I banished my moment of self-pity. I had to be strong. I was a mother now, and even if the whole world were lost, I had to survive for my girls and for the new life I carried.
The next morning, Ursula packed our few belongings, Geoffrey saddled the horses, and we set out north to Middleham. Many of the Bisham household staff came with us, fearful of staying behind in the unfortified manor house now that their lord could no longer protect them. Along the way, we passed traders, wool merchants, and farmers driving livestock to market. Everywhere doubts were expressed, more loudly than ever, that Henry was Prince Edward’s father, and I heard more people refer to the queen by the nickname Warwick had given her: bitch of Anjou. Much of the talk centered on the ballad that had appeared nailed to the gates of Canterbury Cathedral, placing Prince Edward at the root of the trouble for being a false heir born of false wedlock. The Duke of York was the true King of England, it said. For his blood—he was descended from an elder son of Edward III and Henry from a younger son—was the more royal.
The sun was setting when we arrived at Middleham two days later after a hard journey. Maude and Countess Alice greeted me with the joyous news that Warwick had arrived safely in Calais, and the duke safely in Ireland, dispelling some of my tension. After supper, with my Annie asleep in my arms, and Ursula carrying Izzie, we gathered around the hearth with Nurse and baby Lizzie, and several highly placed servants of the Salisbury household, as the countess read us Warwick’s letter, for the October night was cold and damp.
My gracious lady mother,
You surely know by now the events of Ludlow brought you by York’s own messenger. For the first few days after Trollope’s treachery, we were not certain we would be able to flee with our lives, for we had no money. However, with the help of a Devonshire gentleman who bought us a ship, and his widowed mother, who risked life and limb in protecting us and obtaining for us the provisions we needed, we put out to sea.
Fearing the sentiment of the Calais garrison after our heinous betrayal by one whom I had trusted and treated as friend, I was unsure whether to attempt to go there. However, our beloved cousin Lord Thomas Fauconberg wrote us from Calais that all was well and we should come. The garrison received us with every sign of joy, and I am now safe in my stronghold with my lord father, my countess, and our two girls, so concern yourself not about us. As you know, Edward of March is also with us.
Likewise the Duke of York was received in Ireland as if he were the Messiah, crowds of people running to him and declaring that they would stand by him unto death. By all accounts, the Earls of Desmond and Kildare vie with one another to see which can do the most for him, and the Irish parliament is said to be willing—nay, eager!—to do his bidding. I shall go soon to meet with him and finalize battle plans, for it is too dangerous to entrust them to messengers who may be captured and put to torture. One such sad report which may have not reached you yet, and which shall cause you much grief now, is the death of our kinsman Roger Neville. His head is impaled on London Bridge and his torso is sent to Warwick town, so I am given to understand. His was a fine legal mind, and he never did harm to another, but only attempted to secure for them a measure of justice in the courts. When you pray for his soul, also pray for us that we may avenge his death in a manner most fitting.
For revenge we shall have, by the grace of God Almighty.
Given the twenty-fifth of October, 1459, on St. Crispin’s Day, at Calais.
Your devoted son,
Warwick
The apple-bobbing celebrations of All Hallows’ Eve, which followed the earl’s letter, were brief, joyless, and held only for the children, and the feasting on All Souls’ Day and All Saints’ Day also was meager and brief, for no one had heart for much else besides prayer. In mid-November we learned that in Coventry, the queen called a parliament stacked with her adherents, and attainted the Yorkist leaders.
Countess Alice herself poured ale for the messenger who brought us this news. The man, a Benedictine friar, recited the details without faltering over a single word, for he had evidently repeated it many times along his journey north from Coventry.
“Attainted: Sir John Conyers, Lord Clinton, Sir Thomas Neville, Sir John Neville—”
My stomach churned violently, and a stabbing pain came and went.
“Attainted: the Earl of Salisbury, the Earl of Warwick—who is also replaced as Captain of Calais by the Duke of Somerset. Attainted: the Duke of York; his sons Edward, Earl of March, and Edmund, Earl of Rutland; his duchess, Cecily—”
“His duchess?” the countess exclaimed, staring blankly at the friar.
