“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.”
William heard the smile in her voice and returned the solemn tone. “I would be happy to be stretched on the rack for you, your grace. You have but to ask. The thumbscrews, however, may need a little more negotiation.”
“We understand each other very well, sir,” Margaret replied with a chuckle. “I believe you will be my saving grace here. I have a friend at my brother’s court with whom I would like to correspond privately. ’Tis the only way I may still feel the pulse of events at home. I fear my correspondence here may not be for my eyes only, and in order to serve my country and”—she turned and indicated him—“my countrymen to the best of my ability, I must know what is transpiring in a timely way. Do you understand?” She hoped her new friend would not guess the real motivation for the letters, but when he nodded gravely and said he would be honored to do all in his power to serve England’s interests abroad, she was satisfied.
“May I use your address in this enterprise, sir?” Seeing him nod, she continued, “Before I leave Bruges, I will send Fortunata to find you at the Waterhall with my first letter to an address of a goldsmith in Cheapside. I trust you will put it on the next ship to England. And do not wonder at the name that will appear on the letters, sir. My correspondent and I have a particular fondness for Camelot and all its tales. You will know ’tis for me when you see Dame Elaine Astolat written. Mine will be addressed to Lancelot Dulac.”
Caxton smiled as if he perfectly understood this code. “Ah, Astolat, I understand,” he murmured, and Margaret was pleased again with this well-read man. “I will do as you wish, your grace. I thank you for this audience, and I shall report on our discussion about trade with my fellow adventurers.” He bowed respectfully over her hand and limped away, his long-toed leather boots slap-slapping unevenly on the colorful tiled floor.
“MY LOVE,” SHE began, her quill scratching on the parchment. She tickled her nose with the feather as she thought, not knowing it was a habit her brothers would always remember her for.
What to say? she wondered, staring at the tapestry on the wall in front of her. She was aware of several pairs of eyes boring into her back as she sat at the desk in her room. She had made her servants place the table in front of the wall the first day she had come so that she could read and write with a modicum of privacy, but she still felt ill at ease. She had written to her mother-in-law, who had returned to her castle at La Motte, thanking her for her kind support during the wedding festivities and giving her news of Mary, and she had written to George, telling him her first impressions of Bruges and Charles.
Now she was ready to write to Anthony, and she knew her ladies were busy with their needlework and idle chatter. She permitted them to talk among themselves in her presence, although Marie had duly pointed out that Madame de Poitiers would not have approved.
“She is not here, countess, and I am. This is my household, and as far as I know, ’tis my decision whether or not there is silence in my presence. I will let you know when I require it,” Margaret had told her chief lady-in-waiting. She saw the glint of anger in Marie’s eyes, but she refused to back down. She had turned and asked one of the others to play on her lute.
“My love.” She looked at her large, free-flowing script, trying to put the words on paper that would convey her yearning for him.
“As you see, I have found a way to begin our correspondence. I shall not name my kind messenger for fear this falls into the wrong hands, but rest assured he is to be trusted. You will be instructed where to respond when you receive this.
“I trust all arrived safely after the voyage and that you found my brothers well. As for me, I have not been able to wipe the memory of our last meeting from my mind. How I wanted you to take me in your arms, throw me onto the saddle and ride off with me—anywhere. Foolish, I know! I wonder where you are, what you are doing, and most of all I wonder if you think of me.
“Write to me soon, Lancelot, with any news of England. I sorely miss you all, but you above everyone. And pray for me as I do for you every day and every night, my dearest love.
Your Elaine.”
She had trouble fighting back the urge to cry as she wrote. One tear did escape and lent an effective emphasis to her name, almost blotting it out entirely. She quickly sprinkled sand on the missive, folded it and dropped hot wax to seal it. Disguising her handwriting, she wrote Lancelot Dulac and the address in London on the front. Then she beckoned to Fortunata and whispered instructions in her ear, annoying Marie further.
