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i. January 1477
The newly widowed duchess of Burgundy knelt in a small pool of sunlight that slanted through the windows of St. Jan's Church. Skirts of Florentine brocade spilled black as ink across the chequered floor and delicate silk veils shielded her face from any curious onlookers. Her eyes--the greyish blue of the overcast evening--were hundreds of miles away. It seemed she looked not upon Our Lady and her child, but upon a clearing in the woods near Nancy where, bled to paper-white, her husband's body had been found.
It seemed the scavengers had been at him, man and beast alike.
Margaret shuddered, fingers tightening around her rosary till the beads bit into her skin. She spoke her prayers mechanically, like the monks charged to sing for Charles' soul. He had been feared, the late bold duke of Burgundy, but he had not been loved.
"Margriet?" She had long grown accustomed to her name in Flemish, both like and unlike the native tongue she found herself forgetting now her brother had stolen Master Caxton back to London. The voice was her stepdaughter's--suo jure duchess of Burgundy at twenty years old, God help her. "Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt--"
"You never interrupt, Marie," she replied, holding out her hand. Marie ran into her arms with a sob. "There, there, sweetling," murmured Margaret, racking her brain for something, anything, else to say. "I'm so sorry."
"Will you tell me the truth, Margriet? None of the men will. They stare at the ground and stammer as though I don't see right through them." She caught her breath on a hiccup. "It cannot be worse than I imagine."
Margaret pulled away to look into Marie's eyes. "Are you sure? It is not a pretty tale." Least of all for a girl raised in the lap of luxury as Marie had been. War had long been a part of Margaret's life; truly, she could scarce remember a time when it had not lurked in the corners of council chambers or just beyond city walls. Of course, Marie was not ignorant in the least. Her father may have sought to keep his less flattering deeds from the ears of his beloved daughter, but even he knew she would find them out eventually. It was only in these last painful months that he seemed to no longer value or even notice her counsel.
The younger girl's grip tightened on her hands as she nodded.
So Margaret told her of the final stand of Charles le Téméraire in the whirling snow before the walls of Nancy, of the fatal charge of Swiss halberdiers that had routed their once-proud army. "It was doomed from the start, Marie. Anyone could have told him that." They had all tried to advise him, God knew, earning nothing but scorn for their efforts. Margaret, he blamed still for the king of England's defection to Louis of France two years earlier. Never mind that only Margaret's involvement had spared Charles from further indignity.
"He was ever a fool for glory," Marie said with a sniff. "Was it Duke René, then?" There was some dignity in falling to René of Anjou, who still laid claim to being the closest their benighted age had to a parfit gentil knyght (she would not think of his daughter, her namesake, the she-wolf whose claws had so ravaged the flower of England's chivalry).
She had, however, promised Marie the truth and not a minstrel's tale. "Swiss mercenaries, they told me. They cut him down in the thickest press of the fighting." Duke René had had the body buried hastily in Nancy itself--there would be no funeral for the duke whose vast and rich domains had rivalled those of the kings of France and England. "It is, I suppose, how he would have preferred to die."
Marie gave a surprised squeak of laughter. "Better that than Caesar's fate."
"Hush, don't let them see you laughing," Margaret whispered, peering over Marie's shoulders to where the duchess' attendants hovered near the screen. "Although," she added with a grin as they turned back to the altar, "I confess I must agree."
"I knew he would do this. I only wish I knew why," Marie said under her breath. "Of course, the same blood flows in his veins as mad Henry of England. Perhaps that explains it."
It had been some years since Margaret had last heard the name of Henry the Sixth, former king of England. Murdered by her youngest brother, on the orders of her eldest. Dickon had written to her afterward, in a letter she had burnt on his request but whose words were branded in her mind.
Ned told me to think on the thousands of men who would breathe but for Henry of Lancaster--that, though he himself never held the sword, their blood is no less on his hands. I had thought it but one of Ned's tales (you have heard already the story he gave to the Lord Mayor of York), but I swear to you, Meg, that I saw in King Henry's eyes every one of those souls. Small wonder the man went mad, for surely he heard them crying upon their king for mercy--and unlike Ned he did not stop his ears.
