Daughter of York (62 page)

She did not expect Charles that night and so was unprepared when he was suddenly announced. He strode into the room, his head and shoulders stooped as usual, and the ladies dropped to their knees in courtesy. Without Marie there to chastise him, which, as his stepsister, he tolerated, none of Margaret’s ladies dared point out that their mistress was tired and did not want to be disturbed.

Beatrice stepped forward timidly and opened her mouth, but her fear of the duke was evident in her eyes, and he enjoyed roughly pushing her
aside. “Out of my way, English lady,” he snapped. “And the rest of you, get out!” he growled as he approached Margaret, who was sitting on the side of the bed.

Margaret rose in front of him, and, as always, her height disconcerted him. He turned away and addressed a figure in the tapestry on the wall instead. “I have much to tell you, Margaret, but my time with you here is short. I pray you, give me an hour.” The knowledge that her extra inches rankled with him always cheered her. It was the only time in her life that she thanked God for them. His tone was more conciliatory, Margaret noted, and briefly wondered if he might have a kind word to say for the loss of her child.

“My duty is all to you, my lord,” she responded, shrugging on her red and black fur-lined bed robe and curtseying briefly. “But I could wish you were more charitable to my ladies. Lady Beatrice is elderly and yet you mistreated her. There was no need.” She walked across the tiled floor to pour wine for him. “Sweet Jesu,” she muttered, as she felt the familiar itch of flea bites on her ankle. The residence was not large, and much of the household was lodged in the town. Margaret had noticed upon her arrival a few days before Charles that the place was less than clean and had admonished her chamberlain to spruce it up before the duke arrived. The fur trim on the hem of all her gowns was no match for the infestation here. In the morning, she would ask Fortunata to collect some plantain leaves to rub directly onto the bites. All this flitted through her mind as she concentrated on the task at hand and took Charles a goblet of wine.

“Come and sit, Charles. ’Twas a long but successful day. I was much moved by the ceremonies—”

“I came to tell you of Pierre de Bauffremont,” he interrupted, and Margaret immediately felt guilty because she had not asked first.

She invited him to sit next to her on the settle. “What is the word? I was about to ask.”

“’Tis serious, Margaret. An apoplexy, so I was told, with a paralysis on his right side,” he said, shaking his head and sitting down. “They dare not move him for a few days. But when they can, I hope you will send both of them back to his estates. I cannot think he will last long, and Marie must be with him.”

Margaret nodded; her prayer had been answered. Marie would go
away! She was elated, but turned somber gray eyes to him. “I am sorry for them both, although he is past seventy-five years, Marie tells me.” She didn’t add that Marie was not kind about her husband and used a limp finger to describe his sexual capabilities. “He has lived a long life.”

“Aye, and a noble one. His prowess as a jouster was never called into question. I am certain you have been told of the
pas d’armes,
the tournament he fought during my father’s reign.”

Margaret quickly interjected, “Certes, she must accompany him home and care for him. I shall go on very well without her, have no fear, Charles. I am not lacking attentive ladies, I can assure you.” Sometimes too attentive, she thought, quaffing her wine to hide her grimace. “I shall have Ravenstein appoint another captain of my guard. You should not worry about me. You have enough to concern yourself with. I do not plan on being … ill again for a long time.” She thought she would give him an opening, but it was not to be. Charles merely grunted. She gritted her teeth into the semblance of a smile. “Where to next, Charles?” She hoped talking about his campaigns would lighten his mood. And it did.

“Now that I have taken Alsace, Guelders and Zutphen, I shall attempt to conquer the Rhinelands and claim more territory for my duchy,” he announced airily. This did not surprise Margaret, but his next statement did. “You are the first to know—after my council, of course—that I will soon change the name of Burgundy to Lotharingia and I have every expectation that the Emperor Frederick will crown me king of the Romans in the not too distant future. What say you, Margaret? You will be a queen!”

