For the first time, she believed, Margaret disagreed with her little sconfidante. “I think you are wrong, pochina. Maximilian is the answer to all our troubles.”
Fortunata harrumphed before sharply drawing the curtains and saying good night.
WITHIN A VERY few days, the wedding was celebrated, and as the bells rang out at St. Bavo’s and at every other church in Ghent, there was hope in the air that the tribulations of the past year could be put behind the beleaguered Burgundians.
Unfortunately, they had only just begun.
23
Burgundy, 1478
By the time Lent began, Mary was radiant in her pregnancy. Margaret’s emotions rocketed between intense jealousy and immense joy. That Mary and Maximilian had fallen in love was the only glimpse of sunshine throughout the tumultuous year since Charles’s death.
“Belle-mère, I am the happiest woman on earth!” Mary had told Margaret one day in late December when she knew she was with child. Margaret did not have the heart to say Mary was being tactless. Instead she smiled and kissed the young woman, noting the bloom on her cheeks and the new swell of her bosom. Briefly she remembered that day in her bath at Josse-ten-Noode, when she rejoiced in her own changing body. It was too late for her, she knew, and as a barren woman, she had no expectation of being married again. If the truth were known, she had no intention of even entertaining such an idea, unless, of course, it was with Anthony.
“Have you told Maximilian, my dear?” Margaret asked, one dreary day in late February as the two women sat for the artist Hans Memling. She had temporarily moved back to Ghent at Yuletide, as extensive renovations to her new residence in Malines were being undertaken. She had abandoned the old palace that Charles had used when the judicial branch of the Low Countries was moved to the city, which, as the richest of Margaret’s dower towns, gave her financial security. In November, she had purchased the house from John, Bishop of Cambrai, another of Duke Philip’s bastards, and planning the rebuilding had taken her mind off the constant French incursions that still plagued several areas along the Burgundian borders.
Mary nodded, smoothing the wool dress over her still-flat stomach. “He is very pleased with me, madame.”
“Mary, my dear. Don’t you think you could call me Margaret now? We have always been friends, have we not? When you were a child, it seemed appropriate that you call me stepmother, and I did my best to be a mother to you. But after all, you are twenty-one now, and I am hardly an old lady,” Margaret said, laughing. “Although your son will look at me that way, in truth.”
“So what will little Philip call you, belle—Margaret,” Mary said, dimpling at the first use of the older woman’s name. “Aye, I am certain ’tis a boy, and Maximilian has agreed he shall be named for my grandfather. It would be prudent to give the heir of Burgundy a name with happy associations for our people.”
“Very wise,” Margaret said, remembering with a shudder the grisly events of March in Ghent. “Let Philip call me grandmère, I beg of you. It would please me greatly.”
“Madame la Grande, may I request that you not move so much at this time,” a voice called from the back of the empty audience chamber.
It took Margaret a second to realize that the artist was speaking to her. She wondered if she would ever get used to her new title. She knew Isabella had been styled thus when Charles became duke and married her, and so as a widow she had accepted it was to be hers now Mary was the duchess. Fortunata had laughed when she had first heard about it. “If milord duke dies, madonna, you will have the same name as his mother, yes? But it is perfect, you see. You are une grande madame,” and she clapped her hands with delight at her own witticism.
Margaret, on the other hand, had glowered at her. “Do not poke fun at my height, pochina, or I will poke fun at yours!” Will we ever get over this feeling of being stared at? she wondered. “Neither of us can change the way we are, so we must not jest about it, you and I.” Fortunata had nodded and hung her head in mock shame.
Margaret smiled now. Aye, my beloved pochina, you are quite right. Madame la Grande is appropriate. She called out, “Forgive me, Meester Memling, I had forgotten all about you, so quiet back there. How much longer must we sit here? When can we see the painting? When will it be finished?”
Mary laughed at her. “You sound like I did a dozen years ago.”
