“How different from Anthony,” she murmured, a painful stab to her heart reminding her of her love. She turned from the window and sighed.
“Madonna, it is time to go. All is prepared,” Fortunata said, coming to her side. “It is hot to ride today, non?”
“Aye, pochina. Have you told them to put wet cloths in a basin for me for the journey? I shall need them in the stuffy carriage.”
Fortunata nodded and gave her mistress a sweet-smelling tussie-mussie on a ribbon for her to carry. Margaret lifted the pomander to her nose and inhaled the aroma of the herbs and cloves inside.
“Then let us go and find Mary. I am happy to have some quiet time with her on the road to Brussels. In truth, I am sorry to leave Bruges, for I had just become comfortable here. I pray we will stay in Brussels a long time, for these journeys look to be tiresome.”
BY THE TIME the cavalcade arrived at the Flanders Gate in the city wall of Brussels, the sun was setting on the fourth day. The noise of a large city was penetrating the padded interior of the carriage. Mary poked her head out of the window.
“See, belle-mère, the towers of Coudenberg,” she cried, pointing up the steep Coudenberg hill to the ancient and immense palace that crowned it. Margaret’s face joined Mary’s at the carriage window, and she followed Mary’s finger to catch the first glimpse of her seventh residence since arriving in Burgundy only a month before.
The city was sprawled over the hillside and down to the banks of the little river Senne. As they wended their way through the dirty streets, Margaret was glad to know London wasn’t the only city with a refuse problem. Rotting vegetables, animal entrails and human waste assailed her nostrils as they trundled by the trench around the city wall that served as a dungheap. She held her tussie-mussie to her nose and looked about her with interest. Already she was becoming accustomed to the windmills and tall, step-gabled brick houses that had been prevalent in Bruges and the countryside through which they had traveled.
They passed a windmill next to the bread market, and she watched carters packing up their wares as the evening drew in. Close to the central market place, she admired the new town hall, its glorious bell tower reaching to the sky. The twin towers of the impressive church of St. Michael and St. Gudule were also visible beyond the newly built merchant houses around the market. Bells pealed from the many steeples in the city, and hundreds of people stopped what they were doing to get a glimpse of the new duchess. Even though she was travel-worn and in no mood to be gracious, she raised the curtains and waved.
“May God bless your grace,” several cried, bowing to her as the carriage rolled past, “and may God bless our little Mary.”
The horses began their final climb to the castle on the hill, and Margaret and Mary braced themselves against the seatback. Facing them and clinging to the edge of their seats were Marie de Charny and Mary’s chief lady-in-waiting, Jeanne de Halewijn. Jeanne had joined them at Ghent, where Margaret had spent her second night after leaving Bruges. They had arrived in the political center of Burgundy at dusk, and although they left in daylight the next day, she had seen very little of the largest city in Europe after Paris other than the towering and sinister Castle of the Counts that straddled a river.
“Gravensteen is where Papa does his governing of the people,” Mary had said solemnly, making Margaret smile. “And the biggest building is the courts of justice, where he passes judgment. I have been told there are horribly deep dungeons and torture chambers in there.” The girl shivered. “Belle-mère, why do people have to be tortured?”
“’Tis only those who have been very, very bad, sweeting. Those who have perhaps tried to harm your father or you. But I am certain they use the dungeons rarely, as who would wish to harm you, Mary?” Margaret reassured her.
“But you are wrong, your grace,” Jeanne de Halewijn was quick to comment. “The prison is full of Ghent scum who tried to rebel against our lord duke last year. We daily thank God Duke Charles is a strong leader and is not afraid to punish treasonable men. Lord Hugonet, too, knew just how to deal with them. And now they hate him for it,” she scoffed.
Margaret felt Mary stiffen beside her, and she put her arm around her. She was acutely aware of Jeanne de Halewijn’s unfriendly eyes on her, and she regretted this first meeting with Mary’s favorite lady was not going well. The diminutive woman was but a few years Margaret’s senior, and not long after their arrival at the Ten Waele palace, Margaret recognized jealousy in those pale blue eyes. Mary had thrown herself into Jeanne’s waiting arms, and Margaret could see there was genuine love between them. You will have to tread carefully here, Meg, she thought, and so had shown Jeanne a mixture of gentle authority and respect during that first evening.