Margaret was speechless. The man’s ego was beyond belief. Charles rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “My clever wife has nothing to say for a change,” he said, but the sarcasm was lost on Margaret, who was too tired to respond. “Perhaps I should tell you why this is possible, my dear.” Not waiting for an answer, he began regaling her with his achievements, and as Margaret listened politely, she wondered how she could prop open her eyelids to look as though she were still awake. When he came to describing how he had remodeled his army, Charles’s eyes blazed with fierce pride. “It is divided into numbered companies of about nine hundred men, and within each company are four squadrons,” he enthused. Margaret mouthed “oh” as many times as she felt were necessary to sound
interested. “I have put twenty-five men-at-arms, valets, coustiliers—light horsemen, you know—archers with crossbows and archers on horseback, pikemen and gunners in each squadron. It is brilliantly conceived, don’t you think? And I must have the only army with bowmen who can fire their weapons at the same time as dismounting their horses,” he said proudly. “And you should see the uniforms I have designed. Am I boring you, Margaret?” he frowned as he saw her stifle a yawn.

“Nay, my lord,” she protested unconvincingly. “’Tis fascinating, but it has been a long day.” She was too tired to recognize the pout and the flushing up his neck that signified his choler mounting. She rose, stretched up her arms languidly and yawned again. “Does the bed not look inviting, my lord? Fortunata has warmed it,” she said, removing the copper box full of embers. “Would you not like to rest your—”

She got no further, for Charles had leapt out of his chair, his fists clenched and his blue eyes bulging. “You dare to rise before I give you permission,” he shouted. “Do you know my subjects now must address me as ‘most dread lord’? Perhaps you should do the same, lady. I perceive you need another lesson in wifely duty.”

Margaret froze in her tracks. “Nay, Charles, I beg of you. Let us not quarrel,” she tried to sound calmer than the rising panic she felt. She might be taller than he, but she knew she was no match for his brute strength, as she had found to her cost on more than one occasion. He advanced towards her, and she put up her hands to fend him off. “Forgive me if I offended you, my lord, please—” But her words fell on deaf ears. She found herself once more flung on the counterpane, her wrists pinned to the bed. As he sat astride her, staring down into her terrified face, he grinned in triumph.

She tried to appeal to his noble birth. “Please, Charles, let me be,” she gasped. She tried flattery. “You are a great leader—one of the greatest the world has ever seen—but surely you demean yourself with such behavior.” She protested loudly as in one swift movement, he turned her over on her belly and pulled her towards the bottom of the bed. Sweet Jesu, what will he do to me? she thought, as she tried to grasp the sheets and heave herself forward and out of his grip. He immediately pinned her arms down again and lifted her chemise, exposing her bare buttocks. Reason with him, she thought desperately, bile rising in her throat.

“What would your soldiers think, treating your wife this way? Is this how you behave with them?” Far from mollifying him, it enraged him further.

“My soldiers?” He gave his short bark of laughter as he untied his codpiece. “They warm me well on a cold night in the field—just like this.” And without further ado, he attempted to demonstrate what he meant. Her piercing scream was muffled by the pillow.

Her arms still pinned, she turned her head painfully and pleaded, “Stop! Stop! I beg of you, in the name of the blessed Virgin!” She could not move and she could not breathe. I must have died and gone to Hell, she thought, and she moaned helplessly. Dear God, are you punishing me for my one night with Anthony?

“I cannot breathe,” she tried to tell him, as she felt herself going limp. I am going to die. But perhaps t’would be better to die now than live with this humiliation every time, even though our meetings are blessedly few and far between. God help me. Somebody help me!

Her passivity robbed Charles of his triumph and his climax—and saved her life, she was later convinced. He released his hold on her and slid off the bed and onto the floor panting, while Margaret turned on her side and lay still, breathing freely again. It took all her strength to raise herself up, carefully tie her cap back on her tangled mass of hair, and rearrange her nightgown. She stared down at her fully clothed husband, with his privates limply exposed out of their cloth harness, and her heart hardened.

“I have heard tales of your cruelty, my lord. How you threw men tied together off the ramparts of Dinant. How you massacred the innocent of Liège and set fire to the city. How you hanged the men of Nesle on a tree you bought for the purpose. I have refused to believe these stories because I did not want to. Now I know that they are the truth and that I am married to a monster.

“Most dread lord,” she taunted him. “As a princess of England and daughter of York, I order you to leave my room and”—she paused for effect—“never return!”

