“Pardieu, you speak truth!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “I have undertaken the management of the realm for my Henry’s sake, and my lords try me with their quarrels as sons try a mother! But more than any of them, ’tis York who tests me. Nothing is enough for him! He puts out lies about the paternity of my child! He impugns my honor! He wishes to be king—to steal my son’s throne, and that I will not permit, never, on my soul, by the flesh of Christ—”
“Who is trying to steal my throne, Maman?” Edward interrupted the shrieking birds he was teasing to ask his question.
“The hateful Duke of York, but fear not, your maman will not let him have it, bijou, not on my soul, never! Sang dieu, I shall have his head first—”
Watching her ghastly look as she hissed these words, I erased from my face all trace of the emotion I felt, and kept my features deceptively composed. Fear thundered in my chest; I did not know how much longer I could keep myself contained. “My queen, is there no other way?” I implored.
The queen halted in her steps and her features reassembled themselves into a more normal aspect. “’Tis my hope that we shall find a peaceful resolution, though I doubt York will be interested. We in our patience and in our mercy are anxious to avoid further hostilities. We have sent a messenger to Ludlow with an offer of amnesty if the Yorkists disarm immediately.”
I breathed again and found the courage to broach the subject that remained foremost in my heart. “My liege, I have not the worries of a kingdom as you do. All I have is the love I feel for my husband, and concern for his safety. Without him the world would turn to frost for me—” I looked at the little prince now cooing to his birds, holding out bread to them to console them for his vigorously shaking their cage moments before. “We love whether we should or should not, and our world turns on that head we love.”
The queen shifted her gaze to Edward with eyes as soft as the sweet grapes of her native land. I gained courage, then went on, “I have come to ask your mercy for the man I love, Sir John Neville, who is imprisoned in Chester Castle.”
Her face hardened. “He fought against us. I cannot release him.”
“My queen, we have children now, and well I know you understand a mother’s love—”
“Not even for your children.”
Panic rioted inside me. I fell to my knees before her and seized her bejeweled hand. I laid my wet cheek against the cold stones, more conscious of the bony fingers I held than of the soft flesh. “Madame, I carry another in my womb! I pray you, do not wrench from me all hope, do not condemn me to be companioned by salt tears for the rest of my life—” I broke off, slipping her ring from my finger. “You said to return this to you if I ever needed you. I need your mercy now, my queen.”
She stared at the golden swan emblem of her son for a long moment. “I cannot release him,” she said finally. “But he shall not be harmed.”
Relief overwhelmed me. “He is wounded, my queen. Can you command a doctor be sent to treat him?”
“Aye.”
Lifting my tearstained face to her, I said, “And his brother Thomas?”
She hesitated, then gave a nod.
“Thank you, my liege, thank you!” I cried.
“But do not come again,” she said angrily, slipping the ring on her finger. “This is the last favor you shall ever receive from me. I am done with York.”
THE MOMENT I SAW URSULA’S FACE, I KNEW SHE was bursting with urgent news. I waited impatiently in the court for Geoffrey to bring out Rose and to saddle the other horses, and then we bustled out of Coventry while keeping our silence, for the highway thronged with traffic and we were within earshot of too many. A distance from the castle, the road split. I was about to take the north fork, when Ursula leaned over and restrained me with a touch on the arm. “We go south,” she said, “to the Erber.” I understood her immediately. She had learned something that had to be passed on to Warwick, who was due to arrive in London on his way to Ludlow to join forces with the Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury. My heart took up a quickened beat and my mind filled with worry. But I did not question Ursula further. I merely nodded and turned Rose south.
When we were safe in the quiet countryside, with only sheep around us, Ursula broke the news. “Somerset is planning to intercept my lord of Warwick at Coleshill as he journeys to Ludlow to meet with the duke!”
“Coleshill…that’s only a few miles from Warwick Castle. Warwick has to pass through there on his way to Ludlow. But how do you know it’s true?”
