Daughter of York (41 page)

Margaret chuckled under her breath. “You mean like Lord Ravenstein. He looks like a bird, so his name is like his face. And Lord Montigny is as big as a mountain—
mont
. How clever,
pochina
!”

Fortunata’s face lit up with a happy smile. Then, aware they were being watched by the other ladies on their knees, she cast her eyes down and slipped her rosary through her fingers. Margaret intoned an Ave aloud and a chorus of amens confirmed that the group was paying her close attention. I cannot even pray without a gaggle looking on, she thought resentfully.

Early in their stay in Sluis, she told Fortunata, “You must be my eyes and ears here in Burgundy,
pochina,
and I am pleased with your progress in French,” Margaret whispered at the prie-dieu. “I fear my days of freedom in England are over.” She held up her copy of
Les Honneurs de la Cour.
“This book by Madame de Poitiers—you know, the lady with the hairs on her chin—is truly frightening. ’Tis written that the duchess may never be without at least three ladies in attendance at all times during the day and night except when the duke commands it.” She groaned. “I shall make sure you are one of those ladies, Fortunata, and that Beatrice is another. I hope Duke Charles assigns me at least one pleasant Burgundian lady and not the countess de Charny as the third.”

“
Madonna.
May I ask, do you like the duke?” Fortunata said timidly, knowing she might be crossing a boundary with her mistress. But Margaret had long ceased to look upon Fortunata as merely a servant and had no compunction about responding honestly.

“I do not fear him now,
pochina.
I think he is a man who is uncomfortable
with women and prefers riding his horse,” she said, chuckling. “I think perhaps if I can show him I can think like a man, he will give me respect. I do not think he is capable of love, and as I have no love to give him, he may be relieved and we will rub along well enough.”

She could not bring herself to talk of the intimacy that would be her duty to endure after Sunday. The dread sat like a little imp on her shoulder every day, and she was ashamed to admit she had been counting down the hours with dread until her wedding day. She had been dismayed when she was told Charles had given Marie de Charny the honor of being in charge of her twelve maids of honor and three ladies-in-waiting. Anyone but her, she wanted to say, but instead she had smiled and acquiesced. Pierre de Bauffremont, the count of Charny, was another of Charles’s councilors and had been married to Duke Philip’s bastard daughter in 1447 when she was twenty-one years old. She stalked the palace halls like a bird of prey, talons ready to pounce on any unsuspecting servant in the dereliction of duty. Still dressed in black from head to toe in mourning for her beloved father, Marie de Charny was nicknamed
la corbine
by the servants, which also referred to her caw-caw of a laugh, though she rarely laughed.

Margaret learned all this from her stepdaughter, who, during the week at Sluis, had forged a strong bond with her. Mary was a mine of information, and nothing escaped her eyes and ears despite her docile expression and impeccable manners. Margaret did not tell Mary that Charny more nearly resembled a vulture.

“You will love Madame Jeanne,
belle-mère,
” she had said a few days after their first meeting. “She will come soon with my little Jacquotte. Grandmother gave her to me after my mother …” She paused, and Margaret pressed her hand in sympathy. “After
maman
died. She is very naughty, but she is my dearest friend.”

“Jacquotte?” Margaret asked.

“My monkey,” Mary said. “Do you not have a pet monkey,
belle-mère?
”

“Nay, little one, but I have Astolat.” Margaret clicked her fingers, and the huge dog loped over to her mistress, its tail swaying to and fro. “Mary, this is my friend Astolat. Astolat, sit and shake hands,” she commanded in English. The dog promptly sat and lifted its massive paw, and Mary squealed with delight.

“Shake hands, Astolat,” she cried, trying to imitate Margaret’s deep
voice and English words. And the dog obeyed the little girl, who threw her arms about its hairy neck, causing Duchess Isabella to look up in alarm from her needlework.

Margaret smiled to herself. The best surprise of her short time in Burgundy was the instant affection both she and Mary had felt for each other. The child was a joy, she decided, and she reveled in the knowledge that she would be able to help in her maturing process.

