Loyalty (11 page)

   She coloured. “You are not like to recall anything from that time,” she replied warmly, “you spent your days staring into the bottom of a cup, or warming the beds of unfaithful wives.

   Her angry words did nothing to shake James’ composure. It would take a great deal more to slice through the layers of self-possession he had built up around himself, as tough as any armour.

   “I know,” he said, the corners of his mouth hitching into a smile as he watched Elizabeth dunk one of her companions in the fountain, “I apologise. I did not mean to insult you, or cast a slur on Henry, God rest him.”

   He turned to face her. “I will speak plain, sister. The Queen favours you. That is good, and to the advantage of our family. But royal favour can be capricious. Her Majesty could withdraw her friendship as easily as she gave it.”

   “Her son favours our brother,” Mary reminded him, “they forged something of a bond, before Martin returned to England. I am not our only link to glory.”

   Her voice was laced with sarcasm. She had not sought Queen Margaret’s favour, nor particularly wanted it, but her success in assisting Warwick’s daughter when she went into labour in the Channel had brought her to the attention of royalty. 

   “I said I would speak plain,” James went on, pointedly ignoring his sister’s tone, “the Queen wants to see you wed, and has a potential husband in mind.”

   “I know,” Mary said scornfully, “one of those poor ragged exiles who cluster around her court like starving birds. Some penniless, attainted Lancastrian knight, whose lands in England have all been seized and parcelled out among the Yorkists.”

   James put a finger to his lips. “Lower your voice,” he muttered. 

   “You see spies everywhere, brother,” said Mary, rising from her seat. The children had tired of splashing each other with water, and were now sitting in a circle on the grass beside the fountain. She smiled to see that Elizabeth was still their leader, dishing out instructions in how to make flower-chains.

   James’s hand closed on her forearm. “Her Majesty wishes you nothing but happiness,” he said in a low voice, “but her mood can change. If she ever thought you were slightly less than grateful…”

   “I will not marry on her instruction,” said Mary, brushing him off, “or anyone’s. When and if we ever return to England, I have thought of entering a convent. The peace of the cloister appeals to me.”

   James puffed out his sallow cheeks, and ran his hands through his thinning red hair. “That might serve,” he said doubtfully. “The Queen respects piety. For now, however, I advise you to play the game. Allow her knight to court you, listen to his pretty speeches, thank him for his gifts, but make no promises or commitments. Once we are in England, you may scrape him from your shoe.”

   The question of when they might return to England was a vexed one. Warwick’s invasion had been a success, save that he had failed to kill or capture Edward of March. Now Edward and his supporters were in Burgundy, feverishly raising money and men to take back his kingdom.

   A constant stream of letters passed back and forth across the Channel between London and Angers. Mary knew something of their content, for the Queen confided in her to an extent. Warwick advised Margaret and her son to remain in France until England was completely secure, by which he meant that Edward’s counter-invasion had been repelled, and all the chief Yorkists slain.

   “I miss my husband,” Margaret often said to Mary, “and have longed to see him again, these many years. But Warwick speaks sense. England is not yet safe for us.”

   Mary smiled and agreed, but privately doubted the Queen’s words. She repeated herself rather too often, and Mary could not help wondering what sort of love could possibly exist between this proud, headstrong woman and her slack-witted husband. Henry had done little to defend his throne and family against the ambitions of York. God had made him an invalid, to be pitied rather than feared, and left his wife to defend their interests as best she could.

   Much as she resented anyone intruding on her private affairs, Mary knew it was wise to heed James’ advice. His ambiguous position as a general messenger, spy and go-between for great lords meant he had his fingers in many pies, and knew things that ordinary mortals could only guess at.

   Thus, when the Queen summoned her to attend court the next evening, Mary left her daughter in the care of a serving-maid and went with a due sense of foreboding and dread. If Queen Margaret really wanted to marry her off, there was little she could do about it without risking royal displeasure.

   It was another warm autumn evening. Margaret had chosen to hold court in the open, inside a little private garden enclosed by high walls, safe from prying eyes.

   Mary heard the dulcet tones of a harp as the guard admitted her, accompanied by a pleasant male baritone. She was slightly startled to realise that he sang in Welsh.

   Queen Margaret was sitting on an elaborately carved chair made of polished dark wood. Her son sat at her feet, hugging his knees and dressed all in black that contrasted vividly with his spun-gold hair. His young wife, Anne, was seated demurely beside her formidable mother-in-law.

   Anne was a meek-looking creature, just fourteen years old and very much a pawn in her father’s power games. She was fine-boned and slender, putting Mary in mind of a wren, and her gentle blue eyes possessed little in the way of intelligence.

   Mary knew better than to judge her by appearances. If they wished to survive and prosper, the daughters of noble families learned to mask their true selves at a tender age.

   The attention of all three was fixed on the harpist, a gloriously handsome young man with long, sinewy limbs and a mop of chestnut curls. He had the dark good looks of a born poet and seducer, and smiled lazily as his delicate white fingers induced a sweet, tumbling melody from the harp.

   Mary had no eyes for him, or the various courtiers sprawled or standing around the garden. Most were men, and Mary’s unwanted suitor was probably among them.    

   “My dear,” said the Queen as Mary bowed and kissed her hand, “we are glad to see you, as always. Blunt, sensible Mary Bolton, who never fawns or flatters. I could do with more like you. Do you like my harpist? He was a gift from the Earl of Pembroke.”

   Mary looked politely at the young man, who had closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy as he reached the climax of the melody.

   In truth, she had little liking for him or his plaintive screeching. Her family had lived near the Marches for centuries, and she had been raised to regard the Welsh as bloody savages and a public menace. It would not do to say as much: blunt, sensible Mary Bolton knew that her bluntness had to be contained within acceptable limits.

