Daughter of York (64 page)

“’Tis enough for the day,” Margaret announced, descending the two steps of the dais, and taking the ever-present Guillaume’s arm. “I will see the other petitioners on the morrow. My letter, Guillaume.”

At her desk, she broke open the familiar seal and frowned as she read the greeting.

“To the high and gracious duchess of Burgundy, Margaret of England, I greet you well.”

Then she smiled. Certes, this was not a secret letter. She read on eagerly.

“The Lord our God has blessed this humble pilgrim upon his way to the shrine of St. James in Spain, and my spirit is much lifted.”

I am happy for you, Anthony, but this is not what I want to hear.

“I am in need of your counsel, if you would grant it. I am resting at Halle before continuing to Calais and home to England.”

Margaret nodded. She herself had prayed at the Church of Notre Dame there, which housed the Virgin’s thighbone.

“I have much to tell you that is overlong for this message. I must continue straight, but if you can come to Enghien at week’s end, I will tarry there until you do. Send word with Francis, my squire, and I shall know your mind.

Your humble servant, A. Rivers.”

Margaret looked up at the paneled wall in front of her and stared at the painting by Meester van Eyck that graced it. Something was wrong, she could sense it. The words were dull and lifeless, even if they had to be formal. And why would he not pay his respects in Ghent? Her heart told her it was because he wanted a repeat of their last meeting; her head told
her he did not want the court to wonder why he would make a detour to see her. He was not on a diplomatic mission, and he had no business in Ghent.

She picked up a quill, trimmed it and dipped it in her favorite sepia ink. She wanted to see him. But how to escape the trappings of her usual journeys? She could not leave Ghent without informing Ravenstein, and if she did, he would insist on traveling with her. She chewed the end of the quill and contemplated the tapestry on the far wall.

“Lord Anthony, we greet you well,”
she began as formally as he. What next? she thought, looking back up at the bucolic scene in the wall hanging. It gave her an idea. She rang the little silver bell next to the inkwell on the green and red woven table covering, and Fortunata appeared before she could put down her pen.

“Is it good news,
madonna
?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“I know not,
pochina.
Lord Anthony speaks like another man, but he wants to see me. We must, however, be clever, because no one must know ’tis he I will go and see. I have come up with a plan and you must help me.”

“Certes, I will help!” Fortunata said, rubbing her hands and making Margaret laugh.

Francis was dispatched without delay with a verbal response for his master. “I hope no one tries to torture it from him,” Margaret whispered to Fortunata as they watched the squire leap gracefully into his saddle and canter back through the palace gate and onto the road to Halle.

T
HE SMALL ENTOURAGE
that escorted Margaret from Ten Waele the next day included Guillaume de la Baume and Fortunata. Mary stood at the window of her chamber and waved them off.

“Why can’t I go?” she had asked Margaret that morning. “I have come with you to Notre Dame of Halle before.” Her mouth was turned down and her eyes were resentful.

“I will travel faster without you, my dove. And my reason for visiting the shrine is very personal. Besides, you are old enough to understand why you must stay in Ghent as much as you do.”

“Aye, I am a sort of hostage to these ghastly Gantois!” she retorted. “Father explained. Someone of the family must always be here.”

“Ten Waele is your favorite residence, Mary, do not deny it. I shall
only be gone three days, I promise. Then perhaps we can go apple-picking or hunting,” Margaret conceded, and was happy to see Mary’s eyes light up. “And perhaps you will find time to see Sir Galahad,” as she had nicknamed Jehan. “Now, give me a kiss and wish me God speed.”

Mary smiled to herself as she watched the last of the group trot through the courtyard, the sun glinting on the escorts’ halberds. She would find ample excuse to spend time with Jehan, she thought gleefully. Who would want to go all that way for a few hours at a shrine and then on to Enghien to talk to a tapestry master, even if the tapestry was to be part of an elaborate canopy Margaret was planning to send to Charles? Nay, she was content to stay behind, she decided.

W
HEN THE DUCHESS’S
little cavalcade trotted into the marketplace of the ancient town of Enghien, just ten miles from Halle, the citizens ran out of their houses, shops and stables to catch a glimpse of Margaret. She was riding a white jennet, her mantle of crimson and black spread over its rump and almost down to the ground.

