Lady of the Roses (29 page)

And so it continued through the night—acrobats whirling in the air in the most stunning and unbelievable acts as we marveled; the finest troubadours in the land singing to us as we listened dreamily; and a set of twin dwarfs and their magnificent black bear performing daring and dangerous feats to bring us to the edge of our seats.

The ancient hall of William Rufus, filled to capacity with its illustrious guests, rang with cheers and brimmed with the boundless gaiety of those celebrating the end of war and a new beginning. We feasted on goose, swan, and pigeons in puff pastry with rich sauces, fried trout and partridge tails, and rice pies decorated with flowers; and we drank the finest, sweetest wines, spiced hippocras, malmsey, and fragrant beverages, toasting the health of our handsome new king at every opportunity. At the conclusion of the evening, in a spectacular display that drew gasps of awe from us all, an angel in white silk and silver dropped down from the hall’s magnificent hammer-beam roof to bless King Edward IV and bid us a good night.

The festivities resumed the next morning, and later that day, King Edward created his brother George Duke of Clarence, and his little brother Dickon Duke of Gloucester. Before we departed for the North, I heard Edward promise Dickon the gift of a golden garter. “You shall have it, Dickon,” he whispered, “as soon as I can pay for it.”

Amid such merriment, we took our pleasure and, finally exhausted with joy, we made our way back north, drowsy with delight, the evil omen of the Massacre of the Innocents long since forgotten.

FOR THE REST OF THE YEAR THAT FOLLOWED
Edward’s coronation, I enjoyed a measure of calm and life took on a pleasant uniformity I’d not known during my marriage. The best news in these months was the death of Marguerite of Anjou’s cousin King Charles VII. His loss robbed her of all French support, at least for the present. Charles’s son, the new King Louis XI, had hated his father and always sided with his father’s enemies. He not only imprisoned Marguerite’s envoys, but sent her friend Brézé to languish in a gloomy prison. Nevertheless, King Louis cared deeply for his kingdom and could be swayed to change policy. For this reason, Warwick was determined to wed Edward to a French princess. But according to various reports that came our way, King Edward, whose support rested on the favor of England’s merchants, preferred a trade alliance with Burgundy over a marriage treaty with France. I knew enough to be concerned by this. It would not bode well for John if his brother and the king fell out with one another over France.

In November, a messenger arrived from Nan, who had taken up residence at her castle of Middleham. She wrote that the ailing countess was sinking fast. I packed up the children and journeyed to see her. While my spirits were immediately lifted by Warwick’s daughters, little Anne and Bella, who ran to embrace me with shrieks of delight and open arms, I was deeply saddened by the sight of the countess. Maude had married again and moved on to a new life with her third husband, Sir Gervase Clifton, but the countess remained trapped in that moment in time when the news of Wakefield had been brought to us.

“How long has she been like this?” I asked Nan.

“For months…I lose count,” Nan replied.

Refusing to eat, the countess had wasted away, and her skin was stretched taut over her bones. Whereas she was once unable to sleep, now she lay in permanent slumber, not even opening her eyes. I went over to the bed, where she lay stiff and still as a corpse. Her matted gray hair was strewn across the pillow, and her face bore an expression of deepest pain. But whether it had roots in the body or in the mind, I could not tell. I touched her hand and found it ice-cold; I bent down and kissed the sad, furrowed brow. She did not stir. But it was then I heard the moan that came from her lips as if entwined in her breathing, without beginning or end, rising and falling in volume and dying away like a soft wind that passes gently through a field only to stir again.

“Nearly a year has passed since the earl and Thomas died,” I said, stroking her cheek. “She never recovered, did she?”

Nan met my eyes, and in them I saw my own sorrow reflected. “No…she died at Wakefield, too.” She turned her sad gaze on the lifeless figure who still lived.

I kissed John’s mother one last time and heard the sighing of her breath. “Your many kindnesses to me live in my heart,” I whispered.

THAT NIGHT WARWICK CAME STREAKING THROUGH
Middleham as unexpectedly as a star streaks through the heavens, blinding all else in the light of his glory. Nan rushed around frantically to attend his every whim. Wine flowed, and we spent the evening feasting lavishly on boar, peacock, and swan. Even beggars at the door were given generously of the rich fare, for it was Warwick’s custom that every man be allowed to take away as much meat as he could fit on a dagger, and those too poor to own one were permitted to fill their stomachs until they could swell no further. Thus fortified, they set out again into the cold world, carrying their praise of Warwick all over the land, so that even those in faraway Bohemia heard of him. He carried the name “Kingmaker,” for having unmade Henry and put Edward on the throne.

