Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  Fortunata put her hand out and stroked Margaret’s cheek. In any other circumstance, she would never have dared to touch the duchess thus. Margaret was past caring about etiquette and only wanted to ease her little friend’s suffering.

  “I love you, madonna,” she whispered, her words hard to understand. “You are the finest lady in the world. I am sorry I must leave you, but you must promise me one thing.”

  “Do not talk of leaving me, Fortunata. I command that you stay.” Margaret could not stop the tears now. “What is it you want me to do?”

  Fortunata fumbled beneath her gown and pulled out the long chain on which Margaret’s gift of long ago still hung. She kissed the ring, and despite the locked muscles, her face and eyes softened. “This is for William. I want to give this to William, because he gave me love, too, madonna. He is a good man.” A tear escaped down the side of her face, but she did not take her eyes off Margaret. “You promise?”

  “Certes, I promise. He will be proud to take it, I warrant. Do you want him to see you? I will send a messenger to England,” she said, knowing it to be pointless.

  Fortunata shook her head as best she could. “I am not pretty today,” she said.

  Margaret had to chuckle. “Aye, I have seen you prettier, pochina.”

  Margaret stayed by her servant all day, cooling her hot forehead with wet towels, aching with sadness at every shallow breath Fortunata managed to take and wincing with every spasm that attacked different parts of her body. During the morning hours, they prayed together and Margaret told her servant of the joy that she had brought into her lonely life in Greenwich. Margaret reminisced about their times together and thanked her for her devotion. They both cried and laughed in between the increasing bouts of pain. At some point, Beatrice came in with some food and ale, but neither Fortunata nor Margaret could eat.

  “You will take care of Cappi? Be kind to him, madonna. He was only jealous of the rabbit. He is not a bad monkey, in truth.”

  Margaret nodded briefly, but she had every intention of locking up her pochina’s killer in the Ten Waele zoo.

  Fortunata had much to get off her chest. She knew she was dying. “I am sorry you never had a child, madonna. I hated Duke Charles for what he did to you. I know he hurt you badly one night, and I wanted to kill him.”

  “How did you know, Fortunata? In truth, I do not remember telling anyone but my brother about that night.”

  “I was under the bed, madonna. The duke did not see me when he came in, and I was afraid of him, so I hid under the bed. I heard—” She broke off and again she reached up to touch Margaret’s face. “One day you will find Anthony, madonna cara. I know this to be true in here,” and she tapped her heart.

  “Perhaps,” Margaret sighed. “Now you must sleep. I will be close if you need something.”

  Margaret sat quietly by the bed until it was dark, when Beatrice came in to light the candles. Fortunata heard her and put out her hand. At the same time a spasm made her arch her back and scream with pain. Beatrice ran to her and held her hand, looking anxiously at Margaret. “What is it, your grace? What would cause this? I am afraid for you to be here. Perhaps you will contract the same sickness.”

  “I do not care, Beatrice. I cannot leave her to die by herself.”

  “Die?” Beatrice gasped. “I did not—” She let go of Fortunata’s hand and knelt to pray. “Dear God, save this good woman. She means so much to us, and especially to my mistress. Why must you take her now?”

  “God gives and God takes away,” Fortunata said, her breathing an effort now. “Do not be sad, Beatrice. Only now you must care for Madonna Margaret, si?”

  “Si, I mean aye,” Beatrice said, indulging the dying woman in their little game.

  “That is good. I am happy.” Again her back arched and she gasped for breath, her stomach muscles rigid.

  She is suffocating, Margaret suddenly realized. She cannot have long now.

  “I will stay by her and keep vigil, Beatrice, thank you. Stay close, and I will call if I need you.” She walked with Beatrice to the door and murmured, “Pray fetch my chaplain.” Beatrice left the room, her nose buried in her kerchief.

  As the Belfort’s great bells rang for vespers over the city of Ghent, Monseigneur de Clugny droned the last rites and anointed Fortunata’s burning forehead with oil. Margaret helped Fortunata hold a cross between her hands as the dying woman’s rasping breaths came farther and farther apart.