Guillaume led the way to an official-looking man in a green gown and enormous hat, assuming he was the mayor. He was right. As the man bowed low, Guillaume waved his hand grandly and announced Margaret’s wish to be taken to the workshop of Maître Jean Lanoue, weaver of Enghien. The mayor’s eyes started from his head. This was an honor indeed for the duchess to choose a lesser known tapestry workshop to patronize. It was well known that Tournai and Brussels offered the largest and the best choice of weavers in the duchy. He positively groveled as he pointed the way, and then, to Margaret’s amusement, he decided to lead her to the workshop himself. Soon the riders were being followed by all the children in the town, some pushing hoops, some riding hobbyhorses and others carrying younger siblings. A visit from the nobility was rare indeed in this out-of-the-way place.

Someone had run on ahead to warn Maître Lanoue that her grace, the duchess of Burgundy, was coming, and the old man laughed himself silly.

“
Taisez-vous,
Georges. Why would the duchess visit my humble workshop?” he asked between laughs. And then the words froze on his lips when he saw the blond giant on the magnificently caparisoned horse turn
the corner of their street followed by a woman in the colors of Burgundy and looking every inch a queen.

“Mother of God!” he stammered. “’Tis no jest.”

He turned to his weavers and told them to work twice as hard.

“Pedal that loom, Jacques. Wind that hank, Michel. Pick up those bobbins, Madeleine,” he cried. Then he noticed a stranger was in his shop, looking through the finished work that was spread on the counter in front of the opened shop shutters.

“Messire, you must leave, I pray you. Her grace, the duchess, will be visiting my shop any second. You may return when she is gone, and I will give you good service then.” He was dismayed when the tall, handsome man ignored his words and continued inspecting the tapestries. “Messire, please!” Before he could physically push Anthony out of the door, Guillaume was handing Margaret down from her horse, and Jean had to hurry to welcome her into his humble workshop. Behind him, his weavers and apprentices scurried about obeying his orders.

Margaret had to bend her head at the low doorway and was therefore surprised to be in such a large room. She looked about her with interest. She had no idea that the looms were so big or that pedals were used to separate the warp from the weft, and she exclaimed with delight at the myriad colored threads that the
lissiers
had to choose from. Maître Lanoue enthusiastically described in minute detail the process of weaving a tapestry, and far from being bored, Margaret was fascinated. She knew she would never again look at the many beautiful wall hangings in her palaces in the same way. She loved the weaver’s passion for his work and determined that even though the visit was a ruse to meet Anthony, she would commission this little man to make the canopy for Charles to use while on campaign.

She had seen Anthony disappear behind one of the looms and into the back of the shop as soon as she had entered. Even though he was dressed soberly, she recognized every inch of that proud figure, and her knees buckled for a second. She wished she could have dispensed with the business at hand and run after him instead.

After the tour, she gave Maître Lanoue her design ideas for the canopy, then turned and asked Guillaume to arrange the contract with the
lissier.

“Maître Lanoue, do you have a garden where I might sit awhile with my servant Fortunata here,” she asked, gently putting her hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “I think it must be the heat or the smell of the dye, but I am feeling a little faint. Nay, nay, Guillaume, you stay here as I asked, and I shall seek some fresh air. It will not be for long, but I do not want to be disturbed until I send Fortunata to find you, do you understand? Let the rest of the party visit the town and take refreshment at that pleasant-looking tavern in the marketplace. Now do as I say, Guillaume, I beg of you.” Her voice was imperious, and Guillaume, although puzzled by her odd behavior, inclined his head in acquiescence. Thank heaven he is too dim to recognize a lie when he hears one, Margaret thought.

Maître Lanoue escorted Margaret through to the back of the house and into a pleasant garden scented with late roses. He seated her on a stone bench and gave her a cup of ale. Then, bowing almost to the ground, he went back inside and called to his wife to bring pen and parchment. This commission would be the making of them, he felt sure, and he thanked his patron saint, Anastasia, for the good luck.

