Daughter of York

by Anne Easter Smith

  “My dearest love, my Marguerite, you are my life, my love, my soul. In truth, I know I must be dreaming, but let me not wake and find that I was right.” Anthony held her face in his hands, their bodies still throbbing together, and poured his love into her eyes. “Say I am not dreaming.”

  “You are not, my love. I am here and we are real.” She reached up and kissed him, teasing his mouth with her tongue.

  “Madame la Grande!” Henriette’s voice was clear as a bell. “Are you lost in there?”

  The lovers stopped kissing. Anthony rolled off Margaret and pulled her skirts down. With nimble fingers they retied their loose clothing. Margaret called out, “Aye, we were lost but are no longer. Lord Anthony believes he knows the way. We shall be there anon, do not fret.” To Anthony she whispered, “Do you know the way out of this, Anthony? And I am not talking about the maze.”

  He hesitated. “Not here, not now, Marguerite. This must wait for a more circumspect moment. We cannot decide a lifetime in a moment in a maze.” His eyes twinkled, and the tiny misgiving she had experienced just then vanished as soon as it had appeared. She smiled and allowed him to help her to her feet. He straightened her simple headdress—a veil on a jeweled band—and tucked a wayward blond tendril beneath it, kissing her nose as he did so.

  A minute or so later, they emerged from the labyrinth as they had gone in, Margaret sedately on his arm, and reassured their anxious attendants that they had only been lost for a little while.

  Henriette, however, noticed a grass stain on the back of Margaret’s gown that had not been there when her mistress had walked out of the house earlier. She could not wait to tell Guillaume that his suspicions had been correct. She smiled to herself, happy for her mistress that she, too, knew the love of a handsome man.

  EDWARD WAS SNORING in his wing of the house within minutes of finishing supper. He and Guillaume had killed a buck between them and returned highly satisfied from the hunt. The conversation during the meal had been pleasant enough until a truth emerged that had taken Margaret off guard.

  “You mean you did not know that Anthony was promised to James of Scotland’s sister—ha, ha!” he laughed, remembering, “another Margaret. Were you disappointed James withdrew the offer, Anthony? I suppose Dickon’s successful skirmishes on the border put a burr under James’s saddle. ’Twas only recently Anthony was let off the hook. ’Twas quite a blow for all of us, was it not?” Anthony gave a curt nod.

  “I did not know, Ned,” Margaret said quietly, and was gratified to see Anthony’s sheepish look. “It would have been a fine match, and I am truly sorry for you, my lord.”

  Neither Anthony nor Edward knew if she really meant it, but to be safe, Edward changed the subject.

  In her bed, the red and white sarcenet curtains pulled around her, Margaret dared to relive the enchantment in the maze. She touched herself reverently, trying to understand fully how her body had responded. She heard whisperings in the room and thought it was Henriette instructing the other lady who would share the truckle bed and attend her. The room went silent, and she heard the door click shut.

  “Henriette?” she called, hoping she had not made any sounds of pleasure as she imagined Anthony’s hands upon her skin. In answer, the curtain was quietly drawn aside, and Anthony himself said, “I sent her away, Marguerite. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She squealed her delight and reached her arms out to him in the faint glow of the night candle. Her hair caressed his skin as she pulled him down to her and then rolled on top of him. He stroked it as though it were pure gold. Her face was in shadow, but he knew she was smiling in triumph. Straddling him, she took her time arousing him, kissing his neck, his scarred ear, and the base of his throat. He could feel her soft breasts brush lightly on his stomach and loins as she worked her way slowly down his body. When she felt he could stand no more, she mounted him and with the astonishing skill of a more practiced lover she brought him to heights he was helpless to resist.

  Lying together in a bed for the first time, Margaret’s happiness knew no bounds. She snuggled into the crook of his arm, and as lovers will, they whispered of their joy to each other. Margaret then propped herself up on an elbow and ran her fingers lightly through the curly hair on his chest. She had noticed white in his chestnut head hair when they arrived the day before, but although he and Edward were close to forty, Anthony was far more youthful.

