Lady of the Roses (13 page)

One look at my face told her that something had happened, and she played along. “Welladay, my lady Isobel, fret not, for I do believe I last saw it pinned to your green gown.”

As soon as we were back in our chamber, I turned frantic and seized her hands. “Ursula, I’ve been summoned by the Earl of Salisbury to his London residence! What should I wear? Oh, my hair is terrible! I should have washed it on Saturday last, when we had sun for part of the day. Help me with my face, and hurry, I pray you—”

Ursula poured me a cup of wine from a flask standing in a corner of the room. “Here, to calm your nerves and bring the color back. White as bleached linen, you are. As to your attire, such an important occasion demands your lavish lavender sarcenet with the silver tissue that you wore when you first met Sir John—” She went over to the corner, and, drawing the gown out from behind the others, set it in front on the peg. Bustling about the chamber, she checked coffers and corners for necessary toiletries, speaking her thoughts aloud as she went. “Where is the pearl and crystal necklace? I was certain I set it in the jewel casket, but maybe I laid it with the hair ornaments—” Gathering a box here, a potion there, a brooch, a clasp, ribbons, and towels, she dumped her load on the bed and resumed her search for misplaced items until she had everything safe in a heap. “That vial of paste is so small, I can’t see it even when it’s clear in front of my eyes—ah, here it is—” She rummaged through the items and gave me a smile. “Fear not, dear Isobel. When I’m finished with you, no one will ever forget how you looked this day.”

The wine had a soporific effect on me, and my hands no longer trembled. Ursula left to fetch a pitcher of water, which she set on the bed table upon her return. Stripping me naked while I stood shivering, she went to work scouring my face, neck, and arms with a hot sponge steeped in herbs. She toweled me dry, rubbed rose oil into my skin, and threw a blanket over my shoulders. As I perched on a stool, she turned her attention to my face. She darkened my eyebrows and highlighted my eyes with charcoal, opened a small vial of pomegranate paste, and stained my cheeks and lips with the pink color. She unbraided my hair and brushed it vigorously with a boar brush till it fell in a gleaming stream to my waist, smooth as silk.

Now I was ready to dress. I donned my shift and stepped into my gown with great care. She hooked up the crystal buttons of the tightly fitted bodice and sleeves, adjusted the fur-trimmed plunging neckline to flatter the curve of my shoulders, and fastened my necklaces around my neck. “And your mother’s lovely diamond brooch shall go here—” She pinned it high on my shoulder, on one side of the miniver collar. After fussing with the folds and voluminous train of my gown, she placed a gilt circlet with a dropped pearl over my brow and wove crystals into my flowing hair before attaching a gauzy veil.

She stepped back to assess her handiwork. “You sparkle like a faerie queen, but ’tis a black swan you are, with your long neck and shining dark eyes and hair. Here, see for yourself—” She drew back and held up the mirror for me.

A broad smile lit my face as I gazed at my reflection. Tenderly, I regarded the one who had wrought my magical transformation. “Thank you, dear Ursula.” I hugged her tight.

Ursula disengaged herself when I didn’t let go. “What’s this?” she demanded as I hung my head. “Do I see a tear? You’ll ruin my work!” she scolded. “What’s the matter, dearie?”

“I’m so afraid, Ursula,” I whispered. “What if—” I broke off, swallowing hard.
What if this day proves not my beginning, but my undoing?
In the silence that fell, I glimpsed a world of mist and grayness, where endless days followed one another in futile succession in a marriage devoid of love. Then I would drone on as thousands of others have done since the world began; I would be as they are and have been before me—a shadow living without light, color, or sound, until death stopped the heart with dust
.

Ursula’s voice brought me back to the present abruptly.
“Then—”
she said, seizing my shoulders and giving the word emphasis as if she read my thoughts, “you shall do as your father urged you…. What did you tell me he used to say?”

