Daughter of York (71 page)

PART FOUR

A Widow in Waiting
Burgundy and England,
1477–1480

22

Burgundy, 1477

“Fortunata!” Margaret screamed, coming out of another nightmare. The dream always came to her as the old year came to an end, when she would pray for her father’s soul who died on the thirty-first of December sixteen long years before. The head on the Micklegate was still as vivid as ever, and each year, the horror of it gripped her imagination for days afterwards.

Holding a candelabrum, Beatrice hurried to Margaret’s bedside and pulled the heavy curtains aside. Soothing Margaret’s forehead with her cool hand, she spoke calmly. “Your grace, ’tis but a dream. Wake now, ’tis I, Beatrice, who will comfort you. Lady Margaret, wake up!”

Margaret sat up abruptly, her eyes wide open now. “Where is Fortunata?” “She is … well … indisposed,” Beatrice lied, knowing she was probably with Caxton.

“Oh,” Margaret said, but then she clutched Beatrice’s arm. “Ah, Beatrice, how glad I am to see you. ’Twas the usual dream, as you have guessed. I should be used to it by now, but it shocks me still.” She drew the fur blanket up to her chin and rested her chin on her bent knees.

“You knew my father. Tell me about him,” she begged, patting the side of the bed and inviting the older woman to sit. Despite her fondness for Margaret, Beatrice still could not lower her strict standards of etiquette and so remained standing, although she put the candelabrum down and wrapped herself in Margaret’s fine woolen bed robe.

“I knew my cousin Cecily better than your father, your grace, when we were growing up. Your father was sent to their house at Raby as a young man to train, as you do know. Cecily told me she loved your father when she was only thirteen, but I did not think he was very handsome or strong. Your brother Richard reminded me of him, in truth. But I was wrong about him, Lady Margaret. He was strong and able to win people to him with his courage and charm. He used to call me Beet.” She smiled, remembering. “I suppose ’twas because I blushed a lot when I was young.”

“Beet! ’Tis a splendid name for you.” Margaret had forgotten the nightmare and was watching this old friend of her parents with love. “I have been truly blessed to have you serve me all these years, Beet. You remind me of home.” She looked wistful. “I wonder if I shall ever return to see them all again.”

“As soon as the duke returns and Lady Mary is married, I think you should plan to visit, duchess. Certes, after all the tireless work you have done on your husband’s behalf, you deserve to go and see your family.” Beatrice was firm. “Surely you have but to ask.”

Aye, she is right, Margaret thought. But when do I ever see Charles to ask him such trivial questions? One snowy afternoon at her desk a few days earlier, she had idly gone back over the events of the past two years in her accounts and discovered to her surprise that she had last seen Charles for five days in 1475, almost eighteen months ago. She could hardly credit that it had been that long. And the year before that, why, only twice for a few days at a time. This was not the marriage she had dreamed of all those years ago in her bed at Greenwich. She sighed.

“Certes, he will be back for the wedding, and then we shall think about England, Beet. I am sorry I woke you. ’Tis cold, and you should go back to bed. God keep you tonight, and God keep the duke and his army encamped in weather like this,” Margaret murmured.

“Amen,” Beatrice replied, crossing herself and padding back to her bed.

• • •

M
ARGARET WAS READING
a passage from her new book to Mary and Jeanne in the cosy solar at Ten Waele a few days later when a commotion downstairs broke her concentration. Margaret called to one of her attendants to go below and chastise whoever was spoiling the tranquility of the afternoon. The young woman did not have time to rise and put away her needlework when the door was flung open and two guards hurriedly stood to attention to let Lord Hugonet and Lord Gruuthuse pass.

“Pray forgive the intrusion, your grace,” Hugonet said, bowing. “We must speak urgently and in private.” Hugonet’s thin face was pinched with worry as he straightened.

