Daughter of York (63 page)

“Philip, how good to see you,” Margaret said. “What brings you to Ghent?”

“My uncle of Cleves is taking me to join the duke’s army at Maestricht in a few days, your grace,” Philip said pleasantly, “and I thought I would visit my father along the way.”

Ghent is not exactly on the way to Maestricht, my lad, Margaret thought, amused, and I doubt ’twas your father you came to visit, but never mind. “I have yet to know my husband’s intentions in Germany, Philip.” She gave a false laugh, which perplexed Mary. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

Before Philip could answer, a yelp of excitement heralded the entrance of Astolat, who, upon hearing Margaret’s laugh had pushed open the door with his large hairy snout and bounded into the room to greet his mistress.

“Astolat!” Margaret cried, going on her knees and hugging the hound. “You naughty dog, how did you escape?”

A squire knocked and entered, panting, his face almost as purple as his livery. “I crave your pardon, your grace,” he mumbled, when he saw Margaret, and he immediately went down on one knee. “He was too quick for me.”

Margaret laughed and relinquished her hold on the dog to the young man, who quickly attached the leash. As she got off her knees, she happened to glance at Mary and was astonished to see her stepdaughter’s eyes cast down to the floor and her cheeks as red as the young squire’s. So that is the way of things, she thought. Poor Philip! I wonder how far this has progressed. ’Tis high time Mary and I had a talk, she decided, thanking and dismissing the squire.

“What is your name, young man?” she asked as he held open the door.

“Jehan de Mazilles, your grace,” the squire said, effecting a bow.

“Mazilles? Aye, I remember, your father is the duke’s cupbearer, is he not?”

Jehan’s cherubic face glowed with pride. “He is, your grace. He is at present with the duke’s army, and I hope one day to fight alongside him.”

“Do not be too much in a hurry, Jehan. Fighting is not the only way to win an argument.” Margaret could not resist lecturing the youth, whose beard wasn’t even tough enough to scrape as yet. “Now, I pray you take Astolat outside for a walk.”

She turned back to Mary, who was fiddling with the silver brooch on her belt. She has grown up so quickly, Margaret thought, noting proudly how the rich blue overdress showed off the young woman’s creamy skin. “Come, children,” she addressed Philip, who could not take his eyes off Mary. “Let us sit awhile. I see I interrupted your game of fox and geese,” she said, walking to the table on which sat the cross-shaped board. “Who is winning?”

“N
ICHOLAS IS DEAD
!” Mary’s anguished cry echoed through the palace rooms, causing courtiers and servants to stop in their tracks and eye one another meaningfully.

“How can he be dead,
belle-mère
? He was only twenty-five!” Mary was confused, and Margaret held her tightly and let her cry. The young Duke Nicholas of Lorraine and Mary had been promised to each other for a year, and Margaret had helped Mary compose a sweet letter upon the betrothal declaring she would have no other husband but him. It was not the first time Charles had promised Mary to someone, and Margaret doubted the young woman had even known of some of the others. History is repeating itself, she thought grimly, as she well remembered her own list of suitors and her reaction to hearing of Dom Pedro’s death. True, neither she nor I knew these intended, Margaret admitted, but at least we felt we had a future. Now Mary must adjust to yet another direction.

They were alone in an antechamber, where Margaret had broken the news to her stepdaughter.

“Hush, my dove,” she soothed. “I was told once that crying is a sign of weakness in a great lady. You do not want the servants to disrespect you, do you? ’Twould not do.” She smiled to herself as she knew she must have sounded exactly like Cecily.

Mary sat up. “But I have seen you cry,
belle-mère.
Do not deny it,” she said indignantly. “Besides, I have every right to cry!” Her tears began again. “My true love is dead!” she wailed, and she buried her head in her stepmother’s lap, her little greyhound trying to lick the salt on her face.

“Nonsense, child. I know your true love is not dead. I saw him only a few minutes ago tilting in the castle yard.”

