Daughter of York (50 page)

Thinking of Edward conjured up other conversations: when he had told her she might go to Scotland; or when he whispered of his love for Elizabeth and that he had secretly married the widow Grey, and when he had audaciously encouraged her to flirt with Anthony. Anthony! For the thousandth time she wondered if he had received her letter, if he loved her still and if she would ever see him again. She wrapped her arms around herself and moved her body from side to side, trying to recall every word he had spoken to her on the
New Ellen.

“We were destined to meet, but we were not destined to be together. Both of us must pray to God the Father, God the Holy Ghost and our Savior Jesu Christ to help us accept this destiny and live our lives in His way.

If ever there comes a time when you and I are free of the bonds of marriage, I promise you, I will come …” She whispered again the wonderful words. “Ah, Anthony, would you could keep your promise!”

“Twelve of the clock and all is well!” called the nightwatchman in the town below, rousing Margaret from her reverie. Sweet Mary, she was still not tired, but she acknowledged she was very cold.

She held the lantern high to light her way down the stair, but instead of turning back to her chamber at the bottom of it, she went farther into the palace. Outside a small chamber that Marie de Charny shared with one of the other attendants, she noticed a glimmer of light under the door and a man’s voice, albeit hushed, coming from inside. She frowned. Marie’s elderly husband, Pierre, was with Charles, and she briefly wondered if Marie was in danger. She deserves whatever fate has in store for her was her immediate unkind reaction, but when she heard the sound of a smack to bare skin and Marie’s tiny scream, she waited no longer. Not heeding the danger she might put herself in, she put down her lantern, lifted the hasp slowly and pushed open the door.

Marie was on her hands and knees, her graying hair loose over her face and her bare buttocks raised high to take Guillaume’s thrusting prick. He brought his hand down hard on one of her cheeks, and again the little scream—but now Margaret recognized pleasure—emanated from Marie, who had her chemise around her neck, allowing her rather wizened breasts to swing free.

Neither saw the duchess standing there, her eyes wide with horror, as she watched her two most prominent retainers in their act of carnal passion. Suddenly Guillaume realized they were not alone, and when his glance fell on the dimly lit figure in the doorway and in shock recognized Margaret, he dropped Marie’s backside and attempted to cover his swollen privates with his hands. His mouth opened and shut a few times, but no words came.

Sprawled on the floor, Marie complained, “Chevalier, ride me some more, I beg of you! Why do you not—” She twisted her head to look up at him and then followed his gaze. When she saw Margaret, she gave a real scream. “
Croix de dieu, Madame la duchesse
!” and scrambled on all fours to hide under the blanket.

Margaret advanced into the room, every nerve in her body tensed.

Her mind was racing. Yes, she was angry that these two trusted servants of noble families would shamelessly act on some lustful urge right under her nose. Surprising and disquieting, she also found the scene titillating, although she did not know why. A forty-year-old woman being ravished by a young god of a man in a manner that suggested animal behavior must surely have repelled any sensitive and proper person’s sensibilities, and yet, as well as being repelled, she was excited by it on some primitive level.

“Chevalier, cover yourself and leave the room immediately! I will attend to you tomorrow,” she commanded. She turned away as he hurriedly grabbed up his doublet, hose and shoes and scurried—as ably as a six-foot-four-inch giant could scurry—out of her sight, executing a ridiculous bow as he went. She purposefully closed the door behind him and came to Marie, who was cowering at the foot of the bed and fighting with her chemise. Margaret knew triumphantly that she finally had power over this mean-spirited woman, whose fate was in her hands.

She was scornful. “I am ashamed of you, countess,” she said, watching Marie squirm. “Your disgusting lust for my young chevalier does your noble blood no service. You are supposed to uphold the morality of the ladies at court and serve as model to them. And here you are, the wife of one of the most chivalrous and beloved men of Burgundy, fornicating with an innocent young man. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Marie looked so woebegone that Margaret almost laughed, but the woman did not deny she had coerced the artless Guillaume into a dalliance. Here’s an apple that did not fall far from the tree, Margaret thought, remembering Duke Philip’s lustiness.

