Lady of the Roses (30 page)

But instead of retiring to our bedchamber, I stole down to the cellar, where Somerset was held captive. His room was a mere storage cell between some barrels of wine, and the surprised guard gave me entry only upon my insistence, for he had been commanded not to let anyone in.

I stepped into the chamber, and the key turned behind me. At first I saw nothing; my eyes had to adjust to the darkness. Then I made out Somerset sitting with his head in his hands. He hadn’t looked up when the door had been unlocked or when it was locked again behind me.

“My lord of Somerset,” I said.

He jerked up his head. He didn’t move for a moment; then he blinked and rose to his feet. He stood gazing at me.

“Isobel,” he said, almost reverently, “do I see true? Surely you are not real but a vision sent me from above….”

“Nay, I am real enough,” I said, suddenly regretting I had come.

He put out his hand, and after a hesitation I gave him mine. He kissed it and held it tenderly in both his own. “My lord of Somerset, I have come to thank you for the promise you made me at St. Albans, which you have kept.”

“I need no thanks, Isobel.”

“It was a kindness that greatly eased my mind,” I replied, ignoring his denial.

“I did it for you…. I would do anything for you.”

I dropped my lids, blushing furiously, glad of the darkness as I withdrew my hand from his. “Your Grace, I only wish you to know that I shall always be grateful to you.”

“Prove it.”

My eyes flew back to him. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

I took a step backward. “You’re mad!”

“I’m a dead man. I don’t want your prayers. If you wish to thank me, do it now…with your lips.”

Before I knew it, he had closed the distance between us and swept me savagely into his arms. “Isobel—do you not wonder why I never married? ’Tis because of you!” he said roughly. “As long as the wars raged, I had hope. But now hope is gone!” His mouth swooped down to capture mine, and I felt his burning body against mine. I struggled against his kiss, which suffocated me so that I could not cry out, and fought him hard, beating against his chest with my fists. But he was too strong for me, and I flailed in his arms like a dove in the claws of an eagle.

The key turned in the lock with a loud click. Jolted by the sound, Somerset relaxed his grip, and I removed myself from his grasp with such haste that I ripped my sleeve. John stood in the entry, staring at me. I pulled my hair and the torn sleeve of my gown over my shoulder, but the look on his face, so wounded, full of pain and disbelief, cut me to the core. In the next instant, his hurt look vanished, replaced by rage. He raised a fist to strike Somerset, but I lunged for his arm, which I caught at the elbow. “Nay, my lord! Strike him not! ’Tis not worthy of you to strike a prisoner—one who did you kindness!”

“Kindness?” John looked at me with hatred. “Is this kindness—that you steal down here to be kissed by my mortal enemy—the one who murdered my father and my brother—”

“I had nothing to do with that,” Somerset protested. “I tried to dissuade them from it.”

“So you say now, when no one is left to gainsay you,” John hissed. “I have a good mind to throw you to her uncle—you know what he’d like to do to you?”

“John, I beg you, say no more! Let it be! I came to thank him for your safekeeping! He promised me at St. Albans that no harm would come to you—and he kept his promise! Oh, John, forgive this trespass—I only wished to thank him, ’tis all.”

With a jerk of his arm, John shook me off. After glaring at Somerset for a long moment, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room. I ran after him, to no avail. Stony-faced, he would not speak to me and was deaf to my entreaties.

For the first time in our marriage, John did not come to our bed.

THE NEXT MORNING, I WAVED FAREWELL TO MY
uncle with a troubled heart. As soon as he had gone, John dispatched Somerset to the safety of the fortress of Middleham, to be kept there until the king arrived. For the next three days, he held a military hearing in the market square, where he pardoned most of the prisoners and hung the rest. I knew he had acted swiftly so that my uncle would have no opportunity to carry out his designs against the hapless captives. Yet I felt such speed unnecessary, for I had recalled something I’d been unable to share with him. My uncle’s talk of impalement was mere bluster, and his hard demeanor hid a soft heart that could never inflict cruelty. I knew, because he had read me the tale of the doomed royal lovers Tristan and Iseult when I was a child, and before we reached the end, he broke down and wept at their suffering.

Even at the tender age of six, I understood my uncle to be a proud man who would not wish others to know his weakness. Thus, I never spoke of what I had witnessed, and put it out of my mind so completely that I almost forgot it had happened.

On the last day of the executions, I did not see John at all, and on the night before he left again, he stayed away from our bed for a third time. I paced in my chamber restlessly, as though movement could grant me peace from my agony of mind. The doleful tolling of church bells sounded the hour of matins, and the nocturnal chants of the monks came floating to me across the stillness of the night. I could bear it no longer. Donning my chamber robe, I went to John in the room he had taken down the hall.