“I told my friend Mavis the cook that you were hoping to see his lord of Somerset. She informed me that he wasn’t here and wouldn’t be back for a while. I didn’t learn any more until I overheard Mavis talking with the chief cook. They were laughing together about there soon being a vacancy in the captaincy of Calais, thanks to the pleasant surprise Somerset was planning for my lord of Warwick at Coleshill. They were betting on whether it would be Somerset, Exeter, or Wiltshire who would get the post.”
I closed my eyes.
At the Erber, I sat listlessly on the riverbank, waiting for Warwick and watching the traffic on the Thames. I felt a great relief but also enormous concern. John was safe, but hope of a peaceful solution seemed to be vanishing. Edward of March was right. Queen Marguerite, despite all her protestations to the contrary, believed it was by the sword that the problems of the realm would be settled. She came from a line of stubborn women, who had ruled their weak-willed men with an iron fist and viewed absolute power as their queenly right. While Marguerite’s father, Good Duke René, had made rhymes, her mother had made war—and signed treaties only when no other alternative remained.
Nay, Marguerite would never share power with a man who was not her equal. Not for any reason—be it good government, justice, or peace. Such things meant little to her. Peace for her was a last resort, something that belonged to the vanquished. Only when they were driven to it by defeat did the women in her family make peace.
Such were the dark thoughts that crowded my mind.
I sent a letter back to Maude and the countess at Middleham explaining my visit to the queen and the promise I had wrung from her about John and Thomas’s safety, and then took to my bed. I was with child again, after all.
For the first time in weeks, I slept hard and long, knowing John would not be harmed. As bells pealed for Prime, Ursula awoke me with great excitement. I opened a bleary eye, still so tired that my bones felt like a leaden weight. “My lord of Warwick has landed in Kent and is on his way to London! The city is afire with the news! Maybe we can see his arrival!”
I dressed quickly and swallowed some wine and hot bread. Soon we were elbowing our way through the cheering crowds that thronged the streets. They were a merry bunch, as joyous as on any feast day, jostling one another, cheering, and waving their caps.
“There he is, my lady! There—”
Ursula pointed. We heard the sound of clarions, and a great cheer went up, moving through the packed crowd like a giant wave. Standing on tiptoe to peer over the heads of the crowd, I saw the mayor and aldermen walking up to greet Warwick. The welcome was called out, a few words exchanged, and then Warwick continued toward the Erber with his procession.
“Behold the great Earl of Warwick!” a mother told her babe in arms, lifting him high for a better view. “Hurrah for England’s champion!” a man roared. “Long live the Captain of Calais!” another yelled. Finally I was able to get a clear view of Warwick. He was enjoying his reception and rode with a hand on his hip, smiling and nodding to the crowds as if he had not a care in the world. Behind him marched two hundred men-at-arms and four hundred archers, all clad in scarlet tunics bearing his emblem of the bear and ragged staff.
“Which one’s Trollope?” asked a youth who stood in front of me. I took him for a fishmonger, for he reeked of the sea and his leather apron was stained with blood.
“You mean the hero of the French wars?” replied a baker, dusted with flour even to his lashes. “He’s the one with a patch
on his eye and the kerchief tied around his head, just behind Warwick. You can’t miss him.”
I followed the direction of his gaze to a burly, scar-faced man swaggering behind Warwick. He was ferocious-looking; I was relieved he’d chosen to side with York and not Lancaster.
Warwick was surprised to see me at the Erber. As Ursula went to greet her father, who had returned with him from Calais, Warwick threw himself into a chair, knees wide, and listened to my report. I warned him of Somerset’s plans to intercept him at Coleshill and quickly brought him up to date on Blore Heath, the capture of his brothers, and the promise I had extracted from the queen.
“So she sees herself as the one who wishes peace, and believes we are determined to destroy her and her dynasty?” Warwick demanded incredulously. He slapped his thighs and rose. “Then I must spare no effort to set her straight in language even she can understand.” Summoning his scrivener, he dictated a manifesto.
