Daughter of York (52 page)

A
T THE END
of February, Charles came to Hesdin. He made an effort to spend time with both his wife and his daughter, but only after the business of the day was ended. He invited Margaret to sit with him one morning as he heard petition after petition from his subjects, who came in an unending stream while he dispensed decisions arbitrarily.

For her part, Margaret was slowly beginning to understand the magnitude of Charles’s ambition for himself. She learned how ruthlessly he had
amassed territory in his short time as duke and that he was intent on joining the northern part of his duchy with the south and east, even if it meant taking large parts of the Habsburg empire or France. Making war was his
raison d’être
, Ravenstein had confided in her, and Margaret had heard the disapproval in his voice. Ravenstein had acknowledged that although Charles was a hard worker, he insisted on being in control of all facets of the government: judicial, financial, secular and most of all the military.

“As he has done, you must learn to adapt to each city’s and province’s culture and political traditions when you are representing your husband. Of course, you will have help from those the duke has left in charge, but each place has a different way of doing things—running their economies, their armies—and then you have the difficulty of language. I am pleased, your grace, that your Flemish is improving with Madame Mary’s help. It will be invaluable to you, especially with the Gantois, the people of Ghent, who are proud and tend to be the duke’s most rebellious subjects. ’Tis why Madame Mary must remain here so often, and you, too, will be in Ghent more than any other city. ’Tis most necessary to have a ducal presence there often.” He sighed and returned to his concern about his overlord.

“I believe the duke thinks he can conquer the world, your grace. I think ’tis a vain hope, and perhaps you can persuade him to end these military exploits, which cost us dearly in men and money, and be content to govern the land he has.”

“Messire Ravenstein, you are gracious to trust me with this knowledge of my husband. I know you do so out of love and devotion to Burgundy and the former duke. Certes, your integrity is unquestioned by me, and if I feel I can have the slightest influence on my husband, you have my word I will try and steer him to a more peaceful course. I have a horror of war—my family has been embroiled in it for most of my life—and you may count on me.”

Ravenstein smiled. “I have no doubt, madame.” Under his breath he said, “Burgundy does not need a caesar.”

Margaret looked at him quizzically, but he was already bowing and walking away.

Now she understood. As she sat in the great hall with Charles, she was astonished and dismayed to hear the number of comparisons her husband
made of himself to the great leaders of the past in his long, meandering diatribes: Julius Caesar, Hannibal, Charlemagne and his favorite, Alexander the Great.

“Like me, Alexander had a father named Philip,” he pronounced to one petitioner, who had been kept kneeling on the marble floor for almost half an hour. “And like me, Alexander devoted his life to expanding his territories. I shall succeed in joining our northern territories to our southern ones, and I shall be known one day as the most glorious leader of Burgundy”—he paused, scanning the room—“nay, of all Europe.” He lowered his gaze from the courtiers to the kneeling figure in front of him. “Mark this, sirrah,” he bellowed. “There are only three lords in the world: God, Lucifer and me.” The man stared balefully at his lord and crossed himself. “And now, out of the goodness of my heart, I will grant you what you have asked. Hugonet, see that my wishes are carried out,” he shouted to his chancellor. “Next!”

The courtiers were restless, Margaret could see. She was grateful that Charles allowed her to sit on a throne next to him. No one else was allowed to sit in his presence, and she guessed they had been there three hours. Charles’s head jutted forward on his bull neck and shoulders, scanning the company for signs of lack of interest, but everyone appeared to be giving him rapt attention. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands together, waited for the next petitioner to be announced and prepared his next oration.

D
URING ONE OF
the private times Margaret had with him, she asked that Marie’s husband be assigned to her household.

“Marie frets when he is not close, Charles,” she lied, hoping she was not risking hellfire for it. “I believe she will be happier if he is with us, in truth. Can you spare him?”

Charles was feeling magnanimous. It was a mild March day, and a passing shower had left diamond droplets on the primroses that bordered the path where they were walking. He was pleased with Margaret’s grasp of her duties and had had an excellent report of her from Ravenstein. He was also relieved that his daughter had taken to his new wife, which alleviated his guilt with regard to his lack of attention to the child.

