Daughter of York (46 page)

While Marie plotted Fortunata’s downfall, Margaret’s brain was desperately trying to concoct a story that would excuse her injuries. She was forgetting her wily
pochina
’s wits, which had got her out of trouble many times during her days as a pickpocket. The door to the hall suddenly flew open and Fortunata walked in, dragging a sheepish wolfhound behind her. She was back in her gown, which was now bloodied, and her cap sat askew on her head with half her hair tumbling out. One of her eyes was swollen shut, but the other blazed with anger.

“
Madonna
Margherita, Astolat is a bad dog,” she cried, once she knew she had everyone’s attention. “He pulled me down the staircase. Look, I am bleeding. I tried to clean it a little, but it hurts too much. And see,” she said to the fascinated spectators, pointing to her split lip and reverting to pidgin English to gain sympathy, “Dog break mouth.”

Gasps and whispers followed the declaration as those who understood English translated for their neighbors. Marie was for once at a loss for words as she took in Fortunata’s disheveled appearance. Margaret, feigning shock and surprise, hurried forward, and poor Astolat found himself confronted by an angry mistress, who admonished him forcefully with “Bad dog! Go and lie down!” The dog hung its head, cast soulful eyes at the guilt-ridden Margaret, and slunk off to do her bidding. Then Margaret knelt down to Fortunata and gingerly touched her blackened eye. The dwarf winced and winked at the same time.

“Master Roelandts,” Margaret called to one of her physicians. “I pray you take poor Fortunata and apply a soothing poultice to her face. No doubt she will tell you what potions she needs for her mouth.”

“No doubt,” the doctor agreed grimly. In the short time since the English
contingent had arrived, he had suffered through several discussions with Fortunata on the correct way to treat an ailment.

As Margaret watched the two leave the room, she thanked God Fortunata had not been found lying unconscious on the street, raising questions as to why she was there and why she was wearing men’s garb. There must be an easier way to communicate secretly with Anthony, she thought sadly, but for the moment she could think of none.

M
ARGARET HAD NEVER
seen so much baggage. Carts, carriages, horses, soldiers, squires, servants and stable boys filled the Prinsenhof’s large courtyard as she stood by the window of her chamber watching the scene below. She traced her finger along the crisscross of the leaded panes, admiring the clear glass. Only Westminster could compare in modern amenities to this sumptuous palace, she knew. She wondered what she would find in Brussels, the next residence she and Mary were to travel to. Ravenstein had told her that only three or four of the royal residences were large enough to accommodate both the duke’s and the duchess’s households at one time, and she was not surprised.

It would take them four days to make the fifty-mile journey to Brussels, staying at Charles’s castles or estates along the way. Each stop would require the housing and feeding of her more than one hundred retainers, and the logistics made her head spin. She was glad she did not have to supervise the packing up of the household. Her chamberlain and stewards would see to that.

It was a hot and humid day. A thunderstorm overnight had not cleared the air, and the sun was making steam rise from the steep slate roofs of the tall, step-gabled houses. She was high enough to see over most of the city, and the scene took her back to the Wardrobe watchtower that evening when she had stood with Fortunata, looking out over London. London! A lump came to her throat, but she forced her eyes downwards to the courtyard and watched her chevalier stride over to her own carriage to see if all was in order.

He was a blond giant, this Guillaume de la Baume. His ruddy complexion, handsome face and blue eyes turned many a female head, she had noticed. He was supposed to be her escort—a substitute for Charles at public occasions—and her bodyguard. She had no doubt that he would
vanquish anyone who might be foolish enough to attack her, but his intelligence did not match his physique, and Margaret found him impossible to converse with.

“How different from Anthony,” she murmured, a painful stab to her heart reminding her of her love. She turned from the window and sighed.

“
Madonna
, it is time to go. All is prepared,” Fortunata said, coming to her side. “It is hot to ride today,
non
?”

“Aye,
pochina
. Have you told them to put wet cloths in a basin for me for the journey? I shall need them in the stuffy carriage.”

Fortunata nodded and gave her mistress a sweet-smelling tussie-mussie on a ribbon for her to carry. Margaret lifted the pomander to her nose and inhaled the aroma of the herbs and cloves inside.

