Lady of the Roses (10 page)

“‘I went to bed early one night,’” I quoted from King René’s manuscript, “‘tired and preoccupied with musings about love. Then—was it a vision, a dream?—Love himself suddenly appeared before me, taking the heart from my breast and handing it to Desire….’”

“You have read my father’s tales?” she asked with great surprise.

“I have committed them to memory, my lady. Your royal father writes beautiful rhyme and shows tender wisdom about matters of the heart.”

“Rise, my child. Take a seat.” The queen reached out her hand to me and drew me to my feet. “I believe in love. ’Tis a wondrous thing, not to be lightly dismissed. ’Tis why I spend so much time arranging matches. It pleases me to see love rewarded, to make others happy.”

I looked at her and knew my eyes had widened with hope. But her next words shattered it as a sword shatters glass.

“But this can never be.”

I hid my face and bit my lips to keep back my tears.

I KEPT TO MY BED FOR DAYS. TEARS I COULD NOT
shed before the queen flowed copiously now, drenching my pillow. How could I marry someone for whom I had no regard, now that I had tasted love?

Ursula brought me broth and tried to make me eat. I averted my face.

“Now, now, dear lady, if you do not wish to eat, do you at least wish for news?”

Her tone held a cheery note. I turned my head and looked at her. “There is to be a council meeting in Coventry on the first day of December,” she said with smiling eyes.

I struggled up to my side, my heart beating wildly.
John would be there!

“There’s more…. The queen has sent Somerset away to Wales on royal business. He is not expected to return until the council convenes in Coventry, when the Duke of York arrives. We leave London tomorrow. You have only a few weeks until you see your love again, and who knows what news he brings—or what the future brings? Now, sweet lady, eat your soup.”

With wagons loaded, carts creaking, and horses neighing, the court departed for Coventry early the next morning. I was barely able to contain my excitement, but while the music of minstrels incited me to dream of love, there was no mistaking the mood of the people. They hated Marguerite. All along the way, they gathered along the roadside, staring at us silently with sullen faces. No daisies had been fashioned to adorn the women’s hair or the rude tunics of the peasants in honor of the queen, and their solemn expressions grew dark when she came into view, flanked by Egremont and the thick-necked, hard-faced Lord Clifford, another of Marguerite’s young favorites who had lost his father at St. Albans. The people blamed their foreign queen for the loss of their French lands, especially Maine, the richest and most important dominion of all, which she had personally promised to her uncle, King Charles of France, and delivered to him soon after her arrival in England. In addition, she had prevailed on her malleable husband, Henry, to cede Anjou to France. Yet she had brought nothing in return except a brief truce. Even her gown had to be provided by Henry before she could be presented to the people, so poor had she been. Now she arrayed herself splendidly—perhaps too splendidly—and her favorites enriched themselves at the expense of the treasury.

She was blamed, too, for the death of King Henry’s uncle Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, who had accused the late dukes Somerset and Suffolk of mismanagement of the war. The people had loved him as they now loved the Duke of York, but he had been arrested by his great foe Suffolk and lay dead within the week.
Murdered,
the whispers said,
by the queen and her favorites
. They never blamed the king. They loved him. He was a saint, deeply religious; he hated bloodshed and pardoned every crime. But he was soft as churned butter in the hands of his Frenchwoman.

As soon as we arrived at Coventry, the queen dismissed me and all her ladies and, taking little Prince Edward, she went to join King Henry in his private apartments. The castle had been built in the eleventh century and rebuilt in the twelfth, and had fallen into disrepair. It was a gloomy place, surrounded by a great moat that ran red from the color of the soil. Its rooms had once been splendid, with embossed ceilings, inlaid stone floors in patterns of flowers and fleur-de-lis, gilded hammer-beam roofs, and much colored glass—but time had dimmed their beauty. Now the wind whistled loudly through the halls, moisture clung to the stone walls, and buckets stood in many rooms to catch the rain that leaked through the ceilings.

“Why does the queen choose to stay here?” Ursula inquired as we unpacked our coffer and hung the dresses to air on a peg in the corner of the dismal chamber.

From force of habit, I glanced around before I replied. “Coventry is Lancastrian, and London is Yorkist. She feels safe here.”

Ursula placed her bright red head close to mine. “Yet she raised the taxes in Leicester fivefold in two years,” she whispered. “How can they approve?”

I shrugged. Who understood anything anymore? It was all too complicated. “People see what they want to see,” I said.

