Daughter of York (72 page)

“My sovereign lord King Edward, offers his brother-in-law, Anthony, Lord Rivers, as husband to the Duchess Mary,” Morton announced to her, Mary and the assembled councilors.

The blood drained from Margaret’s face, despite her pounding heart. What was Edward thinking? Before Mary or anyone else could say anything, Margaret heard herself speak in an unnaturally high voice.

“Lord Rivers!” she cried. “Pah! He is a mere earl and not of royal blood, a nobody and not worthy of our beloved duchess. I pray you, mes-sires,” she appealed to them, “reject this ridiculous proposal out of hand. Dr. Morton, are you certain you have your facts right?”

William Caxton suddenly knew who had met Margaret in the middle of the night at Ooidonk Castle. Christ’s nails, ’twas Rivers, he thought. Poor lady, she loves him still.

“Aye, your grace. Those were the king, your brother’s instructions,” Morton replied. “And if Duchess Mary accepts, an English army will be at her disposal.”

“The Duchess Mary will
not
accept,” Margaret exclaimed vehemently, and even Lord Ravenstein raised an eyebrow.

Mary was also staring at Margaret. She could not remember her stepmother being so angry before. But then all tempers had been stretched to the fraying point in the past two weeks, and this proposal was ridiculous, even she could see that.

“The Duchess Margaret speaks for me, Dr. Morton. I am to marry the emperor’s son and shall have none other. Archduke Maximilian has written of his intention to marry me as soon as possible. I pray you thank the king for his offer, but I must refuse.” Mary gave a sign to Ravenstein, who stepped forward, bowed to the three Englishmen and indicated the door.

William bowed solemnly to Margaret. When she caught his eye, she could read sympathy in his look. Damn, she thought ruefully, he knows.

“M
Y LORD
,” M
ARGARET
addressed Anthony formally, following his wish for them to temper the contents of their letters.

“I write in this time of crisis of a matter far closer to my heart. It saddens me to tell you that Astolat, your precious gift to me of many years ago, has gone to his rest after nine years of devotion to me. He died peacefully in his sleep two nights ago at the foot of my bed.”

Margaret paused, tears wetting her cheeks as she thought of how she held the big dog’s head in her lap in those last few hours. Astolat had been ill since Margaret’s return from Holland, sleeping most of the day and eating little. That night in early March, his breathing was labored and he lay with his eyes wide open, and Margaret knew the dog was suffering. At one point Margaret nodded off, and when she jerked awake, Astolat was whimpering. She saw Fortunata stroking the soft ears and whispering endearments to the dog.

“Do you remember,
madonna
, when I went under the table in King Edward’s chamber? I was so frightened by that big dog. But Astolat, he has been my friend. And now I shall lose my friend.” Her big eyes were full of sorrow as she moved to make room for Margaret, who sat up and let her tears fall freely onto

Astolat’s face. “Aye, I fear we are both losing a friend today,
pochina.
I thank God we still have each other.” Margaret put out her hand and wiped a tear from Fortunata’s face. She looked down at Astolat, who was as still as a stone, trying to conserve what little energy he had left—for what, Margaret knew not. It was as though part of Anthony was dying, too, she thought morbidly. The dog seemed to sense her sorrow and struggled to lift his head to lick the salt from Margaret’s cheeks. The effort proved too great, the big heart gave out and he sank down, exhaling one last time. Margaret lay next to him for some time, wallowing in her loss, and had finally fallen asleep, her hand held tightly in Fortunata’s.

Now she wiped her cheeks and picked up her pen again, dipping it in the sepia ink.
“I have now lost one of the best friends I have had in this life,”
she wrote.
“I pray our friendship will last longer. Pray for us here in Burgundy.”
She
paused again. Should she remind him she was now free? If anyone read the letter, it might prove a juicy piece of gossip, she admitted, and, sighing, she began to sign her name.

“
Belle-mère
, they have taken my councilors!” Mary cried, running into the antechamber, Jeanne close behind. Margaret threw some sand over the parchment to blot the ink, and rose to curtsey to her stepdaughter.

“What do you mean, child, taken my councilors?” Margaret exclaimed. “Who are ‘they’ and where have they taken who?”