“Then let us go and find Mary. I am happy to have some quiet time with her on the road to Brussels. In truth, I am sorry to leave Bruges, for I had just become comfortable here. I pray we will stay in Brussels a long time, for these journeys look to be tiresome.”

B
Y THE TIME
the cavalcade arrived at the Flanders Gate in the city wall of Brussels, the sun was setting on the fourth day. The noise of a large city was penetrating the padded interior of the carriage. Mary poked her head out of the window.

“See,
belle-mère,
the towers of Coudenberg,” she cried, pointing up the steep Coudenberg hill to the ancient and immense palace that crowned it. Margaret’s face joined Mary’s at the carriage window, and she followed Mary’s finger to catch the first glimpse of her seventh residence since arriving in Burgundy only a month before.

The city was sprawled over the hillside and down to the banks of the little river Senne. As they wended their way through the dirty streets, Margaret was glad to know London wasn’t the only city with a refuse problem. Rotting vegetables, animal entrails and human waste assailed her nostrils as they trundled by the trench around the city wall that served as a dungheap. She held her tussie-mussie to her nose and looked about her with interest. Already she was becoming accustomed to the windmills and tall, step-gabled brick houses that had been prevalent in Bruges and the countryside through which they had traveled.

They passed a windmill next to the bread market, and she watched carters packing up their wares as the evening drew in. Close to the central market place, she admired the new town hall, its glorious bell tower reaching to the sky. The twin towers of the impressive church of St. Michael and St. Gudule were also visible beyond the newly built merchant houses around the market. Bells pealed from the many steeples in the city, and hundreds of people stopped what they were doing to get a glimpse of the new duchess. Even though she was travel-worn and in no mood to be gracious, she raised the curtains and waved.

“May God bless your grace,” several cried, bowing to her as the carriage rolled past, “and may God bless our little Mary.”

The horses began their final climb to the castle on the hill, and Margaret and Mary braced themselves against the seatback. Facing them and clinging to the edge of their seats were Marie de Charny and Mary’s chief lady-in-waiting, Jeanne de Halewijn. Jeanne had joined them at Ghent, where Margaret had spent her second night after leaving Bruges. They had arrived in the political center of Burgundy at dusk, and although they left in daylight the next day, she had seen very little of the largest city in Europe after Paris other than the towering and sinister Castle of the Counts that straddled a river.

“Gravensteen is where Papa does his governing of the people,” Mary had said solemnly, making Margaret smile. “And the biggest building is the courts of justice, where he passes judgment. I have been told there are horribly deep dungeons and torture chambers in there.” The girl shivered. “
Belle-mère,
why do people have to be tortured?”

“’Tis only those who have been very, very bad, sweeting. Those who have perhaps tried to harm your father or you. But I am certain they use the dungeons rarely, as who would wish to harm you, Mary?” Margaret reassured her.

“But you are wrong, your grace,” Jeanne de Halewijn was quick to comment. “The prison is full of Ghent scum who tried to rebel against our lord duke last year. We daily thank God Duke Charles is a strong leader and is not afraid to punish treasonable men. Lord Hugonet, too, knew just how to deal with them. And now they hate him for it,” she scoffed.

Margaret felt Mary stiffen beside her, and she put her arm around
her. She was acutely aware of Jeanne de Halewijn’s unfriendly eyes on her, and she regretted this first meeting with Mary’s favorite lady was not going well. The diminutive woman was but a few years Margaret’s senior, and not long after their arrival at the Ten Waele palace, Margaret recognized jealousy in those pale blue eyes. Mary had thrown herself into Jeanne’s waiting arms, and Margaret could see there was genuine love between them. You will have to tread carefully here, Meg, she thought, and so had shown Jeanne a mixture of gentle authority and respect during that first evening.

“You and I have something in common, madame,” Margaret had said pleasantly, after they dined on cold pheasant. She had thought an informal supper in her chamber might be a chance to break the ice. After all, she and Mary would rarely be apart now, and she needed Jeanne’s help in looking after her stepdaughter. To be suddenly thrust into motherhood was a little daunting, she admitted.

Jeanne raised an eyebrow politely. “We do?” she responded.