“Certes, messire,” Margaret replied, concerned. “Ladies, pray leave us at once. Nay, Mary, you should remain.” Margaret put out her hand and gentled Mary back into her chair. She waited until the room was empty before urging Hugonet to speak. “What is it, messire? You are looking peaked.”

For once Hugonet came straight to the point. “’Tis the worst news, your grace. It would seem the duke has been defeated at Nancy and the army is in retreat.” He paused. “Moreover, there is a rumor Duke Charles has perished.”

Both Margaret and Mary leapt to their feet, faces ashen. “Charles dead?” Margaret managed to say. Mary was on the verge of tears. Margaret took and squeezed her hand. “I am sure ’tis a mistake, Mary. Who says this, messire?” she demanded. “How can we be sure ’tis not a repeat of the news from Murten?”

“We cannot as yet, in truth. But the soldiers who have ridden here to tell us of the disaster are speaking of a massacre by the Swiss and Lorraine troops such that ’tis nigh impossible for the duke to have survived.”

Mary trembled. “
Belle-mère,
” she whispered, “what will become of us?”

“I believe we must maintain order until these rumors can be confirmed or denied. Am I not right, Messire de Hugonet?” Margaret replied, before the chancellor could launch into one of his diatribes. “This means that you must write to your father’s central administration in Malines to make sure the Treasury functions as usual.”

“Me?” Mary’s eyes were wide. “Why would they listen to me? ’Tis you who knows how to govern,
belle-mère.
”

“Madame Mary has a point, duchess. If the letter comes from both of you, and you both use your present titles, then perhaps we may start a rumor of our own that Duke Charles is still alive.” Gruuthuse had not said a word since entering, but now all three turned to him.

Hugonet’s shrewd eyes crinkled in appreciation. “’Tis well said, Louis. We will write at once. May we convene in my office, madame?” he said, looking at Margaret.

“Aye, messire. We shall be there directly.” She and Mary acknowledged their bows and watched them leave with mounting anxiety. Mary sank into her chair and stared into the vast unknown of life without her father. Margaret paced and pondered and planned in her usual fashion. She and Mary were helpless without a powerful man behind them, especially as French law did not recognize a female line of inheritance. As soon as Louis hears that Charles is dead, he will not waste a minute in breaking the truce and reclaiming what he thinks is his, she admitted grimly. The question was: where would he attack first? She had not spent nine years as duchess and years before that with Edward without taking the measure of the Spider King. Her mind jumped all over the place as her soft leather shoes padded through the rushes, eventually stopping in front of the protruding chimneypiece where her eyes focused on her device: Good will come of it. She suddenly laughed. If Charles is dead, then I am a widow, she realized. If I am a widow, then I am free.

“
Belle-mère,
what is so amusing?” Mary interrupted Margaret’s train of thought and made her jump guiltily. Had she said something about Anthony aloud? She turned and hurried to Mary’s side, kneeling down and taking her hands.

“Nay, I was not laughing. ’Twas more of a cry for help, my dove. Or maybe ’twas because I realize that you are now the duchess. I should be making you obeisance, you see. And that made me laugh.” I am not making things better, she realized, watching Mary’s pinched face. “Oh, I know not. My mind for once is as muddled as a badly spun spindle of wool.”

There was a long pause as both women sat with their own thoughts of Charles.

“How old were you when your father died in battle,
chère belle-mère
?” Mary surprised Margaret with her question. “I remember you telling me about those nightmares once and how you cried when you heard of his
death. I ask because I feel no sadness, only shock. Is it because I am near twenty that I do not cry?”

Margaret put her arms around her. “I was fifteen, Mary. Much younger than you, ’tis all.” She did not add that she had adored Richard, duke of York, who had been a loving father, interested in all his children, unlike Charles, who had never had more than a five-minute conversation with Mary in her whole life. “Come, sweeting,” she said, using the English endearment Mary enjoyed, “let us rejoin the councilors. At least we shall be doing something instead of sitting and brooding.” She rose and offered Mary her hand. When the younger woman stood, Margaret impulsively took her in her arms and they clung to each other for comfort for a few moments before gathering up their trains and walking to the door.

