Daughter of York (74 page)

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.

For the first time, she believed, Margaret disagreed with her little sconfidante. “I think you are wrong,
pochina.
Maximilian is the answer to all our troubles.”

Fortunata harrumphed before sharply drawing the curtains and saying good night.

W
ITHIN A VERY
few days, the wedding was celebrated, and as the bells rang out at St. Bavo’s and at every other church in Ghent, there was hope in the air that the tribulations of the past year could be put behind the beleaguered Burgundians.

Unfortunately, they had only just begun.

23

Burgundy, 1478

By the time Lent began, Mary was radiant in her pregnancy. Margaret’s emotions rocketed between intense jealousy and immense joy. That Mary and Maximilian had fallen in love was the only glimpse of sunshine throughout the tumultuous year since Charles’s death.

“
Belle-mère,
I am the happiest woman on earth!” Mary had told Margaret one day in late December when she knew she was with child. Margaret did not have the heart to say Mary was being tactless. Instead she smiled and kissed the young woman, noting the bloom on her cheeks and the new swell of her bosom. Briefly she remembered that day in her bath at Josse-ten-Noode, when she rejoiced in her own changing body. It was too late for her, she knew, and as a barren woman, she had no expectation of being married again. If the truth were known, she had no intention of even entertaining such an idea, unless, of course, it was with Anthony.

“Have you told Maximilian, my dear?” Margaret asked, one dreary day in late February as the two women sat for the artist Hans Memling. She had temporarily moved back to Ghent at Yuletide, as extensive renovations
to her new residence in Malines were being undertaken. She had abandoned the old palace that Charles had used when the judicial branch of the Low Countries was moved to the city, which, as the richest of Margaret’s dower towns, gave her financial security. In November, she had purchased the house from John, Bishop of Cambrai, another of Duke Philip’s bastards, and planning the rebuilding had taken her mind off the constant French incursions that still plagued several areas along the Burgundian borders.

Mary nodded, smoothing the wool dress over her still-flat stomach. “He is very pleased with me, madame.”

“Mary, my dear. Don’t you think you could call me Margaret now? We have always been friends, have we not? When you were a child, it seemed appropriate that you call me stepmother, and I did my best to be a mother to you. But after all, you are twenty-one now, and I am hardly an old lady,” Margaret said, laughing. “Although your son will look at me that way, in truth.”

“So what will little Philip call you,
belle
—Margaret,” Mary said, dimpling at the first use of the older woman’s name. “Aye, I am certain ’tis a boy, and Maximilian has agreed he shall be named for my grandfather. It would be prudent to give the heir of Burgundy a name with happy associations for our people.”

“Very wise,” Margaret said, remembering with a shudder the grisly events of March in Ghent. “Let Philip call me
grandmère
, I beg of you. It would please me greatly.”

“Madame la Grande, may I request that you not move so much at this time,” a voice called from the back of the empty audience chamber.

It took Margaret a second to realize that the artist was speaking to her. She wondered if she would ever get used to her new title. She knew Isabella had been styled thus when Charles became duke and married her, and so as a widow she had accepted it was to be hers now Mary was the duchess. Fortunata had laughed when she had first heard about it. “If milord duke dies,
madonna
, you will have the same name as his mother, yes? But it is perfect, you see. You are
une grande madame
,” and she clapped her hands with delight at her own witticism.

Margaret, on the other hand, had glowered at her. “Do not poke fun at my height,
pochina
, or I will poke fun at yours!” Will we ever get over
this feeling of being stared at? she wondered. “Neither of us can change the way we are, so we must not jest about it, you and I.” Fortunata had nodded and hung her head in mock shame.

Margaret smiled now. Aye, my beloved
pochina
, you are quite right. Madame la Grande is appropriate. She called out, “Forgive me, Meester Memling, I had forgotten all about you, so quiet back there. How much longer must we sit here? When can we see the painting? When will it be finished?”

Mary laughed at her. “You sound like I did a dozen years ago.”

Hans Memling was one of Burgundy’s preeminent artists, and he had asked the two duchesses to be models for a large work commissioned by one of Bruges’ weathiest merchants, Johannes de Doper, to be given to the St. John Hospital church. He came out from behind his easel, on which he was making sketches for the enormous wood-paneled tryptich that was three-quarters complete. Mary and Margaret would be depicted as St. Catherine of Alexandria and St. Barbara respectively, two saints particularly revered in Bruges. The work would portray the mystical marriage of St. Catherine to the infant Jesus.

“Madame, ’tis well known you have a love of books. May I respectfully suggest that if you are finding sitting still … ah, how should I put it? … troubling, perhaps I should draw you with an open book in your hands. A book, I trust, would make this ordeal more pleasant,” Memling said, smiling sweetly. Margaret was struck by the artist’s youthfulness despite his more than forty years. His untidy brown hair showed no intention of turning gray, and the prominent dimple in his chin gave him a cherubic air. She looked at him sheepishly.