The friar heaved a sigh. “Aye, ’tis unusual to attaint the wife. But these days—” He shrugged and resumed. “The bitch of Anjou wanted the duchess attainted, claiming the duchess incited her husband to revolt. But that’s not the worst of it, m’lady—nay, ’tis not…. The bitch also attainted the duchess’s two little sons, George and Richard—”
I closed my eyes on a breath. Dear God, has Marguerite lost her mind?
“George and Dickon?” demanded Countess Alice, her voice trembling. “But they are mere children—what hand could they have had in their father’s treason?”
“None, m’lady, and all the world knows it. It seems she wants to depose all male children of the York line. That’s why they’re calling it the Devil’s Parliament.”
I bit my lip until it throbbed like my heart.
“But—b-but…” the countess stammered in bewildered confusion, pushing herself into a standing position. “But if she does this, w-what will she n-not do?”
The friar gave her a look of surprise. “Why, she is French—who can say? But for myself, I fear there is nothing she will not do, m’lady.” He gave a sigh. “Nothing.”
ANOTHER MISSIVE ARRIVED SHORTLY AFTER THE friar’s visit, brought by a messenger disguised as a pilgrim who begged harborage for the night. It was for the countess, from the earl:
My well-loved lady wife,
As you are sure to know by now, we have been attainted by parliament, even York’s duchess and two small boys. Clearly, ’tis the work of Holy Harry’s foreign woman, who knows not honor and hesitates at nothing. The duchess Cecily and her children have been given into the custody of the Duke of Buckingham and his duchess, our sister, and by all accounts they are well treated at present. But their situation is perilous, as this can change at any moment, given the queen’s passion and temperament. For this reason, I beg you to consider flight. You are not safe in England any longer. While I should like to have you in Calais with our Warwick, ’tis better that you head west for Ireland, so as not to arouse suspicion. The bearer of this missive shall guide you as to the timing and preparations.
York is also concerned for his duchess and children and searches for a way to free them from Duke Humphrey’s custody and bring them out of England, so that they not remain at the mercy of Harry’s queen. However, Isobel’s safety is not in question, due to her previous long association with Marguerite. Therefore, at this time and given her delicate condition, we consider it advisable for her to remain at Middleham.
These are perilous times for us, dear wife. May the Lord have you in His keeping until He sees fit to reunite us.
Written this day the twenty-fifth of November, St. Catherine’s Day, at Calais.
Your loving lord and husband,
Richard of Salisbury
With a trembling hand, the countess showed this letter to Maude and me before burning it. As I read, a shiver of black fright ran through my spine, and fearful images built in my mind. I turned respectful eyes on the pilgrim, whose identity was kept even from us. That men dared the terrors of the torture chamber in order to honor their convictions was not something I had been accustomed to dwell on, until now.
We soon learned that the bishop Dr. Morton had a special hand in drafting the bill of the Devil’s Parliament. I remembered the bishop’s fish-eyes. Whenever he had turned his gaze on me, my flesh had crawled. Yet I suspected that
women were not his interest, for I had seen his expression when he looked at the choirboys. His eyes had lit, and it was not their angelic singing he admired. The thought, singularly distasteful, sent disgust into the pit of my stomach. I felt the babe lurch. My poor little one, I thought, stroking my womb gently. I shall not think of it again.
More tidings arrived. The queen had commissioned Lord Rivers to seize all Warwick’s ships that remained on the English coast, and Somerset to assemble a large force that included Andrew Trollope and others of the Calais regiment, along with angry young men whose fathers had been killed at Blore Heath. Somerset then sailed to take Calais from Warwick, but matters had not gone well for him.
“What are you smiling about?” Maude demanded as we sat before our broidery looms in the Lady’s Bower.
“Imagine Somerset’s surprise when he approached Calais and they fired on him with their guns.”
She grinned. “He must have been furious.”
