Daughter of York (77 page)

“’Tis time for us to find our charge, Guillaume. You have the address, do you not?”

“Aye, your grace. ’Tis not far from this
quai,
I am told, in the
quartier
St. Jean de Caufours.”

This side of the river was less populated, and they saw only a few people in the maze of narrow alleys. There was slime on the walls, and the
smell of human waste, some of it trickling down the path, assailed their nostrils and made Margaret clamp her kerchief over her nose and mouth as she carefully picked her way along.

Eventually, Guillaume stopped at a one-story house, boasting only a small window covered with oilskin and a sturdy wooden door. The top half of the door swung open when he knocked, revealing a young woman, who, Margaret was happy to note, had on a clean coif and apron. She was blond and might have been pretty if not for a sickly appearance, and Margaret assumed this was Frieda, the mother of George’s bastard. Frieda thrust out her breasts when she saw Guillaume and gave him a seductive smile. She did not immediately see Margaret standing a little way off.

“My husband be not here, mijnheer. He won’t be home for hours.” She emphasized the last word and winked. “Do you want to come in?”

Margaret knew that in a former time, Guillaume would not have hesitated, but today he was affronted, and looking pointedly at Margaret, he told the woman, “I believe you are expecting us, mevrouwe. We come from the bishop to fetch the boy.”

They had practiced this scene on the journey from Oudenaarde. It had been arranged that the transaction would take place in the name of Margaret’s friend the bishop of Tournai, and little Jehan’s mother would not be told that her son would be taken into Duchess Margaret’s care. This way, the woman or her new husband would not cause trouble later. Simple folk did not question a bishop’s command. Margaret was pleased that Guillaume seemed to have retained his instructions well. She inclined her head to the woman, who gave her a cursory glance but turned her pale blue eyes back to Guillaume’s handsome face.

“Come in,” she said, unlocking the bottom half of the door and swinging it open. “The boy is in here. I am his mother.”

Margaret had a hard time adjusting to the gloom inside the house. There was not enough money for rushlights during the day, she guessed. The beams were so low that Guillaume had to bend over. The floor was the usual dirt, and a rough table and bench in the center of the room could seat a family of six. A curtain of nondescript color concealed a second room, but the stench of animal hides and excrement from it told Margaret that the family goat or cow was penned there. Perhaps an ordinary life was not so enticing after all, she mused.

Sitting quietly on a bed on one side of the wall were three children ranging in age from five to a baby in a little girl’s arms, all gazing in awe at the enormous man standing in their kitchen. Frieda waved an arm at them. “My children,” she explained, not very enthusiastically. “Pierre, come here to meet this man,” she said to the eldest child.

“Pierre?” Margaret said, concerned. “We thought the boy’s name was Jehan.”

“It was,” replied the woman, giving Margaret short shrift after noting the less than perfect Dutch. “But he’s a bastard, and my husband’s name is Jehan. He did not want the neighbors to think the boy was his.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, and Margaret looked at the little boy, who lowered his eyes at this pronouncement.

Frieda jerked her head at her son, who slipped off the bed and stood quietly on spindly legs, unsure of what to do next.

“Come here, boy!” his mother commanded, pointing to a spot in front of Guillaume. As he came towards them, the light from the open door fell on his face, and Margaret gasped. Of his lineage there was no doubt. He was every inch a York. The curious high bone over his right eye reminded her of Edward, and his blond curls of George. He gave a stiff little bow.

“
Goedendag,
” he said solemnly.

Margaret smiled at him. “
Goedendag,
Pierre. Do you speak French?” The boy nodded. “My Dutch is not very good.”

“My husband speaks French,” Frieda said proudly. “He taught the boy. And I have secretly taught him English. Say something in English, Pierre.”

“I good boy,” the terrified five-year-old stammered in barely recognizable English. This made Frieda laugh cruelly, which resulted in a paroxysm of coughing. Without a word, Pierre ran to the table, dipped a cup in the pitcher of ale and carried it to his mother. Snatching the cup and taking a gulp, Frieda said, “Pardon me, it be damp here. I seem to cough when it’s damp.” She picked up a corner of her apron and wiped her mouth and nose. Margaret noticed the red streak in the sputum and for the first time felt pity for the woman. Perhaps she would mention to her friend the bishop that this family might be in need of assistance. It was the least she could do for little Pierre’s mother, she thought, although then she remembered the money they would receive and dismissed it.