  “Will you stay with me all night, Anthony?” she asked, not daring to hope he would agree.

  “’Tis your bed, Marguerite. I am at your command,” he teased her, tucking a long strand of her hair over her ear so that he could see her face better. They talked until the candle guttered and went out, and only in the dark did she venture to bring up the future.

  “And what of us now, Anthony? Do you think God will sanction our union now? I need permission from Mary and Maximilian but do you need permission? I cannot think Edward would deny us, do you? He has practically pushed me into your arms since the first day we met. However, I was somewhat dismayed to learn that you could have gone north to Scotland any day. I wonder if you would have told me? I did not think you a dissembler.”

  She felt him stiffen and take a deep breath before saying, “As brother to the queen, my life is not my own, Marguerite. You of all people must know this. Edward viewed me as a prize to offer James, just as he tried to give you to James himself a few years ago.” He was relieved when Margaret giggled.

  “Would that not have been comical—both of us married to a brother and sister in Scotland?”

  “Comical, aye,” Anthony agreed, “but neither of us would have been free to love as we are now. And you do know that I love you, don’t you?”

  Margaret sighed. “I think you do, but I cannot get you to offer me marriage. You could come to Burgundy and your position as my consort would give you more than you have now, Anthony. And then there is little Jehan, who is so in need of a father.”

  It was out. In her eagerness to involve her love in all aspects of her hopes, dreams and reality, she had forgotten he was not aware that she had taken charge of

  George’s bastard. “Jehan?” Anthony’s interest was piqued. “Who is little Jehan, pray? I believed that you were barren, dearest Elaine.”

  Hell’s bells, Margaret said to herself followed by Forgive me, Lord, for she was about to lie. “Ah. Jehan is not mine, Anthony. He is a boy from Tournai whom I have adopted in secret. He lives in my residence at Binche in southern Brabant. He has brought joy into my life since Charles’s death, but with all the rumors that Louis has circulated about my indiscretions, I could not add wood to the fire. He has a tutor-chaplain and my servants at Binche spoil him horribly. You will see, he will love you, too.” She was sitting up now, her arms hugging her knees as she thought of the three of them together at Binche. “And you can teach him to hunt and to joust and to write beautiful poems …” She trailed off, sensing a reticence in darkness. “Shall we be married, Anthony?” she whispered again. “I think I shall die if I cannot have you.”

  “Then, my love,” Anthony suddenly decided, “I cannot deny you.” He pushed her down a little more roughly this time. “And I can no longer deny myself.” He made love to her with an ardor that in her mind was tantamount to signing a contract.

  THE LITTLE CAVALCADE trotted out of The Mote’s estates during the afternoon of the third day towards the road to Canterbury. As she held onto the pillion handle and gazed happily at the countryside they were passing, she burst into song.

  “Sumer is icumen in”

  “A bit late for that, my dear Meg. The bracken is turning gold, and the fields are brown with turned earth. Is there not a song for autumn?” Edward laughed at her. “But I am glad to see you in good spirits. I thought that leaving England—and a certain person—you might lapse into melancholy again. You were a torrent of tears the last time you left us, I seem to remember.”

  Just you wait until next week, Edward, Margaret thought merrily, when Anthony declares his
intention to marry me. Then you’ll know why I am singing, and she continued:

  “… loudly sing Cuckoo.

  Groweth seed and bloweth mead

  And springeth the wood anew.

  Sing Cuckoo.”

  The lovers had agreed to wait until she was back in Burgundy and could present the idea to Mary and Maximilian at the same time as Anthony approached Edward. He had promised a ring would follow as soon as he could prevail upon his favorite goldsmith to make one. True to his word, Edward had left them in peace for much of the visit and turned a blind eye to the grande passion he imagined was all these two were indulging in.

  “You will love Malines, Anthony,” Margaret had enthused not long before she had to mount up and ride away. “And we can spend some of the year in England here at The Mote or on your other estates, and I shall be so happy to come back and forth.”

