B0010SEN6I EBOK

by Worth, Sandra

  I approached a royal officer whom I knew to be in the service of the chamberlain. After showing him my ring bearing Prince Edward’s insignia of the swan, I gave him a silver coin and requested the small room I had been assigned the previous year.

  “I woudna do this for just anyone, you understand, Mistress Haute?” he said, using the false name I had given him and pocketing the money quickly. “Not with times being what they are. But yours is a familiar face, and sure I am it doesna harm.”

  We waited a long time before he returned to lead us to our chamber. “The closet has been used for storage for the past month, an’ we had to move a bed back in,” he explained.

  Following him across the cobbled courtyard and up the tower stairs, I made certain to keep my head lowered and my hood raised to avoid being recognized, praying not to cross paths with Somerset. Many of the lords we passed stood together in small groups, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions guarded, eyes darting around and hands on the hilts of their daggers. Outside, by the fountains and along the hedge walks, ladies strolled with anxious glances and spoke to one another with heads close together, their lips barely moving. Even the dogs that lay around the castle steps and in the halls set cautious eyes on us as we passed.

  Following the man through the main corridor, we passed the great hall, and soon thereafter took the familiar left turn into the narrow corridor where Somerset had accosted me the night he was drunk. At the end of this, we turned right into the even narrower and gloomier dead-end passageway that led to my former chamber. The man threw me a glance as he jangled his keys before the door.

  “This chamber’s close to the rowdy great hall, and isolated from the other ladies, but if you’re sure ’tis what you want—”

  “I am certain of it.” I smiled.

  He creaked open the oaken door into the low-vaulted, dark room with the high window, and departed with a bow. I sank down on the bed with a sigh.

  “Welladay, Ursula, John is here to help his brother, should Warwick need it, and I come to help John, should John need it,” I said. “Let us hope neither of us is needed.”

  Ursula said nothing. She’d already spoken her mind vociferously many times along the journey. She considered me reckless to undertake such a journey when I was with child.

  A knock at the door announced Geoffrey. He entered with another man, struggling with the coffer. Though not very large, it was deep and heavy, for along with the clothes, I had taken the precaution of including some weapons. They set it down against the wall and withdrew. Suddenly weary, I looked up at the window high above. Darkness had fallen, and the sky had turned black. The clanking of dishes reached my ears; the supper horn would soon sound. I had no wish to eat in the great hall, where Somerset might see me, and besides, I wasn’t hungry. “You may sup in the hall, Ursula. I doubt anyone will trouble you if you sit below the salt with the servants, but keep your ears open for news.”

  She helped me out of my travel gown and into a woolen shift, and draped a blanket around my shoulders. Worn down by worry and the long journey, I laid my head on the pillow and soon fell asleep to troubled dreams. Dull morning light filled the chamber when I opened my eyes. The washbasin on the table stood filled with water, a towel beside it. Instantly awake, I raised myself on my elbow to find Ursula watching me anxiously.

  “What news? Did you find out where they’re going to meet, and when?”

  Leaning close, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I fear some evil, dear Isobel. Last night I overheard a remark from one of the queen’s servants, something about finishing the ‘business’ this day. I felt it was my lord of Warwick they meant.”

  After she had laced and buttoned me into my dress, I sent her on her way to break fast, with an admonition to find out where the council meeting was to be held. Turning over all kinds of dangers and plans in my mind, I paced nervously as I awaited her return. She came back within the hour, bearing bread and cheese. I listened to her report, nibbling thoughtfully. As it turned out, my concern was well founded.

  “They have lost no time. From breaking fast, they went directly to their meeting. They’re in a council chamber next to Westminster Hall—”

  Good, we were close, as I’d planned.