“I fear I am become impatient of late, meester. Aye, a book would keep me quiet,” she said. “I shall read from Lord Rivers’ English translation of
The Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers,
which he has been kind enough to send me. ’Tis a copy from our old friend William Caxton’s press. You remember Master Caxton, meester?” The artist nodded. Before Margaret could rise, Fortunata was there to thrust the book into her hands. Margaret laughed. “As you see, ’tis never far from me, Mary,” she said, stroking the brown leather cover lovingly. “I am learning much,” she hurriedly added, waving Memling off. “I shall be a model model now, meester, have no fear.”

Memling bowed and returned to his work, while Margaret chose a passage to read. Mary gave her left arm a shake to ward off stiffness after holding it up to receive a betrothal ring from an invisible source. The Virgin and infant Jesus with the ring had already been painted on the wooden panel at the workshop.

“
Belle-mère
—I mean, Margaret, you look very demure reading your book. A perfect St. Barbara. She was also very beautiful, I believe, and that is why her father locked her up while he was gone, if I remember the story correctly.”

Margaret was touched. Mary had never commented on her appearance before. “Do you think I am beautiful, my dove? With my long neck and hair the color of hay, I think myself ordinary at best.”

“Aye, I think you are beautiful! And you cannot say you do not notice the way others look at you.” Mary chuckled. “No false humility, my dear Margaret, I beg of you.”

“’Tis not at my beauty they stare, Mary,” Margaret protested. “They stare at my extraordinary height, ’tis all. Just as they stare at Fortunata. Am I right,
pochina
?” She turned to look at Fortunata, who nodded vigorously from her perch on the window seat behind them. “But enough of this nonsense. Let me read you the passage on falsehoods, sweeting, lest you confuse flattery with one,” she said. “Besides, I must keep my promise to Meester Memling to be still and stave off the pangs of hunger. My belly growls, and I smell something delicious wafting from the kitchens.”

Later, as the two women devoured oysters, skate-and-cod pie, a custard and some dates and nuts, Henriette hurried in with a letter for Margaret.

“’Tis from Calais, your grace,” Henriette said, curtseying and handing her the letter. “Is that not the king of England’s seal?”

Margaret’s heart beat faster. She saw that Henriette was correct. “Ned never writes to me. What can he want now?”

“Perhaps he is informing you that he intends to send us help against Louis, Margaret,” Mary suggested quietly. “You have begged enough.”

“Aye, and I am the fairy queen!” Margaret retorted. “I have given up on that, Mary. My brother likes his pension from Louis too much, in truth.”

She had broken the seal and spread out the vellum. Having no secrets from Mary now except in the matter of Anthony, Margaret began to read Ned’s usual opening, “
Right honorable and well beloved sister, we greet thee well
,”
out loud. Her eyes skimmed ahead, and, before she could open her mouth to read again, the room went black and she slipped off her chair, fainting onto the red and blue carpet.

Mary leapt to her feet, her needlework falling forgotten off her lap, and, commanding one of her ladies to fetch the physician, she hurried to Margaret’s side. Jeanne ran to the popinjay, which was minding its own business on its perch, and waved her arms wildly, making the poor bird squawk and flap its wings in an effort to escape its tether. The result was what Jeanne was hoping for, and, retrieving a fallen green feather, she thrust it into the fire and then held the burnt quill up to Margaret’s nostrils. Margaret moaned and, opening her eyes, wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Pardon me, your grace,” Jeanne said, apologizing. “But praise God ’twas naught but a simple swooning. Come, I beg of you take some wine.”

Margaret took a draught, coughed and eased herself back into the chair.

“What is it,
belle-mère
?” Mary said, her worried eyes huge in her blanched face. “Was it something in the letter?”

Margaret remembered and gave an anguished cry. “George, my dearest brother George.” She stopped, not wanting to say the words, and when she did, they mirrored her overwhelming melancholy. “He is dead!” Not taking her glazed eyes off the crackling fire, she downed her wine.

Both Mary and Jeanne gasped at the news, and at that moment the doctor appeared, followed by a page carrying a box of potions and instruments. Mary waved him away. “Thank you, doctor, but Madame la Grande has recovered. She swooned, ’tis all.”

The doctor bowed gravely but insisted on examining the patient. He left a few minutes later after giving Margaret a tincture to take before she retired for the night.

“My dear Margaret, may I read the letter to you? I will stop whenever you ask me to.” Mary knelt beside her stepmother and gently removed the letter from the rigid fingers. Margaret absently nodded her willingness to listen, and Jeanne pulled up a stool to sit by and hold her hand.