As soon as the door hasp had clicked shut, Margaret stood up and looked around anxiously. Was this a fool’s errand? she wondered. “Fortunata, you did see Lord Anthony, did you not? I am certain he came this way.”

“You were correct, my lady,” a pleasant voice said behind her, making her jump. “I did come this way.”

Margaret spun round, her eyes shining and her arms outstretched. “Anthony, my love, my love!” she cried. Fortunata discreetly tiptoed away and kept watch.

Anthony stiffened as Margaret reached him. “Nay, I cannot, my dear Marguerite.” His voice broke as he said her name, and she could see a change had come over him. His cheeks were hollow and his mouth unsmiling. But it was his eyes that gave away his melancholy and something else too that she could not name. It was as though they had seen a great suffering that had burned to his very soul.

“What is wrong with you, Anthony. Are you ill?” she whispered, putting her hand up and stroking his cheek. He moaned as if in pain, took the hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Don’t, Marguerite, I beg of you. Do not touch me. I do not deserve it.” He stood gazing at her anxious face, and then could not help himself. He enfolded her in his arms and wept as if his heart would break.

“Speak to me, my love. What is it?” she said, holding him close and breathing in the familiar mixture of rosewater and leather. They stood thus for a few minutes until he pulled away and led her to the bench. For the next half hour, Anthony told her of Eliza’s terrible illness—from a cancer, which gave her so much pain that she screamed day and night—and of his descent into the hell of guilt. Her dream of the fire flashed through Margaret’s mind, and she inhaled sharply.

“In her agony, she has forsaken her faith, Marguerite. She called God a tormenter and swore she hated him. Then she called me an adulterer—nay, I do not know how she knew, and I did not ask her but, God pity me, I denied it. She said her sickness was a sign that I must lose all that is dear to me because of my sin. I knew not how to help her, but I knew what I must do.”

“What was that, Anthony?” Margaret’s tortured whisper told him she knew already.

“That you and I should never again …” He did not finish, for she stopped his words with her mouth. He pushed her away, signing himself as he did so. “Nay, I beg of you, do not tempt me. I have spent twelve weeks on this pilgrimage atoning for my sin against God—and Eliza. You should do the same,” he said vehemently.

Unexpected anger flared in her when she realized that he had run away from his ailing wife to soothe his soul. It was a flaw in her lover she had not recognized before, and she fought the urge to raise her voice.

“You left Eliza when she most needed you. I trust you added that to your list of transgressions when you reached Compostella,” she said harshly. Seeing him grimace did not make her feel better, and she instantly regretted her words. “I crave your pardon, Anthony.”

“You are angry with me, Marguerite, and I cannot blame you. But if there was a chance that my pilgrimage would heal Eliza and at the same time save my soul, I had to take it. I do not believe Eliza will survive, but I did find peace. Santiago de Compostella is truly a holy place,” he finished, staring off into the distance, and it was then that she recognized the other look in his eyes that she had not been able to name before. It was fanaticism.

And she understood. He had been visited by the Holy Spirit, and there was nothing she could do about it. She put her head in her hands, and it was her turn to weep. Thus they sat side by side, unable to touch or comfort each other, until Anthony stood up and said he must go.

“Tell me, my love, did God give me any hope?” she asked, feebly grasping at any straw. How could they never again experience the ecstasy they had enjoyed that night in the miniature castle in front of the fire? She had relived it night after night in her waking dreams, certain that one day they could steal another tryst. After all, that hope was all she lived for, if the truth be known. Otherwise her life was meaningless.

Anthony hesitated, and she looked up at him quickly. A flicker of his former self showed in his face, and her heart leapt.

“If we were both free, I cannot believe He would not grant us a little pity,” he murmured, and then his face lit up with humor. “Nay, Marguerite, do not even think it. God would not condone the murder of your husband!”

“How did you know I was thinking exactly that?” Margaret said, reluctantly laughing. As they looked at each other for one long moment, they both understood it was because their souls were somehow bound together.

“Farewell, Marguerite,” Anthony spoke first. “I know not if you still have my attempts at poetry, but if you do, then remember your Lancelot by them. I fear he is no more.”