The Marriage of Margaret of Clarence to René of Châlon, Prince of Orange
Margaret of Clarence, Princess of Orange
She stood at the alter with a man of harsh features and harsh words. German was not one of the languages she had been taught, and since the closest thing she had to a common language was his butchering of Latin, she knew little of the man she was to marry. Despite her apprehension, however, she refused to look back. Her mother, the honourable Dowager Duchess, had always told her:
“Stand straight and pretend you cannot even see their eyes.”
And so instead, she stared into the face of René of Châlon, almost soft through the veil, and tried to figure out what type of man he might be.
He had grown in the court of the King of Hungary, that she knew. His keeper now watched on through a veiled window, pretending he was not there, as Hungary was currently at war with France, which England was allied to. However, that didn’t stop him from freely travelling through the country in question, attending this wedding and even meeting the Queen Mother at one point, although a visit to his niece, the Queen, was not allowed. Not even a thin screen would hide him then.
René of Chalon did not look at her, despite their linked future. Perhaps he was nervous, but Margaret didn’t think so. Nervous men didn’t breathe so evenly, nor did they sigh while their betrothed said her vows.
He wasn’t nervous. Maybe he just didn’t care.
Despite this, she wasn’t offended. He’d expected one of the Princesses of Hungary, perhaps the beautiful Anna or the playful Margaret, currently watching enraptured as she placed the ring on her husband’s hand. Instead, he got the daughter of the least popular English Duke, the product of a love match between the brash Duke Humphrey and the entirely unsuitable Widow FitzHerbert, who brought no wealth and no standing, just herself.
Margaret of Clarence often wondered why the people hated her mother so much. If the proud Mary FitzHerbert, with her long face and sharp manners, prodded them so, who did they cheer to the Dowager Duchess of Gloucester, who’s manners were even stiffer. The Princess Margaret, with her scandals and ugly dresses, was a favourite.
Maybe because, deep down, the people knew a fake. The Dowager Duchess of Gloucester had blood of the bluest kind, and the Princess Margaret was one of their own, a daughter of the Prince of Wales, may his rest be peaceful. But as the Widow FitzHerbert, Mary FitzHerbert was nothing. The niece of a niece of a cousin to the crown, she married low and had expected little else. Then, when her husband had died, she got a chance to come to London, to be received as a lady to Mary of Exeter, Dowager Duchess of Pembroke, the resident ghost of Westminster Palace. There, she had met the 22 year old Duke of Clarence.
Margaret had heard the story a thousand times in her youth. Mary FitzHerbert had walked into the room, stark in white in a room filled with women dressed like peacocks. She’d seemed lit from within, glowing with humility. Her father had known then, this was his Duchess. Setting aside a betrothed with a foreign princess, in a role so similar to the usurper Edward of York, he’d eloped and married the Widow FitzHerbert, and with that, his fortune had been ruined.
The Duke of Gloucester had married his intended a year later, Mary FitzHerbert was frozen out of the royal family through any means necessary, and the two had taken up in Middleham, under the roof of the ancient Anne Neville, Princess of Wales and Duchess of Pembroke. She’d been born a year later, and Henry two years after. No more had come.
She wondered if René of Chalon had such a story about his parents, but she knew he would not. Good royals married who they were told which was shown by her marrying a cold German man, when all she’d wanted was the Duke of Richmond, her own age, tall and handsome. Granted, she’d known it wasn’t to be, but regardless, she might shed a tear when he eventually got to marry his own betrothed, most likely the beautiful Anne of Gloucester, a duchess in her own right by word of the King.
Her husband turned to the crowd, and that was her cue to step towards him and walk down the isle again, to the wedding feast. Her mother, two steps behind, kept almost stepping on the edge of her dress, and poor Henry, her young brother, tripped over himself not to fall in his new shoes. The young Duke walked in hand with his mother, his betrothed, Joan Stafford, heiress to the Buckingham fortune, although not the title.
‘Those two would be fine’, she thought in the times she watched them interact.
