Daughter of York (68 page)

Charles’s eyes were blue-black and glittering as he faced the irate king of England. Seated on a window seat, Margaret was watching the two and forgotten by most. Anyone else but Edward, she thought, and Charles would have struck him. She was keenly aware of Anthony’s presence in the chamber and once or twice had caught him eyeing her. In those instances, they both quickly looked away.

Edward towered over the stocky Burgundian by almost a foot, but Charles was unafraid. “I do not tolerate anyone taking God’s name in vain in my presence, Edward,” he shot back, staring up at Edward’s flushed face. “But ’tis well known, you Englishmen have the manners of pigs. If it were not for the respect I bear your sister, I would dismiss you from my sight forthwith.”

Edward threw back his head and laughed in derision. He stood, arms akimbo, and stared down at Charles. “A duke dismiss a king?” he roared. “Only in your dreams, you, you”—Edward lapsed into English to properly convey his feelings—“bat-fowling, lily-livered skainsmate!”

“Enough! Edward, Charles, I beg of you!” Margaret was on her feet and forcing herself between the two men. “You are both behaving like pribbling brats.” Her hennin poked Edward in the eye, and he yelped and jumped back. Charles’s mouth dropped open as he felt Margaret give him a manlike shove in the chest that made him totter backwards. “You are both unworthy of your office,” she cried.

She was vaguely aware of George’s and Richard’s amusement as they stood together observing this unusual scene. She glowered at them, and they stopped laughing.

“Come and help me, you craven clotpoles!” she called to them in English. “If word gets to Louis that England and Burgundy are at each other’s throats, then all is lost. Certes, if only men had our common sense,” she opined, “perhaps we would not have so much fighting.”

Her dignity and voice of reason calmed the two leaders, who stood stock-still listening to her. In that moment, Margaret was quite unaware that she had fulfilled her wish of long ago, in another time of crisis, to one day be like her mother.

“Come both of you, make a plan to defeat Louis, not each other,” Margaret entreated them. “Together you can do it.” She took the right hand of each man and looked from one sheepish face to the other. “I beg of you, shake hands.” When they had effected the gesture, she sighed. “Now, pray forgive me for leaving you and seeking some solace by the sea. And you, messires,” she swept the room with her gaze, “are stalwart enough to take charge in my absence, I dare swear.”

Eleven pairs of admiring eyes followed her progress out of the room; the twelfth pair watched her go with longing.

E
VENTUALLY THE TWO
rulers came to an agreement: Edward would attack Louis in Champagne and march towards Rheims to be crowned, and Charles would invade Lorraine, where Louis had regained a stronghold. They agreed to keep each other apprised of any dealings with Louis, which Edward dutifully did some weeks later.

Later that night at a banquet given by Charles in honor of the English king and princes, Margaret found her way to George’s side. He gave her one of his charming smiles and lifted her hand to his lips.

“You are still a beauty, Meg, no mistake about that,” he murmured. “But I think Charles has his hands full. You were a tigress at that meeting. Dickon and I were impressed. As for Edward, I have never seen him so cowed.”

“Sweet Jesu, George, ’twould not have taken a genius to see we were getting nowhere. If Charles wants Edward here to fight Louis, and Edward wants Charles to help him regain his lands, then quarreling about it is
mere folly. They are both big bullies, ’tis all. Are you primed for this invasion, brother? I can see Richard is.”

Clarence grimaced. “Aye, Dickon is always ready for battle.” His irisblue eyes clouded over, and he frowned. “I would be game for a fight except—”

“Except what, George?”

“My astrologer read my charts last night, and his prediction was unnerving. He said I will return to my beginnings when I die—in other words, I will have a watery end,” he told her, gripping her hands in his. “And we are going to the Somme—the river, Meggie. I have never been afraid in battle, but now I fear I am riding to meet my fate.”

Margaret talked reason to him. She said beginnings meant he would die a doddering old man toothless and hairless as a babe in its mother’s womb, and she dismissed the astrologer as a probable charlatan. As always she was able to calm him, although she could not stay the icy fingers that tightened around her heart.