M
ARGARET HAD BEEN
right. King Louis received the accurate report of Charles’s death several days before Ghent did and attacked and captured the town of Saint-Quentin in Margaret’s dowerlands the very next day. Several more attacks took place in the next week before Margaret and Mary learned definitively of the duke’s demise. He believes any former French lands revert to him because there is no male heir, Margaret thought angrily. How foolish Charles was not to try for a son with her or ensure Mary was safely married to a strong lord.

“He was found frozen in a pond, your grace,” Lord Ravenstein told Mary, after being received back in Ghent with Lord Humbercourt, who had come directly from the remnants of the army. Ravenstein did not upset the grave young woman now seated on the ducal throne by describing how the naked, half-submerged body had been known by one of his
valets de chambre,
who had returned to search the battlefield, only because of the scar across the duke’s chest and his extraordinarily long nails. The face had been gnawed beyond recognition by wolves, it seemed. “Pray accept my deepest condolences, duchess,” he said sadly. Then he bowed to Margaret, who was seated on a smaller chair next to Mary. “Duchess, I am sorry to be the bearer of such news, but all of us”—he turned to include Hugonet, Humbercourt, Gruuthuse and those other members of Charles’s inner circle who had not been killed, taken prisoner or, as in the extraordinary case of Antoine, Bastard of Burgundy, turned their coat—“are ready to serve you both in this time of crisis.”

“Thank you, messires,” Mary said in a clear, strong voice, making Margaret proud. “Tomorrow we shall begin the mourning period for my father, informing our people that he is indeed dead. Duchess Margaret and I are in your hands, ready to hear your counsel.”

If only the world outside this room could remain as civilized as within it, Margaret thought, listening as the experienced politicians discussed the facts and choices before them. Louis had already asserted his sovereignty over Dijon and threatened to overrun the northern territories as well if Burgundy refused to bow to his rule. Louis had promised to protect his godchild Mary’s rights, but out of the other side of his mouth he threatened Burgundians who did not accept him as absolute ruler. He also offered his seven-year-old son, Dauphin Charles, in marriage. This would mean Burgundy would revert to French rule. All the Flemish and Dutch provinces would balk at such an idea. Already the people of Ghent were grumbling. They did not trust the Frenchmen, Hugonet and Humbercourt, who were counseling Mary.

With Ravenstein’s help, Mary rejected the Dauphin in a letter to Louis.

“I understand that the duke, my father, may God pardon him, consented and agreed to the marriage between the son of the Emperor and me, and I am determined to have none other but the son of the Emperor.”

Louis responded by sending his army into the duchy as far as Dijon, and in the north, he captured the town of Arras.

T
HE FIRST
M
ARGARET
heard that George’s wife, Isabel, had died was when a rumor reached her that she herself was planning to marry the newly widowed George to Mary.

“Poor, fragile Isabel,” she said to Jeanne. “I believe she truly loved George, in truth.” She fiddled with her ring and shook her head. “You say the rumor comes from England and France? Although it would please me greatly, I cannot think Edward would sanction the marriage. You see, through Duchess Isabella, Charles—and now Mary—had a certain right to the English throne. A child of theirs would be a threat to Edward’s children. He would be foolish to contemplate it, even to spite Louis.” She had to admit to her chagrin that it was probably George himself who
had started the rumor. He would enjoy the power and wealth that being Mary’s husband would bring.

A few days later, as consequence of an urgent appeal made to Edward by Margaret, an embassy from England arrived to treat with the emperor’s ambassadors there in Ghent to safeguard an earlier peace. Margaret was glad to see it was William Caxton who escorted the English emissaries, Dr. John Morton and John Donne, into the presence chamber. She was not prepared for the second English proposal of marriage for Mary, however.