Daughter of York (79 page)

Margaret turned away, not wanting the doctor to see her tears. Do not cry in front of servants, Margaret. ’Tis the sign of weakness and they will not respect you. Aye, mother, but perhaps you have never been told you might lose your best friend, Margaret thought wretchedly.

Roelandts was dumbfounded. He had never seen the duchess this angry except perhaps during the kidnapping catastrophe. And once again it was merely out of concern for this servant, a deformed, interfering witch of a servant at that. It was not to be believed. But he bowed and returned to the patient, feeling again the stiffness in the dwarf’s neck muscles. Fortunata groaned and tried to move her head away from his probing fingers.

“Hush,
pochina
, the doctor is only trying to help,” Margaret soothed her.

“Where else does it hurt?” Roelandts asked. Fortunata tapped her forehead and her hand. The doctor nodded. “We must also rid her body of the ill humors that were thrown off balance from the bite. We must bleed her, then the neck may loosen. I must go and fetch my cups. If your ladies could prepare Fortunata, I can apply them immediately, duchess,” he said,
bowing, and hurried away. He returned with a colleague and their bag of bloodletting instruments.

Seated on a stool, her upper back exposed, Fortunata readied herself for the ritual of cupping. First Roelandts nicked a small vein on one shoulder blade with his fleem, which made Fortunata wince, and then deftly applied a thick glass cup to it, asking his assistant to press the rim firmly to the skin. Then the doctor lit a taper with the tinderbox and heated the glass. As he began the process on a vein on the other shoulder, the changing temperature in the first glass created a vacuum within it and thus a gentle suction with the shoulder. The blood began to drain into the glass and when the second cup was in place, the doctor removed the first, leaving a round welt on the shoulder. The two physicians examined the color of the blood, held it up to the candlelight to check for impurities and nodded sagely. After removing the second cup, Roelandts wiped Fortunata’s back and called for someone to help her dress.

“She should recover her spirits by the morning, your grace,” Roelandts told Margaret, smiling more cheerily than he felt. “I will give her a sleeping potion. She needs rest.”

Indeed, Fortunata seemed better the next day, and Margaret breathed a sigh of relief, as did Doctor Roelandts.

A
FEW DAYS
later, Beatrice knocked on Margaret’s door and entered. She opened the shutters to reveal a gray winter day, but there was enough light to see the grotesque grimace on Fortunata’s face as she still lay sleeping at the foot of Margaret’s bed. Beatrice and Fortunata had forged a bond over the years as the only two attendants who had come with Margaret from England. They often ate together and they shared a bed. Beatrice had known of Fortunata’s affection for William Caxton and knew the dwarf had spent nights with him. She did not approve, but she was a kind woman and recognized it might have been a once in a lifetime love for the unfortunate dwarf.

Fortunata’s eyes flew open when she felt Beatrice’s presence near her truckle bed and she tried to move. “I overslept, Beatrice. I am sorry.”

“How do you feel today?” Beatrice asked, wondering why Fortunata did not wipe the grin off her face.

Fortunata frowned. She knew her heart was beating too fast and she could feel her face was taut, but she did not want to frighten Beatrice, who, now in her fifties, might be prone to seizures. “I feel better,” she lied, gingerly standing up, “Shall we wake
madonna
Margaret now?”

“
Si,
I mean aye,” Beatrice said, helping Fortunata lace up her overdress and covering her braids with a cap.

Margaret was terrified by Fortunata’s face, which reminded her of her recurring nightmare. Fortunata saw her mistress’s fear and judged something was badly wrong with her face. She went to the silver mirror and fell to her knees when she saw her reflection. A searing pain ripped through her back and she fell sideways to the floor. Margaret was by her side in a moment, and Beatrice ran to the door to call for help. Guillaume was not far away and hearing the call, ran into the room. Margaret was kneeling beside the dwarf, who was rigid with pain and fear.

“Carry her to the bed, Guillaume, I beg of you. I know not what else to do for her,” Margaret said, her voice a monotone. “Then go and fetch Roelandts.”