“The Wheel of Fortune turns, and if it brings us sorrow rather than joy, we must meet our fate with dignity and grace. For the Hand of God is in all things,” I recited, seeing him smile at me in my mind’s eye. I blinked to banish the image and took up a brighter thought. “But…but first I shall do as someone very wise once advised me….” I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply before releasing my breath and meeting her gaze. “‘Chin up, bosom up—and all will be well,’” I said, forcing a smile on my face.

AT THE BARGE HOUSE, THE EARL OF SALISBURY’S
elegant golden craft, festooned in ribbons and hung with tapestries, sat aglitter in the shining waters, but my breath stopped in my chest and I froze in my steps. John was not there. He had neither written nor come.

Fighting for composure, I let Ursula’s hand slip and fingered my mother’s ruby crucifix, which hung among the pearls at my throat. Then, lifting my chin, I forced myself forward with stiff dignity. A stout figure with a grizzled ginger moustache, wearing a tunic embroidered with the Neville saltire, headed toward me respectfully as I passed through the archway and emerged on the wharf.

“Sir John Conyers, at your command, m’lady,” he said with a bow.

I had heard the name before. Sir Conyers was not only a seasoned warrior of the French wars who served in the earl’s retinue, but a good friend of the Nevilles and related to them by marriage.

Ursula gave me a farewell hug. “Courage,” she whispered in my ear. I gave her a squeeze in response. Gathering up my skirts, I accepted Sir Conyers’s hand and stepped onto the barge.

“The Earl of Salisbury bids me inform you that Sir John Neville is at this moment returning from Bisham, or he would have come to escort you to the Erber personally.”

I was momentarily speechless in my surprise.
God’s Blood, but such a simple explanation for John’s absence had never occurred to me!
“Thank you, Sir Conyers,” I said, a new warmth surging through me as I took a seat on a scarlet cushion beneath the tapestried canopy.

The bargemen set their oars to water, and Ursula’s figure receded into the distance as we streamed away. My mind filled again with a confusion of hope and fear, and my heart took up an erratic beat of anticipation.
Surely this is how many a knight feels as battle is joined and he knows not if he will see the morrow,
I thought.

Plain wood boats, gilded barges, and brightly painted craft crowded the blue Thames in the fine weather. Sir Conyers waved to one that passed us going in the opposite direction. “Sir Marmaduke Constable, another Neville retainer, and a good friend of mine,” he explained.

I nodded and turned my face to the sun. Clouds flew by overhead, and the wind beat softly around me. We passed stately residences, bathhouses, taverns, and so many churches that their spires seemed to pierce the skies over London like a hail of arrows. The river bustled as densely with commerce as did the streets, but instead of the rumbling of carts and the smell of dung, there came the fresh, almost fragrant smell of water, the mewing of river birds, and the hurried flutter of swans’ wings as they fled our path. Snatches of song reached my ears from seamen on passing ships bound for Calais with cargoes of wool, their sails billowing in the wind. From one of these, a captain standing on his deck removed his cap and threw me a courtly bow, lightening my heart.

A flash of silver caught my eye as Sir Conyers cast a coin to a passing boatman. The startled man dropped his oars and grabbed it. “Get repairs to your craft!” Sir Conyers yelled as we rowed past. The man stood up and waved wildly. “Thank ye, me good lord! Thank ye! May God reward—” His voice faded away into the distance as he cried out blessings.

Sir Conyers threw me an apologetic smile. “His small wood vessel is sorely distressed. I fear he won’t reach shore the next time he takes it out.”

I hoped my smile would convey my approval, for I was deeply touched by his noble gesture. I had seen many such craft and never given thought to the gap-toothed watermen who manned the oars. Turning my attention back to our journey, I saw that we were approaching London Bridge at a rapid pace. Crowded with shabby dwellings, vendor stalls, customers, tradesmen, and passersby going to and fro across, it teemed with bustle. As we drew into the shadow of its arches, I was assailed by the vile stench of traitor heads standing in a row along the bridge, impaled on iron pikes. I shrank back and covered my nose with a handkerchief. However, Sir John Conyers, undeterred, gazed up at the appalling sight of grotesque rotting faces, where ravens perched and pecked, as if scanning for someone he knew. A cold shiver ran down my back. There were always heads on the bridge, but until this moment I had given them scant heed. Now the thought froze in my brain that these were real persons—men who had left behind people who loved them. Drawing my mantle close around me, I lifted my eyes to their grisly remains and, making the sign of the cross, whispered a silent prayer for their souls as we passed beneath the bridge.

