“May God bless you and give you strength and guidance to weather this storm, my dove. I shall work tirelessly to have Maximilian here as soon as the emperor allows it. You will be a bride before the summer is over, I promise you.” She was gratified to see Mary’s tension ease and a smile replace the seriousness.
A little cough told them they were not alone. Lord Louis stood on the threshold as the women turned. Margaret drew herself up to her full height and walked to him with a smile. He bowed low.
“I trust you will look after things here, messire. The duchess must count on you—and I must count on you.”
“You have my solemn word, your grace. Your pupil has learned well,” Gruuthuse said, smiling at Mary. “We shall prevail, I promise.” Turning to Margaret, his tone gave away his mounting concern. “And now, I must wish you God speed and a safe journey to Oudenaarde, duchess. I fear the people are angrier than ever today. I hope you will have no trouble proceeding through them.”
He was right. The clamor outside the palace gates did seem louder, but she was not going to delay their leaving any longer. On her way down the massive stone staircase to join La Marche waiting in the marble hall below, she made up her mind.
“Monsieur de la Marche, we shall process from the palace to the square, and there I will speak to the people.”
La Marche’s face fell. “’Tis too dangerous, your grace. I beg of you, reconsider.”
But he knew the reputation of this indomitable daughter of York and was not surprised when she ignored him.
The ten-foot-high gates of Ten Waele swung open into the mass of people crowding the palace walls, and a fanfare announced the departure of the dowager. The English archers, well able to fend off the unarmed townspeople, soon made a path for the cavalcade to pass through, although the growls and grumbles from the mob were disheartening. As her chariot rumbled to the middle of the square, Margaret commanded her coachmen to stop. Guillaume dismounted and helped her out of the cumbersome vehicle as a hush came over the throng.
“’Tis the dowager, Duchess Margaret,” one man shouted to those craning their necks to see. The information was passed back like a whisper of wind in pines.
“’Tis the English dowager—another bloody foreigner!” screamed a woman atop the shoulders of her husband. “Down with the foreigners!”
Before the cry could be taken up, Margaret mounted the few steps to the Gothic cross in the marketplace, her legs trembling and palms sweating, and held up her hands.
“Nay, good people—my people,” she answered, praying her Dutch was good enough to say what she wanted. “I was born a stranger, ’tis true, but I am not one in my heart and courage. I have never forgotten your welcome in Flanders those many years ago and from that moment swore to become one of you. My friends, I pray that you will protect and uphold your duchess, Mary. She is ready to serve you, and you can have no better ruler, in truth. Go back to your homes. She is no threat to you.”
The mood had not lightened, even though the spectators’ silence spoke eloquently of their respect for her. Margaret wondered if she had said too much. She held her breath, her knees knocking, as she scanned the sullen faces before her. If they attacked, she would be killed, she had no doubt. Only now was she understanding how cruel Charles had been to his subjects, especially in Ghent, and how they hated the harsh rule of his councilors.
Suddenly a voice called from the back. “She speaks our language! The Englishwoman speaks our tongue. Let her go in peace.”
Ayes and nodding heads followed the statement, and Margaret quickly knelt on the rough stone, crossed herself and gave thanks to God. Many of the onlookers signed themselves, too, and Guillaume took the quiet moment to urge Margaret to her feet and back into the carriage. He closed the door firmly and told the coachman to ride on without delay. The carriage was hemmed in on all sides, and Beatrice and Henriette were white with fear as leering faces appeared at the window and several thumps were heard on the wooden frame. Then as if moved by some unseen hand, the quiet crowd slowly parted to let the duchess and her train pass.
Margaret sank back on her cushions, her hands shaking and her heart racing. She did not know why she suddenly thought of her mother’s brave stand against Queen Margaret at Ludlow’s Market Cross all those years ago, but she was sure she knew now how Cecily must have felt.
