Daughter of York (43 page)

An hour later, with Margaret fast asleep and her ladies dozing on whatever seat they could find in the chamber, the sound of male voices alerted the vigilant Fortunata.

“
Madonna, madonna,
wake up. He is coming. Your husband is coming. Oh, please wake up!” she urged.

Margaret’s eyes flew open and she sat up, allowing Countess de Charny to arrange her hair on the satin pillows. The door was flung open, and Charles and some of his squires strode in, seemingly the worse for drink.

“Out, out!” he said, waving the women away, his head jutting forward from his thick, muscular shoulders. They all turned to look at Margaret, who nodded, thanked them and watched them leave the room.

Fortunata was the last to go, her huge eyes expressing compassion.

Charles was undressed in the small chamber beyond amid whispers and ribald laughter. Finally he appeared in his chemise, his heavy, hairy legs visible from the knees. He stared at Margaret propped up on the pillows and managed an awkward little bow. He closed the door on his servants, blew out several candles and carried a candelabrum to the table near the bed, spilling wax on his hand and cursing.

“I pray you, my lord, will you not extinguish them all?” Margaret said, annoyed that her voice squeaked.

Charles gave a short laugh. “Nay, I have paid handsomely for you, my lady. I would see what I have paid for.”

Margaret gasped at his indelicacy but chose to ignore it, putting it down to too much wine. Perhaps he is nervous, too, she thought magnanimously, and the drink gave him courage. She frantically tried to think of something to say to prolong the conversation—and put off the agony. As Fortunata’s story was foremost in her mind, it came tumbling out. “Before we begin our marriage proper, Charles, I swear to you that I am a virgin and anything you may have heard to the contrary is a lie!” The strength in her voice surprised even her.

Charles blinked. “Did I hear correctly?” he asked incredulously. “You are acknowledging that you are a virgin? I expected nothing less, my lady, or I would not have signed the contract.”

Margaret plucked nervously at the ermine trim. “But … the rumors, Charles. You must have heard the rumors.”

“Rumors!” Charles bellowed, standing over her, his blue eyes bulging and his spittle landing on her hand. “When does a prince listen to rumors.” Seeing her wince, he moderated his tone. “Have no fear, from everything I have witnessed this past week, I have no doubt of your virtue, Lady Margaret. You have exceeded my expectations in every way.” He paused and looked away. “And what of me? I hope I do not displease you?”

He sat on the bed and began to blow out the candles one by one, relieving Margaret greatly, although the glowing embers of the fire made a grotesque shadow of him on the wall.

“I am well content, Charles,” she answered, softly. “How could I not be after the day I have experienced. There are no words to tell you how honored and humbled I feel. I can only express my heartfelt thanks—” She was cut off by his rough, fleshy mouth on hers.

“Enough talking, madame,” he rasped, “I would do my duty by you, and by Christ I am almost too tired to accomplish it.”

You could not prove it by me, Margaret thought, enduring Charles’s callused hands on her breasts. Sweet Mary, they are not dough, she wanted to tell him, wincing as he kneaded her and pinched her nipples through the flimsy gown. He had pulled back the bedclothes and heaved himself on top of her. She squeezed her eyes shut. He smelled of horses, but unlike John Harper, there was no counterscent of rosewater. He just smelled of horses and wine. I suppose I can bear this, she was just thinking, when her legs were pushed apart and he entered her, gently at first until he was resisted and then with a force that caused Margaret to cry out in pain. Charles grunted and bore down on her, his muscular buttocks driving farther and farther into her until she thought he had pierced not only her maidenhead but her womb as well. Tears of pain rolled down her cheeks, and she was glad there was no light. His grip on her outstretched arms tightened as he neared his climax and she maneuvered her hips into a less agonizing position. This only seemed to increase his pleasure, and finally with a noise somewhere between a bark and a whinny, he gave in to his need. Spent, he lay on her, breathing heavily for several minutes. Margaret was not sure what to do, so she tentatively put her hand on his back and stroked him.

Charles roused himself and rolled onto his side. “You spoke the truth, Margaret. I regret if I hurt you, but ’tis the nature of the marriage bed.” He chuckled. “I would like to know how you knew to move yourself in that delicious way. I could almost believe you were practiced.”

