Daughter of York (75 page)

“I regret to inform you that our brother George is dead,”
Mary read.

Margaret moaned again. That was as far as she had gone, but Mary read on.

“It came to my notice that even from the Tower he was plotting against me, spilling vile lies about me, my wife and her family and even our mother. He was brought to trial for treason …”

Mary stopped, drawing in a sharp breath as she read ahead, not wanting to distress Margaret further.

Margaret sat ramrod-straight in her chair, her grip on Jeanne’s hand like a vise. “Go on, Mary,” she said, her voice cracking.

“… for treason, as you may have heard. Before Parliament I accused George of plotting to take the throne. Some of these efforts will be well known to you, but lately there were more that came to my ears. In truth, Margaret, one of them involved you and your alleged wish that George be wedded to Mary.”

Mary looked up in surprise. “Is this true,
belle-mère
?”

Margaret drew a deep breath. “Before I was betrothed to your father, there was some talk of marrying you to George,” she admitted, “but Edward could not take that risk, Mary. George was disappointed because it would have meant he and I could stay together always. But that was many years ago. I swear to you, there is no truth to George’s story.” In a flash of insight, she guessed George must have known that she would support him in a match with Mary had it been offered. Ah, George, your ambition and pride had no bounds, in truth, and look what it has brought you, she thought sadly. To Mary she said, “I pray you, continue. I am ready.”

“Only mother begged me to spare him, Meg. All others deserted him. Richard believed my soul would rot in Hell if I took my own brother’s life and cautioned me to rescind the sentence, but he also believed in George’s guilt. No one came forward to speak in his defense at the trial, and he was forced to defend himself. Had he shown remorse for all his past transgressions towards me or had he pleaded with me for his life, I might have relented, but he was arrogant until the end. As long as he lived, my throne was in jeopardy. His request that the execution be private was honored, and as you know he was drinking heavily, I ordered a butt of his favorite malmsey to be delivered to him that night, and even though the poison was administered in a cup of it, I do not think he suffered greatly in his death. He is now lying in Tewkesbury with Isabel, God rest his soul. Pray for me, Margaret, I beg of you. This decision was the most difficult of my life, and I know it will not be looked on kindly by history.”

Mary whispered his farewell and signature and gazed with love and sympathy at her stepmother. “I am so sorry, Margaret.” With her new self-confidence, she raised her voice. “Come, let us all pray for Clarence’s soul and,” she added, although she did not much feel like it, “for Edward.” She fell on her knees and signed herself and was followed in quick succession by Margaret and Jeanne.

Margaret’s thoughts had flown back to England and her childhood. She saw herself playing chess at Greenwich with George, which made her wonder if he had received her gift of the book from Caxton. She heard again the silly squabbles he and Dickon had engaged in daily. She felt his hand in hers as he led her in a dance. And she remembered the last time she had seen him—at Fauquembergues in Seventy-five, looking back at her from his horse. Her eyes flew wide and she slumped back onto her heels.

“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” she whispered, causing Jeanne to look at her anxiously. “The prediction! George’s astrologer told him he would have a watery end. The malmsey! Do you think they drowned him in it?” she asked of no one. She shuddered, imagining George’s last look on the world, his blue eyes open, his sweet smile still upon his face, and his elegant blond hair spread out like a halo in the amber wine. She crossed herself again and tried to concentrate on her prayers, but her family’s faces kept appearing one by one, each one frozen in the time of her girlhood. Gone were her father, her brother Edmund, her sister Anne, her cousin of Warwick, and now George. And then, because she could not help it, Charles’s face manifested itself in her vision. She suddenly remembered that she had also seen Charles for the last time that morning in late July at Fauquembergues as he rode off with Edward to deal with Louis. Unlike George, he had given her nary a backward glance.

And then Fortunata flitted into view, her dark eyes prominent as they surveyed Margaret with love and sympathy. “
Madonna,
I am sorry you are sad,” she said quietly. “Where is your kerchief? The one I gave you. Weep into it, and you will feel better.”

Margaret smiled through her tears. “’Tis always with me, Fortunata,” she told her servant, taking the well-worn embroidered kerchief from her sleeve as if to prove it. “It will always remind me of you.”