  Anthony had laughed at her childlike excitement and stopped her mouth with a kiss. “That is to seal the bargain,” he told her, “but nothing formal until we have broached both our sovereigns!”

  “Sealed with a kiss,” Margaret murmured happily.

  ARMED WITH TREATIES for Maximilian to ratify and the promised archers, Margaret’s party finally arrived at Dover six days later than planned. Thanks to her impassioned persuasion, Edward had also sent letters to Maximilian agreeing to meet with him and Louis at a location convenient to the prince. He could not have been more conciliatory, Margaret exulted, when she rode into Dover just as the tide was turning. Her diplomatic mission a success and her future happiness all but assured, her leaving England was a very different affair from the last.

  “Ned, I pray you remember me kindly,” Margaret said to her brother as they stood together on the quay, a cacaphony of grating, clanking, shouting and whinnying making long conversation difficult. “I give you my word I will keep England’s best interests at heart while serving my dear Mary. I thank you for these”—she tapped the precious pouch of parchments that Edward had signed at Canterbury—“and I thank you for your generous hospitality.”

  “Meg, before you go, I want to tell you how sorry I have always been that I sent you to a monster in Burgundy. If I can ever make it up to you …” His face was serious for once, and she reached up and planted a kiss on his mouth.

  “You may have cause to remember that remark, Ned, and I pray you to consider it if you do,” she said cryptically, turning and putting out her hand for Guillaume to help her up the short plank to the ship. Edward stared after her puzzled, but then he smiled and called, “In truth, you are a fine ambassador, duchess! God speed, Mistress Nose-in-a-Book.”

  Brother and sister laughed heartily, enjoying the childhood memory and masking a fear that they might never meet again. Indeed, Edward’s laughter soon turned to wheezing and then into a full blown fit of coughing, which caused many around him to look concerned. The noise, coupled with the dockside din, muffled the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the cobblestones, and Edward’s attendants turned in alarm, fearing an attack upon their king when they saw the horseman almost upon them. Margaret could see it was naught but a messenger and waited for him to alight and present himself to Edward before calling her final farewells.

  But whatever it was, it was not for Ned. The man loudly addressed the captain instead, waving frantically. “I have an urgent missive for her grace, the dowager duchess of Burgundy.”

  Margaret groaned. Not another letter from Maximilian, she hoped. Surely her work in England was finished—and besides, she had already taken her ginger-root powder. She would wait until she could not turn back and then she’d read it, she decided. She watched Guillaume stride down the gangplank to take the letter, but she was distracted by a sailor retrieving a line near her feet and, and when she looked up, Guillaume was safely back on board.

  “All hands on deck!” the captain cried. “Cast off, cast off! The tide is turning.”

  “Farewell, Ned!” Margaret cried, as the slip of water between them widened into a gulf, and the ship was gradually pulled by the tide and wind into the open sea. “I will see you in October.”

  “I cannot hear you, Meggie,” Edward shouted back. “Farewell and may God go with you,” adding “my beloved sister” in a whisper. He was surprised to find he had tears in his eyes.

  WATCHING THE MAJESTIC white cliffs that protected the harbor slide by on either side of the Falcon on that golden day in late September, Margaret climbed the few steps to the forecastle and this time did not find the need to look back over the stern.

  The coast of Flanders was a line upon the horizon when she remembered the letter the messenger had delivered. Turning to look for Guillaume, she saw Henriette cradling a puppy in her arms. She frowned. Where did that come from? she wondered. She waved at her attendant, who immediately climbed the stairs to Margaret’s vantage point in the bow. The prow cut through the gentle waves, sending spray up occasionally and creating a rainbow in the sunlight. For the time being, Margaret thought gratefully, her stomach was behaving.

  “Who gave you the puppy, Henriette? I do not remember you receiving it or even seeing it until now. ’Tis adorable and reminds me of Astolat when I first—” She stopped when she saw the secret smile on Henriette’s face.