By the time the doctor arrived, followed by several curious attendants, Margaret had been quickly dressed, a simple velvet turban encasing her hair. Roelandts tried leeches this time. Margaret shuddered when he removed the slimy creatures engorged with blood from Fortunata’s skin. The muscle pain in Fortunata’s back had subsided, but her face was still stretched into a grin. Margaret forced some wine between her clenched teeth, but Fortunata had trouble swallowing it.

“Come, little one, try to drink this,” Margaret urged, holding the dwarf’s head up and tipping a little more of the sweet liquid into her mouth. How would she eat, she asked herself? There must be a way to open her mouth enough for food. The leeching had done some good, she thought, feeling the small body relax a little into the mattress. She then became aware of the number of people crowded into the room and stood up, her eyes blazing. “Leave!” she cried, advancing on them with purpose. “All of you, leave!”

The room was emptied within seconds, even Beatrice reluctantly closing the door behind her.

“
Pochina
, I am here and I shall nurse you through this. You must fight, my dearest little friend, for I cannot imagine you anywhere but by
my side.” Her eyes were filled with tears, but she tried to sound brave. “Tell me what I can do for you. Do you want to pray? Is there some medicine you think will help you? Oh, speak to me,
pochina,
please say something.”

Fortunata put her hand out and stroked Margaret’s cheek. In any other circumstance, she would never have dared to touch the duchess thus. Margaret was past caring about etiquette and only wanted to ease her little friend’s suffering.

“I love you,
madonna,
” she whispered, her words hard to understand. “You are the finest lady in the world. I am sorry I must leave you, but you must promise me one thing.”

“Do not talk of leaving me, Fortunata. I command that you stay.” Margaret could not stop the tears now. “What is it you want me to do?”

Fortunata fumbled beneath her gown and pulled out the long chain on which Margaret’s gift of long ago still hung. She kissed the ring, and despite the locked muscles, her face and eyes softened. “This is for William. I want to give this to William, because he gave me love, too,
madonna.
He is a good man.” A tear escaped down the side of her face, but she did not take her eyes off Margaret. “You promise?”

“Certes, I promise. He will be proud to take it, I warrant. Do you want him to see you? I will send a messenger to England,” she said, knowing it to be pointless.

Fortunata shook her head as best she could. “I am not pretty today,” she said.

Margaret had to chuckle. “Aye, I have seen you prettier,
pochina.
”

Margaret stayed by her servant all day, cooling her hot forehead with wet towels, aching with sadness at every shallow breath Fortunata managed to take and wincing with every spasm that attacked different parts of her body. During the morning hours, they prayed together and Margaret told her servant of the joy that she had brought into her lonely life in Greenwich. Margaret reminisced about their times together and thanked her for her devotion. They both cried and laughed in between the increasing bouts of pain. At some point, Beatrice came in with some food and ale, but neither Fortunata nor Margaret could eat.

“You will take care of Cappi? Be kind to him,
madonna.
He was only jealous of the rabbit. He is not a bad monkey, in truth.”

Margaret nodded briefly, but she had every intention of locking up her
pochina
’s killer in the Ten Waele zoo.

Fortunata had much to get off her chest. She knew she was dying. “I am sorry you never had a child,
madonna.
I hated Duke Charles for what he did to you. I know he hurt you badly one night, and I wanted to kill him.”

“How did you know, Fortunata? In truth, I do not remember telling anyone but my brother about that night.”

“I was under the bed,
madonna.
The duke did not see me when he came in, and I was afraid of him, so I hid under the bed. I heard—” She broke off and again she reached up to touch Margaret’s face. “One day you will find Anthony,
madonna cara.
I know this to be true in here,” and she tapped her heart.

“Perhaps,” Margaret sighed. “Now you must sleep. I will be close if you need something.”

