Daughter of York (49 page)

“Astolat!” Margaret cried, jumping to her feet and almost upending poor Beatrice. Astolat gave a deep, throaty bark and began gamboling around her. “Certes! He could find Fortunata. Quick, get his long leash and something of Fortunata’s for him to sniff. And pray fetch back Guillaume. We are going hunting!”

As Margaret had given all her instructions to Beatrice in English, the three others present did not know what had transformed their mistress from despondency into a woman of purpose. Whatever it was, they were glad of it. They sprang into action when she asked for a cloak and a more practical headdress than the butterfly hennin with its enormous starched veil. They deduced she would be going outdoors, but that was all.

Guillaume and Beatrice joined her shortly afterwards, and with Astolat in Guillaume’s strong grasp, they began their search. The wolfhound was not trained to follow a scent, but Astolat had smelt Fortunata’s jester’s cap with its jangling bells that Beatrice had thrust at him and, with tail wagging eagerly, he pulled forward on the leash, leading the procession on a merry chase through the palace and to the garden outside. At the end of an hour, Margaret was just beginning to give up when the dog started to jump at a small door in the castle wall directly under the great hall.

“’Tis where they store the ice, your grace,” Guillaume said. “If the
duke is here in the spring, the blocks of ice from winter keep the game cold. But no one goes in there in the summer and autumn.”

“Open it, chevalier!” Margaret commanded excitedly. Astolat was sniffing under the heavy oak door, which did not look as though it had been opened for months, judging from the weeds and clinging ivy. Indeed, Guillaume had to use all his strength to heave it open.

The shaft of light illuminated a cellar that reeked of mold and damp from the old straw that had been tamped around the ice to slow its thawing. There was also a strong smell of urine.

“How Astolat can smell anything else but that I cannot imagine,” Margaret said, holding her nose. Spiders’ webs hung from the ceiling over the few stairs down, and a rat scuttled across the floor of the cellar, making Astolat leap out of Beatrice’s grip on the leash and dash down to follow it.

“Is there anything else down there?” Margaret whispered, nervously. “’Tis too dark. We need a light.”

A dusty oil lamp sat in a niche at the top of the staircase, and taking the flint from a tinderbox in a pouch at his waist, Guillaume expertly struck it on the stone doorway. The spark ignited the oiled cloth in the box, and he used it to light the lamp. Leading the way down the stairs, he held the lamp high for Margaret to see. Astolat was now visible in the far corner of the dank space, whining and worrying a bundle on the floor. Muffled sounds came from within the blanket. Horrified, Margaret knew it was Fortunata. Treading gingerly across the slippery floor, she knelt down and lifted the cloth to reveal her servant, gagged and her hands tied behind her back. On a low ledge beside her, the dim light of the lamp revealed a plate of crumbs and some ale. Fortunata’s swollen eyes filled with tears when she saw her mistress kneeling beside her.

“Hurry, Guillaume, use your knife on these knots,” Margaret ordered, gently removing the cloth from Fortunata’s mouth.

“
Madonna
Margherita, I am so happy to see you. I was very frightened,” she whimpered, standing up so that Guillaume could better cut through the rough rope that tied her hands. She grabbed the ale and gulped it down. “Please, I just want to leave now. I am cold and dirty. I am sorry that I am so much trouble for you.” Her face puckered, and she looked so dejected that Margaret put her arms around her, knowing
Guillaume would be shocked at the breach in etiquette. But the man had a soft heart, and he too felt sorry for the dwarf, although he would not deign to soil his clothes as Margaret was doing. Astolat was busy snuffling up cheese crumbs when Fortunata fell upon the dog’s neck and muttered Italian endearments into his ear.

“Clever dog, Astolat!” Margaret cried, patting him. Astolat enjoyed the attention. His tail wagged, and he sat and offered his paw. The little gesture gave them all a much-needed smile, and then Guillaume ushered them up the stairs and into the sunlight. When Fortunata appeared in the doorway, Beatrice cried “Thank God!” and the other ladies encircled the little woman, plying her with questions. Margaret looked around for Marie de Charny, but she was nowhere to be seen.