“I think it be best you take him quickly,” Frieda told Guillaume haughtily. “His sister will miss him, and the sooner they get used to it the better for all of us. I have no tolerance for whiners.” She lifted her arm and threatened the girl, who cowered, clutching the baby more tightly. “She knows her place,” she said with a short laugh and coughed again. “And Pierre does, too; he will do as he is told as long as you have a good belt nearby. And now, where is my money?”

Guillaume took a pouch from his belt and gave it to Frieda, and her eyes lit up. Little Pierre was forgotten.

Margaret took the boy’s hand, and as soon as she felt the small fingers curl around hers, she was lost in an emotion she had never before experienced. Tears filled her eyes, and she hurried from the house so that no one would notice. Once in the alley, she expected that Frieda would coming running out to give her son a last hug, but instead, the woman slammed both doors behind Guillaume and yelled, “
Opgeruimd staat netjes.
”

“And good riddance to you, too, you unnatural mother,” Margaret muttered.

At that moment the skies opened and a cloudburst soaked the three of them as they ran back to the river and found some shelter under a tree. Margaret knelt down to be on the same level as the child and asked in English if he was all right.

“Aye, mevrouwe,” he replied shyly, staring at the kind woman with the warm smile. “I be happy not in that house.” He pointed back down the alley. “I be happy with you now?”

“Aye, Pierre, you will be happy with me, I promise you.” Margaret kissed him on the forehead and wrapped her skirts around him to keep him warm. “Guillaume, when it stops raining, why don’t you carry young Pierre on your shoulders so he can see everything.”

Pierre’s eyes were wide with astonishment when the giant lifted him as though he were naught but a leaf and set him on his back. Then he unexpectedly threw back his head and laughed, and Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth. It was her father’s laugh, loud and exuberant, and her heart leapt for joy.

O
N THE JOURNEY
back to Binche, she made up her mind that the boy would be known by his original name, hoping it might help him soon
forget his dismal beginnings, so she told Pierre he must get used to a new home, a new mother and a new name.

“Do you think you can do all that, my dear?” she asked him in English. “And although I will speak to you mostly in French, we shall make sure, when we are alone, that you don’t forget your English. The name you used to have, Jehan, is a good one, and I shall call you that. ’Tis like John in England.”

Pierre’s eyes were wide. “But that be my father name, mevrouwe. He not want me to be same. He call me Pierrequin.”

“You are with me now, Jehan, and Mijnheer Warbecque will never know. ’Twill be our little secret.
You
will be my secret. Would you like that?”

“Aye! I love secrets. I be good at keeping them.” And he put his grubby finger to his lips. Surprisingly unafraid, the boy chattered from his perch in front of Guillaume, exclaiming at being on horseback for the first time in his life. “I so high, mevrouwe. Like a bird.”

His use of the word for mistress reminded Margaret that she must tell him about the biggest change of circumstances. “You must call me Duchess Margaret, sweeting. That is what everyone calls me.”

He frowned. “Duchess? What it mean?”

“’Tis a different way of saying mevrouwe or mistress, but as you will see, little Jehan, I do not live in a house like your mother.”

“It be not like that one?” and he pointed back to Tournai. “I have bed with my baby brother and sister. Will I have new brother and sister to play with at your house, duchess?” he asked, eagerly.

Margaret shook her head and sighed. “I have no other children, Jehan. You will be my only one, but I shall love you all the more, you see, because I don’t have to share you.”

Jehan digested this and in a matter-of-fact tone, he pronounced, “Is good.”

“But there is Fortunata, who plays magic tricks, and she will let you feed her monkey,” Margaret promised.

The boy’s eyes lit up happily. “Is good!” he repeated. “Very good.”

B
Y THE TIME
they rode through the gates at Binche and up to the palace, Margaret was calling the boy Jehan Le Sage—John the good.

