah! He is a mere earl and not of royal blood, a nobody and not worthy of our beloved duchess. I pray you, mes-sires,” she appealed to them, “reject this ridiculous proposal out of hand. Dr. Morton, are you certain you have your facts right?”

  William Caxton suddenly knew who had met Margaret in the middle of the night at Ooidonk Castle. Christ’s nails, ’twas Rivers, he thought. Poor lady, she loves him still.

  “Aye, your grace. Those were the king, your brother’s instructions,” Morton replied. “And if Duchess Mary accepts, an English army will be at her disposal.”

  “The Duchess Mary will not accept,” Margaret exclaimed vehemently, and even Lord Ravenstein raised an eyebrow.

  Mary was also staring at Margaret. She could not remember her stepmother being so angry before. But then all tempers had been stretched to the fraying point in the past two weeks, and this proposal was ridiculous, even she could see that.

  “The Duchess Margaret speaks for me, Dr. Morton. I am to marry the emperor’s son and shall have none other. Archduke Maximilian has written of his intention to marry me as soon as possible. I pray you thank the king for his offer, but I must refuse.” Mary gave a sign to Ravenstein, who stepped forward, bowed to the three Englishmen and indicated the door.

  William bowed solemnly to Margaret. When she caught his eye, she could read sympathy in his look. Damn, she thought ruefully, he knows.

  “MY LORD,” MARGARET addressed Anthony formally, following his wish for them to temper the contents of their letters.

  “I write in this time of crisis of a matter far closer to my heart. It saddens me to tell you that Astolat, your precious gift to me of many years ago, has gone to his rest after nine years of devotion to me. He died peacefully in his sleep two nights ago at the foot of my bed.”

  Margaret paused, tears wetting her cheeks as she thought of how she held the big dog’s head in her lap in those last few hours. Astol
at had been ill since Margaret’s return from Holland, sleeping most of the day and eating little. That night in early March, his breathing was labored and he lay with his eyes wide open, and Margaret knew the dog was suffering. At one point Margaret nodded off, and when she jerked awake, Astolat was whimpering. She saw Fortunata stroking the soft ears and whispering endearments to the dog.

  “Do you remember, madonna, when I went under the table in King Edward’s chamber? I was so frightened by that big dog. But Astolat, he has been my friend. And now I shall lose my friend.” Her big eyes were full of sorrow as she moved to make room for Margaret, who sat up and let her tears fall freely onto

  Astolat’s face. “Aye, I fear we are both losing a friend today, pochina. I thank God we still have each other.” Margaret put out her hand and wiped a tear from Fortunata’s face. She looked down at Astolat, who was as still as a stone, trying to conserve what little energy he had left—for what, Margaret knew not. It was as though part of Anthony was dying, too, she thought morbidly. The dog seemed to sense her sorrow and struggled to lift his head to lick the salt from Margaret’s cheeks. The effort proved too great, the big heart gave out and he sank down, exhaling one last time. Margaret lay next to him for some time, wallowing in her loss, and had finally fallen asleep, her hand held tightly in Fortunata’s.

  Now she wiped her cheeks and picked up her pen again, dipping it in the sepia ink. “I have now lost one of the best friends I have had in this life,” she wrote. “I pray our friendship will last longer. Pray for us here in Burgundy.” She paused again. Should she remind him she was now free? If anyone read the letter, it might prove a juicy piece of gossip, she admitted, and, sighing, she began to sign her name.

  “Belle-mère, they have taken my councilors!” Mary cried, running into the antechamber, Jeanne close behind. Margaret threw some sand over the parchment to blot the ink, and rose to curtsey to her stepdaughter.

  “What do you mean, child, taken my councilors?” Margaret exclaimed. “Who are ‘they’ and where have they taken who?”

  Events had moved quickly since Charles’s death had been confirmed, and Mary had called an assembly of the estates general and promised to be counseled by them. She had named Ravenstein as her lieutenant, which was circumspect, Margaret thought, given the unpopularity of the French councilors in Ghent. But a joint impassioned letter to Louis from both women asking for his protection during the first days of chaos had, in the Spider King’s usual twisted way, been used against Mary and had caused the Gantois to distrust her subsequent pledge to be ruled by the estates. Unfortunately, the other signers of that early letter were Ravenstein, Humbercourt and Hugonet. It looked to her subjects as though Mary was dealing in secret with Louis while also promising to be governed by her councilors. She had been confronted with a copy of the letter and, horrified, she had desperately tried to explain the situation. From that day, demonstrations and parades by townspeople, burghers, craftsmen, merchants and apprentices took place daily outside the palace walls, and finally, Mary had been made to sign the Great Privilege, which restored all the rights to the towns that the dukes of Burgundy had taken away for more than a hundred years.

  Mary was shaking. “Messires Humbercourt and Hugonet and two others, madame. Oh, please, what shall I do? They have taken them to the dungeons at Gravensteen. They have been accused of treason. They said the two had plotted to kidnap me and force me to marry the Dauphin. ’Twas not true, belle-mère, was it?”

  Margaret paled. “Certes, it was not! And Messire de Ravenstein, did they take him?” she asked, knowing that he had signed that all-important letter.

