Lady of the Roses (7 page)

“God has surely designed His seas and rivers as mirrors to catch and reflect His glory,” I whispered to Ursula as we stood arm in arm, the water lapping gently about the privy stairs. Ursula nodded and squeezed my hand.

A haughty voice interrupted our reverie. “My lady Isobel. What a pleasant surprise.”

I turned to find Henry Beaufort, Duke of Somerset, staring at me with a rakish expression. A warning spasm of alarm erupted within me. “My lord Somerset,” I said, suppressing my aversion and dropping into a curtsey. I had not forgiven Somerset for the way he had assessed me when we first met, and since then I’d learned much about him that I did not like. Here before me stood a degenerate young man from whom the world withheld nothing, breeding in him few scruples, little integrity, and a robust appetite for the sins of the flesh. No doubt he had vanquished many women in his career, for he had good looks and a certain charm that came from the power he wielded.

Somerset dismissed his entourage with a wave. Then, with a flourish of the hand, he indicated that we should stroll together. Ursula stepped aside.

“I am pleased to have such delightful company on an evening as fine as this. How do you find court, my lady Isobel?”

“Quite different from the abbey, my lord.”

He gave a loud laugh that sounded almost like a snort. “Indeed, indeed…That is an ambiguous reply worthy of a statesman, my lady. But what does it mean? Does it bode well or bode ill? That is the question.”

I threw him a smile. “It bodes whatever pleases you, Your Grace.”

“Aha! Another statesmanlike answer to confound me. You are a clever one.”

We strolled in silence for a while. Then he halted abruptly and turned to face me. “I should be gratified if you would sup with me in my private apartment tomorrow evening,” he said.

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. Clearly accustomed to overly easy conquests, he was propositioning me like a common harlot! “I would have to first obtain the queen’s permission. As you may recall, I am her ward.”

It was his turn to color, but he recovered quickly. “Then perhaps you will join me for song and a cup of wine at the fountain instead?”

“My lord Somerset, you know that is not possible.”

“Anything is possible…if you will it.”

“My lord, that is indeed true for you, powerful as you are. But for me it must be by the queen’s will, not mine,” I said.

A silence fell. He took my hand into his own. “’Tis a harmless thing, to sing together. You do not need the queen’s permission for that. Will you not relent?”

I looked down at the hand that gripped mine. It was broad of palm and short in the fingers, and I found it crude and unattractive. “Only if the queen commands it, Your Grace.”

Something in my tone must have betrayed my inner feelings, for his eyes took on a dark glint. After an interval he said stiffly, “You are indeed unversed in the ways of court, or you would know not to trifle with me. I always have my way…in the end.” He turned his back and strode angrily toward his waiting retinue on the riverbank.

I was about to call out that, according to rumor, he certainly had his way with the queen. But I caught myself just in time. Unnerved by the challenge I had nearly uttered, I watched his receding back on an unsteady breath, my nurse’s words echoing in my head:
She’s a wild thing, and reckless; she must be tamed for her own good.
I had to do what I could to avoid Somerset in the future. He was a complex man, and a dangerous one. The power and rage I sensed in him made for a lethal mix, and I dared not trust myself to play the demure damsel.

A FEW DAYS AFTER MY MEETING WITH SOMERSET,
great whisperings ebbed and flowed through the halls and passageways as giant waves sweep an ocean, but neither Ursula nor I could make any sense of the fragments we overheard. Then, with a leap of the heart, I caught the names of the Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury. Realization struck me. Bursting with excitement, I seized Ursula from among a group of ladies in an alcove where a silk merchant was showing off his bolts of fabric, and rushed her off to our chamber, forcing myself not to run the distance. Ursula kept throwing me puzzled glances along the way, but I dared not whisper a word of my discovery until we were safe behind locked doors.

“The Duke of York and Sir John Neville’s father, Richard Neville, Earl of Salisbury, are coming to court to attend the queen’s council meeting! Salisbury will be accompanied by his eldest son and namesake, Richard Neville, and—”

“The famous Earl of Warwick?” Ursula interrupted with wide eyes. “The handsomest, most valiant knight alive?”

