Daughter of York (47 page)

Margaret recognized the mulish look on Fortunata’s face, which she knew meant no explanation would be forthcoming. But she knew Charny was watching carefully, and not wanting to further aggravate the woman’s ill-feeling for Fortunata, she leveled her most ferocious stare at her servant and asked her again, “Tell me what happened here, Fortunata, or I shall have no recourse but to beat you.”

Fortunata let out a shriek. She had never known Margaret to beat any of her servants, even though it was common practice among the nobility. She hung her head and muttered, “I tried to take her monkey. That was all. I am very sorry,
madonna.
”

“Azize, is this correct?” Margaret asked the larger of the two dwarfs. She had discovered that Madame de Beaugrand was the name given her by the French count who had bought her from a Romany camp because he thought the name was appropriately ridiculous for such a small, ugly creature. Her Turkish given name rolled far more easily off the tongue, Margaret decided, and had addressed her thus since. Azize fell on her knees, swearing loyalty and devotion, and Margaret felt sorry for her.

“Fortunata, you will apologize to Azize immediately and go to my chamber. I will deal with you later.” She turned to Guillaume, “Can you reach the monkey?”

Rolling his eyes so that only the twittering ladies could see, he muttered an affirmative and coaxed the still-chattering monkey into his hands. The little creature ran straight into Azize’s arms, clutching onto her for dear life.

Later, Margaret demanded to be left alone with Fortunata and berated her loudly for her transgressions, knowing full well Marie would be listening at the door.

“You deserve a beating, Fortunata,” Margaret cried. “You should know better.” Then she picked up a leather strap and raised her arm. Fortunata screamed just as Margaret brought the strap down on the back of a chair in three quick successive strokes. “There, now go to your quarters. I do not want to see you until prayers,” she said, winking at the astonished Fortunata. Under her breath she said in English, “Start crying and run from the room quickly.”

Fortunata needed no second bidding. She feigned some heart-wrenching sobs, flung open the door and ran.

M
ARGARET WAS PUZZLED
that Fortunata did not appear for the customary evening prayers and beckoned to Beatrice to ask where she was.

“Why, your grace, she is confined to her bed with bandaged hands from her punishment. I could not persuade her to come when I went to find her a few minutes ago. Her eyes are swollen from crying and she appears to be in pain.”

Margaret remarked on Beatrice’s cold tone. Oh,
pochina
, you should not prolong the mummery, she thought. She looked across at Marie de Charny, who for once would not meet her eye. Why? she wondered. She shrugged and asked Marie to join her at her side at the prie-dieu. Full of smiles now, the older woman hurried to Margaret’s side.

C
HARLES CAME TO
Brussels at the beginning of August. Seated in her favorite solar overlooking the Warende, Margaret was playing chess with Mary when she heard the shawms, pibcorns and tabors faintly in the distance. Mary was on her feet, an anxious look on her face, and ran to the window.

“Papa is coming!” she cried. “Come,
belle-mère,
we must be ready and waiting for him on the staircase outside. He will not be pleased if we are not there.”

Margaret’s stomach had somersaulted when she had been told the day before that the duke was expected. She was beginning to enjoy her daily routine, which included an audience with Ravenstein, a walk or a ride with Mary, time with her chamberlain, and music or conversation with Mary in the afternoon. She had written letters to her mother, to Ned and to George, but as yet had heard nothing from her family across the North Sea. They have forgotten me already, she thought gloomily, whereas I long for them.

Now the routine would be broken, and she knew, because she had helped plan them, there would be elaborate banquets and hunting expeditions for Charles. She prayed to St. Andrew the Apostle to grant her wish to be with child, should he choose to share her bed, and then she begged her own St. Margaret to spare her her greatest fear: barrenness.

“Madame de Halewijn, I pray you make Mary as pretty as a picture for her father,” Margaret said to Jeanne with more eagerness than she felt. “Let him be proud of his little girl, as we all are.”

Mary beamed, a new confidence creeping into her eyes. She was terrified of her father, who showed her little affection, thus giving her the impression she must be stupid and unattractive. “Can I wear the orange dress,
belle-mère
, please?”

