Margaret—and Margetta.
‘A bird, yea,’ said King Edward ruthlessly. ‘’Twill be a hawk that returns to England. Now, its prey flies high, and makes a great clamouring, but after—why, if men desire to know who struck the fiercest blows, ask the ones who felt them.’
The Governor laughed wonderfully at this jest, and then they fell to speaking in Flemish, most of it that I could gather concerning King Louis, the threat of invasion to precious trade. And Gruthuyse told us that his horses, men and house were ours, and he was better than his word, for we were lodged most splendidly in his mansion at Bruges.
My window frame was coiled and carved with all manner of device. Looking down, I could see the bustling street, and the women of Bruges in their high caps. Sir John Paston had once written home about these women, saying that they were fiercer than any man in lust; yet, writing thus, he had not seemed displeased by the notion. And there was I, standing watching them. The wintry wind caught at these very caps, twirling the veiling like frost about the lovesome faces, lifting the skirts higher than was seemly. John Paston had said they were easily led from virtue. I fingered the window frame and felt the shape of a marguerite. Moon daisy. In Bloomsbury, growing tall. Margetta, easily seduced, and a grey whipping sea between us. Misery breeds on idleness, and the Seigneur de la Gruthuyse had swamped the King with gentlemen and boys to work his every will; so I was no longer called to swathe him in towels, rub rose-water into his great bare body, or play the lute and sing. I was treated with respect as one of his Grace’s entourage, and as one who would retrieve the bleeding bird of York, along with the thousands waiting somewhere in mist. But amid the costly fog which clouded the Governor’s soul and all our days of exile, I thought on my love, and, in a chamber fraught with snoring Flemish gentlemen, nightly lay trembling upon my own mind.
I was in this unholy state when I met with Richard of Gloucester, one evening after supper. The King had gone with the Governor to Tournai, for there was a freeman of that city whom Edward desired to meet, being possessed of the fairest wife in Flanders... Catherine de Faro. The young pig stewed in Rhenish lay languidly in my belly as I left the chamber.
‘How does my lord?’ I asked mechanically.
He seemed restless. ‘I am but lately returned from Lille,’ he said. ‘From my sister, the Duchess Margaret. The King has tried all persuasions, but my brother-in-law will not yet commit himself.’
Charles le Téméraire, your rashness must be sleeping, I said to myself; and then aloud, in a sudden uprush of woe:
‘Sir, will the Duke ever bring himself to aid our cause? Will he wait until King Louis invades Flanders? Shall we never return to England?’
He studied me. ‘You are dolorous,’ he remarked. ‘Would that your keen sight could pierce the future!’
‘I am no seer, my lord,’ I answered. ‘To my mind, it is a sin against Holy Church.’ Cackling, greybearded Hogan. English fields. Marguerites. Margetta.
Richard was smiling, his look still intent. ‘Yet how much easement we should know at this time, if you were blessed, or cursed, with such a gift.’
‘The King’s astrologer fills his office well,’ I said nervously. ‘My sight is but good for spying out devices, warships and the like.’
‘And faces,’ he said gently, and as I did not know how to reply to this, he went on, laughing: ‘A plague on my musing. Let us leave it to Master Astrologer, and when we are both crabbed old men, we will see how sure his shaft struck the blazon!’
I sighed at this last word, for he was speaking already like the Flemish archers, of the squared board divided into differing values, and not the homely English butt and marker. Oft-times I saw these squares so close they merged into one and I had been bested that day by an arrogant young knight from St
‘A bird, yea,’ said King Edward ruthlessly. ‘’Twill be a hawk that returns to England. Now, its prey flies high, and makes a great clamouring, but after—why, if men desire to know who struck the fiercest blows, ask the ones who felt them.’
The Governor laughed wonderfully at this jest, and then they fell to speaking in Flemish, most of it that I could gather concerning King Louis, the threat of invasion to precious trade. And Gruthuyse told us that his horses, men and house were ours, and he was better than his word, for we were lodged most splendidly in his mansion at Bruges.
My window frame was coiled and carved with all manner of device. Looking down, I could see the bustling street, and the women of Bruges in their high caps. Sir John Paston had once written home about these women, saying that they were fiercer than any man in lust; yet, writing thus, he had not seemed displeased by the notion. And there was I, standing watching them. The wintry wind caught at these very caps, twirling the veiling like frost about the lovesome faces, lifting the skirts higher than was seemly. John Paston had said they were easily led from virtue. I fingered the window frame and felt the shape of a marguerite. Moon daisy. In Bloomsbury, growing tall. Margetta, easily seduced, and a grey whipping sea between us. Misery breeds on idleness, and the Seigneur de la Gruthuyse had swamped the King with gentlemen and boys to work his every will; so I was no longer called to swathe him in towels, rub rose-water into his great bare body, or play the lute and sing. I was treated with respect as one of his Grace’s entourage, and as one who would retrieve the bleeding bird of York, along with the thousands waiting somewhere in mist. But amid the costly fog which clouded the Governor’s soul and all our days of exile, I thought on my love, and, in a chamber fraught with snoring Flemish gentlemen, nightly lay trembling upon my own mind.
I was in this unholy state when I met with Richard of Gloucester, one evening after supper. The King had gone with the Governor to Tournai, for there was a freeman of that city whom Edward desired to meet, being possessed of the fairest wife in Flanders... Catherine de Faro. The young pig stewed in Rhenish lay languidly in my belly as I left the chamber.
‘How does my lord?’ I asked mechanically.
He seemed restless. ‘I am but lately returned from Lille,’ he said. ‘From my sister, the Duchess Margaret. The King has tried all persuasions, but my brother-in-law will not yet commit himself.’
Charles le Téméraire, your rashness must be sleeping, I said to myself; and then aloud, in a sudden uprush of woe:
‘Sir, will the Duke ever bring himself to aid our cause? Will he wait until King Louis invades Flanders? Shall we never return to England?’
He studied me. ‘You are dolorous,’ he remarked. ‘Would that your keen sight could pierce the future!’
‘I am no seer, my lord,’ I answered. ‘To my mind, it is a sin against Holy Church.’ Cackling, greybearded Hogan. English fields. Marguerites. Margetta.
Richard was smiling, his look still intent. ‘Yet how much easement we should know at this time, if you were blessed, or cursed, with such a gift.’
‘The King’s astrologer fills his office well,’ I said nervously. ‘My sight is but good for spying out devices, warships and the like.’
‘And faces,’ he said gently, and as I did not know how to reply to this, he went on, laughing: ‘A plague on my musing. Let us leave it to Master Astrologer, and when we are both crabbed old men, we will see how sure his shaft struck the blazon!’
I sighed at this last word, for he was speaking already like the Flemish archers, of the squared board divided into differing values, and not the homely English butt and marker. Oft-times I saw these squares so close they merged into one and I had been bested that day by an arrogant young knight from St
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