Lady of the Roses (19 page)

“I can’t fit in that, Isobel!” John protested.

“You must. Get in! Hurry!” Grabbing the gowns, I dumped them in a pile over his head in an unruly heap. “Quickly, Ursula, get me out of this!”

Swiftly, she stripped me naked. I shook my hair loose and, to my horror, I noticed a bloodstain on the floor near the coffer. I stepped forward and covered it with my foot, and no sooner had I done so than the door burst open. I let out a scream and hid my breasts and swollen stomach with my hands.

Ursula stepped in front of me to shield my nakedness from their gaze. “How dare you? Have you no shame?” she cried, feigning anger.

The man averted his eyes. “We thought there might be a Yorkist hiding somewhere down these halls.”

“You can see for yourself there’s no one here but us. Where would he hide? The bed? The coffer? If he’s that small, you’ve nothing to fear from him, now, have you? Get out and give my lady some respect, or by Satan’s horns, you’ll answer to my queen for it.”

The man took a moment to make his decision, and in that moment, I believe my heart stopped its beating.

“Very well,” he said at last, turning to leave. But Ursula was enjoying this too much.

“And where’s your apology, may I ask?” she demanded.

Eyes averted, he turned back as he closed the door. “You have it, mistress,” he said.

GEOFFREY, WHO HAD SLEPT AT A COUSIN’S HOUSE
, returned for us the next day with a small cart. Ursula and I rode away with him, my coffer rumbling along on the wheels attached to the horse’s saddle. We were followed at a short distance by a tall Franciscan friar in a gray habit with a wooden cross, and with a knotted scourge dangling from a rope at his waist. The monk’s face was protected from the cold by a thick wool cowl, and to his nose he held a handkerchief, which he removed from time to time to bless the humble folk he passed. No one in the courtyard paid him any heed, except the few who murmured their thanks, and he passed beneath the arched stone gateway and out into the streets of London, unnoticed.

THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED WERE DRENCHED
in happiness and celebration. Not only was John safe and his arm healing, but Warwick, too, had reached the Tower and from thence had made his way to Calais. It was the season of Yule, and our babe was growing at a quickened pace. John took as much pleasure as I did in the baby’s kicks, and on occasion he would place his ear to my stomach, hoping to hear a gurgle. As December approached, the castle filled with song and merriment. Servants dashed about, laying down fresh rushes, beating tapestries, washing windows, scrubbing murals, and preparing sumptuous feasts for the guests who arrived to partake with us. Though we still had concerns with expenses, since our impoverished tenants had trouble paying their rents, it was decided that we would not scrimp on the Yule festivities.

I found my heart light as I helped Countess Alice and Countess Nan deck the halls with ribbons, holly, and boughs of evergreens. Many guests came to visit, bearing gifts of spices, dried meats, and marchpane: the Scropes of Masham and Bolton; the Conyerses, Sir John and his son William, and their ladies; and many more of the knights in the earl’s retinue, with their ladies and children.

Thus, with hope in our hearts, we rang in the New Year of 1459.

My babe was born on the first day of April, another beautiful little girl whom we named Elizabeth. But our joy was short-lived, for the tender spring that followed our babe’s birth brought ominous tidings. It was clear to us that the queen had made a deliberate attempt to murder Warwick at Westminster; yet hope for reconciliation still held sway in our hearts. However, just before St. George’s Day and our second anniversary, we learned that the queen, who had moved to Cheshire with her son, was assembling an army and distributing her son’s badge of the swan.

In the solar at Middleham, attended by John, Thomas, and Warwick, who had come from Calais, and by York’s golden-haired, magnificent son Edward, Earl of March, who had arrived from Sandal Castle to represent his father, the earl strode back and forth like the black bull of his emblem. From beside the hearth where I sat with Countess Alice, Nan, and Maude, pretending to bury my head in my needlework, I watched them from the corner of my eye and listened intently.