WHEN MARGARET RECEIVED word of the horrors that had taken place following her departure, she spent hours on her knees. She blamed herself for leaving Mary and leaving Ghent. Together she and Mary must have represented a united force to the people, and when she was finally forced to flee, Mary was helpless to stop the Gantois wreaking revenge on the councilors.
“Hugonet, Humbercourt and the two others were accused again of treason in a mockery of a trial,” Jeanne wrote in her neat script.
“As soon as she heard the verdict, my dear duchess went herself to the people on the very spot you spoke to them last month. If you could have seen her, you would have been so proud. She pleaded with the mob to spare her loyal councilors and she did not hide her tears. Such a picture she made—tiny, plainly dressed in gray with a simple black velvet cloth covering her hair. But the people’s hearts have turned to stone. ’Twas heartrending and Messire Louis hurried her away before she could be harmed.
“The rest is almost too dreadful to tell, madame, but I know you would like the truth. In those dungeons underneath Gravensteen, they tortured Humbercourt and Hugonet horribly. ’Twas not seemly for Mary to be present for their executions, but I went in her place at noon so that Chancellor Hugonet would know that she cared. I have never witnessed such a ghastly sight. There was no possibility for the poor man to give one of his long speeches, he could not even open his mouth, for they had broken his body so completely. They were forced to tie him to a chair in order to cut off his head. If I had not promised Mary that I would stay, I would have run from the scene. The mob howled for his blood in a hideous manner and they cheered as his beaten head was severed from his body. I must admit, I was forced to vomit upon the platform. I still have nightmares about the death, and I pray God and his angels have taken the loyal lord to his rest. He had none here on earth those last few days.”
Margaret’s hand was at her throat through this vivid description, and she found she was too shocked to cry.
“I am ashamed to say, I could not bring myself to return later in the day for the execution of Messire de Humbercourt, but I am told he died with dignity and ‘Long Live Burgundy’ on his lips. Mary is very low and misses you so much. She talks of nothing but Maximilian, and together with Messire Louis, wrote him a letter begging him to hasten to her side and lend her aid. It seems others in the council are not convinced Maximilian is the right choice for her.”
Margaret looked up and groaned. Poor Mary, will she ever be a bride? she wondered.
“They are putting forth other candidates, including her cousin and dear friend, Philip of Cleves.”
Sweet Philip, how he would love to be her husband, Margaret thought, but there is no doubt our strongest chance of saving Burgundy from France is Maximilian.
“’Tis said Louis has abandoned the effort of marrying Mary to the Dauphin, and as he continues to raid our borders, he is offering other princes under his sovereignty. The Dauphin, it seems, is now dangled before your brother, King Edward, for his little Elizabeth.”
Aye, Edward would dearly love that match, she thought. So Louis continues to spin his webs.
Kneeling at her prie-dieu, she finally wept for the souls of The Henchmen, feeling guilty about the fun she used to make of them but knowing they were loyal patriots and had been harshly treated by the Gantois. She begged the Virgin, Mary’s namesake, to guide her stepdaughter through this morass, although she had been cheered to hear that after the deaths of the councilors and sixteen more of Charles’s servants, the tide was turning and the people had finally had enough of vengeful bloodshed. Any love they might have had for Louis went up with the flames of the plundered villages
and fields the French troops were leaving in their wake as they continued to invade Burgundian lands. Picardy and the duchy of Burgundy were already his. Margaret felt so helpless away from the center of things. But she had worries of her own, for Louis was encroaching farther and farther on her property and had already burned her favorite village of Binche, a little too close to Oudenaarde for comfort, and so she removed her court to the Brabant city of Malines northeast of Brussels, which was to become her main residence for the rest of her life.
“ANTHONY!” SHE BREATHED when she saw the letter awaiting her after her weekly visit to the poorhouse. She continued to minister to the sick, and Malines was beginning to revere their dowager duchess. Fortunata always accompanied her mistress, and Margaret cherished the wise little woman’s advice to some of the patients in the many beds she circulated among.
“I like helping these people, because they are good people. Poor, like me in Padua,” Fortunata had told Margaret once.