“Aye,” I said impatiently. “And—”

“The Earl of Warwick was responsible for the Lancastrian defeat at the Battle of St. Albans! There’s talk that he killed Edmund, Duke of Somerset, himself! Did you know Somerset’s vowed revenge on the Yorkists—”

I grabbed Ursula by the shoulders. “With him comes his brother, Sir John Neville!”

Ursula gave up her starry thoughts of Warwick and stared at me. “Sir John Neville? Oh, my dear Isobel…my poor Isobel. It can’t do you any good to see him again!”

“Whether or not that’s true, I have to see him—I have to know—” I turned away in confusion.
Know what?
“I have to know if he’s forgotten me, Ursula.”

“And if he has, what then? There’s only grief in that.”

“There’s only grief now! Maybe
knowing
he doesn’t care will serve to cure me.”

Ursula threw me a look of pity.

Other information about the Nevilles—far more urgent than I could ever imagine—came to me from an unexpected source that same day.

“My lady Isobel!”

Strolling in the garden, all my thoughts on Sir John’s visit, I looked up, disoriented for a moment. William Norris was hurrying through the crowded palace walk to reach my side. “Greetings, my fair lady…”

I gave him a smile, and we walked together in genial conversation. I was glad of his company, for his talk of the weather and the upcoming tournament helped deter thoughts of Sir John, if only for a brief space. William was squire to Humphrey Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, brother-by-marriage to both the Duke of York and to the Lancastrian Earl of Northumberland. Though he stood related closely to both York and Lancaster, Buckingham’s loyalty to Henry VI was so well-known that his men provided the royal bodyguard. Yet he had acquired the nickname “Peacemaker” for his continuing efforts to bring unity to the queen and the Duke of York. For this, I found myself as grateful to William personally as to good Duke Humphrey. The young man, who by sheer chance had become entangled in my memories of Tattershall Castle merely by being present at a critical moment in my life, now embodied my sole connection to Sir John Neville and even my hopes for peace between the Red Rose and the White. It seemed strange to me, but I felt close to Sir John in his presence, though I was also thankful that William would never know the reason why his company pleased me so well.

“—Sir John Neville?”

“Forgive me, what did you say?” I asked, jolted out of my reverie.

“Do you have an interest in Sir John Neville?” he repeated, watching me closely.

“That is a curious question,” I replied, stunned, stalling for an answer.

“You danced with him at Tattershall Castle, and you strolled with him in the garden. I need to know if you return his interest.”

I felt myself turn crimson. “You are being presumptuous—”

“Then you would not be upset if something happened to him?” He watched me carefully.

I steeled myself to remain calm and said as coldly as I could manage, “Sir John Neville is of the White Rose, and I am of the Red. Of course it is of no import to me what happens to him.” In spite of myself, the words burned my lips. I threw him a sidelong glance as we strolled again. “What do you know? You owe me an explanation for your impertinence.”

“I am glad you have no feelings for him, my lady. Though I am only a humble squire without hope of ever winning you, my wish is only for your happiness.” He drew a deep breath. “The queen has no intention of letting the Nevilles arrive in London safely. I thought you might care, and am heartened that you don’t.”

My heart pounded wildly in my chest. “How did this knowledge come to you?”

“Duke Humphrey is most concerned and would send them a warning, but he fears there is nothing he can do.” He paused then, and stole a glance at me. “The queen suspects as much and has put him and his retinue under watch.”

“Including you?”

“Including me.”

“Then it is in God’s hands, isn’t it?” I was amazed that my voice held no tremor even as my heart thundered in my ears and my mind rampaged violently in a thousand directions.

AS I HURRIED ALONG THE HEDGE WALK BACK TO
my chamber, my head down and my mind spinning, I bumped into someone and turned to murmur my apologies.

“Ah, ’tis the beauty from Cambridgeshire,” Henry, Duke of Somerset, said to his companion as he halted in his steps to give me a leisurely look, his former animosity seemingly forgotten. “Your apology is accepted, my lady, but only if you do penance by tolerating my company for a few moments.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” I gave a curtsey and dropped my lids.

