Daughter of York (70 page)

“Aye, I know Louis does not acknowledge me as heir to the duchy because I am a woman. ’Tis hard to understand. He is still our liege lord, and yet my father fights him.”

“I will send Messire Louis to you to explain it all to you, sweeting. I find it hard, too,” she admitted ruefully, eliciting a giggle from Mary. “Now let us look forward to seeing your father ride through the gate. I am certain he must return now. His army has been so reduced.”

M
ARGARET WAS NOT
prepared to see the man who did ride through the palace gate and into the courtyard a few days later as she and Jeanne were walking arm in arm along the wide, white path by the lake.

“Anthony!” she whispered, recognizing his livery, and she gripped Jeanne’s arm.

Jeanne said nothing, but she knew passion when she heard it. The duchess and the handsome earl! Certes, how blind I am, she thought. How delicious! They were made for each other.

Margaret became aware that she had given herself away with her exclamation, and with a blush mounting quickly on her cheeks, she begged Jeanne to ignore what she had heard.

Jeanne smiled and arched her brow. “Heard what, your grace?” she quipped, staring straight ahead. Margaret looked at her friend’s profile with its cherubic retroussé nose and rosebud mouth belying the wicked twinkle in her eye and laughed. No one but Fortunata knew of her love for Anthony—although Edward probably guessed—and she did not trust anyone else. But perhaps Jeanne …

They hurried into the palace. Margaret changed her dress for one of green and gold damask, its plunging neckline trimmed with gold filigree and tiny pearls. Within the hour she was receiving Anthony and his companions in her presence chamber. After the courtly pleasantries, she suggested the court take the late afternoon air, and they processed to the gardens.

“What brings you here, Anthony?” she asked. “I was expecting Charles to return after the disaster at Murten. I was not expecting you. ’Tis a happy surprise.”

“’Tis not exactly on my way home, in truth, Marguerite, but this time I knew Charles was occupied elsewhere, and he had given me a safe conduct through his territories.”

“You have seen Charles?” she shot back. “How is that possible?”

“I was with him a few days before the battle on my way back from a visit to the shrines of Italy. At first, out of courtesy, I offered him my services, but within a very short time we found we did not see eye to eye.” He paused. “In truth, Marguerite, I do not think you would know your husband. He looks ill. He has grown his beard. ’Tis long and unkempt. He drinks tonics, potions and wine like water. And his ill humor has increased. ’Twas dishonorable how he treated his servants and his men.” He shook his head. “He has painted himself into a corner with the Swiss, the Germans and Louis forcing his hand. I liked not his prospects, and I
admit I left without fulfilling my duty to him. History will think ill of me, I am sure, but I saw no reason to die in an unknown land for an unknown cause. So I left. Besides, I had suffered the loss of a great deal of money and jewels from highwaymen in Venice, and I did not want to linger on my journey home.”

“Except to see me,” Margaret whispered, hardly hearing what he said. “Oh, Anthony, not a fortnight ago, I thought myself a widow. We were told by the first messenger that Charles had died at Murten, and, God help me, I rejoiced. In that moment, I thought we had a chance together, you and I. You have not changed your mind, have you, Anthony?” She turned her head to him and murmured, “How I long to be touched by you again.”

She felt him stiffen by her side. “Despite the eight thousand others massacred, Charles is very much alive, Marguerite, although,” he admitted grimly, “I came very close to throttling him several times. As for changing my mind, you know I cannot and stay true to the vow I made at Santiago de Compostella.” He was acutely aware that they were the focus of attention, although no one could hear their conversation except perhaps Fortunata, but he was used to that. “You should put me out of your mind. I know I am only causing you pain.”

She rounded on him then. “Then why did you come?” she said between clenched teeth as loud as she dared. “Each time I see you, the hope in my heart is allowed to flourish.” She turned back to keep step with him and hoped they had not caused any gossip.

“Forgive me, Marguerite. ’Tis pure selfishness that keeps me coming back. You are what feeds my dreams, my musings and my life. Forgive me.” He sounded so dejected that she moved her hand off his arm and onto his hand, squeezing it gently. “I think I have been to Hell and back these past few years. Edward has shunted me off to Ludlow to care for the Prince of Wales, and although I like the solitude there, I know he is displeased with my behavior of late. ‘Too many pilgrimages, Anthony, too much melancholy’ is what he says.” He sighed.