Dickon was barely more than a boy at the time--the same age their brother Edmund had been when he'd ended his life on a Lancastrian blade. It seemed Margaret's life was rounded in blood, a litany of names cut down too soon. Father and brother, now husband too. "Oh, these men," she whispered, suddenly close to tears, less for Charles--who she had not even seen in the better part of two years--than for her equally foolish brothers. "Never you mind," she said, catching Marie's concerned eye. "He's--he was--no madder than the rest of them. And we must be wary--our enemy is of a different humour."
She had only met King Louis of France, eleventh of his name, on state occasions, usually punctuated by some sort of humiliation for her late husband. To Margaret, Louis had always been scrupulously polite, but even his manners had an edge of disdain sharper than any swordsman's blade. Unlike her late husband, Margaret did not underestimate him--those long fingers reached into every court in Christendom and she agreed with Dickon's bitter observation on their last meeting that Louis better resembled a spider than a man.
She and Marie had already written to him as suppliants, a widow and daughter bereft and friendless, every line balm to a king's pride. Whether pride would sway the notoriously pragmatic king of France remained to be seen.
No doubt recalling this, Marie's lips curled into a cold smile. "I'd rather have his heart on a dinner plate, but I think the king of England might object."
"Not terribly, so long as it didn't interfere with his annual bribe," Margaret muttered. "I fear we cannot depend on him to help, but perhaps we might wring a promise to keep his nose out of it. Merchants hate war, and Ned owes the city of London a great deal of money."
"And he must look to his own realm." Marie's voice was strangely steady even as Margaret looked at her in surprise. "I don't blame King Edward, Margriet. Papa was...rash, over-hasty. It may even be that King Edward saw the madness as we did, and how can I blame him for acting in the interests of his people?"
"In the interests of his purse and his treasury, more like," Margaret remarked. "You give my brother more credit than he deserves, Marie, and I will be sure to remind him of that." She frowned, knowing the thought that had crossed both of their minds. "What of your betrothal, Marie? Every prince in Christendom will seek your hand in marriage now, and I will not hold you to your father's promise if you do not wish it."
"In truth, Margriet, my betrothal was one of my father's wiser plans. Who else can stand against the might of France?"
"And the Emperor's son will make you happy?" Maximilian of Austria was a Hapsburg by blood, a house as rich in dignity as it was poor in funds, and Mary the richest heiress on the continent; it was the tale of Sir Lanval come to life and her stepdaughter was the Fairy Queen. Few women would not find that flattering, and Marie was as susceptible as any other young lady. "You are not indifferent to him, or so I hear."
"It is him or France, surely. Unless," she added with a wink, "you know of any English knights seeking a damsel in distress. Sieur Rivers made a dashing chevalier."
"Sieur Rivers is more Galahad than Lancelot, my dear, and such men do better to remain unwed." The queen of England's handsome elder brother, who had accompanied Margaret on her wedding journey and paid a number of visits to Burgundy since, left a perpetual trail of sighing ladies in his wake, but showed interest in none. "But come, Marie," she said, raising her voice to alert the waiting attendants, "let us retire."
Margaret winced at the stiffness in her knees as she stood, only to realise Marie had not moved. Looking up at her, the duchess of Burgundy seemed impossibly young. "I don't suppose it even matters if the city elders won't let us leave." For some months now, Marie had been a virtual prisoner in Ghent, thanks to her father's unpredictability. "I tried to change Papa's mind, to make him see reason, but it went about as well as one might have expected."
"What matters is that you tried, and the men of Ghent know that. They also know that their interests are best served by having a duchess of Burgundy who can actually rule Burgundy." Margaret grinned and raised Marie to her feet. "You've decided what to give them in return?"
"Remission of debts owed to Papa."
"Whenever possible. What a world it is, where wars can be won with money."
It wasn't nearly so simple, of course--in addition to the debt, the Estates General demanded restoration of their governing rights, which had been granted more than a hundred years before to Mary's great-grandfather, and a second time to her grandfather Duke Philip. Her grave, pretty face schooled to perfect calm, she signed away direct rule over Hainault, Flanders, Brabant, and Holland, and swore to abide by the council's wishes regarding declarations of war and, more importantly, her choice of bridegroom.