“She has ordered three thousand bows for the royal armory and commands the king’s loyal men to assemble at Leicester,” he exclaimed. “The warrant opens thus: ‘Considering the enemies on every side approaching upon us by land and by sea—’” The earl slapped the missive. “Our names are significant by their absence! By excluding us, Marguerite makes it quite clear whom she considers the ‘king’s enemies.’” He threw the missive on his desk. “Is it not enough for her to rob the treasury, to impoverish us by every means possible, to rule the land without parliament for three years? Is this not enough for the venomous she-wolf who rules our mad king? Now she means to force us to make war on one another!”

“She would have us all dead to secure the throne for her son,” John said quietly. “She knows, as does the land, that the Duke of York is England’s true king by right of blood. Only in his death, and the deaths of his supporters, can she find rest.”

“Aye, she fails to see my father as anything but a claimant to the throne—a threat to her husband, to her son, to herself, and to the ruling dynasty of Lancaster,” said Edward, Earl of March. “While my father sees our mad and impotent king, Holy Harry, as the Lord’s anointed! Had he seized power after St. Albans, all would have been resolved. Yet, even knowing that now, he continues to show self-restraint. Despite every provocation, he makes no attempt to displace Holy Harry, and proves time and again by both words and action that all he wishes is a change of ministers. Yet she thirsts for war!”

“Bitch!” snarled Warwick, slamming a fist down on the desk. “If the bitch of Anjou wants war, let us give her one, Father! We’ll crush her as surely as we did at St. Albans, and be done with her once and for all.”

“Do you know what civil war means?” said the earl, shocked, his wrath spent. He was not a man who harbored anger for long. “It means to tear the land in two. To divide families against themselves. To set brother against brother, and kin against kin. ’Tis the worst horror a land can inflict upon itself. We must not be hasty. We must do all that we can to avert civil war. War is the last resort. Only a fool chooses war when reason can still get him heard.”

“But how? By all agreement, Marguerite believes only in the sword,” Thomas said.

“We’ll gather a force of our own and go to the king and plead with him, as we did in fifty-two and fifty-five.”

“It did no good either time, Father! Even our victory at St. Albans proved for naught,” said Warwick impatiently.

“This time is different. We are much stronger, and I daresay Marguerite understands strength. You’ll bring us forces from Calais—the pick of the garrison—and we’ll go with a large army. If we fail to get redress from Henry, only then will we take up the challenge and fight. Thus, we’ll have given them every chance to settle matters reasonably.” The earl gave an audible sigh and turned to Edward. “’Tis a sad and sorry state of affairs. In Ireland your father stands for justice, and in England, for good government. To Marguerite d’Anjou—”

The earl broke off, unable to finish the thought. To the queen he was the enemy, the great devil that had to be destroyed before she could gather a good night’s rest.

My hand trembled as I pushed a needle through the cloth, drawing a load of red wool in its wake.

“I have come to believe,” said Edward of March quietly, “that, from the beginning, Marguerite d’Anjou never doubted matters between us would be settled by the sword. She has been lusting for war ever since Holy Harry’s first bout of madness.”

The air in the room seemed suddenly hot; I felt faint. Laying down my section of tapestry, I excused myself and quit the room.

WARWICK RETURNED TO CALAIS. JOHN LEFT FOR
the Scots border to deal with the marauders burning English villages and stealing sheep and livestock, and Thomas rode back to Sandal Castle with Edward of March to inform the Duke of York of the deliberations at Middleham and to urge on him the need to call a council of war, and plan strategy.

And so the spring passed. I played with my babes as often as I could, and helped Countess Alice with the management of the household—arbitrating quarrels, receiving petitioners, and overseeing the work of the chambermaids, the kitchen help, the spinners, weavers, and embroiderers, and the education of the children. I tried to find ways to curtail expenses, by going over the money spent on supplying livery, buying stock, even the cost of the clergy we employed to sing masses and say prayers. When John was home and at my side, I clung to him, my feelings heightened by the uncertainty that pervaded our days and by the black specter of loss that always hovered in the background.