  “Did you not see the messenger give it to Guillaume?” she asked. “’Tis from my Lord Rivers for you—together with this letter,” she added, passing the pup to Margaret so that she could retrieve the letter from her belt. “What will you call him?”

  Margaret’s face was being washed with dog kisses, and she was laughing happily. “Anthony sent him?” she cried. “Then I shall have to call him Lancelot. Lancelot du Lac—not really of the lake, but of the water,” she said, indicating the English Channel. She hugged the wriggling wolf-hound and took a deep breath. “I want to thank you for your discretion, Henriette. You and Guillaume are loyal and trusted friends.” She lowered her voice. “You will be pleased to hear I may never have a fit of melancholy again, if my dream comes true. Nay, I cannot tell you more. Now go and see the younger maids are behaving themselves.”

  Henriette curtseyed and left Margaret standing on the forecastle looking towards Burgundy, her hood and cloak standing out behind her in the stiff wind, Lancelot in her arms. There were tears of joy on her lashes and a desire in her heart to return to Mary, her grandchildren and little Jehan. When Anthony came, they would be one happy family, and maybe she could reveal her secret boy to all.

  With trembling fingers, Margaret broke the seal on her letter and read:

  “My heart, my soul, you left me to burn

  Musing upon my love to return

  Should I let thee go? Oh no, dear God, no!

  Or fly to thee fast on the tide’s next turn?”

  “Fly, my love, fly,” Margaret whispered into the wind. “To Burgundy!”

  Author’s Note

  The vast domain held by the four Valois dukes of Burgundy for little more than a century collapsed within two decades of Charles the Bold’s death at Nancy. Joseph Calmette in The Golden Age of Burgundy states, “The last of the great dukes, because of his impulsive and impetuous nature, brought the whole structure crashing down… . The powerful State of Burgundy, which had appeared like a blinding flash across the horizon of history, suddenly, and for ever, vanished, on the fatal day of the Nancy disaster.” If my readers have a hard time understanding the intricacies of Burgundian politics, which I have tried to whittle down and make palatable here for historical fiction aficionados, then I hope they may appreciate the research and editing that went into that whittling down.

  Margaret of York’s early life in London is not well documented other than a few mentions of her appearances in public places such as at Elizabeth Woodville’s coronation and her declaration of willingness to marry Charles the Bold at the Great Council at Kingston. Twenty-two was considered old for a royal princess to make a marriage alliance, but her unwed status was not for lack of suitors. Edward was otherwise occupied with keeping himself safe on the throne
during those first years of his reign, and so Margaret’s marriage necessarily took a back seat. It is odd, too, that her father, Richard of York, never betrothed her as a child to another noble family, which was common in medieval times. It seems the Yorks also allowed all their sons to reach late teens without matching them with heiresses. And all three sons chose their own wives for one reason or another.

  Although I have walked over almost all the ground covered in the book, I had to resort to a few virtual walks through villages in northern France. Sadly, the palaces of Greenwich, Ten Waele, Coudenberg, Binche and Prinsenhof no longer exist in their medieval splendor, but I was able to step inside part of Margaret’s palace at Mechelen (Malines), which is now a theater, thanks to the timely exit of the artistic director from the closed building. She kindly showed me into what must have been the great hall, and I felt Margaret’s presence for the first time in my tour. Also seeing the house in Damme where Margaret and Charles were married was especially poignant. Likewise, imagining Margaret’s visit to Louis de Gruuthuse’s magnificent house—which is intact and now a museum not to be missed in Bruges—was a highlight of my trip.

  I was lucky that nowhere are the names of Margaret’s ladies recorded, except for Marie de Charny, Duke Philip’s bastard daughter. We know who traveled with Margaret to her wedding, but we do not know who stayed with her in Burgundy, if anyone. As the only girl left in the York household from an early age, Margaret must have lacked for sisterly companions. I chose to invent Fortunata because I needed Margaret to have someone to confide in, someone with intelligence and humor who would not have been chronicled and who could bridge the great divide for Margaret between her life in England and on the Continent.