After a short barge trip to Damme, she found herself the guest in another wealthy merchant’s house on the eve of her wedding day. That night, as she lay in the tester bed, the heavy curtains shutting out the late northern daylight, and listened to the unfamiliar creaks of the beams and scuttling mice in the walls, she shed a few last tears for her English life. She painstakingly conjured up the face of each member of her beloved family and wondered if they were even giving her a passing thought on this, the most important day of her life. Then she tried to put names to the dozens of new faces she had encountered in her first week. Before she fell asleep, she whispered a prayer to the Virgin to help her through the next twenty-four hours and then asked God’s forgiveness for her illicit love for Anthony.

It seemed she had been asleep for only a few minutes when she heard Beatrice calling softly to her through the curtains. “’Tis time to wake, your grace. The duke will be here soon.”

The velvet was drawn back and Margaret sat up yawning. “Certes, ’tis still dark, Beatrice. It cannot be time.”

But on seeing all her ladies already dressed in their finest clothes, she was grateful they had let her sleep so long. They had bathed her and washed her hair the evening before, and now they clothed her in a fresh chemise and began the long ritual of dressing her. The white cloth of gold gown shimmered in the candlelight as it was put over her head, its wide sleeves turned back to show the close-fitting sleeves of the crimson underdress. Long-toed, red silk shoes were slipped over the white silk hose and a gold belt gathered in the folds of the high-waisted skirt. Charles had given her a ruby ring on their betrothal day, and she wore it on her index finger as well as rings on all her fingers and thumbs. She insisted on wearing her white rose brooch, although the countess de Charny thought it a paltry piece of jewelry to wear upon such a magnificent gown.

Margaret stared down on her. “Madame,” she said. “I am Margaret of York, and I will wear the badge of my family proudly.”

For once the haughty woman was cowed. She colored and inclined her head. “I beg your pardon, your grace.”

Sweet Jesu, Margaret thought, I hope I have not already made an enemy.

It had taken six women an hour and a half to ready Margaret for her marriage, and it was a little after five o’clock when the English nobles and prelates arrived and were admitted. Margaret was waiting in the hall, the early-morning sun weakly filtering through the glass window-panes. Her long, loose hair melted into the gold of her gown, and when Anthony was announced and gave her obeisance, he thought she looked like a golden statue of an ancient goddess. His head bowed, he smiled to himself, remembering the last time he had seen Margaret with her hair unbound. It seemed to him she was looking right through him as though he were invisible, but he knew her well enough to know it was her way of trying to forget he was anything but her presenter on this important day. He grimaced when he thought of Charles holding her long, slender body, as he surely would that night.

Charles arrived a few minutes later with his entourage. Margaret was astonished to see the duke so magnificently dressed. He looked more imposing than he had during all the visits he had made to her, and the little imp groaned in her ear. Charles, on his part, stared at length at the vision in front of him. If Margaret had known how intimidated he felt in front of this golden amazon, she might have dismissed the imp. But immediately he was all business and motioned to the bishops of Tournai and Salisbury to get on with the matrimonial blessing, which they did, intoning God’s blessing on the happy couple and effecting the exchange of rings. Margaret tried to feel blessed; certes, she tried to feel something, but could summon no emotion through her numbness. I am a married woman, she told herself; I should feel elation. This is what every woman craves, in truth. What is wrong with me? As Charles kissed her solemnly, she caught Anthony’s eye and he winked at her. And then the feeling of elation was there, and it warmed her from the top of her head to the tips of those crimson toes.

As soon as Mass was sung, Charles departed for Bruges, leaving his new bride the customary honor of a joyous entry into the city alone.

•   •   •

“Une joyeuse entrée”
was the perfect description for what happened that day.

Conveyed on a gilded litter that was draped with crimson cloth of gold, Margaret sat on golden cushions, her crimson mantle with ermine trim flowing around her and a tiny but beautifully decorated gold coronet upon her head, a gift from Edward for this occasion. Slowly the carriage, pulled by matching white stallions, processed the last four miles of her long journey from London along the waterway and to the gates of Bruges itself. She was escorted by Anthony on Pegasus and all the nobles who had accompanied her from England as well as all the great lords of Burgundy and the knights of the Golden Fleece, their horses caparisoned from head to hoof in flowing silks that matched their owners’ heraldic jupons. Minstrels playing trumpets, clarions and tambourines walked beside her litter. The crowds lining the route tossed flowers and garlands onto the litter as she passed, and she smiled and waved, hardly believing all this was for her.