Henry of Clarence might grow up into a handsome man, but all the beauty in the world couldn’t make up for a bad heart, and luckily, if the young Duke had inherited his father’s meek demeanor, he’d also inherited his kind heart. Thus, despite his own preferment of the Scottish Princess Isabel, who sat beside her mother in attendance to the wedding, he would be kind to small Joan, with her petite frame and wild hair.
Margaret drew herself upwards, willing her own small height to seem significant as she stopped to stand in front of Anne of Lancaster, her aunt and the woman she put above all others. If her mother didn’t deserve the people’s hate, the former Queen of Aragon didn’t deserve their pity. Tall, still beautiful despite her age and with wisdom beyond her years, she’d lost everything when her husband died, and had come home as the last remenant of a failed alliance with the Kings of Spain. The Princess Anne might have made a new match, and for a time, she’d been pursued by all the great magnates of England, but now, she stood alone, with her own lands, own money, and own life.
“Widowhood is a pleasure,” she had often repeated, “Loneliness is a symptom of an empty mind.”
Margaret often wondered what filled her thoughts if an empty mind was the enemy. Did she remember her husband, the son she had seen die in another woman’s arms? Or was it something more?
Whatever filled her mind, today she praised Margaret as a bride, although they both knew she’d never match the beauty of some of the Lancastrian offshoots. She had none of the dark prettiness of Anne of Gloucester, nor the golden smiles of the Breton girls, richer than the main line, yet so comfortable as to bow to their King. If Margaret hadn’t had the singular blue eyes of her father, she might have thought herself a changeling. But a Lancaster she was, and as she was about to leave the lot of them.
She was sweating in the heavy gown, with the tight sleeves the Duchess of Brittany had suddenly started wearing and made the mode. Her mother continued to wear her lose widow’s dress, all in white like a Queen of France. Where she had learnt about that custom, Margaret would never know, but if Mary of Exeter was a ghost in England, her mother might be a widow in Clarence House.
Suddenly, food was served, and she drank deeply of the wine placed in front of her, while her husband merely sipped. It was the first sign of delicacy by a man who had, a hour ago, jammed a ring on her finger hard enough to scrap her knuckle. Then she learnt what he was delicate in: his food.
It was a little humorous; he nibbled at everything, eating like a bird.
Her brother laughed, and she heard her mother’s food quietly kick him in the shin, as not to disturb the feast. But when he looked at her she knew, he was going to make a joke of this for months.
She wouldn’t be here.
Suddenly, it dawned on her that she was leaving England. And not just for Brittany or France or Scotland, where she had family, but Prague. Her husband was in attendance to the King of Hungary, and she wouldn’t know a soul save him. Suddenly she wished her mother had accepted an offer by any of the English Nobility. It might have been nice to stay in England, where she might be overshadowed by the other ladies, but at least she knew them.
*
The bedding was private. That, at least, was a relief. René of Châlon had been adamant that this, his first night with his bride, was his alone, and thus, despite some claiming the Prince of Orange had a duty to prove his marriage, they now sat alone in her mother’s former marriage bed, far apart enough that she wondered if she could even touch him without stretching out.
“Nice?”
It was one of few words he knew in common with her, and she tried to reciprocate her attempts at conversation.
“Very nice. Comfortable?”
That lead to confusion. For a moment, she realised he had nice eyes, and moved closer.
“Nice?”
She patted the bed, to ask if he thought the mattress comfortable. It wasn’t, because her mother had had the mattress overstuffed, but she wanted to delay the inevitable.
He didn’t take the hint.
She lay back and let it happen. This was her bride’s duty, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Sure, his hands held her too hard, and she wasn’t a fan of all the breathing, but it was quick, and when he looked at her next, she wasn’t sure she didn’t feel her heart jump.
“Nice?”
“Nice.”
He fell asleep rather quickly. That was also nice.
They’d left them a plate of fruit, and it suddenly occurred to her they had expected this event might happen multiple times. Maybe it should, but she wasn’t going to push the sleeping man, snoring and tossing on the lumpy mattress.
She bit into an apple and lit a candle, refusing to sit in the dark.
It was all too much. She’d hoped for more from a marriage, but apparently, this was the deal. Life had dealt her a hand in René of Châlon, and now she had to live with him. It was all she could do not to cry.