  “But matters are not going well. I heard the Earl of Warwick shouting at Somerset as I left, and men came to wait in the hall as soon as the servants began gathering up the trestle tables. They’re lounging in two groups along the walls, Lancastrians on one side, Yorkists on the other. The Earl of Warwick seems to have a goodly retinue with him, but I fear the queen’s men outnumber his by far.” Ursula paused. “The way the royal attendants were looking at our lord of Warwick’s men made me most uneasy, Isobel dear…like they were awaiting a signal—”

  As if on cue, we heard shouts. I threw down the crust of bread in my hand and grabbed the dagger from under my pillow. The noise came from the great hall. With Ursula following close behind me, I opened the chamber door, then turned left a few paces and left again into the narrow passageway that led to the main corridor and the great hall. By the time I reached the opening, the din was a raucous clamor, punctuated by desperate cries of, “A Warwick! A Warwick!” The clanging of metal burst over my ears as men exchanged blows with swords. My heart hammering in my chest, I flattened myself against the wall and peered around the corner. A chilling sight met my eyes. I gasped, drew back, and turned to Ursula. “Warwick’s surrounded! He’s fighting for his life!”

  At the entrance to the great hall, in the midst of his retinue and heavily outnumbered, Warwick was beset by the queen’s men. My eyes swept the thicket of pikes and swords as a wave of panic surged within me.

  “There’s John!” I cried. He was about ten paces away, his back to me. “Oh my God, he’s been separated from Warwick and has only a few men at his side!”

  I watched in horror as others streamed to join the melee from all directions, wearing King Henry’s badge of the panther. Emerging from the stairwells that led down to the kitchens and pantries, they poured toward the fray like dogs to a cornered quarry, brandishing knives and cleavers, pestles and clubs. John, parrying blows with three ruffians at once, disappeared into a small chamber on my side of the passageway, only yards away. The clash of steel and metal now resounded with ear-shattering force. Suddenly a great group of men rushed out of the great hall. Slashing at the queen’s men, they moved forward, toward Warwick.

  In stunned joy, I turned to Ursula. “They’re the lords from the council meeting! Led by Duke Humphrey! He’s fighting his way to Warwick’s side! Oh, Ursula, I think he means to save him!”

  Duke Humphrey and the other lords cut a path open for Warwick down the hall toward the far stairwell that led to the river, where his barge was moored outside the water gate. As the queen’s men saw their prey about to escape their grasp, I flattened myself against the wall and stole another look around the corner. Warwick had moved even farther down the hall; now it seemed he would make good his escape. God bless good Duke Humphrey! I thought, my heart swelling with gratitude. This was the man who had tried time and again to play peacemaker between the warring factions of York and Lancaster.

  “But, Blessed Mother, where is John?” I peered around the corner again. Everyone had their backs to me as they parried with Warwick, trying to slay him. My heart was in my mouth when my husband suddenly reappeared. He looked pale and was unsteady on his feet, his left arm dangling limp at his side as he fought a lone ruffian. I covered my mouth to stifle the gasp that escaped, but John heard me. A look of bewilderment flashed across his face. Then I indicated the dagger in my hand. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and I slid back into the hallway and waited. Hacking wildly at his opponent, John forced him toward me. The opportune moment came suddenly as a lightning strike. With both hands and all my strength, I thrust my dagger into the man’s back and watched as he collapsed. Grabbing John’s good hand, I drew him out of sight and ran with him down the long passageway until we reached my chamber. Behi
nd us, Ursula mopped up the drops of telltale blood from the floor with a strip of linen she had torn from her shift.

  John was about to sink onto the bed, but I cried out, “No! You’ll stain the sheets!” From the passageway came faint voices, then footsteps. John eyed the space under the bed. “No! Not under there,” I cried in a frantic whisper. “In here…” Wildly I emptied the coffer of my gowns.

  “I can’t fit in that, Isobel!” John protested.

  “You must. Get in! Hurry!” Grabbing the gowns, I dumped them in a pile over his head in an unruly heap. “Quickly, Ursula, get me out of this!”

  Swiftly, she stripped me naked. I shook my hair loose and, to my horror, I noticed a bloodstain on the floor near the coffer. I stepped forward and covered it with my foot, and no sooner had I done so than the door burst open. I let out a scream and hid my breasts and swollen stomach with my hands.

  Ursula stepped in front of me to shield my nakedness from their gaze. “How dare you? Have you no shame?” she cried, feigning anger.

