Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Help me with her to the chair,” the buxom midwife barked to her two assistants, who jumped to attention. Margaret let go of Mary’s hand, smiling cheerfully.

  “’Tis not long now, my dove. Just do as Vrouwe Jansen tells you, and all will be well.” She watched as Mary, her chemise up over her distended belly, was helped out of bed and onto the awkward-looking chair.

  The child was reluctant to make an entrance, and poor Mary grunted and groaned during pushing efforts for more than an hour before Vrouwe Jansen’s coaching changed from stern to encouraging. “I see the head, your grace. Now, one, two, three, push. Aye, ’tis good! Only a few more.”

  Mary was tiring. Her small frame did not lend itself to easy childbearing, so her breaths were labored and mingled with screams and prayers to every saint she could conjure up. Finally the head and shoulders were freed and the rest of the slippery body fell into the midwife’s waiting red hands. Margaret heard an excited gasp from the three birthing attendants.

  “’Tis a fine baby boy, duchess!” Vrouwe Jansen proclaimed. “You have a son.”

  Margaret could not suppress a whoop of joy. Going to Mary’s side, she put her arm around her stepdaughter, and both stared in wonder at the wrinkled form that was being held up and smacked into life. A lusty cry emanated from the heir of Burgundy, and for the first time in several hours, Mary’s face broke into a smile.

  “I have a son, Margaret,” she whispered. “And he appears healthy.”

  “Aye, my dove, you are a clever girl!” Margaret exulted. “A boy at the summer’s solstice must be a good omen.”

  “Maximilian and I have agreed to name him Philip, after my much beloved grandfather,” Mary said to the midwife, taking the now swaddled babe and holding him to her breast. “I hope that is another good omen.”

  Margaret noted the absence of the Habsburg jutting jaw, which was a prominent feature of his father’s face, and told Mary her son would be handsome.

  Mary smiled adoringly at her child, suckling happily at her tit. “Philip the Handsome,” she murmured to him, “I am the luckiest mother in the world.”

  AS WAS TRADITIONAL, the baby’s baptism took place within a week of his birth, and it was Margaret who carried the child to St. Donatian’s Cathedral through the streets of Bruges that bright June day.

  A few days before, a disturbing rumor that the child was a girl had infiltrated the walls of the Prinsenhof, and when it reached Margaret’s ears, she flew into a rage.

  “Who started this?” she railed at poor Lord Louis. “There was no secrecy around the birth, and all of us in the bedchamber saw the baby was a boy. ’Tis cruel, and I pray the vicious lie never reaches Mary.”

  Gruuthuse nodded. “I would not doubt Louis of France’s hand in this, your grace. He has stooped to lower lies.” He did not need to voice them. Margaret knew all too well those Louis had spread about her, including that she had already borne a child before her marriage to Charles.

  Margaret did not respond. She was thinking. The councilor recognized the familiar pacing and furrowed brow and watched her silently as she glided up and down the red and white tiles.

  “I have an idea, messire,” she had said turning to him triumphantly. “We shall extinguish the spark of this story before the flames have a chance to kindle.”

  Flanked by Lord Ravenstein and the count of Luxembourg, with Anne of Ravenstein holding the christening robe’s train of crimson cloth of gold, Margaret came out of the cathedral on the square, the organ thundering behind her in a joyful anthem. They were an impressive sight, and for a moment the crowd stared, awestruck. Margaret saw her chance and stepped out in front of her two escorts.

  “Your grace?” Ravenstein began, and then was astonished to see Margaret carefully disrobe the baby, who was showing his displeasure at being awakened by lusty exercise of his lungs. “Your grace, what are you doing?” Ravenstein spluttered.

  “Extinguishing a fire, messire,” she whispered. Releasing the final piece of clothing from the child and tossing it to Lady Anne behind her, whose mouth was also agape, Margaret held the baby aloft and cried, “Good people of Burgundy, I present to you your heir, Philip, baptized here today in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  “Amen,” chanted the crowd in rote. As if to prove the point, baby Philip chose the moment to spout a fountain from his maleness, causing a great cheer to erupt. Someone shouted, “’Tis indeed a boy! Long live Philip of Burgundy!” and the rest followed suit.