“’Tis for Master Caxton and no one else, understand, pochina? In truth, I believe you will not find this mission too irksome.” Fortunata’s eyes widened innocently, but her mouth curled into a secret smile. “Ah, I see I am right. The good William has taken your fancy. Be careful, pochina. You are naive in the ways of men, and I would not want you hurt.”
Fortunata tossed her head. “I do not care about him,” she said in a whisper. “You do not need to worry about me.” She concealed the letter in the pocket where she kept her cups and pebbles and waited for more information.
Margaret sighed, sorry Fortunata would not confide in her yet. “You will find Master Caxton at the house of the merchant-adventurers. ’Tis the Waterhall on Engelstraat near the wharf. Be careful, pochina, and talk to no one unless you have to.” A frown creased her perfectly plucked brow. Under her breath she said, “Perhaps ’tis better that you go as a man.”
Fortunata had nodded, curtseyed and run out before Marie could inquire where she was going.
FROM HER BROWN wool tunic, its hem skirting her knees and the front buttoned up to the high collar, to the green hose in low, soft boots, with a simple cap on her head, Fortunata could pass for a man in any town in Europe.
The memorized Flemish street name ready on her lips at every corner, she was able to find her way through the narrow cobbled streets to the Market Square—jumping in panic as the carillon in the Belfort tower suddenly rang out the half hour—and on to the quays. She passed several streets named for the nationality of the merchants who dwelled there. The wharves were teeming with merchants, hand carters, wains, sailors and sea captains, all busy loading and unloading the many ships and small boats that filled the harbor. The sounds of pulleys squeaking, cartwheels rumbling on cobblestones, sails flapping and anchor chains rasping and rattling mingled with the smell of spices, raw wool, timber, fruit, and the hot pies, roasted meats and other refreshments hawked to the working men by street vendors.
Ships and shipping were a man’s world, and for a moment Fortunata felt distinctly out of place until she remembered she was not in women’s clothes. So she sauntered through the throng, her Paduan street-wise wiles about her, asking for Engelstraat, until she finally fell into it. The Water hall was the largest building on the street, a two-story building housing the merchant-adventurers of England with dormitories above several common rooms, a cloth market and a covered dock underneath. Engelstraat, she thought, certes, street of the English.
She inquired for William Caxton in that tongue and was relieved when one burly man grunted and nodded, pointing her in the direction of one of the stalls. She recognized William talking to another merchant, and she inched up to him without attracting any attention.
“Pssst,” she hissed behind him. “Master Caxton, please.”
Caxton turned round and saw no one, frowned and turned back. Then he felt a tug on his gown. He turned again, and this time he looked down into Fortunata’s upturned face. Recognizing the duchess’s dwarf, he quickly excused himself from his colleague and gave her his full attention. “Come, Fortu—I mean sir,” he said, amused. “I am thirsty. Let us go inside for some ale.”
The other merchant looked curiously at the little person but then shrugged, bade his farewells to William and walked off. William steered Fortunata into an ale
house across the street and ordered them both a cup. His eyes twinkled as he watched her try to imitate a man quaffing ale, smacking her lips and wiping her mouth with her sleeve. When she was sure no one was watching them, she pulled the letter from the pouch at her waist and, concealing it under her hand, slid it across the table. Humoring the loyal servant, he checked over his shoulder and then surreptitiously walked his fingers over to hers and took over the concealment, slipping the missive quickly into the top of his boot.
Fortunata beamed at him. “That is good, Master Caxton.” She looked at him impishly from under her long lashes, and he had the distinct impression she was flirting with him.
“You have a wife?” she asked.
Now he was sure she was, and he was amused but intrigued. “Nay, sir. ’Tis forbidden for merchant-adventurers to be married. We all live in that house across the street. We eat together, must keep a strict curfew, and we sleep in one big dormitory. Women are not allowed in the living quarters, but”—he leaned over and whispered to her—“some of the men have lady friends, and I have heard women’s voices downstairs at night.”
