Daughter of York (80 page)

“Thank you, Beet,” Margaret said affectionately. “I pray you send Henriette or one of the younger ladies to attend me later. I want you to go to bed early and rest those old bones of yours. I shall brook no protest. ’Tis an order.”

Beatrice was grateful and curtseyed her thanks. “In truth, your grace, I do tire quickly these days,” she said. “May the Virgin protect the young duchess in her labors this night.”

“Amen to that,” Margaret said, removing her rings and dropping them into her silver casket. “I shall not need these tonight either.”

The Brussels midwife found to assist in the birth was a complete contrast to the rough and ready Vrouwe Jansen. Vrouwe Smit was obsequious in the extreme, bowing and wringing her hands at every question Margaret had.

“Doctor de Poorter, where did you find this woman?” Margaret asked, finding the physicians and the astrologer behind a screen, consulting charts. The old doctor bowed and told her Vrouwe Smit had come highly recommended. The astrologer was looking pleased with himself, waving his volvelle vigorously, and Margaret raised an eyebrow.

“If the birth takes place before midnight, your grace, I foresee a bright future for the child,” he beamed. “He or she shall be a ruler.”

Margaret frowned. If this child was to rule, it would mean Philip might not live long. She adored her godson and refused to believe in the man’s prediction. A cry from Mary cut short any response she was forming, and she gratefully returned to her stepdaughter’s bedside.

An hour later, causing more pain, it seemed to Margaret, than Philip had, Mary’s second child, a girl, wriggled into the world. Vrouwe Smit smiled and bowed with pride in her handiwork before she turned the child upside down and lightly spanked the little buttocks. Margaret heard a satisfied grunt from behind the screen when the baby cried and so knew it was not yet midnight. The midwife placed the tiny baby into Mary’s arms and then efficiently helped to expel the afterbirth, while Margaret watched, fascinated.

“The duchess must sleep now,” Vrouwe Smit pronounced with another bow and wringing of hands. “’Twas not an easy birth. ’Twould be wise to have the wet nurse immediately and let the mother rest.”

Mary reluctantly gave the baby back to the woman and gingerly got off the birthing chair with Margaret’s help.

“A boy and a girl, Mary, a king’s choice,” Margaret said, tucking her into the freshly made bed.

“Aye,” Mary said sleepily. “Max and I hoped for a girl, my dearest Margaret. We want to name her after you. In Dutch she will be Margaretha.”

“Do you think Burgundy is big enough for two of us?” Margaret asked, bursting with pride. “This is indeed an honor I was not expecting, but you have made me very happy. A thousand thanks, my dove.” She bent and kissed the wet forehead, smoothing the disheveled hair from Mary’s face. “Sleep well, and may God watch over you and little Margaretha.”

As she passed the men behind the screen, she briefly wondered if the astrologer’s foretelling would come true but then dismissed it and went to tell Maximilian that he had a daughter.

T
HE PROBLEMS WITH
France were by no means over, and the euphoria in Flanders after Guinegatte did not extend to the other Burgundian provinces. There were uprisings in cities, pirates attacked the herring fleets, and Maximilian was accused of using some of the ducal treasure to fund his war chest. Margaret spent many weeks traveling to her dower towns raising money for troops and weaponry so that the young archduke could put down the rebellions.

She was able to spend two weeks in Binche. The meadows were full of hawthorn and apple blossoms, and white clouds scudded across the sky, creating a natural backdrop for house swallows and martins swooping to gather materials for their nests in the city walls or under the eaves of houses. She wondered if little Jehan would remember her. The last time she had visited had been in November, and the boy had greeted her with such enthusiasm that it had taken her breath away. She need not have worried, for Jehan, upon seeing her cavalcade ride into the courtyard, disobeyed his tutor and ran helter-skelter through the palace to greet his aunt on the front steps. He flung his arms around her, and she picked him up and covered his face with kisses. His rosy cheeks were soft as silk, and she was once again elated to hear his laugh so like her father’s.

“I love you, Aunt Margaret,” he whispered as he wrapped his little arms around her neck. “You bring me a present?”

So this is what it is like to have a child, she thought, hugging him and feeling his fragile body warm against her.

