Daughter of York (69 page)

Margaret blushed. “’Tis praise indeed from you, messire. I shall make sure Mary learns all there is to know about governing. My one concern is that Charles has not wed her to Maximilian yet. Should anything happen to the duke, God forbid”—she crossed herself quickly—“she would be putty in Louis’ hands.”

“If you have any power to persuade Duke Charles, I strongly urge you to do so, madame. ’Twould be a disaster for Burgundy if we had no man as a leader—although you, your grace, would be a worthy combatant.”

“You are kind, Messire Ravenstein. I do hate to see you go, but God speed you in your new office.” She rose from her chair, bringing the audience to an end. He bowed over his swollen leg and backed away from the dais. When he glanced up at her, he was astonished to see that her eyes were full of tears. He was touched beyond belief.

L
OUIS VAN
G
RUUTHUSE
was ushered into Margaret’s presence chamber not long after Ravenstein’s departure. The sandy-haired Dutchman could not have been more different from his predecessor. Whereas Ravenstein was tall, aloof and grave, Gruuthuse was slight, mild-mannered and talkative. Margaret had met him on many occasions and noticed that he seemed at ease with everyone in the room. He had a ready smile, which lit up his heavy-lidded large eyes. He still reminded Margaret of a sheep, although there was nothing of the sheep in the way he conducted the affairs of state. He was well respected for his intelligence and fairness throughout Burgundy, and Margaret knew she could not ask for a more honest councilor. He was styled Lord of Bruges, Prince of Steenhuse and was a knight of the order of the Golden Fleece. He had governed Holland ably for Charles, and Edward had bestowed the title earl of Winchester on him for his services to the English crown during Margaret’s marriage negotiations and Edward’s exile. From the moment she met him at Reading Abbey, Margaret had taken a liking to him.

“Your grace,” he began, his deep voice always surprising her, “it is a great honor for me to serve you. I have taken the liberty of bringing a gift with me, in case this meeting did not go well and I could not live up to Lord Ravenstein’s high standards.”

Margaret arched her brow. “A bribe, Heer Lodewijck?” she said, favoring him with some Dutch. “Certes, I do not think Heer van Ravenstein would stoop to a bribe, but then it was perhaps because he thought I would be above taking one. As I see you are holding a book,” she said, her eyes devouring the beautifully tooled leather cover embossed with gold letters, “I think I am about to accept one.”

They both laughed, and he presented her with a copy of
La Roman de la Rose
, a book she had admired in his library on the one occasion she had visited his splendid house adjacent to the Church of Our Lady.

“First, may I compliment you on your Dutch, madame,” Gruuthuse said, reverting to French, the court language, flattered the duchess had made the effort in his native tongue. “I know you would be pleased to know that Collard Mansion copied it for you, duchess. He and Master Caxton are in partnership, as you know.”

Margaret snatched the book from his hands. She reverently opened the pages and marveled at the beautiful script by one of the masters of Europe, fluttering her fingers over the gold leaf and many-hued illuminations throughout the book.

“It is beautiful, Messire Louis. You are very kind, and I shall treasure it always,” she said, smiling. “I believe you and I shall go along very well together.”

“I have never had a doubt, your grace,” the diplomat replied. “I have taken the liberty of including my device on the frontispiece.”

“Ah, I see it.
Plus est en vous,
” she read.

“Aye, your grace, I thought it was most appropriate, for I have always known there is more in you, in truth,” he said, smiling.

21

1476

Without Louis harassing him on his borders, Charles could turn his back on France and look to further aggrandizement in Alsace and Lorraine. Back in May, Duke René of Lorraine had already broken an agreement for safe passage to Charles’s troops through his territory, and so Charles used this as an excuse to invade. By the first of the year, Lorraine was added to the Burgundian territories through two months of brilliant campaigning by Charles and the subsequent siege of its capital, Nancy.