“And where are you going in such a hurry, my lady? Not to some tête-à-tête, I hope?”

“No, my lord. Merely to my chamber. I am feeling unwell.”

“That does not please me, yet it pleases me immensely that no engagement of any import impels you.”

I lifted my eyes to his face, lest my reluctance to look at him be taken for rudeness.

“They make the roses fair in Cambridgeshire, don’t they, Egremont?” he said to the man beside him.

I was seized with an instant aversion to Somerset’s companion, Thomas Percy, Lord Egremont. From a narrow face dominated by a long nose that gave him the appearance of a rat, he stood leering at me with strange opaque eyes, a gap-toothed smile on his lips. He was a man ten years older than Somerset, and, like Somerset, he had lost his father, Henry, Earl of Northumberland, at the Battle of St. Albans. No doubt their shared loss had drawn them close, despite their age difference.

“They do indeed,” Egremont replied. He bent to kiss my hand, and I felt the touch of the oily, unkempt hair that hung to his shoulders. I tensed, forcing myself not to recoil. “How about a private supper in your chamber, where I can also join you?” he said to Somerset in a tone that left his meaning clear.

“There will be no supper, Egremont. This is not merely any lady, and certainly not one to be ill-used by you. She is the niece of John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, and she has my protection as well as the queen’s.” He threw Egremont a wry glance, and Egremont retreated a step, palms up in a mock gesture of submission. I thought it clever of Somerset to present himself before his friend as such a chivalrous knight, when he had attempted the very same insulting ploy with me only the evening before. My back stiffened.

“You can rest assured that I will be in touch, my lady,” Somerset said, kissing my hand, an amused expression in his eyes at the secret we shared.

Taking a moment to catch my breath and recover, I watched him leave. I hated his arrogant swagger. Ursula appeared at my side. “Be careful, my lady,” she whispered, leaning close as we walked back to the palace. “He fancies you, but the queen fancies him, and people are beginning to gossip.”

I nodded. Aye, court was full of traps.

We passed through the Temple Gardens and took the tower steps up to the second floor. When we neared the passageway to our chamber, Ursula left me to use the privy. Alone in our room, I shut the door. I knew what I had to do, but how to do it—that was the question. My head pounding, I leaned against the door and forced myself to draw long, steady breaths. I needed to sort through what I had learned from Norris, and make plans. My eye fell on my coffer. I threw back its carved wood lid and rummaged through my clothes. I pulled out Sœur Madeleine’s old habit, which she had left behind when Ursula assumed her duties. I had been intending to return it, but now I found my procrastination fortuitous. I could disguise myself.

But the questions whirling through my head turned up no answers, only more questions: I had to warn Sir John, but where was he, and how would I get there? Could I go alone? Could I tell Ursula? No doubt she’d been instructed to spy on me, as I’d been told to spy on her. An attempt to warn the queen’s enemies was treason by any measure, so was it safe—or even fair—to involve Ursula?

If I didn’t involve her, could I manage the journey alone? Travel was always hazardous and not something to be undertaken lightly, even for short distances. The approaches to and from the city were beset by brawlers, ruffians, and robbers who indulged themselves with rape and plunder. For these, a lone traveler made prey, and people always sought to join a party of horse. Even two women together provided more security than one traveling sole. But if I didn’t confide in Ursula, she would be concerned when I disappeared. My absence would be reported to the queen, and then what excuse would I give?

I sank down on the bed and stared at the habit crumpled in my lap, as if it could give me the answers I sought. I shut my eyes on a breath. No, I could not succeed in the venture by myself, and failure was too terrible to consider. I had to tell Ursula.

Surely she would help me! As I had learned, her own father, Sir Thomas Malory, was no rabid Lancastrian…like my own father…perhaps like Duke Humphrey. The good duke had wanted to warn York, but his hands were tied.
Maybe I can help him untie them.

Ursula’s footsteps sounded in the passageway. I braced myself. The door creaked open, and Ursula appeared. “What is the matter, lady dear? What do you with that?” Her eyes went to the nun’s habit I gripped tightly to me.

Slowly I rose to my feet.