  Then a big brute of a man up front called out, “God bless Madame la Grande!” and another cheer went up, as did a couple of gleefully thrown hats.

  Ravenstein smiled and then he laughed, his eagle eyes lively with amusement. “How I have missed your mind, your grace. Counseling was never so stimulating as when I had the honor to serve you.”

  “Burgundy is fortunate to have such a loyal servant, messire,” Margaret replied, helping Anne of Ravenstein dress the baby again. “And,” she added, shaking Philip’s water from her sleeve, “I pray this fire is well and truly snuffed out.”

  Back in her apartments and resting on her bed, the windows wide to let in what breeze there was on that warm day, Margaret suddenly felt tired and unaccountably sad. Holding Philip in her arms for so long had been bittersweet. She turned her huge betrothal ring on her finger and for the thousandth time wished she had a child. She had thought long and hard about remarrying, now that her year’s mourning for Charles was over, but her barrenness was well known, and she doubted she was a useful marriage tool for anyone now. Certes, if Anthony had come to her and offered it, she would have run into his arms. But he had never written even of the possibility, although a poem he had sent recently had struck a chord and given her hope. She reached under her sweet-smelling pillow and pulled it out.

  “I was as blithe as a bright bird on a briar

  When I saw that maiden in the hall.

  She is white of limb, lovely, true,

  She is fair and flower of all.

  Might I have her at will,

  Steadfast of love, lovely, true,

  Of my sorrow she might save me,

  Joy and bliss were e’er to me new.”

  “Of my sorrow, she might save me,” she repeated. “And I wish that you might save me from mine, my love.”

  BUT IT WAS Edward, not Anthony, who changed her life.

  A week after she had carried little Philip to his baptism in St. Donatian’s, she left Bruges to supervise the renovations to the residence in one of her favorite dower towns, Binche in Hainault, about forty miles south of Brussels. The old castle at the northwest corner of the impressive wall around the small city had suffered in the fires during Louis’ attempt to push his boundaries north, and she was supervising its restoration. The decoration took her mind off continued aggression by Louis in many other parts of the duchy, but she felt relatively safe here.

  It was another warm day, when, with a simple cap covering her head and her overdress tucked up in her belt, she consulted with the mason on improvements to the chapel and reception room. She had asked for the windows to be enlarged so that she could look out on the terrace garden and pleasant meadows on the hill beyond the wall. She was not expecting a visitor and was somewhat dismayed when Olivier de la Marche hurried in and announced Will Hastings. She hastily pulled her skirt down over her chemise and straightened her cap.

  “Certes, my lord Hastings, this is a surprise. Please forgive my appearance,” she said, smiling and stepping gingerly over some masonry on the floor. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence here in my humble house?”

  Margaret never ceased to astonish Will with her ability to adapt herself to any situation, and he went forward with an answering smile and low bow. He waited for her to put out her hand to kiss.

  Instead she laughed. “Let us dispense with the usual formalities, my lord. My hand is filthy, as you can see.”

  His eyes twinkled with amusement, and he offered his arm to lead her
out to the garden. A true Englishwoman, Margaret insisted that roses be a mainstay of all of her gardens, and the scent from the myriad blossoms was almost overpowering. She breathed it in with a sigh of pleasure.

  “May I say you are as lovely as ever, your grace,” Will murmured. “I always find your company intoxicating.”

  Knowing all too well his reputation as a seducer, she did not take the compliment seriously. “’Tis the roses have intoxicated you, my lord, and addled your wits. You cannot fool me, for I see myself daily aging in my mirror. You, on the other hand, do not look a day older,” she rejoined but quickly changed the subject. “Let us forego the false flattery and agree that time is not kind, shall we? I would far rather know how Lady Hastings is liking Calais?”

  She felt him stiffen. Sweet Jesu, did he really believe I might fall for his flattery? She almost laughed. What utter foolishness! Surely, she thought, this is not why he came, although he has only brought a squire and a groom with him.