Margaret heard the news from Chancellor Hugonet in one of his hour-long orations about Charles’s prowess as a soldier and great conqueror. In Charles’s absences, Margaret had always presided over the council at Gravensteen Castle, making decisions and passing judgment, but in those early months of the year, she was aware that the burghers of Ghent were grumbling at the taxes being levied on them to fund Charles’s campaign, and she felt a few twinges of alarm at the dissent.

A messenger arrived at the end of February to give news of Charles’s conquest of Grandson, a garrisoned Swiss town on the banks of Lake
Neuchâtel. Margaret had been horrified to hear that Charles had hanged many of those left alive on walnut trees outside the town, several to a tree. The rest, the messenger said with shameful nonchalance, had been thrown in the lake and drowned. The councilors had cheered at the victory, but Margaret had sunk into an even deeper melancholy. What little respect she had left for Charles was being eroded by the day.

In early March, another messenger cantered into the courtyard at Ten Waele, his horse white with lather and his Burgundian blue-and-white surcoat and cloak covered with mud and blood. Grooms sprang from nowhere to help him from the saddle and take the horse to the stables.

Guillaume escorted him to the duchess, who had just returned to the presence chamber from the prie-dieu in her chamber. She now spent many hours on her knees, telling her rosary. Several courtiers were playing chess and cards, and a quartet of recorders was playing a piece by their countryman Binchois. The messenger’s disheveled appearance and hurried entrance was in stark contrast to the pleasant, leisurely scene.

“Your grace, the duke’s messenger,” Guillaume announced urgently.

Aye, Guillaume, I can see who he is, she thought unkindly. She clapped her hands and the music stopped abruptly. Guillaume went to her side as the messenger fell on his knees in front of her.

“My master and dread lord, the duke of Burgundy, has suffered a grievous defeat at Grandson on the shores of Lake Neuchâtel at the hands of the Swiss and their allies.”

A gasp of horror went up from the assembled company. Everyone moved around the bringer of bad news. Margaret stared at the man in disbelief. Charles has never lost a battle, she wanted to tell him, but she was speechless.

“You must be mistaken,” Gruuthuse said, breaking the silence. “Duke Charles took Grandson not a sennight ago. Explain yourself, sir.”

The messenger did his best with the little information he had, but it seemed Charles had been lured out of his fortified camp at Grandson to help defend another town and, not knowing the allied army was so close, did not have time to set up for a battle and was trapped. The Burgundians turned and fled, several hundred losing their lives.

“A greater disaster was the loss of our entire baggage train, tents, artillery, plate, clothes and arms, your grace. The duke’s jewels and tapestries,
holy reliquaries, money and books—all plundered and scattered.” Another gasp went up from the onlookers. “Duke Charles told me to tell you he was especially saddened by the loss of your gift, duchess. And,” he remembered, “of his jeweled hat.”

Margaret wanted to laugh; how she had hated that hat! She bowed her head in acknowledgment. Now perhaps you will stop your greedy warring and senseless killing, husband, she thought. On the other hand, if he abandoned his ambition, he would come back to her.

“We shall endeavor to send him replacements, have no fear,” she assured the soldier. “But now, pray go and rest. I thank you for your good offices.”

M
ARGARET SENT OUT
a summons for a meeting of the estates general, and for days the members from all over Burgundy came riding into Ghent.

Seated on Charles’s throne in the great hall of Gravensteen, Margaret addressed the representatives. She put forth the case for raising funds to cover the financial losses and for the necessity of recruiting thousands more soldiers. Charles had also demanded that Mary be sent to him, although Margaret was at a loss to know why. As she concluded reading Charles’s demands, she was dismayed to hear the dissent in the hall. Finally, after loud arguments, the spokesman for the estates rudely rejected them all. Chancellor Hugonet leapt to his feet, his sharp, angry face reminding Margaret of a weasel.