“My father is the most famous knight in the whole world!” Warwick’s Anne announced one evening at Raby as she sat on my lap, playing with her wooden doll. “Nurse told me. She says England loves Papa as much as I do.”

“Indeed she is right. He has made us all proud, sweet Anne.”

“See, Jane has her head back,” Anne said, holding her doll to my full view.

“Had she lost it?” I inquired.

Anne nodded. “Cousin Edward of March broke it when he kissed her.”

York’s seventeen-year-old son had earned himself quite a reputation with the ladies, but clearly he had fallen dramatically short in impressing Anne. She had such a disagreeable expression on her face that I had to laugh. “So how did Jane get her head fixed?” I asked.

“Uncle John did it when he got back from London at Yuletide.”

This came as a surprise to me. The shoulder wound John had sustained as a result of the castle brawl had proved very painful and had taken weeks to heal. During that time, even slight movement had brought him excruciating pain.

“Did he use one hand or two?” I questioned.

“One. He had a bandage on his shoulder. He couldn’t use two hands. He said he was sorry for taking so long to fix it. I didn’t mind. Is Cousin Edward coming to visit again?”

“Not soon.”

“Good,” said Anne, giving the word sharp emphasis.

Again I found myself laughing. Here, at least, sat one young lady in no danger of losing her heart or her virtue to handsome, dashing Edward, Earl of March. Saddened to see her leave the next day, I blew her a fervent kiss as she departed for Middleham with Nan.

“Fear not—I be back!” she called in her sweet voice, leaning out of her litter as it passed through the gates, eliciting laughter from everyone around.

OVER THE SUMMER MONTHS, THE EARL AND THE
Duke of York held many parleys, either at Middleham or at the earl’s castle of Sheriff Hutton. Men answered their summonses, signed the contracts, collected their pay, and reported to Middleham to pick up their weapons and don the murrey and blue colors of York. Warwick, in Calais, was notified that he would join forces with his father at York’s fortress of Ludlow in Wales. From there they would proceed to Kenilworth to remonstrate with the king. They intended to plead their case, present their grievances, and reassure him of their loyalty. For safety’s sake, however, they had to go armed, and in strength.

On the twenty-first of September, 1459, just before St. Michael’s Day, the earl left his castle of Middleham for the South. I bid John farewell with a heavy heart and watched the procession file down the hill and vanish into the dense fog. But before many hours had passed, while Maude, Countess Alice, and I were murmuring prayers for our husbands in the chapel, a messenger galloped up to Middleham, out of breath and in much distress.

“The earl’s left? Blood of Christ, I came to warn him! The queen knows his plans to join forces with York at Ludlow! She’s determined to prevent it and has advanced north to cut him off. She has with her a strong royalist army. The earl will be heavily outnumbered!”

The countess nearly swooned with the dire tidings. With panic rioting in my heart, I found a trusty young lad, helped him saddle a fresh horse, and with a sharp slap on the horse’s rump dispatched him to find the earl and deliver the messenger’s warning. My stomach clenched tight, I retired to the nursery. Rocking my babes to and fro in my arms, I whispered prayers and lit candles all that night until at last morning broke and the nurse took the sleeping babes from my weary arms, and left me to fall into drowsy slumber.

AT MIDDLEHAM, THE HOURS SETTLED ON OUR
shoulders like a black cloud as we awaited news. We didn’t know whether our warning had reached the earl in time. Every few minutes we paused in our duties to strain our sight into the distant fields. One day passed, then finally another, and the next; the chapel filled with the murmur of prayers. A tense, fearful silence pervaded the castle.

One afternoon a huge cock was seen in the waters near Weymouth. He emerged from the sea with a great crest upon his head, a great red beard, and legs half a yard long. He stood in the water, so it was said, and crowed three times, and each time he crowed, he turned himself around and beckoned with his head toward the north, the south, and the west. And then he vanished.