Margaret couldn't blame them for choosing the right moment to slip the yoke. The last time a woman had ruled these lands suo jure, she had lost them twice over. They still spoke, every now and again, of poor Jacqueline, abandoned by her English husband when he ran off with her lady-in-waiting. She had died soon afterward, a prisoner of the Duke of Burgundy, Marie's grandfather, who Margaret had never met.
She could only hope that a better fate awaited Marie.
ii. June 1480
It was with more trepidation than joy that Margaret watched as the white cliffs of Dover loomed increasingly closer. Twelve years had passed since she last saw the land of her birth, watching as those same cliffs disappeared into the grey horizon. Twelve years she she'd last set eyes on her mother, though her voice still rang bell-clear in her letters and in Margaret's mind, and some part of her wanted nothing more than to thrust aside ceremony and weep desperately in her mother's arms for the world gone to pieces.
It was not so bad as that, she reminded herself. The succession was secure, or at least as secure as it could be under the circumstances, and she was godmother as well as grandmother to Marie's two children, the youngest just four months old. Of course, Marie herself was young and healthy--God preserve her--and wildly in love with her handsome Austrian husband, but something in Margaret always strayed to that possibility.
The dukes of Burgundy had thought themselves the equal of kings, indeed greater than some, but her husband's ignominious end marked a lesson to the world in the frailty of man. Margaret could have told him that, had he been willing to listen. Her father had been the greatest man in England until he was cut down on a frozen day in Yorkshire. The earl of Warwick, her charming, treacherous cousin, had put her brother Edward on the throne--there was no shame in admitting that--but died ten years later, fighting him for that selfsame throne. As for Ned--
Something seemed to lodge in her throat. "He killed our brother." It was barely a whisper, lost in the wind's roar. She did not want to think of George alone in the Tower, waiting for his murderers, drinking his weight in malmsey wine. It was said they'd drowned him in the barrel. Dickon might tell her the truth, if she could get him alone. She didn't doubt that he knew; he was Ned's right hand, after all. Now that he'd lopped off the other.
The winds were fair in the end, and they arrived at Dover by sunset. She was unsurprised to discover that Ned had remained in London, but couldn't suppress a shriek of joy when she saw the familiar, slightly stooped figure of her youngest brother. Dickon grinned as she threw her arms around him.
"You're a sight for sore eyes, sis," he said, the words muffled by the veils streaming from her headdress. "How fares the tottering state?"
She swatted him on the shoulder. "You should talk. I hear you're overrun by Scots."
"Thus is it ever in the north, or so I've been told. Although I'd hardly call us overrun--just the usual raids and the like. Ned wants me to send them packing from Berwick, but he's still trying to convince Parliament to give him the funds."
"What, has he run out of Londoners' wives to extort?" The story had crossed the Channel with Ned's enormous army that he'd charmed donations from the wives of London merchants in exchange for kisses. "Or are they perhaps not so easily convinced after the last time?"
Dickon's smile faltered a little. "Ah, sis, I fear you'll find him much changed. He still takes his sport with other men's wives, but I doubt they see him the same way."
Even that did not prepare her entirely. As the barge docked at the pier beside Westminster Palace, she had to force herself not to gape at the massive figure dripping with jewels who towered over the rest of the crowd. Time was that King Edward had been the comeliest man in England, if not Christendom at large, but clearly that had long since faded into gluttony, drunkenness, and any variety of additional sins, venal and otherwise.
Recovering herself, she held out one hand to him, every inch the Dowager Duchess, Madame la Grande, of Burgundy. "I bring greetings and good wishes, Your Grace, from the Duchess Mary and Archduke Maximilian."
"Fie on greetings and good wishes and Burgundian pomp! You are my sister, Meg, and I shall kiss you an it please me." She could smell stale wine on him as he embraced her, beneath the rich scent of ambergris. "What is this face?"
"Dearest, what have you done to yourself?" she asked with what she had come to regard as her courtly smile, perfected under the relentless eye of Charles' mother. "You did not heed my advice in Calais, I see."
"Now, Meg, don't scold."