Sir John Conyers looked at me then. “You’re cold. Here, m’lady, allow me to give you my cloak—’tis finest English wool and, though it is not furred, I vouch it will keep you warm. We are almost there—aye, there it is…the Erber…. You can see it now,” Sir Conyers said. “The London abode of the Earls of Salisbury since the time of Edward III.”

I peered into the distance. A fair and stately residence of white stone stood on a wide and welcoming breadth of the Thames in Dowgate. Bedecked with banners of the silver and crimson Neville saltire fluttering from its rooftops, the residence gave out a welcoming air. I lifted my chin and took a deep breath as we drew up.

Sir John Conyers helped me from the barge. With a cheery word of greeting here and there, he escorted me past the liveried porters, sentries, groomsmen, and men-at-arms, and through a broad and noble arch that opened into a gated court. We took the stairs over the buttery to the Earl of Salisbury’s private chamber, and there Sir Conyers issued a gallant bow of farewell.

My heart missed a beat. John stood beside his father’s chair, deep in conversation. One glance told me the room had been cleared of servants and retinue, and we would be alone. The usher announced my name. John looked up. I stood rooted to the ground, searching his face for the tidings he bore, and realization gradually dawned on my clouded, dizzy senses that his face glowed with joy. A quiver surged through my veins.
Heavenly Father, good tidings—can it truly be?

John moved toward me, but with such strangely slowed steps that he seemed to float in the air. With my gaze still riveted on him, I heard a chair scrape the floor and a man’s voice say, “Come in, dear Lady Isobel. We have been expecting you.”

Flooded with rapture, my heart pounding in my ears, I regained motion in my frozen body and stumbled forward. John took my hand and placed an arm about my shoulders as I looked up into his face with wonder. He led me toward his father, who had risen from his chair and now stood before a glittering traceried window, the river sparkling with stunning brightness behind him.

The earl was regarding me with a kindly expression. “My child, I know you are anxious to receive the news, so let me dispense with all else and get to the heart of the matter without further delay. The queen has agreed to your betrothal to my son John, and has brought her price down to one thousand pounds, half the sum she had originally demanded. I have agreed to pay in ten installments over six years. Such a severe sum requires sacrifice, and so I regret the two of you will have hard days ahead. However, as John assures me he’d rather take you than all the gold in Heaven, I know you will find a way to manage. Naturally, I will help you as best I can…. Welcome to our family, dear child.”

Welcome to our family.

Heaven had conspired with all the angels of God’s realm to hand us a miracle! Floating in euphoria, I turned my gaze on John. Our eyes locked. Breathing in unison, we stood together as flowers of fire rained down on us in dazzling embers.

MERRYMAKERS SKATED AND SLEDDED ON THE
frozen Thames, and children hurled snowballs at one another on the palace grounds despite the bone-chilling cold. But my heart did not notice, wrapped as it was in a cocoon of celebration. Laughter and sweet dreams were my warm companions in these days as I waited for John to return from the North. I remained at court, but Somerset was still away in Wales and Elizabeth Woodville had retired to her family estate of Grafton Regis to prepare for her wedding to Sir John Grey, lightening the atmosphere so that even the tidings that came on the third of February, the day after Candlemas, did not dull my happy mood.

Though the queen had given her assent to my marriage, King Henry had attached his own conditions, and before we could be betrothed, the three Richards—the Earl of Salisbury, the Duke of York, and the Earl of Warwick—would have to fulfill them. Negotiations were to begin at once. These conditions included a demonstration of peace and goodwill between the chief Yorkist and Lancastrian foes. The Yorkists were to found a perpetual chantry to pray for those slain at St. Albans, and the Duke of York was to pay reparations to Somerset and his mother for the loss of Somerset’s father. John’s brother Warwick was to do the same for the family of Lord Clifford.

