B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  The little one nodded, rubbing her eyes, but she still sniffled with sobs she could not suppress. “Pray, tell what ails thee, my sweet,” said John gently, stepping carefully down the hill with the precious bundle in his arms. He loved children, and Anne most of all among his nieces, and I knew that he was as impatient for our own little one as I myself was.

  Still sniffling, little Anne hid her head in John’s shoulder. After much coaxing, she confided to us the reason for her sadness. “I am four years old, and I still can’t touch the moon!” she said, pointing up to the glowing silver circle in the sky. John exchanged a look of sweet sorrow with me. Stroking Anne’s hair, he pressed the child to him. “Aye, little Anne, ’tis a common problem, but one I daresay will be remedied when you are older.”

  FOR YULE OF 1457, THE SALISBURY HOUSEHOLD moved to the earl’s castle of Middleham, surely the most splendid built in testimony to power and privilege. An outer staircase of wide, cream-colored marble led inside to the great hall that dominated the keep, and colored windows abounded everywhere, sprinkling fragmented rainbows through all the passageways and rooms. Stepping between two tall angel figures on either side of the arched doorway, I followed the family into the grandest hall I had ever seen, and looked around in awe. The chamber stretched before me with a mighty cluster of gilded columns of stone carved with roses, crosses, griffins, and crowns. Its walls were adorned by rich tapestries, colorful murals, and screens of ebony wood carved fine as lace. The floor was patterned with a mosaic of rose, azure, and honey-colored marbles inlaid with semiprecious stones, and most wondrous of all, it had a ceiling painted in such a way that it fooled the eye into seeing a soaring dome overhead.

  Warwick himself arrived a day later. His brothers and his father met him in the castle courtyard. Shoulder to shoulder, the four strode to the earl’s council chamber. They make a splendid family, I thought, watching them through a traceried window. Each tall, handsome, and well made, even the earl, who, despite his silver head and fifty-seven years, carries himself as erect as any of his sons. To my great comfort, I saw that their faces were creased with smiles. That night at dinner Warwick himself made the announcement.

  “It has been shown to the satisfaction of all that our French queen was indeed behind the shameful rape and burning of the city of Sandwich. The violent public outcry has forced her to take the office of the Admiralty from her inept favorite, Exeter, and hand it to me. I stand here before you as your Captain of Calais, aye—but also as your new Keeper of the Seas!”

  The hall, crowded to capacity with the household staff, exploded with cheers and the stomping of feet.

  “As you know, I was appointed Captain of Calais after St. Albans, but did not assume my command until a year later because the dead Duke of Somerset’s lieutenant, Sir Richard Woodville, at the behest of the queen, would not turn Calais over to me.”

  At the name “Woodville,” I jerked up my head. “Is he a relation to Elizabeth Woodville, Countess Alice?” I asked my mother-by-marriage.

  “Her father,” she whispered back. “The landless knight who married the Duke of Bedford’s widow, Jacquetta, Princess of Luxemburg.”

  Dismissing the vague unease that suddenly gripped me, I nodded and returned my attention to Warwick delivering his speech.

  “—Payment had not been made to the troops in months, and Calais’s fortifications stood in dire need of repair,” Warwick was saying. “At that time I pledged to use my own resources to remedy this. And I did! I pledged to restore discipline among the troops of Calais—and I did! Calais is again England’s most important and impregnable garrison.” He waited for the cheers to die down. “As your Keeper of the Seas, I make you this pledge—with God’s help, I shall avenge our national shame and restore England’s honor! Now I invite everyone—be he varlet or knight—to partake of wine, drink, and merriment—for which expense, my gracious lord father, you shall be recompensed!” He turned to the earl as everyone laughed. “Tonight we celebrate this great victory for York, for Kent, and for England—and all the victories to come!”

  WARWICK SOON FULFILLED HIS PROMISE. OUR swashbuckling soldier-pirate brought honor to the Neville name and captured the hearts of Englishmen with his exploits on the high seas. Though outnumbered twenty-eight ships to twelve, he soundly defeated the Spaniards off the coast of Calais and captured six enemy vessels laden with goods and treasure. London, that city of traders, nearly rioted with joy, for against the angry protests of the Merchants of the Staples, the queen’s favorites had been issuing licenses to their supporters, allowing them to evade the Staplers’ monopoly on wool. By his action, Warwick showed a clear sympathy for the Staplers and other London traders whom the queen’s favorites had been robbing for years.