His eyes were closed. “John,” I murmured, “are you awake?”

In the moonlight, I saw him open his eyes, but he said nothing.

“About what happened…Surely you know I intended no harm by thanking Somerset?”

He didn’t reply, but at least he didn’t turn his back.

“John, I’ve never given you reason to question my fidelity. Somerset grabbed me. Couldn’t you see I was struggling to get away when you walked in? What more could I do? You are my first love and my last. When we’re apart, I yearn for you, and only when you are safe at my side do I feel I truly live. We are granted so little time together, my love—’tis a terrible thing to waste our moments. Tomorrow you depart again”—I cast a look of dread at the black window—“and I shall be alone; for how long this time, I know not….” I broke off wretchedly.

His continued silence was extinguishing my hope of forgiveness, but I gave it another effort. “Life is uncertain, my dear lord, and well do we know loss, you and I. Though you’ve won every battle you’ve ever commanded, the fear is always with me that the next one shall claim you. Sometimes I feel that I walk with the shadow of death at my shoulder—” My voice broke, but I forced myself to go on. “If you leave me now, angry and bitter as you are, how shall I bear that? If we part this way and misfortune comes to us, what then? Somerset has cost us much. Do not let him take more.”

John did not move. I swallowed the despair in my throat and turned to leave, and it was then that I heard his sigh and felt his hand take mine. He drew me down to his side. I gave a small sob of relief as I stretched out beside him on the bed.

“You are right, Isobel,” he said softly. “We should not waste time on such nonsense, for in the end that is all it be.” I kissed the pulse in his neck. “’Tis just that your uncle upset me at dinner, and when I came to you for comfort and you were not there…” He heaved an audible breath. “To see you in another man’s arms—’tis a sight I hope never to witness again. It well nigh drove me mad. I couldn’t help myself, I wanted to kill Somerset.”

“My love, let us put it aside, and forget. All that matters is that we are together.”

“THANK YOU, GEOFFREY,” I SAID, ACCEPTING THE
missive my uncle had sent from court, and giving him a warm smile as I opened the letter.

I had grown very fond of this man, who had become my right arm. In John’s absence, he guided me in my dealings with our various bailiffs, rent collectors, reapers, grangers, carters, smiths, plowmen, shepherds, herdsmen, and other farmworkers on our scattered estates, and I found in him a veritable fountain of knowledge. With his genial good nature, he reminded me of King Edward, and not only was he pleasant, but he worked hard and accomplished much. As Heaven knew, we sorely needed his help. Our money woes never seemed to leave us, despite the income from the gold mine, and limited the help we could hire, but this older man accomplished more in a day than most youths did in a week.

I broke open the seal and bent my head to read.

I lowered the missive in my hand, my mind reeling. Great power had been placed in my uncle’s hands, a power that would test his true mettle. He had always been proud, and now I feared his pride blinded him to the truth about himself. Like Marguerite d’Anjou, who saw herself as a peacemaker even as she drove men to the sword, my uncle had thought himself a loyal Lancastrian even as he’d fled for Italy to avoid the wars.

But what troubled me more was his belief in his own righteousness. My uncle was noted for his piety; yet he’d watched with admiration the gruesome sight of Saracens being put to death by impalement, this man who’d wept at the tale of the fictitious lovers Tristan and Iseult.

Which was the real John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, my uncle?

I made the sign of the cross and bent my head back to his letter.

I laid down the missive. My uncle was mistaken: It was not learning and age that made for wisdom. It was a man’s heart, and I need not doubt that King Edward’s remained in the right place.
For shame, is this your thanks to the uncle to whom you owe your happiness?
I thought, swept by guilt. However, only days after his appointment as Lord Constable of England came tidings that fanned my misgivings again. John brought them to me himself.

“The Earl of Oxford and his eldest son have been arrested for treason.”

“Are they guilty?”

“Most people feel they are not. But your uncle will decide the matter.”

John said nothing more, and I dropped the subject. My uncle had become a sensitive subject for us both. Not long afterward came the news that my uncle had found the earl and his son guilty, and the earl had been beheaded on a scaffold still wet with his son’s blood. The whole matter made my stomach tighten into such a knot that I was unable to take food for two days.

John, who was at home when we received the news, took to his horse, and I didn’t see him again until dusk. He returned long after dinner had been cleared away. I sat with him and watched as he ate silently, a faraway look in his eyes. I knew he was remembering his own father and brother, and Clifford’s brutal treatment of them at Wakefield. Whether my uncle’s executions were warranted or not, there was no need for the added cruelty of having the son executed in front of the father, and of making Oxford lay his own head down on a block lathered in his son’s blood.