Margaret laughed. Now that it was all over, she had to admit it wasn’t as dreadful as she had imagined. “Nay, Charles. I was merely making myself more comfortable, in truth.”

Charles liked her honest response and said so. “And in the interest of honesty, Margaret, I must tell you that you will not have to endure my advances very often. I do not need a woman as my father did. If you are happy to be left alone, then I shall have no quarrel with that. I am advised to beget a male heir, however, so you may see me from time to time in your bed.”

Margaret mouthed a round “Oh.” She could not believe her ears or her good fortune.

With that, Charles called loudly to his squires, who were so ready to do his bidding—and, thought Margaret bitterly, so close to the door as to have heard everything—that they almost fell into the room in their eagerness to answer his call. Shunning the light of the men’s candles, Margaret turned away, drawing the covers around her head as Charles jumped out of bed, wished her a good night and led the men from the room, leaving her in the darkness.

She lay perfectly still for several minutes before once again her room was invaded, this time by Marie and her other ladies.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I did not call for you, countess. I wish you to leave me alone. All but Fortunata may go.”

The authority in her voice left Marie no choice but to usher everyone from the room, but not before Margaret heard the now-familiar “Tut-tut.”

She watched Fortunata scurry around the room in the flickering firelight, pouring some warm water from the jug near the fire into a bowl and taking it to the bed table.

“Are you hurt,
madonna
? Did he hurt you?” the dwarf asked, her brown eyes searching Margaret’s face. “
Si
, I see you are crying. Poor
madonna.
”

She wrung out a cloth and wiped Margaret’s face, and then turned her back as Margaret washed the telltale blood from her thigh.

“In truth, ’twas not so bad,
pochina.
You should not be anxious on my account. I am no green girl, and I knew what to expect,” she said more bravely than she felt. Did I know what to expect? Her moment of pleasure with John Harper had led her to believe she would experience the same sensation with any man. She had been sadly mistaken. She had not even been aroused by Charles. She knelt by the bed and said her prayers for the second time that night. A sadness overcame her as she realized her virginity was lost forever. Try as she might, she could not put Anthony’s face from her mind.

F
OR NINE MORE
days the festivities continued, each day bringing new evidence of the artistic and economic wealth of her new land. Margaret saw the work of artists such as Hans Memling, Jan van Eyck and Rogier van der Weyden, heard the music of Dufay and Binchois and wore creations from the workshops of Bruges goldsmiths and jewelers, who were the finest in Europe.

For her wedding gift, Charles gave her a magnificent necklace consisting of two gold chains three inches apart separated by golden knots and red and white enameled roses studded with pearls. From the lower chain hung the letters C and M in gold and enamel. By this time, she was realizing that the finery she had brought with her from England was a little old-fashioned and of lesser quality. Her own steepled hennins were dwarfed by the three-feet-high ones worn by Isabella and Marie de Charny. She told Fortunata that if she was to adopt the monstrosities, she would have difficulty going through doorways.

The tournament was the mainstay of the week, which Margaret guessed was planned more for Charles’s enjoyment than hers. At one point during the sixth interminable day of it, the fighting between six knights became so fierce, albeit with blunt swords, that Margaret rose to her feet, waved her kerchief and begged them to stop. The only pleasure the tournament gave her was that it required the English retinue to stay until the end. And how proud she was that an Englishman—Anthony’s twenty-three-year-old brother, John—was declared Prince of the Tournament when the last lance was shattered and the final axe blow had been struck.

The feast following outdid the rest, and afterwards the company danced until they dropped. Charles led Margaret out for a
basse danse,
and in the line she saw Anthony partnering an excited Mary. The girl was graceful and full of poise, her dove-gray eyes shining with pleasure, and Anthony gravely treated her as if she were a fully grown woman. Margaret caught his eye when she dared and sent him a tender look of gratitude. Charles was not light on his feet, and Margaret could tell he was only doing his duty as a dance partner, much like his duty to her in bed. Those visits had numbered three since their marriage, and although there had been no more pain for Margaret, neither had there been any passion in the act. She hoped she would find herself pregnant in no time.