Messengers came and went with their missives, and on occasion the Earl of Salisbury and the Duke of York made brief appearances at court to engage in discussion, but John, detained in Yorkshire by troubles on the border, did not come with them. Eventually agreement was reached. To seal the pact and celebrate the end of enmities, there was to be, by order of King Henry, a “love day” festival on the twenty-fifth of March, the Feast of the Annunciation. Our betrothal would be solemnized at St. Paul’s immediately following the ceremony.

As February drew to a close, the Yorkist and Lancastrian leaders began to descend on the city with their retinues. The Nevilles were among the first arrivals, and my reunion with John was ecstatic. From the moment I flew into his arms, we were inseparable.

The Duke of York and his duchess, Cecily, were the next to arrive. They piqued my curiosity, for theirs had been a rare love match, and they were inseparable, so it was said. Cecily had always followed her lord wherever he went, even to France and the fringes of the battlefield, deterred neither by pregnancy nor by hardship.

The damp smell of the river floated through the open windows of their residence of Baynard’s Castle, and gulls mewed noisily when we arrived to pay our respects. We found each member of the family in the solar, engaged in attending their interests: The duke stood by a massive carved desk, going over legal matters with his steward, while the duchess, clad like a queen in an opulent gown of azure velvet trimmed in royal ermine, supervised her servants as they unpacked her valuables. As John’s father introduced me, I curtseyed low and kissed their hands. Despite the silver at his temples, York’s sun-bronzed complexion and nut brown hair gave him a darker aspect than his fair wife, but he was not as austere as his lady and his smile held warmth. My eye lingered on the Earl of Salisbury’s youngest sister, Cecily, whose namesake had been John’s sister and my uncle’s first wife. Called the “Rose of Raby” for her beauty and “Proud Cis” for her pride, Cecily, Duchess of York, was lovely and, though nearly forty years of age, had kept all her teeth so that her years sat lightly on her shoulders. More surprising, she was as tall as her husband and slender as a willow, even after innumerable childbirths. Ten of the children born to her had survived, of whom the youngest, a four-year-old boy named Richard, had remained behind at their castle of Fotheringhay with his brother George. The two oldest sons had accompanied them to London.

Fourteen-year-old Edward, Earl of March, York’s heir, had been reclining on a window seat, stealing glances at a group of noble ladies on the quayside as he examined his sword for rust. Now he rose and gave me a courtly bow.

“My lady Isobel, I did not know Cambridgeshire grew such exquisite roses!” he said. Golden-haired and handsome, he’d already gained the full stature of a man. “I shall have to visit. Mayhap I can find one of such rare loveliness to grace my life, eh, Cousin John?” He gave John a merry slap on the back and chuckled good-naturedly.

“Roses it has aplenty,” John replied, “but none as fair as my lady Isobel.” His gaze on me felt as soft as a caress.

From Edward’s side, his brother, thirteen-year-old flaxen-haired Edmund, Earl of Rutland, gave me a shy smile and a bow.

“We wish you well, my dear,” the Duke of York said, “and we look forward to your wedding feast, which we plan to attend.”

“Indeed,” the duchess added, her generous, well-shaped mouth curving into a smile as she gazed at John. “You have chosen well, nephew.” Turning to me, she said, “How fares your uncle, the Earl of Worcester?”

“Thank you for your concern, Your Grace. My uncle is leaving Rome on pilgrimage to Jerusalem as we speak. Instead of returning to England at the end of his service, he may linger to study Greek in Padua.”

York and Salisbury exchanged a glance, but what it meant, I could not tell. Nor did I allow myself to ponder it. All I knew was that I would soon be wed to John, and that was all that mattered.