“I am always here with you,
madonna.
I remind you of me every day,” Fortunata said indignantly, which at any other time would have made Margaret laugh.

“B
ELLE-MÈRE, TAKE THE
pain away!” Mary screamed from her elaborate canopied bed, her petite form racked by labor. “Christ’s bones, but it hurts!”

Margaret and the midwife raised eyebrows at the unaccustomed swearing, but Margaret took Mary’s hand and stroked it rhythmically to reassure her. “’Twill be over soon, I promise, my dove. And you will have a fine son, I predict. Remember, our pilgrimage to St. Collette. She will answer our prayers for an heir.”

Mary turned her perspiring face to her stepmother and gave a wan smile. “Aye, ’twas right that we went. But I am so hot, Margaret. Is it me or is the weather warm outside?”

“Both, sweet Mary,” Margaret smiled at her, and then another labor pain overtook more conversation. Every muscle in Mary’s body and face went rigid as she gritted her teeth and tried not to scream, while the dumpy Flemish midwife fussed and tut-tutted around her, her chilblained hands none too gentle.

The room was overcrowded, Margaret thought, but not having gone through childbirth, she did not like to dismiss anyone in case the attendant might have a role about which she was ignorant. But so many people contributed to the heat in the room. She finally dismissed three of the ladies who seemed to be merely bystanders. The birthing chair was ready for Mary as soon as she felt the urge to push, and Margaret pondered on her emotions at this extraordinary moment. Witnessing the birth of her first grandchild—Mary had begged Margaret to think on the babe as her own flesh and blood—was a thrill, but it was tinged with bitterness that she had never known what it was like to watch a child of her own enter the world. There was an ache in her heart for the loss of that knowledge and joy, and she swallowed hard a few times to suppress the lump in her throat.

Mary’s grip on her hand tightened again, and Margaret realized the pains were closer together and more intense. A spotless pile of swaddling bands lay ready to encase the baby when it breathed, and near the fireplace several buckets of hot water were being constantly exchanged when
they cooled. Behind the bed curtains by the window, Margaret knew, Mary’s physicians and her astrologer were quietly standing by in case of any emergency. This was no ordinary birth—during which men were not usually present—but an event of great political and historical importance involving the greatest heiress in Europe. Nothing must go wrong. In her anxiety, Margaret had reluctantly agreed to ban Fortunata from the scene because the astrologer had deemed the dwarf’s presence did not align properly with Mary’s stars that day.

Margaret vaguely wondered how townsfolk and peasants dealt with the process. She had visited many a house and even hovel in her tireless work among the poor and pitied the mothers who could barely suckle their infants for sickness and lack of sustenance. Thank God, this child would know no such deprivation, she thought, although the Christ child had been born of humble parents and in less than ideal surroundings. In her waking moments alone in her huge bed, she had often dreamed of adopting a poor child and giving it a chance in life. Perhaps she would one day, she thought.

“Help me with her to the chair,” the buxom midwife barked to her two assistants, who jumped to attention. Margaret let go of Mary’s hand, smiling cheerfully.

“’Tis not long now, my dove. Just do as Vrouwe Jansen tells you, and all will be well.” She watched as Mary, her chemise up over her distended belly, was helped out of bed and onto the awkward-looking chair.

The child was reluctant to make an entrance, and poor Mary grunted and groaned during pushing efforts for more than an hour before Vrouwe Jansen’s coaching changed from stern to encouraging. “I see the head, your grace. Now, one, two, three, push. Aye, ’tis good! Only a few more.”

Mary was tiring. Her small frame did not lend itself to easy childbearing, so her breaths were labored and mingled with screams and prayers to every saint she could conjure up. Finally the head and shoulders were freed and the rest of the slippery body fell into the midwife’s waiting red hands. Margaret heard an excited gasp from the three birthing attendants.

“’Tis a fine baby boy, duchess!” Vrouwe Jansen proclaimed. “You have a son.”

Margaret could not suppress a whoop of joy. Going to Mary’s side, she put her arm around her stepdaughter, and both stared in wonder at
the wrinkled form that was being held up and smacked into life. A lusty cry emanated from the heir of Burgundy, and for the first time in several hours, Mary’s face broke into a smile.

