Daughter of York (44 page)

“Would her grace the duchess of Burgundy favor me with this dance? There is a group in need of a third couple.” Anthony stood before her, bowing first to Ravenstein before extending his leg and giving Margaret deep obeisance. “Is it permitted, my lady?” he asked again, not giving Ravenstein any inkling that his motive was not merely a formality.

“Is it permitted, messire?” Margaret asked the stiff Burgundian. “Can you sanction my dancing with Lord Scales without my husband’s permission?” Margaret was only half serious, but she was unprepared for Marie de Charny’s intrusion and was taken aback when the countess superseded any answer Ravenstein may have had.

“Certes, your grace. No one would think it untoward if you accepted a dance with one of such nobility as Lord Scales.” And she gave Anthony a low curtsey, as Ravenstein gritted his teeth and stalked away.

“Marguerite, I fear I leave you here in severe hands. I know not who is more peevish, Ravenstein or Charny. But for the next few precious moments, let us think of no one but ourselves.”

“As you wish, Anthony. I shall not gainsay you,” Margaret said quietly. “There is nothing I would deny you, I hope you know.”

Their hands met as the dance began, and Margaret, casting her eyes down as was customary, felt their love flow freely one to the other through their fingers.

“Never forget that I love you, Marguerite, although you are lost to me now.”

He moved away with the dance but saw her nod imperceptibly. For the next few minutes, as the hundreds of guests watched the English princess and her handsome partner with admiration, she frantically sought for a way to see him alone before the English contingent set sail for home the next day. She glanced up and saw Charles back on the dais, his large eyes fixed on her, and she quickly looked down again. He looked none too pleased, she noted, and from the sulky look on Marie’s face, she could see he had given his sister a dressing-down.

The dance came to an end all too soon, and she looked up at Anthony, who bowed solemnly and muttered under his breath, “Send Fortunata to me.” Then he escorted her back to her seat, cheerfully greeting Charles with: “My lord duke, I am deeply grateful. I could not return to England without allowing your countrymen to witness the finest proponent of the
saltarello
in Christendom! ’Twas a pleasure, Lady Margaret,” he said. “Your grace, I shall look forward to our appointed meeting on the morrow, and now, with a long day ahead, I wish you both a good night.”

Before Charles could object, he was gone.

•   •   •

M
ARGARET WAS MELANCHOLY
for days after watching the departure of her beloved compatriots. Even Fortunata’s successful meeting with Anthony just after Mass on the final morning and the resulting gift of a belt ornament fashioned into a marguerite did not lift her spirits. She took to her bed early every night and cried herself to sleep while reliving those last moments over and over.

She had kissed the duchess of Norfolk tearfully, instructing her to give Ned a good account of her reception in Burgundy, and then had a few words with several members of the company, asking them to pray for her and wishing them a safe voyage home.

“No more French attacks, I hope, Sir John,” she said to Jack Howard, smiling fondly at him. “And I hope if you visit us here again, you will bring your delightful wife with you. In the meantime, I must thank you for commending me to Master Caxton. I think we have much to talk about and I shall seek his counsel when I am homesick. ’Twill be a comfort to speak English with him. Now go, sir, before I embarrass myself and cry.”

Jack held her hand in both of his before he respectfully kissed it. “As I have said before, your grace, magnificent. You are truly magnificent.”

She managed a smile as she accepted Anthony’s farewell, thanking him graciously for his support as her escort. She took a small velvet pouch from her wide sleeve and, with Charles and the lords and ladies looking on, offered it to him. “’Tis but a small token, my lord, but I shall never forget how you brought me into Burgundy and unto my lord, the duke. God speed to you and to all the company,” she said. She had not felt guilty in prying off a gold and enamel M from her wedding necklace to give him as it might easily have fallen off during one of the many days of dressing and dancing. Anthony bowed and slipped the pouch into the bag at his waist. He read in Margaret’s eyes not to open it there.

Then, with Charles, Duchess Isabella and little Mary beside her, she stood as if in a stupor and watched the love of her life mount his beautiful Pegasus and turn and wave one more time before trotting off at the head of the procession back to Sluis.

Margaret felt a small hand take hers in the folds of her silk brocade gown. She looked down to see Mary smiling shyly up at her.

“Courage, belle-mére. Je suis là,” the girl said. “You have me to love you now.”

12

Late summer 1468

The following day, Margaret waved good-bye to Charles, who set off north to Zeeland and Holland to see to state affairs in those lowlands of marshes and peat bogs. He had kissed Margaret soundly on the lips before leaving, a practice he kept up with all the English ladies every time he saw them. It was the only endearing thing about Charles that Margaret could find in those first days as his wife. He had a violent temper, which he had certainly not turned on her yet, but some of his retainers were still smarting from something he had thrown at them in her presence.

With his household of more than two hundred gone from the Prinsenhof, the palace seemed empty and quiet. But her days were far from empty and quiet. Lord Ravenstein immediately began instructing her in the expectations Charles had of her as duchess, including how to manage her own household of more than one hundred and forty people. For days she sat in the lavishly decorated audience chamber with Ravenstein and her chevalier by her side and tried to remember names and faces of maids of honor, maîtres d’hôtel, ushers, sommeliers or housekeepers, provision
ers, seamstresses, laundresses and all the kitchen staff. Then there were her priests, her doctors and surgeons, not forgetting the stable boys, farriers and falconers who would look after her dogs, horses and hunting birds. She was told not all of them would be on duty at once. They would work in three-or six-month shifts, and some of the lesser members would come from the local area surrounding each palace she would live in.

Used to moving a few times a year in England but mostly from the Wardrobe to Greenwich, Westminster or Shene, Margaret pricked up her ears. “How many residences are there, messire,” Margaret asked Ravenstein.