Margaret called for the dwarf and Beatrice to accompany her to the garden, which was full of roses in the blazing July sun. Wearing their wide-brimmed straw hats, the three women, followed at a discreet distance by a couple of menservants, wandered along the scent-laden paths to a stone seat under a tree by the River Dyle. A kingfisher darted away at their arrival, its bright blue wings flashing danger to other birds along the banks. A couple of coots scooted away, and a majestic great heron took to the air in effortless motion from the midst of some yellow flag irises on the opposite bank of the river. The spot reminded Margaret of Shene, and she had sought it often during the long days of that troubled summer.
Beatrice was showing her age. She had lost some inches because of her permanently stooped shoulders, and her hands, once elegantly long, were now reminiscent of a bird of prey’s talons. Even a short walk such as they had taken tired the faithful attendant, and Margaret took her arm and helped her onto the seat.
“Forgive me, ladies, but I would read my letter in private. You will not mind if I walk alone a pace?” She expected the pout from Fortunata and watched her with amusement as she flounced off to pick watercress along the river bank.
Beatrice was grateful. “I am content here, your grace. I shall not want for company.” She indicated the coots and a squirrel that had timidly wandered near them, twitching its bushy red tail and keeping its beady eye on them.
“I was sorry to read from your letter that Astolat had died. I hope you find another pup to replace him soon.” Astolat was not merely another dog, Anthony, Margaret thought indignantly, he was my link to you. How can you think I could replace him? “You are in my thoughts at this difficult time, and we are kept abreast of events in Burgundy weekly through our embassies.” Spies more like, Margaret thought.
“There is a storm brewing here that should concern you personally, madame. My lord of Clarence”—Dear God, not George again, she thought. “My lord of Clarence has much displeased the king, your brother, and this time Edward has imprisoned him in the Tower.”
Margaret gasped and glanced quickly at Beatrice. But she had nodded off in the sunshine. What is Edward thinking? But more to the point, what has George done now? She read on, a worried frown creasing her brow.
“You will hear the many reasons from a closer source than I, I have no doubt, but one of them involved you, your grace.”
Margaret frowned. She had been feeling guilty about her lack of correspondence with her family in the last six months, but she hoped they would understand, given the circumstances. So she could not fathom why she could be a cause of George’s incarceration.
“A rumor reached us that you were planning to wed the Duchess Mary to George, and he was mightily pleased.” Damn Louis’ eyes, she seethed. “Edward dismissed the idea as ridiculous, and I fear this turned George against the king. Then another marriage proposal with James of Scotland’s sister was received, and—this will make you smile I have no doubt—a double wedding proposed with you and James’s brother, Albany!” Margaret laughed out loud. “Edward rejected them on the grounds that you were both too recently widowed and your period of mourning was not yet over.”
Certes, Margaret reminded herself, I am in mourning. But then she grew angry with Edward, who had not even asked her opinion of the match. “Such gall,” she muttered. “I am no longer his to bandy about.”
She continued reading.
“George has asked me to appeal to you to write to Edward and beg for his release. My lady, I do not think Edward will listen to you. Clarence has overstepped his bounds, so Edward tells me, and must learn his lesson better this time.
“I trust you are in a safe place and are keeping well. The death of your husband must have been a shock and I extend my deepest sympathies.”
Hah! Don’t be such a hypocrite, Anthony, Margaret thought, but she knew he was maintaining a facade in case the letter fell into other hands. It was then that she noticed the odd signature, and color flooded her cheeks. On one line he had written M followed on the next by his motto, Nulle la Vault, and signed it ARivières, with his usual capital letters. If I am reading this correctly, she exulted, the M must be for Marguerite. “Thus, Marguerite: None is worth her,” she murmured, ecstastic. He had communicated his continued feelings for her, she believed, and twirled around, lifting her face to the sun in the first carefree gesture of the past six months.
Fortunata, who had been surreptiously watching her mistress, clapped her hands in delight and startled poor Beatrice from her little nap.