Though she opened her mouth to argue further, she found herself face-to-face with her sister by marriage, as untouched by time and indulgence as Ned had been ravaged by them. Elizabeth shot her husband a brief sideways glance before greeting Margaret with a kiss of her own. "It is good to see you well after all this time, Lady Margaret."
"Your Grace," Margaret acknowledged, suddenly aware of just how many years yawned between her and the woman she had long ago befriended over the romances of Lancelot and the Grail in the pleasaunce at Greenwich. "I hear your brother Lord Rivers makes good use of Master Caxton."
That brought a rare smile to Elizabeth's face, dazzling enough to make Margaret catch her breath audibly. "All for the prince's benefit, and the realm's, I assure you." Linking her arm through Margaret's, she motioned for her attendants to follow them back to the palace.
That summer had an odd, dreamlike quality. Her official business--recruiting English archers to defend against France--went as smoothly as could be desired, and though she missed the effortless elegance of Bruges and Malines, it was difficult not to be swept up in the gaiety of her vast brood of nephews and nieces. This succession, it seemed, was well in hand.
She said as much to her mother as they watched the Princess Elizabeth--known to the court and the city of London as Madame la Dauphine though the French king had shown little inclination to go forth with her promised marriage to his son--coax Dickon's son to the centre of the great hall, his frail form all but engulfed by her brightly coloured skirts.
The Duchess of York, still wearing mourning for Margaret's father twenty years in his grave, turned the smallest of smiles upon her. "They are lovely children, in spite of everything."
Margaret frowned. "You haven't forgiven her after all these years? Surely she is as gracious and fine a queen as the lady of Savoy would ever have been." Indeed, the lady of Savoy, now the Duchess of Milan, had been making a scandal of herself with her late husband's carver, according to the latest rumours.
"It is not as simple as you think, Margaret." The smile grew decidedly frosty. "She indulges Edward when she should reprove him, though he strays all but daily from her bed--"
"Do you honestly think Ned would give up his ways for anybody?"
"He did break his engagement to the King of France's niece to marry her," snapped the Duchess. "And, before you reproach me, Margaret, I do not for an instant believe that nonsense my cousin of Warwick dredged up about witchcraft, but that does not change the fact that Edward was besotted with her, and she neglected to control him."
"Maman, I think you underestimate Ned's capacity for selfishness."
"Heaven forfend that day should come, for it will be the day that I forget his part in destroying his own flesh and blood." She crossed herself. "Requiescat in pace."
The Duchess had written to Margaret soon after word arrived of George's death, her letter a patchwork of proverbs and truncated phrases that concealed too much and explained too little. But that was her mother's way--she had lost six babes in the cradle and two grown sons to war and treason--and it was not Margaret's place to question her. Instead, she echoed gesture and prayer alike and did not press her mother further.
Knowing it was her final chance, she steeled herself to confront the king, hoping against hope as she paused outside the door to his chambers that he was alone.
She concealed her relief on discovering this with a low curtsey and an arch smile. "Does even your sister require an official audience, Your Grace? I feel I have only seen you in banquets and ceremonies."
Her brother's laughter, at least, had not changed, though it seemed to echo strangely in his fleshy frame. "Never for you, dearest Meg. Come in." He waved his attendants away and waited until the doors had closed behind them before continuing. "Widowhood agrees with you. You look splendid and you do Burgundy and England credit."
"Then I must protest that it is peace in Burgundy and not widowhood that agrees with me." She took a step toward him only to hesitate. "Ned--"
"I wish it had been otherwise, Meg. Truly, I do." He held up one hand. "Nobody ever faulted your husband's courage, least of all myself, but I fear his impulsiveness did him no good in the end."
"I didn't mean Charles." Margaret finally advanced to kneel before his chair. "You know what I must ask, Ned."
The eyes the king of England turned to her were red-veined with drink, but strangely blank. "Of course. This is about George."
"Who else?" She swallowed. "Ned, please, for love of God--"
"The sin is on my head, Meg, and none other. He was a traitor and he died on my word."
"I swear to you, Ned, I never meant for him to wed Marie." Tears sprang to Margaret's eyes. "We were playing for time, nothing more."