  Mary shook her head. Margaret assumed that the highest noble in Burgundy was too powerful to imprison, but she feared for the others. The two Henchmen were the most hated men in Ghent, she knew.

  “But we are not permitted to leave,” Mary told her fearfully. “We are as prisoners. And …” Mary looked at the floor, poking a patch of rushes with the toe of her blue satin shoe. It was obvious she was holding back some information.

  “And what, Mary? Tell me,” Margaret urged.

  “Those people,” she grimaced, “said that because you tried to marry me to your brother, George, you are guilty of treason, too.”

  Margaret exploded. “What?” she sputtered. Mary started nervously and watched Margaret begin the customary pacing. “’Tis laughable,” Margaret snapped. “They have no proof, because ’tis a falsehood!”

  “What will they do to us?” Mary said, wringing her hands.

  “They can do nothing, Mary,” Margaret said, hoping she sounded braver than she felt. “You are the duchess. They have no right to touch you.” But on the other hand, they can do with me as they will, she thought. “Go back to your apartments, my dear, and I will be there anon. I must finish my letter.”

  Mary acquiesced and hurried from the room. Jeanne hesitated at the doorway. Margaret put her finger to her lips.

  “I am a danger to Mary,” she said in a low voice. “I must leave Ghent at once. But I do not want to frighten her. I pray you, Jeanne, send Monsieur de la Marche here and have Beatrice attend me immediately.”

  Jeanne curtseyed and left her.

  Aye, I must go, she thought, signing her letter and folding it. But where? She thought briefly of fleeing to England to beg Edward for help, but she knew she must help Mary from within Burgundy. And if the Burgundians were accusing her of a treasonable act, they would doubly believe the story if she left the country. Nay, she must stay. Many of her dower lands were occupied by Louis’ troops, and she dared not fall into their hands. Oudenaarde was far enough from Louis as well as being one of her own properties. It seemed a good choice.

  Olivier de la Marche waddled in not long afterwards, and within an hour he had his orders and had agreed to accompany the dowager out of Flanders. As a close associate of Charles’s, Margaret had no doubt the little Frenchman would also be treated with suspicion if he stayed. She invited him then and there to become her chamberlain as dowager, and he readily agreed.

  “I have no wish to stay here with the temper of the Gantois at boiling point, your grace.” He grinned, his bulbous nose almost meeting his chin and reminding her of a gargoyle she had seen recently. “I can have your household ready to leave within a day. I am better at planning happier events, such as your wedding celebrations, madame, but the same skill can be put to good use in a fleeing situation, I dare swear.”

  Margaret was cheered. Here was someone she could rely on, and one with a sense of humor. And with Guillaume giving her protection, she was sure she could move out of harm’s way in short order. “Thank you, sir. I will alert my ladies, and we shall leave the day after tomorrow.”

  She called to Fortunata, whom she assumed was listening at the door. “We are in danger, pochina, and I need you to tell Beatrice and the others to pack everything. We are not wanted here.”

  Fortunata gasped but ran to do her bidding.

  THE WIND BLEW winter through the courtyard that morning in March as Margaret’s attendants traipsed down the palace steps into carriages, onto horses or heaved furniture, plate, tapestries and other baggage onto carts. Her household was much reduced as dowager, but as La Marche pointed out, a smaller meinie made for faster traveling. However, Mary had insisted that her stepmother be accompanied by three hundred English archers who had returned from her father’s disastrous campaign and were still in the pay of Burgundy.

  Margaret watched the progress of the preparations from her window, the many colored panes sometimes casting the scene in a rosy, sunny or blue light. Servants below were scurrying from the palace to put hastily assembled belongings into the baggage carts, a sense of urgency in their step. Jeanne stood beside her, and neither woman wanted to voice their fear that they did not know when they would be together again. Margaret’s and Mary’s lives had been woven together for most of Margaret’s time in Burgundy, which meant that Jeanne was always there for her as a friend. Both were thinking on times shared, crises overco
me, concerns discussed, and neither wanted to be the first to say farewell. A small hand found Margaret’s on her other side, and she started, although she would have known Mary’s touch anywhere. She squeezed it, and it was then she quietly began to cry.

  “We must all be brave, belle-mère.” The now confident Mary spoke for all three. “’Tis cruel that we must be parted, but as Messire Louis told me, your life could be in danger if the crowd out there turns ugly. I shall keep you informed of all that happens, and one day, I promise you, we shall be together again.”

  Margaret was shamed by the young woman’s courage and wiped her eyes. “The people love you, Mary. Do not forget that,” she said. “You represent a new era for them, but I will always represent the old. I pray your councilors will soon be released to you, but in the meantime lean on Messire Louis. He is a good and loyal man.”

  She saw La Marche hurry down the steps to ready her carriage, barking orders to the coachmen and waving his expressive hands. With Cappi on her shoulder, Fortunata scurried along behind him, making certain the tussie-mussie and foot warmer were in place inside. It was time to go. With a sigh, she turned to embrace Jeanne and then, kissing Mary’s forehead, she took the heart-shaped face in her hands and smiled into those serious gray eyes.