  “Farewell my sweet pochina, may the angels carry you to your rest,” she whispered. “Watch over me from your heavenly home and never forget you were loved by a grateful duchess.”

  A slight pressure on her hand told Margaret that Fortunata had understood. With one more anguished effort she tried to inhale, but the body she had so cursed all her short life dealt her one last cruel blow, and she expired without a sound. The chaplain gave Margaret a blessing, closed Fortunata’s eyes and left the room to supervise the burial.

  Fortunata’s fingers were still entwined with Margaret’s when Jeanne de Halewijn hurried in to console her friend. When she tried to gently pry Margaret away, Margaret cried out as if in pain, “Leave me alone, I beg of you! Oh, God, I want to die,” she wept, as Jeanne softly closed the door. Margaret gazed at the lifeless figure on her lap. “You promised you would be here always. Pochina, ah, my little one, what shall I do without you?”

  24

  Burgundy, 1480

  Margaret presided over the Yuletide celebrations that year at Coudenberg, as Mary was in seclusion awaiting the birth of her second child. But it seemed to her immediate circle that she just did not care about anything. And they were right. She missed Fortunata on a daily basis, glancing behind her every few minutes to make sure the dwarf was really not in her shadow or kneeling beside her at the prie-dieu, where they had exchanged such secrets. The world did not seem real without Fortunata in it, and she felt like a sleepwalker drifting through the days.

  Not long after the Twelfth Night feast, Margaret was teaching Maximilian some words of English when Jeanne was announced and came hurrying into Margaret’s chambers.

  “Forgive the intrusion, your graces, but the baby is coming,” she said breathlessly. Maximilian looked concerned but let Margaret ask the questions. Childbirth was a mystery to him, although he thoroughly enjoyed his participation in the cause. He was a lusty young man, Margaret had found out when she asked Mary not long after the marriage if all was well behind the bedchamber door. Mary had dimpled, blushed and stammered an assent, so she had not pressed for details but merely smiled and changed the subject. Lucky Mary, she thought.

  “How soon do you think, Jeanne?” Margaret said, rising and smoothing out her green and red damask gown. Seeing Maximilian at a loss for words, she excused him to seek amusement elsewhere and called for help in changing into something more practical to attend the birth. Mary had begged her to be there again. Beatrice carefully removed the elaborate butterfly hennin, noticing not for the first time that Margaret’s hair was losing its youthful luster and there were new lines on her brow. She replaced the concoction with a simple veil on a velvet headband and laced Margaret into a plainer overdress, tucking a gorget across her chest and under the square neck of the gown.

  “Thank you, Beet,” Margaret said affectionately. “I pray you send Henriette or one of the younger ladies to attend me later. I want you to go to bed early and rest those old bones of yours. I shall brook no protest. ’Tis an order.”

  Beatrice was grateful and curtseyed her thanks. “In truth, your grace, I do tire quickly these days,” she said. “May the Virgin protect the young duchess in her labors this night.”

  “Amen to that,” Margaret said, removing her rings and dropping them into her silver casket. “I shall not need these tonight either.”

  The Brussels midwife found to assist in the birth was a complete contrast to the rough and ready Vrouwe Jansen. Vrouwe Smit was obsequious in the extreme, bowing and wringing her hands at every question Margaret ha
d.

  “Doctor de Poorter, where did you find this woman?” Margaret asked, finding the physicians and the astrologer behind a screen, consulting charts. The old doctor bowed and told her Vrouwe Smit had come highly recommended. The astrologer was looking pleased with himself, waving his volvelle vigorously, and Margaret raised an eyebrow.

  “If the birth takes place before midnight, your grace, I foresee a bright future for the child,” he beamed. “He or she shall be a ruler.”

  Margaret frowned. If this child was to rule, it would mean Philip might not live long. She adored her godson and refused to believe in the man’s prediction. A cry from Mary cut short any response she was forming, and she gratefully returned to her stepdaughter’s bedside.