"Christ almighty, Meg, it wasn't that. Of course, George thought you were serious, but that is of no consequence." Ned sighed and looked at the floor. "Please don't kneel to me, Meg."
She did not move. "Will you tell me what he did?"
"You yourself saw the fruits of that."
Margaret's mouth dropped open. "But you forgave him, Ned. We all forgave him."
"Before he tried to defraud Dickon of the Warwick inheritance..."
"Dickon, I think, was quite capable of defending himself if what I hear is true." She paused to collect her rapidly fraying thoughts. "There must be something else." The alternative did not bear considering. She would not think so of her brother. "Tell me there's something else."
Ned finally looked at her again, a twisted smile on his face. "Do you remember when, after I made peace with Louis of France, your late and esteemed husband trotted out a certain tale about my birth?"
For a moment, Margaret had to rack her memory, never as effortless as Ned's. "Not that nonsense about Maman and the archer, surely."
"Precisely that."
Charles had learned the story years before from one of his former advisors, who claimed to have heard it from the French king. He had found it terribly amusing at the time, an amusement Margaret had manifestly not shared. An English archer named Blayborgne who dallied with the fair Duchess while her husband chased the Dauphin up and down the Seine. "You had our brother executed for repeating a story?"
As she spoke, she could see the colour rise in Ned's face--an uncharacteristic sign of temper in a man better known for excessive leniency. "I had the duke of Clarence executed because he gave me damned good reasons for it." He paused to take a deep breath. "Meg, I'm asking you as your brother. Will you leave it be?"
She shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes. "I can't, Ned. I need to understand, and if you won't tell me, I'll find someone who will." Rising to her feet, she curtsied blindly and started toward the door.
"If you think Dickon fought for him, you're wrong," Ned called after her. "He stood to gain the most from George's demise."
"At least he'll tell me the truth," she snapped as the door closed behind her. It was then that she noticed Dickon's distinctive shadow in the gleam of the torchlight. "How long have you been waiting?"
"Since I found out you'd decided to speak to him." He shrugged. "What did he tell you?"
"A great deal of nothing. Something about slandering Maman and defrauding you of your wife's inheritance."
"Did he tell you about the woman George murdered?" Margaret snapped to attention at the word and Dickon continued. "It was after the Lady Isabel died in childbed," that punctuated with a quick genuflect, "and George got the idea in his head that she'd been poisoned by one of her attendants. So he stormed into the poor lady's house, dragged her out, and hanged her for murder."
"Christ Jesu," whispered Margaret. "Had he lost his mind?"
"That was what I told Ned. Our sisters told him too; even Maman came out of seclusion to try and talk him out of it, but Ned wouldn't hear of it. George was too unpredictable, he said; too dangerous." Dickon sighed. "He may claim to have forgiven him all those years ago, but you can rest assured he never forgot."
"I still cannot understand."
Dickon slung his arm around her shoulders, though the top of his head barely reached Margaret's nose. "None of us can, Meg. George's fate was in the king's hands alone, and, for good or ill, the king made his choice."
"I cannot say I approve of many of Ned's choices," she said bitterly. "Surely you don't."
"Does it matter whether I do or not? That George was guilty of greed, weakness, and foolishness, I do not doubt. Those sins alone do not make him guilty of treason in my eyes, but I am not the king of England."
"How did he die, Dickon? Truly?"
Her brother's eyes slid away uncomfortably. "I believe the wine was poisoned, although I don't know for certain. I was told it was quick, and that he made confession and died in grace. More, I cannot say."
Margaret closed her eyes. "Then I will take what comfort I can in that."
Dickon grasped her hands and she looked at him, meeting the eyes so like their father's. "Ned lost his kingdom once, Meg, and to this day I think he wonders if all those lives might have been spared had he executed Richard Neville when he had the chance."
That much, at least, Margaret could understand. She recalled all too well the months of exile Ned and Dickon had spent in Bruges, so absurdly close to Margaret's court in Malines but forbidden from speaking to her until Charles chose to lend them his support. There had, of course, been a flurry of messengers passing back and forth between Malines and the palace of Louis de Bruges, but nothing had brought more relief to Margaret than seeing her brothers in the flesh on the first of January, knowing too that the intervention of her and her mother had guaranteed that George would aid them when they returned to England.
