Lady of the Roses (23 page)

John was safe.

He caught my hand and placed a kiss on my open palm. The touch of his lips was almost unbearable in its tenderness. He lifted his shining head and looked at me as he had done at Barnet, when I had risked all to warn him of Somerset’s ambush.

“My angel,” he said in the rich voice I remembered. “My love…”

I flung myself into his arms with a wild cry, burying my face in his throat. His hands locked against my back. We clung to one another as I wept tears of joy. How many times had I dreamed of being crushed in his embrace? Now his strong arms enfolded me once more. My pulse pounded in my ears as I laughed; I had forgotten what true happiness there was in laughter. The chapel resounded with my laughter, and the candles wavered in my joyful breath. “John, John…” My voice trembled like my hand; the light of his eyes blurred my sight. “My love, my love…Dear God be thanked, oh, my love!” In euphoria, between sobs and laughter, I stole kisses from him, kissed the creases in his cheek, the point of his nose. I could not get enough kisses.

“Who dat, Mama?” asked a small voice. A gremlin with dark blue eyes framed by chestnut hair emerged from behind my skirts and was joined by another.

I forced myself to part from John and look down at our children. “‘Dat’”—I laughed tenderly—“is your papa,” I said, sweet tears running down my cheeks.

INCESSANT RAIN SPOILED FRUIT ON THE TREES
and grain in the meadows, and swept away dwellings, bridges, and mills. Yet, to me, the sun seemed to shine brighter than ever on us during these blessed summer days of 1460, filling Middleham with happiness. We toasted to freedom, to one another, and to York’s win over Lancaster at the Battle of Northampton, and celebrated merrily. For days on end I could not take my eyes from John’s face, so handsome did he seem to me, so good was it to have him home. Sometimes I reached out and touched him simply to make sure he was real, for I had already lost one John. When I had broken the news to him of the death of our babe, he’d held me close for a long moment and released me in silence, and I’d known that his sorrow ran too deep for words. Later, he’d gone riding alone. That night I’d not slept, but had lain awake beside him, pressing kisses to him lightly with the tip of my finger, in the hope that somehow my love could heal his ache of loss. In my heart I said many a silent prayer of thanks to the Almighty for his safekeeping, for truly I felt it a miracle to have him beside me as I learned of what had happened at Northhampton.

Near London, on the tenth day of July, Warwick defeated the Lancastrians and captured King Henry. John was released from Chester Castle soon afterward. He had galloped home to bring me the news himself.

“On hearing of Warwick’s advance from London, the king’s supporters lost all heart and resigned en masse,” John grinned. “King Henry came down from Leicester to meet Warwick, and entrenched his army in a meadow near Northampton. Wishing to avoid bloodshed, Warwick begged an audience with him, but the lords around Henry refused.”

“Did good Duke Humphrey not try to persuade Henry to negotiate?” I asked.

“Duke Humphrey was as determined as the others to keep Warwick from Henry’s presence.” John’s tone held a note of bitterness.

“But why? He was never rash. He always used his influence to mediate for peace.”

“That changed when Marguerite arranged the marriage of his son to Margaret Beaufort, the richest heiress in the land, and of his daughter to the Earl of Shrewsbury’s son. Even good Duke Humphrey had his price,” John said.

“Had?” I asked.

“He died at Northampton, along with our mortal enemies Shrewsbury and Egremont. Warwick found their bodies strewn around the king’s tent.”

“How—?” There was so much here to grasp. That Egremont was gone gave me not a moment’s care. He had been an evil man, and his petty hatred and jealousy of John and Thomas had contributed greatly in fanning the troubles and dividing York from Lancaster. As for Shrewsbury, his name had come up occasionally as one of the implacable lords around Marguerite, but I didn’t know the man, though I’d seen him at court. What baffled me was that so many lords should have died at one time. Lords were never killed in battle, unless the fighting was heavy. They were usually taken for ransom. “Was it such a fierce battle?” I asked.

“No, only three hundred men lost their lives.”

“Why, then?”

“Reversing custom, Warwick ordered his troops to slay the lords and spare the commons. He has no quarrel with the people, only with Marguerite’s lords.”

“I see.” My heart warmed to Warwick. I thought it a great kindness on his part, for the commons had no choice but to fight and die in the wars that were of their lords’ making. “Yet I do mourn Duke Humphrey’s death. He saved your life and York’s many times. He wasn’t like the others. He had integrity, and he abhorred bloodshed as much as you do. Loyalty to Henry was his abiding principle, though he cared little for Marguerite.”