“You and I have something in common, madame,” Margaret had said pleasantly, after they dined on cold pheasant. She had thought an informal supper in her chamber might be a chance to break the ice. After all, she and Mary would rarely be apart now, and she needed Jeanne’s help in looking after her stepdaughter. To be suddenly thrust into motherhood was a little daunting, she admitted.
Jeanne raised an eyebrow politely. “We do?” she responded.
“Certes. Both of us have to be separated from our husbands for long periods, in truth.” Margaret knew it was a lame beginning, but she hoped Jeanne would recognize she was trying.
Again the arched brow. “Ah, ’tis true, your grace.” And that was the end of the conversation.
“I understand your husband is high steward of Flanders, madame, and is Flemish born. I would like to learn Dutch, and ’twould be delightful if you would teach me,” Margaret persisted.
Before Jeanne could answer, Mary, unaware of this adult awkwardness, cried, “Oh, belle-mère, I shall teach you Dutch!”
“Mary, you must not interrupt a grown-up conversation. How many times must I tell you,” Jeanne gently admonished her. She turned back to Margaret with a slight smile, “You have your teacher, your grace. Mary speaks Dutch far better than I, in truth. I, as you must know, am French.”
Margaret inclined her head in acknowledgment and smiled at Mary. “Then you shall teach me, sweetheart. Perhaps we can start on the journey tomorrow. I will point to things and you can tell me the Dutch words.”
“Papa said I must learn English, madame. Will you teach me?” Mary was eager.
Jeanne patted her hand possessively. “You have much to learn, my poppet. You cannot impose on your stepmother like this. And now ’tis time for your prayers and bed. We have a long day tomorrow.”
Margaret was dismayed she was making no headway with Jeanne, but she signaled to the steward to pull back her chair and she stood up to say good night. At the Prinsenhof, Mary had kissed her on both cheeks before retiring, but Jeanne ushered her charge out as soon as she and Mary had made their obeisances. Of course, she does not know Mary and I have already become friends, Margaret thought with her usual charity, but her eyes were clouded by disappointment as they followed Mary out.
That was three nights ago, and although Jeanne had warmed a little to Margaret’s cordial overtures, it had become clear to Margaret that Jeanne looked on her as a rival for Mary’s love. She decided to approach the woman as soon as they were settled at Coudenberg.
Her gaze shifted to Marie de Charny, sitting ramrod-straight beside Jeanne. The proud woman had not unbent as much as her little finger in her rigidity towards the ladies in Margaret’s train. She had relegated Beatrice to third lady-in-waiting, behind one of her own young protégées, and Margaret had no say in the matter. She chafed at the rules of court that gave her so little freedom, even to the choice of her own servants, and she resolved to talk to Charles about it whenever they were together again.
THE LARGEST OF the duke’s palaces was also in the most beautiful setting. The undulating Warende park stretched for miles in front of Margaret as she slowly made her way through the immaculate beds of roses, holly-hocks, lilies and lupins en route to the wilder Forest of Soignes beyond. As usual, she was ac
companied by the chevalier de la Baume, one of the few people she knew who was taller than she, and she had to acknowledge she enjoyed the feeling of daintiness that being with Guillaume gave her. In a way, he reminded her of Ned, and it comforted her.
She was daydreaming about her family and absently plucked a blossom from a gillyflower to twirl in her fingers. She missed them so badly. The night before, she had rocked herself to sleep thinking of her mother. She wondered if Anthony had received her letter, and she cursed her stupidity for not forming a plan for Master Caxton to follow now she was no longer in Bruges. There might be a letter waiting for her there with no means for her to receive it.
The tranquility of the morning stroll was suddenly interrupted by screams coming from some bushes farther down the walk.