Margaret sat quietly by the bed until it was dark, when Beatrice came in to light the candles. Fortunata heard her and put out her hand. At the same time a spasm made her arch her back and scream with pain. Beatrice ran to her and held her hand, looking anxiously at Margaret. “What is it, your grace? What would cause this? I am afraid for you to be here. Perhaps you will contract the same sickness.”

“I do not care, Beatrice. I cannot leave her to die by herself.”

“Die?” Beatrice gasped. “I did not—” She let go of Fortunata’s hand and knelt to pray. “Dear God, save this good woman. She means so much to us, and especially to my mistress. Why must you take her now?”

“God gives and God takes away,” Fortunata said, her breathing an effort now. “Do not be sad, Beatrice. Only now you must care for
Madonna
Margaret,
si?
”

“
Si
, I mean aye,” Beatrice said, indulging the dying woman in their little game.

“That is good. I am happy.” Again her back arched and she gasped for breath, her stomach muscles rigid.

She is suffocating, Margaret suddenly realized. She cannot have long now.

“I will stay by her and keep vigil, Beatrice, thank you. Stay close, and I will call if I need you.” She walked with Beatrice to the door and murmured,
“Pray fetch my chaplain.” Beatrice left the room, her nose buried in her kerchief.

As the Belfort’s great bells rang for vespers over the city of Ghent, Monseigneur de Clugny droned the last rites and anointed Fortunata’s burning forehead with oil. Margaret helped Fortunata hold a cross between her hands as the dying woman’s rasping breaths came farther and farther apart.

“Farewell my sweet
pochina
, may the angels carry you to your rest,” she whispered. “Watch over me from your heavenly home and never forget you were loved by a grateful duchess.”

A slight pressure on her hand told Margaret that Fortunata had understood. With one more anguished effort she tried to inhale, but the body she had so cursed all her short life dealt her one last cruel blow, and she expired without a sound. The chaplain gave Margaret a blessing, closed Fortunata’s eyes and left the room to supervise the burial.

Fortunata’s fingers were still entwined with Margaret’s when Jeanne de Halewijn hurried in to console her friend. When she tried to gently pry Margaret away, Margaret cried out as if in pain, “Leave me alone, I beg of you! Oh, God, I want to die,” she wept, as Jeanne softly closed the door. Margaret gazed at the lifeless figure on her lap. “You promised you would be here always.
Pochina
, ah, my little one, what shall I do without you?”

24

Burgundy, 1480

Margaret presided over the Yuletide celebrations that year at Coudenberg, as Mary was in seclusion awaiting the birth of her second child. But it seemed to her immediate circle that she just did not care about anything. And they were right. She missed Fortunata on a daily basis, glancing behind her every few minutes to make sure the dwarf was really not in her shadow or kneeling beside her at the prie-dieu, where they had exchanged such secrets. The world did not seem real without Fortunata in it, and she felt like a sleepwalker drifting through the days.

Not long after the Twelfth Night feast, Margaret was teaching Maximilian some words of English when Jeanne was announced and came hurrying into Margaret’s chambers.

“Forgive the intrusion, your graces, but the baby is coming,” she said breathlessly. Maximilian looked concerned but let Margaret ask the questions. Childbirth was a mystery to him, although he thoroughly enjoyed his participation in the cause. He was a lusty young man, Margaret had found out when she asked Mary not long after the marriage if all was well behind the bedchamber door. Mary had dimpled, blushed and stammered an assent, so she had not pressed for details but merely smiled and changed the subject. Lucky Mary, she thought.

“How soon do you think, Jeanne?” Margaret said, rising and smoothing out her green and red damask gown. Seeing Maximilian at a loss for words, she excused him to seek amusement elsewhere and called for help in changing into something more practical to attend the birth. Mary had begged her to be there again. Beatrice carefully removed the elaborate butterfly hennin, noticing not for the first time that Margaret’s hair was losing its youthful luster and there were new lines on her brow. She replaced the concoction with a simple veil on a velvet headband and laced Margaret into a plainer overdress, tucking a gorget across her chest and under the square neck of the gown.