  The man averted his eyes. “We thought there might be a Yorkist hiding somewhere down these halls.”

  “You can see for yourself there’s no one here but us. Where would he hide? The bed? The coffer? If he’s that small, you’ve nothing to fear from him, now, have you? Get out and give my lady some respect, or by Satan’s horns, you’ll answer to my queen for it.”

  The man took a moment to make his decision, and in that moment, I believe my heart stopped its beating.

  “Very well,” he said at last, turning to leave. But Ursula was enjoying this too much.

  “And where’s your apology, may I ask?” she demanded.

  Eyes averted, he turned back as he closed the door. “You have it, mistress,” he said.

  GEOFFREY, WHO HAD SLEPT AT A COUSIN’S HOUSE , returned for us the next day with a small cart. Ursula and I rode away with him, my coffer rumbling along on the wheels attached to the horse’s saddle. We were followed at a short distance by a tall Franciscan friar in a gray habit with a wooden cross, and with a knotted scourge dangling from a rope at his waist. The monk’s face was protected from the cold by a thick wool cowl, and to his nose he held a handkerchief, which he removed from time to time to bless the humble folk he passed. No one in the courtyard paid him any heed, except the few who murmured their thanks, and he passed beneath the arched stone gateway and out into the streets of London, unnoticed.

  THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED WERE DRENCHED in happiness and celebration. Not only was John safe and his arm healing, but Warwick, too, had reached the Tower and from thence had made his way to Calais. It was the season of Yule, and our babe was growing at a quickened pace. John took as much pleasure as I did in the baby’s kicks, and on occasion he would place his ear to my stomach, hoping to hear a gurgle. As December approached, the castle filled with song and merriment. Servants dashed about, laying down fresh rushes, beating tapestries, washing windows, scrubbing murals, and preparing sumptuous feasts for the guests who arrived to partake with us. Though we still had concerns with expenses, since our impoverished tenants had trouble paying their rents, it was decided that we would not scrimp on the Yule festivities.

  I found my heart light as I helped Countess Alice and Countess Nan deck the halls with ribbons, holly, and boughs of evergreens. Many guests came to visit, bearing gifts of spices, dried meats, and marchpane: the Scropes of Masham and Bolton; the Conyerses, Sir John and his son William, and their ladies; and many more of the knights in the earl’s retinue, with their ladies and children.

  Thus, with hope in our hearts, we rang in the New Year of 1459.

  My babe was born on the first day of April, another beautiful little girl whom we named Elizabeth. But our joy was short-lived, for the tender spring that followed our babe’s birth brought ominous tidings. It was clear to us that the queen had made a deliberate attempt to murder Warwick at Westminster; yet hope for reconciliation still held sway in our hearts. However, just before St. George’s Day and our second anniversary, we learned that the queen, who had moved to Cheshire with her son, was assembling an army and distributing her son’s badge of the swan.

  In the solar at Middleham, attended by John, Thomas, and Warwick, who had come from Calais, and by York’s golden-haired, magnificent son Edward, Earl of March, who had arrived from Sandal Castle to represent his father, the earl strode back and forth like the black bull of his emblem. From beside the hearth where I sat with Countess Alice, Nan, and Maude, pretending to bury my head in my needlework, I watched them from the corner of my eye and listened intently.

  “She has ordered three thousand bows for the royal armory and commands the king’s loyal men to assemble at Leicester,” he exclaimed. “The warrant opens thus: ‘Considering the enemies on every side approaching upon us by land and by sea—’” The earl slapped the missive. “Our names are significant by their absence! By excluding us, Marguerite makes it quite clear whom she considers the ‘king’s enemies.’” He threw the missive on his desk. “Is it not enough for her to rob the treasury, to impoverish us by every means possible, to rule the land without parliament for three years? Is this not enough for the venomous she-wolf who rules our mad king? Now she means to force us to make war on one another!”

  “She would have us all dead to secure the throne for her son,” John said quietly. “She knows, as does the land, that the Duke of York is England’s true king by right of blood. Only in his death, and the deaths of his supporters, can she find rest.”