“Guillaume, I pray you go and help that poor woman!” Margaret commanded. “I cannot think what is happening.” The man took off at a run, his chaperon flying off his head and onto the grass. “Guards! Guards!” Margaret cried, as her ladies gathered around her and Mary clung to her skirts.
But the guards were not needed. A minute later, Guillaume appeared from behind a bush with Fortunata and Madame de Beaugrand suspended from each musclebound arm. The two women were still flailing at each other and screaming, one in Turkish and one in Italian, and a monkey was screeching at them from a tree branch above. Margaret could not help but laugh.
“Put them down, chevalier, I beg of you,” she called, walking to the two disheveled dwarfs. “What is all this, pray? Fortunata, tell me what has occurred to make you behave in such a disgraceful way.” Guillaume let them fall none too gently, annoyed that his duties to the duchess included such unmanly tasks.
Margaret recognized the mulish look on Fortunata’s face, which she knew meant no explanation would be forthcoming. But she knew Charny was watching carefully, and not wanting to further aggravate the woman’s ill-feeling for Fortunata, she leveled her most ferocious stare at her servant and asked her again, “Tell me what happened here, Fortunata, or I shall have no recourse but to beat you.”
Fortunata let out a shriek. She had never known Margaret to beat any of her servants, even though it was common practice among the nobility. She hung her head and muttered, “I tried to take her monkey. That was all. I am very sorry, madonna.”
“Azize, is this correct?” Margaret asked the larger of the two dwarfs. She had discovered that Madame de Beaugrand was the name given her by the French count who had bought her from a Romany camp because he thought the name was appropriately ridiculous for such a small, ugly creature. Her Turkish given name rolled far more easily off the tongue, Margaret decided, and had addressed her thus since. Azize fell on her knees, swearing loyalty and devotion, and Margaret felt sorry for her.
“Fortunata, you will apologize to Azize immediately and go to my chamber. I will deal with you later.” She turned to Guillaume, “Can you reach the monkey?”
Rolling his eyes so that only the twittering ladies could see, he muttered an affirmative and coaxed the still-chattering monkey into his hands. The little creature ran straight into Azize’s arms, clutching onto her for dear life.
Later, Margaret demanded to be left alone with Fortunata and berated her loudly for her transgressions, knowing full well Marie would be listening at the door.
“You deserve a beating, Fortunata,” Margaret cried. “You should know better.” Then she picked up a leather strap and raised her arm. Fortunata screamed just as Margaret brought the strap down on the back of a chair in three quick successive strokes. “There, now go to your quarters. I do not want to see you until prayers,” she said, winking at the astonished Fortunata. Under her breath she said in English, “Start crying and run from the room quickly.”
Fortunata needed no second bidding. She feigned some heart-wrenching sobs, flung open the door and ran.
MARGARET WAS PUZZLED that Fortunata did not appear for the customary evening prayers and beckoned to Beatrice to ask where she was.
“Why, your grace, she is confined to her bed with bandaged hands from her punishment. I could not persuade her to come when I went to find her a few minutes ago. Her eyes are swollen from crying and she appears to be in pain.”
Margaret remarked on Beatrice’s cold tone. Oh, pochina, you should not prolong the mummery, she thought. She looked across at Marie de Charny, who for once would not meet her eye. Why? she wondered. She shrugged and asked Marie to join her at her side at the prie-dieu. Full of smiles now, the older woman hurried to Margaret’s side.
CHARLES CAME TO Brussels at the beginning of August. Seated in her favorite solar overlooking the Warende, Margaret was playing chess with Mary when she heard the shawms, pibcorns and tabors faintly in the distance. Mary was on her feet, an anxious look on her face, and ran to the window.
“Papa is coming!” she cried. “Come, belle-mère, we must be ready and waiting for him on the staircase outside. He will not be pleased if we are not there.”
Margaret’s stomach had somersaulted when she had been told the day before that the duke was expected. She was beginning to enjoy her daily routine, which included an audience with Ravenstein, a walk or a ride with Mary, time with her chamberlain, and music or conversation with Mary in the afternoon. She had written letters to her mother, to Ned and to George, but as yet had heard nothing from her family across the North Sea. They have forgotten me already, she thought gloomily, whereas I long for them.