Nobles continued to pour into London over the next few days, and each brought so many retainers with them that the mayor feared fights would break out between the rival factions. But all went well, and peace prevailed. The last to arrive was Warwick. True to form, England’s new Captain of Calais made a lavish, blazing entrance. With clarions blaring, he came by river in a large vessel, sails billowing, preceded by the music of twenty minstrels in two colorful barges painted in his colors of scarlet and gold. Thirty other barges followed, bearing his retinue of six hundred troops in scarlet jackets flaunting his emblem of the bear and ragged staff woven front and back in silver and gold.

Cheering crowds thronged the bridge and lined the river, some even standing in the water, their jubilant cries ebbing and flowing like waves as he sailed past. Warwick stood on the gilded prow of his sailing vessel, clad in crimson velvet and cloth of gold, his profile in relief against the rippling waters and blue sky as he glided toward us. He cut a fine figure; yet I found myself disturbed by his extravagant display, fearing it would draw more ire and envy to all the Nevilles.

While most of Warwick’s retinue followed him by water, a stream of others came clattering through the massive gates of the residence, carting coffers of gifts, adding to the excitement. River birds shrieked and water lapped at the water gate as Warwick disembarked from his ship and climbed to the green where I stood with John, his father the Earl of Salisbury, his mother Countess Alice Montagu, and John’s brother George, bishop of Exeter. The only absent family members were John’s brother Thomas, who had remained behind in the North to maintain order in his father’s absence, and Thomas’s wife, Lady Maude Stanhope, who had elected to stay with him.

“Lady Isobel, allow me to congratulate you,” Warwick said in his nasal tone, giving me a kiss on the mouth, as was the custom. He presented his lady, Nan Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick. Wearing the newly popular cone-shaped headdress with a trailing veil, and most elegantly attired in sable and a jeweled gown of damascene that befitted the wife of the richest baron in England, she was pleasant and petite, with blue-gray eyes, and hair that I guessed to be light brown from the tendrils that escaped her stiff head covering. Countess Nan greeted me warmly, and her two daughters, five-year-old Bella and three-year-old Anne, curtseyed sweetly. Both were fair-haired, pretty children, but it was little Anne who stole my heart. Fixing her large violet eyes on me, she reached up to take my hand and said, “Good to see you. Thank you for coming. I ’preciate it.” Astounded, I looked at Countess Nan. “Did she just say what I think she said?”

Nan Beauchamp smiled widely. “She probably heard us greet our guests with those words. You’ll find she’s quite a mimic, our little Anne.”

I glanced back at the child. She stood smiling up at me proudly, as if she understood quite clearly all that had transpired. I decided little Anne and I would be good friends.

Warwick greeted his family, then turned to me. “Ah, my lady Isobel, it seems your wedding gift has arrived—” His rings glittered as he made an expansive gesture toward a groom who was leading a stunning white palfrey across the green turf down to us at the river’s edge. The horse’s coat glistened so brightly in the sunshine that she seemed to sparkle as she paraded toward us. Coming to a stop in front of me, she flicked her silver mane and gave a snort and a stomp, as if to say,
Here I am!
I stared at Warwick in wonder. Could this glittering palfrey actually be meant for me? His lavish generosity was the stuff of legends, and he gave away to the common people as much meat and drink as they could carry home with them, enough that they jested the local taverns served his ale and sold his meat. But this was scarcely to be believed! This was a gift a king might give his queen.

“Aye, Lady Isobel,” Warwick said, reading my expression as he took the jeweled reins from the groom and handed them to me. “She is yours. May you ride together in good fortune.”

I accepted the palfrey from Warwick in stunned amazement, not trusting myself to speak. She wore an ornate and heavily gilded saddle studded with a large ruby. It was the one John had been admiring when I met him at the shop in the Fleet. My eyes misted with tears of happiness. Tears, whether of joy or sadness, had been my steady companions since the day I met him. Dipping into a curtsey, I bowed my head, recovered my composure, and, taking John’s hand tightly as I regarded his brother Warwick, said, “But I am not worthy of such munificence, my lord.”