F
ORTUNATA SWORE SHE
did not know who had imprisoned her for two and a half days. After talking to Heer Roelandts—she refused to say she was arguing with him—about the bloodletting, she had gone into the dispensary to make the usual potion for Margaret, and the next thing she knew, she was in the ice cellar.

“Why,
pochina
?” Margaret shook her head. “Who would want to harm you? Have you made an enemy in my household other than Madame de Charny? But she is with me morning, noon and night, it would seem. Besides she is not strong enough to carry you all the way to the ice cellar, and somebody would have seen her. Who brought you the food, do you know?”

The servant shook her head. “A man with a big cloak and hood, so I did not see his face. He came once and took the scarf from my mouth and let me eat, but he told me not to scream or he would kill me. He called me a witch. I was very afraid,
madonna
. It was so dark, and I felt rats run on my feet. It was horrible. I prayed many hours to every saint I know and to St. Margaret to bring you to me!” She finished, earnestly, “Praise God, she heard me.”

“I can imagine how frightened you were. ’Twas cruel, and by our sweet Virgin Mary, I cannot think who would have done this.”

Fortunata said nothing. Margaret paced up and down, thinking. Finally, she sank down in her chair and said, “’Tis better we forget this incident. ’Twill only make things harder on you if I persist in finding the
culprit. You were not hurt, just frightened. I do not want the duke to know, for he will put people to the torturing machines if he did. I am trying to establish myself with my own household, and I do not want them to think I bear any of them rancor, do you understand,
pochina
? Will you forgive me if I do not pursue this further?”

“Aye,
madonna.
I understand,” Fortunata said, breathing a sigh of relief, which Margaret did not notice. In fact, had Margaret not been so agitated by the incident, she might have asked some uncomfortable questions of her
pochina
that could well have shed some light on the mystery.

“If we find him, certes, I will punish him. But I beg of you, do not do anything to anger Madame de Charny, promise me. I do not trust her, but that is not enough to dismiss her. I am sure she has had a hand in this matter.”

Fortunata promised to be circumspect. But Margaret noticed that every time she mentioned Marie’s name, Fortunata jumped.

As soon as Fortunata left, the other courtiers flocked back into the audience chamber, and Margaret resumed her administrative duties. For the time being, she thought, I must put this strange incident aside.

R
AVENSTEIN ENJOYED HIS
daily audience with the duchess. He found Margaret well versed in English politics, and her passion for reading intrigued him.

Late in October, he brought news of a tactical victory Charles had achieved over his overlord and archenemy Louis of France. The result had been humiliation for Louis, and in a treaty at Péronne, where Louis had found himself cornered, he had reluctantly been forced to agree to recognition of the Anglo-Burgundian alliance, territorial concessions and an agreement to help Charles punish the city of Liège for rebelling against the duke.

“However, I regret to say, Madame la duchesse, as a concession to his overlord, Duke Charles had to promise to render no aid to the proposed English invasion of France.” Ravenstein paused. He did not tell this intelligent and virtuous young woman how badly her husband had behaved when at first he believed Louis had tricked him by coming to Péronne, where Charles was encamped with an eye to a truce. News had come that Charles’s other ally, the duke of Brittany, had broken his word
and entered into a treaty with Louis. Charles had flown into a rage and planned a dreadful revenge on Louis’ person. It had taken all his councilors’ diplomatic reasoning to calm the duke down for his meeting with Louis. Loyal as he was to the house of Burgundy, Ravenstein was not one of Charles’s greatest admirers, and Margaret added the incident to the list of her husband’s shortcomings.

“Your brother had already outfitted a small fleet for the invasion, with our friend Lord Scales as its captain,” Ravenstein went on. “However, with this news about Brittany and Charles’s retraction of help with it, Lord Anthony had to abandon the effort.”

Margaret felt herself color at the mention of Anthony’s name, and so she put her hand up to the velvet headband under her hennin and pretended to secure it, thus hiding her face.

“I feel so helpless, messire. I have not seen the duke for two months now, and whereas I am happy he has scored a success over Louis, I cannot help but be perturbed by my brother’s, and thus England’s, dilemma.”

“Tell me about Richard Neville, earl of Warwick, your grace.”