  All across England, in the taverns, the manor houses, the abbeys, and the counting houses, his victory was compared with that of King Edward III at the naval battle of Sluys a hundred years earlier, and everywhere the talk was of Warwick, whom people were now calling “England’s champion.” Even those who had not taken a stance either for or against Lancaster began to speak in favor of the cause of York. But, as support for York rose through the land, so did jealousy of the Nevilles and of the House of York surge at court.

  “They call his feats ‘acts of piracy,’” Ursula said in disgust.

  “Only at court, not elsewhere,” I replied, setting my spindle in motion and feeding it a handful of wool fiber. “London has turned so hostile to the court party that the queen has moved permanently to Coventry and Kenilworth, which are Lancastrian in sympathy.”

  “How is it piracy when Spain is an ally of France, and we’re still at war with France? What about the piracy of the queen’s favorites, who have been looting the merchants for years?”

  “The Lancastrians will call it what they will…and do what they will.”

  “’Tis a reckless lot they are,” murmured Ursula irritably.

  I paused the spinning wheel. “I fear the queen won’t take Warwick’s successes lightly.”

  Indeed, she didn’t. Soon we learned that Egremont and his brother Richard Percy escaped from Newgate Prison, and the queen gave them refuge at court. On the heels of this news came disturbing reports of the measures Marguerite was implementing against the House of York. Across the land, from high office to low, from the Lord Chamberlain to sheriffs and judges, men whose loyalty to Lancaster was suspect were replaced by appointments from the queen’s own household staff. At every turn—on the castle grounds, in the taverns of the nearby village of Staindrop, in the shops and on the streets of the city of York, where I journeyed with the countess to purchase dressmaking and other sundry supplies—people passed on the latest reports sweeping the country.

  “The queen’s sacked Shrewsbury and replaced him with the Earl of Wiltshire as Lord High Treasurer,” a woman told a butcher as she bought a pound of sausage.

  “The coward who fled the Battle of St. Albans for fear of ruining ’is pretty face?” the butcher asked.

  “The same. The queen likes pretty faces.”

  “An’ Wiltshire finds nothing prettier than a piece of gold, I reckon!” another customer interjected. “The fox guards the henhouse now, don’t he?”

  “And once they empties that, the queen and ’im, they’ll find other ways to steal from us,” the butcher replied. “There’s no end to their greed, that lot.”

  As we feared, the Lancastrian appointments were soon followed by persecution and impoverishment of those loyal to the House of York. The lands of Yorkist retainers, yeomen, tenants, and farmers were confiscated, their manors and property ransacked. Money became a serious problem for us, and we found ourselves cutting back our expenses as best we could. We gave up the luxuries of spices, reduced the purchase of furs and woolens for the household, and made do with more fish from the pond and less meat. Countess Alice sent orders to the household that no clothes be replaced until further notice. What cash there was went to the armorers, for on armaments we dared not stint. One chill
y day in mid-October, Ursula’s mother, Lady Marjorie Malory, arrived at Middleham seeking refuge, having been driven from the Malory manor in Warwickshire.

  “The marauders sacked the house and carried off the oriental fabrics the household wore,” she wailed. “They had been passed on by Sir Malory’s dead uncle! And they took the precious Rhodian wine we had conserved in the cellar for nearly twenty years! And the Saracen carpets my dear lord Sir Thomas inherited!” She burst into fresh tears. Ursula did her best to console her, to no avail. “We have nothing, Ursula! We are paupers now. Who will take care of us? Where can we go?”

  “You are welcome with us for as long as it takes to restore your property to you, Lady Malory,” Countess Alice reassured her.