The evening was splendid in all regards except for one: John was not at my side. He was detained in the North. Warwick relayed his greetings to me, and a welcome message.

“He has left to pick up a party of Scottish nobles from the border and escort them to York. They are to meet with Edward’s commissioners to discuss a peace treaty. He says to tell you that he is determined to make a visit to you very soon.”

“Papa, why do you have to leave again?” his little Anne demanded tearfully.

“I must go to London to talk to the French ambassador, my child,” Warwick said, stroking her hair as she sat on his knee. “I am planning a marriage for our brave King Edward.”

“Indeed?” I said. “Who does King Edward wish to wed?”

“Edward? He’s too busy whoring to give that any thought, so I shall decide for him,” Warwick replied. “I intend to secure a treaty with Louis XI and seal it with marraige to a French princess, so that France does not render aid to the bitch of Anjou.”

I was shocked by the manner in which Warwick spoke of the king, and I couldn’t help but wonder what King Edward would think of Warwick’s wedding plans when he was told. A little shiver ran along my back. The Sun may have risen in splendor, but the future suddenly seemed vague and darkened by shadow.

1462–1471

I LOOKED AROUND OUR MANOR HOUSE AT SEATON
Delaval, much contented. A gentle snow drifted past the windows and bright sunlight flowed through the slated shutters, casting a glow through the great hall, which had been decorated with ribbons, greenery, and berries for Yuletide and the New Year festivities of 1463. On the dais, the hearth crackled with burning logs, giving out warmth. In one corner, men played at dice; in another, ladies held hands and danced in a circle; and in the center of the room, children played Hoodman Blind, shrieking with delight as they tried to escape the clutches of the hooded one. The smell of spiced wine and gingerbread cake floated in the air as servants carried around great trays laden with sweets and fragrant drink.
How much there is to be grateful for!
I thought. So many good things had happened for us in the nearly two years since King Edward’s great Yorkist victory at Towton.

There was only one thing I would change. Our family had grown by yet another daughter. Margaret gave us a brood of four girls, and though I loved them deeply, it also pained me that I had failed to provide John with the strong arms of sons. My hand had hesitated as I put quill to paper to inform him of the birth of our girl. I knew he had to be disappointed. A man needed sons to help him fight his battles, whether in the courts, on the field, or on the manor. Yet his reply bore no evidence of it. He talked about the joy the news had brought him, how he looked forward to seeing his beautiful little daughter, and how he hoped matters on the border would settle down long enough to permit him a visit to Burrough Green. I had brought his missive to my lips and kissed it tenderly, but with an inward sigh. After all these years, he still stood alone, no boys at his side to help him in the world.

There’s plenty of time to have more children now that we’re close and he comes home more often,
I told myself, remembering.

I had made the decision to move to Northumbria the previous year, 1462, for we saw little of John in Cambridgeshire. He was always in the North, securing the Scots border and fighting against the Lancastrian remnants that still vexed the land. To excise that cankerous sore and rid the realm of their threat, John had placed the three Lancastrian-held castles of Alnwick, Dunstanburgh, and Bamburgh under siege. Faced with the prospect of not seeing him for months on end, I moved our household from Burrough Green to the fortified manor of Seaton Delaval, far north in Northumberland, which had been confiscated from the Delaval family and given us by King Edward.

We had set out on our journey north as soon as I regained my strength after Maggie’s birth in September. Along the way, news reached me of Countess Alice’s death. Though I was grateful that she had finally been granted rest, I was unable to shake the painful sense of loss that dogged me, and I wondered how John did and wished I could be there to comfort him.

Autumn colors still clung to the Midlands when we left, but winds already blustered in gloomy Northumberland, and freezing sleet covered the earth. No livestock grazed outdoors, and we encountered few travelers along the way, for animals were given shelter and wise men did not venture out in such weather. Trotting our horses and rolling our carts across the rugged and lonely terrain of Northumbria, we had traversed hills and valleys, passed endless barns and small dwellings, and sometimes a shivering traveler that necessity had forced outdoors. As we’d entered the final stretch of our journey, the road before us climbed so steeply that all we saw was the vast sky rising ahead, so that it seemed the stony path would lead us directly to Heaven. I took it as a good omen.