“Aye, his personal devotion to Henry was admirable. He stood by him to the last…. Maybe he saw no way to avoid bloodshed, or maybe he was outvoted by Marguerite’s zealots. We shall never know. In any event, Northampton proved an easy victory. The battle was over in a half hour.”

“So quickly?”

“Aye, for two reasons. Weather played in Warwick’s favor. Henry’s guns were rendered useless by torrents of rain, and his men hampered by the flooding of the meadow in which he was entrenched.”

“And the second reason?”

“Treason,” replied John.

I gasped.

“Lord Grey of Ruthin extended the right hand of friendship to Warwick and came over to our side.”

I didn’t know what to say, how to react. I was delighted that York had won the battle, naturally—but treason…Treason was abhorrent to honorable men.

“As Trollope did at Ludlow,” I said coldly.

“Aye, treason is a hideous thing,” John replied, and fell silent. “Incidentally,” he resumed at length, “Edward of March, York’s son, fought with splendid courage. He’s quite an impressive young man.”

“That surprises me. Warwick has never said anything positive about him.”

“Warwick considers Edward dissolute and good for nothing more than the pursuit of pleasure.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “My brother is sometimes guilty of hasty judgment, which nothing then can change.”

His comment gave me a rare glimpse into his inner thoughts, and again I wondered how hard it must be for John, living in his brother’s shadow when he had to know he was the finer man. And once again the realization struck me there was much about my husband I had yet to learn.

WE ARRIVED IN LONDON IN TIME TO WITNESS
King Henry’s return to his capital. Though the king was a prisoner, Warwick accorded him all the imposing pomp and ceremony of a monarch entering into his kingdom, and he himself, bareheaded, carried Henry’s sword of state before him. The bishop of London loaned his palace as a royal residence, and the crowds that received Henry did so with honor and solemnity.

At the Erber we enjoyed a joyous reunion with John’s father and mother, and with Warwick’s countess and his daughters, Bella and Anne, who had come over from Calais now that it was safe to do so. Their exile had had a pronounced effect on them all: Nan seemed more nervous and jumpy than ever; her daughter Bella, now eight years of age, had grown more playful and merry, as if laughter could banish her fears; and six-year-old Anne had become more sensitive and thoughtful. She refused to eat flesh of any kind, which made for many an argument between her and her parents. Yet little Anne, so gentle and sweet, did not relent in the face of their disapproval. She merely buttoned up her lips and quietly refused the food they tried to force into her. I couldn’t help but admire her courage for proving so strong in the face of such determined opposition. I knew I couldn’t have held out against Warwick’s bushy-browed frowns and Nan’s daily chidings, especially not at the age of six.

One day I asked Anne why she had an aversion to animal flesh. Turning her bright Neville blue eyes on me, she’d replied with a question of her own: “Would you eat your friends, Auntie Isobel?” From then on, though I did not dare gainsay her parents, I showed Anne in all other ways that I approved of her mutiny—and we exchanged many a secret look of triumph after each of her little victories.

In all, these were happy days, and we had much joy. John was appointed as King’s Chamberlain and was elevated by parliament to the peerage as Lord Montagu. Still, much work remained to get the government moving again, and I saw little of him during this time. All our men had their hands full attending meetings, receiving petitioners, appointing good men to offices vacated by those Lancastrians who had either died or fled, and dealing with others who caused unrest in various parts of the country. King James II of Scotland, unable to resist the opportunity offered by the upheaval in England, attacked Roxburgh Castle, and John’s father was immediately called away to raise an army and deal with the Scottish threat, leaving John in charge of Henry’s person. But in a divine moment of justice, King James was killed by a misfire of one of his own guns, and peace was promptly restored.

At the same time in August, Warwick, after hearing that Somerset was willing to negotiate the surrender of Guisnes, left for Calais. Meanwhile John’s closeness to Henry’s person gave me an opportunity to see another side of them both. I was impressed and deeply touched by the tenderness of the care John gave his king. I myself spent much time with Henry, who seemed delighted by the company of our two Annes and Isabelles. He played games with them, threw balls to them, and chatted patiently with them as though they were grown ladies, which pleased them all immensely.

Henry also sympathized with Warwick’s Anne when he learned about her aversion to flesh. “Ah, my dear little lady, you are far wiser and kinder than I, for I do enjoy a good piece of mutton, though I love the lamb. ’Tis a failing in me, but one I am too weak to correct. Will you pray for me?”

Little Anne nodded readily, and added, “I shall pray for you forever, King Henry,” whereupon Henry laughed and gave the top of her golden head a tender kiss.

That he missed his seven-year-old son, Prince Edward, was evident to me. Once, he placed his arm around little Anne and said wistfully, “My Edward would like you.”