Margaret was puzzled by this apparent non sequitur. “He is our mother’s cousin, Messire Ravenstein, and a great man,” Margaret hedged. “What did you want to know of him?”

“We believe he still intends to betray your brother’s alliance with Burgundy in favor of Louis of France. We have intelligence that he was responsible for stirring Londoners against the Flemish artisans there in the late summer. He has effectively ruined trade with the Hanseatic League and has made English shipping ripe for attack and capture by those Germans. It seems the earl has set himself against the throne, and with his power we fear for King Edward and our alliance. Although with this new agreement with Louis, an invasion by England would be—” He wasn’t allowed to finish.

“You have been misinformed, messire,” Margaret interrupted him bluntly. “Certes, Warwick’s power and influence were instrumental in securing the throne for our family, but he is not the king. My brother keeps his own counsel, let me assure you. If you want to deal with England, you must deal with Edward. His subjects will not rise against him,” she said, although a wisp of hesitation crept into her voice. She had not heard these pieces of news before, but as she did not want to betray her dismay
to the astute councilor, she stated firmly, “And certainly not in favor of my lord of Warwick.”

Ravenstein was not so sure, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Let us speak of more mundane and pleasant matters, your grace. I would tell you about the palace of Hesdin, where we shall be going in a few days. You will find it most amusing.”

T
HAT NIGHT,
M
ARGARET
could not sleep. The mere mention of Anthony’s name had caused her to toss and turn, reliving his every word and gesture to her during their few precious moments alone during the wedding festivities. She loved the way his dimple appeared when he laughed, the silky sheen of his hair, and most of all the expression in his eyes when he looked at her. Ravenstein’s news told her why Anthony had not written to her. Assuredly, he had not yet received her letter, if he had been plying the seas over the past several weeks. She yearned for a word from him, but just knowing he was fulfilling important missions for Edward warmed her. She had to smile to herself when she thought of him green at the rail of a ship again. Perhaps it is something one gets over, she decided.

Mother of God, I have been lying awake here for hours, it seems. She could hear Beatrice’s and Fortunata’s steady breathing across the room. How difficult would it be for me to take a midnight walk? If I can persuade the guards outside the door that I am just going to the great hall and back to stretch my legs, they might let me go alone.

She put on her woolen bed robe and hugged the sable lining to her against the chilly late-October air. Tying up her hose above her knees, she slipped out of bed. She gently pulled the bed curtain aside and, glad of the Turkey carpet to muffle her footsteps, quietly unlatched the door and stepped out into the torchlit antechamber, where two sleepy guards at once rose to attention. She put her finger to her lips as she closed the door quietly behind her.

“I cannot sleep, and so I will be grateful if you would keep your posts here and let me stretch my legs. I shall be but a few minutes. I will call if I need you.”

The guards looked skeptically at each other. They had strict orders to keep watch over the duchess all night and make sure none but her ladies
went in and out. They had not been confronted by the duchess herself before and were unsure what to do.

“You shall not be punished, I promise you. Take pity on me.” She gave them a dazzling smile. “I never have time to myself.”

The guards were smitten and grinned back. One of them gave her a lantern, its horn sides giving out enough light for her as she walked along the cold tiled floor. She wished she had worn her shoes. She heard the guards’ whispered discussion receding and despite the darkness in front of her, she was unafraid.

She climbed the spiral stone steps to the ramparts and shivered in the cold wind that greeted her. To one side of the roof was the little town of Aire, nestled in the safety of the fortified wall encircling it, and Margaret could see the three watchtowers’ braziers keeping the guards warm. Other than those beacons in the night, as she looked over the river side of the castle, it was the pitch black of a moonless night. She heard an owl off in the distance and then the howl of a wolf. She had never seen a wolf—they had more or less died out in England—but Ravenstein had told her they were often seen in the Forest of Soignes outside Brussels. She shivered again. Such a lonely sound, she thought.

Looking out into the void at that moment, she felt as though there was no one else in the world but her. “I wish I could howl my loneliness,” she cried in the wind. She recalled telling Jack Howard all those years ago about feeling alone at Greenwich. Thinking of Jack, she smiled. His pragmatism and directness always reassured her. He was someone you could trust, she thought, and Edward is lucky to have him.