THOUGH I OFFERED URSULA A CHANCE TO REMAIN
aloof from my plot to save Sir John Neville, she fell in with my plans immediately. With her help I dressed as a nun and set out for Duke Humphrey’s chambers at first light. He was in his private quarters when I entered his antechamber and gave his clerk a false name. The man looked at me haughtily, with disdain. “The duke does not grant audiences at this hour.”

“I’m not here to plead for alms or a bequest. My business is of an urgent and most private nature. I need to see the duke quickly and alone.” I slipped the clerk a gold noble from beneath my sleeve. He stared at the coin in bewilderment for a long moment before pocketing it. When he looked at me again, his expression had changed.

“Pray, wait here. I shall get the message to him.”

I watched him disappear into the duke’s chamber, and the man-at-arms at the door turned to look at me more intently, aware of something out of the ordinary. I gave him my back and bowed my head so he couldn’t see my face. Fortunately the clerk emerged a short moment later and ushered me into a small private chapel attached to the ducal bedchamber. He held the door open for me and swept back the red velvet curtain. The chapel was tiny, with a long, narrow window to one side, overlooking the courtyard, which was filled with the bustle of palace business, the clatter of horses’ hooves, and the rumble of carts rolling in and out. A medley of voices drifted to me from below: children laughing, mothers scolding, men calling to one another. At the altar, I bowed my head in silent prayer for the success of my plan, until footsteps made me turn.

Duke Humphrey was a silver-haired man of tall stature, with a fighter’s physique and observant eyes of a clear gray hue. He lost no time getting to the point.

“Sister—if sister you are—tell me what brings you here in such unusual fashion, and be quick about it. Pressing business awaits me.”

“My lord duke, I am no nun, as you have discerned, and I shall be quick indeed. No business is more pressing than life and death.”

“Speak, then.”

After informing him of my true identity and the ties that made us kin by virtue of my uncle the Earl of Worcester’s first marriage to Cecily Neville, niece to his wife, Anne Neville, Duchess of Buckingham, I made my request. He remained silent a long while, turning the matter over in his mind. Then he walked over to the window and gazed out, hands clasped behind his back. Finally he turned to me.

“What you ask is treason.”

“What I ask is your help in preventing needless bloodshed that will have drastic consequences for us all, including the queen.”

“It is still treason.”

“The king would not see it that way. He has made it clear that he condemns ambush and murder and all such evil practices, has he not?”

He mulled my words. “You speak persuasively.” I did not flinch beneath his direct gaze. At length, he said, “As I am loyal to the king, I will help, but information is all I can offer, no escort. We are watched.”

“I know.”

“You shall need to make haste. There is no time to be lost. I hope it is not already too late.”

ARMED WITH A MAP, URSULA AND I RODE HARD
for Barnet, ahead of the point of ambush. Exhausted by the journey, we rested our horses in Camden Town and approached an old alehouse in the village square, just past the churchyard, near the town hall and the stocks. Between the wood seller’s shop and the glassmaker I caught sight of a butcher slaughtering a lamb. As the animal’s throat was cut and blood gushed from his neck, his front legs collapsed beneath him and he sank down to his knees, a stunned look on his face. I turned away, a sick feeling churning my stomach. Surely men had died this same way.

The alehouse was dark, unventilated, and dingy, and though the shutters stood open, the place smelled of soot and sweat. Three customers sat at one of the greasy tables, chattering. We crossed the beaten earth floor and took our seats. Another man entered to make them four.

“Ho, Charlie!” one of the customers greeted him. “How goes the rat-catchin’ business?”

The one called Charlie grinned broadly. “My pocket’s ajingle with silver. The plague in London’s got everyone afraid, so they’re willin’ to pay large to catch them rats.”

“Then I daresay ye can afford to buy us a pint, eh?”

“Why would I do that? There’s only so much where this came from, and I gots to keep my own belly filled.”

The chorus of groans and affectionate swearing that met this refusal ceased abruptly when a large painted woman passed the door, towering over a toad-faced fellow on her arm. The woman’s laughter floated behind her, and the stairs creaked beneath their weight as they mounted the steps. The three men and one woman at the table guffawed and put their heads together.