At last we’d turned our horses through the sleepy village of Seaton Delaval and out into the arable farmland that surrounded the manor, marked on the horizon by the bell tower of an old Saxon church. The porter had let down the rusty drawbridge amidst a terrible shuddering and ear-shattering screeching that scattered the swans and herons on the moat with a wild flapping of wings. As we clattered up to the gatehouse, I’d made a mental note to have the drawbridge oiled. The reeve had met us with anxious eyes and a troubled air, no doubt wondering his fate under a Yorkist lord, and, while two grooms came running to hold the horses for us as we dismounted, he showed me around my new home.

Near the kitchen, a stream flowed through the garden to a well, and a windmill turned its sheeted arms, billowing like sails on a ship. Pigeons flew around the dovecote and the air bubbled with their loud cooing, while geese, poultry, and partridges wandered around the yard, squawking and sounding their horns. I was shown the spacious kitchen wing, the washhouse, the brew house, and the bake house, from whence had floated the smell of baked bread. My stomach had growled with appetite, and my throat thirsted for the wine and ale to be served at luncheon. Inwardly, though, I’d given a sigh. The manor required much hard work and expense to make it comfortable, for it had an unkempt air, with its run-down dovecote and rampant weeds, the half-rotted wood of the byres, and the ripped sheets of the windmill. Much tending was needed; we’d have to engage the services of many itinerants to mend farm buildings and implements.

We had entered the main house then and taken the creaky wooden staircase up to the living quarters. I’d noted many buckets that stood ready to catch drips from the leaking tiled roof, but the great hall was paneled and had a lovely minstrels gallery, and the wonderful old Saxon chapel, with the tall tower that I’d seen from the road, radiated warmth. In preparation for our noon arrival there was much bustle in the hall. The tables were already laid with freshly laundered cloths and pewter goblets, and varlets were bringing in saltcellars and spoons and setting them in their appropriate places.

At the end of the tour, I was shown our bedchamber. To my delight, it commanded a view of the surrounding fields and gardens, and had a privy that was set with sconces on either side of the arrowhead window. I had changed out of my journey-stained attire and, thus refreshed, had made my way to the hall for luncheon. Most of the household staff had already gathered in the hall to await me. I invited them to sit, and with my nod to the ewer, they were offered water in which to wash their hands before grace was said.

For the next two months I had thrown all my energies into fixing up the house and controlling expenses so that we could squeeze in extra repairs. I went over the household accounts with the reeve, suggesting ways to cut back on the purchases of clothes, wax, wine, spices; on the cost of alms given; on the money spent on supplying livery and buying stock; on the cost of the clergy we employed to sing masses and say prayers; on the expenses of the varlets engaged to clean windows and floors, and to keep the fires, candles, and rushlights lit; even on the number and cost of the staff that took care of the children. The money saved paid not only for additional repairs, but for adornments such as tapestries. And by Yuletide, the manor had repaid my efforts by taking on a truly inviting air.

The decision to move to Seaton Delaval had been a good one. John had seized every opportunity to come home, and though his visits were usually brief, they filled the house—and my heart—with great joy.

As we prepared to usher in the New Year of 1463, the sieges of Alnwick and Dunstanburgh went so successfully that Somerset surrendered both to John on Christmas Day. Now only Bamburgh remained in Lancastrian hands. On Twelfth Night, John arrived at Seaton Delaval with a very special guest in tow. “Look who I brought you,” he said, his dark blue eyes twinkling.

“Uncle!” I cried, throwing myself into his arms in a most unladylike display of affection. “Oh, Uncle, ’tis so good to see you!” Linking arms with him, I turned to lead him to the house, when a familiar voice sounded behind me. I looked back to see Somerset dismounting his stallion with the help of a man-at-arms, his hands bound before him. He stood for a moment gazing at me. I stared, not comprehending. Somehow I hadn’t understood that when Somerset surrendered the castles, he had also surrendered himself.

“My lady of Montagu, I greet thee well,” he said in a gentle tone.

“My lord of Somerset—” I broke off, finding no words. I inclined my head in a nod of acknowledgment, aware of the strange look John threw me. Then John gave a curt nod to the man-at-arms, and Somerset was hustled away. A stream of other captives followed.

“What will happen to them?” I asked, speaking my thought aloud.

“They are traitors,” my uncle said. “What do you think will happen to them, dear child? Now let us dine.” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “I am good and ready to sup!”

Over dinner, my uncle recounted his wonderful adventures in Jerusalem, Padua, Florence, Rome, and Rhodes. We downed spiced wine and hippocras, and worked our way through a dozen courses. But all the while, I thought of Somerset.