  An hour later, causing more pain, it seemed to Margaret, than Philip had, Mary’s second child, a girl, wriggled into the world. Vrouwe Smit smiled and bowed with pride in her handiwork before she turned the child upside down and lightly spanked the little buttocks. Margaret heard a satisfied grunt from behind the screen when the baby cried and so knew it was not yet midnight. The midwife placed the tiny baby into Mary’s arms and then efficiently helped to expel the afterbirth, while Margaret watched, fascinated.

  “The duchess must sleep now,” Vrouwe Smit pronounced with another bow and wringing of hands. “’Twas not an easy birth. ’Twould be wise to have the wet nurse immediately and let the mother rest.”

  Mary reluctantly gave the baby back to the woman and gingerly got off the birthing chair with Margaret’s help.

  “A boy and a girl, Mary, a king’s choice,” Margaret said, tucking her into the freshly made bed.

  “Aye,” Mary said sleepily. “Max and I hoped for a girl, my dearest Margaret. We want to name her after you. In Dutch she will be Margaretha.”

  “Do you think Burgundy is big enough for two of us?” Margaret asked, bursting with pride. “This is indeed an honor I was not expecting, but you have made me very happy. A thousand thanks, my dove.” She bent and kissed the wet forehead, smoothing the disheveled hair from Mary’s face. “Sleep well, and may God watch over you and little Margaretha.”

  As she passed the men behind the screen, she briefly wondered if the astrologer’s foretelling would come true but then dismissed it and went to tell Maximilian that he had a daughter.

  THE PROBLEMS WITH France were by no means over, and the euphoria in Flanders after Guinegatte did not extend to the other Burgundian provinces. There were uprisings in cities, pirates attacked the herring fleets, and Maximilian was accused of using some of the ducal treasure to fund his war chest. Margaret spent many weeks traveling to her dower towns raising money for troops and weaponry so that the young archduke could put down the rebellions.

  She was able to spend two weeks in Binche. The meadows were full of hawthorn and apple blossoms, and white clouds scudded across the sky, creating a natural backdrop for house swallows and martins swooping to gather materials for their nests in the city walls or under the eaves of houses. She wondered if little Jehan would remember her. The last time she had visited had been in November, and the boy had greeted her with such enthusiasm that it had taken her breath away. She need not have worried, for Jehan, upon seeing her cavalcade ride into the courtyard, disobeyed his tutor and ran helter-skelter through the palace to greet his aunt on the front steps. He flung his arms around her, and she picked him up and covered his face with kisses. His rosy cheeks were soft as silk, and she was once again elated to hear his laugh so like her father’s.

  “I love you, Aunt Margaret,” he whispered as he wrapped his little arms around her neck. “You bring me a present?”

  So this is what it is like to have a child, she thought, hugging him and feeling his fragile body warm against her.

  “’Tis ill-bred to ask such questions, Jehan. You should never expect anything. Expectations may lead to disappointment,” she chided, but she winked at him as she carried him into the house. Soon he was whooping across the great hall on his new hobbyhorse, thrusting his wooden sword at all who came near him. Margaret was glad La Marche was not with her. He had frowned his displeasure when she had brought Jehan to Binche last year. It was not that he was unkind to Jehan, but the boy interfered with La Marche’s ordered way of running Margaret’s household. “’Tis good for both of us to have a child in the house, monsieur,” she had told him once. “We forget too easily what it was like to be young, do we not.” La Marche had grunted but nodded in agreement. “You are probably right, your grace,” he acknowledged, “but I still do not approve.”

  The Binche steward had readied her apartments, and she took Jehan there, asking what he had learned from de Montigny. He was proud to be able to recite his numbers in French and then in Dutch.

  “Clever boy,” she said, clapping her hands. “But now that I am here, we shall speak English together.” And she began to correct the lazy speech he had picked up from his Flemish-born mother. They spent leisurely days wandering through the garden, and one day he was put on a small jennet and walked around the courtyard with a groom holding him firmly on the saddle. The pleasure on the boy’s face as he had his first riding lesson put a smile on the faces of everyone watching. De Montigny declared he was an apt student, and Margaret was satisfied the boy had forgotten his hideous former circumstances, although he did ask for his sister one night after saying his prayers.