Hans Memling was one of Burgundy’s preeminent artists, and he had asked the two duchesses to be models for a large work commissioned by one of Bruges’ weathiest merchants, Johannes de Doper, to be given to the St. John Hospital church. He came out from behind his easel, on which he was making sketches for the enormous wood-paneled tryptich that was three-quarters complete. Mary and Margaret would be depicted as St. Catherine of Alexandria and St. Barbara respectively, two saints particularly revered in Bruges. The work would portray the mystical marriage of St. Catherine to the infant Jesus.
“Madame, ’tis well known you have a love of books. May I respectfully suggest that if you are finding sitting still … ah, how should I put it? … troubling, perhaps I should draw you with an open book in your hands. A book, I trust, would make this ordeal more pleasant,” Memling said, smiling sweetly. Margaret was struck by the artist’s youthfulness despite his more than forty years. His untidy brown hair showed no intention of turning gray, and the prominent dimple in his chin gave him a cherubic air. She looked at him sheepishly.
“I fear I am become impatient of late, meester. Aye, a book would keep me quiet,” she said. “I shall read from Lord Rivers’ English translation of The Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers, which he has been kind enough to send me. ’Tis a copy from our old friend William Caxton’s press. You remember Master Caxton, meester?” The artist nodded. Before Margaret could rise, Fortunata was there to thrust the book into her hands. Margaret laughed. “As you see, ’tis never far from me, Mary,” she said, stroking the brown leather cover lovingly. “I am learning much,” she hurriedly added, waving Memling off. “I shall be a model model now, meester, have no fear.”
Memling bowed and returned to his work, while Margaret chose a passage to read. Mary gave her left arm a shake to ward off stiffness after holding it up to receive a betrothal ring from an invisible source. The Virgin and infant Jesus with the ring had already been painted on the wooden panel at the workshop.
“Belle-mère—I mean, Margaret, you look very demure reading your book. A perfect St. Barbara. She was also very beautiful, I believe, and that is why her father locked her up while he was gone, if I remember the story correctly.”
Margaret was touched. Mary had never commented on her appearance before. “Do you think I am beautiful, my dove? With my long neck and hair the color of hay, I think myself ordinary at best.”
“Aye, I think you are beautiful! And you cannot say you do not notice the way others look at you.” Mary chuckled. “No false humility, my dear Margaret, I beg of you.”
“’Tis not at my beauty they stare, Mary,” Margaret protested. “They stare at my extraordinary height, ’tis all. Just as they stare at Fortunata. Am I right, pochina?” She turned to look at Fortunata, who nodded vigorously from her perch on the window seat behind them. “But enough of this nonsense. Let me read you the passage on falsehoods, sweeting, lest you confuse flattery with one,” she said. “Besides, I must keep my promise to Meester Memling to be still and stave off the pangs of hunger. My belly growls, and I smell something delicious wafting from the kitchens.”
Later, as the two women devoured oysters, skate-and-cod pie, a custard and some dates and nuts, Henriette hurried in with a letter for Margaret.
“’Tis from Calais, your grace,” Henriette said, curtseying and handing her the letter. “Is that not the king of England’s seal?”
Margaret’s heart beat faster. She saw that Henriette was correct. “Ned never writes to me. What can he want now?”
“Perhaps he is informing you that he intends to send us help against Louis, Margaret,” Mary suggested quiet
ly. “You have begged enough.”
“Aye, and I am the fairy queen!” Margaret retorted. “I have given up on that, Mary. My brother likes his pension from Louis too much, in truth.”
She had broken the seal and spread out the vellum. Having no secrets from Mary now except in the matter of Anthony, Margaret began to read Ned’s usual opening, “Right honorable and well beloved sister, we greet thee well,” out loud. Her eyes skimmed ahead, and, before she could open her mouth to read again, the room went black and she slipped off her chair, fainting onto the red and blue carpet.
Mary leapt to her feet, her needlework falling forgotten off her lap, and, commanding one of her ladies to fetch the physician, she hurried to Margaret’s side. Jeanne ran to the popinjay, which was minding its own business on its perch, and waved her arms wildly, making the poor bird squawk and flap its wings in an effort to escape its tether. The result was what Jeanne was hoping for, and, retrieving a fallen green feather, she thrust it into the fire and then held the burnt quill up to Margaret’s nostrils. Margaret moaned and, opening her eyes, wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Pardon me, your grace,” Jeanne said, apologizing. “But praise God ’twas naught but a simple swooning. Come, I beg of you take some wine.”