“Indeed you are, Lady Isobel,” Warwick replied. “Even this magnificent creature cannot dislodge our debt to you. But for your courageous warning to us at Barnet, the House of York might well have come to grief. It was your intervention alone that saved us. Now to more pleasant matters…” At a nod from one of his knights who was just drawing up in one of the barges, he said, “Where is Mistress Malory?”

“Why, she awaits there—” I replied, indicating the crowd by the wide-arched entrance to the gated court.

Ursula’s bright red–haired figure appeared from their midst, intense astonishment on her face that she should be thus singled out by the great Earl of Warwick.

“Come, dear mistress,” Warwick boomed. “For you, I have a more splendid gift—”

I heard Ursula gasp, and I turned behind me to look in the direction into which she gazed. A sad-eyed older knight, dressed in a gray doublet and hose, with long shaggy white hair, disembarked from a barge that had just moored, and began to limp across the dock. Ursula ran to him, skirts flying. “Father, Father!”

I swallowed back the emotion that gathered in my throat as I watched her joy.

THE DAY OF THE PROCESSION ON THE FEAST OF
the Assumption, the twenty-fifth of March, dawned bright and sunny. Larks sang, narcissus and lilies announced the advent of spring, and London, wreathed in smiles, throbbed with anticipation. On each side of the street by St. Paul’s, stands had been erected for the use of the nobles, and hung with gold-fringed banners and tapestries—Yorkist households on one side, Lancastrian on the other.

Heavy crowds had already gathered when I arrived at the Neville loge to observe the grand event. Waving white and red roses fashioned from cloth, wood, and paper, and jostling one another for space in the streets, on rooftops, on walls, and on balconies, the common people craned their necks in an effort to gain the best view of sworn enemies walking to St. Paul’s to vow undying friendship. The Countesses of Salisbury and Warwick and the children Anne and Bella mounted the steps of the ribbon-festooned stand that was set aside for their use, and I followed behind them with Ursula, murmuring greetings to John’s many sisters and their families. The top bench, however, had been left vacant for the use of the countesses. Amid shrieks of excitement, little Anne and Bella scrambled up to claim the seats between their mother, Countess Nan, and grandmother Countess Alice. I took my place beside John’s mother, delighted to find I had a fine view of the street below.

Wild cheers erupted as the procession appeared in the distance, minstrels leading the way. “My lord the Earl of Salisbury comes first,” John’s mother announced.

We craned our necks to see his tall figure clad in wine and sapphire velvet. “He’s walking hand in hand with Somerset,” I noted.

Ursula leaned close. “Ah, I see Somerset now,” she sniffed. “He doesn’t look so good in crimson.”

“He doesn’t look so good in any color,” I whispered back. We gave a giggle and parted to look further as John’s mother fought to suppress a smile.

“There’s my noble Earl of Warwick—he comes next, walking with the Duke of Exeter—” Ursula exclaimed with such rapture that I turned to look at her in surprise. “How magnificent a figure is my Earl of Warwick, our Captain of Calais!” she drooled. “The bravest, most chivalrous knight in Christendom!”

I glanced quickly at Countess Nan, seated farther along the row. She might not approve of Ursula’s adulation of her husband, innocent though it be. But little Anne and Bella had raised such a chorus of delighted shrieks at the sight of their father that they drowned out Ursula’s comments. Indeed, the jubilant cheers of the crowd and their cries of, “A Warwick! A Warwick!” made her words audible only to me.

I leaned close and whispered, “He always attires himself most sumptuously, and this costume of black cloth of gold suits him exceedingly well.”

“Who can ever compare with him?” Ursula said, straining for another glimpse. “He overpowers the Duke of Exeter as the sun outshines the moon, does he not?”

“It would be hard not to, with such a load of gold and jewels,” I whispered in her ear, growing bolder as I teased. “Warwick sparkles like the sun itself.” Ever since Warwick had taken up the cause of Ursula’s father, she had sung his praises. I had attributed this to gratitude, but now I suspected something more.
Welladay,
I thought,
admiration is kin to love
.