  “My wife looks on Calais as an outpost, your grace,” he replied, dropping the unctuousness from his voice so suddenly that Margaret was disconcerted. “We shall return to London shortly, and I believe she is counting the days.”

  Ah, his lady’s displeasure was what caused his distemper, she thought with relief, not the reminder that he was married. She relaxed and again asked him the reason for the unexpected visit.

  Will wanted to say “a hare-brained scheme of your brother’s,” but of course he did not. He looked about them and saw he could speak freely. Then he turned to face Margaret and gave her Edward’s message. He watched her face change from benign smile to outright astonishment, and he was amused that he had rendered her speechless by the end.

  “The little boy’s mother has been sworn to secrecy, and she is waiting for my message with her husband in Tournai and will be close by in case … well, in case …”

  “In case I cannot fulfill my duty as a surrogate mother or in case I die? I understand, my lord,” Margaret was finally able to say.

  “Something to that effect, your grace.”

  “And you say George sanctioned this? It seems hard for me to imagine he had a conversation about his bastard with Ned before … when under sentence of death,” she finished, lowering her eyes to the dusty path. “Was it George’s idea?”

  “Nay, your grace. Edward—I mean, the king’s grace—was in such torment over Clarence’s imminent death that I believe he wanted to make some atonement. He said Clarence was grateful and that you should know he could not think of anyone better to whom he would entrust his son. I understand the mother will be paid handsomely and will ready the boy—Jehan is his name—should you agree to the plan. ’Tis necessary that he remain in seclusion for obvious reasons and because ’twas my lord of Clarence’s last wish that history not know he had dishonored his wife on one night.”

  “Certes, George’s honor did not desert him completely, I am happy to know,” Margaret said sadly. “In matters marital, he was far more moral than Ned and Dickon.” Or you and I, she almost said, but stopped herself.

  Will had the grace to color beneath his graying beard. “Aye, he was,” he agreed. They walked on in silence, Will giving Margaret time to digest the extraordinary plan Edward had concocted. Margaret was touched beyond belief when Will told her Ned thought George’s son would fill the void of her own childlessness as well as provide a permanent link to her favorite brother. Her heart glowed and her excitement mounted. Why not? she thought. As they turned at the ten-foot-thick wall that separated them from the sheep in the field beyond, she gazed up at the warm bricks of her house and made a decision.

  “He shall live here!” she exclaimed, her joy not lost on Will. “’Tis far away from court and prying eyes, and no one will look for him here. I shall appoint a chaplain to tutor him, and he shall be brought up prop-erly—but quietly. One day, I shall tell him about his father,” she said, her step quickening. She was already making plans and wanted to talk to the mason again. “You may tell Edward that I am very agreeable and that he can count on my discretion. I shall write my thanks to Ned and have you send the letter from Calais.”

  “Nay, your grace. ’Twas the king’s express wish that no written trace mark this exchange. I will tell him when I return to London next week. He will be delighted, believe me.”

  “Not as much as I am, Lord Hastings,” she cried, and she ran up the steps. As she reached the door into the house, she turned. Just as quickly as enthusiasm had bubbled, her mood changed, and her voice was suddenly tinged with doubt. “But his mother. The little boy’s mother—how can she bear to let him go? How can I be happy when I am taking another woman’s child?” Dejected, she waited for Will to mount the stairs to her side.

  With a kindness she had not seen before, he took her hand and kissed it.

  “It seems the mother is pleased to divest herself of her bastard, your grace. She and her boatman husband have trouble enough feeding the two they have had since being wed and they welcome the money. Your concern is misplaced, I can assure you.”

  She was all smiles again. “Then we shall prepare a palace for a prince, my lord,” she cried, happily.

  MARGARET FELT LIKE a young, adventurous woman again as Fortunata and Henriette helped her into a plain kersey gown. Despite the fine lawn of her chemise underneath, the scratchy material irritated her skin, and she pitied the women who had to wear these clothes every day. Her tailor had produced a light mantle and hood that would conceal her face from all but prying eyes, and she wore a widow’s wimple with folds that hung from her chin and completed the picture of an ordinary townswoman.