MARGARET DID BEG for clemency from Edward for George, but the king was unheeding. Then events in her own purview took precedence over fighting a losing battle with her brother as word came to her that Maximilian was nearing the end of his two-month journey from Vienna. A marriage agreement had been signed in May, Margaret was happy to learn, and Maximilian was coming to claim his bride.
In imperial splendor, the eighteen-year-old prince rode his white horse into Malines to meet the dowager duchess, who was to accompany him on the final leg of his journey to Mary. Margaret was impressed. Malines was impressed. And Burgundy rejoiced at the savior who seemed like a young god coming to send Louis packing back to Paris. He approached, dismounted at the steps of the ducal residence and bowed over Margaret’s hand. She sank into a deep obeisance until he raised her up and gave her a lovely smile. Margaret thought Mary would be entranced by the elegant young man with his flowing blond hair, handsome face dominated by the long, aquiline nose, prominent Habsburg chin and sensuous mouth. She prayed he was also kind. It was too soon to ascertain that characteristic, she knew, but his looks and bearing were far from the youth of the little portrait Mary had under her pillow. He was every inch a man and worthy of her dove. They would make a beautiful couple, she decided.
Maximilian, on his part, was surprised that he stood eye to eye with the dowager. No one had warned him how tall she was. He hoped she was not as intimidating as her height made her seem and thus was gratified to see a warm smile given in return.
“Come, your highness, we have prepared a feast for you. My chamberlain will show you to your rooms,” Margaret said, cheerfully accepting the proffered arm. “I will tell you all about Mary when you are refreshed and ready to dine.”
MARY AND MAXIMILIAN fell head over heels in love the moment they met. He greeted her in Dutch and Jeanne in French. The court was impressed with his language abilities. He had even practiced some bad English on Margaret on their journey to Ghent, and she had enjoyed his company despite her dismay with his feeble grasp of politics. He is young, she reasoned.
Ghent cheered his arrival loudly, a very different sound from the angry shouts of six months ago, Margaret thought. She smiled and waved and fancied her reception was warm as well. The eight hundred horsemen who accompanied the prince did not allow for crowds in the square in front of Ten Waele that day. But the townspeople had plenty of chances to witness their duchess’s bridegroom as, clad in silver armor, he sat on an enormous chestnut destrier, his golden hair crowned
with a pearl diadem, leading the procession through the streets to Ten Waele. Mary stood at her second-story window and stared in wonder at this vision of the perfect knight as he rode into the courtyard below.
Later Margaret and Jeanne brought the two young people together in Margaret’s solar. Maximilian was mezmerized by the dainty woman in a scarlet overdress lined in white satin who stood gazing admiringly at him.
“At last you have everything that you have desired for so long,” Margaret whispered to Mary, urging her forward towards the bashful young man. She winked at Jeanne. “Your highness, Mary has a token of her willingness to wed you upon her person, should you choose to find it. ’Tis a symbol of marriage, and you should not hesitate to look.”
The conspirators chuckled as Maximilian, his face as red as the magnificent ruby ring on his thumb, gingerly put out his hand and unloosed the gillyflower that was pinned to Mary’s breast. Then he bowed solemnly and offered it back to her. Mary giggled. “I accept, your highness,” she murmured seductively. She turned to the amused Margaret. “You are cruel, belle-mère, poor Maximilian is tongue-tied, and I do not blame him. Come, let us sit and talk.”
Margaret was delighted with Mary’s handling of the situation, and perceived that her absence all these months had provided Mary with a new sense of independence. She had indeed grown into her duchess role.
Fortunata was not so bowled over by the handsome young prince. As she tucked Margaret into bed that night and removed the warming stone, she gave her own opinion. “He is handsome, si, but his eyes are”—she searched for the word—“ah, si, weak.”
“Weak?” Margaret repeated. “How can you say that, pochina? You hardly saw him.”
“I saw enough. He is soft and weak. But handsome,” she admitted, nodding to herself. “They will have beautiful children together,” she predicted.