Margaret took a draught, coughed and eased herself back into the chair.
“What is it, belle-mère?” Mary said, her worried eyes huge in her blanched face. “Was it something in the letter?”
Margaret remembered and gave an anguished cry. “George, my dearest brother George.” She stopped, not wanting to say the words, and when she did, they mirrored her overwhelming melancholy. “He is dead!” Not taking her glazed eyes off the crackling fire, she downed her wine.
Both Mary and Jeanne gasped at the news, and at that moment the doctor appeared, followed by a page carrying a box of potions and instruments. Mary waved him away. “Thank you, doctor, but Madame la Grande has recovered. She swooned, ’tis all.”
The doctor bowed gravely but insisted on examining the patient. He left a few minutes later after giving Margaret a tincture to take before she retired for the night.
“My dear Margaret, may I read the letter to you? I will stop whenever you ask me to.” Mary knelt beside her stepmother and gently removed the letter from the rigid fingers. Margaret absently nodded her willingness to listen, and Jeanne pulled up a stool to sit by and hold her hand.
“I regret to inform you that our brother George is dead,” Mary read.
Margaret moaned again. That was as far as she had gone, but Mary read on.
“It came to my notice that even from the Tower he was plotting against me, spilling vile lies about me, my wife and her family and even our mother. He was brought to trial for treason …”
Mary stopped, drawing in a sharp breath as she read ahead, not wanting to distress Margaret further.
Margaret sat ramrod-straight in her chair, her grip on Jeanne’s hand like a vise. “Go on, Mary,” she said, her voice cracking.
“… for treason, as you may have heard. Before Parliament I accused George of plotting to take the throne. Some of these efforts will be well known to you, but lately there were more that came to my ears. In truth, Margaret, one of them involved you and your alleged wish that George be wedded to Mary.”
Mary looked up in surprise. “Is this true, belle-mère?”
Margaret drew a deep breath. “Before I was betrothed to your father, there was some talk of marrying you to George,” she admitted, “but Edward could not take that risk, Mary. George was disappointed because it would have meant he and I could stay together always. But that was many years ago. I swear to you, there is no truth to George’s story.” In a flash of insight, she guessed George must have known that she would support him in a match with Mary had it been offered. Ah, George, your ambition and pride had no bounds, in truth, and look what it has brought you, she thought sadly. To Mary she said, “I pray you, continue. I am ready.”
“Only mother begged me to spare him, Meg. All others deserted him. Richard believed my soul would rot in Hell if I took my own brother’s life and cautioned me to rescind the sentence, but he also believed in George’s guilt. No one came forward to speak in his defense at the trial, and he was forced to defend himself. Had he shown remorse for all his past transgressions towards me or had he pleaded with me for his life, I might have relented, but he was arrogant until the end. As long as he lived, my throne was in jeopardy. His request that the execution be private was honored, and as you know he was drinking heavily, I ordered a butt of his favorite malmsey to be delivered to him that night, and even though the poison was administered in a cup of it, I do not think he suffered greatly in his death. He is now lying in Tewkesbury with Isabel, God rest his soul. Pray for me, Margaret, I beg of you. This decision was the most difficult of my life, and I know it will not be looked on kindly by history.”
Mary whispered his farewell and signature and gazed with love and sympathy at her stepmother. “I am so sorry, Margaret.” With her new self-confidence, she raised her voice. “Come, let us all pray for Clarence’s soul and,” she added, although she did not much feel like it, “for Edward.” She fell on her knees and signed herself and was followed in quick succession by Margaret and Jeanne.
Margaret’s thoughts had flown back to England and her childhood. She saw herself playing chess at Greenwich with George, which made her wonder if he had received her gift of the book from Caxton. She heard again the silly squabbles he and Dickon had engaged in daily. She felt his hand in hers as he led her in a dance. And she remembered the last time she had seen him—at Fauquembergues in Seventy-five, looking back at her from his horse. Her eyes flew wide and she slumped back onto her heels.