“That Nellie, she gets good business from the parish clerk—that’s twice in one week, if I know how to count!” exclaimed one of the men.

“You should have so much life in you,” said the woman.

Ursula, clad in a nun’s habit given us by the good duke, turned around and gave them a cold stare. I suppressed the laughter in my throat. Chastened, the man who had spoken swallowed his beer, set a farthing on the table for the alewife, tipped his hat to us, and left. The woman fell mute and dropped her lids. No one said a word while we drank our beer and ate our cabbage, though they exchanged smiles and stole amused glances at us when the plank boards above our heads began to groan. I listened, fascinated, wondering exactly what the parish clerk and his painted woman did to shake the floor in such a manner.

“Eat up, child!” Ursula said sharply. I realized I had begun to smile at my own thoughts, and I bowed my head sharply to hide the laughter bubbling in my throat. When we were done, Ursula left to use the privy out back, and I waited for her outside by a climbing rose tree that rambled across the tavern window, its foliage thick despite the approach of winter. Thinking us gone, the patrons spoke freely now, and their conversation drifted through the open window.

“Did ye hear the latest? Trouble’s a brewin’ for sure,” the rat catcher said. “The queen’s sacked the Duke of York and turned out all his ministers. She’s ordered him back to Ireland. Now the queen and her favorites are free to loot the land again, God help us all.”

“How do ye know?” the woman asked.

“A peddler told me. Just came from London hisself. I gave him a pint for the news.”

“Nah, York’s no fool. God bless ’im, he won’t go,” said the other man. “He knows what the Frenchwoman’s up to—the last time she exiled him to Ireland, she tried to murder him on the way there, and on the way back, too. An’ he made such a success of himself in Ireland, they say Irish hearts are all for York now…. Nah, she daren’t send him back. I hear he’s on his way to London to give his refusal in person.”

“What I want to know is, who’s the father of the queen’s son, Prince Edward?” the woman said. “Sure as cockles it ain’t Holy Harry, I’ll wager my tail on it…. That man’s a monk—and a saint too, God bless ’im.”

“
Everyone
knows it wasn’t Holy Harry, woman! We’re not stupid—it’s clear as day why you make your wager. You make it to lose it!” The rat catcher chuckled. “In truth, you’re yowlin’ for us to leap on your tail—admit it now.”

“God break your withered neck, I never had a taste for aged meat,” she replied.

The rat catcher gave a boisterous laugh. “My money’s on Somerset,” he said in a different tone. “Father or son.”

“There’s no knowin’ if it was Somerset or Suffolk,” the other man said. “Might have been either one. Or might have been Wiltshire. Maybe the queen doesn’t know herself. All anyone can be sure is that it wasn’t King Harry. Why, when they showed him the babe, he was as surprised as everyone else—” The man broke off with a snicker. “‘Must be the child of the Holy Ghost!’—that’s what he said!”

Everyone howled with laughter.

“Goes to show that just because he’s mad don’t mean he’s a fool,” the woman snorted.

They all broke into another round of laughter, but their words only deepened my anxiety. As we galloped our horses toward Barnet, I contemplated what I’d heard in the alehouse and wondered what lay ahead for the realm, and for my own hopes and dreams. Fixing my gaze on the passing church spires that disappeared into the gray clouds, I whispered many a silent prayer to God for mercy on England, and on Sir John Neville.

At last, the rude beacon tower of Barnet’s Hadley Church appeared over the rolling hills. We rode hard for it, my heart beating erratically. At the churchyard, we dropped from our saddles, tied our palfreys to the wood post, and followed the beaten path, which was lined with tombstones, up to the church porch. We creaked the door open and entered. A dim light fell from the high window into the darkness, and my eyes took a moment to adjust. Then I saw the priest. He had his back to us as he bent over some flowers at the altar.

“Father!” I called out, rushing up the aisle. “Pray, forgive us this intrusion, but we are here seeking the Earl of Warwick and his party on a matter of the greatest urgency. Can you direct us to him by the shortest possible route?”