“Marie pining for her husband?” Charles guffawed, taking her arm and walking through a garden to a path that girded the castle wall. “I think
you must be mistaken, Margaret. Pierre is a courageous soldier and loyal, but he is almost in his dotage now, and I cannot think Marie craves his attentions. But if you believe this is so and it would please you, then I shall spare him. What is he to do for you?”

“Aye, Charles, it would please me. And I am grateful. Do you think the count would chafe as captain of my knights of honor?”

“He will do as he is told, Margaret. It surprises me that you should even ask the question. I will have the papers drawn up. Were you aware that Pierre fought in one of the most famous jousts of our age?” Charles’s eyes lit up whenever fighting was in question, and Margaret let him describe it to her in gory detail. He was looking at her, but she was quite sure he did not see her or he would have noted the look of tedium in her face. She waited patiently until he had finished, smiling and making little noises of exclamation wherever she could. However, her ears pricked up when he began to talk of his father. She was quite convinced she would have preferred being married to a profligate patron of the arts than to this bellicose bore.

“I hated my father, Margaret,” Charles began quietly. “I hated what he did to humiliate my mother first and foremost, and I made a solemn vow that I would be everything he was not. If he liked white, I liked black; if he laughed, I scowled. He liked your house, I was all for Lancaster—although now I see he was right to distrust France and ally with England.” He saw the fleeting expression of dismay on her face, and qualified his remark. “It has nothing to do with you, my dear. Nothing, I promise.

“I hated that he gave Louis, as Dauphin, sanctuary here for so many years just because Louis could not get along with his own father. Louis made me squirm with his obsequiousness, always bowing and scraping to my father but secretly spying on us. You know that I left the court and went north while Louis was here? While he fawned and smiled, he was learning our ways and how he could defeat us,” he spat. He picked up a stone from the path and flung it over the castle wall near which they were walking. “Now he is king and thinks I will lick his boots. Never!” he shouted, startling Margaret and causing Mary beside her to cringe.

“I do not think it is wise to cross him, Charles. Pray calm yourself, for you are frightening Mary,” she chided him. Mary had indeed let go of Margaret’s hand and had fallen back to take Jeanne’s.

“Watch your step, Margaret,” Charles warned, avoiding a large puddle and leaving Margaret to wonder if he meant the puddle or her admonishment. She drew herself up to her full height, which meant she had to look down on him when she next spoke. It gave her courage.

“Mary is a sensitive little thing, Charles. You forget she is almost exclusively in the company of women, and your outbursts are unpredictable and thus frightening to her.” She paused and was pleased to see his expression matched the baleful one on the sheep that represented the order of the Golden Fleece he always wore about his neck. “I am sorry you hated your father. ’Tis incomprehensible to me. All of us loved and admired both our father and our mother, although Mother has been known to beat George and Dickon herself if they warranted it,” she chuckled.

“My mother is a saint!” exclaimed Charles. “And although I love my siblings, I have to remind them from time to time that they are all my father’s bastards. Marie is no exception. I hope she is giving you good service, Margaret.”

“Aye, good enough,” Margaret murmured. “But let us talk of my family, I beg of you. What is the news from England?”

“Ah, I wish I knew. Methinks my lord of Warwick still plays your brother for a fool, for I have heard he is in Calais and is in secret dealings with Louis while he is on a mission from Edward.”

“I pray you are wrong. My lord of Warwick is Captain of Calais, so perhaps he is making an assessment of the garrison there for Edward.”

Charles gave a short bark of laughter. “Aye, and I am the queen of Sheba. Nay, he is to visit us here on a diplomatic mission from Edward, so the messenger tells me. I shall be curious to see him again. I doubt he knows how much I dislike him. He is a dangerous man, and I fear he will bring Edward down, my dear. Mark my words.” He seems to like that expression, Margaret thought.

“Then stop him, Charles,” she begged. “Swear on our marriage vows that you will help Edward should he need you. Is that not what this union is all about?” Her voice was raised—as was one of Charles’s eyebrows. She quieted down. “’Tis for the good of Burgundy that we help Edward, is it not? He hates Louis as much as you do. Both of you can be strong against Louis if Edward is on the throne. Warwick has always been a friend of France. If he has the power in England, then you will regret it.”