Events had moved quickly since Charles’s death had been confirmed, and Mary had called an assembly of the estates general and promised to be counseled by them. She had named Ravenstein as her lieutenant, which was circumspect, Margaret thought, given the unpopularity of the French councilors in Ghent. But a joint impassioned letter to Louis from both women asking for his protection during the first days of chaos had, in the Spider King’s usual twisted way, been used against Mary and had caused the Gantois to distrust her subsequent pledge to be ruled by the estates. Unfortunately, the other signers of that early letter were Ravenstein, Humbercourt and Hugonet. It looked to her subjects as though Mary was dealing in secret with Louis while also promising to be governed by her councilors. She had been confronted with a copy of the letter and, horrified, she had desperately tried to explain the situation. From that day, demonstrations and parades by townspeople, burghers, craftsmen, merchants and apprentices took place daily outside the palace walls, and finally, Mary had been made to sign the Great Privilege, which restored all the rights to the towns that the dukes of Burgundy had taken away for more than a hundred years.

Mary was shaking. “Messires Humbercourt and Hugonet and two others, madame. Oh, please, what shall I do? They have taken them to the dungeons at Gravensteen. They have been accused of treason. They said the two had plotted to kidnap me and force me to marry the Dauphin. ’Twas not true,
belle-mère
, was it?”

Margaret paled. “Certes, it was not! And Messire de Ravenstein, did they take him?” she asked, knowing that he had signed that all-important letter.

Mary shook her head. Margaret assumed that the highest noble in Burgundy was too powerful to imprison, but she feared for the others. The two Henchmen were the most hated men in Ghent, she knew.

“But we are not permitted to leave,” Mary told her fearfully. “We are as prisoners. And …” Mary looked at the floor, poking a patch of rushes with the toe of her blue satin shoe. It was obvious she was holding back some information.

“And what, Mary? Tell me,” Margaret urged.

“Those people,” she grimaced, “said that because you tried to marry me to your brother, George, you are guilty of treason, too.”

Margaret exploded. “What?” she sputtered. Mary started nervously and watched Margaret begin the customary pacing. “’Tis laughable,” Margaret snapped. “They have no proof, because ’tis a falsehood!”

“What will they do to us?” Mary said, wringing her hands.

“They can do nothing, Mary,” Margaret said, hoping she sounded braver than she felt. “You are the duchess. They have no right to touch you.” But on the other hand, they can do with me as they will, she thought. “Go back to your apartments, my dear, and I will be there anon. I must finish my letter.”

Mary acquiesced and hurried from the room. Jeanne hesitated at the doorway. Margaret put her finger to her lips.

“I am a danger to Mary,” she said in a low voice. “I must leave Ghent at once. But I do not want to frighten her. I pray you, Jeanne, send Monsieur de la Marche here and have Beatrice attend me immediately.”

Jeanne curtseyed and left her.

Aye, I must go, she thought, signing her letter and folding it. But where? She thought briefly of fleeing to England to beg Edward for help, but she knew she must help Mary from within Burgundy. And if the Burgundians were accusing her of a treasonable act, they would doubly believe the story if she left the country. Nay, she must stay. Many of her dower lands were occupied by Louis’ troops, and she dared not fall into their hands. Oudenaarde was far enough from Louis as well as being one of her own properties. It seemed a good choice.

Olivier de la Marche waddled in not long afterwards, and within an hour he had his orders and had agreed to accompany the dowager out of Flanders. As a close associate of Charles’s, Margaret had no doubt the little Frenchman would also be treated with suspicion if he stayed. She invited him then and there to become her chamberlain as dowager, and he readily agreed.

“I have no wish to stay here with the temper of the Gantois at boiling point, your grace.” He grinned, his bulbous nose almost meeting his chin and reminding her of a gargoyle she had seen recently. “I can have your household ready to leave within a day. I am better at planning happier events, such as your wedding celebrations, madame, but the same skill can be put to good use in a fleeing situation, I dare swear.”

Margaret was cheered. Here was someone she could rely on, and one with a sense of humor. And with Guillaume giving her protection, she was sure she could move out of harm’s way in short order. “Thank you, sir. I will alert my ladies, and we shall leave the day after tomorrow.”