I spent my time in the queen’s company, but never when she was with the king. In the mornings I helped her dress, arrange her hair, and make her beauty preparations, rubbing sheep fat into her face, tinting her cheeks with rouge, and darkening her pale eyebrows with charcoal from the pit of a burnt peach stone. During the day I ran errands for her, carrying her instructions to the far reaches of the castle, and sorted through some of the more personal petitions that came from the female servants, settling what problems I could and laying the rest before her. The evenings she did not spend with King Henry were spent in the company of her ladies. There we sang and I played my lyre, and read to her from her collection of illuminated manuscripts, and worked on a tapestry King Henry had designed that he wished to be ready for Yuletide.

I wondered about the queen. She had to know how matters stood between Somerset and me; yet she continued to show me favor. Not one to hide her feelings, she clearly enjoyed my company nearly as much as that of Elizabeth Woodville. Perhaps it was because marriage offers poured in for us both, and that pleased the queen’s romantic nature. Yet Elizabeth had never expressed interest in any of her suitors, whether they were young or old. One had even come from a well-born retainer of the Earl of Warwick, and Warwick himself had written Elizabeth to press the knight’s suit. It was a good match for a damsel of such low stock on the paternal side, the only side that counted.

“Do you not wish to wed?” I asked Elizabeth one day as we worked on the king’s tapestry, unable to restrain my curiosity.

“Of course I do,” she said with a throw of her haughty head and silver-gold hair. “What makes you think otherwise?”

“You are eighteen, well past marriageable age, and no one is fairer than you.”

She laughed, but with a softer note than usual. It occurred to me that she liked being flattered. “Well, you can be sure I won’t be going into a nunnery just to leave the field open to you.”

When I recovered from my astonishment, I said, “’Tis not why I ask. I only marvel that you have evaded marriage so long. Surely many have bid high for your hand.”

“Not high enough for my mother, the Duchess of Bedford.”

There was some tittering from the girls in the corner. When Elizabeth pointedly glanced their way, they wiped the grins from their faces and bowed their heads over the tapestry.

“Have you never been in love, then?” I asked.

“Love? What has that to do with marriage?” she demanded. “Only a fool seeks love when it is power and money that matter.”

I was astounded, and my expression told her so, for she gave a laugh. “I see you are one of those silly fools who disagrees. Let me advise you that if you wed for love, you will surely regret it.”

“But why, Elizabeth?”

“If Sir Lancelot lives long enough, he becomes Sir Fart-A-Lot, my dear. I thought even fools knew that.”

MY ROOM AT COVENTRY CASTLE WAS SMALL AS
a dungeon cell, and there was nothing to be seen from my side of the building except rooftops and walls. Yet I enjoyed Coventry more than I expected. The knowledge that I would see John again colored my thoughts and dreams, and Somerset’s absence cheered me immensely. He was gone through November, and it felt as if the sun had broken through the clouds. In my lightened mood, I found myself clapping loudly for the mummers after our suppers and humming merrily as I helped decorate the queen’s apartments with Yuletide greenery. The ugly bishop named Dr. Morton, who had startled me in the hallway at Westminster, frequented the queen’s court at Coventry, and though a strangely unpleasant sensation always came over me at the sight of him, even this could not dull my pleasure.

“Only two more days, and John will arrive with the Duke of York!” I whispered to Ursula. The pealing of church bells through the day and the chant of monks at the holy hours kept tally of the passing time to remind me how joyfully near we drew to the first of December and the council meeting.

On the eve of John’s arrival, as I took my customary leave of the queen in the royal chamber after Vespers, she said, “Seek out Simon the Toy Maker in town tomorrow morning and tell him we wish him to carve us an army of toy soldiers for our prince, Edward, as a Yuletide gift.”

“Aye, my queen,” I replied, grateful that my meeting with John was not forestalled. He had sent me a message to meet him in the king’s sunken pleasure garden, near the dovecote, shortly after Prime, when no one else was likely to be there.

I did not sleep that night, so anxious was I to see my love—so filled with hope and happiness that all would somehow be well, and we’d find a way to wed! Morning finally dawned, heralded by the loud chirping of birds. I dressed with great excitement. Even dreary Coventry Castle, bedecked with lush greenery and holly and resounding with singing and laughter, had brightened to reflect my merry mood as I hurried to the sunken garden, laughing as Ursula ran to keep up with me in the light snow that had begun to fall.