“The laws of the land have been subverted, and the king’s income is so reduced that people are being robbed in order to meet the expenses of the royal household. Neither is there justice in the land, for crime is encouraged instead of punished—” He fell silent a moment as he paced back and forth by the great window that looked out over the Thames, his head bowed in thought. “However, the blame for this rests not with the king, but with certain persons who hide the truth from him. Therefore we and our friends propose to go to King Henry, acquaint him with the facts, and beg him to remedy these ills and punish those responsible.”
“And add this…. We are not interested in taking power from the king, or in enriching ourselves, or in exacting revenge on anyone. We have come with an army at our back only for our own safety, because so many attempts have been made on our lives.”
He paused to look at me. “That should be clear enough even for the bitch of Anjou.”
Warwick lost no time departing London, staying only long enough to rest his men and the horses, and to issue his proclamation. We rode north with him, and all along the way to Warwick Castle, we saw crowds swarm to behold him, men cheering, women holding up their babies for his blessing. But no one joined his ranks. Perhaps it was because they loved the king more than they hated the queen; perhaps it was because they didn’t yet realize that it had come to the sword.
And perhaps I am wrong, and all may be resolved amicably, I thought, watching his colorful procession weave along past the crowds that lined the roads. Surely melancholy born of John’s absence evoked these feelings of despair…. I was nineteen, a mother now, expecting another child, parted from the husband I loved. Hiding my own fears, I smiled at others, listened to their talk, and prayed on my knees until they were worn out. And I waited for news. A life of such uncertainty, devoid of a calm, steady routine, had to exact a toll. Then I chided myself. What of the good fortune I had known? I had married the man I loved, against great odds. I had beautiful children, and my husband, though captive, was safe. What more should I ask of Heaven? Banishing the gloomy thoughts that plagued me, I resolved to dwell only on my blessings.
“They are receiving my Earl of Warwick like a king,” Ursula said proudly.
“And you are indeed in love with him. Try not to swoon, Ursula.” I smiled.
She reddened like a beet, then said sullenly, “You have to agree he looks royal. Far more so than Holy Harry.”
“True,” I conceded reluctantly. I didn’t know why, but something about Warwick had come to irk me with nagging persistency. His princely bearing, generosity, and charm could not be denied, yet I cared not for his arrogance and his need for acclaim and power. There seemed a certain hollowness at his core. While my John is as solid as granite and needs no worship, I thought. He wishes only to do his best for his king and country, and to live up to his motto: Honor, Loyalty, Love. John had always walked in his brother’s shadow, and the higher Warwick’s sun rose, the darker and broader the shadow Warwick threw over him. John had to feel he was the forgotten one, but if he did, he kept his thoughts to himself.
There are still things I do not know about my husband, I thought with a sigh.
After a long day’s ride, we glimpsed the tips of the towering, mighty walls of Warwick Castle on the distant horizon, a welcome sight after our weary travels. But our smiles vanished as we drew near. The castle and Warwick’s estates had been plundered and lay in waste, and all across the fields, tendrils of smoke floated up into the sky. A stony-faced Warwick addressed the desperate villagers, assuring them that those responsible would suffer punishment and pay restitution. Then we parted company, he to hurry to Ludlow and I to Bisham to join Nan and her little daughters, and to deposit the contingent of armed men Warwick had sent to guard his family.
The hillsides I passed through lay so pastoral with sheep, nut trees, and the occasional stone cottage that if I hadn’t witnessed for myself the turbulence of life, I could be fooled into believing all the world was at peace. But, God be praised, when we arrived at Bisham, we found good news awaiting us. Warwick had passed through Coleshill safely, for Somerset had arrived too late to ambush him. We laughed at Somerset’s fury at yet another of his failures, but our celebration proved brief. For it was here, to Bisham, that the news came about Ludlow.
Fourteen
LUDLOW, 1459
WHEN THE LONE MESSENGER RODE UP ON ST. Ursula’s Day, the twenty-first day of October, I was seated in Bisham’s elegant wood-paneled council chamber with Nan, celebrating Ursula’s name day. The minstrel played merry tunes while we sipped wine and ate sweets and spiced fruits, including marchpane, which was Ursula’s favorite, and dried figs, which was mine. Nan’s girls lay at our feet, munching cookies, chattering, and playing with their dolls. Across the way, the black-garbed monks of Bisham passed serenely across the grounds of their beautiful priory on the River Thames, which was drenched in autumn colors, providing for us a sense of deceptive tranquility as we made merry on Ursula’s birthday.