She ended up crying.
Margaret of Clarence, Princess of Orange
She stood at the alter with a man of harsh features and harsh words. German was not one of the languages she had been taught, and since the closest thing she had to a common language was his butchering of Latin, she knew little of the man she was to marry. Despite her apprehension, however, she refused to look back. Her mother, the honourable Dowager Duchess, had always told her:
“Stand straight and pretend you cannot even see their eyes.”
And so instead, she stared into the face of René of Châlon, almost soft through the veil, and tried to figure out what type of man he might be.
He had grown in the court of the King of Hungary, that she knew. His keeper now watched on through a veiled window, pretending he was not there, as Hungary was currently at war with France, which England was allied to. However, that didn’t stop him from freely travelling through the country in question, attending this wedding and even meeting the Queen Mother at one point, although a visit to his niece, the Queen, was not allowed. Not even a thin screen would hide him then.
René of Chalon did not look at her, despite their linked future. Perhaps he was nervous, but Margaret didn’t think so. Nervous men didn’t breathe so evenly, nor did they sigh while their betrothed said her vows.
He wasn’t nervous. Maybe he just didn’t care.
Despite this, she wasn’t offended. He’d expected one of the Princesses of Hungary, perhaps the beautiful Anna or the playful Margaret, currently watching enraptured as she placed the ring on her husband’s hand. Instead, he got the daughter of the least popular English Duke, the product of a love match between the brash Duke Humphrey and the entirely unsuitable Widow FitzHerbert, who brought no wealth and no standing, just herself.
Margaret of Clarence often wondered why the people hated her mother so much. If the proud Mary FitzHerbert, with her long face and sharp manners, prodded them so, who did they cheer to the Dowager Duchess of Gloucester, who’s manners were even stiffer. The Princess Margaret, with her scandals and ugly dresses, was a favourite.
Maybe because, deep down, the people knew a fake. The Dowager Duchess of Gloucester had blood of the bluest kind, and the Princess Margaret was one of their own, a daughter of the Prince of Wales, may his rest be peaceful. But as the Widow FitzHerbert, Mary FitzHerbert was nothing. The niece of a niece of a cousin to the crown, she married low and had expected little else. Then, when her husband had died, she got a chance to come to London, to be received as a lady to Mary of Exeter, Dowager Duchess of Pembroke, the resident ghost of Westminster Palace. There, she had met the 22 year old Duke of Clarence.
Margaret had heard the story a thousand times in her youth. Mary FitzHerbert had walked into the room, stark in white in a room filled with women dressed like peacocks. She’d seemed lit from within, glowing with humility. Her father had known then, this was his Duchess. Setting aside a betrothed with a foreign princess, in a role so similar to the usurper Edward of York, he’d eloped and married the Widow FitzHerbert, and with that, his fortune had been ruined.
The Duke of Gloucester had married his intended a year later, Mary FitzHerbert was frozen out of the royal family through any means necessary, and the two had taken up in Middleham, under the roof of the ancient Anne Neville, Princess of Wales and Duchess of Pembroke. She’d been born a year later, and Henry two years after. No more had come.
She wondered if René of Chalon had such a story about his parents, but she knew he would not. Good royals married who they were told which was shown by her marrying a cold German man, when all she’d wanted was the Duke of Richmond, her own age, tall and handsome. Granted, she’d known it wasn’t to be, but regardless, she might shed a tear when he eventually got to marry his own betrothed, most likely the beautiful Anne of Gloucester, a duchess in her own right by word of the King.
Her husband turned to the crowd, and that was her cue to step towards him and walk down the isle again, to the wedding feast. Her mother, two steps behind, kept almost stepping on the edge of her dress, and poor Henry, her young brother, tripped over himself not to fall in his new shoes. The young Duke walked in hand with his mother, his betrothed, Joan Stafford, heiress to the Buckingham fortune, although not the title.
‘Those two would be fine’, she thought in the times she watched them interact.