“I could not say, your grace. Let me see, there is this one and Male, Mons, Ten Waele in Ghent, Aire, Oudenaarde, Dendermonde, Hesdin, Cassel, La Motte, Brussels, Binche, Ter Elst near Antwerp, Bellemotte, St. Josse ten Noode—”

“Enough, messire! You are making my head spin,” she laughed. “I understand the duchy is well endowed with estates, but, certes, I need only know about those I shall be residing in.”

Ravenstein eyed her with something akin to pity. “I hope you like traveling, madame, because you will never be in one place for very long.”

Margaret sighed. She was beginning to lose faith in her ability to win over this humorless man, and she could see he was irked by having to play tutor to her when he should have been with Charles. She rose and said brightly, “Come, messire, if you must spend time in my company teaching me my duties—which I am certain is tedious for you—let us enjoy the garden. I need to stretch my legs after this morning’s work.”

Ravenstein quickly assured her he was honored to be her guide. He was disconcerted yet impressed that the duchess had seen right through him, as he prided himself on his unfailing civility no matter the circumstance. He bowed and offered her his arm with a little more enthusiasm now.

Immediately Margaret’s ladies sprang into action. She was beginning to find some humor in constantly being trailed by ten or twelve people, and as Fortunata twitched her mistress’s train behind her, Margaret winked at the dwarf. She loved it when a smile brightened Fortunata’s sallow face as though the sun had suddenly come from behind a dark cloud. The little procession walked into the sunlight and through a rose-covered arbor to
an immaculately kept lawn and flower garden beyond. ’Twas a pity we did not have a day like today for my entry into Bruges, Margaret thought, remembering the downpour.

She watched a team of gardeners with small razor-sharp scythes expertly cut the grass to an inch high, creating a soft emerald carpet for them to walk upon. Ravenstein led her to a horeshoe-shaped excedra, planted with grass and gillyflowers, and she sat down on it. Her ladies arranged themselves prettily around her feet, their skirts and mantles creating a tableau of vivid colors on a green background—like a tapestry from Tournai, Margaret mused. Just then, a thrush chose to show off his lilting voice, and the repetitive song, the smell of the roses, the cloudless sky and the peaceful garden gave Margaret her most pleasurable moment since leaving England.

She turned such a sweet smile on Lord Ravenstein that he was momentarily taken aback. He had not properly studied his master’s new wife, so taken up was he with his duties to the duke. Now he perceived the duchess had good looks as well as a good pedigree, and he temporarily forgot the resentment he had harbored earlier for being left behind to tend to her. He brightened and, appreciating her pertinent and perceptive questions about the government of such a diverse state as Burgundy, over the next few days he soon became one of her most ardent admirers.

Before she left Bruges for Brussels, Margaret received a visit from William Caxton. It was raining again, so they sat in an antechamber in the presence of her
chevalier
and, as usual, her ladies. She watched him walk across the tiled floor and noted his slight limp before he knelt before her, as was court custom, until Margaret had avised him for several minutes and given him permission to rise. She also noticed that his right eyebrow seemed caught in a permanent arch, lending an appealing cynicism to his expression. She was curious as to why his short, strong fingers were stained black, and, so, after discussing the English wool trade and the new agreement Charles was considering, she asked, “Forgive the non sequitur, Master Caxton, but is it the wool that dyes your hands black?”

William was taken aback. He could not believe a lady of her rank would notice, much less ask about, his stained fingers. He tried to hide them under the bonnet he was holding and answered her equally directly, his voice carrying the hint of a Kentish accent. “I like to think I have a
way with pen and ink, your grace. But much of it seems to end up on my fingers.”

Then Margaret remembered the captain’s disparaging remark about his friend Caxton’s interest in books, and she smiled. “So ’tis true what I have heard about you, good sir. I, too, enjoy books more than anything. We shall have to talk more on this whenever I am in Bruges again. I have been told Duke Philip’s library is unmatched in Europe. In truth, when I go to Brussels, I shall feel as though I am in a paradise.”

“I envy you, my lady. I have acquired but three books, but I hope to copy a few more in my spare time for my own pleasure,” he said. “I am particularly fond of the
recueil
—the history of Troy by Monsieur Lefevre—and I am making a modest attempt at translating it into English.”

“One day you must show it to me, Master Caxton. I think it is a splendid endeavor,” Margaret said. She was liking this industrious, plain-speaking man more and more, and by the time his hour-long audience with her was at an end, she had made up her mind to trust him.

“Walk with me, Master Caxton,” she commanded, rising from her chair and putting out her hand for his arm, which he readily offered. She snapped her fingers and called to Astolat to accompany them, and the dog loped over, sniffing Caxton’s crotch much to the merchant’s embarrassment. “He needs to know you are my friend, sir,” Margaret said as straight-faced as she could, watching him attempt to protect his codpiece from the dog’s huge mouth. “’Tis a particular trait of the breed, I am told,” she lied. “Here, Astolat! Fortunata, I pray you, control him while I talk to Master Caxton.” She was astonished to see Fortunata give William one of her brightest smiles. I must ask her about this, Margaret thought, amused. Sadly, she doubted William Caxton would look on the dwarf with anything more than indifferent kindness.

As soon as she had risen from her chair, her entourage surrounded them and followed them up and down the long gallery that led from her antechamber and was beautifully hung with tapestries of the hunt of a mythical creature. She doubted she would ever get used to the constant procession that shadowed her all day. However, she had trained Fortunata to walk between her and the rest of the company, so she knew no one would hear her next words to Caxton, even if someone was conversant with English.

“Master Caxton, I have an enterprise that I need your help and discretion with. Can I trust you?” she began. “Fear not, ’tis not a hanging matter, but some torture could ensue should you be caught.”