“Certes. Both of us have to be separated from our husbands for long periods, in truth.” Margaret knew it was a lame beginning, but she hoped Jeanne would recognize she was trying.

Again the arched brow. “Ah, ’tis true, your grace.” And that was the end of the conversation.

“I understand your husband is high steward of Flanders, madame, and is Flemish born. I would like to learn Dutch, and ’twould be delightful if you would teach me,” Margaret persisted.

Before Jeanne could answer, Mary, unaware of this adult awkwardness, cried, “Oh,
belle-mère,
I shall teach you Dutch!”

“Mary, you must not interrupt a grown-up conversation. How many times must I tell you,” Jeanne gently admonished her. She turned back to Margaret with a slight smile, “You have your teacher, your grace. Mary speaks Dutch far better than I, in truth. I, as you must know, am French.”

Margaret inclined her head in acknowledgment and smiled at Mary. “Then you shall teach me, sweetheart. Perhaps we can start on the journey tomorrow. I will point to things and you can tell me the Dutch words.”

“Papa said I must learn English, madame. Will you teach me?” Mary was eager.

Jeanne patted her hand possessively. “You have much to learn, my poppet. You cannot impose on your stepmother like this. And now ’tis time for your prayers and bed. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Margaret was dismayed she was making no headway with Jeanne, but she signaled to the steward to pull back her chair and she stood up to say good night. At the Prinsenhof, Mary had kissed her on both cheeks before retiring, but Jeanne ushered her charge out as soon as she and Mary had made their obeisances. Of course, she does not know Mary and I have already become friends, Margaret thought with her usual charity, but her eyes were clouded by disappointment as they followed Mary out.

That was three nights ago, and although Jeanne had warmed a little to Margaret’s cordial overtures, it had become clear to Margaret that Jeanne looked on her as a rival for Mary’s love. She decided to approach the woman as soon as they were settled at Coudenberg.

Her gaze shifted to Marie de Charny, sitting ramrod-straight beside Jeanne. The proud woman had not unbent as much as her little finger in her rigidity towards the ladies in Margaret’s train. She had relegated Beatrice to third lady-in-waiting, behind one of her own young protégées, and Margaret had no say in the matter. She chafed at the rules of court that gave her so little freedom, even to the choice of her own servants, and she resolved to talk to Charles about it whenever they were together again.

T
HE LARGEST OF
the duke’s palaces was also in the most beautiful setting. The undulating Warende park stretched for miles in front of Margaret as she slowly made her way through the immaculate beds of roses, holly-hocks, lilies and lupins en route to the wilder Forest of Soignes beyond. As usual, she was accompanied by the chevalier de la Baume, one of the few people she knew who was taller than she, and she had to acknowledge she enjoyed the feeling of daintiness that being with Guillaume gave her. In a way, he reminded her of Ned, and it comforted her.

She was daydreaming about her family and absently plucked a blossom from a gillyflower to twirl in her fingers. She missed them so badly. The night before, she had rocked herself to sleep thinking of her mother. She wondered if Anthony had received her letter, and she cursed her stupidity for not forming a plan for Master Caxton to follow now she was no longer
in Bruges. There might be a letter waiting for her there with no means for her to receive it.

The tranquility of the morning stroll was suddenly interrupted by screams coming from some bushes farther down the walk.

“Guillaume, I pray you go and help that poor woman!” Margaret commanded. “I cannot think what is happening.” The man took off at a run, his chaperon flying off his head and onto the grass. “Guards! Guards!” Margaret cried, as her ladies gathered around her and Mary clung to her skirts.

But the guards were not needed. A minute later, Guillaume appeared from behind a bush with Fortunata and Madame de Beaugrand suspended from each musclebound arm. The two women were still flailing at each other and screaming, one in Turkish and one in Italian, and a monkey was screeching at them from a tree branch above. Margaret could not help but laugh.

“Put them down, chevalier, I beg of you,” she called, walking to the two disheveled dwarfs. “What is all this, pray? Fortunata, tell me what has occurred to make you behave in such a disgraceful way.” Guillaume let them fall none too gently, annoyed that his duties to the duchess included such unmanly tasks.