Daughter of York
She was scornful. “I am ashamed of you, countess,” she said, watching Marie squirm. “Your disgusting lust for my young chevalier does your noble blood no service. You are supposed to uphold the morality of the ladies at court and serve as model to them. And here you are, the wife of one of the most chivalrous and beloved men of Burgundy, fornicating with an innocent young man. What do you have to say for yourself?”
Marie looked so woebegone that Margaret almost laughed, but the woman did not deny she had coerced the artless Guillaume into a dalliance. Here’s an apple that did not fall far from the tree, Margaret thought, remembering Duke Philip’s lustiness.
“A million pardons, your grace,” Marie began, climbing off the bed and effecting a passable obeisance. “How should I be punished?” she stammered from the floor. Then she looked up, afraid. “I pray you, nay, I beg of you, do not tell my husband—or,” she added hastily, “my brother, your husband. I could not bear the disgrace.” She had taken Margaret’s hand and was pressing it to her cheek as she pleaded for mercy. But Margaret had made up her mind. She pulled her hand from Marie’s grasp and walked slowly to a chair. She did not ask but assumed that Marie had persuaded her underling bedmate to share another attendant’s bed that night to allow intimacy with Guillaume. She wondered how many times it had happened. It was all too degrading, and she decided she would rather not know the details.
“I will not say a word to anyone, Marie. But I shall request that your husband be assigned to my household so that you cannot repeat this behavior. And for my silence, I demand to know the truth about Fortunata’s disappearance. Do not deny you were involved.”
Marie gasped. She had not expected the accusation, and her face gave her away. She got to her feet, attempted to tidy her straggly hair and smoothed her kirtle. “I shall not deny it, your grace.” When she saw the shock and anger in Margaret’s eyes, she rushed on, “but I did it to protect you, Madame la duchesse, I swear. Fortunata gave you potions that caused you to lose your child.” Now she had Margaret’s attention. “When I heard you tell Jeanne de Halewijn that you had been given them every night, I was suspicious. I went to the dispensary where Heer Roelandts helped me discover what Fortunata was brewing.” She paused for effect. Margaret had one hand on her belly as though to protect the life that had been in it, and the other was over her mouth. “We could not find anything, but we were both convinced she had poisoned you.”
“’Tis an outrageous suggestion!” Margaret cried, leaping to her feet. “I would trust Fortunata with my life. So what did you intend to do? Torture her in that ice cellar until she confessed to this lie? Starve her to death? What, pray?”
Marie had the grace to look shamefaced. “’Twas my idea to frighten her a little into admitting her guilt. But you found her before we could—”
“Enough! I have heard enough! ’Twas barbaric what you and the good doctor conspired to do. Tomorrow I shall conduct my own interrogation of all three of you and find out the truth. Until then, you will remain in this room until I call for you, do you understand?”
Margaret strode to the door, took the key from it and held it up for Marie to see. She exited the room, picked up her lantern and locked the door. She heard Marie collapse in tears on the other side.
Now she was tired, nay, exhausted. This had been one of the most dramatic half hours of her life. Even so, she could not sleep. She spent much of the rest of the night on her knees, praying for guidance to anyone in God’s heaven who would listen. Fortunata poison me? Why, after all we have been through together? ’Tis unconscionable. But Marie seemed quite sincere for once. And ’twas true, pochina did give me potions against the doctor’s wishes. Certes, it did ease the puking, but did it cause the miscarriage? Ah, dear God, who should I believe? She begged St. Jude, St. Benedict, St. Anne and even the patron saint of the falsely accused, Raymond Nonnatus, to help her. But in the end, it was Cecily’s face she saw and Cecily’s voice she heard.
“Trust your heart, my child. ’Twas always your greatest strength,” her mother seemed to say. “Trust in Fortunata. She loves you the best.”
When she finally rose to her feet to climb into bed, she was surprised to see that Fortunata was kneeling behind her. The servant’s eyes sparkled with tears in the candlelight, and she sagged down dejectedly onto her heels.