She still remembered Ned's words when she'd told him of her letters to George. There are many kinds of fools, Meg, but I fear George is the sort who will never learn from his mistakes. She had thought nothing of it at the time and it seemed George had been the one to pay the price.
"Ned may not regret it, Meg, but I promise you it does not sit well with him. All of this," his vague gesture seemed to encompass everything from Ned's riotous feasts to his flaunting of the goldsmith Shore's wife, "is nothing more than Ned distracting himself."
"He'll distract himself into an early grave if he isn't careful," Margaret said. "Not as dramatically as my late husband, perhaps, but no less inconvenient for his heirs."
"God protect him, then. I do what I can, but Ned sent me north for a reason and he intends to keep me there. As for his wife," Dickon's mouth twisted, "I fear she has more to gain from a child king than anyone."
"Hush, Dickon, for shame! You cannot mean that."
Dickon looked at her for a few moments. "You have been away from England long, sis. Far more has changed than simply Ned's girth."
"I don't believe it of Elizabeth," she said, thinking of a letter she had secreted away in her chambers in Malines. You have given me back my husband and my son his father. I pray you will never be in such need as I was, but if that should come to pass, ask whatever you will of me and I swear it shall be done. "You're as bad as Maman. I saw nothing here to trouble me, save what you already know. It seems to me that Elizabeth has done her duty and marvellously so."
At that last, she had to pull away from him, painfully aware of her own abject failure in that regard. Dickon placed one hand on her shoulder. "Meg, you were the third woman he married. The fault may well have been his."
"I assure you he did not think so." Charles, to his credit, had only rarely remarked upon his third wife's inability to conceive the longed-for male heir to the duchy of Burgundy. "But it is for the best, perhaps. The people love their duchess, and soon it will be time for me to follow Maman into seclusion."
"You do not mean that, Meg," he said softly. "You are too much of this world." After a moment, he added, "I would have come, you know. After Charles died. Rivers and I both, we would have brought an army to crush that damnable French spider once and for all--"
Margaret smiled and pressed one finger to his mouth. "And, God willing, you still can. Rest assured, Burgundy will not stand between England and a second Agincourt."
"I'll hold you to it."
iii. August 1485
It was as though her heart had been hollowed out.
She had had four brothers once--now she had none at all. Her mother's letters, once detailed screeds of court gossip laced with acid observations, spoke only of God and death. Though it was a sin, Margaret found herself praying for her mother to find eternal peace, if only so she need not bury yet another child of hers.
They had not buried Dickon. She had listened to the messenger from England, still wearing her brother's badge of the white boar, and had seen once again the young soldier who had brought told her of Charles' death. Another foolish, vainglorious boy cut down in his prime. Only, she wept for Dickon as she had not for her husband.
She consigned Henry of Richmond to the darkest of Hell's circles even as she smiled in the face of his supposed ambassadors. They came to ask for Burgundy's acknowledgement of his stolen crown, and her son-in-law had no choice but to accept. They had not the strength to resist both France and England, not openly.
Archduke Maximilian, aged with cares since Marie's untimely death three years before, stood with her at the window as they watched the ambassadors depart. "I have heard...rumours, Madame."
"Rumours?"
"Of your nephews."
Margaret turned slowly, aware of the sudden pounding of her heart. "I was told they were dead." She had written to Dickon, demanding the truth, but he had not answered and it had not surprised her. It was only after she heard of his wife's death that he had written what she did not know then was his final letter to her. A crown of lead is the price I paid for one of gold. I begin to understand what happened to our brother. "That they were murdered by my brother Richard."
"So were we all, Madame," said Maximilian slowly, "and yet, there are rumours. Should England prove an unreliable ally..."
"...perhaps a rumour might become more than words in the wind." Margaret smiled. "It would give me something to do in my advancing years. Perhaps a better choice than taking the veil."
The look he gave her was one of such horror that she laughed. "Oh, my dear boy, I never truly considered it. I fear I am too much of this world."
It seemed the least she could do--to live when those she loved could not.
Finis.