Charles looked astonished at this outburst. Ravenstein is right, he thought, she is well versed in politics.

“Never fear, I will help Edward if he will help me,” he said, patting a spot next to him on a bench and inviting her to sit. Their retinue had stopped at a respectful distance and conversed among themselves, while Jeanne helped Mary gather primroses. Margaret took the seat and settled her hands in her lap as Charles continued, “In the meantime, we must prepare to receive the earl and his lady wife here in a matter of days.”

“Here at Hesdin?” Margaret exclaimed, rising up again. “Sweet Mother of God, why did you not tell me before? I must make preparations. Does he come alone? How long will he stay? We must fete him with all honor.” Despite her misgivings about Warwick, the prospect of seeing one so close to her family again was exhilarating.

Charles pulled her down and watched her face closely. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks tinged with excited pink. He suddenly leaned forward and kissed her full on the mouth, cupping her breast in his hand. Margaret was too stunned to move, but even with their mouths locked in a kiss, their eyes were wide open, avising each other. You are mine to do with as I will, his seemed to tell her. I am a princess of England and not to be trifled with, hers told him. They pulled apart, and Margaret put her hand up and straightened her turbaned headdress, with the ever-present rose brooch pinned to the front.

Charles studied her. “Have I told you how that shade of blue becomes you?”

It was Margaret’s turn to be astonished. Charles had not once paid her a compliment since they had met, except for that first night, when he had praised her unintentional movements in bed. Although, she acknowledged, that was hardly flattering.

She blushed. “Why, thank you, Charles,” she said spontaneously and could have kicked herself for sounding so coy. More boldly, and as they were out of earshot of the others, she said, “May I ask if you intend to visit my chamber while you are here?” Charles’s eyebrow lifted again, but she hurried on. “These nine months have told me we will not be a daily part of each other’s lives, and I must point out that if you have wed me with the intention of siring an heir …”

Charles’s eyes bulged. “Margaret, you presume too much,” he said
coldly. “I already have an heir, my daughter, Mary, in case you have forgotten.”

Stinging from the reproach, Margaret was scornful. “It seems to me, Charles, that you have not thought things through very clearly. You are intent on making war with whoever gets in your way of glory—no, pray let me finish—and having lost a father and a brother in this way, I know there is a good chance you may be killed before you grow to be an old man. With only a girl, and one as young, vulnerable and unmarried as Mary, to inherit this duchy, all you are working to achieve will be torn apart by your enemies and”—she spread her hands—“where is your glory then? If I give you a son, a son whose uncle is the king of England, for your good subjects to rally around, Burgundy might be saved.” She sighed. “I see you are angry with me, but you are an intelligent man, Charles. Can you not acknowledge I am right?”

Charles leapt to his feet and began to pace. A vein stood out dangerously on his forehead, his face was red and from the look in his eye, Margaret was afraid he might approach and strike her. His fists were clenched and his mouth grim. But he said nothing; he merely continued to pace with short, deliberate steps. She sat there awaiting his ire, but it did not come. Slowly he unclenched his hands, and the vein receded. He blinked a few times, and she thought she could hear his mind working.

Finally he turned to her and in a calm, even voice that surprised her said, “It has never occurred to me to want a son, Margaret. I believe I am destined for glory, and when the time comes, Mary will have a husband who will look after my—I mean, her—interests.” He paused for a full minute, fingering the golden sheep and unnerving her with his steady gaze. “It has, however, occurred to me on more than one occasion that I have married a political equal. ’Tis your brain, not your birth, that prevents me from chastising you for your outburst.” Then his tone turned pleasant, surprising her yet again. “However, your logic is hard to argue with, my dear. Therefore I shall indeed come to your bed tonight.”

Her emotions strung out by this man’s bizarre behavior, Margaret watched him stride away, his retainers hurrying to keep up with him. She trembled. She had won a small victory, she knew, and perhaps it might lead her to the joy of motherhood. But she did not relish the act that would achieve it.