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” she whispered, causing Jeanne to look at her anxiously. “The prediction! George’s astrologer told him he would have a watery end. The malmsey! Do you think they drowned him in it?” she asked of no one. She shuddered, imagining George’s last look on the world, his blue eyes open, his sweet smile still upon his face, and his elegant blond hair spread out like a halo in the amber wine. She crossed herself again and tried to concentrate on her prayers, but her family’s faces kept appearing one by one, each one frozen in the time of her girlhood. Gone were her father, her brother Edmund, her sister Anne, her cousin of Warwick, and now George. And then, because she could not help it, Charles’s face manifested itself in her vision. She suddenly remembered that she had also seen Charles for the last time that morning in late July at Fauquembergues as he rode off with Edward to deal with Louis. Unlike George, he had given her nary a backward glance.
And then Fortunata flitted into view, her dark eyes prominent as they surveyed Margaret with love and sympathy. “Madonna, I am sorry you are sad,” she said quietly. “Where is your kerchief? The one I gave you. Weep into it, and you will feel better.”
Margaret smiled through her tears. “’Tis always with me, Fortunata,” she told her servant, taking the well-worn embroidered kerchief from her sleeve as if to prove it. “It will always remind me of you.”
“I am always here with you, madonna. I remind you of me every day,” Fortunata said indignantly, which at any other time would have made Margaret laugh.
“BELLE-MÈRE, TAKE THE pain away!” Mary screamed from her elaborate canopied bed, her petite form racked by labor. “Christ’s bones, but it hurts!”
Margaret and the midwife raised eyebrows at the unaccustomed swearing, but Margaret took Mary’s hand and stroked it rhythmically to reassure her. “’Twill be over soon, I promise, my dove. And you will have a fine son, I predict. Remember, our pilgrimage to St. Collette. She will answer our prayers for an heir.”
Mary turned her perspiring face to her stepmother and gave a wan smile. “Aye, ’twas right that we went. But I am so hot, Margaret. Is it me or is the weather warm outside?”
“Both, sweet Mary,” Margaret smiled at her, and then another labor pain overtook more conversation. Every muscle in Mary’s
body and face went rigid as she gritted her teeth and tried not to scream, while the dumpy Flemish midwife fussed and tut-tutted around her, her chilblained hands none too gentle.
The room was overcrowded, Margaret thought, but not having gone through childbirth, she did not like to dismiss anyone in case the attendant might have a role about which she was ignorant. But so many people contributed to the heat in the room. She finally dismissed three of the ladies who seemed to be merely bystanders. The birthing chair was ready for Mary as soon as she felt the urge to push, and Margaret pondered on her emotions at this extraordinary moment. Witnessing the birth of her first grandchild—Mary had begged Margaret to think on the babe as her own flesh and blood—was a thrill, but it was tinged with bitterness that she had never known what it was like to watch a child of her own enter the world. There was an ache in her heart for the loss of that knowledge and joy, and she swallowed hard a few times to suppress the lump in her throat.
Mary’s grip on her hand tightened again, and Margaret realized the pains were closer together and more intense. A spotless pile of swaddling bands lay ready to encase the baby when it breathed, and near the fireplace several buckets of hot water were being constantly exchanged when they cooled. Behind the bed curtains by the window, Margaret knew, Mary’s physicians and her astrologer were quietly standing by in case of any emergency. This was no ordinary birth—during which men were not usually present—but an event of great political and historical importance involving the greatest heiress in Europe. Nothing must go wrong. In her anxiety, Margaret had reluctantly agreed to ban Fortunata from the scene because the astrologer had deemed the dwarf’s presence did not align properly with Mary’s stars that day.
Margaret vaguely wondered how townsfolk and peasants dealt with the process. She had visited many a house and even hovel in her tireless work among the poor and pitied the mothers who could barely suckle their infants for sickness and lack of sustenance. Thank God, this child would know no such deprivation, she thought, although the Christ child had been born of humble parents and in less than ideal surroundings. In her waking moments alone in her huge bed, she had often dreamed of adopting a poor child and giving it a chance in life. Perhaps she would one day, she thought.
Daughter of York Page 56