“So York rules over Lancaster at last,” my uncle marveled, toying with his goblet. “‘What glory can compare to this, to hold your hand victorious over the heads of those you hate?’—Euripides, you know…For a time there, I had not much hope of it. The manner of the Duke of York’s death changed the minds of many, I daresay.”

“Indeed, it did,” John murmured thoughtfully, pondering his wine before downing it in a gulp. A sorrow came over me, for I knew he was thinking of his father and Thomas.

“Aye, ‘’tis a rough road that leads to the height of greatness,’” my uncle said, quoting the poet Seneca.

“A road forced on us by Marguerite,” John replied pragmatically.

“‘She to Ilium brought her dowry, destruction.’ ’Tis what Aeschylus said about Helen of Troy, and it is proven true again in our day. Ah, history has a way of repeating itself, does it not?”

John gave a polite assent and moved to another topic. “As to the prisoners, my lord of Worcester, may I suggest we request a general pardon for them from King Edward?”

“Nay, make an example of them!” my uncle retorted. “Put them to death—and a slow death, at that!” He changed his mind about stabbing a slice of venison and waved his dagger around instead. “Impalement, that is the way! I observed this manner of death employed in Transylvania. ’Tis slow and torturous, and has proved most effective with the Turks. ’Tis how Vlad Dracula solidified his hold over his unruly region of Transylvania. Victims are either impaled through the anus or, in the case of women, their female part. His people live in such fear that none dare break any laws in his land! He has a gold cup placed on display in the market square of Tirgoviste, unguarded from any thief, and the cup remains, even through the night. ’Tis said he has made mothers eat the flesh of their own babes for fear of being impaled if they refused.”

A varlet offered him spitted boar, and he nodded with appetite. Another servant heaped a load of boiled cabbage on his plate and moved to me. I swallowed hard on the wave of nausea in my mouth and waved the food away. I couldn’t believe what I had heard. Neither did John, for he had turned pale.

“These are not Saracens,” said John thickly, “but our own people, some of whom were forced to fight for Lancaster against their will.”

Despite the effort to inject civility into his tone, he sounded angry. His face had hardened as he listened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Nevertheless their suffering will serve as an example and discourage the Lancastrian cause,” said my uncle. “Do you wish peace? Do you wish the return of law and order? Fear is the most effective weapon there is! Vlad Dracula had his mistress disemboweled for having lied about being pregnant with his child. Now people dare not lie in Transylvania, or even cheat, for terror of coming to his attention.”

I put down my wine cup, my mouth flooded with the taste of bile.

“England is not Transylvania. And you yourself were Lancastrian once,” John reminded him.

“My situation was quite different. I never fought for Lancaster. I owed my earldom to Henry, but I was connected by birth with the Duke of York, and to your family by marriage and friendship. How could I choose sides? ’Tis why I left the country.”

“These men were duty-bound to fight for their lord, whatever side he happened to choose, whether they agreed with him or not. They were too poor to leave England,” John said.

“That is not your problem, nor mine, John,” sighed the earl. “They fought for Lancaster! What matters now is our duty to King, and that duty is to support him with every means at our disposal, including fear. And spare no man for his rank! The only concession Dracula made to rank was to impale his noblemen on longer spikes, and as for the Turks, hear what he did to—”

I could take no more and rose to my feet abruptly. “Pray, my uncle, some other time, perhaps? I fear I am not up to such talk—” I forced a laugh, and to excuse my rudeness, I placed a hand on my stomach.

I saw John’s startled look.

“By the rood, you are with child?” my uncle exclaimed, scraping back his chair and rising to take my hand gently into his own. “Must be love that keeps you in such fair shape and glowing with happiness, for no one can tell by looking at you that your condition is so delicate, my dear.”

Much as I cared for my uncle, I was sickened by his talk of torture and had summoned up the only excuse that would not oblige me to feign sickness for his entire stay, be it short or long. Yet I had not exactly lied—my stomach was indeed churning. “And that happiness I owe to you, dear Uncle,” I said lightly, to change the subject. “If it hadn’t been for your intercession, and your golden way with words, the queen would not have agreed to my marriage to my lord husband.”

He patted my hand. “It does my heart good to know you are wed to such a splendid knight. ‘One word frees us of all the pain and weight of life: That word is love.’ Is it not?”

“Indeed it is, and Sophocles was wise to know it,” I replied, eager to bid him good night.

John stood, looking stunned by my disclosure. I smiled, gave him an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and when I brushed his cheek with my kiss, I whispered,
“No!”
in his ear. To my relief, his eyes changed, and I knew he understood. He bowed to me and sat down.