“Madonna, I have something I must tell you. I do not want to lie to you. It is difficult for me to say, you understand,” she whispered. Beatrice stirred in her sleep for a second but then resumed her gentle snoring from the truckle bed. Fortunata shivered, and Margaret took off her warm robe, raised the dwarf from the floor and wrapped her in it.
“Aye, pochina, I cannot bear to have you lie to me. Tell me this bad thing.” Margaret could not believe that her prayers had been answered so soon. She got into bed, keeping her stockings on for warmth, and waited.
“The medicine I gave you …” Fortunata hesitated, then crossed herself and hurried on. “It was many things, but also …” She hesitated again. “Pennyroyal.”
“Pennyroyal?” Margaret was aghast. “Why did you give me that, you wicked girl? ’Tis well known it rids a woman of an unwanted child.” She wrung her hands and stared in disbelief at the contrite young woman before her. “But I wanted that child, Fortunata! What were you thinking?” she whispered as loudly as she dared, angry tears welling. “You killed my child!”
Fortunata sank down on her knees again. “Perdonne me, madonna,” she whispered, retreating into her native tongue. “I did it for love. You must believe me. In Padua, I saw the same sickness you had take hold of a woman at the university. My master could not help her. He did try bleeding her, but …” She shrugged. “The woman left, and later when she had the child, it was a monster, madonna. Big, big head, no nose, and no eye coverings.” She pointed to her own eyelids. “The head was too heavy for the little body, and it died soon after.” She was crying now, and as Margaret absorbed this sad tale, she understood.
“Certes, you thought the same thing would happen to me. Is that right, Fortunata?”
The dwarf bowed her head in shame. “Si, madonna. You are right. I was wrong, yes?” she asked in utter dejection.
“Aye, Fortunata, you were wrong. May God forgive you for your act. I must think about what to do with you, so leave me to myself. I think you know I can never accept another potion from you as long as you remain in my service,” Margaret said sadly, knowing that this would hurt Fortunata deeply. She was stern but not as angry as she had been. Fortunata kissed her hand.
“And you know who put you in the cellar, do you not? No more lies, pochina, I want the truth.”
“It was Heer Roelandts,” the dwarf whispered finally. “He said he had something to show me and took me to the cellar through the kitchen. Then he tied me, and when I tried and call out, he put a cloth in my mouth. He asked me about the medicine for you, but I did not tell him anything. He came three times, gave me food and asked again. I said nothing.”
“I am happy to hear he did not go through with his threat to kill you, and he does not appear to have harmed you.” She paused. “And you think he acted alone?”
Fortunata rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that Margaret had learned meant perhaps yes, perhaps no.
“I am waiting, Fortunata. The truth now.”
But the dwarf had nothing more to say. “I am sorry, madonna. Please let me sleep now.”
Margaret sighed and nodded. She had to admire Fortunata’s integrity in not denouncing Marie, or perhaps the servant truly did not know that the woman had instigated her abduction. This was the most difficult problem she had had to deal with personally, and even though she fought it now, sleep overcame her before she had resolved how to handle the two different situations.
• • •
“MARIE, YOU WERE correct.” Margaret’s tone was cold as ice the next morning in her private audience chamber. “Fortunata has confessed all to me, and I am sending her away from me for a few weeks to
pray for forgiveness. However, you are not blameless in this business, and for participating in the heinous kidnapping of my servant, I am depriving you of your status as head of my ladies for a month. Beatrice will take your place while you mull over what you have done with regard to both Fortunata and Guillaume.”
Marie’s face showed no emotion, but she was beginning to understand the new duchess’s mettle, and she sank into a low curtsey. “Aye, your grace. I thank you, your grace.” She did not dare ask whether her husband would be spared the details of either of her indiscretions, but she hoped the duchess’s word of the night before was good. Her punishment was not so bad, and her feelings about Margaret were ameliorated somewhat, especially upon hearing that the dwarf would be sent away.