“I regret I must leave you tomorrow, Margaret,” Charles told her as they returned to the dais. “I have assigned you a competent knight of honor in Guillaume de la Baume. I trust he will be agreeable and serve you well. My sister Marie seems to have your ladies in hand.” He winked at her. “In truth, she is bit of a dragon, is she not!”

Margaret nodded, diplomatically refusing to tell him the woman resembled quite another species of winged creature entirely.

“How do you like my daughter?” he asked. “I regret my skill as a father does not allow me confidences with her. She was so close to her mother, ’tis true, but
ma mère
tells me she is not unhappy with my choice of stepmother for her.”

This was the longest conversation they had had so far, and Margaret was encouraged by Charles’s attempts at friendship. He was not so bad, she thought, as she thanked him for the compliment and told him she had already formed an attachment to Mary.

“’Tis happy news, Margaret, for you and she will be together constantly now. Those are my orders. I hope she grows to be as gracious as you. She will be duchess one day, and she needs someone strong to guide her.”

Margaret’s stomach lurched. Was Charles not expecting her to bear him a son? This was a shock, and her face must have registered a change, for he asked if she was unwell. She was spared the lie of a response as Lord Ravenstein, managing as much of a smile as his grave face could handle, approached them, bowed and requested permission to present the governor of the English merchant-adventurers to the duchess.

A short, neatly dressed man stood at Ravenstein’s elbow, bowing. Margaret guessed him to be in his mid-forties. His thick curly hair was graying and his full beard more so. When he straightened up, Margaret looked into a pair of intelligent brown eyes that observed her from under beetling brows, the more surprising because they were still black, and over a fine, aquiline nose. She knew instantly she had found a friend in Bruges and smiled her pleasure at meeting him. Charles greeted him cursorily, excused himself—to avail himself of the garderobe, Margaret guessed—and was followed from the hall by all of his squires. Ravenstein watched him go with an eagle eye but remained behind with Margaret.

“We have a mutual friend, Master Caxton,” she said in English. “My brother’s loyal councilor, Sir John Howard, has told me of you. God’s greeting to you.”

William Caxton grinned, glad to be conversing with her in his native tongue. “Aye, your grace, Sir John has had some discourse with me here, in truth, and it is my honor to serve you. I bring you hearty greetings from all the English merchants. They are proud to welcome our sovereign’s sister to these shores, especially”—he lowered his voice—“a daughter of York.”

Margaret glanced quickly at Ravenstein, but realizing he did not speak English, she was relieved to see him yawn discreetly while watching for Charles’s return. “I thank you, sir,” she acknowledged his emphasis on York. She knew the English merchants favored her house over Lancaster because of the good relations between Duke Philip and her brother.

“You have my word I will do what I can for you with regard to trade, sir,” she murmured. “My brother has charged me with the task of keeping the negotiations in process on an even keel. I pray you attend me in my quarters while I am still at Bruges, and we will talk more on it.”

She held her hand out for him to kiss and was gratified to see his look of astonishment at her forthrightness and perspicacity. She could see he was not expecting her to be much more than a pretty pawn in this Burgundian alliance.

“’Twill be my honor, your grace,” he answered, bowing and backing away from her. He turned and walked back to the group of English guests, and Margaret saw Jack Howard clap him on the shoulder and share a few words. Charles had not returned, and Margaret felt sorry for Ravenstein, standing first on one leg and then the other. She tried to engage him in conversation about the day’s jousting, but he was taciturn, and she gave up. She watched as a new group of dancers took the floor, the musicians retuning their instruments before launching into a lively
saltarello,
her favorite dance. As the dancers began to form groups of six, she bent down to say something to Fortunata, who was seated on her customary footstool behind Margaret’s skirts. She had to say the dwarf’s name twice before Fortunata pulled her eyes off the receding figure of William Caxton and responded to her mistress, stammering, “Forgive me,
madonna.
I did not hear you.” Margaret followed Fortunata’s gaze and was intrigued to see it was directed at the stocky merchant. She was about to ask her servant to explain the love-lorn look when a familiar voice made her heart leap into her throat and Fortunata was forgotten.