“’Tis said I, too, am prone to melancholy. Fortunata despairs of me.”

Anthony patted her hand. “Let us not dwell on it. I must confess,” he said, changing the subject, “I am again taken with little Mary. She is a fine young woman.”

Margaret gave him a sideways look. “Now that I am thirty, Anthony, are you looking at younger women?” she asked mischievously and was rewarded with a look of disbelief from him. She did not tease him any longer but poured out her concern for the duchy should Charles die before Mary was safely married. She told him of her meeting with the estates general, of her fear of the hatred for the chancellor, and of her growing reliance on Gruuthuse.

“He is a good man, Marguerite. Trust in him and Lord Ravenstein. If you are in dire straits, I have no doubt Edward will help you, too. I understand he has finished paying your dowry.”

“Not before time,” she retorted, and laughed.

“H
E DID WHAT
?” Margaret exclaimed. “Ah, now I know he has lost his mind.”

Gruuthuse shook his head in sympathy. “’Tis indeed hard to contemplate, your grace. The Duchess Yolanda had given him shelter following Murten. As regent of Savoy, she was well disposed towards us, as you know. Astonishing, because she is Louis’ sister.”

“But kidnapping her! What folly was that?” Margaret paced up and down the red and white tiled floor, her swirling skirts sweeping up the fresh rushes. “Now Savoy is our enemy, and Louis will take this excuse to break the truce, I have no doubt.”

Gruuthuse nodded. “Louis effected a daring rescue of his sister, and she is now safely with him, I understand. But we stand alone, and I fear greatly for Burgundy.”

“Why does my father not simply come home, my lord? Lorraine is still ours,” Mary said, from the settle next to the fireplace. Margaret had begun to include her stepdaughter in her meetings with Gruuthuse and Hugonet. Mary needed to be as informed as them all. “He can cross through to Luxembourg and then home.”

“Aye, that is what he should do,” Margaret agreed, smiling her approval at Mary.

Although she had no wish to spend another day under a roof with Charles, Margaret could not wish him dead. She could not envision what would be in store for her or Mary if he died. They would be at Louis’ mercy, she knew. He had called her all manner of unkind names
because of her resolve and influence over Charles, and she had been highly amused when she had learned of this. Now she feared its consequences. Louis would not treat her kindly, she was certain. Although, she thought, I am Edward’s sister, and Louis wants to keep on Ned’s good side. That could save me.

“Your grace?” Gruuthuse was looking quizzical, and Margaret realized he had spoken and she hadn’t been paying attention.

“I crave pardon, messire. My thoughts were flying about like bats in a summer night’s sky. You were saying?” “Our latest intelligence is that the duke of Lorraine has taken heart after helping defeat us at Murten and believes he can claim back his duchy. He is moving to recapture Nancy.” Margaret and Mary both stifled a gasp. “Duke Charles needs reinforcements or he will never get out of there alive.”

Margaret continued her pacing, muttering to herself and frowning at the floor. She suddenly stopped and snapped her fingers.

“We shall go north, Messire Louis!” she announced. “North to Holland. We have not drawn on the province for men or money. What think you?”

Mary grimaced. “And sacrifice more young men to satisfy my father’s lust for power,” she exclaimed, startling Margaret with the vehemence of her condemnation. “But if it will save Burgundy, then you must go with Messire Louis,
belle-mère
, and Messire de Hugonet and I will stay here and manage things.”

Gruuthuse nodded approvingly. “Duchess, Madame Mary is right. You and I will go north. My governorship there means I am well known and, I hope, trusted. We can safely leave Flanders in Hugonet’s hands.”

Margaret did not voice her concern for Hugonet in front of Mary. Instead she asked Gruuthuse to arrange their visit to Holland as soon as possible.

B
EFORE SETTING OUT
for Holland, Margaret and Mary spent a few days in September at the Prinsenhof in Bruges. The sun shone on the tall slate roofs of the houses for the six days of their visit, and for the first time, Margaret was invited to the Gruuthuse mansion she had heard so much about. Its imposing stone Gothic exterior rose three stories, a decorated
turret at each end of the front that faced the courtyard. She admired the main hall’s carved wood ceiling and the minstrels’ gallery, reached by a carved stone spiral stairway.