  I cast a look at the desperate, homeless faces crowding the great hall, wondering how long this could continue, for even as we cut back, more mouths arrived to swell the castle indigents, as others who had been expropriated by Marguerite sought succor from their lord, the Earl of Salisbury. But it was at Middleham, when Warwick’s countess, Nan, visited from Warwick Castle, accompanied by the earl’s sister Cecily, Duchess of York, that I came to appreciate the true extent of the breakdown of law and order across the land.

  “Poor Radford,” Nan mourned almost as soon as she greeted us. “Poor dear Radford…What they did to him, ’tis an outrage…an outrage….”

  I did not know who Radford was, but I soon learned. The Duchess of York gave us the tale over wine and sweetmeats in the silk-draped Lady’s Bower.

  “We knew Nicholas Radford well. He was man of aged years, and a lawyer of great distinction who represented our friend Lord Bonville against the queen’s supporter the Earl of Devon. My lord offered him a high appointment during his protectorate, and Radford could have reaped riches in London, but he refused. ‘If I leave, who will represent those that suffer at the hands of the Earl of Devon?’ he asked. My lord husband was moved by his words.”

  She paused a moment, remembering. “Radford lived in Upcott, near Exeter. Late one night, he received a visit from Sir Thomas Courtenay, one of Devon’s sons, who had been terrorizing the area. He came with a hundred of his father’s men. They surrounded Radford’s residence and set fire to the gates….”

  Duchess Cecily hesitated. The laughter of children floated to us through the open window. I waited intently, half dreading what I was to hear. And terrible it was. As the duchess continued, the events of that night unfolded before my eyes.

  The old man had gone to the window to find a rabble of men standing at the gates, their faces lit by flames.

  “Who’s there?” he’d called.

  “Radford!” Courtenay yelled. “Come down from your chamber and speak with me. I swear on the faith and fealty that binds me to God, and on my word as a knight and gentleman, no harm shall come to you, or your property.”

  Assured by the solemn promise, Radford had opened the main door, and Courtney had entered with all his henchmen.

  “So many, my lord?” Radford had asked, alarmed at their number.

  “Have no fear,” Courtney had reassured him. “Take me to your private room, where we can talk.”

  There, Devon’s son partook of Radford’s wine and held him in conversation, while his ruffians ransacked the entire house, removing whole beds, napery, books, cash, ornaments from the chapel, and other household goods to a value of one thousand pounds.

  “The ruffians even toppled Radford’s invalid wife out of her bed so they could take the sheets,” the duchess added after a brief pause. “Then Courtenay said, ‘Hurry, Radford, for you must come with me to my lord, my father.’ Radford sent a servant for a horse, and the servant returned, trembling, to report that all the horses had been taken away, laden with the stolen goods. Radford turned to Courtenay and said bitterly, ‘Oh, Sir Thomas Courtenay, you have broken your promise. I am old and feeble, and can hardly travel on foot, so I must beg of you to be allowed to ride.’ To this Courtenay replied, ‘Have no fear, Radford. You will soon ride well enough. Come with me.’ They left the house, and when they were a stone’s throw away, Courtenay had a few words with several of his men and galloped off, calling, ‘Farewell, Radford!’ Then the men fell on Radford with swords and daggers, and slew him cruelly.”

  No one spoke or moved after Duchess Cecily delivered the tale. “I fear worse to follow,” Duchess Cecily concluded quietly, making the sign of the cross.

  We had not long to wait to learn the truth of her prophecy.

  Twelve

  1458

  THE NEW YEAR OF 1458 ROARED IN ON A HAILSTORM. Warm and comfortable, with John at my side through Twelfth Night and my stomach large with child, I worked my broidery loom, played my lyre, and read in the earl’s library. All was serene in our corner of the realm, far from court and trouble, and for this I sent many a thankful prayer heavenward. Thus passed January of 1458.

  My babe was due to be born in March, but the pains came a month early, and on Candlemas, the second day of February, I gave birth to twin girls. We named the firstborn Anne and the second child Isabelle, in honor of John’s little nieces. The night of my labor had been chill, and a light flurry of snow had fallen, leaving the windows edged with frost. But morning brought the sun, and in my hazy sight, clouded and dazed by the travail of childbirth, the light that lit the frosty panes seemed unduly sharp. I did not know whether to take that as a good omen, but I hoped that it was so. I gazed on the wailing newborns the midwife placed in my arms.