She called to Fortunata, whom she assumed was listening at the door. “We are in danger,
pochina,
and I need you to tell Beatrice and the others to pack everything. We are not wanted here.”

Fortunata gasped but ran to do her bidding.

T
HE WIND BLEW
winter through the courtyard that morning in March as Margaret’s attendants traipsed down the palace steps into carriages, onto horses or heaved furniture, plate, tapestries and other baggage onto carts. Her household was much reduced as dowager, but as La Marche pointed out, a smaller meinie made for faster traveling. However, Mary had insisted that her stepmother be accompanied by three hundred English archers who had returned from her father’s disastrous campaign and were still in the pay of Burgundy.

Margaret watched the progress of the preparations from her window, the many colored panes sometimes casting the scene in a rosy, sunny or blue light. Servants below were scurrying from the palace to put hastily assembled belongings into the baggage carts, a sense of urgency in their step. Jeanne stood beside her, and neither woman wanted to voice their fear that they did not know when they would be together again. Margaret’s and Mary’s lives had been woven together for most of Margaret’s time in Burgundy, which meant that Jeanne was always there for her as a friend. Both were thinking on times shared, crises overcome, concerns discussed, and neither wanted to be the first to say farewell. A small hand found Margaret’s on her other side, and she started, although she would have known Mary’s touch anywhere. She squeezed it, and it was then she quietly began to cry.

“We must all be brave,
belle-mère.
” The now confident Mary spoke for all three. “’Tis cruel that we must be parted, but as Messire Louis told me, your life could be in danger if the crowd out there turns ugly. I shall keep you informed of all that happens, and one day, I promise you, we shall be together again.”

Margaret was shamed by the young woman’s courage and wiped her eyes. “The people love you, Mary. Do not forget that,” she said. “You represent a new era for them, but I will always represent the old. I pray your councilors will soon be released to you, but in the meantime lean on Messire Louis. He is a good and loyal man.”

She saw La Marche hurry down the steps to ready her carriage, barking orders to the coachmen and waving his expressive hands. With Cappi on her shoulder, Fortunata scurried along behind him, making certain the tussie-mussie and foot warmer were in place inside. It was time to go. With a sigh, she turned to embrace Jeanne and then, kissing Mary’s forehead, she took the heart-shaped face in her hands and smiled into those serious gray eyes.

“May God bless you and give you strength and guidance to weather this storm, my dove. I shall work tirelessly to have Maximilian here as soon as the emperor allows it. You will be a bride before the summer is over, I promise you.” She was gratified to see Mary’s tension ease and a smile replace the seriousness.

A little cough told them they were not alone. Lord Louis stood on the threshold as the women turned. Margaret drew herself up to her full height and walked to him with a smile. He bowed low.

“I trust you will look after things here, messire. The duchess must count on you—and I must count on you.”

“You have my solemn word, your grace. Your pupil has learned well,” Gruuthuse said, smiling at Mary. “We shall prevail, I promise.” Turning to Margaret, his tone gave away his mounting concern. “And now, I must wish you God speed and a safe journey to Oudenaarde, duchess. I fear the people are angrier than ever today. I hope you will have no trouble proceeding through them.”

He was right. The clamor outside the palace gates did seem louder, but she was not going to delay their leaving any longer. On her way down the massive stone staircase to join La Marche waiting in the marble hall below, she made up her mind.

“Monsieur de la Marche, we shall process from the palace to the square, and there I will speak to the people.”

La Marche’s face fell. “’Tis too dangerous, your grace. I beg of you, reconsider.”

But he knew the reputation of this indomitable daughter of York and was not surprised when she ignored him.

The ten-foot-high gates of Ten Waele swung open into the mass of people crowding the palace walls, and a fanfare announced the departure of the dowager. The English archers, well able to fend off the unarmed townspeople, soon made a path for the cavalcade to pass through, although the growls and grumbles from the mob were disheartening. As her chariot rumbled to the middle of the square, Margaret commanded her coachmen to stop. Guillaume dismounted and helped her out of the cumbersome vehicle as a hush came over the throng.

“’Tis the dowager, Duchess Margaret,” one man shouted to those craning their necks to see. The information was passed back like a whisper of wind in pines.