Margaret saw her chance, for she noticed Jeanne looking at her with something akin to respect. “’Tis for madame to decide, sweeting. She is the best judge of that.”

Jeanne’s bright smile and deep obeisance told Margaret that she had perhaps turned the tide, and she watched, relieved, as Mary skipped off to change her gown. One down, the other to go, she thought, glancing at Marie. She smoothed her skirts, fluffed out the veil on her jeweled heart-shaped headdress and started the long walk through the many rooms and staircases of the enormous palace to the courtyard below.

Fortunata had given her place to Marie in the little procession, but Margaret was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice. What would she say to Charles? Now that they were well and truly married, would he treat her civilly? Fortunata had told her tales she had heard about Charles’s temper, his lack of interest in women, and his autocratic nature.

On the other hand, she had heard he was a hard worker, something she admired in a leader and something she knew was lacking in her brother Edward. “He never stops working, your grace,” Ravenstein had told her. “He has more energy than a team of hounds after a hare. They call him
le travailleur,
and it suits him well.”

Margaret thought the Worker was considerably more flattering than the Rash and added it to her rapidly growing knowledge of her husband’s character.

The courtyard was crowded when she arrived at the enormous wooden front door, which was standing wide. Guards and retainers were forming columns as far as the eye could see to salute the arrival of the duke, some on horseback and others on foot, all in the Burgundian black, purple and crimson; musicians were hurrying with their instruments to their places on an open balcony; grooms were lined up to take charge of the horses; and several noisy and excited dogs were being chased aside for the duke’s entry. The sun shone down on the proceedings as the church of St. Jacques rang out a welcome.

“God’s greeting, my lady. I trust I find you well,” Charles said cheerfully upon mounting the steps to her side. His fanciful jeweled hat was a little out of place with full armor, Margaret thought, but he was a magnificent sight as she sank in a deep obeisance with Mary by her side. He raised Margaret up and kissed her on the mouth, a gesture Margaret had hoped he would discard after the English retinue left. She had discovered he believed all Englishwomen expected to be kissed thus, but she found it embarrassing and hoped one day she would be forward enough to tell him. Not today, though, she thought. Besides, she had Mary to worry about. Charles had given his daughter a cursory glance and a “How are you, child?” before taking Margaret’s arm in readiness for their processing inside the gleaming white Magna Aula, the marble addition to the centuries-old palace. Margaret, however, stood rooted to the spot, and Charles frowned.

“What is it, my dear?” he asked.

Margaret smiled sweetly. Charles did not know her well enough to recognize the determination in that smile. “I believe you forgot to kiss Mary, my lord. And she has dressed in her favorite gown for your approval. Certes, you must agree she looks delightful, no?”

She heard not only Mary but Jeanne and Marie draw in their collective breath. Antoine, who was standing just behind his brother, arched his brow, and several others looked shocked. Only Lord Ravenstein’s eyes shouted “Brava!” She felt Charles’s arm stiffen under her hand for a second, but then he turned to Mary, who was trembling in her little crakows, and raised her face with his other hand and kissed her on the lips as well.

“Your gown is well chosen, daughter. Your mother would have been proud.” If he had hoped to slight Margaret with this mention of Isabelle, he had not taken the measure of Margaret’s self-worth.

“Indeed she would, Mary,” Margaret cried. “I expect she is looking down from heaven and glowing with pride, sweetheart.”

Charles harrumphed and almost dragged Margaret through the doorway and into the palace beyond. Margaret sent up a prayer to the Virgin to protect her later from Charles’s famous temper.

H
E CAME TO
her that night after three hours of banquet, music and dancing.

“Out! Out!” he bellowed to Margaret’s women when he burst into the room with a few of his squires. Margaret was already propped up on the silk pillows, her golden hair loose about her shoulders and a cap tied under her chin.

“Good luck,
madonna,
” Fortunata whispered as she smoothed the embroidered, fur-lined satin bedspread one more time. “I will be near if you need me.” More loudly she said, “Good night, your graces. May God bless you both.”