Edward, in a burst of generosity, had not attainted the Earl of Oxford, so his remaining son, seventeen-year-old John de Vere, who’d taken no part in his father’s treason, would inherit his father’s earldom. But how could this kindness ever outweigh my uncle’s ruthlessness? Soon afterward came news that this young heir had come to blows with another youth over some disagreement, and this had brought him before my uncle’s court once again. He was sentenced to have his arm severed at the elbow. This time, however, King Edward commuted the sentence, which was considered unduly harsh by everyone. My uncle, this man I had seen weep at a manuscript, was carving himself a reputation for great cruelty.

The weeks passed. My concerns about my uncle faded in the glow of better tidings. Marguerite, despairing of Scotland’s help, had left England to seek help in France, and only the fortress of Bamburgh, where King Henry resided, remained in Lancastrian hands. Sir Thomas Malory, traveling to the border on royal business, stopped at Seaton Delaval for a brief visit with Ursula and brought us interesting news.

“Shocked by the sight of their young king bareheaded and unarmed, riding beside Somerset, and believing King Edward to be in mortal danger, the people of Grantham tried to drag Somerset from his horse and slay him!” he said. “But golden-haired Edward laughed and told them that he and his erstwhile foe were now the best of friends! The townspeople scratched their heads at this turn of events…. On my soul, King Edward is the most amiable, good-natured, and courageous monarch that ever sat the throne of England!”

“King Edward is not only generous, he is right,” I said thoughtfully. “We must put the past behind us and move forward as best we can. But, Sir Thomas, isn’t Somerset in a difficult position? Not everyone is as forgiving as Edward, and now he finds himself trying to gain acceptance among men who are kin to those he has slain.” I was thinking of the many ambushes and attempted murders of the Nevilles.
How must John feel?
Somerset, even if he wasn’t physically present at Wakefield, had taken a hand, however reluctantly, in the slaughter of the Earl of Salisbury and of Thomas, and he had certainly been active in the many other ambushes and waylayings.

“Aye,” Sir Thomas Malory sighed. “’Tis an impossible situation in many ways. There are those who will never forgive. I have seen him taunted. Some even turn their backs on him when he walks past. They whisper openly and snicker behind their hands. So I know not the answer to your question, my lady. Only time will tell.”

Indeed it did. Before the year was out, Somerset had defected back to the Lancastrians, joining King Henry at Bamburgh. From that fortress, he and his Lancastrian friends wore John out keeping the peace as they raided the surrounding countryside. John’s visits home to me grew fewer in number, and shorter in duration.

Though he had promised to return to Seaton Delaval for our seventh anniversary, he didn’t arrive until after dark on the twenty-sixth of April, and his homecoming wasn’t what I expected. He rode up wearily, an expression on his face that I had come to see in the days when Marguerite ruled the land. At his side rode faithful Rufus and John’s new squire, Thomas Gower, the one I had known as “the pilgrim” in the depth of the troubles with Lancaster.

“What happened?” I asked.

“We gave battle at Hedgeley Moor,” John sighed, dismounting. I took his arm as we walked together. “One of our Neville relatives—you know that rabid Lancastrian Humphrey—”

I nodded. Humphrey Neville was descended from a first marriage made by John’s grandfather, Ralph Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, to Margaret Stafford, while John’s line was descended from Earl Ralph’s second wife, Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Duke of Lancaster. Humphrey’s quarrel with John’s father concerned the inheritance of certain property he felt should have gone to his side.

“I discovered he had plotted with Egremont’s brother to ambush me—”

A gasp escaped my lips. Egremont was long dead, yet his legacy lived on and the Percies still made trouble for John. I had come to loathe their name, which had been coupled so often with the word “ambush” that it never failed to remind me of the anguish of those days that had led to the horror at Wakefield.

“Nay, have no fear, ’tis over,” John said. “The Percy is dead, but Humphrey escaped to Bamburgh.” He sighed heavily as he sank down into a chair in our bedchamber. “There can be no peace in the land until I find a way to wrestle that impregnable fortress on the sea away from the Lancastrians.”

Rufus made himself comfortable by the hearth. He cast John a sad look and wagged his tail in commiseration. I sent Tom Gower away and undressed John myself, pulling off his high boots, removing his doublet and hose, and untying his shirt. After sitting him down by the fire and covering him with a blanket, I went to the door and sent a servant down for wine and sweetmeats.

“Let us worry about that later,” I said, returning to his side. “Now we shall eat, drink, be merry…and make love.” I kissed the back of his neck as he sat in the chair, and I slipped my hands beneath the blanket and down over the rippling muscles of his chest. He turned and reached for me.