  “Aye, she fails to see my father as anything but a claimant to the throne—a threat to her husband, to her son, to herself, and to the ruling dynasty of Lancaster,” said Edward, Earl of March. “While my father sees our mad and impotent king, Holy Harry, as the Lord’s anointed! Had he seized power after St. Albans, all would have been resolved. Yet, even knowing that now, he continues to show self-restraint. Despite every provocation, he makes no attempt to displace Holy Harry, and proves time and again by both words and action that all he wishes is a change of ministers. Yet she thirsts for war!”

  “Bitch!” snarled Warwick, slamming a fist down on the desk. “If the bitch of Anjou wants war, let us give her one, Father! We’ll crush her as surely as we did at St. Albans, and be done with her once and for all.”

  “Do you know what civil war means?” said the earl, shocked, his wrath spent. He was not a man who harbored anger for long. “It means to tear the land in two. To divide families against themselves. To set brother against brother, and kin against kin. ’Tis the worst horror a land can inflict upon itself. We must not be hasty. We must do all that we can to avert civil war. War is the last resort. Only a fool chooses war when reason can still get him heard.”

  “But how? By all agreement, Marguerite believes only in the sword,” Thomas said.

  “We’ll gather a force of our own and go to the king and plead with him, as we did in fifty-two and fifty-five.”

  “It did no good either time, Father! Even our victory at St. Albans proved for naught,” said Warwick impatiently.

  “This time is different. We are much stronger, and I daresay Marguerite understands strength. You’ll bring us forces from Calais—the pick of the garrison—and we’ll go with a large army. If we fail to get redress from Henry, only then will we take up the challenge and fight. Thus, we’ll have given them every chance to settle matters reasonably.” The earl gave an audible sigh and turned to Edward. “’Tis a sad and sorry state of affairs. In Ireland your father stands for justice, and in England, for good government. To Marguerite d’Anjou—”

  The earl broke off, unable to finish the thought. To the queen he was the enemy, the great devil that had to be destroyed before she could gather a good night’s rest.

  My hand trembled as I pushed a needle through the cloth, drawing a load of red wool in its wake.

  “I have come to believe,” said Edward of March quietly, “that, from the beginning, Marguerite d’Anjou never doubted matters between us would be settled by the sword
. She has been lusting for war ever since Holy Harry’s first bout of madness.”

  The air in the room seemed suddenly hot; I felt faint. Laying down my section of tapestry, I excused myself and quit the room.

  WARWICK RETURNED TO CALAIS. JOHN LEFT FOR the Scots border to deal with the marauders burning English villages and stealing sheep and livestock, and Thomas rode back to Sandal Castle with Edward of March to inform the Duke of York of the deliberations at Middleham and to urge on him the need to call a council of war, and plan strategy.

  And so the spring passed. I played with my babes as often as I could, and helped Countess Alice with the management of the household—arbitrating quarrels, receiving petitioners, and overseeing the work of the chambermaids, the kitchen help, the spinners, weavers, and embroiderers, and the education of the children. I tried to find ways to curtail expenses, by going over the money spent on supplying livery, buying stock, even the cost of the clergy we employed to sing masses and say prayers. When John was home and at my side, I clung to him, my feelings heightened by the uncertainty that pervaded our days and by the black specter of loss that always hovered in the background.

  “My father is the most famous knight in the whole world!” Warwick’s Anne announced one evening at Raby as she sat on my lap, playing with her wooden doll. “Nurse told me. She says England loves Papa as much as I do.”

  “Indeed she is right. He has made us all proud, sweet Anne.”

  “See, Jane has her head back,” Anne said, holding her doll to my full view.

  “Had she lost it?” I inquired.

  Anne nodded. “Cousin Edward of March broke it when he kissed her.”

  York’s seventeen-year-old son had earned himself quite a reputation with the ladies, but clearly he had fallen dramatically short in impressing Anne. She had such a disagreeable expression on her face that I had to laugh. “So how did Jane get her head fixed?” I asked.