“A million pardons, your grace,” Marie began, climbing off the bed and effecting a passable obeisance. “How should I be punished?” she stammered from the floor. Then she looked up, afraid. “I pray you, nay, I beg of you, do not tell my husband—or,” she added hastily, “my brother, your husband. I could not bear the disgrace.” She had taken Margaret’s hand and was pressing it to her cheek as she pleaded for mercy. But Margaret had made up her mind. She pulled her hand from Marie’s grasp and walked slowly to a chair. She did not ask but assumed that Marie had persuaded her underling bedmate to share another attendant’s bed that night to allow intimacy with Guillaume. She wondered how many times it
had happened. It was all too degrading, and she decided she would rather not know the details.

“I will not say a word to anyone, Marie. But I shall request that your husband be assigned to my household so that you cannot repeat this behavior. And for my silence, I demand to know the truth about Fortunata’s disappearance. Do not deny you were involved.”

Marie gasped. She had not expected the accusation, and her face gave her away. She got to her feet, attempted to tidy her straggly hair and smoothed her kirtle. “I shall not deny it, your grace.” When she saw the shock and anger in Margaret’s eyes, she rushed on, “but I did it to protect you, Madame la duchesse, I swear. Fortunata gave you potions that caused you to lose your child.” Now she had Margaret’s attention. “When I heard you tell Jeanne de Halewijn that you had been given them every night, I was suspicious. I went to the dispensary where Heer Roelandts helped me discover what Fortunata was brewing.” She paused for effect. Margaret had one hand on her belly as though to protect the life that had been in it, and the other was over her mouth. “We could not find anything, but we were both convinced she had poisoned you.”

“’Tis an outrageous suggestion!” Margaret cried, leaping to her feet. “I would trust Fortunata with my life. So what did you intend to do? Torture her in that ice cellar until she confessed to this lie? Starve her to death? What, pray?”

Marie had the grace to look shamefaced. “’Twas my idea to frighten her a little into admitting her guilt. But you found her before we could—”

“Enough! I have heard enough! ’Twas barbaric what you and the good doctor conspired to do. Tomorrow I shall conduct my own interrogation of all three of you and find out the truth. Until then, you will remain in this room until I call for you, do you understand?”

Margaret strode to the door, took the key from it and held it up for Marie to see. She exited the room, picked up her lantern and locked the door. She heard Marie collapse in tears on the other side.

Now she was tired, nay, exhausted. This had been one of the most dramatic half hours of her life. Even so, she could not sleep. She spent much of the rest of the night on her knees, praying for guidance to anyone in God’s heaven who would listen. Fortunata poison me? Why, after all we have been through together? ’Tis unconscionable. But Marie seemed
quite sincere for once. And ’twas true,
pochina
did give me potions against the doctor’s wishes. Certes, it did ease the puking, but did it cause the miscarriage? Ah, dear God, who should I believe? She begged St. Jude, St. Benedict, St. Anne and even the patron saint of the falsely accused, Raymond Nonnatus, to help her. But in the end, it was Cecily’s face she saw and Cecily’s voice she heard.

“Trust your heart, my child. ’Twas always your greatest strength,” her mother seemed to say. “Trust in Fortunata. She loves you the best.”

When she finally rose to her feet to climb into bed, she was surprised to see that Fortunata was kneeling behind her. The servant’s eyes sparkled with tears in the candlelight, and she sagged down dejectedly onto her heels.

“
Madonna
, I have something I must tell you. I do not want to lie to you. It is difficult for me to say, you understand,” she whispered. Beatrice stirred in her sleep for a second but then resumed her gentle snoring from the truckle bed. Fortunata shivered, and Margaret took off her warm robe, raised the dwarf from the floor and wrapped her in it.

“Aye,
pochina,
I cannot bear to have you lie to me. Tell me this bad thing.” Margaret could not believe that her prayers had been answered so soon. She got into bed, keeping her stockings on for warmth, and waited.

“The medicine I gave you …” Fortunata hesitated, then crossed herself and hurried on. “It was many things, but also …” She hesitated again. “Pennyroyal.”