Now the routine would be broken, and she knew, because she had helped plan them, there would be elaborate banquets and hunting expeditions for Charles. She prayed to St. Andrew the Apostle to grant her wish to be with child, should he choose to share her bed, and then she begged her own St. Margaret to spare her her greatest fear: barrenness.
“Madame de Halewijn, I pray you make Mary as pretty as a picture for her father,” Margaret said to Jeanne with more eagerness than she felt. “Let him be proud of his little girl, as we all are.”
Mary beamed, a new confidence creeping into her eyes. She was terrified of her father, who showed her little affection, thus giving her the impression she must be stupid and unattractive. “Can I wear the orange dress, belle-mère, please?”
Margaret saw her chance, for she noticed Jeanne looking at her with something akin to respect. “’Tis for madame to decide, sweeting. She is the best judge of that.”
Jeanne’s bright smile and deep obeisance told Margaret that she had perhaps turned the tide, and she watched, relieved, as Mary skipped off to change her gown. One down, the other to go, she thought, glancing at Marie. She smoothed her skirts, fluffed out the veil on her jeweled heart-shaped headdress and started the long walk through the many rooms and staircases of the enormous palace to the courtyard below.
Fortunata had given her place to Marie in the little procession, but Margaret was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice. What would she say to Charles? Now that they were well and truly married, would he treat her civilly? Fortunata had told her tales she had heard about Charles’s temper, his lack of interest in women, and his autocratic nature.
On the other hand, she had heard he was a hard worker, something she admired in a leader and something she knew was lacking in her brother Edward. “He never stops working, your grace,” Ravenstein had told her. “He has more energy than a team of hounds after a hare. They call him le travailleur, and it suits him well.”
Margaret thought the Worker was considerably more flattering than the Rash and added it to her rapidly growing knowledge of her husband’s character.
The courtyard was crowded when she arrived at the enormous wooden front door, which was standing wide. Guards and retainers were forming columns as far as the eye could see to salute the arrival of the duke, some on horseback and others on foot, all in the Burgundian black, purple and crimson; musicians were hurrying with their instruments to their places on an open balcony; grooms were lined up to take charge of the horses; and several noisy and excited dogs were being chased aside for the duke’s ent
ry. The sun shone down on the proceedings as the church of St. Jacques rang out a welcome.
“God’s greeting, my lady. I trust I find you well,” Charles said cheerfully upon mounting the steps to her side. His fanciful jeweled hat was a little out of place with full armor, Margaret thought, but he was a magnificent sight as she sank in a deep obeisance with Mary by her side. He raised Margaret up and kissed her on the mouth, a gesture Margaret had hoped he would discard after the English retinue left. She had discovered he believed all Englishwomen expected to be kissed thus, but she found it embarrassing and hoped one day she would be forward enough to tell him. Not today, though, she thought. Besides, she had Mary to worry about. Charles had given his daughter a cursory glance and a “How are you, child?” before taking Margaret’s arm in readiness for their processing inside the gleaming white Magna Aula, the marble addition to the centuries-old palace. Margaret, however, stood rooted to the spot, and Charles frowned.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked.
Margaret smiled sweetly. Charles did not know her well enough to recognize the determination in that smile. “I believe you forgot to kiss Mary, my lord. And she has dressed in her favorite gown for your approval. Certes, you must agree she looks delightful, no?”
She heard not only Mary but Jeanne and Marie draw in their collective breath. Antoine, who was standing just behind his brother, arched his brow, and several others looked shocked. Only Lord Ravenstein’s eyes shouted “Brava!” She felt Charles’s arm stiffen under her hand for a second, but then he turned to Mary, who was trembling in her little crakows, and raised her face with his other hand and kissed her on the lips as well.
“Your gown is well chosen, daughter. Your mother would have been proud.” If he had hoped to slight Margaret with this mention of Isabelle, he had not taken the measure of Margaret’s self-worth.