Perhaps because I was with child again, I took this omen to heart. I didn’t realize how it had affected me until Sir John Conyers galloped up one wet afternoon, nearly a full week after the earl had departed for the South. We had heard nothing from the messenger we had sent, and we labored with our tasks around the castle, oppressed by dark thoughts. I was patching a tear in one of John’s cloaks when I heard the loud creak of the drawbridge and the noise of a commotion in the courtyard. Conyers rode up with a few Yorkist knights. From all directions we rushed to meet the small party as they dismounted. But the old knight seemed weary and made no announcement to the household that gathered around him. His silence chilled my heart.

He greeted us courteously but gravely. I knew the fear on the faces of the household staff was mirrored in my own as I fell in behind the countess to lead the way to her private apartments. We settled in the solar, and servants brought sweetmeats and ale.

Sir John Conyers spoke at last. “My ladies, I have news of both a good and bad nature.”

We all stopped breathing at once. I gripped the carved wood arm of my chair.

“As I know not where to begin, I shall begin at the beginning,” Conyers said in a somber tone. “The earl, with no knowledge that the queen was advancing to intercept him as he marched south to Ludlow through Market Drayton, set up camp for the night on Salisbury Hill, south of the River Trent. There your young scout found him and brought him your warning—”

The room filled with cries of relief and a rustle of fabric as we all shifted in our seats and breathed again.

“The Lancastrian force was far superior in numbers. Their intention was to attack his rear as he went south, but the earl immediately changed direction to evade them.”

Countess Alice gave my hand a squeeze.

“Skillful he was in marching us across country, through woods and valleys, and hiding us from prying eyes,” Sir Conyers said, fingering the tip of his ginger moustache. “’Tis a marvel how he did it, an’ I still wonder at it…. A skilled general he is, my Earl of Salisbury, with many a trick up his sleeve. He got us all safely away and took up a strong defensive position on Blore Heath.”

I sat still as a statue, holding my breath; my chest felt as if it would burst.
They gave battle. There will be deaths
.

“There is no doubt the queen had sent the lords Audley and Dudley to slay him.” A soft gasp escaped the countess’s lips, but she made no further sound as she sat stiffly erect. “My lord of Salisbury was outnumbered five to one, for the Lancastrians came prepared for battle, and he only to parley. But he chose his position well an’ was protected by a broad stream. He’s a wily old fox when it comes to giving battle, m’lady, but more than that, he had the protection of God Almighty Himself, as you’ll see—” Conyers said, addressing the Countess of Salisbury. He fell silent a moment, shaking his head in admiration. “He tricked Audley and Dudley into thinking he was about to retreat. The Lancastrians took the bait and attacked. What’s more—and here the good Lord Himself saw fit to intercede on the earl’s behalf—they charged up the hill mounted on their horses!”

As there was no reaction from us, he cleared his throat and added, “You see, ’tis a fool thing to do, to charge uphill on horseback, m’ladies. Audley should have known better. He, like the earl, had experience in the French wars, but it seems he understands nothing of warfare. My lord of Salisbury released a hail of arrows into their midst. Men and horses fell, and those that didn’t bolted to the rear.” After a pause, he added wryly, “The Lancastrians have a monopoly on stupidity, m’ladies, and here’s proof they learn nothing from their mistakes. Audley ordered a second cavalry charge!” He gave us a wan smile, but my heart, rioting with uncertainty, could not let me return his smile. Neither did anyone else. We were all waiting for the bad news.

“The battle lasted four hours,” Conyers resumed. “The Lancastrians were routed. Audley was killed and Dudley taken prisoner. The earl pressed his pursuit relentlessly all night until Lauds. When it was over, two thousand lay dead. They’re calling Blore Heath ‘Dead Men’s Den.’ Here we come to the bad news….”

Though fear glittered in their eyes, no one said a word, and none asked questions. My stomach clenched itself into a tight, painful knot. Maude reached for my hand. At her touch, a chill raced through me. I wondered if my fingers felt as icy to her as hers did to me.