Mary froze and her crying ceased. Two huge gray eyes, a little red and puffy, stared up at Margaret, and a blush to rival Margaret’s own flamed from her neck to her hairline.

“Wha-what … what are you saying,
belle-mère
? How could you know about Jeh—” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Jehan de Mazilles. ’Tis what you were about to say, Mary?” Margaret arched her brow and attempted a serious tone, but her lip was trembling, which made Mary take her hand from her mouth and giggle.

“Is he not the handsomest man you have ever seen, madame?” she asked, her face alight with happiness now.

Margaret’s eyes softened. “I can think of one more handsome,” she said.

“Father, yes?” Mary exclaimed and was surprised to see her stepmother wince. “No?”

“It does not matter, little one. What matters is that you do not lose control of your feelings for Jehan.” What a hypocrite, Meg, she thought. But she heard herself pontificate, “You are the heir to Burgundy, Mary, and ’twould not do for you to go to a husband … let me say …”

“You mean, unchaste. Not a virgin,” Mary blurted out. “I am not so boil-brained! But, certes, a little kissing does not count, does it?”

“I suppose not, Mary.” Margaret could not lie. She could not bear to think that this lovely young woman might end up in a hateful marriage, as she had. How could she not encourage Mary to experience the joy of real love that she and Anthony knew? But it was her duty to protect Mary as a valuable asset to Burgundy, even though every fiber in her being revolted against it. Those kinds of emotions always made her think of her brothers. Ned had been able to marry for love, as had George. She had heard Dickon and little Anne Neville had tied the knot that spring. But remembering the light in his eyes when he watched the lovely young singer at Langthorne Abbey who, she was told, had borne him two children, she felt sure that his, too, was a marriage of state.

Mary dried her eyes, got up from the little footstool and sat down next to Margaret on the high-backed settle. “Now I am free, am I not? Perhaps Father would allow me to marry Jehan.” She looked so hopeful, Margaret hated to burst her bubble.

“Nay, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You are too important to waste on a nobody like Jehan, handsome though he may be.” She weighed whether she should tell the girl that her father had high hopes of being offered a crown by the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick.

She remembered her tutorials from Ravenstein in those first months after her marriage. “Burgundy is not a nation, a kingdom, like England or France, your grace. ’Tis a jumble of duchies, counties, lordships and towns that were all independent at one time. Each has its own political tradition, economy and language. Most are surrounded by hostile nations, such as France, Lorraine and Germany. Often we must cross through those hostile territories when we go from one of ours to another. Your husband is determined to join them all together.” He hoped he had made it simple for her, for there were days when he did not understand it either. Margaret had sat quietly, trying to assimilate the information.

“Do you believe the emperor will give Charles a crown, messire?” she said during their latest conversation a few days previously. “Would Charles not then have a kingdom within the borders of the Holy Roman Empire? ’Twould seem to me Frederick might be placing himself in a dangerous situation, knowing my husband’s penchant for expanding his boundaries,” she said almost to herself.

Ravenstein was impressed, although he did glance over his shoulder to make sure this treasonous remark had not been overheard. “My thoughts exactly, your grace,” he murmured, “although perhaps not politic to broadcast to the world,” he finished with a smile. Margaret had smiled fondly back at him. “Perhaps not, Messire Ravenstein.”

No, she thought, returning to the matter at hand, Mary does not need to know something that might never come to pass. Emperor Frederick’s other promise was to unite his son, Archduke Maximilian, with Mary as part of the bargain. Poor Mary, she thought, Maximilian had been the first of Mary’s intendeds, when she was only six! If he did indeed become Mary’s husband, the wheel would have turned full circle. How complicated our lives are, she mused, and not for the first time did she wish she had been born outside the palace walls.

She came out of her reverie to find Mary gazing expectantly at her. Margaret’s heart went out to the girl. She reached over and unhooked a corner of the starched gauze that was caught on one of the metal prongs of Mary’s elegant butterfly hennin.