“Like monks?” Fortunata’s eyes were wide. “Why you do that, Master Caxton? You do not like women?”
“Aye, I like women very much. And one day, if I go home to London, I may take myself a wife. But for now, I am content.” He watched as this information sank in. She could have been striking, he thought, but for her deformity. He briefly wondered how it would be to bed a dwarf but dismissed the thought just as quickly. “Now you must return to your mistress. And tell her she can count on me to deliver the letter safely.” He swallowed the last of his ale, threw some money on the table and prepared to leave.
Fortunata plucked up her courage as she too clambered off her stool, shaking off a stray cat that was trying to sharpen its claws on her boots. “Do you like me, Master Caxton?” She looked at him again from under her lashes.
William was astonished. He wanted to laugh, but instead he clapped her on the shoulder as he would a male comrade and said, “Why, I like you well enough, sir,” he emphasized. “But I have taken a vow of celibacy as an adventurer, and as their governor, I am not above the law,” he said solemnly. He did not want to offend the duchess’s favorite servant. He scratched his curly beard, which he took immense pains to keep neat and free of lice. “Now I really must return to work. A ship is unloading some English wool, and I must be there. Can I send someone to escort you back to the—” He almost said palace, but corrected himself in case anyone was listening. “To your quarters?”
Fortunata tossed her head at the obvious rejection. “Nay, Master Caxton, I am safe by myself,” she said defiantly. “I am sorry you do not like me.”
She swaggered off with what she believed to be a manly gait, almost making William guffaw. He sighed and went back to the Waterhall, Margaret’s letter now tucked into his tunic.
Walking back through the Market Square, Fortunata could not resist stopping and taking in the sights. A hanging had taken place the day before, and the rigid body was still swinging from the high scaffold, birds pecking at its eyes. A woman was tied to a stool next to the victim, an iron band tight about her head, its special device forcing open her mouth so that her tongue would hang out, preventing speech. Several townspeople pelted her with rotten food, and as the wind swung the hanged man’s excrement-covered feet into her face, the laughing, pointing crowd shouted, “Liar! Liar!” Fortunata had seen sights like this in Padua, but it seemed a lifetime ago, so she stood and stared for a good many minutes, feeling sorry for the prisoner, who was being punished for lying.
Soon she found herself drawn to a group of men throwing dice, and her spirits rose. She knew she should return immediately to the Prinsenhof, but she could not resist drawing the men into her cup game, the tools of which were always with her. It did not take long before she had amassed a tidy sum of money for her trick, until one drunken knave decided the dwarf was cheating him and lunged for her. His clumsy blow hit her on the mouth, splitting open her lip and making her nose gush blood. Her hat flew off, and the braid that had been wound tightly underneath fell down, unmasking her. The drunk stared as the other men backed away, not wanting to be involved in this odd scene.
Fortunata lay in the dirt, dazed and frightened. A kindly older man picked her up, gave her back her cups and stone and propelled her away from the drunkard, who was beginning to make juicy noises with his mouth and finger his codpiece. “Let me put this stone in your cup, wench!” he rasped, lurching forward. Fortunata did not understand the Flemish words but she certainly understood the gestures and fled for her life.
“POCHINA, I AM So Sorry you have been hurt on my account,” Margaret said bitterly, when she saw Fortunata’s bruised face and bloodied clothes. “Before you tell me all about it, go down to the bathhouse and clean yourself ere Marie sees you. We do not want to have to explain why you are in such a plight. I will keep her occupied until you do and shall think of something to say, never fear. Now, go down the back stair.”
They were in the garderobe, where Margaret had discovered Fortunata hiding amongst the gowns when she went to relieve herself. A tiny staircase had been built as an escape in case of fire or danger, and Fortunata made use of it, descending dejectedly and in pain to the cesspit below and thence to the palace bathhouse.