“You have fleet feet!” she called out, and I giggled at her jest, for it was as we had shopped along Fleet Street before we left for Coventry that a flower seller had flourished a bow and handed me a sprig of holly. Hidden in the greenery was a note from John, with instructions about where to meet him on the morning of the council meeting.

Church bells chimed the hour of eight as I lifted my skirts and tripped down the worn stone steps into the garden, stepping carefully in the snow, my mantle flowing behind me. John was already waiting by the dovecote, his hound at his heels. Leaving Ursula to guard our privacy at the top of the steps, I ran along the path deep into the garden and flew into his arms.

“My love, my dearest love,” he murmured into my hair, swinging me into his embrace as Rufus barked a greeting.

I gazed up at him and fingered the noble lines of his handsome face, trying to imprint them on my memory. “I live for these moments,” I whispered, grateful for the knowledge that he was safe at my side, however short the time would prove.

“One day we shall be together, my angel, never to be parted.” He took my hands into his own and looked at me with a tender smile.

“Never to be parted,” I repeated. “How good that sounds, my lord.” I wondered whether John truly believed such a dream could come true. I wasn’t certain I did.

A commotion by the garden wall startled me from my blissful reverie as Ursula cried out in loud warning, “My lords—”

“Get thee gone, woman, if you know what’s good for you!” came the angry retort. Rufus leapt to his feet, barking fiercely, and I gave a gasp. It was Somerset’s voice. He clattered down the garden steps and and a moment later came into view between the hedgerows lining the path. His color deepened to crimson when he saw us, and a vein throbbed in his forehead. He stepped forward, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Rufus let out a low growl.

“What have we here?” Somerset mocked, taking no notice of Rufus and exchanging a glance with a surly fellow at his side who had the look of a lawless ruffian. “I do believe we’ve caught lovebirds attempting to nest. What say you to divesting this cock of his feathers, Cockayne?”

The man called Cockayne gave a lopsided grin and drew his sword. John pushed me behind him. In the same instant, though I didn’t see him withdraw his weapon from its sheath, the blade glittered in his hand.

“Two against one, how ungallant of you,” John said, directing himself to Somerset. “Nevertheless, I thank you for the pleasure of divesting you both of your ugly hides.” The shock of steel against steel clanged around me, and the thin wintry greenery shivered in the blast of the currents they stirred as John exchanged blows with the two men.

I pulled out the small knife I had carried in my sleeve since the night Somerset had accosted me. Awaiting opportunity, I edged back to the wall and made a wide arc around him and the ruffian until I stood at their backs. Rufus kept barking, but, like me, he dared not attack, for the men were moving too swiftly. While Somerset and the other man hacked at him, John parried their strokes expertly, but after a while the exertion of fighting two men at once began to tell on him. His movements slowed, and I heard his heavy breathing. I was preparing to lunge forward and thrust my dagger into the ruffian’s arm to buy John time when a shout rang out. “Halt!”

I swung around; John and Somerset froze. The Duke of Buckingham and his armed retainers surrounded us, their sword points ringing the fighting trio. “Drop your weapons!” the duke commanded. “Disturbing the king’s peace in his own garden—have you no shame?”

Warily, John lay down his sword. The other two followed suit.

The duke turned his gaze on me, and I saw that he understood clearly what had happened. He returned his glance to John and Somerset. “And you both, take heed…. The queen will not suffer either of you toying with her property. Now leave. You have a council meeting to attend…. As for you, Cockayne, you’ll go before the magistrate.”

At Duke Humphrey’s nod, his retainers stepped back, opening a path for John and Somerset, who had been separated by Buckingham’s men. Cockayne was rustled away with scant courtesy. John hesitated, ran a hand through his hair, and looked as if he would say something. Then he picked up his sword and, after a glance in my direction, strode off. Somerset straightened his jacket and retrieved his sword. He, too, threw me a look before he left, but one that spoke of loathing and anger. As John and Somerset disappeared from view, the Duke of Buckingham touched his velvet cap in farewell and, taking a different path out of the garden, departed at a rapid pace with his entourage.

I rushed after John. As I wound along the path, I spied Somerset a distance ahead, through an opening in the yews. He drew to an abrupt halt at the foot of the stone steps that led out of the sunken garden.

“We’re not finished, Neville!” he shouted. “Tonight, in the village square, let’s settle it once and for all!”

John, who was halfway up the snowy steps, turned and looked down at him. “Fear not, knave. I’ll be there,” he said, and disappeared from view without catching sight of me.