Gruuthuse and his stout wife, Margaretha, stood at the base of the staircase to greet Margaret, who was escorted by Guillaume with Henriette a step behind them. The host first led Margaret to the
salle d’honneur,
which was hung with glorious tapestries, and offered her some sweet wafers and wine. Margaret noted the sheaves of barley carved into the ceiling acknowledging the family’s fortune acquired over several generations from a beer monopoly. The house was full of light from the many windows that gave tranquil views over the little Arents river with its humpback bridges and the gardens that surrounded the back of the house. She read Gruuthuse’s motto over the massive fireplace, “
Plus est en vous
,” and smiled to herself. Aye, faithful Louis, there is more in you than any of us knows, I warrant.

Gruuthuse led Margaret across the gallery over the front hall, through a bridge room to the most recent addition to the house: a small oratory, the vaulted wooden beam ends of it decorated with tiny cherubs, was actually inside the church of Our Lady next door. Cleverly, the mason had lowered the ceiling of a side chapel in the church to create a room above. Kneeling in front of the leaded windows, the party could look down on the altar below and take part in the service without leaving the house. Margaret was intrigued. She thought perhaps this was how God felt looking down on his bishops and all the people assembled to worship.

After Mass, Gruuthuse showed her his renowned library, which Margaret had wanted to see since her arrival in Burgundy. She spent an hour carefully taking books down from the shelves and admiring the illuminations, the beautiful script and the embossed leather bindings. Another visitor was announced, and Margaret was delighted to see William Caxton bowing before her. She had suggested to Gruuthuse that he might be made welcome that day, and the councilor had readily agreed. She saw Fortunata disappear into the shadows as Caxton nodded a greeting to her. His eyes are kind, Margaret noted, but it is sympathy not love in them.

“Master Caxton, ’tis a pleasure to see you again. I thought we had lost you to London until Messire Louis told me otherwise. I trust your new venture is thriving.”

William’s brown eyes were bright as he extolled the success of his new press and presented her with a printed book in English on the rules of chess. Margaret took it eagerly, but then she had an idea.

“I would like you to approach my brother George on your return to England for patronage, Master Caxton. And as an introduction, I shall send this to him as a gift from me. He has much to learn about the game,” she said, chuckling. “He will see the humor in the gift, I promise you. I thank you for your indulgence. Shall we take a turn in the garden?” He offered her his arm immediately, and she turned to Gruuthuse. “Will you permit me to steal him for a few minutes? I know not when I may see him again.”

O
THER THAN
M
IDDELBURG
Island, Margaret had not set foot in Holland since she had been duchess, and by the time her small cavalcade rode into The Hague, she had uncharitably given the low-lying country a two-word description: soggy bog. It had started to rain in mid-October as they crossed the border with Brabant, and the sun had not reappeared until she rode through the city gate of The Hague five days later.

Preferring to use her carriage to shelter from the winds that blew unimpeded across the miles of bleak flat fenlands relieved only by the occasional windmill, Margaret, Fortunata and Beatrice were able to keep dry. She had left Henriette behind to be near her infant. Two younger attendants rode in a smaller chariot behind hers. Guillaume, too, had remained, sending his captain, Olivier de Famars, to provide armed escort. She lost count of the number of rivers they were ferried across, including the Diep. The mud made for slow going, and thus she had hours to ponder on the gloomy state of affairs in Burgundy, which the climate outside did not help to diminish. Although the rain persisted during her time there, she did not let it dampen her resolve to persuade the Dutch to provide Charles with support. She left a few days later with Gruuthuse’s praises ringing in her ears and was satisfied she had done her duty.

M
ARY REJOICED IN
her stepmother’s homecoming in November, and Lord Hugonet was impressed by the number of men she had been promised from Holland. Four thousand troops were sent to join Charles’s army in Lorraine, where he was laying siege to Nancy. Margaret was delighted
to learn that Charles had finally listened to her. Mary’s wedding arrangements and papal dispensation were now almost complete. Mary and Maximilian would be wed the following spring in Aachen or Cologne.

As the household prepared for the Yuletide season, an optimism buoyed all their spirits and as the year came to an end, so too, they hoped, would all of Burgundy’s woes.