“Is Anne not too gentle for the prince?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“Gentle as the tiny red finch that flees not the fierceness of winter.” Henry smiled.

Anne, the little red finch, had defied the power of her fierce father in refusing to eat flesh.

Only once in all these months did Henry dare mention Marguerite.

“Have you had any news of my queen?” he asked John timidly. “I cannot help but wonder how she fares….” His voice trailed off meekly, as if he feared to offend.

John informed him as gently as he could of Marguerite’s adventures. “The queen and Prince Edward are safe in Wales, my liege. She left Coventry as soon as she learned the outcome of Northampton. She was robbed of her jewels along the way, but came to no harm.” John didn’t give the details of Marguerite’s harrowing ordeal with the robbers, or add that she was stirring Heaven and Hell to raise an army against the Yorkists and rescue her husband.

“I have prayed for my dear queen,” Henry said sadly.

But Henry’s favorite topic remained God, and his favorite friends were monks. With them, for long hours at a time he pondered the mysteries of the spirit and the universe. I had believed Henry to be a dull man, incapable of true feeling or thought. Now I realized how I had wronged him, what injustice I had done him! I came to revere him for his goodness. Even if Henry failed as a ruler, he did not fail as a person; he was pure in thought and deed, a true man of God in all ways.
Henry,
I thought,
has the sheen of a saint about him
. Even Warwick, who could be harsh and arrogant with those he despised, showed Henry deference, honor, and respect, for no one could be harsh with gentle Henry except one who had no heart.

As for intellect, in matters that interested him Henry was exceedingly clever. He asked questions of the monks that confounded them in their intricacy and drove them back to consult their ancient books.

And so passed the last tranquil, beautiful days of the summer of 1460.

AS UNREST WAS QUELLED AND GOOD GOVERNMENT
restored, word came that the Duke of York had sailed for England from Ireland. On the tenth day of October, as the leaves turned scarlet, he arrived in London to the jubilation of the multitudes, who welcomed him with a veritable sea of white roses. The emblem of York waved from the hands of children, adorned the hair of maidens, and was pinned to the caps and collars of men. Everyone jostled for space; nimble youths climbed rooftops and high walls to gain a better view, and fathers set their children high on their shoulders.

From the balcony of the earl’s house on the Thames, we watched the Duke of York’s arrival as he crossed London Bridge. His procession advanced midway along the bridge, then halted abruptly. “What’s happening?” Maude asked, straining for a better view. “Why have they stopped?”

No one replied. Then we saw that men were taking down the pikes on which were speared the rotting heads of traitors.

“Oh my God!” the countess said, swallowing hard. “Roger…”

“Blessed Virgin,” I murmured, my stomach tightening with revulsion. They must have seen Roger Neville. They were taking down all the rotting heads for Christian burial. Still the procession did not resume.

The sun grew hot on the balcony, aggravating my confused and uneasy state of mind. Finally the crowd on the bridge began to stir, and a cheer went up. The procession resumed its forward motion, but now with clarions blowing and tabors beating. The duke emerged clearly into our view, and a sudden hush came over us all. He was resplendent in the murrey and azure colors of the House of York. But he came with his sword borne upright before him like a king. The duke had brought with him at least five hundred retainers clad in his colors, and around him were gathered his son Edmund, Earl of Rutland, his good friend Lord Clinton, and several other lords in livery of azure and white embroidered with fetterlocks, the personal badge of the Duke of York. Above him floated a banner of the lilies and leopards, the arms of England.

The mayor and aldermen of London received him with much ceremony, and though we couldn’t hear what was said, the crowd’s hails of approval that punctuated the speeches reached us clearly.

The spectacle left me mute. After a moment, when I had recovered from my astonishment, I leaned close to Maude. “What can this mean?” I whispered.

Maude was ashen-faced. “He comes to us as king, no longer duke.”

“Be silent, Maude!” Countess Alice said sharply. “Such words must not be uttered!”

“York has assured my lord husband that he remains Henry’s loyal subject despite all,” whispered Nan under her breath. “He would never attempt to seize the throne.”

A page informed us that our barge was ready, and we left for Westminster, our mood far from festive, though our colorful streamers blowing in the wind gave out a different impression. We found the duchess Cecily already seated in the gilded gallery of the Painted Chamber, and after a crosscurrent of greeting, we took our seats beside her. Within a few moments, the duke himself strode in. He presented himself to the lords, then threw a glance up at his wife. I saw Duchess Cecily give him an almost imperceptible nod. As I wondered about the significance of this, the Duke of York crossed the floor to the dais and mounted the steps to the empty throne.