“Surely so…he had to settle for Guisnes instead.” I laid down my needle. “How bitter is that? He thinks the world is his, and now he sees it isn’t.” I smiled and, resting my chin on my elbow, gazed out the window. “Imagine his jealousy, his dismay, each time he gazes over the marshes at Calais…being able to see Calais but not take it…the prize he’s coveted so eagerly, for so long, the prize he can’t have, that belongs to another.” I turned to her happily. “I find it sweet, Maude.”
Maude jabbed me with her elbow, laughing. “You could be Calais, Isobel—don’t you see? You, too, are the prize he’s coveted for so long and can’t have.”
I fell silent for a moment. Then I burst out laughing. “Oh, Maude, imagine being destined to failure in both love and war! How woefully sad. I am almost sorry for the wretch.” We heaved in merriment.
Our glee proved brief, for tidings of great sorrow soon reached us. While Warwick, the Earl of Salisbury, and the Duke of York were out of reach of their enemies, their friends and retainers were not. The queen renewed her efforts to exterminate Yorkist support, and terrible reports came to us of the doings in the town of Newbury. There the Earl of Wiltshire—the coward who had fled the field of St. Albans—conducted an inquest with great harshness. Not content with confiscating all the lands and property of the people, he ordered a large number of the men to be hung, drawn, and quartered.
The duke’s enemies were reaping a rich harvest from the downfall of York. Income from offices vacated by their removal, annuities from their forfeited estates, and fines exacted from those who had been pardoned were divided liberally among the queen’s favorites. More heads appeared on London Bridge and more quartered bodies at the city gates. Exeter, who had hated Warwick since the day the Keeper of the Seas title had been taken from him, received a commission to put out to sea and destroy him.
If the queen thought to deter York’s support in this brutal manner, she soon found herself mistaken. Her cruelty engendered even more sympathy for the cause of York, and yet another ballad made its appearance on the gates of Canterbury. Praising Salisbury as the essence of prudence and Warwick as the flower of manhood, it proclaimed the desire of the people that the Yorkist earls return with an armed force and assume the guidance of the kingdom.
In those days, as I helped Countess Alice supervise the household staff, keep a stern watch on purchases, receive petitioners, arbitrate quarrels, organize meals, arrange for repairs to the castle walls and defenses, pay the servants, plan their festivities, supervise the care and education of the children, and nurse the sick, my eye was never drawn long away from the castle gates, where those who entered might bring tidings. Journeymen reported what they had learned in towns where they had passed through seeking work, while merchants brought information they had garnered in abbeys and inns along the way where they had sought shelter for the night. Emboldened by her success at Ludlow, the queen had appointed more commissions of inquest in Kent and in other counties that had given warm reception to the Yorkists. The hated executioner of Newbury, the Earl of Wiltshire, had been named to these commissions in order to strike fear into the hearts of those who embraced York.
“But it is Wiltshire’s own heart that is struck with fear,” the countess commented one cold winter’s day just after Christmas Day, after the subdued festivities of Yule were behind us. “Under guise of fighting Warwick, he went down to Southampton and commandeered some Genoese ships. Then he fled to Dutch-land. It seems he is well aware of Warwick’s regard for the common people, and is terrified of revenge for his cruel doings at Newbury.”
“How brave he is,” I said with disgust, remembering the pretty duke whom I’d first seen quitting the queen’s audience chamber at Westminster.
“Indeed, it appears that the French queen surrounds herself with the most valiant and worthy hearts our land can offer,” Countess Alice replied with biting sarcasm.
That evening, the last of the old year of 1459, we went together to chapel to light candles and pray. Countess Alice said, “No matter what comes, we must never lose sight of what matters most: Our lords live. As long as they are safe, we have hope that all will be righted in the end.”
I nodded, and into my mute assent I poured all my heart. Wrapped in our thoughts, we went to the solar to sip a cup of wine and bid silent welcome to the New Year of 1460. The countess worked on her tapestry; I played the lyre; and Maude sat in the window seat, listening to my song while gazing out at the stormy blackness. It was a fearsome night. The wind moaned around the castle walls as I sang of love and death, and it seemed to me that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode in the night, bringing death, plague, wars, and famine, wreaking havoc, and promising worse to come. I lifted my eyes to the window, and in a trick of my imagination, I thought I saw their ghostly shadows galloping across the darkness, and that one of the figures was a woman and bore the form of Marguerite d’Anjou.