Margaret waved her aside and asked that Heer Roelandts be admitted to the audience chamber. His bloodletting cup and knife swinging from his belt, the ruddy-faced Dutchman entered as Marie was leaving. Neither looked at each other, and Margaret was pleased to see Marie’s humility.
Roelandts was relegated to attending the sick among the kitchen staff and stable boys for a month, and nothing more was said about the matter. Guillaume could not look Margaret in the eye when he was called in. He knelt before her, his felt bonnet in one hand and the other over his heart.
“Forgive me, your grace,” was all he could say, but Margaret heard the contrition in his voice and told him to rise.
“Perhaps we need to find you a wife, Guillaume,” she said. “Then perhaps you would not be putting your pestle where it does not belong.”
He could have sworn he saw her wink at him.
14
Winter 1469
Margaret could not remember when she had laughed so much. Guillaume was teaching her to skate on the frozen lake in the Hesdin castle park, and it was a painful beginning.
She had watched Londoners strap sharpened animal bones to their boots and glide along the ice on the Thames one particularly cold winter. It looked so easy and so exhilarating. She and George had begged Cecily for the chance to try their skill, but Cecily had raised an eyebrow and stated, “’Tis a sport for peasants, children. How would it seem if they saw a duke’s child upended on his arse?” And the brother and sister had giggled at hearing their mother use such a coarse word. But dutifully, they returned to their perch high above the river in the warm solar and watched from the window.
Margaret had been delighted to know that everyone in Flanders knew how to skate, and ever willing to be accepted as one of them, she had agreed eagerly to Guillaume’s suggestion that she learn the art.
Instead of bones she wore sharpened metal blades strapped tightly to her little boots when she gingerly stepped out onto the ice, the hood of her short fur-lined cloak keeping the wind from her face. She stood there, not daring to move, but with her ladies’ encouragement, she attempted a step forward. She could not believe how swiftly the skate slid out from under her. Trying desperately to gain her balance with the other foot, she shrieked as she sat down ungracefully, her heavy skirts protecting her. She could not help but laugh, remembering Cecily’s prediction. Guillaume was there in a flash to help her to her feet, and this time he suggested she hold tightly to his arm and let him guide her until she got a measure of balance. This proved to be a lengthy process, but Margaret was determined to traverse the pond once on her own before the lesson was over. Mary and Jeanne were laughing and applauding her progress, and Margaret watched with wonder as little Mary flew over the ice and even skated backwards for her.
In the meantime, Margaret watched as Guillaume gave one of her younger ladies a skating lesson, too. Henriette de Longwy was from an old Franche-Comté family, and Margaret could see the girl was hanging on Guillaume’s every word. Aha, she thought, I think I will foster this. It would give her pleasure to arrange a match that would have a better chance of happiness than her own.
Mary flew across the ice to her. “Come, belle-mère, I will take one arm and Madame de Halewijn the other. Now follow what we do.” Mary’s eyes were shining. She was never happier than when outdoors, and as well as mastering this slippery art, she was the best horsewoman Margaret had ever seen.
During Fortunata’s two months’ absence at the convent and hospital of St. John’s in Bruges, Margaret had found herself more and more in Mary’s apartments or the girl in hers. Jeanne was no longer jealous, and after a busy morning with administrative duties, Margaret liked nothing better than to listen to Mary play her lute or challenge her to a game of trictrac. Margaret was also teaching her chess, “so you can play with your father when he comes, sweeting. ’Tis a way to pass the time with him.” A pinched look always crossed Mary’s face when her father was mentioned, and Margaret’s heart ached for her. She was virtually an orphan, and so Margaret gave her as much love and attention as she could.
They had all spent Christmas in this favorite of Duke Philip’s castles, and she was accepting of Charles’s absence. In fact, she was much happier without him. She still missed her family, but her homesickness had dissipated somewhat over the months. Two letters had brought the feeling rushing back, however. The first was received a few days after the feast of the Epiphany. Margaret’s eager fingers made short work of the familiar seal.