Margaret returned to Mary and her women and for the third time that afternoon wondered aloud what had kept Fortunata from joining them. Marie de Charny looked smug, hoping Margaret would give the impudent servant a tongue-lashing when she did appear. She had taken a dislike to Fortunata from the minute she saw the dwarf standing so possessively beside Margaret at Sluis. She could not believe someone of Margaret’s lineage would be seen in the company of one so lowborn, let alone share confidences with the menial. Daily she became more outraged at the thought and vowed to get the dwarf dismissed as soon as she could.
While Marie plotted Fortunata’s downfall, Margaret’s brain was desperately trying to concoct a story that would excuse her injuries. She was forgetting her wily pochina’s wits, which had got her out of trouble many times during her days as a pickpocket. The door to the hall suddenly flew open and Fortunata walked in, dragging a sheepish wolfhound behind her. She was back in her gown, which was now bloodied, and her cap sat askew on her head with half her hair tumbling out. One of her eyes was swollen shut, but the other blazed with anger.
“Madonna Margherita, Astolat is a bad dog,” she cried, once she knew she had everyone’s attention. “He pulled me down the staircase. Look, I am bleeding. I tried to clean it a little, but it hurts too much. And see,” she said to the fascinated spectators, pointing to her split lip and reverting to pidgin English to gain sympathy, “Dog break mouth.”
Gasps and whispers followed the declaration as those who understood English translated for their neighbors. Marie was for once at a loss for words as she took in Fortunata’s disheveled appearance. Margaret, feigning shock and surprise, hurried forward, and poor Astolat found himself confronted by an angry mistress, who admonished him forcefully with “Bad dog! Go and lie down!” The dog hung its head, cast soulful eyes at the guilt-ridden Margaret, and slunk off to do her bidding. Then Margaret knelt down to Fortunata and gingerly touched her blackened eye. The dwarf winced and winked at the same time.
“Master Roelandts,” Margaret called to one of her physicians. “I pray you take poor Fortunata and apply a soothing poultice to her face. No doubt she will tell you what potions she needs for her mouth.”
“No doubt,” the doctor agreed grimly. In the short time since the Englishcontingent had arrived, he had suffered through several discussions with Fortunata on the correct way to treat an ailment.
As Margaret watched the two leave the room, she thanked God Fortunata had not been found lying unconscious on the street, raising questions as to why she was there and why she was wearing men’s garb. There must be an easier way to communicate secretly with Anthony, she thought sadly, but for the moment she
could think of none.
MARGARET HAD NEVER seen so much baggage. Carts, carriages, horses, soldiers, squires, servants and stable boys filled the Prinsenhof’s large courtyard as she stood by the window of her chamber watching the scene below. She traced her finger along the crisscross of the leaded panes, admiring the clear glass. Only Westminster could compare in modern amenities to this sumptuous palace, she knew. She wondered what she would find in Brussels, the next residence she and Mary were to travel to. Ravenstein had told her that only three or four of the royal residences were large enough to accommodate both the duke’s and the duchess’s households at one time, and she was not surprised.
It would take them four days to make the fifty-mile journey to Brussels, staying at Charles’s castles or estates along the way. Each stop would require the housing and feeding of her more than one hundred retainers, and the logistics made her head spin. She was glad she did not have to supervise the packing up of the household. Her chamberlain and stewards would see to that.
It was a hot and humid day. A thunderstorm overnight had not cleared the air, and the sun was making steam rise from the steep slate roofs of the tall, step-gabled houses. She was high enough to see over most of the city, and the scene took her back to the Wardrobe watchtower that evening when she had stood with Fortunata, looking out over London. London! A lump came to her throat, but she forced her eyes downwards to the courtyard and watched her chevalier stride over to her own carriage to see if all was in order.
He was a blond giant, this Guillaume de la Baume. His ruddy complexion, handsome face and blue eyes turned many a female head, she had noticed. He was supposed to be her escort—a substitute for Charles at public occasions—and her bodyguard. She had no doubt that he would vanquish anyone who might be foolish enough to attack her, but his intelligence did not match his physique, and Margaret found him impossible to converse with.