“Sir Thomas and Sir John—”

I leapt from my chair, a hand to my frozen heart, unable to breathe, to see, to feel. Across a wilderness I heard the countess cry out and Maude’s soft voice begin to recite the Ave Maria.

“Nay, my ladies—courage, they
live
!” Conyers exclaimed, stressing the vital word. “They live, but are taken prisoner. They pursued the Percies too far into Lancastrian territory, and on the morning after the battle they were captured and imprisoned in Chester Castle. They are well treated, so we understand. We have taken prisoners too, and well the Lancastrians know that should harm come to ours, theirs will suffer.”

I closed my eyes, a grateful prayer on my lips, and sank back down.

“Lady Isobel—” Sir Conyers said gently.

I opened my eyes. My heart pounding, I moved to the edge of my seat. “There is something you haven’t told me,” I whispered. “Is John wounded?”

“Aye, m’lady. He was, but in the thigh…. ’Tis not mortal….” His voice trailed off, for he knew the comfort he offered rang hollow. Many a man had died of an infection that began in a minor flesh wound.

Countess Alice’s arms encircled my shoulders as I bit my lips and averted my face, but a sudden restless scampering at the door gave me a moment’s respite. Rufus ran in, barking with great excitement to see me, and pressed himself against my skirts. I gave him a warm reception, for he was dear to me now in a way he had not been before.

Sir Conyers gave a nod of dismissal to the youth who had brought him. “I held the hound back,” he said, “fearful you might misconstrue events if you saw the dog before I had a chance to explain his presence. I thought Sir John might wish you to keep him.”

“You did right, Sir Conyers,” I said in a choked and teary voice, struggling with the knowledge of John’s capture.

The countess spoke. “My lord the Earl of Salisbury, where is he?”

“He went on to Ludlow, m’lady, to join the Duke of York as planned.”

“And what happens now?” asked Maude.

“Now we await the arrival of my lord of Warwick’s seasoned force from the garrison of Calais.” Sir Conyers sighed on an audible breath, “Pray God, the final outcome shall soon follow and be favorable to York.”

Images rose in my mind, flashing like sheets of lightning before me: Egremont’s face, hideous with hatred; Clifford’s small, truculent eyes glaring from his thick-necked, square-jawed face. I saw Somerset grab my arm in the gloomy passageway, his breath stinking of stale wine, his pupils dilated with passion.
So you spurn me, do you? No one spurns me—
In my heart, unsaid, thundered the words I could not bear to hear:
If York loses, who will protect John from their wrath? And me, from a fate worse than death itself?

After we were dismissed and we dispersed to our duties, I took Ursula aside grimly. “I’m going to the queen.”

“’Tis too dangerous, dear Isobel! You are with child again! And what of Somerset? He might be there, and there’s you without protection!”

“I can’t just sit here and wait, Ursula. I must at least try to use my influence with the queen—if I have any left—to persuade her to release John!”

“It will be pointless to seek mercy from her, my lady. From the sound of it, the queen has changed. She is not as you remember her. I beseech you, Isobel, do not go to her! There is nothing to be gained, and harm may come to you.”

“What of the harm to John? Nay, I must go! We’ll leave Coventry the minute I’ve seen her.”

I did not tell the countess or Maude, but excused myself with an explanation that I needed to check on repairs to my manor of Eversleigh—something that John had intended to do. The journey south made no imprint on me. My mind, heart, and soul were centered on our arrival and the words I would use with the queen. We crossed the great red moat into the courtyard. The sun sent shards of light glittering off the jewel-colored windows, and the wind stirred the golden leaves of autumn as we followed the old, familiar winding path through the pleasure garden to the royal apartments in Caesar’s Tower. But nature’s beauty brought me no solace, for the castle was filled with people and commotion, and the faces that passed me seemed more somber than ever. Ursula departed for the kitchens to see what she could glean that might prove useful, and I left in search of the queen.