Happily, the music had struck up a
piva
and she boldly asked him to lead her out, hoping to take his mind off his troubles. After all those years, brother and sister had not lost their step, and after demonstrating the intricate leaps and turns with flair, they were the toast of the gathering that night. Then Charles had astonished the English guests with some fine playing on his harp.

Edward leaned over and whispered to Margaret, “I did not know he possessed a sensitive bone in his body. The only strings I thought he was capable of playing were bowstrings. Certes, he is very skilled.” His eyes came to rest on his favorite brother, Richard, sitting riveted in his chair, and he chuckled, causing Margaret to follow his gaze. “Our little brother is still pining for his Kate, methinks. ’Tis the harp has given him thoughts of her, I dare swear.”

And judging from the faraway look in Richard’s eyes, Ned was right.

C
HARLES WAS COLD
to Margaret following the altercation with Edward at St. Omer, and they spent the last few days avoiding each other. Margaret was relieved Charles had not taken his humiliation out on her in the bedroom again, but with her brothers near, she assumed he did not dare take the chance. They bade each other farewell in the small castle of
Fauquembergues, from which Charles was riding with Edward some way south towards the Somme and Louis before returning to his own troops. He kissed her on the mouth in front of the courtiers present in the room and was quite respectful. She, in her turn, wished him God speed and a swift return, although she knew he was never happier than with his soldiers.

Margaret stood on the steps waving her kerchief as Charles and Edward rode side by side, both magnificent in their own way. They were followed by George, Richard and Anthony, who had been invisible during the meetings at St. Omer, preferring to avoid compromising her duty to Charles. Richard’s eyes were on Edward’s back, and he did not see her. She called George’s name, and when he turned to acknowledge her, something in his face sent a shiver down her spine. It was the face of a man doomed, and she tried not to think about the astrologer’s strange prediction earlier that week as she watched the mile-long army snake its way past her.

Anthony, his chestnut hair gleaming in the sun, turned to look at her and lifted his mailed hand in salute. She blew a kiss. George, thinking it was for him, finally smiled and blew one back.

U
PON RETURNING TO
Ghent, Margaret found a letter from Anthony waiting for her. Someone—she assumed it was Fortunata—had put it on top of the pile that was ready for her attention. She glanced at the dwarf, who was innocently studying her nails. She must have recognized his script, she thought, amused.

“Henriette, I pray you sing something for us,” Margaret said, hoping her voice sounded weary. “What do you sing to your little Guillaume? I should like to hear something soothing, for I have a headache. Fortunata, Beatrice, help me with my gown. I would lie down for a while.”

Henriette picked up her lute, and in her low husky voice began:

“La flours d’iver sour la branche

Me plais tant a remirer

Que nouvele ramembrance

Me doune amours de chanter …”

The curtains on one side of Margaret’s bed allowed her some privacy. She lay on the embroidered satin coverlet and propped herself up on the
pillows, soothed by the music. She broke the seal on the letter, brushing the crumbs off her undergown.

“As I write this, you are entertaining your brothers at St. Omer. I chose to stay and keep vigil at the garrison. I cannot bear to see you with that man who has so defiled you. I fear I would humiliate us all by spitting him on my sword if he so much as looked at you cross-eyed. I know not what the campaign in France will bring, but I need you to know your silver scarf will ride with me in the field, as my heart rides with you wherever you are. Pray for me, my dearest love.

“Have a good day now, Marguerite

With great love I thee greet

I would we might often meet

In hall, in chamber and in the street

Without blame of the contrary

God giveth that it so might be.”

He did not sign it, for with the seal destroyed, it could have been from anyone. She lay staring at the curtains decorated with her daisies and white roses and imagined a day when she might learn of Anthony’s death. She saw his body mutilated on a battlefield and cringed. Then she imagined him old and gray, holding her hand as he lay peacefully dying, and that was the thought she had in her head when she fell asleep.

A
FEW DAYS
later, she sat in her favorite audience chamber at Ten Waele and waited for Ravenstein to give her the latest news.