She curtseyed first to Margaret, then to Charles, and with a last disdainful sniff at one of the squires holding the door for her, stalked out. Margaret covered a laugh with a cough. Charles had hardly noticed the attendant. He lolled in a chair while his boots were removed and points untied, sipping a glass of wine. He was amiable with his gentlemen and even threw a genial comment her way now and again. Margaret breathed more easily. All is well, she decided.

Finally they were alone. Hardly had the door closed behind the last squire when Charles flung back the bedcovers and pulled Margaret out of bed. She cried out as his cruel grasp pinched her wrist. Before she could protest his treatment of her, he crushed her to him, grinding his hips into
hers and gripping her buttocks under the fine lawn chemise. She thought he would eat her tongue and mouth and knew he had bitten her when she tasted blood. She was enraged and terrified at once. There was no denying his lust; she could feel it hard between her thighs. Her extra inches made it easy for him to lower his mouth to her breast, which he sucked at noisily through the cloth.

“Charles … my lord … you … are h-hurting me,” she stammered, her eyes full of tears.

“Quiet, wife! It seems you need to know who is lord here. I am about to show you!” he growled, taking her hand and forcing her to touch him under his shirt. “When you are alone, you may do as you please, but when I am here, I am master. Do you understand?”

Rage overcame the terror and she let go of his prick and slapped him hard across the face. “How dare you treat me like a whore!” she hissed, guessing there were several ears pressed to the door. “I am a Plantagenet and just as royal as you—”

She got no further. Fighting with him did nothing more than inflame his desire for her. A military machine, he was all muscle and sinew, and she was dismayed with what ease he picked her up, pinned her legs around his waist and slammed her against the wall. She could not have conceived of such a coupling in her worst nightmares, and as he forced her down upon him, she felt as though he would tear her apart. With a few lusty thrusts, he loosed his desire into her with his usual bark of pleasure and, sated, leaned panting against her. Then surprisingly gently he lowered her body to the ground.

“’Twas your fault, Margaret,” he apologized. “Your boldness at the door today aroused my anger—and my lust. I trust you are not hurt.”

Margaret lay crumpled on the floor, her thighs still trembling, her tears flowing freely. Anthony, she wanted to cry, how did I come to this? Why did you let me wed this beast? Oh, God, maybe all men are like this. Maybe Anthony … But she refused to believe it. She was aware that Charles was speaking to her quietly, as though nothing had passed between them. He knelt down, stroked her hair and begged her to get into bed.

“I shall leave you to your rest, Margaret. And I believe I need to bathe my cheek with cowslip water. What will the servants think if they see
your fingers imprinted on it tomorrow?” He was chuckling as he helped her across the room and between the soft sheets. “May God keep you safe until the morrow. I am looking forward to showing you the Forest of Soignes,
ma mie
. The hunting is superb.”

She could not believe her ears. He had just violated her in a most despicable manner, and now he was talking about hunting and calling her his love. She could not speak but lay there with her eyes closed, wishing him far from her.

“Ah, I see you are tired. You need to rest for tomorrow’s sport.” He bent and kissed her forehead before padding quietly from the room.

Margaret slipped her hand beneath the covers and gingerly felt herself for any signs of bleeding. She jumped when the door opened again but breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Fortunata slip into the room with a copper ewer. Margaret was sure the whole palace had heard their bestial fornicating, so she was not surprised the dwarf was there to help her expunge the evidence.

During the ablutions, Fortunata kept up a patter of inane gossip, hoping to keep Margaret from sinking into melancholy. She fed Margaret a hot posset she had prepared and made her drink it all. Gradually, as Fortunata sat quietly at her feet, patting her hand, Margaret pulled herself together. She invited her servant to kneel and pray with her again before she allowed herself to be tucked into bed and the candles to be extinguished.

“Thank you,
pochina,
” Margaret whispered, as Fortunata slipped out of the room. “A thousand thanks.”

Then she fell into a deep slumber, brought on by Fortunata’s potion of henbane, skullcap and lemon balm.

The old dream of the fleshless head on top of the Micklegate returned to her that night, and this time it was Charles grimacing in agony. It failed to disturb her sleep.