“Pennyroyal?” Margaret was aghast. “Why did you give me that, you wicked girl? ’Tis well known it rids a woman of an unwanted child.” She wrung her hands and stared in disbelief at the contrite young woman before her. “But I wanted that child, Fortunata! What were you thinking?” she whispered as loudly as she dared, angry tears welling. “You killed my child!”

Fortunata sank down on her knees again. “
Perdonne me, madonna
,” she whispered, retreating into her native tongue. “I did it for love. You must believe me. In Padua, I saw the same sickness you had take hold of a woman at the university. My master could not help her. He did try bleeding her, but …” She shrugged. “The woman left, and later when she had the child, it was a monster,
madonna.
Big, big head, no nose, and no eye
coverings.” She pointed to her own eyelids. “The head was too heavy for the little body, and it died soon after.” She was crying now, and as Margaret absorbed this sad tale, she understood.

“Certes, you thought the same thing would happen to me. Is that right, Fortunata?”

The dwarf bowed her head in shame. “
Si, madonna
. You are right. I was wrong, yes?” she asked in utter dejection.

“Aye, Fortunata, you were wrong. May God forgive you for your act. I must think about what to do with you, so leave me to myself. I think you know I can never accept another potion from you as long as you remain in my service,” Margaret said sadly, knowing that this would hurt Fortunata deeply. She was stern but not as angry as she had been. Fortunata kissed her hand.

“And you know who put you in the cellar, do you not? No more lies,
pochina,
I want the truth.”

“It was Heer Roelandts,” the dwarf whispered finally. “He said he had something to show me and took me to the cellar through the kitchen. Then he tied me, and when I tried and call out, he put a cloth in my mouth. He asked me about the medicine for you, but I did not tell him anything. He came three times, gave me food and asked again. I said nothing.”

“I am happy to hear he did not go through with his threat to kill you, and he does not appear to have harmed you.” She paused. “And you think he acted alone?”

Fortunata rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that Margaret had learned meant perhaps yes, perhaps no.

“I am waiting, Fortunata. The truth now.”

But the dwarf had nothing more to say. “I am sorry,
madonna.
Please let me sleep now.”

Margaret sighed and nodded. She had to admire Fortunata’s integrity in not denouncing Marie, or perhaps the servant truly did not know that the woman had instigated her abduction. This was the most difficult problem she had had to deal with personally, and even though she fought it now, sleep overcame her before she had resolved how to handle the two different situations.

•   •   •

“M
ARIE, YOU WERE
correct.” Margaret’s tone was cold as ice the next morning in her private audience chamber. “Fortunata has confessed all to me, and I am sending her away from me for a few weeks to pray for forgiveness. However, you are not blameless in this business, and for participating in the heinous kidnapping of my servant, I am depriving you of your status as head of my ladies for a month. Beatrice will take your place while you mull over what you have done with regard to both Fortunata and Guillaume.”

Marie’s face showed no emotion, but she was beginning to understand the new duchess’s mettle, and she sank into a low curtsey. “Aye, your grace. I thank you, your grace.” She did not dare ask whether her husband would be spared the details of either of her indiscretions, but she hoped the duchess’s word of the night before was good. Her punishment was not so bad, and her feelings about Margaret were ameliorated somewhat, especially upon hearing that the dwarf would be sent away.

Margaret waved her aside and asked that Heer Roelandts be admitted to the audience chamber. His bloodletting cup and knife swinging from his belt, the ruddy-faced Dutchman entered as Marie was leaving. Neither looked at each other, and Margaret was pleased to see Marie’s humility.

Roelandts was relegated to attending the sick among the kitchen staff and stable boys for a month, and nothing more was said about the matter. Guillaume could not look Margaret in the eye when he was called in. He knelt before her, his felt bonnet in one hand and the other over his heart.

“Forgive me, your grace,” was all he could say, but Margaret heard the contrition in his voice and told him to rise.

“Perhaps we need to find you a wife, Guillaume,” she said. “Then perhaps you would not be putting your pestle where it does not belong.”

He could have sworn he saw her wink at him.

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