  Only three people in her residence at Oudenaarde knew of her mission: Fortunata, Guillaume and Henriette. Seeing the tears in Henriette’s eyes when the plan was revealed, she was deeply moved.

  “Certes, Henriette, why the sad face?”

  “Your grace, they are tears of happiness. Every time you speak to my little Guillaume, I know how you have longed for a child.” Henriette curtseyed as she spoke.

  Margaret thanked her and turned away. There was a time, she thought, when only Fortunata would have understood. Disguising herself as she was doing today took her mind back to that May Day at the Wardrobe when she and her ladies had sneaked away for a day of anonymous entertainment. She remembered Fortunata attacking the young man who had taken the liberty of kissing her mistress, and she could not forbear a chuckle.

  “Guillaume will meet you at the stable, your grace,” Henriette whispered conspiratorially. “He looks like a farmer today. You will not know him.” She giggled.

  Margaret had explained to Fortunata that it was imperative that she and Guillaume not be recognized. “You are well known, pochina, and would give me away.”

  “I understand,” the dwarf had answered. “I will make the room ready for the child.”

  Margaret and Guillaume traveled as though brother and sister on two hackneys, with one of his soldiers dressed as a groom on another. On dry roads along the River Schelde they were able to cover the eighteen miles in one day, reaching Tournai at Compline. The unusual five-towered cathedral of Notre Dame was ringing its bells for the final service of the day. Inside the city wall, they crossed the river and rode up the hill and past the famous belfry, making their way to a respectable hostelry by the episcopal palace recommended to Guillaume. For the first time in her life, Margaret lay on a crude wooden pallet padded with fresh straw. Guillaume was to sleep on another but first he covered her with a blanket he had brought for the occasion, knowing she would not touch any bedding provided by the inn. They also shared the room with a merchant and his wife on their way to Santiago de Compostella.

  “How do you know that is where they go, Guillaume?” Margaret asked while they were eating the meager fare of the penny-pinching landlord. Margaret had stared hard at the trencher on which sat a large lump of fatty beef and a slab of cheese. The ale was good, and the cheese robust, so she chewed as much of the beef as she could stomach and hoped the g
ravy-sopped trencher would satisfy her hunger along with the cheese.

  “Do you see the tin shell-shaped badge pinned to his tunic?” Guillaume said quietly, as they sat at the other end of a long refectory table opposite the couple. “That proclaims a pilgrim, and it serves as a sign that the wearers should be respected on their journey south. ’Tis also a keepsake, proving you have made the pilgrimage. Do you not have such a badge in England, your grace?”

  Margaret now remembered seeing pilgrims on the road to Canterbury with similar pins, but it had not occurred to her they were connected to their journey. Compostella made her think of Anthony, and it was his face that haunted her dreams that night. She saw the scarred ear, his clear blue eyes and fine chestnut hair. And then she touched him and his clothes miraculously vanished and they were once again naked together stretched out on the hard floor. He gently ran his finger up her calf as he kissed her mouth. This time, though, there was no fire in the hearth, and she was shivering. She woke up with a start, forgetting where she was but knowing she was cold and indeed something was moving up her leg. She kicked off the blanket and slapped at her calf.

  “What is it, Margaretta?” Guillaume whispered into the pitch black room. He had been instructed to use the name to avoid recognition, but it came hard after years of using her title. He need not have worried, for the pilgrim couple snored in the exhausted sleep of those who have walked all day. “Are you unwell?” He fumbled for his tinderbox and used the spark to light a taper he had by his pallet. Margaret held up a bedbug in her pinched finger and thumb and flung it from her. “Ugh!” was all he heard. He was dismayed. The dowager was getting quite a lesson in humility, he thought, but would she blame him for his choice of shelter? He had spent many a night bedded thus during his heyday as a philanderer. He now preferred his feather bed and soft Henriette next to him.