Henry of Clarence might grow up into a handsome man, but all the beauty in the world couldn’t make up for a bad heart, and luckily, if the young Duke had inherited his father’s meek demeanor, he’d also inherited his kind heart. Thus, despite his own preferment of the Scottish Princess Isabel, who sat beside her mother in attendance to the wedding, he would be kind to small Joan, with her petite frame and wild hair.
Margaret drew herself upwards, willing her own small height to seem significant as she stopped to stand in front of Anne of Lancaster, her aunt and the woman she put above all others. If her mother didn’t deserve the people’s hate, the former Queen of Aragon didn’t deserve their pity. Tall, still beautiful despite her age and with wisdom beyond her years, she’d lost everything when her husband died, and had come home as the last remenant of a failed alliance with the Kings of Spain. The Princess Anne might have made a new match, and for a time, she’d been pursued by all the great magnates of England, but now, she stood alone, with her own lands, own money, and own life.
“Widowhood is a pleasure,” she had often repeated, “Loneliness is a symptom of an empty mind.”
Margaret often wondered what filled her thoughts if an empty mind was the enemy. Did she remember her husband, the son she had seen die in another woman’s arms? Or was it something more?
Whatever filled her mind, today she praised Margaret as a bride, although they both knew she’d never match the beauty of some of the Lancastrian offshoots. She had none of the dark prettiness of Anne of Gloucester, nor the golden smiles of the Breton girls, richer than the main line, yet so comfortable as to bow to their King. If Margaret hadn’t had the singular blue eyes of her father, she might have thought herself a changeling. But a Lancaster she was, and as she was about to leave the lot of them.
She was sweating in the heavy gown, with the tight sleeves the Duchess of Brittany had suddenly started wearing and made the mode. Her mother continued to wear her lose widow’s dress, all in white like a Queen of France. Where she had learnt about that custom, Margaret would never know, but if Mary of Exeter was a ghost in England, her mother might be a widow in Clarence House.
Suddenly, food was served, and she drank deeply of the wine placed in front of her, while her husband merely sipped. It was the first sign of delicacy by a man who had, a hour ago, jammed a ring on her finger hard enough to scrap her knuckle. Then she learnt what he was delicate in: his food.
It was a little humorous; he nibbled at everything, eating like a bird.
Her brother laughed, and she heard her mother’s food quietly kick him in the shin, as not to disturb the feast. But when he looked at her she knew, he was going to make a joke of this for months.
She wouldn’t be here.
Suddenly, it dawned on her that she was leaving England. And not just for Brittany or France or Scotland, where she had family, but Prague. Her husband was in attendance to the King of Hungary, and she wouldn’t know a soul save him. Suddenly she wished her mother had accepted an offer by any of the English Nobility. It might have been nice to stay in England, where she might be overshadowed by the other ladies, but at least she knew them.
*
The bedding was private. That, at least, was a relief. René of Châlon had been adamant that this, his first night with his bride, was his alone, and thus, despite some claiming the Prince of Orange had a duty to prove his marriage, they now sat alone in her mother’s former marriage bed, far apart enough that she wondered if she could even touch him without stretching out.
“Nice?”
It was one of few words he knew in common with her, and she tried to reciprocate her attempts at conversation.
“Very nice. Comfortable?”
That lead to confusion. For a moment, she realised he had nice eyes, and moved closer.
“Nice?”
She patted the bed, to ask if he thought the mattress comfortable. It wasn’t, because her mother had had the mattress overstuffed, but she wanted to delay the inevitable.
He didn’t take the hint.
She lay back and let it happen. This was her bride’s duty, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Sure, his hands held her too hard, and she wasn’t a fan of all the breathing, but it was quick, and when he looked at her next, she wasn’t sure she didn’t feel her heart jump.
“Nice?”
“Nice.”
He fell asleep rather quickly. That was also nice.
They’d left them a plate of fruit, and it suddenly occurred to her they had expected this event might happen multiple times. Maybe it should, but she wasn’t going to push the sleeping man, snoring and tossing on the lumpy mattress.
She bit into an apple and lit a candle, refusing to sit in the dark.
It was all too much. She’d hoped for more from a marriage, but apparently, this was the deal. Life had dealt her a hand in René of Châlon, and now she had to live with him. It was all she could do not to cry.
She ended up crying.