“Christmas greetings to you, Margaret, from Windsor,” her mother wrote in her flowery script.
“Edward and Elizabeth are gracious hosts, and we have kept the feast of Our Lord cheerfully. You were remembered in our Christmas Mass and in Edward’s toast at the feasting each day. You would not recognize St. George’s chapel now: Edward’s masons must be inspired by God as they enlarge and beautify it.
“I worry that my nephew Warwick has too much influence on George, but if he is given a choice, I have no doubt George will follow Edward. ’Tis not a happy situation. The rumor that Louis of France is helping that other queen does not bode well for us.”
She knew her mother could not bring herself to write the She-Wolf’s name, although in a happier time Cecily had thought to honor the queen by naming Margaret for her.
“But I daily pray her threat to invade comes to naught and your influence on your husband will lend us his aid in preventing it.”
As ’tis the first time I have heard the rumor and as I never see Charles, I doubt I can have any influence, Margaret sighed. In truth, I have seen him on only twenty-one occasions in six months of marriage.
“I hope you keep my counsel, child, and daily read the good works of St. Bridget.”
“Aye, mother,” Margaret said aloud, smiling to herself. She still thinks on me as a child.
“And I pray to hear news that you are with child. Motherhood has been the joy of my life, and I would wish you to know it also.”
So do I, Mother, oh, so do I.
“Write more often, Margaret, I would know if you have found your heart’s desire.”
Margaret smirked as she read the last sentence, knowing her mother was referring to the night she shared her dreams of a husband in her mother’s bed at Hunsdon House on the way to Fotheringhay. I would hardly call Charles my heart’s desire—far from it.
Cecily ended the letter with: “Do not forget Proverbs, verse 11: A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband,” at which Margaret rolled her eyes. “Aye, Mother,” she repeated. Then she read the letter all over again before folding it carefully and setting it aside to answer.
Her hand had shaken when the second letter was given to her by a much chastened Fortunata, who had returned from the good sisters of St. John in time for the feast of Candlemas.
“From Master Caxton, madonna,” Fortunata said conspiratorially. “I saw him many times.” She longed to tell Margaret of one night beneath the Waterhall, when William had given in to her flirtations and given the dwarf her first taste of a man’s mouth and of the lust it evoked. The encounter had gone no further that night, but it had left Fortunata ecstatic that someone found her desirable.
Margaret was too flustered by the letter to admonish Fortunata for escaping the
convent, in secret she assumed, or notice the glow upon the servant’s cheeks as she pronounced Caxton’s name. Margaret broke the merchant-adventurer’s seal open impatiently. As she surmised, a smaller letter was enclosed, and seeing Dame Elaine Astolat written on it, she thanked Fortunata and walked to the window to read it. Fortunata curtseyed and withdrew into her own world of lustful awakenings.
Snow was falling over the hillsides and covering the rooftops below in its soft mantle. One of her ladies was playing a recorder, and Margaret recognized the French ditty: Ah, si mon moine voulait danser. She felt like dancing around the room to the sprightly tune, waving her letter from Anthony and behaving like a lovelorn milkmaid instead of a demure duchess. Instead, she carefully broke the seal and opened the missive. A carefully pressed white marguerite slipped out of it, the tips of its snowy white petals turning brown. A lump came into her throat as she began to read.
“My beloved Elaine, I greet you well. Why does six months feel like six years? Your letter found me in the Isle of Wight after the failure of our fleet to find our enemies. You will be glad to know that the mal de mer did not affect me so much in those weeks at sea, and I began to believe it was mal de coeur I was experiencing on the Ellen in its stead. My heart still hurts for you, and I beg of you, never doubt its devotion to you.
“There is much unrest in England, my love, and I wish your oldest brother had your wise counsel to guide him through this morass with the earl.”