“’Tis ill-bred to ask such questions, Jehan. You should never expect anything. Expectations may lead to disappointment,” she chided, but she winked at him as she carried him into the house. Soon he was whooping across the great hall on his new hobbyhorse, thrusting his wooden sword at all who came near him. Margaret was glad La Marche was not with her. He had frowned his displeasure when she had brought Jehan to Binche last year. It was not that he was unkind to Jehan, but the boy interfered with La Marche’s ordered way of running Margaret’s household. “’Tis good for both of us to have a child in the house, monsieur,” she had told him once. “We forget too easily what it was like to be young, do we not.” La Marche had grunted but nodded in agreement. “You are probably right, your grace,” he acknowledged, “but I still do not approve.”

The Binche steward had readied her apartments, and she took Jehan there, asking what he had learned from de Montigny. He was proud to be able to recite his numbers in French and then in Dutch.

“Clever boy,” she said, clapping her hands. “But now that I am here, we shall speak English together.” And she began to correct the lazy speech he had picked up from his Flemish-born mother. They spent leisurely days wandering through the garden, and one day he was put on a small jennet and walked around the courtyard with a groom holding him firmly on the saddle. The pleasure on the boy’s face as he had his first riding lesson put a smile on the faces of everyone watching. De Montigny declared he was an apt student, and Margaret was satisfied the boy had forgotten his hideous former circumstances, although he did ask for his sister one night after saying his prayers.

Margaret’s smile faded. “I regret I cannot bring her here, sweeting, but perhaps one of the household knows of a boy in the town who can come and play. Would you like that?” The sister was forgotten as an excited Jehan clambered onto the high bed and snuggled up under the fine wool blanket.

“Tell me a story, Aunt Margaret,” he begged. Margaret could see he was not at all sleepy.

She took the plunge and told Jehan all about a rich and noble family in England whose name was York. It took all her resolve not to tell him it was his story, too.

D
ESPITE
M
AXIMILIAN’S SUCCESSFUL
campaign of the previous summer, Louis still would not go away.

Margaret returned to Malines from Binche to find Maximilian waiting for her, having returned from troubled Guelders province.

“Madame Margaret,” Maximilian began. He had come up with that name as a way of incorporating her new title with the more personal first name. He did not care to call her stepmother, he had told Mary. “We need your brother’s help to bring Louis to his senses. We need him to forge a new alliance with us. Do you think he will agree?”

“Why do you not ask him, Maximilian? He can but deny you.” She was flattered that he had sought her out. It meant she was still important to Burgundy. She was not being put out to pasture.

“What the archduke is trying to say, your grace, is would he deny
you
?” Ravenstein interrupted, making Maximilian frown. Margaret was dismayed. It was the first time she had noticed any dissension between them, and she hoped Maximilian was not demonstrating a thirst for autonomy. He could not rule Burgundy without the understanding of those men who had lived and breathed it all their lives. Maximilian was an outsider, and he should tread lightly.

She kept her tone even and smiled at them both. “Are you asking me to negotiate on your behalf, Maximilian? Do you wish me to write to Edward?”

“No, Madame Margaret. I wish you to go to England and speak with Edward directly. I believe—and Messire de Ravenstein believes,” he added, realizing he must keep on the councilor’s good side, “that a personal visit by you to England would make Louis sit up and take notice.”

Margaret began to pace and think, earning a smile of recognition from Ravenstein. Puzzled, Maximilian watched her.

“Well?” he asked a little impatiently, but Margaret kept walking.

Then she turned and nodded slowly. “If Louis believes we are making a strong alliance with England, he may withdraw from our borders.” Ravenstein chuckled. He knew she would understand. She frowned and stabbed the air with her finger, finding a flaw in the idea. “Ah, but will Edward want to give up his French pension? And the Dauphin? The betrothal with my niece Elizabeth was part of their bargain,” she thought out loud. “He is mightily fond of that pension. We would have to make some monetary compensation, I fear, which we can ill afford.”

“The economic benefits to England would be great, your grace,” Ravenstein reminded her. “Since the treaty in Seventy-five, the English merchants have suffered in their trading with us. We could perhaps offer a new prosperity.”

“Our immediate need is for archers to reinforce my army, madame,” Maximilian added. “If you make Edward agree to sending those at least, it would give Louis pause for thought. But an alliance is the true goal.”