Even from the window we knew something was terribly wrong. I laid down John’s cloak, which I had been embroidering with his emblem of the griffin, and rose to my feet. We hurried into the quadrangular cloister that enclosed the manor’s graceful courtyard. The messenger, dusty and weary, dropped out of his saddle and knelt before us, lifting anxious eyes to our faces. Warwick’s two daughters, who had run out with us, pressed themselves against their mother’s skirts.
“My ladies,” he said, “I fear the tidings I bring are not good.”
Nan turned ashen and drew her children close. I laid a hand on my stomach, as if that would shield my own unborn child. Around us had gathered all the household staff, from kitchen scullion to bailiff.
“The king replied to my lord of Warwick’s manifesto by issuing a general pardon to everyone except the Yorkist leaders, my ladies. Again the Yorkist leaders asserted their loyalty and their desire to avoid force, but the king refused to meet with my lord of Warwick, and the royal army moved on Ludlow. As night fell, the two armed camps faced one another across the bridge on the River Teme. The Yorkists waited behind the fortified trench they had built—” The messenger hesitated. “But no trench could protect the Duke of York and his men from the real danger that threatened them…treason.”
I heard myself gasp.
“As day broke, it was seen that Andrew Trollope, the leader of the Calais regiment who had been guarding the bridge, had absconded to the queen’s side, taking with him the Duke of York’s battle plans.”
I remembered the fearsome one-eyed soldier with the kerchief knotted around his head, who had swaggered, grinning, at the head of Warwick’s procession.
“The Yorkist leaders were forced to flee for their lives, my ladies. My lord of Warwick went to Calais with his father and York’s eldest son, Edward of March.”
Beside me, I heard Nan’s labored breathing. I encircled her shoulders with my arms.
“By God’s grace, the Duke of York and his son Edmund, Earl of Rutland, were able to get away. They have fled to Ireland with Lord Cli
nton. However, York’s duchess, Cecily, and her two small boys, George and Richard, age ten and seven, were captured and made to watch the queen’s revenge on Ludlow…. After plundering the town, Yorkist soldiers who had surrendered were hung, drawn, and quartered, and the queen gave the wild horde she calls an army—filled with Scotsmen and ruffians—permission to sack the village as cruelly as if it belonged to a foreign land. Her men, in their drunken orgy, raped women and set the church afire, burning those who had taken refuge inside, children and livestock among them.”
The shock of this report must have proved too much for me in my condition, for the next thing I remember was a sharp pain in my abdomen, and nothing afterward. I awoke to find Ursula mopping my brow in my bedchamber.
“My baby—” I cried in alarm, my hand going to my stomach as I rose on an elbow to check.
“’Tis well, Isobel, dear,” Ursula said, pushing me back down gently and drawing the coverlet up to my chin. “You had a nasty fright, is all.”
I lay back down, but the nagging doubts at the back of my mind would not be stilled, and many times during the nights that followed, I rose from fitful slumber to pray at my prie-dieu for my unborn child.
Soon another messenger arrived with orders from Warwick that, for safety’s sake, his countess and their two daughters be taken to Calais to join him. In heavy rain, I took bitter leave of them, crushing little Anne in my arms as I knelt down on the wet, sharp pebbles of the courtyard. “Fear not—I be back!” Anne said, as was her wont. But instead of evoking laughter, this time it brought me tears. I watched the small party gallop off into the twilight, and misery engulfed me like a steel weight. Marguerite was tearing the country in two as every village, every household, every manor house, and every convent became divided against itself, and here I was alone, my husband and his brother imprisoned, his other brothers and kin driven from the land. Never had I felt so destitute, so bereft. Where should I go? What to do? And what does anything matter anymore?
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