Lady of the Roses (38 page)

He hung his head again. “Nay, my lady…no pursuit.”

So that’s how it was. Edward had gone into exile, like so many others had done before him during these wretched wars. With his enormous height, he was an easy quarry, and if John had wanted, he could have easily caught up with him. But he hadn’t.

I shut my eyes on a breath.
So be it.

More rumors came to us, most of them confirmed by the messengers and missives John sent me. Elizabeth Woodville had gone into sanctuary at Westminster and given birth to a son she named Edward for his father. Marguerite was still in France, awaiting fair winds; she was expected to sail for England shortly. Warwick had taken London, reinstated dear Henry as king, and was securing the city for Lancaster. The people seemed to accept all this in stride, and why not? First they had Henry, who was weak and let his avaricious, power-hungry favorites loot the land. Then they had Edward, who was strong and promised them better. But he, too, had let his greedy, power-hungry favorites plunder the land. So what had changed? All those promises of peace and plenty to the people had not the weight of a handful of salt.

Now John was back in London, helping to depose a king.
Yet again.
I clutched John’s letter tightly as I read. “And Warwick is determined that no revenge be taken against anyone, and wishes to ensure that law and order prevails and that bloodletting is prevented,” he wrote. “With one exception. Your uncle of Worcester has been captured hiding in Weybridge Forest and is to be tried before the specially appointed constable—John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, whose father and brother your uncle sent to their deaths. His trial is set for the fifteenth day of October, and there is no doubt about the verdict.”

“Geoffrey!” I called, running from the alcove where I had been reading John’s letter. “Ursula! Hurry! I must leave for London immediately!”

THE JOURNEY TO LONDON WAS AGONIZING. RIDING
hard through blustery winds, heavy rain, and dense fog, we stopped only as long as necessary to rest our horses, for I feared I would be too late to bid my uncle farewell if we lingered. Had John been at the Erber, I would have stopped to change my travel-stained clothes and see him for a moment. But he was in the West Country on a mission, and so I went directly to Westminster Palace, where my uncle was imprisoned. It was the sixteenth of October, the day after his trial. He had been found guilty and was to be executed the following day.

To Warwick’s credit, he hadn’t committed my uncle to a dungeon, but installed him instead in a well-appointed chamber. Though the window was barred, it looked out on a circle of garden in the inner court. My uncle was reading a manuscript. He glanced up when I entered amid the jangling of the jailor’s keys and the noise of the bolt sliding back.

“Dear child,” he said, rising to greet me. His tone held as much delight as if I had come to take wine with him and discuss Latin poetry. He laid his manuscript back down on the table. “Ovid,” he confirmed, wiping away a tear at the corner of his eye. “
Tristia
…beautiful, lyrical…He wrote it during his period of exile from Rome. Well it illustrates his sadness and desolation, for he pined terribly for Rome and his third wife, you know.” My uncle’s gaze lingered fondly on the manuscript, as though it were a living soul. I waited, but he remained lost in thought. I wondered if he was remembering his dead wife, whom he had loved deeply and missed all these years. He seemed almost to have forgotten I was there.

“Thank you, my dear uncle,” I began, “for the kindness and affection you have ever shown me—for reading to me on your knee when I was little…for teaching me about the great masters…for comforting me when my mother died. But most of all, thank you for helping me to wed John. Without your intercession, Marguerite would never have given her assent.”

“Dear child, love is all that matters,” he said. He opened his arms wide, and I walked into them. He held me close. “Your aunt Elizabeth brought me love. I had her with me for only a year, and she died giving birth to our dead child. But she lives on in my heart with special remembrance, even after all this time.”

The knowledge struck me with sudden force that this man who held me was my last living relative, the only one left of my childhood. A fit of sobbing seized me. I clung to him, smothering my face in his velvet sleeve.

“Nay…what are these tears? There’s no need for tears, sweet Isobel,” my uncle soothed, gently dabbing at my eyes with his handkerchief. “I meet my Maker with a conscience that is clear.”

I swallowed hard and stepped back to gaze at him. “But, Uncle…the men you sentenced to…to that terrible death…Do they not weigh on your heart?” I asked, giving voice to the nightmare I carried within me.

“My dear, you understand nothing of the world. ’Tis the higher good that matters, and to achieve it, no means can be ruled out. Even cruelty has its uses. I learned that in Transylvania. Dracula impaled hundreds of Turkish prisoners alive and hewed others into small pieces. Muhammad the Second, that fierce conqueror of Byzantium, is said to have turned pale when he learned of it. He never troubled Dracula after that. Leniency leads only to anarchy…. The suffering of those men was necessary to bring England peace.”

“But we have no peace, Uncle.”

“It will come, child. Have faith in God…. May I ask for your prayers for my soul?”

“I shall pray for your repose to the end of my days, Uncle.”

“I give you my blessing, dear Isobel, my sister’s only child…. How proud of you she would have been! Farewell, my beloved girl.”