“’Twould seem we will be at Ghent for several months more, my dove. My duties are growing more time-consuming, and therefore you and Jehan might have some opportunities to talk,” she said. “I cannot guarantee Madame de Halewijn’s turning a blind eye, however. You may tell her that I have asked you to spend more time riding in the fresh air. Astolat needs exercising a lot these days, does he not?” And she winked.

Mary fell into her arms again. “You are the best stepmother a girl ever had,” she cried. Then she gave a secret smile and whispered, “I wish you knew how wonderful it is to feel love like this!”

Ah, but I do, Mary, I do, Margaret thought, kissing the soft cheek offered her and watching her diminutive figure skip out of the room. How long ago Ooidonk seems now.

19

Autumn 1473

The hottest summer anyone could remember finally turned to fall. On that September day, Fortunata was admiring the huge carp in the lake inside the palace walls when she saw the horseman admitted at the gate. She instantly recognized the badge of scallop shells on the messenger’s sleeve and ran to her mistress, who was enjoying a quiet read on an excedra in the pretty rose garden. Cappi clung to his mistress’s back, and Fortunata admonished the monkey for digging his little toes uncomfortably into her shoulder.

“
Madonna,
” she cried breathlessly, when she reached Margaret’s grassy seat, “a man has come from Lord Anthony! I saw him going to the stable.”

Margaret jumped up, almost dropping her book on the ground. She instinctively straightened her turbaned headdress and smoothed her skirts.

“Are you sure,
pochina
? How do you know?”

“I am not boil-in-the-brain,” Fortunata answered indignantly, and Margaret hid a smile. She loved it when Fortunata attempted idioms. “I am right,
conchiglia
is the sign of Lord Anthony, no?”

“Aye, it is!” Margaret nodded, and draping the train of her gown over her arm, she hurried down the path and into the palace, Fortunata close on her heels.

She was calm and collected when Francis, Anthony’s squire, was ushered into her presence chamber, followed by curious courtiers and Guillaume. She waited patiently until everyone had quietened before speaking, pleased with her nonchalance.

“We give you welcome to Ten Waele, sir. I trust all is well with your master, Lord Rivers.”

The man had been instructed to go down on both knees to the duchess, and he looked up in awe from his lowly position at the regal woman standing on the dais under the richly embroidered canopy. He was relieved to be addressed in English and broke into a smile. “Aye, your grace. My master is returning from Compostella and has made the journey overland from that place of pilgrimage.”

Don’t tell me Anthony is here! Her heart was in her mouth. Dear St. Margaret, what a joyous thought.

She continued coolly, however. “Is the earl nearby? He is right welcome to lodge with us if he is.”

“He travels with the duke’s safe-conduct through Burgundy on his way to Calais and merely wished to send greetings.” He paused and pulled a missive from his belt. “And to give you this. I am instructed to wait for a response, your grace.”

Margaret had to use every bit of self-control to prevent herself from snatching the letter from the squire’s hand. Instead, she waved to Guillaume, who took the letter and bowed.

“Pray see to it that this good squire is fed and refreshed,” she called to her chamberlain. “I thank you for your good offices, Francis. I will send my chevalier with a response anon.”

Francis rose and bowed backwards from the room, taking in the lavish surroundings with wide eyes. Margaret called for music from her favorite gemshorns, and two musicians harmonized skillfully with the polished bones. The haunting sound always soothed her, and she was able to regain her composure and hear a petition from a merchant who thought he had been taxed too highly on his tiny shop.

Margaret was aware that the people of Ghent hated Charles and the outsider councilors such as Hugonet and Humbercourt, who taxed them
unbearably to fund the wars and put rebellions down with undue harshness. Charles had instructed her many times not to give in to “those trouble-making Gantois,” but today she was so impatient to read Anthony’s letter that she was the soul of brevity and magnanimity. Astonished, the merchant’s mouth fell open, revealing only six teeth left in his mouth. The guard standing beside him pulled him roughly to his feet, and the man stumbled to the door, bowing and babbling his thanks.