“The duke informs us that your brother has treated with Louis, your grace,” Ravenstein told her, his sharp eyes watching for her reaction. “Louis has offered the king a truce of seven years, a large pension and a marriage contract with the Dauphin for the Princess Elizabeth. In return, the English will leave France.” His disgruntled tone showed he believed Edward had betrayed Burgundy.

Margaret’s English hackles rose. “Certes, Messire Ravenstein, my brother had no choice,” she retorted. “Why, pray, did the duke refuse to open the gates of any of his cities to Edward? What was the English army supposed to exist on during the campaign and into the winter? Grass? Nay, ’twas Charles who betrayed Edward, and I will not hear otherwise. Besides, my brother acted honorably by securing a truce for Charles as
well, should he choose to treat with Louis within three months. Nay, you and I will have to disagree on this, messire.” Margaret was firm, and Ravenstein bowed stiffly and left her presence, followed by his squires.

She slumped back into her chair and drummed her fingers on the arm. If the truth be told, she was disappointed in her big brother. He had been bought off without letting loose a single arrow. The two kings had met on a bridge at Picquigny and signed a peace treaty on the twenty-ninth day of August, and now Edward was on his way home. She had heard that only Richard had balked at turning tail without a fight and had refused the pension. Even he, however, did not say no to some other gifts from Louis. What will Mother say? Margaret groaned out loud. And Father would be ashamed. She remembered Edward’s jesting with her at Calais and groaned again. He deceived me, she realized, and scowled.

T
HE BELL FOR
Matins rang, and Margaret called for her prayer book. On her knees in front of the Virgin and Child, she prayed that Charles would take Louis’ offer of a truce.

“Let there be peace, dear God. Burgundy has lost too many of her sons since Charles decided to become Caesar. If you give him the sense to accept what he has and be content, then I swear I will be a good wife to him.” She did not go as far as to promise to give up her love for Anthony, which she realized left the door open for her prayer to be unanswered. As she always did when speaking to God, she ended her private meditation with an Ave Maria and “May the Mother of God have mercy on Anthony, my one true love, and me, a lowly sinner.” Today she added, “And please, sweet Jesu, protect my brother George as he crosses back to England.” His fear of dying in the Somme had been for naught, but there was danger still in the unpredictable waters of the Channel.

L
ESS THAN A
fortnight later, one of her prayers was answered. Charles did indeed sign a nine-year truce with Louis. Among the terms was permission for Charles to move his troops from north to south or vice versa on the most direct road in a peaceable fashion. The other piece of news, which five years ago might have given Margaret pause for thought, was that Louis had paid a handsome ransom for the return of Margaret of
Anjou from England, and that lady would live quietly with a small pension at her father’s court.

However, the terms did not directly affect Margaret’s and Mary’s life in Ghent, except that Lord Ravenstein was appointed lieutenant-general in Charles’s northern territories and he was no longer to be Margaret’s chief councilor.

“It has been my honor to serve you, your grace, and I shall miss your intelligence and sense of humor,” Ravenstein told Margaret, bowing over her hand, his eyes twinkling. “You have taught me much about a woman’s mind, something I never thought to understand in all my days on earth.”

“Then my work has not been in vain,” Margaret replied, laughing. “And I hope it has pleasant consequences for your dear wife. I shall miss her also when you move back to Brussels. I understand your house is magnificent.”

“Aye, Anne will enjoy being mistress there, but she may be lonely. I will travel a great deal, but,” he added hastily, “never think I am abandoning you, madame. I hope we shall correspond and keep each other abreast of the duke’s business. Our good friend, Lord Gruuthuse, will take my place, and I know the two of you have much to talk of—his library for one. I was never able to keep pace with your knowledge of books in truth.”

“I trust Gruuthuse with my life, my lord. I shall not forget his kindness to my exiled brothers, and I look forward to knowing him better. Thank you for your valuable service to me. If it weren’t for you, I would not understand anything about this duchy I am helping to govern.”

Ravenstein chuckled. “I do remember thinking I had a difficult task ahead of me in those first few months. My explanation of the estates general particularly sticks in my mind. Once I said the word ‘parliament’ it was as though a gauze had been lifted from your eyes. That was a long time ago now. If I may say, your grace, Burgundy never had a more able duchess.”