Charles was dumbfounded at her speech. But with his characteristic change of mood after a fit of violence, he mumbled an apology, got to his feet and walked slowly to the door, holding the points of his codpiece in one hand and his hat in the other.

He took a deep breath. “God’s good night to you, Margaret. I will see you for the final Fleece ceremony on the morrow, I trust,” he said, as he turned the heavy handle. “You have a duty to me.”

“I know my duty, Charles. Burgundy will not lack my loyalty, I swear to you. But any love that was possible between us is lost forever. Do you understand?”

He nodded, made her a curt bow and left the room.

Margaret ran to the door and turned the key in the lock and after blowing out the candles, climbed back into bed, bruised and angry. Gradually anger turned to despair and tears began to fall. She heard the watch call out the midnight hour. My birthday, she realized with a pang of self-pity. She buried her head under the pillow and wept, thinking back to happier Mays when she had been carefree and her parents had spoiled her on her special day. Dear God, what do I have to live for? I am wife to a cruel madman who does not love me, nor I him. I cannot have or even see the man I love. I cannot bear a child. My family has surely forgotten me. Oh, sweet misery, why was I put on this earth?

Suddenly Cecily’s beautiful face floated through her mind, and her sobs began to subside. She had not thought of her mother for a long time. Now the memory of their tearful farewell came flooding back, and she remembered worrying that she would forget all of their faces. Then Cecily’s words came to her with startling clarity. “God will give you strength to bear whatever fate has in store. Have faith, Margaret.”

She thought of the shrines she had visited to pray that she might not be barren, the charity she had provided to the poor and the sick, and the relic she had given to St. Ursmer’s Church at her dower town of Binche, and yet still God was not pleased with her. I do have faith, Mother, she reasoned, but it does me no good. She pummeled her pillow in frustration. What else did you tell me, Mother? She tried to remember.

“You should know, Margaret, that your children are the most precious things you have.” Ah, such cruel reminder. But I have no children, Mother, she wanted to scream, no children at all … except Mary.

“Mary!” she cried, sitting up and calling the name into the darkness. “I do have a child. A dear, dear child, and I have selfishly forgotten all about her.”

•   •   •

M
ARY RAN DOWN
the palace steps at Ten Waele to meet her stepmother as soon as she heard the cavalcade ride through the gate and into the courtyard. She was surprised by the intensity of Margaret’s embrace and laughed delightedly as she pulled away.

“You missed me as much as I did you,
belle-mère
,” she cried, her eyes dancing. At sixteen, although still petite, her maturity and womanly curves meant she could no longer be considered a child. But to Margaret she would always be her gentle dove, and Mary was content to love Margaret as a child would her mother.

“You have no idea, Mary,” Margaret said softly. It was hard to imagine this sweet thing was possibly born of a night similar to one she had experienced with the father. She shook the thought from her head. She would not denigrate Mary thus.

“And I you, my dove.” She had been gone only a month and yet she felt she had aged a year. She had visited Notre Dame au Bois on her way back to Ghent and had begged forgiveness of the Virgin for her lack of faith. The solitude in the beautiful little church had allowed her time to think how to proceed with her life. Reconciling herself to barrenness, she recognized it was imperative that Mary find a good husband so that she could produce a male heir for Burgundy. She wondered if Nicholas of Lorraine was the man. Charles had betrothed his daughter to him that summer. But the alliance was tenuous at best. In the meantime, to ensure the safety of the duchy, she resolved to work hard to keep Charles alive until an heir was born.

“Look who has come to visit me,
chère belle-mère,
” Mary now said, pulling Margaret up the palace stairs and into her private solar.

Philip of Cleves stood waiting to greet the two women, bowing low over Margaret’s hand. Lord Ravenstein’s son had virtually grown up with his cousin, Mary. His stepmother, Anne, another of the late duke of Burgundy’s bastards, had been in charge of Mary’s governance until Jeanne de Halewijn had assumed that role. Philip was just like his father: tall, aristocratic and blessed with the same hawk nose. A year older than Mary and a baronet, he would have made an excellent match for the heir of Burgundy but for their close kinship. Margaret felt sorry for Philip, because she could see the young man was head over heels in love with her stepdaughter.
Mary, on the other hand, looked up to Philip as a big brother and adored him in quite another way.