“Then you shall know the duke’s wrath, sirs,” he thundered, his lock of black hair stuck firmly to his forehead from the sweat that was pouring down his face. “You will not go unpunished, I swear! And those of you Gantois who remember Sixty-seven can educate your fellows as to how terrible the duke’s wrath can be.”

“Shame on you!” called one voice from the midst of the company, and his cry was taken up by many. Margaret was afraid. The mood was ugly and a fistfight had broken out at the back of the hall. She rose and looked about for Guillaume. At times like these, she did not care about his brain; she was grateful for his brawn. He was there to take her arm and lead her through the archway behind her throne and into a private anteroom. Gruuthuse followed them. Margaret begged him to go back, round up
the most prominent of the members and bring them to her immediately. Hugonet could still be heard bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“A faithful councilor, Guillaume,” she murmured, “but Messire de Hugonet should curb his temper. I liked not the ugly tone of the discussion out there.”

Guillaume nodded but had nothing to add.

Greeting the dozen or so delegates graciously as they filed in one by one, she invited them to sit at the large table to talk reasonably with her.

“’Twas a mob out there, sirs, and my feeble voice would not have been heard in such a din. I thank you for giving me your attention in more pleasant surroundings.” She gave one of the smiles that had won over Ravenstein, and the men responded by sitting quietly, all eyes on her.

Within two hours of hearing each delegate one by one and considering each argument fairly, she finally won their confidence and more troops to send to Charles. The only concession she made was to agree not to send Mary to her father. Hugonet stood in the back of the room, finally subdued and admiring of the duchess’s resolve, and Gruuthuse could not stop smiling.

“B
ELLE-MÈRE, WAKE UP
! Father has been defeated again, and they think he is dead!” Mary cried, running into Margaret’s chamber one sunny day in late June, making Astolat bark with alarm. The old dog now slept on Margaret’s bed, keeping his mistress company, as Fortunata had suggested during one of her mistress’s bouts of melancholy.

Margaret was sleeping soundly, despite a disturbing dream of Fortunata changing into a giant monkey, swinging from tree to tree in a forest with that hideous death grin of her other dreams on its face. She awoke with a start. Mary’s words filtered through to her, their full implication making her scramble out of bed and call for her bed robe.

“Dead? What are you saying, child?” she asked, as Fortunata and Henriette helped her into the robe. “Where is Gruuthuse? Where did you hear this news?”

Jeanne hurried in, a worried frown on her usually calm face and her blue eyes pale with fear. “I was taking the air early, your grace, and I saw the messenger ride in. ’Tis true, there has been another defeat.” She turned to Mary, who was standing beside Margaret, a frightened expression
clouding her face. “There is no proof your father is dead, Mary. Let us not believe the worst until we hear the truth.”

Margaret was now fully awake. She started to pace, tying and untying the knot of her belt. Charles dead? ’Tis impossible, she thought first. Then she considered the possibility. She had not seen him since Fauquembergues, almost a year ago, and he had been campaigning ever since. Certes, ’tis possible he’s dead. That would mean—she swung round to face her stepdaughter, and Jeanne knew instantly what she was thinking: Mary is now the duchess! Little did Jeanne know that Margaret’s thoughts were of widowhood, freedom and Anthony.

Margaret walked forward calmly and took Mary’s hands in hers. She did not think the girl had yet considered the implications. “My dove, Jeanne is right. We must not give up hope until we know for certain your father is dead. Let us go and pray for the souls of those lost and for the return of the duke.”

A few days later they received word that Charles was safe, and the three women breathed a sigh of relief.

“I am not ready to be duchess,
belle-mère,
” Mary confessed in a whisper as they sat on their favorite excedra in the rose bower. “I am only twenty and have no husband.”

“Certes, you are ready,” Margaret retorted more confidently than she felt. “But you are right, we must expedite your marriage to Maximilian. I shall write to your father at once.” She knew the papers were still pending, as was the papal dispensation. “You do understand your position, Mary.”