Ending the lament, I broke into a lilting melody, hoping the merry sound would banish my terror.
A few weeks later, on a foggy January night, the countess confided that she was leaving for Ireland. All had been readied, and there was no time to be lost. Maude and I packed her coffer in secret. After a tearful and anxious farewell taken in the dead of night, we watched her depart quietly with the pilgrim. When she wrote to us about her safe arrival there, she also informed us that Warwick was expected to arrive in Ireland shortly thereafter to confer with the Duke of York on their plans to return to England. “I regret I am not there with you, dear Isobel,” she wrote, “to assist you with the birth of your babe who is soon due. I shall pray for you and the little soul that all goes well and that God grants you and my grandchild a safe delivery.”
But all did not go well. In March, as winter gathered up its drab attire and the fields made ready for spring, I was in the stables, feeding Rose a handful of sugar, when the first pains came. I staggered outside. It was too early yet; my child was not ready to be born for a month. Several youths came running to carry me to my bedchamber. The midwife was sent for and attended me, along with Ursula and Maude, during my long and arduous labor. I heard them but dimly through the spasms of cramps that kept me moaning in pain through the night, conscious only of the hands that wiped my brow with cool water.
When morning broke, there was only silence except for the song of the birds. No running of feet or children’s laughter; no commands or chiding of the servants by their superiors. No clanking of breakfast dishes. Only silence. I realized my pains had ceased. “Is it a boy or a girl?” I asked.
Neither Ursula nor Maude answered me.
I struggled to rise and see for myself, but my body felt like a leaden weight. I fell back against the sheets, drained, panting. “Boy or girl?” I demanded again.
After a hesitation, the midwife said, “A boy.”
“Where is he? Is he all right? I want to see him.”
“Later, Isobel. You are weak. You need your rest.” Ursula’s voice.
I sighed with relief and let my heavy lids slip down over my eyes
. Ursula was right; I was exhausted.
“John will be so pleased,” I whispered. “I shall name him John. John. Then I shall have two Johns to love.”
I must have drifted off into sleep, for when I awoke, the light was fading fast and the sky had grown bleak. Stronger now, I easily pushed myself up on an elbow. Ursula was dozing at my bedside, but the movement startled her and her eyes flew open. The room was quiet. Where was my babe?
“I want to see my little John….” I reached out my hand to Ursula, who gripped it tightly. She didn’t reply. What was wrong? Where was everyone? Why wasn’t my baby crying?
Ursula gazed at me. Her mouth trembled at the corners, and tears shone in her eyes.
“I am sorry, dear Isobel, so sorry, my dear lady…. Your babe…” she said in a thick voice, and broke off.
I stared at her in confusion. As the monks chanted the evensong, their voices drifted in through the open window. The music’s sweet harmony conveyed to me the pain of loss wordlessly, urgently, as with the sharp blow of a sudden dagger thrust. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I turned my head and looked at Ursula.
“He took…no breath,” she managed, squeezing my cold hand in both of her own.
My little one was gone from my arms before I had ever held him. My tiny, beautiful child was born dead.
I closed my eyes.
FOR THE NEXT WEEKS I DROWNED MY SORROW in the joyful babble of my children and buried myself in the management of the estate as I mourned my newly born babe and pined for John. Faithful Rufus must have missed him, too, for his eyes had taken on a sad look, and he followed me everywhere I went, as if I could lead him to John. The girls also marked his absence. “My friend John coming home?” asked my two-year-old Annie. I felt an instant’s squeezing hurt. John had not been home enough for Annie and Izzie to grasp the concept of father, though Annie understood that of friendship. “Soon,” I replied, flooded with sadness for my girls. “Your friend John shall be home very soon, God willing.” And I pressed them both to my heart.
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