In French, she told Guillaume why. “When I came to my wedding ten years ago.” She paused. Was it only ten years, she thought. So much has happened, it seems like twenty. “Edward took pity on his little sister who was sailing off by herself to live in a strange country. He sent his favorite jester with me to entertain me on the voyage. It was a thoughtful gift. The jester’s name was Jehan Le Sage. It seems fitting that this second gift from Edward should have the same name, in truth.”

Guillaume nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, ’tis quite appropriate,” he said. “And he does seem to be a good boy, despite the currish mother.”

Once inside the palace, Jehan looked about him, speechless. His eyes took in the beautiful tapestries, the brightly painted ceilings and walls, as Margaret led him to his own room underneath the chapel. He gasped when he saw the window giving out onto the garden below. He had never seen glass in a window before except in church, and he ran to it to tap the panes. Margaret laughed.

Cappi scampered in followed by Fortunata, and the boy stared at both of them. Fortunata picked up the monkey and put him in Jehan’s arms. The boy held the animal out stiffly from him, a look of panic on his face, but Cappi’s chattering and curious eyes made Jehan laugh, and soon he was chasing the monkey around the room.

“I live here?” Jehan asked, when he stopped. “Only me in this big room?”

Margaret nodded. She was not prepared when little Jehan threw himself at her and squeezed her knees. When Beatrice came to tell her mistress that Messire de Montigny was here to begin his governance of the new resident of the palace, she came upon a scene that warmed her heart. Margaret was seated on the bed, cradling the sleeping boy against her breast, her chin resting on his flaxen curls and a serene smile softening her face.

“At last, your grace,” Beatrice whispered, “your wish has come true.”

M
ARGARET WAS UNABLE
to stay long with little Jehan, but by the time she left to return to Malines, a routine had been established and she had formed a bond with the boy. She decided he should be allowed to call her Aunt Margaret, although she pointedly explained to everyone that it was only to make him more comfortable. Within a short time, he was the darling
of the household, and Margaret felt only the heartache of giving up her newfound inspiration and did not worry for his well-being. Pierre de Montigny was a kind and learned man, and he told Margaret that Jehan was soaking up new knowledge with the ease of a sponge.

The boy was happily playing with a wooden sword when she went to wish him farewell, and he barely noticed her. It was just as well, for she was needed in the north, and her duties always came first.

A
T YULETIDE
, M
ARGARET
and Mary were together at Ghent once more, but because Margaret had not told either Mary or Jeanne about Jehan, she had to be content with sending the boy gifts and a letter telling him he was in her thoughts daily. The fewer people who knew about George’s bastard, the better, she thought. She looked forward to the time when she could tell him about his father and their whole family. But he would have to be older, much older, she decided.

“Margaret, I do not think you have heard a word I said,” Mary said, laughing. “What are you daydreaming about?”

“Certes, my dear one, you are right. You now have my full attention,” Margaret replied, ignoring Mary’s question.

“Cousin Philip has been promoted by Maximilian to lead his cavalry. Messire Ravenstein is very pleased with his son,” Mary said, beaming. “Is that not wonderful news?”

Margaret could not imagine why placing someone so near and dear to her heart in a position of such peril would be wonderful news, but she nodded and smiled. She remembered the last time she had spoken to Philip of Cleves and wondered if Mary would be so enthusiastic now if she knew how much in love with her the young man was.

He had the look of his father: tall, rangy and with the same hawk nose. He would make someone an admirable husband, Margaret had thought, as they sat together in her newly furbished palace at Malines in the late autumn.

“Has your father arranged a marriage for you yet?” Margaret had teased him. He was the most eligible bachelor at court and seemed to prefer it that way.

Philip looked down at his long, thin hands, and Margaret could see the question had given him anguish.

“You still love Mary, in truth,” she said kindly. “How cruel of me to raise marriage when your lady is no longer available to you. Forgive me, Philip.”

He had looked up at her then, and she was again struck by the likeness to his father. “God forgive me, your grace, but I hate Maximilian. I know you believed he was the strongest candidate for Mary’s hand, but I trust him not.” Margaret caught her bottom lip as she recalled Fortunata’s similar verdict on the man.