  “Anne has your dimples, my love,” I whispered to John.

  “And Izzie has your chestnut hair, my angel,” he replied, his face soft, aglow with love and pride. He stroked her down with a gentle touch.

  “Angels have golden hair, not chestnut, John,” I laughed. “Even I am not so far lost in my senses to know that.”

  He kissed my sweat-drenched brow. “My angels have chestnut hair,” he replied, as he always did.

  We passed our first wedding anniversary in glorious celebration, surrounded by our wailing babes, laughing and making merry. In June more good news came of Warwick’s great success on the seas. After a running battle that lasted two days, he had defeated several Genoese and Spanish ships. Three of the enemy vessels were brought in triumph to Calais. Once again England blazed with pride in Warwick’s victories.

  The sweet summer months gave way to the ruby leaves of autumn. As October sunshine dissolved into dreary rain, I discovered I was expecting another child. On the second of November, All Souls’ Day, when I was four months pregnant, John made an announcement.

  “I’m going to Sheriff Hutton,” he informed me. “And from there to Westminster.”

  I gave Izzie over to the nurse and looked at John blankly. “To court?” I said, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, a vision of Somerset’s wrathful face swimming in my mind. “But why? What is so pressing that you must go to court?”

  “The queen has summoned Warwick to report on Calais and explain his attack on the Easterling salt fleet, which she’s calling an act of piracy. She’s appointed Lord Rivers head of a commission of an inquiry. We know their intent is to take the captaincy of Calais from Warwick and give it to Somerset. I must be there for my brother in case of trouble.”

  “Who is this Lord Rivers?”

  “You know him as Sir Richard Woodville, the queen’s favorite. He’s that landless knight who married the Duchess of Bedford. Marguerite’s elevated him to baron now.”

  Elizabeth Woodville rises higher still, I thought, not without a pang of bitterness.

  Sleep during these days proved fitful. I was plagued with bad dreams, fueled no doubt by the worries over John’s forthcoming visit to Westminster. On the night after his departure, I sat restless at the window, looking out at the dark night and listening to the chapel monks sing their matins prayers. Abruptly an idea came to me. I would to go to London! But secretly, so no one could prevent me, and that they would surely do, since I was with child.

  At first light, I went in search of the
new man John had hired to attend my personal needs, and found him in the armory, giving a hand to the smith shoeing Rose.

  “Geoffrey,” I called. Though nearly fifty, he was strong and wiry, and still had his hair and a good set of teeth. He left the smith and wiped his hands on a leather apron, giving me a warm smile as he did so, for smiles came easily to him and he had an especially good nature. A soldier for most of his life, he walked with a limp from an old battle injury, so John had persuaded him to accept an easier livelihood, and he had newly joined my tiny personal household from the village of Sawston, where we held a manor house.

  “M’lady?” he asked.

  “I’m going to London. You and Ursula are to come with me. Saddle a brown mare for me. I’m not taking Rose.” About to leave, I turned back. “She attracts too much attention, and ’tis a secret matter. You are not to mention it to anyone. We depart within the hour.”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he gave no other evidence of his amazement. “M’lady, I’ll have everything ready.”

  THE GREAT BELL OF THE CLOCK ON THE STONE tower at Westminster was tolling the hour of five when I arrived in London with Ursula and Geoffrey. We heard it as far away as Bishopsgate, since many citizens had retired to their homes for the evening meal and it was quiet in the city.

  November clouds hung heavy over Westminster as we approached, mirroring tensions everywhere. Guards searched our faces longer than usual before giving us permission to enter the palace grounds; groomsmen took our horses silently; and a varlet helped Geoffrey remove my heavy coffer from our small cart with averted eyes and barely a grunt. The large courtyard, with its great fountain, teemed with the usual assortment of merchants on business, friars and clergy, knights, ladies, and hopeful petitioners. But laughter and chatter were nowhere to be heard, not even among the servants. I was troubled by the absence of the customary ribald talk they used with one another to make light of their burdens as they carried sacks bulging with flour to the kitchens, or bent over to receive a load of firewood on their backs.