Margaret’s excitement was beginning to mount. Go to England! How could she refuse? And she could see the wisdom in the argument. Edward, Richard, Hastings, Howard, Bishop Morton—they all would listen to her. She was a York, a Plantagenet princess.

“Aye, messires,” she exclaimed. “I will go to England!”

M
ARGARET’S RETINUE ARRIVED
at the Prinsenhof a month later. The city of Bruges was quiet after an outbreak of plague that hot summer. She hoped the ship Edward was sending for her would arrive soon, so that they could be on their way before any of her household contracted the disease. She ordered that none of her retainers be allowed into the streets and that the palace gates should be closed to anyone coming from the infected areas of the city. During the few days she was sequestered there, her new doctor, John de Wymus, gave her a daily regimen to keep her humors in balance. Doctor Roetlandts no longer gave her confidence.

“Do not sleep during the day, your grace. Do not walk after a meal, and if you must walk, I pray you avoid the noontime sun—oh, and when there are clouds as well or it is too hot or too cold.” Margaret thought that he had hedged on all weather eventualities but took his advice anyway. She drank the unappetizing potions he concocted, which included fever-few and marigolds, and sadly avoided eating her favorite cheeses.

“The
Falcon
is in Calais, your grace,” Gruuthuse informed her a few days later, coming into her presence chamber in his usual somber black velvet gown. He never seemed to get overheated, Margaret had observed when he first began serving her. In summer and winter, he wore black velvet, his collar of the Golden Fleece proudly around his neck. At state occasions, he was transformed into a peacock-tail of colors and jewels, and Margaret had exclaimed at his extravagance, making him smile—sheepishly as usual.

“Sir Edward Woodville is your escort, duchess. ’Twas his elder brother who presented you to Duke Charles, was it not? You remember Lord Anthony, I trust. A magnificent jouster, but I must confess I admire his literary knowledge more than his skill with a lance.”

“Aye, I remember him well.” Margaret was certain she was blushing, but she hoped Gruuthuse might blame the heat. “We shall start for Calais in the morning, messire. I shall instruct Chamberlain La Marche to make the arrangements. Look after Mary in my absence, Messire Louis. I know I can count on you.”

“You are gracious, duchess.” He offered her his arm. She always knew that this meant he wanted to speak with her privately. “I would I could accompany you on this difficult visit, your grace. I do not doubt your negotiating skills, but I would protect you from some of its more unpleasant machinations.”

Margaret gave a peal of laughter. “But messire, I shall merely be talking to my family. We have had plenty of experience with family squabbles. I am truly looking forward to renewing those skills. Do not fret for me, my dear Heer Lodewijk,” she affectionately used the Dutch, “I can hardly contain my excitement.”

“May I say how much you will be missed, your grace. Your intelligent diplomacy is much needed at present,” he said meaningfully.

Margaret frowned. “What are you implying, messire? I pray you do not play me for a green girl now.”

“I would not spoil your anticipation of the visit with your family by worrying you, if I did not think it important,” Gruuthuse said, pulling nervously at his lower lip. “I would only warn you that while we councilors are devoted to our duchess, the prince is another matter …” He trailed off. “Sweet Jesu, I have said too much.”

“Nay, messire,” Margaret assured him, knowing now that Maximilian had won no friends in Burgundy. “Forewarned is forearmed. When I return, I will speak to my stepdaughter and her husband. Thank you for your honesty.”

Gruuthuse bowed, relief in his eyes. Before he could say his farewells, Henriette came running through the doorway, dismaying the usher who should have announced her.

“Madame la Grande, come quickly, ’tis Beatrice,” she cried, her headdress askew.

Margaret paled. Beatrice had worked tirelessly in preparing Margaret’s wardrobe for the voyage to England and had been heard singing like a girl in anticipation of seeing her homeland once more. Pray God she does not have plague, Margaret thought. She bade a hurried farewell to Gruuthuse, and picking up her train, she followed Henriette along the corridor to the ladies’ chamber.

“Beatrice, dear Beatrice,” Margaret murmured as she bent over the old woman lying so still in the bed. Beatrice’s face was as gray as a cold November morning, and her breathing was so shallow that Margaret could hardly detect it. “What happened, Henriette? She was well a few hours ago and singing happily.”