“I have a son, Margaret,” she whispered. “And he appears healthy.”

“Aye, my dove, you are a clever girl!” Margaret exulted. “A boy at the summer’s solstice must be a good omen.”

“Maximilian and I have agreed to name him Philip, after my much beloved grandfather,” Mary said to the midwife, taking the now swaddled babe and holding him to her breast. “I hope that is another good omen.”

Margaret noted the absence of the Habsburg jutting jaw, which was a prominent feature of his father’s face, and told Mary her son would be handsome.

Mary smiled adoringly at her child, suckling happily at her tit. “Philip the Handsome,” she murmured to him, “I am the luckiest mother in the world.”

A
S WAS TRADITIONAL
, the baby’s baptism took place within a week of his birth, and it was Margaret who carried the child to St. Donatian’s Cathedral through the streets of Bruges that bright June day.

A few days before, a disturbing rumor that the child was a girl had infiltrated the walls of the Prinsenhof, and when it reached Margaret’s ears, she flew into a rage.

“Who started this?” she railed at poor Lord Louis. “There was no secrecy around the birth, and all of us in the bedchamber saw the baby was a boy. ’Tis cruel, and I pray the vicious lie never reaches Mary.”

Gruuthuse nodded. “I would not doubt Louis of France’s hand in this, your grace. He has stooped to lower lies.” He did not need to voice them. Margaret knew all too well those Louis had spread about her, including that she had already borne a child before her marriage to Charles.

Margaret did not respond. She was thinking. The councilor recognized the familiar pacing and furrowed brow and watched her silently as she glided up and down the red and white tiles.

“I have an idea, messire,” she had said turning to him triumphantly. “We shall extinguish the spark of this story before the flames have a chance to kindle.”

Flanked by Lord Ravenstein and the count of Luxembourg, with Anne of Ravenstein holding the christening robe’s train of crimson cloth of
gold, Margaret came out of the cathedral on the square, the organ thundering behind her in a joyful anthem. They were an impressive sight, and for a moment the crowd stared, awestruck. Margaret saw her chance and stepped out in front of her two escorts.

“Your grace?” Ravenstein began, and then was astonished to see Margaret carefully disrobe the baby, who was showing his displeasure at being awakened by lusty exercise of his lungs. “Your grace, what are you doing?” Ravenstein spluttered.

“Extinguishing a fire, messire,” she whispered. Releasing the final piece of clothing from the child and tossing it to Lady Anne behind her, whose mouth was also agape, Margaret held the baby aloft and cried, “Good people of Burgundy, I present to you your heir, Philip, baptized here today in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

“Amen,” chanted the crowd in rote. As if to prove the point, baby Philip chose the moment to spout a fountain from his maleness, causing a great cheer to erupt. Someone shouted, “’Tis indeed a boy! Long live Philip of Burgundy!” and the rest followed suit.

Then a big brute of a man up front called out, “God bless Madame la Grande!” and another cheer went up, as did a couple of gleefully thrown hats.

Ravenstein smiled and then he laughed, his eagle eyes lively with amusement. “How I have missed your mind, your grace. Counseling was never so stimulating as when I had the honor to serve you.”

“Burgundy is fortunate to have such a loyal servant, messire,” Margaret replied, helping Anne of Ravenstein dress the baby again. “And,” she added, shaking Philip’s water from her sleeve, “I pray this fire is well and truly snuffed out.”

Back in her apartments and resting on her bed, the windows wide to let in what breeze there was on that warm day, Margaret suddenly felt tired and unaccountably sad. Holding Philip in her arms for so long had been bittersweet. She turned her huge betrothal ring on her finger and for the thousandth time wished she had a child. She had thought long and hard about remarrying, now that her year’s mourning for Charles was over, but her barrenness was well known, and she doubted she was a useful marriage tool for anyone now. Certes, if Anthony had come to her and offered it, she would have run into his arms. But he had never written even of the possibility,
although a poem he had sent recently had struck a chord and given her hope. She reached under her sweet-smelling pillow and pulled it out.

“I was as blithe as a bright bird on a briar

When I saw that maiden in the hall.

She is white of limb, lovely, true,