   “Charming,” she said, forcing a smile. She thought she kept any hint of irony out of her voice, but Prince Edward looked up and winked at her. She thought him a sharp boy, intelligent as well as aggressive, and a vast improvement on his hapless father.

   “Be seated, Mary, and take your ease,” said Margaret.

   Mary looked around, but there was nowhere to sit except on the grass. She heaved a little inward sigh as one of the male courtiers rose from his chair and bowed to her. This was hardly subtle.

   “Take mine, lady,” he offered. Mary could hardly refuse, and gave him a tight little smile as she sat down.

   A second or two was all she needed to take him in: tall and hard-faced, with the typically broad shoulders, wasp waist and slightly bowed legs of an active knight at arms. He wasn’t a young man. There were slivers of grey in his close-shorn black hair, and his roughly handsome face was marred by a plethora of lines and wrinkles.

   “Sir John Dacre, my lady,” he said with another crisp bow, “I am honoured to meet you.”

   Mary stifled the curt reply that flew to her lips. “I have seen you before, sir,” she replied. “You are one of Her Majesty’s household knights.”

   “I am.” He spoke with quite a strong Lancashire accent, and seemed to have reached the limit of his eloquence.

  
A fighting man
, Mary thought, pretending to pay attention to the harpist,
more at ease with blows than words.

  
Much the same description could have been applied to the character of her late husband. Henry of Stafford had been a soldier to his core, and died a soldier’s death.

   Sir John dithered by her chair. The Queen appeared to be paying no attention to their conversation, but Mary suspected that the royal ears were straining to hear every word.

   “You have a daughter,” he said at last, folding his restless hands behind his back, “a bonny little creature. I have seen her running about the palace grounds with her friends. How old is she?”

   “Nine,” Mary said coldly. She didn’t want to talk about Elizabeth, especially not with a stranger.

   Sir John fell quiet. The harpist was now playing a drawn-out lament, and for a while the garden was silent save for the spare, melancholy plucking of his harp. Mary did her best not to be effected by the tune, but it burrowed into her soul.

   When the song was done, and the harpist was graciously accepting the applause and praise of the royal family, Sir John tried another sally. This time he was less hesitant.

   “I left my wife in England,” he said, “under six feet of English earth. She died eight years ago. A twelvemonth after Towton.”

   Towton. That battle cast a grim shadow. To those who still held to Lancaster, the mere name a curse.

   Mary felt obliged to say something. “My husband died there,” she said, though she suspected he already knew that.

   “At least you were left with something,” he replied, “at least you have your child.”

   She turned her head to look at Sir John. Their eyes met. His were grey, and had a bleak, hard quality.

    “No father should have to bury his sons, lady,” he went on, “imagine being denied the chance to do even that. Imagine watching both your boys die, spitted on Yorkist blades, and not being able to help them. A mace laid me low as I tried to reach them in the press at Towton. When I woke the battle was lost, and my sons lay dead on the field among the heaps of slain. My horse was gone. All I could do was cut a lock of their hair each, as mementoes, and struggle home.”     

   He spoke in a flat, even tone, devoid of emotion. Mary sensed that he had reached the land beyond grief: a cold, shadowy place that she knew well, where damaged souls could shelter from pain.

   This is a court of ghosts,
she thought
, of the bereaved and the broken. This man has suffered just as much as I have.

  
“Your wife was unable to bear their loss,” she said softly. He nodded. “How did she…?”

   “Death took her, madam, but not by her own hand. Even in the chasm of grief and despair, my Jane was mindful of her immortal soul. But she refused to eat properly after Towton. Her health broke down, and a chill carried her off.”

   Mary shook herself. That damned music had affected her, made her sentimental. She felt sorry for Sir John’s misfortunes, and that he was alone in the world, but would not be moved by pity into falling in love with him. If he meant to manipulate her that way, he would be sorely disappointed.

   “War is cruel,” she said, more briskly than she intended, “this one has taken my husband, my father and eldest brother. But we must go on living, sir, and look ahead. Those who have gone before us would expect no less.”

   He moved closer to her chair, until his left hand was almost brushing against her right. “I agree,” he murmured. “I have walked in darkness for a long time, but it seems that the shadows are finally lifting. God has seen fit to smile on Lancaster again. Soon we can all go home.”

   In moments of embarrassment, Mary always resorted to staring at the backs of her hands. She did so now, dreading what he might say next.

   “My home is a small castle near Preston,” he said, “some Yorkist traitor has been keeping it warm for me. When we return to England, I will hang him in chains from the highest tower, unless he has the sense to flee. The castle is a fine place, but dark and cold since my Jane passed away. It needs a woman’s warmth.”    

   Mary couldn’t stand it any longer. Heads turned as she stood up suddenly. “I am tired,” she said, contriving a yawn, “and my daughter will be wondering where I am. Majesty, I must take my leave.”

   This was to the Queen, who looked distinctly unimpressed. Her narrow, long-nosed face drew tighter into a frown, and assumed a look of haughty disapproval.

   “So soon?” she said, raising one delicately plucked eyebrow, “we had hoped to enjoy your company a while longer. The company of true friends is dear to us, who have so many enemies.”  

   The inference was clear: one’s true friend could very quickly become an enemy. Mary was suddenly unconcerned about offending the Queen. She wanted to get away from Sir John Dacre before she started to feel something for him, even if it was just a spark of pity.

   “I am sorry, Majesty,” she said, giving a little bow, “I will attend on you tomorrow, if you wish it. My daughter has been sick these past two days, and needs my attention.”

   The queen might have challenged that lie, but let it pass. An elegant flick of her hand was enough to grant Mary permission to depart.