The jailor jangled his keys. I flung my arms around my uncle’s neck and hugged him tight, sobbing. Then, from the door, I looked back at him one last time. He gave me a smile and raised his hand in farewell with as much emotion as if he were leaving on a short journey to his estates. He turned back to his manuscript.

My breath caught in my throat. Not even his enemies could deny that my uncle was a brave man.

The day of his execution, the seventeenth of October, dawned bleak and rainy. Hundreds of church bells tolled for Terce as I waited with Geoffrey in the outer court at Westminster for my uncle of Worcester to appear. He was to be led on foot from the palace to the scaffold at the Tower, and I needed to be with him. I wanted him to know that he wasn’t alone in the midst of his enemies, that I was with him to the last.

He emerged from the keep, his hands bound before him.

“Uncle!” I cried, running to him. His eyes lit when he saw me, and he paused, but his guards pushed him on. He was ringed by at least fifty men-at-arms, so I followed behind him as closely as I could. The great palace gates clanged open, and I heard a clamoring, but I couldn’t see past the guards. As I passed through the gates, the scene revealed itself.

Crowds teemed in the streets. I looked at Geoffrey, bewildered. “They’ve been gathering since cock’s crow!” he shouted, leaning close so I could hear, for a great roar went up when they caught sight of my uncle. All at once, I felt myself being thrown hither and thither, and I realized the rabble had charged us. They jostled and called out as if this were a feast day, but theirs was an evil joy. “Butcher of England!” they cried. “Butcher of England!”

With dark, angry faces, they pushed forward. My uncle disappeared into the midst of the bobbing crowd so that I no longer glimpsed him. The mass of humanity around me jeered louder, shoved harder, and jerked me so wildly that my hair came unbraided beneath my cloak and fell around me as if whipped by a wind. Borne along on their frenzied current, I became separated from Geoffrey. “Lady!” he called. “Lady!”

“Geoffrey!” I cried, reaching for the hand he outstretched above the crowd, but it soon receded from sight like that of a drowning sailor’s in heavy seas. I was carried for an endless distance, and more people swarmed toward the massive mob, pouring from doorways and alleyways. A woman’s voice shrilled, “Beheadin’s too good for ’im! ’E should be drawn apart by wild dogs, that un!” Someone else answered loudly, clearly, “Aye! No mercy for ’im—’e gave none to those poor souls, did ’e? Let ’im scream like they did—let ’im be torn apart!”

The crowd took up the evil refrain. “Tear ’im apart! Tear ’im apart!” they cried, and, “No mercy! No mercy!” Then, abruptly, as if the throng were a single beast with one mind, the words altered and a single grotesque chant thundered in the air. “Feed ’is black heart to the dogs! Feed ’is black…” I wanted to block my ears from the ugly clamor but could not. The men-at-arms around my uncle shouted, “Keep away, keep away!” and shoved the raging mob back, brandishing their swords to protect him.

I looked around me in horror. I was alone with these mad people. The multitude surged forward, taking me with them. “Let us at ’im!” they screamed. I was struck dumb with terror; I could no longer breathe. There was no air; they kept pressing on me. Soon I’d fall, and they’d trample me.
Trample me, and tear out my uncle’s heart!
We were at the Fleet prison now. Dimly I became aware of a different chorus of voices, punctuated by cries and screams of pain. The crowd fell back; some ran away. I looked around in confusion; then I saw the men-at-arms. The furious mob had been cheated of its prey by a contingent of prison guards. They howled their curses and shook their fists, but gradually the dreadful milling eased and the crowd dispersed. Gulping air, I pushed my way through the mass of people and stumbled over to a tavern. I leaned against its redbrick front and looked up to see the last of the men disappear into the safety of the prison. The great doors clanged shut.

My uncle was safe.
At least for one more night
. I drew a long, deep breath and shut my eyes.

AT THE ERBER, I SAT IN MY BEDCHAMBER, GAZING
at the river. Small ships passed to and fro, ferrying passengers and cargo up and down the Thames. A wedding party glided by in a vessel festooned with ribbons, and music floated to me from their minstrels. I watched the young bride and groom sitting close together, laughing with their guests, and in spite of myself, I smiled, remembering my own wedding day, my great happiness….

Aye, life goes on, I thought.

Even for my uncle.
In his youth he’d known love. When that love was lost, he’d found pleasure and renown in the pursuit of knowledge. He’d mingled with the rich, the powerful, and the lowborn alike; kings, popes, and monks all had called him friend and held him in esteem for his great mind and his many scholarly achievements—for the many books he’d written and the translations he’d made of ancient poetry into Latin from the inaccessible Greek…. He’d seen the world…the gray fortresses of Europe, the crusader castles of Jerusalem, the glittering, white-marbled city of Venice, which had so enthralled him…. He’d visited all the shrines: the thumb of Constantine, the body of St. Helena, a portion of the True Cross….