  Margaret’s smile faded. “I regret I cannot bring her here, sweeting, but perhaps one of the household knows of a boy in the town who can come and play. Would you like that?” The sister was forgotten as an excited Jehan clambered onto the high bed and snuggled up under the fine wool blanket.

  “Tell me a story, Aunt Margaret,” he begged. Margaret could see he was not at all sleepy.

  She took the plunge and told Jehan all about a rich and noble family in England whose name was York. It took all her resolve not to tell him it was his story, too.

  DESPITE MAXIMILIAN’S SUCCESSFUL campaign of the previous summer, Louis still would not go away.

  Margaret returned to Malines from Binche to find Maximilian waiting for her, having returned from troubled Guelders province.

  “Madame Margaret,” Maximilian began. He had come up with that name as a way of incorporating her new title with the more personal first name. He did not care to call her stepmother, he had told Mary. “We need your brother’s help to bring Louis to his senses. We need him to forge a new alliance with us. Do you think he will agree?”

  “Why do you not ask him, Maximilian? He can but deny you.” She was flattered that he had sought her out. It meant she was still important to Burgundy. She was not being put out to pasture.

  “What the archduke is trying to say, your grace, is would he deny you?” Ravenstein interrupted, making Maximilian frown. Margaret was dismayed. It was the first time she had noticed any dissension between them, and she hoped Maximilian was not demonstrating a thirst for autonomy. He could not rule Burgundy without the understanding of those men who had lived and breathed it all their lives. Maximilian was an outsider, and he should tread lightly.

  She kept her tone even and smiled at them both. “Are you asking me to negotiate on your behalf, Maximilian? Do you wish me to write to Edward?”

  “No, Madame Margaret. I wish you to go to England and speak with Edward directly. I believe—and Messire de Ravenstein believes,” he added, realizing he must keep on the councilor’s good side, “that a personal visit by you to England would make Louis sit up and take notice.”

  Margaret began to pace and think, earning a smile of recognition from Ravenstein. Puzzled, Maximilian watched her.

  “Well?” he asked a little impatiently, but Margaret kept walking.

  Then she turned and nodded slowly. “If Louis believes we are making a strong alliance with England, he may withdraw from our borders.” Ravenstein chuckled. He knew she would understand. She frowned and stabbed the air with her finger, finding a flaw in the idea. “Ah, but will Edward want to give up his French pension? And the
Dauphin? The betrothal with my niece Elizabeth was part of their bargain,” she thought out loud. “He is mightily fond of that pension. We would have to make some monetary compensation, I fear, which we can ill afford.”

  “The economic benefits to England would be great, your grace,” Ravenstein reminded her. “Since the treaty in Seventy-five, the English merchants have suffered in their trading with us. We could perhaps offer a new prosperity.”

  “Our immediate need is for archers to reinforce my army, madame,” Maximilian added. “If you make Edward agree to sending those at least, it would give Louis pause for thought. But an alliance is the true goal.”

  Margaret’s excitement was beginning to mount. Go to England! How could she refuse? And she could see the wisdom in the argument. Edward, Richard, Hastings, Howard, Bishop Morton—they all would listen to her. She was a York, a Plantagenet princess.

  “Aye, messires,” she exclaimed. “I will go to England!”

  MARGARET’S RETINUE ARRIVED at the Prinsenhof a month later. The city of Bruges was quiet after an outbreak of plague that hot summer. She hoped the ship Edward was sending for her would arrive soon, so that they could be on their way before any of her household contracted the disease. She ordered that none of her retainers be allowed into the streets and that the palace gates should be closed to anyone coming from the infected areas of the city. During the few days she was sequestered there, her new doctor, John de Wymus, gave her a daily regimen to keep her humors in balance. Doctor Roetlandts no longer gave her confidence.

  “Do not sleep during the day, your grace. Do not walk after a meal, and if you must walk, I pray you avoid the noontime sun—oh, and when there are clouds as well or it is too hot or too cold.” Margaret thought that he had hedged on all weather eventualities but took his advice anyway. She drank the unappetizing potions he concocted, which included fever-few and marigolds, and sadly avoided eating her favorite cheeses.