She was humbled by her new subjects’ ecstatic greeting. It had been different in London. There she was one of them, but here she was a stranger. She remembered Cecily telling her once when she made a sour face at her mother that if the wind should happen to change then, her face would freeze in that expression. Now she wondered if she would spend her life in a permanent grin.

She glanced up at the leaden sky and wondered how long the rain would hold off. She closed her eyes and prayed to St. Barbara, one of her favorite saints and who protected the faithful from thunderstorms, that the storm would hold off until everyone was safely indoors. But God and his saints had other plans, and soon great drops of rain began to fall, and the wind blew unhindered from the North Sea along the flat canal paths, lifting the veils and gowns of the ladies, making cloaks and silks flap around the horsemen and standing the banners, flags and pennants straight out from their poles. Yet still the procession moved forward until it reached the gate of the Holy Cross, its slated twin towers now shiny with rain. Her carriage rolled through the century-old gate and over another canal into the red-roofed city and finally came to a halt.

A fanfare sounded, and the crowds craned their necks to see what
was happening. The first of four additional processions made their way to her. The mayor, magistrates and aldermen—called burghers—dressed in black were arrayed for her viewing, accompanied by more musicians. The mayor approached the litter and bowed low.

“Our great city of Bruges,” he shouted to the crowd, “welcomes Margaret, the most high and mighty duchess of Burgundy, of Lotharingia, of Brabant, Limbourg and Luxembourg, countess of Flanders and of Artois, of Burgundy, Hainault, Holland, Zeeland and Namur, marchioness of the Holy Roman Empire, Lady of Friesland …” He droned on in his accented French, losing Margaret in the list of her new dominions. She wanted to giggle. How will I ever remember all my titles? she thought. I am glad George and Dickon aren’t here to witness this, they would tease me for ever! Then, to her dismay, thoughts of them caused a wave of homesickness that threatened to overwhelm her, and tears pricked behind her eyes. Pull yourself together, Meg, she told herself, you are twenty-two years old and not a babe. And so she was able to bow solemnly and acknowledge the cheers.

Another man she guessed was a judge presented her with an intricate gold vase filled to the brim with gold coins as well as an enameled statue of her own saint, Margaret of Antioch. This group then moved on to become the head of the procession. They were quickly followed by more than a hundred and fifty bishops and abbots from throughout Burgundy, some carrying high, elaborate crosses. Margaret signed herself as they passed, and the bishop of Utrecht nodded to her.

Behind them the foreign merchants drew gasps of awe. The magnificent and colorful group was all mounted, except for the Scots, who marched proudly on foot, carefully avoiding the manure dropped by the horses in front. All of the merchants were clothed in the finest silks, brocades, velvets and wool, and the representative of each nation wore his country’s colors. The English merchant-adventurers, led by a man Margaret guessed was William Caxton, were clad in their violet livery. With them were Italians from Venice, Florence, Lucca, Genoa; the German Hansards; the Portuguese and the Spanish. The Florentines presented Margaret with four beautiful white horses, worth a fortune, which astonished her. She was yet to know the extent of the riches in her new country, but she was beginning to have an idea. As they moved behind
the disappearing backs of the bishops, Margaret guessed there must have been five hundred merchants, and that was not counting the pages and musicians who walked alongside. What next? she thought. Surely that is the end? But it wasn’t.

The last to join the now fifteen hundred men wending their way through the streets, the Burg and the Market Square to the Prinsenhof Palace were the members of the ducal household themselves. Margaret was awed. I thought they were all with me, she thought. She gazed at the small, rotund man who headed up this group, wondering who he was.

Anthony, who was never far away and had anticipated her question, leaned over Pegasus’ neck and said, “’Tis Olivier de la Marche, your grace. We met this week to go over some of the events they are planning. He has orchestrated everything you will be seeing. Do not underestimate him. He has an agility of mind and predilection for detail that would make you giddy.” Margaret nodded her thanks and stared after the man with interest. She thought she might enjoy meeting him.