AFTER JOHN LEFT, HE WROTE ME DAILY. ONE BY
one, the castles in the North and the West surrendered to him, until only Harlech in Wales held out. Favorable reports also came from across the land about King Edward. His charm was so great that he had won the hearts of his people, and they adored him almost as much as they loved Warwick. Merchants’ wives pressured their husbands to loan him money, and men, too, often gave generously to Edward’s purse, though they could not be sure they’d ever see their gold again. But each time I met King Edward, I heard the same troubling refrain from him. “Money, money,” he’d moan, “why is there never enough money?” Well did I understand his concern, for it was the same as ours. But then he’d turn his gaze thoughtfully on Warwick, who was richer than any king, and I felt that cold shiver run down my spine again.

At this time, Warwick decided to reunite his mother in burial with his father and brother at Bisham Priory, for in his will the earl had expressed his wish to be buried with his Neville ancestors. Accompanied by John and Warwick riding bareheaded, with banners fluttering before them in the cold wind, the bodies of the earl and Thomas were conveyed from Pontefract to Middleham, to join Countess Alice, and from thence the three were taken to Bisham. All along the way, people gathered to pay their last respects, removing their caps to stand quietly and watch the chariots rumble past, covered in black silk and drawn by gleaming ebony stallions. At the priory we were met by John’s brother George, the bishop of Exeter, now Edward’s chancellor, and Edward’s young brother, fourteen-year-old Clarence. But the king had not come. Again I felt that cold shiver of warning that told me something was amiss.

Attired in black, my face covered by a veil, my mind awash in memory, I rode behind the caskets of the three I had come to love as my own kin. I saw merry Thomas in the hall at Raby, surrounded by children.
Wine in well rose sparkingly,
he sang;
beer was rolling darkeningly, and merry malt moved wavily, through the floor beyond….

I wiped away a tear.

At the door of the priory church, John performed his father’s bequest and distributed forty pounds in gold coins to poor maidens about to be married. I watched the earl’s last act of charity on this earth, a charity characteristic of him throughout his life. As clarions blared farewell, tabors drummed, and monks chanted their dirges, the coffins were lowered into their sarcophagus. One by one, I blew them a kiss in my heart.

Immediately after the funeral, John took to horse and did not return for many hours. I watched him ride away, wishing he could turn to me for solace. But, strong and silent as he was by nature, there was much he knew not how to share with me, and much that eluded me about him.
He is like the wind,
I thought,
and one cannot capture the wind.

The next day, I went back to Seaton Delaval. Before any word arrived from John, a travel-dusty pilgrim appeared at our door one May evening, begging shelter. Ursula came to me in the kitchen, breathless. “The pilgrim has news, dear lady! Come—” Seizing my hand, she dragged me to the hall, where a man sat eating at a trestle table.

“See,” he explained, repeating what he had told Ursula, “my lord o’ Montagu delivered the Scottish nobles safely to York, and he was on his way to his headquarters in Newcastle to await my lord o’ Warwick and King Edward when he learned that Lord Somerset and King Henry were encamped near the town of Hexham.” The man spoke between long draughts of ale and mouthfuls of bread soaked in broth. “My lord o’ Montagu needed no second invitation, m’lady! I was passing through m’self and saw the fight, and afterward I spoke to one of the soldiers—”

“Is Lord Montagu safe?” I demanded, my heart in my throat.

“Safe and snug as a bug in a soiled mattress in a dirty tavern, m’lady. Have no fear—”

With a wide smile, I ordered him a capon and wine. As we waited for the bird to be cooked, he told his tale of Hexham.

“As I was saying, this man-at-arms, he was one who took part in the battle, and I’m relating it to you as he himself told it to me, so upon my soul ’tis as God himself saw it—” The pilgrim took time to cast an eye heavenward and make the sign of the cross. “‘My lord o’ Montagu,’ he says to me—the sergeant says this, mind you—‘My lord o’ Montagu is the most valiant knight and the best commander a fighting man can have! Here’s the traitor Somerset camped in this meadow near Hexham on the banks of Devil’s Water, and without waiting for reinforcements, m’lord o’ Montagu galloped to meet treacherous Somerset, whose life King Edward said was forfeit on capture—’” The pilgrim paused to down his ale. “‘Crushed ’em like that—’” He snapped his fingers. “This is me talking now…. God’s own truth, m’lady, I saw it with m’own eyes—may the Lord Almighty smite me down if I lie! M’lord Montagu attacked with such suddenness and so fierce, that’s why the entire battle took but minutes, though Somerset’s army outnumbered his by more than two hundred men…. Aye, England never ’ad a finer general or a more manly knight than good Lord Montagu—may God bless him and reward him, so say I!”