I found Marguerite in the low-vaulted antechamber that she had always favored at Coventry. With an ornate ceiling, stained-glass windows, and a colorful inlaid stone floor, the room that adjoined her solar glittered darkly as I approached. She was pacing violently as she dictated a letter. Her six-year-old son, Prince Edward, kept her company, slouching on an immense treasure chest set in the corner of the room as he cleaned his fingernails with a miniature dagger. A little dog lay nearby, watching him, and in a silver cage hanging in a corner a trio of yellow finches twittered.

The man-at-arms announced me. The queen broke off, and the gaze she turned on me was so hostile that I froze in my steps. I fell into a deep curtsey.

“Ah, Isabelle! Rise, dear,” she said in the affectionate voice I remembered. “For a moment I mistook you for someone else. Sometimes I think we are surrounded by enemies, but no matter—you are welcome. Edward, my prince, do you remember Lady Isabelle Ingoldesthorpe?”

Prince Edward set his gaze on me and lowered his dagger as I made obeisance. “You are fair,” he announced.

I smiled and looked at Marguerite, who laughed and tousled his hair. “
Mais oui
, my dear
Edouard
, she has a French look, has she not?”

He nodded. “I shall not cut off her head, Maman.”

His words shocked me, but I kept my composure. The queen laughed again. “Indeed,
non
,” she said, gazing at her boy tenderly. “Lady Isabelle is our friend, and we do not cut off the heads of our friends, only of our enemies.” For the second time in as many minutes, a chill ran through me.

“Come,” she said, leading the way across a gaudy Saracen carpet patterned with large bloodred flowers. She took a seat by the fireplace and arranged her skirts carefully. As I took the low chair across from her, I could see that she had aged greatly in the two and a half years since the love-day fest. A servant brought us spiced wine and sweetmeats, but I was too nervous to eat. I accepted the wine and held my goblet firmly with both my hands, for they shook.

“Isabelle, dear, so much has happened since you left!” the queen said, taking a sip of wine and setting her golden goblet on the damascene-covered table between us. “I have had such troubles! And I have tried so hard, as you well know…. Remember the love-day fest? Everything looked so promising then—” Into my mind flashed the memory of the queen walking hand in hand with the Duke of York, her stance rigid, her face stony. I remembered thinking then that perhaps, for the first time in his marriage, King Henry had managed to coerce his queen into doing something against her will. Yet she appeared to remember the day quite differently, and with nostalgia.

Welladay, people see what they want to see
. I came out of my thoughts abruptly.

“When I agreed to have you married into the House of Neville,” she was saying, “my expectations had been of a new beginning between the Yorkists and our government. But in spite of all my efforts and sacrifices, all my attempts to gain their friendship, all my patience, they have betrayed their oaths repeatedly and taken up arms against us! Only a week ago they came to attack the king at Kenilworth, and I had to intercept them with the royal army!” She buried her face in her goblet, visibly distressed.

I was taken aback by her words and the tears in her voice. Could she truly see herself as a peacemaker? If so, how did she explain—even to herself—the constant ambushes, the numerous attempts to murder the Duke of York and his sons, and Salisbury, Warwick, John, and Thomas?

But these were not questions I could ask. I remained silent, though my thoughts rambled on in this vein, answering each assignation of blame with my own silent defense: Had the Yorkists not been heavily outnumbered and taken by surprise each time, proving they never planned to use force against the king? Had they not survived thanks merely to simple good fortune, great bravery, or ingenious military strategy? Had they not won the battle they had been forced to fight against Lancaster, yet kneeled before Henry VI immediately afterward to beseech pardon, when they could have just as easily seized power and set the king aside? Had they not shown by both actions and words that all they wanted was what they had asked for time and again—good government and a redress of ills?

And did all this not constitute remarkable self-restraint in the face of extreme provocation?

“
Mort de ma vie
, I regret that I allowed your marriage to John Neville, my poor child!” she said, her words slicing through my thoughts like a dagger through silk.