Aye, my uncle had known the powerful, and seen and done great things, but more important, he had always been a deeply pious man. Surely God would show mercy.

Thus consoling myself, I went to bed on that last night of my uncle’s life, but my sleep was fitful. The next morning I found myself trembling as Ursula dressed me. When she was done, I looked fearfully at the door, dreading what lay ahead, unable to force myself toward it.

“Lady, dear, this day will be different,” Ursula said gently, a hand around my shoulder. “My lord of Warwick himself has made the arrangements. You…and my lord of Worcester are…protected.”

Biting my lip to suppress my emotion, I managed a nod. Her words made strange sense. She knew that my uncle would be taken to the Tower in a litter with the curtains drawn. He would not be insulted and jostled by a rampaging mob, since Warwick had ordered a curfew. No one was allowed into the streets of London without a special permit, on pain of death.

Surrounded by an escort of a dozen guards, I rode through the empty streets to await my uncle’s arrival at the Tower, the clip-clop of Rose’s hooves echoing on the cobbles. It was a warm, sunny day; yet the very emptiness of the streets seemed menacing. The frenzied crowd, now mute, pressed on me from the windows, rooftops, and balconies; a thousand pairs of eyes watched me steadily. We reached the Tower and dismounted in the courtyard. A man-at-arms escorted me to the circle of green, but not until I saw the platform did realization strike me with full force.

Only two benches had been set up before the scaffold, and no one else had yet arrived. As Constable of England, the Earl of Oxford would take the first seat, and Warwick the one next to him. I had been assigned the third seat, and it was there that I collapsed onto the velvet cushion, thankful to be alone. I needed time to compose myself before the other witnesses arrived. Along a side wall, a line of monks from Canterbury Cathedral stood singing the chants my uncle loved. These monks were his friends, the recipients of his great generosity, with whom he had idled away many an hour discoursing on the Holy Book.

The sky was icy blue, unmarred by clouds. Perched along the walls and on narrow ledges, ravens gave vent to bursts of raucous cawing, as if to demand we make haste so they might dine. I focused on the chant of the monks so that I would not hear them.
How did we get here from there?
I asked the sky, my sight blurred by tears.

Slowly the other witnesses arrived. They were a motley crew of nobly born Yorkists and Lancastrians, either distantly related to my uncle by marriage or whose families had suffered at his hands. The relatives nodded to me as they passed; the others went by without acknowledgment, though the Earl of Oxford gave me a civil bow before he sat down. Warwick entered, flourished me a bow and a smile, and dropped onto his velvet cushion. The monks ended their song. A silence fell.

The hooded executioner clad all in black made his entrance. Mounting the scaffold heavily, his footsteps resounded in my ears, sending panic to my throat. I must have gasped, for Warwick whispered, “Courage, Isobel.” The executioner took up his stance on the side of the platform and faced us with legs apart, hands on the handle of his axe, the blade resting on the straw. My uncle appeared between two men-at-arms, and my heart jumped in my breast. He climbed the steps with quiet dignity. Giving the executioner a smile, he put out his bound hands to him, and the man sliced through the cords with a dagger. No one moved or made a sound as my uncle came forward to address us for the last time. I felt such a rush of emotion that I grew faint. But, girding myself with resolve, I forced back the tears that stood in my eyes. He reached the edge of the platform. I smiled at him and was rewarded with a smile in return.

I didn’t hear all that my uncle said, for a fog had fallen around me and my mind had gone numb. I saw his mouth moving, and fragments of his words penetrated my consciousness. “…accused of judging by the law of Padua, not of England, but…leniency a weakness…always wished for peace, not war…striven to do my duty to England, to my king, to God…” Through the cloud that engulfed me, I became aware that a silence had fallen. I roused myself and tried to concentrate. My uncle was moving to the block. He took off his jacket and handed it to the executioner, who laid it down behind him. He removed his collar and passed it to the man. The cold that seized me grew more chill, and by the time my uncle drew out a gold noble from inside his shirt pocket and handed it to the executioner, I was shivering uncontrollably. The executioner murmured his thanks. My uncle should have knelt now, but he was not yet finished. “One more thing,” he said to the executioner in a clear, calm voice. “Kindly strike off my head with three blows of the axe, in honor of the Trinity.”

A gasp resounded in the circle of green. I swallowed hard on my tight throat and dug my nails into my palms. The executioner, taken aback at this request, hesitated a moment before nodding assent, and I saw that his own eyes had widened beneath his black hood.

With a glance up at the sky, my uncle made the sign of the cross and said,
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, in manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.” In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, into Your hands I commend my spirit.
He knelt before the block and laid his neck down on the wood. After a moment’s delay, he swept his arms up and out to his sides in a swift motion that signaled acceptance of his fate. The voices of the monks rose in Latin chant, filling the bright air with the darkness of death.
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae—”